Resident Evil 1. PG00AW

**Project W: Prelude **

**PG00A/W**

The heart of the man known as Albert Wesker can only be described as a frozen, withered, blackened, shattered thing, incapable of feeling even the simplest forms of human compassion, empathy, and certainly no form of anything even close to resembling love. In all honesty, the man doesn't even consider himself to be a part of the mortal human race he so despises anymore.

In every aspect Wesker is a monster and he enjoys it.

However, there was a time when this was not so. Wesker was not born a sadistic, murdering, B.O.W.. He was not "manufactured" as Lord Spencer claimed. Wesker, the man who had once been human, was viciously molded and shaped in to the twisted creature he is today by the equally unholy organization known as Umbrella and almost every individual who touched him, further perpetuating the slow unstoppable spread of the virus seeping through his tainted veins.

This is the story of what became of the heart that used to beat within the demon's chest; the account of the vicious irrevocable assaults that left it a frozen, withered, blackened, pile of jagged shattered pieces, incapable of caring about anyone aside from himself.

* * *

**AN**: This story represents my first attempt at NaNoWriMo (50,000 words in the month on November). During the time of the contest (Nov 2012) expect updates to come every few days (I'm sure no one will have a problem with that /smiles/). Anyways, Wish me luck with my first NaNo and enjoy the story.

This will be a very long story detailing the ENTIRETY of Wesker's life that might not even be finished by the end of November.

I'm going to be sticking to major facts and keeping the story as true to the RE timeline as possible (from 0-6 including side game facts) but doing a huge quantity of filling in the blanks and elaborating as well as applying quite a bit of creative licence.

I'll be focusing mostly on Wesker but many other RE characters will be addressed.

Okay warnings. There will be: A ton of highly descriptive gore/violence, foul language, and sexual content including yaoi. You've been warned ahead of time /smiles/.

Main pairings include, but are not limited to: Wesker/Birkin, Wesker/Muller (as in Jake's mom...not Jake...), Wesker/Chris, and Wesker/Krauser.

Please enjoy! Reviews/comments and ConCrit are loved and always responded to.

-Asiera


	2. PG01AW

**Project W: First Cycle**

**PG01A/W: Crimson Snow On the Eve of Transformation**

The popular opinion of everyone who currently has had the displeasure of meeting Albert Wesker is that he was always the sick and monstrous creation he is today. Such is not the case. In fact, Wesker was the perfect example of a normal—well, extraordinary—child, up until just after his tenth birthday when the newly minted company known as Umbrella stepped in and brutally derailed his life, setting him firmly on a new path, one that would lead him down a dark road riddled with countless atrocities committed in both the pharmaceutical giant's name and for Umbrella's ever enduring legacy.

Albeit, Albert was always a little standoffish and distant when compared to the other neighborhood children, but this could easily be described as a shyness or a trepidation rather than the cold uncaring way he now holds himself apart from the rest of humanity.

Albert was also extremely competitive, a trait that has now lead him to slaughter hundreds of thousands, either personally or indirectly, in order to come out on top. Back then, Albert's competitiveness was directed wholeheartedly towards besting his twin brother, Alex, rather than world domination.

Finally, he was exceedingly intuitive and his current extent of intelligence astounding. Coming from rather extraordinary parents—a head viral researcher for the Center for Disease Control and a successful CEO of a giant Pharmaceutical company that had recently been absorbed by Umbrella—Albert's greatness was no real surprise. It was hard not to be in awe of the boy who could tackle and best complex conundrums that would leave children five years his senior scratching their heads. To call him a genius would be a bit of an understatement. Of course, due to all the ways and the ease at which he advanced well above the average or even gifted level, Albert was more than a little impressed with himself, though, not near enough to claim "godhood" over "lesser mortals" as he now believes is his right.

All in all, aside from all his extraordinary qualities, Albert was a normal child, with hopes, dreams, and feelings just like any other. Excluding his occasional rather explosive temper tantrums, he was far from a monster.

Eventually, this would all change. An irrevocable transformation from a boy to a Tyrant that started that cold winter's day thirty eight years ago.

* * *

_December 24__th__, 1970; __Loire Village,__France: Silvain Family Estate:_

"Al! STOP!" Alice's sheer desperate shriek cut across the chilled snow filled air, but even if Albert had wanted to stop, he couldn't. The grinning boy was happily enjoying the first day of his tenth year by rocketing down the steep slop that made up one of the small hills at the edge of the white coated forest surrounding the beautiful rural town Albert and his family called home. His method of transport, a sleek red sled he had unwrapped mere hours ago, was easily carving up the freshly fallen blanket of white, sending the powdered snow flying up in great drifts around him.

Suddenly the leading upturned rungs slammed into the hard, thankfully unyielding, shimmering surface of the large frozen pond that made up a large portion of the estate's grounds.

Several seconds later, Albert's new toy slid to a halt, but not before his momentum had carried him to the center of the ice, at least twenty five meters from the shore line.

"Al!" His sister yelled again. There was a hint of panic in her voice, and Albert knew she was worried about him breaking and falling through the ice into the deadly freezing water, but he knew better. It was late December and the pond was frozen solid—okay, not literally, but the layer of ice created by these temperatures this far into winter would certainly hold his weight.

Glancing up, he scanned the slopes through the black tinted sun glasses that had been another one of the gifts he'd received this morning and that he'd not taken off since—they were just like the ones his father would wear on bright days and he was convinced they made him look exceedingly impressive. Eventually his blue gray eyes found what they were searching for: Alice was running down the slop full throttle dragging his twin brother Alex along with her by his probably sore arm. Alex's blue sled was bouncing along behind them as they raced for the shore's edge. Albert grinned, his brother must have stopped mid-race when she'd first started yelling at them that they were too close to the pond. That of course, meant he'd won.

"Albert! Are you alright?!" She called from the ice's edge, fear plainly coating her angelic features. "G-get back her right now!" she ordered, running slender fingers nervously through her raven locks that had come free from her braid in the snow ball fight the three had had earlier—something else he'd won; heavily snow laden trees were much more effective then tiny projectiles alone could ever be.

Feeling particularly pleased with himself, Albert picked up his sled's lead and began walking back towards his siblings.

"Al!" She cried again, causing the bond to stop in his tracks and fix her with a questioning look she probably couldn't make out from her position.

"Be careful..." she finished.

Albert sighed. He loved his older sister he really did, but sometimes her constant worrying for him and his brother could be grating. Technically, she wasn't even his sibling. Alice had been adopted during the time his parents believed that they couldn't have children, five years before Alex and himself had suddenly and unexpectedly come into the picture.

As such, the difference in features between her and the rest of his family were quite evident. While everyone else had eyes in varying shades of blue, almost platinum blond hair, and pale skin, Alice reminded him of the girl in that silly fairy-tale story their mother had read: Snow White; ebony hair, dark brown almost black eyes, and blood red lips (though that last was probably more due to the lip sick she'd started wearing). At least their skin tones were about the same.

For her part, Alice loved being part of the Silvain family, regardless if she was genetically related or not. She felt nothing but love for the two younger brothers she'd helped raise. Well, except when they did crazy things like sled out into the middle of the pond and caused her bite her already abused nails in anxiety. In those moments, they scared the hell out of her.

Albert considered jumping up and down on the ice to _prove_ that it was safe but decided to spare Alice and his brother's arm, which she still had a hold of, further abuse. Once he'd made his way back to shore he was immediately fussed over and lectured about the extensive dangers of what he just done. The way she was making it sound, it was as though he'd participated in some death defying stunt.

Albert sighed, placing a small hand on his sister's arm. "I'm _fine_." He paused for a few moments. "Are you done now?"

She scowled but then nodded, hugging him. "Sorry. I just don't know what I would have done if something were to have happened."

Alex smirked patting her on the back. "Probably jump in after him. Then I'd be an only child."

Alice winced. It had been a lighthearted joke. Alex was never conniving, unlike Albert who had slight manipulative tendencies when pushed too far into a corner. However, it was bad timing.

"Alexander..." she sighed shaking her head. "What am I going to do with you two?"

Albert grinned. "Take us in for hot chocolate? I do deserve a reward for beating you lot twice in a row."

"Hey!" Alex steamed. "That's _not_ fair! Ali stopped me so the results are invalid! _And_ you _cheated_ in the snow ball fight!"

Albert just continued grinning. "Last time I checked _you're _the one who stopped. You could have kept going like I did."  
Alice sighed. "Albert, don't berate your brother for doing the right thing."

Albert just shrugged, otherwise ignoring her. "Furthermore, I did _not_ cheat. The rules were: Assault your opponents with snow until they surrender. I did just that, only I had the ingenuity to use a tree load instead of just handfuls."

Alex glared. "It's called a snow_ball_ fight. You have to have balls to do it!"

Alice snorted covering her mouth causing the two to look at her incredulously.

"What?" they asked in unison, for once acting like the stereotypical model of identical twins that they were.  
She just shook her head, not wanting to explain the inadvertent joke to them. "Look, as far as I'm concerned, you two are both winners since its your birthday and because of all the fun we've been having. Now let's go back to the house."

Albert huffed. "Couldn't you just pick a side? I'm _obviously _right."

Alex folded his arms.

"If I pick a side, you guys accuse me of playing favorites," she reminded them, putting a hand on each of their shoulders, "and you are _both_ my favorites."

Albert smirked. She may have said that, but he was pretty sure he knew better.

Alex was wearing the exact same look.

Suddenly Albert took off at a run. "All or nothing! Race you back to the house!"

Alex broke free pounding after him. "You are _such_ a cheat!"

Alice giggled. Such was a typical day with the Silvain twins.

Albert slammed into the large oak doors split seconds before his brother did. "Seems I win again," he gloated through his rapid breathing.

"You had a head start! Doesn't count!" panted Alex, his breath coming out in the same frequent white puffs as his brother's.

Albert just chuckled. "I slowed down in the drive to let you catch up, but believe what you want to, Alex; it doesn't change facts." With a shrug he pushed the heavy doors open.

Alex folded his arms across his chest and huffed something illegible as he followed his twin into the foyer.

The two were already more than half way done stripping off their wet snow gear by the time Alice came through the door. She sighed as she saw the growing puddles made by their unorganized piles of discarded jackets, boots, and gloves.

Catching on to her annoyance, the culprits looked over semi-innocently.

"Seriously?" Her eye brow was raised.

"It's our birthday?" offered Alex.

Alice rolled her eyes. "Fine." She bent over to start picking up the forgotten garments. Alice could never say no to her brothers and they knew it all too well.

A door closing upstairs caught Albert's attention. His mother was in the kitchen making cookies and everyone else was with him. This could only mean one thing: His father had returned home while they were still playing outside.

Abandoning his siblings in the foyer, Albert bolted up the curving flights of stairs, down a long hallway, and towards his father's study door. His assumption was confirmed when he pushed though the door and saw the tall figure of his father hunched over the desk, sharp, strong features wrinkled in disgust as he stared down at the huge pile of blank Christmas cards lying across his desk.

"Dad!" called Albert, his momentum carrying him into his father's arms that opened just in time to accommodate him. Alex was only seconds behind him joining the embrace.

Their father chuckled at his sons' eagerness to greet him. He had to admit, having to go in for an "emergency" meeting with several Umbrella executives on today of all days was really pushing it. "Happy birthday boys," he whispered fondly.

He glanced down at Albert who was still sporting his new sunglasses which were now lopsided due to the recent hug. Mr. Silvain sighed in mock disappointment, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I can see you two couldn't wait for me to get home to open your presents."

The twins glanced at each other in an _almost_ guilty manner.

"Dad," came Albert's accusatory tone, "We _always_ open our presents in the morning and you _never_ work on our birthday."

Alex nodded his head. "Why did you have to go in today?"

Mr. Silvain rubbed his temples in annoyance. "It's all this new business with Umbrella. Apparently 'Lord' Spencer doesn't understand the meaning of a national holiday."

"I liked it better when you were your own boss," Albert informed his father.

Mr. Silvain smiled down at both of them. "Me too, but this change will be better in the end, I promise. Things are just a little hectic right now."

"You're not going to be gone tomorrow, right?" ventured Alex.

Mr. Silvain laughed. "Or course not. What kind of father do you think I am?"

This caused identical smiles to beam up at him.

"Now, why don't you two go run downstairs and harass your mother while she bakes, or whatever it is you do."

They giggled at his word choice. They didn't harass her...well, as long as she gave them ample access to the cookie dough.

"You're not coming?" questioned Alex from the door.

"Ah...not yet..." He glanced down at the daunting task before him. "I have to finish these first."

Albert gave him a quizzical look. "Dad...it's Christmas Eve. What's the point? They'll never get there in time."

Mr. Silvain gave him a rye smile. "Ever heard of overnight delivery?"

They both rolled their eyes and made their way down the hall.

"Oh, and send your sister in would you?" he called after them. " Her semester grades just came in and I want to congratulate her."

"Will do," agreed Albert. Their father had already done something similar for their outstanding grades.

"Ali is so smart," commented Alex as they walked down the stairs. "Just like us, even if she doesn't have super genes."

"We don't have 'super genes'," admonished Albert. "There is no such thing."

"There is so," argued Alex. "I heard Mr. Wesker talking about it."

Albert shivered. He remembered that man. He'd come to the house a few weeks ago talking about some sort of special Umbrella sponsored program for gifted children—in his own words, those with "superior DNA." Mr. Wesker had wanted him and Alex in it, but their father had said no. The typically icily calm man had actually gotten a bit heated about the refusal.

Normally Albert would have been thrilled about an opportunity to show how much further ahead he was from everyone else and jumped on a chance to widen that gap, but, for some reason, the whole encounter unsettled him greatly.

He could tell when a matter had been resolved, and he was almost certain that this one hadn't been.

Such were his thoughts as they sent an excited looking Alice up the staircase and then continued on their way towards the kitchen

Any unpleasant brooding on Albert's part instantly vanished as the entered the bright lively room their kitchen had been transformed into. The atmosphere was filled with a medley of tantalizing odors created by the various spices and doughs their mother was deftly mixing together into several culinary masterpieces. Her slender figure was moving smoothly between the center island, counter top, and oven, swaying slightly to the pleasant sound of Christmas music flowing through the air that was, if possible, making it all smell even sweeter.

Immediately, the twins were at the center island trying to snag finger fulls of what would eventually be their cake.

"Oh no you don't!" cried Mrs. Silvain grabbing hold of each of her two boys around the middle and lifting them away from the raw dough they for some reason seemed to adore as much as the finished product.

"But, Mom!" wailed Alex. "It's _our_ cake, shouldn't _we_ decide how we're going to eat it?"

"He has a point," agreed Albert.

Mrs. Silvain seemed to consider it for about two seconds. "That might be true... if eating it raw wouldn't make you sick!" She then proceeded to tickle the twins into submission, refusing to let up until they swore not to sample the baked goods until they were _baked_.

The peels and screeches of laughter lasted for a while until they finally relented, Albert holding out a bit longer than his giggling brother.

Both of them pouted as the watched their mother pull a batch of cookies from the oven and then start pouring their beloved batter into the pan for baking.

"Can we lick the mixing bowl?" inquired an ever determined Albert.

Mrs. Silvain turned to her hopeful boys, resting a flower stained hand on her apron that already showed signs of being used as a makeshift napkin on many occasions. She rolled her sparkling light blue eyes at them. "Okay, okay."

They raced for the bowl she now held above her head. "But! _Only_ if you help me decorate these cookies first."

"Deal!" decided Alex happily, his twin nodding his own affirmation.

The next twenty minutes or so were taken up decorating a seemingly endless quantities and types of cookies, punctuated by laughter—which increased exponentially when a light hearted Alice joined them—the twins never ending competitions first regarding speed and then quality of decorations before finally switching to both, and of course, singing along with whatever Christmas song the radio decided to present to the merry group.

By the time Albert and Alex had finally set about fighting over what little was left of the cake batter, Mr. Silvain had entered the warm delicious smelling bakery, a look of someone who had been put through unimaginable hardships on his face. It was obvious that his temples were prickling with the start of one of the headaches he was so prone to by the fact his dark lenses were in place.

"And just what happened to you, Alastair?" chuckled his wife.

"Dearheart...remind me again, why do we have such a daunting, never ending list of people with whom which we are acquainted whose need to feel appreciated by the Silvains _must_ be sated with a the delivery of a Christmas card by tomorrow morning?"

She only laughed in amusement at her husband's suffering as she went over to him a laid a quick kiss on his lips. "If you'd started last month when I _told _ you to, you wouldn't be in this predicament now would you?"

He smiled wrapping one arm around her petite waist pulling her closer, ignoring how the casualties from her cooking were transferring to his previously immaculate black suit. "I suppose you're right, Alessa."

Alice giggled as apposed to both Albert and Alex who made a chores of "ews" that didn't fit very well with "Last Christmas" whose notes were currently filling the room.

Alessa fixed them with a fakely scathing look before turning back to her amused husband. "Did you finish?"

The wincing look on the grand features of such a powerful man followed by the tiny, "no," was quite comical.

She sighed. "You need help?"

"Please?"

"Fine. We'll bring the lot down here _after_ you sample my work."

"Hmm..."Alastair glanced over at the rows upon rows of confections, slight frown over his lips. "Dearheart, you know I'm not crazy about sweets." His frown suddenly turned into a devilish grin his son would one day be infamous for. "Besides," he muttered in her ear, "I'm much rather sample _your_ goods."

Alessa smacked him semi-gently with a flower covered dish towel sending a white cloud up into the air. Ignoring the mock look of hurt covering his features she relentlessly shoved him towards the results of her morning long labors in the kitchen. "You're hopeless."

"Apparently," he chuckled, taking a bite of one from the latest batch. "Mmm, these are better than last year, I don't feel as though I'm ingesting something originating from an Easy Bake Oven."

She glared. "Keep that up and you won't get any help with those cards."

The newly appointed Umbrella manager raised his hands in submission, one of which still held a ginger snap and refrained from making anymore comments that might derail one of the last happy moments the Silvain family would experience together.

* * *

"All good things must come to an end." Such goes the saying that has haunted and ripped apart countless of the most precious moments in history.

On that Christmas Eve oh so long ago, those infamous words had struck again tearing Wesker far away from any hope he ever had of a "normal" life. That was the day the music and laughter were cut abruptly short and a cold permanent winter took up residence in Wesker's heart; the snow and ice forever stained the color of blood.

* * *

_December 24__th__, 1970; Silvain Family Estate:_

It was late in the evening when the agent of change that would forever alter Albert's and Alex's life came calling. Late enough that the boys who had, as always, been begging to stay up and prove to their parents that there really was no such thing as Santa Clause, had finally been convinced to go to bed.

Albert didn't know why the ring of the bell had woken him up but not his brother who was equally as light a sleeper or what possessed him to travel down the hall to the balcony overlooking the foyer. All he knew was that he wished he never had left his bed; that he had just rolled over and went back to sleep. Regardless he was standing there, his slight form at the age of ten hidden by the gigantic Christmas wreath his father struggled to put up every year, and he saw _everything_.

Albert felt a chill run up his spine that had nothing to do with the cold draft let in as the door opened and had everything to do with the man standing there: Mr. Wesker, a smug look of victory written all over his cold features. His icy green eyes peaking through the delicate square frames of his glasses had always reminded Albert of a snake's unfeeling reptilian gaze, but never before more than they did that night.

"Mr. Wesker?" breathed his father in shock. Reproach was clear in his voice and his stance causing Albert's mother who had been hanging back in the hall to move to her husband's side, worry clear on the faint lines of her forehead.

"Good evening, Alastair," came the obviously malice laced reply. It was clear that there would be nothing else good about this particular evening.

Noting the tone of his voice and the nature of his stare, Alistair dropped all pretenses of polite conversation. "What the hell are you doing here, Sebastian? It's past ten!"

The man casting a dark shadow that would never truly vanish over the Silvain's doorstep blocked the closure of the door with a gloved hand, further imposing his presence into their lives.

"Sorry to barge in like this, on Christmas Eve and all," his words were anything but apologetic, they were practically dripping with cruelty, "but I'm here to collect the boys. Project W starts with the new year and it would be nothing without its two star members."

"Albert, what are you doing?" came the whispered sleepy inquiry from his sister who had seen him sneak past her door a few moments ago. "You should be in bed-"

Her admonishment was cut off as Albert pulled her down behind the wreath, not wanting his position to be compromised.

"Al, what going on why-"

"Shhh!" he hissed almost frantically. Fear was building up in his chest causing his heart to begin to race. It was all he could do to ignore the voice he didn't fully understand telling him to run.

Adjusting to her new position next to her brother, Alice to looked on. Immediately she understood why he was acting so strangely: Something was very, very wrong.

Alastair was practically raging now. "I already told you they are _not_ going to become a part of your and 'Lord' Spencer's ridiculous science experiment! Now _get out_!"

Mr. Wesker only chuckled though their wasn't an ounce of humor in it. "Oh, dear Alastair, you misunderstand me. You see," his hand curled around the cold metal resting hidden beneath his heavy trench coat, its surface reflecting the freezing temperature of his own heart, "you assume I'm giving you a _choice_ in the matter."

The two small pops that went off from the sleek black object that was suddenly revealed were almost unnoticeable. They were so insignificant; they almost sounded like a toy or some sort of party noise maker.

The results were nothing short of life shattering.

The first gun shot tore through Albert's father's chest clipping the edge of his heart and ripping a hole through his left lung. Albert's mother didn't even get to scream before the second shot hit her straight through her pretty forehead, creating a small hole in the front before exploding into a gory mess of blood, gray matter, and bits of bone at the back.

Both of Albert's parents fell to the floor as if the strings holding them upright had been cut. Only one of them was still attempting to breath.

"Fool," sneered the devil as he stepped forwards and grinned down at the dying man struggling to fill his collapsed lungs. "Had you only listened to my request, you could have been a huge asset to the company." He again raised the silenced pistol. "Be sure to give your wife and daughter my regards."

The look of horror in his victim's eyes showing that, even through his desperate attempts to live, the man understood that he was going to kill Alice too caused Sebastian a sick thrill of pleasure before he gave Alastair the same treatment he'd just given his wife.

The great Alastair Silvian's life ended with yet another insignificant pop.

Albert couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't even breath. The red speckled with other bits of gore he couldn't even comprehend that was splattered over the entry way didn't even make sense. It couldn't be real. How could it be? Albert thought he understood death but this...this was unimaginable, unthinkable, impossible! He was in shock in every sense of the word. It wasn't until his sister's scream pierced the air that he began to gradually return to reality, his eyes moving in slow motion from the broken bloody forms of his parents' empty shells to the horror stricken, tear stained face of his sister, her red lips parted wide in what must have been some sort of yell.

He needed to run. He knew that. They both did, but his body refused to cooperate even as he saw his sister rising to her feet. Everything was moving much too slowly, his head was fuzzy, his limbs seemed like they were made of rubber, and his world felt like it was imploding around him.

Then it all stopped, the bullet that had flown through his sister's face, splattering him with everything that should have stayed inside her and away from his clothes; never anywhere near his hair; off of his face; not spread across his hands; and out of his mouth, sending him over the edge, falling forever into a pit of icy blackness that he knew would never let him go.

The three sets of boots pounding up the stairs went unheard by the unconscious boy laying in the growing pool of his sister's blood, her body thrown across him in a way that may have been seen as a last ditch effort to protect him, but instead severed as a means to trap him with the dead that would now forever haunt his tainted life.

"Goddammit!" Seethed Mr. Wesker rounding on the man to his left as though he was seriously considering pushing him from the balcony—he probably was. "Did you get the boy too?!"

Without waiting for a response, he unceremoniously threw Alice's body away from them so that her unseeing eyes, widened in a look of horror, and mouth, parted in a permanent silent scream, were facing towards the heavens, perfectly visible to all the uncaring eyes in the room that were instead focused on the blood splattered boy.

Sebastian breathed the smallest sigh as he released some of his ever present tension. The boy was unharmed, only unconscious. He frowned. This presented somewhat of a problem. _Why the hell was he even here?_ Mr. Wesker shook his head. _Oh, no matter we were going to brainwash them all anyways._

"Pick him up," He ordered the man he had previously been considering adding to the body count for the police to sort through on Christmas morning. _What a present that would be..._ he mused.

The man nodded and began roughly retrieving Albert's limp body.

"Careful with that!" snapped Mr. Wesker as he stood up, discarding his bloody trench coat and gloves as he did so. "That boy is worth more then both your lives combined!"

The man nodded and revised his tactics a bit, his companion deciding he had better help as his "insignificant life" had been brought into the discussion.

Between the shouting and the less then gentle treatment, Albert began to stir. The first thing the boy noticed was the copper taste. He wondered what the disgustingly spongy bits that seemed to be the origin of the bloody taste were and why they were in his mouth. He swallowed just before his memories rushed back to him, and suddenly he didn't even care about the rough hands picking him up beneath his small arms. He became violently ill first spitting and then heaving what had moments ago been bits of his sister's functioning brain all over the balcony's expensive carpet and the two men lifting him up.

Reacting on instinct, they dropped him, depositing him in a rancid mixture of his vomit and the blood and gore left behind by Alice's body.

Albert's eyes continued to stream as he coughed up the entire contents of his stomach.

Sebastian just raised an arching eye brow. "If there is any lasting damage, I'll be sure to tell Lord Spencer just who it was that dropped him."

If Albert had anything left in his gut to heave up, he would have done so; his family's murder's voice causing his stomach to twist in absolute revulsion.

Sebastian sighed. "Get him out of here and to the facility, just make sure one of you stays and cleans up this mess. I don't want the local law enforcement at my door anytime soon."

Despite his desire to be anywhere but here or at the mentioned facility, Albert's shaking limbs refused to push him up, let alone allow him bolt down the hallway or fight back. Nothing was right; nothing would listen to him. As it was, it was everything he could do to stay conscious.

Without a struggle, Albert allowed himself to be picked out of his own vomit and held at arms length like some dirty, filthy animal. It wasn't until he heard Mr. Wesker's next words that he found the will to scream.

"I'll go get the other one," muttered Sebastian in annoyance, running a now gloveless hand through his sleek black hair.

_No!_ They could _not_ have Alex too. They couldn't break Alex like they had destroyed him. He couldn't let Alex see this; see their parents and Alice who were so happy only a few minutes ago decimated and reduced to hunks of mutilated flesh weakly resembling the human beings they once were. No. It would be better that his brother die in his sleep then live to see this.

"Alex!" Albert screamed at the top of his lungs. "Alex run, don't look just run!" Anything else he had wanted to say to his unhearing brother was cut off via a quick cuff to the back of his head, this abuse actually coming from Sebastian who was at his limits with the current situation.

"Get the brat out of here," he seethed.

The two men nodded. One of them removed Albert's unconscious body from the premises and loaded him into one of the three black company SUVs parked outside before departing shortly there after, while the other stayed behind to erase any evidence of Umbrella's presence here tonight.

As it turned out, Albert needn't have worried; his brother was never subjected to the same horrors he was. Mr. Wesker and Alex left via the rear staircase and came out the back door, driving to the facility in a different vehicle. Sebastian had used his unparallelled manipulative abilities to convince Alex that his parents _wanted_ him to go with them and be a part of this wonderful program for gifted children when it had actually been their dying wishes for their boys to be as far away as possible from this mysteriously sinister company known as Umbrella.

After all, no need to traumatize the both of them.

* * *

**AN:** This chapter (in the beginning) was much too lighthearted for my tastes, but it was necessary even if it won't be anything like the rest of the story or else teenage and adult Wesker would be WAY OOC.

Yes, Alice was an OC. I will be using OCs to fill random roles throughout this story but they will certainly not be main characters. Also Wesker's parents were of course left completely up to my imagination since they were never mentioned in the RE series. I'm pleased with the results even if they were only around for one chapter.

I've taken a lot of liberty with Alex's character but since he's never "officially" appeared in one of the games, I think that's fair. For those RE players who don't know what I'm talking about, he's only been mentioned in notes found throughout the game as one of the Wesker Children in the Information Department. He was the Wesker "helping" Spencer to develop a way to "become a god" but in the end betrayed him after apparently discovering the secret to immortal life and leaving with it. All this was mentioned in the notes found during the Lost in Nightmares DLC for RE5.

As to the name "Silvain," obviously Albert's original last name wasn't Wesker, that title was given to him and all the other children upon entering Project W. I knew that Wesker called himself "S" when working in the Organization following Raccoon city so I decided to assume his real last name started with an S. From there it was just imagination and Silvain was the result-said Sil (like the first part in SILver) and vain like those vessel you have in your arm that I can start IVs in as a nurse. And since Silvain is a variation of Slyvain which is French and Wesker's country of origin is never mentioned, I decided to make him French

Finally, (man there are a lot of notes here but I swear I'm almost finished) as to Sebastian Wesker, it's a known fact that Project W was headed up by the man it was named after, hence this necessary filling of a character.

Okay, hope you enjoyed. I'd love to hear from you. Next update should be in a few days.

-Asiera


	3. PG02AW

**Project W: First Cycle**

**PG02A/W: The First Betrayal**

To be betrayed is one of the lowest feelings imaginable. It's as though suddenly the rug is pulled from beneath your feet and you are left helplessly laying there on the unforgiving ground as everything you believed to be true morphs into the twisted disgusting lies they really were; your world shattered. In the future, almost everyone who knew him and was foolish enough to trust in Albert Wesker would be met by this same life altering sensation as the cold tyrant looked on and laughed, but at ten years of age, Albert had never yet experienced such a thing and didn't fully comprehend what it was. In a matter of days, that would change. Wesker first knew the pain of a knife stabbed deeply into his back, straight through his heart from the only person he had left: Alex.

* * *

_December 27__th__; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

It had been three days since Albert's home had turned into a bloody crime scene, three damn days and nothing, absolutely _nothing_ had happened. Albert had expected, after such a traumatic entry into this new chapter of his life, that things would continue moving at breakneck speed and that Mr. Wesker, or whoever the hell was running this insane program would wast no time in doing...whatever it was they were planning on doing to him. If they were willing to kill of his entire family just to get to him and his brother, they must be desperate. He shivered, either that or the concept of human life really meant so little to them. He couldn't even imagine such cold uncaring apathy towards another's existence...yet.

For the first two days Albert had remained in a sort of shock, his body running through only its most basic of needs, deftly following the few orders that had been given to him by the men and women in white lab coats while his mind fluctuated between a blank slab of nothingness that refused to function, to being trapped in that nightmarish Christmas Eve saturated with blood and the horrid copper taste that accompanied it.

He hadn't eaten, at least not that he could remember, despite the fact that they brought decent meals in three times a day. He'd tried to avoid sleep at all cost because of the terrible images that haunted his "resting" mind. All Albert had been able to do was just lay in the bed provided to him, his tired body slack and useless atop the crisp white sheets he'd never even bothered to untuck, and stare at the unremarkable ceiling as he tried to fight off another instance of reliving his own personal hell.

For all intents and purposes, he was trudging through what was left of his life, no more alive than the zombies depicted in those stupid late night horror shows Alex had convinced him to watch.

He didn't even want to think of what had become of his brother.

It wasn't until day three that Albert's remarkable mind starting to function once again, his impressive intellect kicking into overdrive once he realized he'd been laying here for two days when he _should_ have been trying to escape; get out; _leave!_

The mental command was so overpowering and consuming, it took all his restraint to not throw himself uselessly against the door and scrabble at the walls screaming like some trapped animal. Instead, Albert forced himself to take a deep breath and slowly examined his surroundings.

The room he'd been confined to was small and sparsely furnished—only containing the bed he'd been lying on, a small dresser, a desk with a single chair, and a surprisingly unempty bookshelf. The predominating white color and lack of any obvious signs of dirt gave it an almost sterile feeling. The only doors in the room lead to the small bathroom, the almost non-existent, completely barren closet, and then the one door that would lead him out into the hallway he was deftly marched through three days prior.

A quick scan of the walls revealed no windows—not that he'd expected there to be. As he'd imagined, the door was probably his only exit.

Just to be sure, Albert did a much more in depth study of the room. The sturdy door blocking him from the hallway was, of course locked. A closer look showed that it was opened via a card reading device—not something he could force his way through. This place may not have looked it, but as far as he was concerned, his room was a prison cell.

He frowned and moved over to the dresser. It was filled with about twenty pairs of blindingly white tee-shirts and trousers made of a scrub-like material. His frown deepened. He hated white, now more then ever. It was much too easily stained red.

He shook his head barely managing to stop that train of thought. He couldn't afford to shut down again or worse, panic. He needed a clear head.

Glancing down he was surprised to find that he was wearing immaculate garments obviously originating from these drawers. This puzzled him because he didn't remember changing or getting cleaned up, but then again, he didn't remember much from the last forty eight hours.

Deciding to just be thankful he was clean, he moved on to the bathroom. Inside the small cramped space the only moveable objects were a toothbrush, toothpaste, a small plastic comb, a bar of soap, shampoo, and a bottle of conditioner. Nothing useful for escape.

Exiting the restroom, Albert made his way over to the desk which was supporting an unopened food tray, already gone cold. The tray consisted of some unappetizing food—those these days, everything made him think of the last meal he'd heaved up and was thus equally sickening to even consider ingesting.

What _was_ interesting was the set of plastic silverware contained in a tiny paper sleeve: spoon, fork and knife, obviously increasing in usefulness as he went down the list. He was disappointed that they were plastic and not metal, but the tick material they were made from was more durable then the cheep throw away utensils that were found at most of the fast food restaurants he avoided at all costs. At the very least, Albert believed it was a good idea to hang on to them. He unceremoniously stuffed them in one of the baggy pockets of his current pants.

Like the dresser, the desk was also far from empty. Within it was a thick pad of lined paper, several mechanical pencils, a few containers of graphite, and an eraser. _What the heck do they want me to do while I'm locked up in here? Study?_

His suspicions were further raised when he saw what books lined the shelves. Everything from history texts to calculus work books. This was just strange. Why in God's name would he be possessed to study after he'd been kidnapped and his family murdered in front of him?

He froze. _What if I wasn't supposed to see that?_ The guns had been silenced. He'd assumed it was for the neighbor's benefit but what if had also been for his and Alex's? Mr Wesker could have easily led him out the back without him ever bearing witness to the atrocities committed in the foyer.

This was supposedly a program for highly gifted children, an opportunity for them to hone their skills. If that was true, it made no sense to allow the subjects in whatever mad study they were preforming to see the gruesome events leading up to their initiation. Perhaps the other children hadn't even been procured like this. Mr. Wesker had "asked" first.

But what kind of gifted children's program warranted _killing_ to get participants? That was just...well, _insane_! Regardless, he doubted his brother was stupid enough to buy that his parents had agreed to have him removed from the house hours before Christmas morning just to get enrolled in some smart kids' boarding school. If he had...Albert would be happy to knock some sense into that thick scull of his.

Right, but first things first. He had to get out.

For the rest of the day, Albert waited, silent and scheming, trying to mimic whatever blank expression he was sure had been covering his features while he'd been in his daze.

The men in white coats, sometimes two, sometimes just one, came in at exactly eight o'clock, noon, and then again a four. The preciseness of the scheduling led Albert to believe that this process would not be altered and that he could expect them tomorrow at about the same times. It would have been prudent to prove this by observing for a few more days, but time was not a luxury he possessed.

Upon each visit to his quaint prison they brought with them a steaming tray of food he guessed came straight up from the kitchen. After they had set it down they always examined him, much in the same way he was looked over upon annual checkups at the doctor's office. Then there was a check of his temperature, blood pressure, pulse, respiratory rate and once at 8:00 in the morning, a drawing of blood for what he guessed were either daily or weekly labs.

The scientist—what else could they be—didn't come in during the night, they would only bother to open the door and glance at him in the bed before leaving.

Laying silently in the dark Albert ran through his options. They weren't good. If there were lab draws the following day, he supposed he could get the needle and attempt to use it as a weapon, but what good was a ten year old kid against a full grown adult, even if they weren't expecting it, with only a two inch needle as a weapon? No, that would never work. Even if by some miracle he _did_ actually make it out of the room, the alarm would be raised in seconds. He'd never make it out of the compound, let alone rescue his brother.

Option two—and this one was better but not great; it still involved an alarm being raised in a matter of minutes: He could hide in the closet during one of the times they brought in food. He'd have to hope the shock of not seeing him was enough for them to forget to shut the door, allowing him to sneak out while they frantically searched the room.

He shook his head. _Not shocking enough...maybe if I spread some blood around..._ The thought of the bright red fluid pumping through his veins made him shiver despite the warmth. _Man...for the middle of winter they sure keep it warm-_

His thoughts skidded to a halt and he sprung up out of bed, squinting in the darkness, searching the walls for what he was praying was there. His heart sunk when his preliminary search revealed nothing. Refusing to give up he tried the bathroom and again walked out disappointed. He was about to give up and return begrudgingly to the bed when, in a last ditch effort, he threw open the closet doors and peered upwards into the heavy shadows.

There, right in the center of the wall, just before it turned into the ceiling was the grated entrance to the ventilation shafts. Pulling over the chair and standing on his toes to get a better look Albert was overjoyed to find that, though it would be tight, he could fit and better still, the covering was only secured there by four tiny screws that could easily be removed with the silverware they brought him everyday.

Albert had to force himself not to immediately enact his escape plan. He needed time, as much time as possible to find his brother and leave this retched place.

_Tomorrow night_. _Right after the Lab Coat's final check._ He assured himself. He would stuff the bed with the horrid white garments from the dresser so they would have something to look at when the stuck their heads in, then he would drag the chair over shut the closet door, remove the grate and get the hell out of this place, stupid naive brother in toe.

* * *

_December 29th; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

The waiting, it was _killing _him and it wasn't being quick about it. Rather it was slowly draining away at his last reserves of patience and sanity; dragging minutes into painstakingly long hours. Had Albert had any less self control he would have just given up and fled to to the shaft hours ago, away from the oppressive confinement suffocating him under sickening amounts of white.

After what felt like an eternity long lesson in patience, evening fell and the smothering presence of the scientists assigned to him was removed for the day.

Albert's breath hitched in his throat as he forced himself to wait a few more moments and listen intently to the men's steadily retreating footsteps and meaningless chatter. Once he was _sure_ they were gone he sprung out of bed and quickly but silently crossed the floor to the dresser. He then proceeded to remove arm fulls of the white garment out of the drawers and stuffed them beneath the blankets, readjusting them until he was satisfied that it would fool anyone who glanced in to check in on him.

Once that was done, he quietly picked up the small chair and carried it into the closet, then started the arduous task of removing the screws holding in the grate. This was further complicated by how dark it was in the little white room and his lack of a very effective tool: The side of the plastic spoon they'd delivered with dinner.

After about ten minutes filled with more struggle then he had anticipated with his makeshift tool, the last of the screws popped out but it still seemed the grate was held in by something. Becoming perhaps overly concerned, he pulled harder than he should have, the metal bars giving way and sending him off balance and painfully into the side of the closet. If he hadn't caught himself there and then, he, the grate, and the chair would have crashed to the floor, no doubt alerting his guardians that something was wrong in the room.

Cursing himself for being so careless, Albert slowly pushed off the wall with his now throbbing arm, righting himself and the chair which was holding its weight precariously on two of its four plastic legs. Once he was sure he wasn't going to fall, he gently set the metal ventilation covering on the floor and shut the door plunging the little room in complete darkness.

Working only on touch, Albert located the open vent emitting a steady stream of warm air. Now came the hard part: Hoisting himself up into the shaft. Albert had always been more competent in the intellectual areas than in physical ones. As his small arms shook with the effort involved in lifting himself off the short chair into the vent, he wished he had worked at developing the latter a little more.

Once he had actually got himself up into his escape rout, he realized how many problems were involved with this hastily put together plan. The tiny passage was unbearably cramped, dark, and hot. Albert had never viewed himself as particularly claustrophobic, but forced to crawl through this metal passageway filled with suffocating hot air that could have easily become his tomb when he couldn't even see his own hand in front of his face was causing his heart to race in fear and his breathing to become slightly erratic with panic. This, accompanied with the stress involved of single handedly finding and rescuing his worthless brother and then escaping the facility housing the dangerous individuals who had killed his family without even blinking caused Albert to momentarily lose it and start frantically trying to get out, his useless thrashing further increasing the feeling that he was permanently trapped.

It was a miracle he forced himself to lie still and calm his breathing, even more of one that he started forwards into the impenetrable blackness, away from the entrance he'd just lifted himself through. He had no idea where he was going in this hellish maze, he didn't have a clue where his brother was being held, and he was completely lost about where the exit to this facility would be, but he knew that staying put was not an option. He had to continue. It was the only hope he had of ending this nightmare and the mantra he kept repeating to himself as he moved blindly through the blackness.

* * *

_December 29th; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

When Albert came to the first shafts of dim light shining up through the slits of a downward leading vent, he knew he had to get out here. He couldn't take anymore of the labyrinth he been lost in for what felt like hours. By now, his arms were red and slightly welted from the now painfully hot metal surface of the vent he'd had to slowly crawl over, his eyes were red from dryness and the fearful tears he'd been unable to hold back, and the panic in his chest had risen to unbearable levels.

As he moved over to the great he saw what looked like an empty office room—though honestly he wouldn't have cared if it was a room filled with the people who had brought him here; he was getting out _now_. Instantly his red fingers wrapped around and tugged and pushed at the unresponsive metal separating him from some minor form of freedom. When it didn't give at all, an even stronger bolt of terror ran through him.

This vent was too was held in place by screws.

How could he have been so flagrantly _stupid!_ He'd left the only tool he had to remove them back in the closet, tossed carelessly on the dark floor—not that he could see how he could properly maneuver it from the wrong side of the vent anyway.

He was really terrified now. There was now way he could find his way back in the room and the longer he stayed in this hellish shaft, the more the pressure built in his chest, squeezing relentlessly around his racing heart. He _knew_ if he didn't get out _now_ he was going to die.

He now accosted the non-budging metal with his fists, no longer caring if he made a sound. Then suddenly, miraculously, the grate gave a bit. The screws were tiny, maybe, with enough force, he could force them out. But his tired burnt arms weren't going to cut it.

Forcing himself to move again, he positioned himself so that he was completely over the grate, imposing all his weight on its thin surface. He felt the metal strain under the force he was exerting on it, but it still refused to break, he even tried bouncing up and down on it as much as the inclosed space would let him.

Nothing.

He was really panicking now, the white cloud of fear fogging up his mind causing what little rational he had left to slip away, replacing it with a blind franticness that would get him killed.

Albert winced his eyes shut, refusing to give in. He would _not_ die like this. His eyes would never become the disturbingly glazed over lifeless orbs that had stared blackly up at him out of his parent's and sister's bloody face. Forcing the fog to clear, Albert attempted to think his way out of his situation.

A few seconds later, he groaned and commanded his aching arms to again propel him forwards until he had halfway transversed the blocked opening. Wincing, he turned until he was laying on his back, his hips just resting on the edge of the grate. He then bent his knees until they were wedged against the top of the shaft, his feet planted firmly in the middle of the thin metal bars. One more deep breath and then he pushed upwards on his knees as hard as he could using the entire strength of his body to do so, the unbending frame of the shaft causing all the force to be transferred to the screws holding the covering in place. The increased pressure on his forearms and knees caused the heated metal to sear painfully into them, but Albert didn't stop. He was beginning to feel the cover give way.

He was getting out of this death trap.

Several pain laced seconds later, the screws were stripped from their slots, the grate came loose, and Albert felt himself falling with it. Unable to stop himself, he and the grate crashed to the floor, blood spilling from the jagged cut on his left forearm he'd received on the way down from the sharp metal making up the lip of the shaft.

Willing himself not to cry out, he put pressure on the wound even though he'd much rather have been holding his head which had banged against the side of the desk as he fell. The gash was long and rather nasty looking, but thankfully, not that deep. It was certainly making one hell of a mess though.

Albert allowed himself to lay there for a few minutes as the pain in his head subsided and he listened intently for footsteps or other sounds of alarm, cursing his deep urgent breathing for being so unnecessarily loud.

Nothing.

Could he have really been so lucky?

Shaking his head, he got up, his wobbly feet causing him to have to grip the desk for support. The increased throbbing in his scull made him to wince his eyes shut. He was going to have a very nasty bump there tomorrow, in fact he'd probably sustained a concussion.

Once the worst of the pain had passed and he was fairly certain he wasn't going to topple over, Albert began searching through the desk that had tried to cave his skull in for something to stop the bleeding.

What he discovered was even better.

By some gigantic stroke of luck, Albert had landed in one of the data collectors offices and, sitting on top of a pile of huge folders, was a list of all the children in the project and their basic information, including to what _room_ they had been assigned.

It only took him moments to locate his brother's name, committing the number two hundred sixty four to memory.

"I'm coming for you, Idiot," he growled under his breath before making his way cautiously out the door and into the dimly lit hallway.

* * *

_December 29th; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

The sets of door ridden hallways reminding Albert of a hospital hallway from a horror film surrounding the area where his brother was being kept, looked identical to the one he'd been marched down. He'd have been surprised if the multitude of doors did not lead to carbon copies of the "room" he'd been trapped in. However, there was one _big_ difference: These children were anything but confined.

The narrow areas connecting the various doors to one another were littered sporadically with kids ranging from just a few years old to being in their early teens. All of them were smiling, laughing, and talking, acting as if _nothing_ was even the slightest bit amiss.

This congregation of mindless morons infuriated Albert for several reasons. First and foremost, that so many people could be so blatantly clueless.

His second reason involved the fact that all these idiots made it impossible to move around unnoticed. It was true that anyone who saw him would probably just mistake him for one of their own or even his brother, and while Albert was highly skilled in the art of mimicking Alex to a T, he didn't want to have to explain the blood, the burns, or the ripped dirty clothing. He wouldn't even begin to know how.

As if stood, getting seen was the equivalent of getting caught.

The third and final reason was also the most enraging. It was simple: Alex was free; free to leave his room; free to go where ever he pleased; just plain free. Yet, despite Alex's vastly greater ability to to locate and rescue his brother, he had sat around on his worthless bum and, as far as Albert could tell, done absolutely _nothing_.

_He didn't even attempt to find me!_ Seethed Albert as he sat steaming in the dark, his injuries alternating the signals they sent to his brain between sharp jolts of pain and a dull aching throb.

Currently, he had taken refuge in a broom closet and was sharing the tight space with a variety of cleaning supplies, all letting off a variety of heavy chemical smells that were giving him an even bigger headache on top of everything else.

There was nothing he could do for the moment besides wait for the jabbering imbeciles to clear out. Well, besides sit and fume.

Even if Alex _was_ naive enough to believe Umbrella's lies about this so called "gifted children's program," Albert imagined he'd have noticed that his twin brother, someone who was equally if not more intelligent than he was _nowhere_ to be found

A cause for suspicion? Albert most certainly thought so.

It wasn't until much later in the evening that things began to quiet down. According to the clock in the hall, Albert had waited to cautiously venture out of his hiding place until well past nine.

He was beginning to get anxious about how much longer his ruse would hold up. It'd been over four hours, what if someone looked too closely? Noticed the chair was missing? Or randomly decided to do a much more in depth check in on him? What if the found the office with the broken vent splattered with his blood?

Albert picked up the pace. He had to hurry if he wanted this to have a chance of this working. Thankfully, Alex's room wasn't that much further off. There was still hope.

* * *

_December 29th; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

Alex had finished getting ready for bed and had only just tucked himself under the sheets when his bloodied, injured, bedraggled brother barged into the room slamming the door behind him and throwing his panting body against its white frame.

Honestly, Alex didn't recognize him at first. Albert had never looked so panicked or ill put together in his life. On top of the blood and the burns coating his arms, his torn clothing, and horribly disheveled hair, Albert looked thinner than when he'd last seen him and his eyes, rimmed with deep circles, had a haunted frantic look to them that was almost bordering on animalistic.

Alex's worst fears had been realized.

He had to force his words out of his suddenly dry throat as he stood to face his brother. "A-Al...W-What happened to you?"

"What happened to me?" hissed Albert in pure rage, somehow managing to keep from screaming. "This place happened to me, Alex! While you've been sitting here doing God knows what I've been risking my life trying to find you! Do you see these?" He held up his burnt cut arms. "I got this crawling though a vent!"

Alex winced. "Why..." He took a deep breath. "Why were you crawling through a vent?"

"To rescue you, you twit!" he raged.

"From what?" Again with the almost pained questions, like he already _knew_ the answers.

"From Umbrella! From Mr. Wesker! From the people who killed our parents!" He was being louder than he should have been and he knew it, but he couldn't help it. Every look on Alex's face, every response was leading him to an answer he didn't even want to fathom.

"..."

The lack of emotional reaction, the blankness of the stare Alex was fixing the floor with, the wincing expression...it was too much.

"You...you knew...?" breathed Albert in shock.

Alex shook his head dejectedly. "I assumed."

Albert was on him in seconds slamming him painfully into the wall. "What do you mean 'I assumed!' What kind of answer is that?! They _killed_ them all, Alex and you're just gonna sit here like you're okay with it?! What in God's name his wrong with you?! Were you just going to forget about them?! Forget about _me_?!"

Alex didn't couldn't meet his gaze. _He'd never understand...I don't have a choice..._ "I-I thought they'd killed you too, Al." He was shaking now. "I thought there wasn't any reason to fight," he gasped out, tears starting to fall from his eyes.

Albert softened, his painful grip on his trembling twin's arms loosening. "It...It's okay, Alex. We're going to get out of here." He was becoming determined again. "We are going to get out of here together."

Alex meekly nodded, still not meeting his gaze. "How? How are we going to get out of this?" He was pleading, begging Albert to give him some solution he hadn't yet seen.

Albert shook his head. "I don't know, but-"

It was then that the two heard the hard rapping at the door, followed split seconds later by a concerned voice. "Alex! Alex, are you alright? We heard shouting."

Albert started to panic. He was so close, so damn close to getting out. Why hadn't he forced himself to stay quite? _This is it, we're done..._

Alex grabbed his brother's arm, pulling him from his racing thoughts. "Go!" he hissed. "Hide in the closet. I'll get rid of them."

Albert nodded and bolted for the tiny room that was the mirror image of place he'd started tonight's crazy journey and where it would soon end as well.

Albert tried to calm his heavy breathing enough to hear what his brother was telling the alarmed men, but he couldn't manage it. He was terrified. Could Alex really convince them that nothing was wrong? Did they still have a chance of getting out?

Albert's questions were answered by the only words he was able to make out: "In there."

The sickening feeling that overtook him at those two words was more painful than anything he'd gone through so far tonight. It left him more empty then the darkness he'd crawled through; was hotter then the metal that had seared him; sharper than the jagged edge of the vent that had cut him; it was more earth shattering then the blow he'd revived to the head; it was even worse then seeing his family's unseeing eyes staring up at him.

It broke his hope and his heart all in one blow: Alex had betrayed him.

He didn't even have time to react before the closet door was thrown open and two sets of hands accosted him.

_"NO!" _He screamed, all his anguish coming out it that one word as he uselessly struggled; kicking, hitting, and biting anything he could get a hold of, but they wouldn't let go; mercilessly dragging him from the room, away from his brother who still refused to look at him.

"Alex _why?_!" Albert wailed. "You _traitor!_ They killed our parents! They killed Mom and Dad and our sister! They fucking killed Alice! Her brains and blood were all over me!"

He had completely lost it now. He barely heard Alex's next words. "Don't you get it Al? This is the _only_ way." And it was, Alex had figured out the night Mr. Wesker had taken him away what Albert could still not begin to comprehend: There was no escaping Umbrella and the only way to survive was to play their games.

Again Albert let a feral scream rip through his throat as his body writhed. "I'll _kill_ you! I swear to God, Alex! I! Will! Kill! You!"

By now many tiny faces were staring at the scene, mixes of fear and curiosity covering their features. Of course they would do nothing to assist him. Instead they looked on, viewing Albert more as a wild animal than as boy who would have given anything, _anything_ for help.

No one moved.

"How dare you?! How dare you do this to me?! You're own brother! Your _TWIN_! I came here to _save_ you!"

The battered men were now holding him to the floor yelling for help; help that came in the form of a needle carrying a potent dose of sedatives.

Albert felt the needle enter his neck despite his best efforts to jerk away. The effect was instantaneous. His vision started to blur and swim, his mind began to cloud over, and all the strength in his limbs just melted away.

It was all he could do to make one last tiny strangled cry followed by barely discernible words. "I won't forget this, Alex. I will _never_...forget...this..."

* * *

**AN: **And so goes the violent separation of Albert and Alex. Next chapter, things move deeper into Project W, another Wesker child who will be an important character in the future comes in, and we finish up Wesker's childhood arch as well as this story's First Cycle. Hope you guys are enjoying. Reviews, comments, questions, or whatever else you want to put in that little box are greatly appreciated.

-Asiera


	4. PG03AW

**Project W: First Cycle**

**PG03A/W: Lost Memories & Remembered Nightmares**

Memories: Arguably they are what make us who we are. They define our past, dictate our present, and shape our future. Without them, would we be the same person? Experience the same emotions? Carry the same dreams?

An interesting conundrum; one that Wesker will never really know the answer to. For even if one were to lose their memories of their past, it would be impossible for them to answer such questions on their own without them.

With no past to anchor them and only a dark cloud of nothingness to look back on leaving them with infinite questions and no answers with which to sate them, it is no wonder that they will cling desperately to the first tangible truths presented to them regardless of consequences that follow.

* * *

_Early January; Europe; Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

Albert didn't even attempt to move. He didn't pull uselessly at the metal cuffs chaining him to the small metal bed frame in what looked to be a hospital room nor did he attempt to use his "brilliant" mind to come up with another escape plan. What was the point now? It was far too late for that.

Alex had ruined everything.

Albert winced his eyes shut, trying to keep his sluggish mind, slowed by the chemicals leaching through his system, from revisiting those horrid memories in which everything he'd ever known had been shattered.

If he was so brilliant, why hadn't he foreseen what had happened? Why hadn't he been able to stop himself from being forced so low? From becoming so helpless?

He arched his head back, pressing the painful inflamed bump against the hard cold metal beneath him. It was too much and he couldn't take it anymore. He just wanted it to stop. He didn't care how.

Letting out some tiny sound halfway between a cry and a sob, he allowed himself to slip back into the blank nothingness whatever drugs they had him on were urging him towards and waited for Wesker and Umbrella to finish whatever twisted experiment they had begun.

He laid there, staring at the unremarkable ceiling, apathy flowing through him like an ever present disease, pumped steadily through his veins with each beat of his tired heart, its persistent activity recorded with quick quiet beeps sounding from the monitor attaching to his chest. This uncaring became his existence, lasting for hours? Days? Weeks? Seconds? He didn't know; didn't care either.

He liked not caring, it was easier than the opposite state of mind, but something was making him care again, forcing him to rise from the nothingness. He didn't like it and tried to ignore the prickling sensation at the corner of his mind.

"Stop..." he moaned deliriously, trying to twist his head away from whatever was pulling him from his drug induced apathy. "Just leave...me alone..."

If anything, the jarring pull away from nothingness got stronger and more determined.

"Hey!" came the urgent hissed whisper. "Come on! You gotta get up!"

All Albert managed was to turn his head to the side. At first he thought the wall was talking to him which, even in his befuddled state, didn't make sense. Then he noticed the grating by his head with a shiver, but it was only a thin panel separating his new room from the next, not a wretched shaft. Why Umbrella wanted the air in the two rooms to mix he didn't have a clue, and between his headache and the fuzziness in his brain, he didn't even attempt to understand it.

"Come on!" begged the girl's voice. "Please, please get up! We don't have a lot of time..."

Albert was eventually able to focus on the dark silhouette resting on the other side of the grate, in particular the nervous pair of icy green eyes framed by long locks of fiery red hair.

"W-what...?" he muttered, much as someone rudely awoken from a dream.

"Oh thank, God," she breathed. "Here, take this!" came the hurried whisper as she used her free hand to push a once crumpled and then refolded tiny piece of paper towards him through the metal slats.

"Why?" he blinked in confusion, attempting and then finally managing to sit up. "What is it?" A few seconds passed. "Who the heck are you?"

She sighed, wiggling the tiny folded piece of white in front of him as if doing so would entice him enough to grab it.

When she got no response, she decided she'd have to explain. "I'm just another kid, trapped here, same as you, and that's," she jiggled her proffered note covered paper, "that's as much of my life story as I could get down in a day..."

Albert, if possible, seemed even more confused, deciding to pull at the chain binding him rather than taking her worthless piece of paper. "Why would I what that?" he muttered in an annoyed fashion.

"You're _not_ listening to me!" she hissed. "Look I don't know how it happens or why they're doing it, but they are taking us, one by one and doing..." she scrunched her nose up, trying to find the right word. "...s-something to us."

Albert snorted slightly at her weak explanation.

She scowled. "The guy who used to be exactly where you are came back yesterday with _no_ memory. Nothing. We'd been talking for days and he didn't remember a thing about me, this place, or his past."

Albert was listening now.

"Same thing happened to the girl on my right. I heard her screaming earlier today about not knowing where she was or why she was here." The girl shook her head. "I don't know how, but they are wiping us clean. Better to mold us I guess," she spat venomously.

"Anyways," she directed her striking eyes back to him, silently pleading. "Please, please take this. I'd hide it here, but I'm afraid they'll find it when they come to get me. I know their schedule. I know they'll take me in a few hours but..." she was tremblingly slightly. "I don't want to forget them...forget my mom and dad and...and everyone."

She took a deep breath. "Once they finish, they'll bring me back here to recover. After they leave me alone, you can give it to me, so maybe I won't lose everything."

She was begging him and it suddenly made him feel some of the hopelessness he'd been wallowing in start to seep away. He had power over this; over this girl. This was something he could do, a small blow against the force that had shattered him. He was about to accept her offered treasure but stopped, his fingers inches away from the flimsy piece of paper.

"No."

Her eyes widened in fear and shock.

"Not unless you do the same thing for me."

She relaxed. "I-I'm sure when I get back, after you give me that piece of paper, I'll do it. Even if they take me away before you come back, I'll find you somehow and give it to you. Okay?"

Albert glared, he'd already been double crossed before once today. "How do you know? If you don't remember your promise, why would you keep it?"

She was really desperate now, he could hear it in her unsteady voice. "I-I know myself, and everyone knows what fair is. Trust me, if I'm anything like the others, I'll be desperate for answers. I'll do it."

Albert's scowl deepened. "I don't trust anybody."

The girl was about to retort but managed to keep it together. A few pained moments of silence then: "What's...what's your name?"

"...Albert Silvain," he respond suspiciously.

She smiled and retracted the paper scribbling something in a small free space at the corner of the page before holding it up so he could see. The words, 'Trust Albert Silvain' were just visible in the dim lighting. "Well, Albert, my name is Laura, Laura Muller and I trust you." With a smile that was nothing but pure generosity and eyes as trusting as his sister's had been, she dropped the little bundle containing her life followed by the stump of a pencil she'd used to write it and the remaining leafs of paper she hadn't been able to fill through the grate.

Albert was silent for a while before wrapping his hand around everything that would be left of Laura Muller after whatever was about to happen to her.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He nodded just as the group of men in white scrubs and surgical gear came through the door to take her.

Watching the uncaring scientists drag Laura away was one of the most most horrible things he'd seen so far—right up there with the rest of the atrocities that had happened over the past few weeks. To her credit, she put up one hell of a fight; nearly twisting her arm out of its socket in an attempt to get off the table and slam the hunk of metal into them. Of course, in the end, it was a useless endeavor. They had dragged her away; carried her screaming at the top of her lungs to an operating room where they would preform some form of crazy experimental surgery that would leave her mind a blank slate; a perfect canvas for whatever they wanted.

It gave Albert an almost calming sense of power to know that he held the only key to stopping this process.

He hesitated, he wanted to read what she'd written but it felt like a perverse invasion of the girl's privacy. Besides, it was probably sappy and incredibly reminiscent of a soap opera. Not that his would be much different.

Albert suddenly froze. What the hell would he write?

Glowering over the sudden blank his doped up mind presented him with, Albert began viciously contemplating what he would record on the two measly scraps of parchment. Each trip down memory lane was more painful then the last. There were so many happy priceless memories he'd shared with his, by now, rotting family; each one of them now ruined and meaningless after Umbrella's and Alex's treachery.

What did it even matter if he remembered how he'd felt when his dad had first taught him to ride a bike without ever using the training wheels? Why would he care in the future if he remembered how his mom would hold him when he'd came into his parents room after having a nightmare? Would the memory of his sister teaching him to play his favorite song on the piano with her infallible smile and never ending supply of patience for his once clumsy movements even be the same?

He shook his head. No matter which words he used, he could never convey on paper, or later to himself, the rich, powerful extent of those precious moments or of the emotions and value behind them.

They'd just be empty shells; pretty coatings to nothingness.

He felt rage well up in his chest at this injustice. Then instantly, it clicked.

Maybe he couldn't translate the joy or the happiness, but he could make himself remember the pain; remember the fact Umbrella had destroyed his life and that his brother had left him for dead and then delivered him to the monsters trying to kill him.

As the hate took over and Albert pushed everything joyful, loving, and beautiful from his mind, only allowing the filth and agony to flow from the dull pencil tip onto the now permanently tainted paper. Only one thought echoed throughout his entire being justifying his actions: One day, he would get his revenge.

* * *

_Early January; Europe; Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

It was finished.

Albert stared down at the small pages filled with nothing but pain, hatred, and the his commanding desire for revenge. At the moment he didn't even regret that he would never remember any of the love that had filled his life before Umbrella's destruction of everyone he had once held dear.

It will never be truly known if Wesker would morn this decision to forever seal his heart off from the past. Not even Wesker himself is aware of the answer as he now no longer even remembers his choice.

Right now, it didn't really even matter. Stuffing the material that would shape the rest of his life under his shirt along with Laura's memories, he let the drugs circulating though his system to win once again, taking him back to his previous state of blank mindlessness as he waited for what would be left of Laura to return.

* * *

_Early January; Europe; Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

After several hours—though honestly, Albert's sense of time was too disturbed for him to even venture a guess—Laura came back. She was wheeled through the door into the tiny room by a team of four "doctors" on the same metal bed she'd been taken away on.

It reminded Albert of an autopsy slab.

By the time Albert he had managed to pull himself from his stupor, the adjacent room had fallen silent, the only sound penetrating though the darkness being the two's breathing—one slow and deep, the other hitched and shallow—and the steady soft beeping of their heart monitors, each painting a very different picture.

He mentally cursed as he sat up and the cuff chafed painfully on his already inflamed wrists. Albert peered nervously into the dimly lit room on the other side of the small grate. He could just make out the silhouette of her body, her chest slowly rising and falling rhythmically with each expansion of her lungs. He was pretty sure she was unconscious, but he needed to talk to her _now_. He had to find out if what she'd told him was in fact the truth.

At this point, both logic and fear were trying to convince him that an outcome such as she had described wasn't even possible. How could some procedure permanently remove someone's memories? He'd heard of some rare cases from his mother where extensive damage to the hippocampus from either trauma or disease had caused bizarre alterations in memory function, including one individual who had lost all memories of his past as well as his ability to create new ones. But such procedures weren't tested—for obvious reasons. The brain was still largely a mystery that, when meddled with too severely, had more potential to cause devastatingly debilitating side effects than to systematically and effectively block out a person's entire past.

Such thoughts in mind, he was almost scared to wake her up, but what else was he going to do?

He was tired of waiting in the dark.

"Laura," he called tentatively.

No response.

"Laura, please!" he insisted more adamantly.

Again, only the beeping of her monitor.

"Tsch." He was suddenly very impatient. He understood that she'd probably just been though some traumatic operation accompanied by large doses of anesthetic agents, but that currently paled in comparison to his bordering on desperate need for information.

"Laura get up!" he snarled as loudly as he dared, punctuating the command by tossing the little stub of the pencil at her shoulder.

It worked. She was starting stir. After about ten minutes in which their roles from when they'd met a few hours ago had been completely switched, with Albert being the one begging her to come out of her drug induced sleep, she became fully aware of her surrounding again.

"Wha-" She was really coming out of it now, forcing herself to sit, supporting her weight on her elbows as she tried to reorient herself. Her panicked glancing around the unfamiliar room became more and more frantic as everything she saw only succeeded in adding to her confusion instead of comforting her blank mind.

When she discovered the chain attaching her wrist to the bed she nearly panicked.

"Where am I? What's going on here? Who are you?" Her questions all came out in a rush, much too loudly for Albert's tastes, but they confirmed his fears. As crazy as it sounded, Umbrella had found a way to completely remove someone's memories causing total global amnesia.

"Shh!" he ordered, the strength of his voice actually causing her to cease with her frantic line of questioning, stop pulling uselessly at her binding, and stare up at him with her terror filled green eyes.

"Please," she begged much more quietly, "tell me what's happening."

"You don't remember anything do you?" he questioned darkly.

She shook her head fearfully, only some of her once magnificent red hair falling into her pale face. The entire right side of her head had been shaved, making visible the still angry red curve of a stapled incision line which rested like a crescent moon a few inches above her ear. The thought of what had caused it and what cranial alterations lay beneath the surface of the future scar was horrifying; even more so because Albert knew the same thing would be happening to him very soon.

"No...n-nothing," she nearly sobbed. "I don't...I don't know who I am."

Albert shivered. Her lack of any form of the most rudimentary of memory was chilling.

"You're name is Laura Muller," he respond in a monotone. He had hoped that the sound of her name being spoken might jog something, but the confused way she continued to stare at him dashed those dreams.

Taking a deep breath as he mentally prepared himself to eventually be in her same position, he finally spoke. "We're...experiments. Experiments for the pharmaceutical company called Umbrella. They kidnapped us and, as far as I can tell, hundreds of other children and brought them to this facility."

"Why?" She pleaded, panic again rising in her trembling voice. "And why can't I remember?"

Albert shook his head. "I don't know. They said we're special, that we have 'superior genes' or some such nonsense. I don't know what they want with us.

"As to why you can't remember anything...You told me...only a few hours ago, that they take us and do something to wipe all our memories clean. Again, I don't know why."

Laura touched the still painful mark on the side of her head, barely managing to wince as her sluggish brain tried to comprehend the vast amount of information that had just been imparted to her in only those few unemotional words.

"What...what about my family? I've got one haven't I? What happened to them?"

Albert looked away, pained look covering his features. "I...I don't know. I would assume they're dead. They...killed mine when they brought me here."

Laura covered her mouth, eyes wide with terror. A small strangled scream came out of it as tears began to flow down her face.

"Y-You're l-lying!" she cried causing Albert to jump at her volume. "That c-can't be true, it just can't!"

"Shut up!" he hissed. "Do you really want the men who did this to us to come back in here?"

Laura fell silent and shook her head rapidly.

Albert sighed in relief when he didn't hear the approaching sound of footsteps. "Listen. I have proof. You gave me this." He held up the tightly folded paper. "You told me to give this to you when you came back from...whatever they did to you. I didn't read it, but you told me it was what you could get down of your life story."

Laura grabbed desperately for it, shoving her fingers through the grate.

Albert held it back causing her to whimper. "I'll give it to you, but you have to do the same for me." He held up his own precious bundle of recorded memories. "I need you to hold on to this when they take me and," he swallowed, "return it to me when I come back." He paused to make sure she fully understood." Can you do that?"

Laura nodded. "Yes...I can, now please..."

Albert nodded and passed her the object she was frantic to obtain followed by his own final words to himself as Albert Silvain.

He sat there in silence, head resting against the cold metal of the grate as she read, just listening to her small cries as her eyes moved over and over the already worn pages.

"I-I don't re-remember any of t-this," came her eventual whisper. "N-nothing."

Albert sighed nodded his head before sticking his small fingers through the grate.

She looked up at him, her sparkling eyes still watering. "A-are you A-Albert Sil-Silvain?"

Again he nodded and then she too reached her fingers through the tiny bars, holding his hands as best she could. "I'm...I'm scared." She whispered almost inaudibly, resting her scared head against the thin wall separating them.

"Me too," came his own embarrassingly meek voice as he pressed his forehead to the metal.

They just stayed like that for hours, drawing comfort from that poor excuse for an embrace neither of them was willing to end. She would let out a small pitiful sob occasionally, and each time he would squeeze what little of her fingers he could reach in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.

They were both trapped in the same sinking ship. Each of them were frantically searching for solutions; for hope in this bleak situation and against the ungodly forces they were powerless to fight.

They were still clinging to each other as best they could when Albert heard the footsteps approaching; heard his door being unlocked and then pushed open; felt the cold air from the hall wash in, clinging to the group of masked individuals whose souls were of the same temperature.

He couldn't bring himself to look at them.

"No..." Laura let out another sob, her thin fingers digging into his own flesh so hard it hurt and the tiny nails drew blood.

Albert couldn't help but hold on tighter as well even though he knew it wouldn't do either of them any good in the end. In the last moments before the gloved hands grabbed his shoulders, he locked eyes with her; iron blue searing into pure emerald.

"Don't forget your promise."

He let go.

Albert didn't even attempt to fight as the masked men pushed him back down to the cold surface of the metal table that had been serving as his bed and held him there. What was the point?

He was smart enough to know when he'd lost.

The only sound he was able to process over the pounding of his heart as they wheeled him out of the room were Laura Muller's sobs as she called his real name one last time.

The smooth transition down the maze of twisting empty hallways to the cold unforgiving operating room seemed instantaneous.

Though he knew escape had become impossible at this point he couldn't help but struggle slightly as they transferred him over to the operating table and locked his wrists and ankles in place with restraints.

As he had thought, pointless.

By now he couldn't even accurately interpret the meaning behind the short exchanges between the men who were looking down at him more like he was a thing to be toyed with and manipulated to their twisted desires rather then a child so paralyzed with fear that his little heart was beating out his his chest.

Albert felt one of the few women in the room force a plastic mask over his face making it impossible not to breath in the intensely sweet chemical smelling gas flowing through it. He tried to turn his head away, to shake the device off, but her grip was like a vice and his efforts did nothing.

Again he felt it, felt his mind slipping away to nothingness as though he was sinking slowly into a sickeningly thick black liquid. It was so much more powerful than it had been before but he uselessly struggled against it, spurred on by the reality that if he allowed himself to go under, when he awakened everything that made him him would be gone.

His life flashed before his eyes one more time before it was all wiped clean. The last thing he saw before his vision blurred the world beyond recognition were the uncaring forms of the scientists above him, various unidentifiable objects held it their hands, the entirety of their sinister silhouettes burned into his dying mind by the blinding operating lights.

Thus ended the last line of Silvain and began the Wesker legacy.

* * *

_The First Cycle Meets Its End. _

_From the Remains of Devoured Coils, the Serpent Begins Again..._

* * *

**AN: **And so is introduced another of the Wesker Children and Jake's mom in one fell swoop. I hope you enjoyed yet another one of my original takes on Wesker's history. Laura will continue on as a very important character in the Third Cycle and will be reintroduced then out of obvious necessity for the existance of Jake Muller/Wesker

And just a little fun medical fact: Surgical approaches to the hippocampus normally involve a stereotaxic approach which would only leave a small scar on the top of his head tinier than a dime where the needle would be inserted and then maybe the marks from where his head was held in place with a device via pins, but I wanted a more dramatic scar so hence the lateral entry point /smiles/.

Well, that was the last childhood Wesker chapter and thus the ending of the First Cycle of Project W. Next one we'll be time skipping to age 16 and his initiation into Umbrella's Research Division (technically he shouldbe 17 but since I made his birthday so late in the year to keep things in the timeline sound, he has to be 16).

Love to hear any thoughts or answer any questions you may have. Thanks for reading!

-Asiera


	5. Falling Angel 01

**AN: **Welcome to my first bonus chapter. Throughout Project W I will be throwing these in between the chapters of the main story line giving you guys a different view on events happening around, but not necessarily focused on Wesker. Alex is only one of the characters that will end up having his own little side story by the end of this. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

**Project W: Falling Angel**

**First Plummet: The Price of Devotion**

_December 28th; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

Alex felt horrible; worse than he'd ever felt in his entire life as he sat there in the pitch black darkness, alone on the edge of his bed. He could still hear his brother's screams echoing impossibly loud in his ears; mercilessly reminding him of his "betrayal."

_"Alex __**why**__?! You __**traitor**__! … They killed Mom and Dad and our sister! … Her brains and blood were all over me!" _

Alex gripped his pounding head with shaking hands. "I'm sorry..." he whispered. "I'm sorry, Albert...it was the only way..."

_"I'll __**kill**__ you! I swear to God, Alex! I! Will! Kill! You!" _

Alex winced his eyes shut, the combination of his twin's chilling promise and the terrifying look of absolute rage on the face of the boy he'd spent his entire life beside, forever burned into the ten year old's consciousness.

_"How dare you?! How __**dare**__ you do this to me?! You're own brother! Your __**TWIN**__! I came here to __**save**__ you!" _

"That's why I did it..." he murmured, far too distraught to cry. "You're my little brother," he explained to the oppressive, silent darkness around him. "I did it to protect you..." Alex let a long shaking sigh escape his small body. "Maybe one day...you'll understand..."

To be forced to do something like that, to the only person he had left...it was unbearable, and it was far from fair, but since when was being an older brother fair? Even if he was the eldest only by a few minutes, for as long as Alex could recount, he'd been watching out for his, by far, much more emotionally ruled brother.

It had been like this since they were infants—according to the now rotting corpses that were his parents. When the twins had been born, Albert's delivery hadn't gone as smoothly as his own and had subsequently, left his younger twin in a much weaker state; one the doctors hadn't had high hopes for.

In a last ditch effort fielded by some under published study, Alex had been placed next to his poorly thriving twin in the little NICU box nurses there liked to refer to as a crib. This reuniting of the infants that had spent nearly thirty seven weeks together in utero had suddenly and unexplainably turned things around and the Silvains had got to take two identical blond haired bundles home instead of one.

As one might have guessed, despite the constant fighting and ever intensifying competition blossoming between the two, they were quite inseparable; a bond which had proven quite useful in evening out there very similar yet astoundingly different personalities.

Where Albert was hot tempered and made choices based on what his, at times, unpredictable internal compass told him to do, Alex ran almost entirely off of cold, hard, unalterable logic, and, as such, had served as the voice of reason on multiple occasions when things became chaotic. He had the ability—rather unhoned at this age but it was there—to partially block out his emotional side and function solely on clear undeniable facts; something Albert could never do.

It was this tendency that had lead him to make the impossible choice he did and the reason why he'd turned his brother over to the Umbrella scientists. It wasn't betrayal in his mind—even if that's all Albert could ever see it as and subsequently hated Alex forever—it was just the only course of action that made sense and would ensure the longest period of survival for the two of them; unless of course, Albert continued to mess things up.

That was the problem with making plans that involved others; they never seemed to want to go along with it. Albert certainly didn't.

Alex's nails dug into his scalp, drawing tiny beads of blood as he again relived his brother's rage filled pleas—yes, Alex could see them for what they really were, a desperate last ditch cry for help to the brother he viewed as having just condemned him. It felt like a cold iron hand was constricting around his heart and Alex felt waves that were a mix of doubt and guilt crashing over him, making it hard to breath.

He shook his head, currently messy, platinum blond locks becoming even more disheveled. He'd made the right choice; the _only _choice.

That night; the night things had all fallen apart, Alex hadn't been near as oblivious as his brother had imagined. He'd been awake for everything too, and while he didn't see it, he was smart enough to fill in the horrifying blanks. Sometimes imagination was worse than reality.

For his brother to believe that he'd left the room without Alex noticing was folly. They were both light sleepers and they'd been sharing the same bed for as long as Alex could remember; probably since birth. Of course he'd felt Albert getting up and had heard him leaving. At the time he'd thought nothing of it.

Part of Alex wondered how different things would have been if he'd listened to that little nagging voice in his head telling him something was terribly wrong and had followed his brother down the hall. Logic told him that in the end it probably wouldn't have made a difference and might have made things worse. Still he entertained the thought. Maybe if he had of snuck to the balcony with Albert, his brother wouldn't hate him right now to the point of swearing Alex's death at his own hands.

He shook his head dejectedly. It didn't matter. The past was the past and could never be altered no matter how strong one's foolish wishes to the contrary. The fact remained that he'd stayed under the warm covers of their bed, pushing aside the unsettling feeling in his stomach that something was amiss.

Then he'd heard his sister's bloodcurdling scream; an unearthly wail cut so abruptly and unnaturally short that all will to move and act had been driven out of his small body by mad, uncontrollable fear; one which had chilled him to his very core.

After that, all he'd been able to do was sit there, frozen underneath the blankets, bare feet inches from the cold wood floor, ears straining to hear something, _anything_ above the deafeningly loud pounding of his racing heart.

It had been Albert's unheeded pleas that had confirmed his darkest fears and only one thought raced through his mind: _They're dead._

When he'd heard his brother's frantic voice suddenly silenced as Alice's had been, Alex had lost the will to function; _Albert's _dead, the only thought filling his entire existence.

He'd just sat there like a statue, only reentering the world when Sebastian, the man he'd quickly identified as the culprit for everything dark and heinous that had just occurred, including the murder of his twin, had invaded his room.

Alex wasn't stupid. Even in his state of shock, he hadn't been foolish enough to ask what had happened or where his family was. In Alex's mind, they were dead and he was soon to follow. It wasn't until the tall, devilish man, clothed entirely in the deepest black had made him the offer to come with him to Umbrella and enter into this, "Project: W" that he'd begun to realize he wasn't slated for death too.

To live, all Alex had to do was play Mr. Wesker's and Umbrella's twisted games.

So that's what he'd done.

Perhaps this made him cruel or uncaring, but Alex supposed it didn't matter. Right now, he was alive and so was Albert.

Oh God had he been relived when the twin he thought he'd lost forever had come running through that door...of course, the relief had been short lived.

Going against Wesker and Umbrella? After what Albert had actually seen what they were capable of? It was madness! Two ten year olds with no resources, no help, and no useful survival skills would either quickly be recaptured or, more likely, gunned down like Alice and their parents had been for standing in the company's way. The only way out—and it was a long one—was to stay in. Lay low, follow all the rules, and buy their time until the right moment; something that could be years or even decades in the future. Whenever it would be, it certainly wasn't here and now. Albert was off to a very bad, very dangerous start.

Alex of course had wanted to explain all of this too him; to make him see, but time had not been on their side and he'd never gotten the chance to try.

Alex choked out a breath, his throat suddenly constricting in panic. What if he'd gotten him killed? What if Albert had already proven to Mr. Wesker that he was too much of a liability and Alex had turned him over to his execution? They already had him, did Mr. Wesker really need Albert too?

Alex was jarred abruptly from his unpleasant thoughts by the sound of his door opening for the second time that night, though this time, it had to be unlocked. Unfortunate that Umbrella no longer fully trusted him or at least was taking precautions but it was to be expected-

Alex froze when he saw who it was that stepped over the threshold.

For a while the two just stared at each other, Alex's eyes inescapably locked on the the man who had killed basically his entire family and completely uprooted his life. He hated him; no _loathed_ him. Even that wasn't a strong enough word to describe how much he despised the almost unnoticeably smirking demon before him. And yet...and yet he couldn't help but admire the demon. The power Mr. Wesker held over his life; over his brother's...it was awing. And the way he'd just taken the lives of the people closest to Alex without even the slightest bit of remorse, as if it was nothing, was so cold it was nearly unreal; no, _inhuman_.

Alex wanted that power; wanted that ability to control; to no longer be at the mercy of everyone around him as he was now. It was true, this desire to gain such ability at the cost of becoming the creature he hated most both sickened and frightened him, but how else was he to survive? How else could he possibly save Albert? Alex knew at that moment that in order to win this battle, he had no other option. He would turn himself into the devil sneering sweetly down at him; become Wesker. It was the only way out.

He steeled himself. Alex was good at games; at duels of cunning and logic. He was good at predicting and countering the moves and very thoughts of his opponents. This was something he could do. He could win this; the price of losing was far too steep to even contemplate.

White did always move first and it was clear which side his appointment was on. Alex spoke; the action tentatively but firmly placing him on this new chess board where the rules were still a complete mystery to him.

"Is he dead?"

The words were cold and unfeeling, exactly how he wanted them to be. Alex didn't have the luxury of allowing himself to feel disgusted by what had just slid past his lips. He wasn't playing for cheep prizes or just the satisfaction of winning against his brother. He had just started a game where the wager was not only his life, but the life of the twin who swore to kill him. Showing any sign of weakness was not an option.

Mr. Wesker quirked an eyebrow in response, shutting the door in a way that reminded Alex how trapped he was on this dark path he'd forced himself to traverse. "I suppose you mean your brother," his keeper bantered, walking languidly over to the small ten year old growing up decades faster than he should have been.

Alex nodded. "Yes, that was who I was referring to," came the almost bored sounding reply.

Sebastian stopped a few feet in front of Alex, regarding the boy critically. Alex had gone in seconds from practically shaking in despair and guilt to perfectly composed. If Sebastian didn't know better, he wouldn't associate this calmly staring child with the one he'd been watching on the monitor for the last thirty minutes.

Alex could act well, no, _very_ well. Interesting.

"No," Sebastian admitted eventually. "He is currently alive."

Alex allowed no sigh of relief to escape his lips; he swallowed it, along with every other emotion building just beneath the surface.

"I see." A safe end to that little inquiry.  
Wesker's use of "current" was meant to make him squirm, but it didn't. Either they were going to try to use Albert as leverage against him brother—in which case Alex should act as indifferent as possible—or, Wesker and Umbrella could care less about Alex's own actions in regard to Albert's fate. If that was true, it wouldn't matter what he did and Umbrella would have already disposed of Albert had they wanted rid of the liability. Wesker wasn't lying either—unless he was really, _really_ good—Alex was quite adept about detecting those sort of things.

Albert was alive and, if Alex could help it, would stay that way for a long, long while.

Several minutes passed in silence, the intense emerald stare boring deeply into him, threatening to break his carefully, but unskillfully formed continence.

"I believe in fair play," stated Sebastian falsely, breaking the staring spell as he sat down on the bed beside the ten year old.

It was such a ridiculous lie that the repressed urge to scoff nearly overpowered the intense desire to squirm away from his family's murderer and his brother's torturer.

When Alex didn't respond, Sebastian continued. "I answered your question, now you answer mine."

It was a command, not a suggestion.

"Seems reasonable," Alex agreed—as if he had any choice in the matter.

"Tell me," crooned Sebastian, a gloved hand moving to harshly grip his shoulder—Alex gave him none of the reaction he'd most likely been searching for, instead choosing to look directly into those cold green eyes; pools of poison held back behind silver frames.

Sebastian's hand faltered on Alex's shoulder; the sign of the first small victory the boy made against the snake beside him.

"Tell you what?" inquired Alex smoothly.

Alex didn't miss the slight twitch of his left eyebrow. Too emotional; just like his brother this would be easy to-

Wait...he was smiling?

"Why did you turn your brother in?" Sebastian prodded smoothly, his smirk widening. "You're not a coward Alex, that much you've just made clear to me; so why? He was your twin, the bond you share—or should I say _shared_ was undeniable from the information I gathered on the two of you."

He...he... A mental deep breath. Alex didn't give the man enough credit. This would be nothing even close to simple.

"Logic," Alex answered honestly after carefully weighing his options.

The grin got toothier. "Oh...you'll do wonderfully," he crooned, squeezing Alex's shoulder tightly before getting up and moving to the door.

"For what?" Alex found himself blurting. This was certainly not going well. He was losing, it was obvious.

Sebastian stopped, for a moment before looking haphazardly over his shoulder, twisted grin still firmly in place. "Oh my dear boy, you're perfect for this project. None of the other members have shown near the potential in the last few days you've displayed over the past hour."

Alex, forced a look of perplexity onto his features.

Sebastian shook his head. "Oh you are good, but don't think I can't see straight through you—though your sheer tenacity and resolve are quite astonishing for one so young. Not to mention we've had our eyes on you since before you entered this facility." He gestured to an unremarkable shadowy corner of the ceiling.

Of course they had cameras in here! How could he have missed that? His thoughts froze. Than they knew of his brother's escape long before Albert made his way here and did nothing to stop it. Was this all some test? Had he really been playing this twisted chess match before he knew he was even a pawn on the board?

The answer was, yes, and it scared him more than anything else tonight had. His weapon and only advantage had been cast aside and mocked for its inadequacy and again he was at the mercy of the man before him. Sebastian probably hadn't even bought his act about not knowing a thing about what had gone on in his family's estate on the night of Christmas Eve.

Satisfied by the poorly hidden look of defeat on the boy's face, Mr. Wesker continued. "Even that wall you've put up can't hide your hatred of me; that fire could melt steel. Yet despite your emotions—your desperation to save your brother and destroy me—you choose to beat them down, saving logic for your only companion.

"We—_I_ always knew you and your brother would be some of our best subjects, but this is simply extraordinary. For a child of only ten to be so calculating and perceptive...nothing short of marvelous. I could not ask for a better specimen."

Alex couldn't prevent the visible widening of his steel blue eyes to which Sebastian only chucked.

The man towering above him leaned nonchalantly against the door frame. "Come now, don't look so surprised, you were doing so well with your mask."

And dammit if he hadn't just lost.

"Fret not, child," he crooned mockingly to the terrified little boy sitting on the small bed, trying desperately to hide and bury everything beneath the surface. "In my hands, you will be molded flawlessly into the star member of Project W."

"And...Albert?" he inquired cautiously, knowing all illusion of pretenses had long ago been shattered.

"Oh, he will have his purpose; they all will." He turned again to leave, this time, not looking back. "Comparing results between you two very special boys will be simply thrilling."

"What do you want from us!" Alex couldn't help but call to Sebastian's retreating form.

He paused only briefly, hand on the doorknob. "Simple, child. We want to change the world."

With words Alex couldn't possibly hope to accurately decipher at the moment, Wesker left him alone, defeated and shamed in the darkness, wondering if there was even the slightest possibility that he could win this twisted game.

* * *

_January 1st; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

It was four days, four long days before Alex heard anything from Sebastian or the rest of his Umbrella employed captors. Alex spent each of those hours staring up at the blank ceiling trying uselessly to come up with a plan for how he could possibly win this game against Mr. Wesker, but the man was too cruel, controlled, and cunning for Alex to even hope to manipulate.

The boy shivered despite the amiable temperature the room was kept at.

Never before had Alex ever come across someone like Mr. Wesker. He put the skills Alex had honed and placed up on a pedestal to shame, making Alex feel more inadequate and foolish than he ever had in his whole life. Sebastian had humiliated him more soundly that anyone—his twin included. He _hated_ it and it made the defeat sting even more knowing that still, he had no way of besting the man.

As it was, he just had to ride this storm out; something that, with his and his brother's lives in such a precarious position, was extremely difficult to do. Not that he had another option. Alex looked over at the door that had remained sealed ever since Mr. Wesker had left him here. It was more a symbolization of how utterly trapped he was within this mental chess game than a necessary precaution; there was no escaping Umbrella now, a fact Alex was all too aware of.

When that door finally did open again, Alex knew something awful was coming; the steel bed reminding him of an autopsy table with the attached wrist shackle undeniably confirming it.

A group of three tall men clad in white lab coats approached him and in calm but no uncertain terms, ordered him to get on the bed.

Alex didn't struggle; there was no point. That, and he hadn't missed the tasers attached to their belts, no doubt for the less observant children who became terrified—as they should in this horrible situation—and tried to run or fight back to avoid whatever atrocities were coming to them one way or another.

Even knowing the futility of retaliation, it took some effort for Alex to remain motionless when he felt the sharp pangs of panic clawing at the inside of his chest as the poorly padded iron cuff clicked closed tightly around his wrist.

He didn't whimper or ask questions as he was wheeled down the pristine hallways into a much darker portion of the facility. He just lay there unmoving, forcing his breathing to stay slow and steady but not forgetting to remember ever turn and detail around should the situation arise where such information would be crucial.

His calm demeanor was certainly a pleasant surprise to the scientists dropping him off in his new temporary cell, however, it was one that would not last. Even Alex's glassy composure couldn't withstand Umbrella's assaults forever. Sooner or later, it would shatter, just like everything else had dragging the ten year old's sanity with it. Just...not yet. No, it wasn't until later that evening once Alex had figured out just what Umbrella was going to do to him that he felt himself begin to lose it.

First it was the boy across the hall from the dark room he was being held in. A few hours after Alex had heard him being wheeled back into his little cell from wherever the doctors had taken him, the boy started sobbing loudly about not knowing who he was or remembering anything until the doctors hurried back into the room. Whatever they did shut him up; Alex never heard another peep.

For a while, Alex attributed that strange event to being just some random happenstance; nothing worthy of note, though creepy as hell. Then he heard a girl somewhere down the hall screaming her lungs out over the exact same thing and Alex felt some of her uncontrollable panic transferring over to him.

By the time the boy in the prison next to him had started begging the Umbrella workers tending to him; asking the same chilling questions, Alex felt himself start shaking. It was as though the trembling flowing over his body was causing all the carefully constructed walls inside of him to crumble into dust and robed him of the ability to breath properly. This was no random event, this was a systematic wiping of the minds belonging to ever child Umbrella had collected, his brother and himself included.

It wasn't really the terrifying ability Umbrella apparently had to rob individuals of their most precious sacred possessions: Their memories, that was causing absolute panic to well up inside of him. Alex wasn't even thinking about the fact that he'd lose all recollection of his parents, his adopted sister, his entire life up until this moment, and even the events that lead to his abduction into this facility. What was causing Alex to lose his previous unbreakable will to cope and play along with Umbrella's and Mr. Wesker's games was the fact that he would soon lose every memory he possessed of Albert and forget what he himself had to do to ensure his and his brother's survival within this monster that had swallowed them.

Alex knew that there was nothing he, a defenseless chained ten year old, could do to prevent this perverse invasion of his mind by the skilled hands waiting in the OR. Logic said all he could do was just lay here, waiting for the unthinkable to happen, but Alex just couldn't do that. For the first time since Mr. Wesker and his men had taken him from his house, Alex started fighting back, and oh did he fight.

The struggle to get out of the unyielding metal handcuff was futile. All of this was. Alex knew this, but he couldn't stop. Despite the unyielding amount of effort he'd placed into keeping control since the moment he'd thought his brother had been killed and he'd lost all hope, true terror overtook him. He didn't care that the cuff wouldn't—_couldn't_ come off or that it was digging mercilessly into his flesh with each frantic pull. He didn't care that escape was impossible.

Everything that had happened over the last week or so had finally driven him over the edge, the thought of no longer being able to do his job; to protect his younger brother serving as the final push. Now he was airborne; free falling away from solid ground made up of logic and commonsense, plummeting uncontrollably through irrational panic and desperation.

It could _not_ end like this. Alex would die before he let that happen. Not that Albert would fare any better should that occur, but Alex was well past the stage of reason.

By the time the doctors got to Alex's room, the boy had completely torn up his left wrist, while trying to uselessly escape his shackle. The damage was bad enough that bright crimson was splattered all over the metal bed and ruby flecks dotted the floor and nearby wall. Most disturbing were the areas of slick white representing were Alex's struggle had stripped the sides of his wrist, where the metal bit in the hardest, down to the bone.

Alex saw them come in; saw them staring in horror at the mess he'd made of himself and the room, but mainly, Alex saw the open door and foolishly made a bid for the nonexistent freedom on the other side.

Using the "bed" on wheels as a makeshift battering ram, Alex rolled it towards the scientists with as much force as his small body could muster; pushing through the bone jarring crash that occurred when he slammed into them.

The tactic only worked as well as it did due to the shock of the three men the bed collided with; shock which quickly evaporated into anger, taking whatever small advantage he had with it.

He was fast, just not fast enough—not that being tied to a slab of metal helped any. Alex managed to move past the three researchers enough to set a foot out in the hallway and skirt around the bed, attempting to drag it behind him. Then, one of them, sporting a rather nasty gash to the forearm from where the side of the bed had hit him, grabbed hold of the metal frame and yanked backwards. The force was hard enough to jerk the escaping child off his feet, send his head crashing backwards into the corner of the bed, and pull his left shoulder out of its socket with a sickening wet pop.

Alex was too dazed to scream—though the pain was _intense. _The agony from his shoulder sticking out of him at an odd angle combined with the shattering blow his head had received caused his vision to spin and become spotted with stars.

It was over; over before it had even begun.

Once he could partially focus again, Alex looked up shakily, pushing himself up with an arm that was having trouble supporting him—his left simply refused to cooperate—at the despicable men above him, his vision further blurred by the blood trickling down from the small gash on his forehead.

He couldn't move; couldn't stop them from wrenching him up by his already throbbing shoulder back onto the bed where they completely strapped him down, however, Alex did find the ability to start screaming. It was a pathetic gesture, one that would do him no good, but he let this entire area of the facility know about the agony ripping through his beaten body and soon to be obliterated mind as the grimacing men wheeled him down the hallway.

One of them was foolish enough to try to cover his mouth with his hand. He was now missing a sizable chunk of the bloody palm he was clutching to his chest.

No one else daring to silence the distraught child, Alex screamed until it felt like his throat was as ripped as his shredded wrist. It was all he could do; the only word finding its way to his lips being his brother's name.

_**"**__**ALBERT**__**!"**_

He screamed it over and over, _and over_ again and again, filling that single syllable with all the anguish, sorrow, and terror that had been welling up in his small chest ever since his birthday.

Nothing else would come. Just the name. He called it out until it lost all meaning and then kept shouting it until it developed a twisted meaning all its own: Guilt. Guilt over everything he'd done and over everything he wouldn't and couldn't do for the twin he wanted nothing more than to save and, in a few minutes, would lose the ability to remember entirely.

Alex wasn't sure if it was due to how distraught he was right now, the blow to his head, the massive trauma he'd just endured, or possible a combination of all three mixed with a newly developing rather sick obsession, but somehow, Alex screamed the name until it became tangible; screamed it until he _made_ the brother he was losing—had lost, appear beside him.

Then it all came out; everything; the apologizes, the rationalizations, the begging, the pleading, the sobbing...

Of course it wasn't real. The illusion created by the panic induced psychosis he'd driven himself into just stared impassively at the ground, blue eyes downcast, just walking silently alongside the stretcher, offering neither forgiveness nor persecution; something perhaps worse than either would have been.

Then everything went white; his entire world blotted out by the operation lights.

He saw nothing, but still he heard the earsplitting screams he was having trouble identifying as his own cutting mercilessly through the air; screams that were suddenly muffled by the mask pumping a sickeningly sweet smelling, sleep inducing gas into his lungs by the frantic anesthesiologist trying to subdue this terrifyingly violent child before her.

Tears of pure desperation were streaming down his face as he fought the inevitable. But the straps were too thick, the pain was too intense, the chemicals too strong, and the brother he had created did nothing to save him—he didn't deserve it. Despite all this, he still fought. He struggled until his muscles began to give out and a black destructive fog began to eat away at his thoughts and will, creeping into the corners of his vision, obliterating the bright white that had become his world.

Oh how he hated the color black.

In the last moments of what Alex viewed as his end, when he realized he was completely loosing the ability to fight, he was saved, but not by the hallucination of the brother that was this close to slipping through his weakening fingers forever. He was saved by the man who had condemned him.

Ever since Sebastian had seen and talked to this specific subject, Alex Wesker, in person, he had been enthralled, no mesmerized by him. The child was everything they were looking for and so much more; light years ahead of the other children. The difference was almost terrifying when one imagined the creature this boy would soon become, and therein lay the problem.

Could Alex _be_ molded?

Someone already so cunning and so in tune with the emotions, goals, and most hidden desires of those around him at this age...well, he'd be the most deadly weapon Umbrella had ever created as an adult. After all the training Umbrella was planning on putting him through, uncontrolled he could and almost without a doubt _would_ either destroy or take over this company. Lord Spencer wasn't looking for a usurper or a destroyer, but without a way to control the boy, that exactly what he'd get.

It wasn't as though Sebastian would feel badly if Alex one day eliminated the monarch, but his own life and future, that was another story entirely. Surely, the man who had destroyed his life would not be spared should Alex embark on the path of destruction, nor was Sebastian foolish enough to believe he would be allowed to live in a world controlled by this boy.

Thankfully, there was hope. Alex had a weakness and a powerful one at that. One that could trump everything that made him the deadly being he was quickly becoming: His twin.

Sebastian had witnessed on multiple occasions how far Alex had been willing to go for his brother and just how close to the edge his doppelganger could send him. Using Albert against Alex was a task that was exceedingly dangerous as well; a bit of a double edged sword if you will, but Sebastian had masterfully wielded those before. He was confidant that with this weapon; this chain, he could control the creation before him.

There was just one little problem with that plan. Alex, like all the other children was slated to be wiped. With no memories of his twin...Alex was no longer a viable subject.

Sebastian had been trying for days to get the order revoked, going all the way up to Lord Spencer, but the man was more concerned with other things aside from his hand picked child protegees. As such the infuriated director of Project: W had yet to hear back from Umbrella's sole creator and lord, and now Sebastian was this close, to losing his star member; his favorite.

When he'd seen the feed from the operating room and the adjoining halls signifying that he'd run out of time, Sebastian had been forced to act; something he hated, but for the sake of what he viewed to be one of if not _the_ sole success of this project, he would "suck it up," as they say. Not to mention, what he'd seen had further proven that using Albert against Alex was a sure way to gain power over the hysterical child.

By the time he'd burst into the sterile operating room, completely un-gowned, and thus fully contaminating it, thereby preventing the surgery from taking place, Alex was only weakly twitching and his screams had died down to a hoarse whisper.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!" bellowed the head neural surgeon in charge of preforming this experimental surgery on all the Wesker Children. He threw down his tools in anger, the stress of all the wailing children he'd cut open and ripped the memories from, combined with how much damage this one was causing, on top of Sebastian's intrusion finally causing him to snap. "You've completely _ruined_ this operation!"

Sebastian only narrowed his poison colored eyes. "Unstrap him."

"What?!" the man screamed. "Are you crazy?! You know what our orders are! I don't give a damn if you've developed a soft spot for this one!"

Sebastian coolly raised his gun into the man's face, effectively shutting him up. "And _I_ don't really care what your thoughts are on the subject, or, as a matter of fact, for you in the least," he hissed coldly.

"You!" barked Sebastian at the doctor who had been assisting in each of these criminal invasions of the children's minds, though his eyes never left the now terrified head surgeon before him.

"Y-yes, Wesker, Sir?" he stammered.

"Would you say you can effectively preform the surgeries you've been participating in all week by now?"

"Y-yes, but-"

The sound of the gun going off was like a crack of thunder in the small tense room, completely dwarfing the sound made by the now obviously dead doctor crashing onto the instrument table, soaking them in blood from a gaping wound in the back of his head that they were never meant to come in contact with.

Several people screamed, but nobody dared to move, except the boy on the table who was being to struggle a little harder since the gas had been removed and the drugs never given through his hastily inserted bloody IV by the now trembling anesthesiologist.

"I believe you've just been promoted," Sebastian informed the rather white neurologist who had now become the subject of his chilling stare. "You will clean up here and then dispose of the body. The surgical documentation will be filled out and signed as if the operation had been done. As to our late doctor...a horrible accident; unable to handle the stress of mutilating crying children day in and day out. I'll handle the report. Are we clear?" He paused, slowing re-holstering his weapon. "If not...I'll be happy to find replacements for everyone in this room."

The series of terrified affirmatives assured Sebastian that none of the people in here would cause him future trouble. Not that it would matter for long anyways. Umbrella never left loose ends and was planning on eliminating every doctor in this room once the rest of the procedures had been completed.

That out of the way, he went over the the much more strongly thrashing child he had just "saved" and deftly undid the straps.

The relief that flooded through Alex at being released, still clinging desperately to the memories of his twin, completely blotted out every other emotion and, before he knew it, his arms were wrapped as tightly as his weakened state could manage around the man who he'd sworn to forever loath. He still did, but the absolute relief didn't allow his brain to make the disconnect between that vow and his current actions.

Sebastian was nothing short of shocked...but quite pleasantly so. Perhaps this wasn't an entirely negative experience; he'd just gained a huge opportunity to manipulate the sobbing ten year old who was gripping his jacket as strongly as his shaking muscles would allow. Encircling the tremblingly child in his arms, he lifted him from the cold metal table and wrapped him in an embrace that was nothing short of ice.

"Everything is going to be alright now, Alex," he lied soothingly in his ear. "Enjoy each and everyone of those haunting memories; no one will ever take away a single bit of that self inflicted misery you've turned into your purpose."

As chilling as those words where, they were somehow exactly what Alex needed to hear, and he allowed himself to go slack, completely falling into the monster that had brought him here, would irrevocable mold him, and whose grip on his life and future, would never truly be released.

* * *

_January 10th; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

Alex stood alone in the desolate hallway, his physical isolation mimicking the vast emptiness he felt inside his chest. The beauty of his surroundings inside the more "public" area of Umbrella's facility and of the panoramic view—the busy European streets, rustically modernized buildings rich in the colors of history, everything lit ablaze in the deep red glow of the setting sun—offered by the almost entirely glass westward facing wall were completely lost on the young boy trying desperately to stay afloat on the raging waters created by his deadly predicament.

He was trapped; trapped within this hellish place. Sebastian had instantly made it clear that he had easily identified Alex's weakness and had every intention of using his now memory-less twin against him. Alex shivered as if the biting January wind blowing playfully through the twisting cobblestone roads below had rushed right through the glass and engulfed him at the thought. Unlike Alex, Albert had not been spared the atrocity of having his consciousness rent in two and memories scattered to the wind by the Umbrella surgeons as cold and unfeeling as their blades.

Alex further blocked out the rest of senses, straining to hear even the slightest sound from behind the door marked "S. Wesker;" the door that held his memory-less brother and the snake who'd caused all of this to happen behind it.

The weight of knowing that all of Albert's ability to recall even the slightest bit of information about the brother who had and would continue to ruin himself trying to keep them both alive came as both an unbearable pressure on his chest and as sweet relief—Albert would now never know of Alex's "betrayal" ...or so he thought. Alex didn't know about the notes exchanged between his twin and Laura or of the damage it had already caused.

Then another part of him—he couldn't tell if it was logic, denial, or just wishful thinking—didn't even believe that it could have happened at all, despite all the evidence presented to the contrary. How could you take away another's individual's past? Their very sense of self? How could Albert have just forgot..._everything_? Would he even still be the same person if that was true?

Another shiver erupted over Alex's still sore body. He'd find out soon enough.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting, Alex heard the door open and watched the reflection of his brother as he was ushered out by Mr. Wesker. He saw the reflection of those poisonous green eyes narrow momentarily in dissatisfaction. Alex wasn't supposed to be out here. He was supposed to be "recovering" back in the plush room adjoined to Sebastian's suite—the quarters he'd been assigned so that the devil could watch over his every move personally and always be within reach of the young protegee he'd grown exceedingly fond of.

Alex didn't care how upset Mr. Wesker became at him. According to the files he'd discovered within Sebastian's desk, Albert was about to be transferred to one of the many private schools under Umbrella's direct supervision to start his "training" where he would be molded into the precise individual Mr. Wesker and Lord Spencer wanted him to be. This was Alex's last chance to see his brother in person for a long time, perhaps forever. He was not going to pass it up, even if doing so directly interfered with Sebastian's plan and therefore brought the wrath of his mentor down on him.

Alex winced as he stared intently at the reflection of the little brother he'd been protecting since birth. Albert's expression was a blank wall covering up barely decipherable defeat, fear, and confusion. Albert's shoulder's were hunched ever so slightly and his vision down cast, un-styled bold hair only partially covering up his eyes as the right side of his head was still quite freshly shaved, the nasty curve of the scar that was testament to the chilling truth painted even redder in the light of dusk. What hurt the most was the fact that Albert hadn't even more than glanced in Alex's direction.

He almost let the two go, uninterrupted on their way down the hall, but it was too much...he _had _ to know. At the very least, he had to hear Albert's voice one final time.

"...Albert...?"

The name came out as a raspy, pleading whisper rather than the uncaring inquiry he'd intended it to be. Alex certainly had a long way to go before he even approached Sebastian's unshakable level of control.

His twin turned, and blinked in momentary confusion at the back of the boy who'd just addressed him by name, ignoring the pressing hand of his escort on his shoulder.

Alex didn't dare turn around. He'd already severely broached the line Mr. Wesker had lain out for him. Not wanting to make things any harder than they already were on both of them, Alex continued to watch what was left of the boy that had once been his little brother through the reflection in the glass.

"Who are...do I know you?" Albert murmured in response.

Alex felt his heart break.

"No...no I suppose you don't."

No longer able to ignore the now rather earnest urging of Sebastian, Albert was forced to walk away, trying to disregard the nigh overpowering feeling of nostalgia and pain welling up in his chest.

The two figures disappeared around a corner, leaving Alex alone with a reflection that was no longer his; a twisted version of the twin who'd just unknowingly abandoned him.

_**"Well...you've certainly done it this time, Alex."**_ A merciless grin covered lips that weren't really his, only a reflection of how damaged his psyche had become. _**"Let's see you reason your way out of this one."**_

At least he wasn't alone.

* * *

**AN:** So, was that good? Is the alternate perspective/side story line a good thing or a bad? What about Alex? Not exactly what you were expecting, right? I'd love to hear opinions, concrits, questions, anything. Just drop me a line in that little box and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.

Thank you for reading,

-Asiera

**P.S.** Apparently switching the order of the chapter does not mean reviews follow the order change. As annoying as not having the reviews match up with the chapters anymore is, there is a bigger issue: I don't think anyone who reviewed PG04A/W can review this chapter since it thinks you've already reviewed it /sighs/. Yes, majorly annoying, but the only way I see around it is posting reviews on PG12A/W which according to FF is the new only un-reviewed chapter.

Confusing enough for you? /Laughs/ Oh well.

Sorry for the inconvenience my few amazing loyal reviewers. (May I just take this moment to say how appreciative I am for your continued support? You guys really are super special awesome!)

-Asiera


	6. PG04AW

**Project W: Second Cycle**

**PG04A/W: The Devil's Second Knock**

_Seven years. It had been seven long years since Albert Silvain had ceased to be and the creation know as Albert Wesker had come into existence._

* * *

_May 15th, 1977; North-Western University Campus:_

The sound of hurried footfalls dominated the empty hallway of one of the finest schools on the northwest cost. Usually these halls were bustling with scholars moving between classes, joking with their class mates, or frantically paging though their gigantic textbooks. But today, only a solitary figure stalked the building; his long lithe form clothed entirely in the purest black, from his combat boots all the way to the dark sunglasses shielding brooding storm gray eyes.

The reason for the lack of any traffic inside the school was simple: Graduation. Everyone on campus was out on the sunny spring lawn laughing with friends and family and celebrating their various achievements. But nothing any of them had been able to actualize was quite so impressive as what the young blond had accomplished in the last seven years: A PhD in Biochemical Engineering with a Masters in Virology and a Bachelor's in Biology and Chemistry.

For obvious reasons his unprecedented academic prowess and unrivaled raw intelligence had been the envy of many of his "peers" who were themselves usually twice his age or more and had been working towards their goals for longer then the boy had been alive.

It was amusing to Wesker to see the unbridled hatred and envy poring from their eyes as they watched him effortlessly complete tasks which crushed even their most valiant of efforts.

It was equally as obvious that Wesker hadn't made friends in any of the many famous institutions he flew through. Not that it mattered to Wesker. He was not interested in things as frivolous as friendship, family, and the meaningless celebratory activities of the fools out on the lawn. In fact, he'd been thrilled at any chance of an excuse to not attend the pointless activity. He had been through so many that they all became rather tiring.

However when the courier—yes an actual courier—had delivered the "for his eyes only" envelop his heart had dropped to somewhere near his feet before shooting up to become lodged in his throat. Once he had been able to think over the pounding in his ears, he looked up to question the strange suited man who had delivered the small package that felt nothing short of a lead weight in his hands. But he was gone, leaving Wesker alone to stare with a mixture of horror and fascination at the octagonal red and white insignia adorning the paper in his hand.

_Umbrella._

Wesker hadn't even heard a whisper from the retched organization since...well he supposed he never _really_ had. But it was a name he could never forget.

Wesker's scowl deepened as he stalked passed the empty lecture halls towards his dorm room and let his mind wander back to that strange...he'd guess you'd call it an "interview" that had taken place in the unnaturally clean office.

The man who had introduced himself as Wesker, a title Albert now used on a daily basis, had explained to the confused child that he had been involved in an accident, a horrible, horrible accident. Mr. Wesker had told him that the crash had claimed the lives of everyone in his family while barely sparing his own, but not without first inflicting a very traumatic brain injury. According to the tall cold man sitting behind the grand writing desk, it had been a miracle that he'd survived at all let alone walked away with "only" complete global amnesia.

Wesker had only sat their listening to the carefully formed words, each one exiting his name-sake's lips with impeccable poise and delicacy. He hadn't known what to think. He'd barely even been able to respond when Mr. Wesker had requested his participation in a follow up study to obtain data on the effectiveness and long term results the experimental surgery that had "saved his life" had on his cognitive function and ability to process and learn information. In exchange, the company the man worked for—whose name he had never been mentioned—would pay for his living expenses and any education he would desire to attain.

The deal was too sweet. Beyond that, Wesker had known the man was lying, his hand clenching around the papers lodged deeply in the pockets of the white scrubs he was clothed in that proved it; almost in the exact same way they did now.

Once in the safety of his room, Wesker had dragged out the yellowing contours of the envelope resting underneath his mattress and pulled out the worn papers it had contained. They were so old and handled that it looked as though they were at a high risk of falling apart in his hands.

Leaning against the side of his bed Wesker chanced a glance and the newer glossier surface of the envelope held in his other hand.

To this day, Wesker still remembered waking up in that dark room, lost, confused and desperate for answers his foggy mind couldn't locate within the vast expanse of nothingness it had become. He remembered her sad green eyes and her bright red hair covering only the left side of her head as she leaned over him; just as his blond hair had at the time.

Wesker impulsively ran a hand though his now carefully slicked back platinum locks, taking comfort in the stiff strands that completely covered his scar.

He really didn't want to be reminiscing on the past, but the sudden appearance of the company he had ordered himself to destroy proved to be excuse enough to relive those confusing moments that were his first real memories.

The girl had whispered his name, no not his name, a different one; one that now felt foreign on his lips. _Silvain_. She had smelled of wild flowers, wild flowers masked by antiseptic wash and the overpowering sent of chemicals. It had made him sick.

Something about the encounter had made him feel as though she didn't have a lot of time. Perhaps it was the hurried almost frantic way she had pressed the very papers he was now clenching into his hand, forcing him to grip it. She had then glanced hurriedly over her shoulder at the slightly open door before whispering. "A promise is a promise." She had hesitated, chewing her lower lip for a moment. "My name is Laura Muller, don't forget me, Albert," with that she had placed a quick and poor excuse for a kiss on his forehead before vanishing without another word or glance.

He'd thought he dreamed it, but then, once he'd recovered more fully from the effects of the anesthesia, he'd read the note written in his own erratic hand writing.

Then he'd wished he'd dreamed it.

In ink full of hatred and agony he had commanded himself, a mere helpless child to take revenge on a man and a company more powerful than he could have ever imagined.

It was impossible.

He couldn't do it.

So he'd given in. He'd taken Wesker's offer and then his name.

He'd run with the chance given to him and never looked back...until now.

Now all the things he'd been running from were staring him in the face, demanding him to reexamine everything he'd tried to forget; what little of his past that remained screaming for revenge.

Well, he wasn't helpless now.

Wesker tore open the envelope.

* * *

_May 17__th__, 1977; Somewhere over Midwestern America:_

Wesker sighed and arched his back, regretting that the small personal space four hundred and thirty seven dollars had afforded him on a last minute flight to Raccoon City Pennsylvania didn't allow him to fully stretch out his by now stiff spine.

In all honesty, Wesker _hated_ flying. He hated the lack of control he had over the air born monstrosity; hated the fact that one false move on the part of the pilot could send him plummeting to his death; hated the tiny cramped quarters where his personal space was severely compromised by his neighbors that ranged from old snoring ladies to crying unruly children and their clunky baggage; but for some reason, what Wesker hated most were the infuriatingly cheerful flight attendants with their fake smiles and cheap excuses for inflight refreshments.

Yes, everything about flying was loathsome and airports weren't much different. But here he was, sitting on the isle seat of some very un-classy commercial airline answering the summons of the company he was sworn to destroy.

The letter he'd received only two days prior form the pharmaceutical company responsible for most of the atrocities committed to him early in life had graciously offered him a prestigious position directly under Dr. James Marcus, the head of their Research and Training Facility located in the heart of the Arklay Mountain range, just outside of the little industrialized town known as Raccoon City.

Many of his previous school mates would have killed for such an offer.

In Wesker's case, it seemed he would be killing because of it.

Hours later when the plane made a, in Wesker's opinion, very bumpy landing at Raccoon City's main airport he was met by a liaison from the mysterious Arklay Research and Training Facility he would soon be living and working in. Wesker was about to discover that Umbrella was keeping many more sinister secrets then he could have ever imagined. Secrets that made the murder of his entire family and his treatment thereafter pale in comparison.

His first clue that there was more to this place than met the eye was the impossibly long drive from the city proper to the actual Research and Training Facility. It was a two hour winding trek through miles upon miles of heavily wooded national forests that hid and separated the facility's remote location from the rest of the world.

Then there was the impossibly complex high security system he had to be passed though. It had involved everything from finger printing, to retinal scans, voice recognition, key cards, X-ray scans of his luggage, metal scans of his person, a rather intrusive pat down, and finally, to his surprise, a pricking of his finger where the resulting drop of blood was exposed to some kind of test strip by a man who was dressed as though they were experiencing some form of outbreak.

What pathogen they were testing for, Wesker hadn't the slightest clue, but it was the single most interesting thing that he had seen thus far.

Eventually, after what felt like an impossible amount of unnecessary tests, questions, and processing, Wesker was allowed to enter the facility proper. He was surprised to learn that the building was nearly ten times larger than as he'd first assessed it to be on the drive in, most of the floors being located deeply under ground.

The facility itself was constructed in a similar way to what he'd recalled seeing as a terrified child after the "surgery;" completely white, narrow hallways snaking off to unknown locations, seemingly endless doors, and the vents...there was something about the way the vents looked that caused him to shiver involuntarily.

The man traveling with him whom he'd met at the airport unfortunately took notice. "It's pretty cold in the facility, especially the labs, helps with specimen preservation or something. You'll get used to it."

Wesker nodded pulling up the lapels of his trench coat. The man was right, it was cold, but that hadn't been the reason. Wesker found that he endured cold temperatures much more then those unbearably hot days during the summer. It was just something about those vents that made him feel almost panicky—Wesker _never_ felt panicky.

Wesker shook his head to clear such irrational thoughts. He wanted to ask, "what kind of specimens?" but decided against it. This man probably didn't even know, besides, if he was patient enough, the answer would without a doubt be revealed to him soon.

What followed, Wesker would describe as the most terribly ineffective tour he had ever been given in the entirety of his life. The man whose name he still didn't know—not that he guessed it could be that important—had pointed in random directions down the different halls, though walls or even at the floor, and gestured occasionally to a map they were stationary next to trying to impress the locations of all the important rooms and areas to Wesker while being as vague as humanly possible.

A complete waste of the boy's time to be sure. He would have to explore the building by himself with his newly issued badges and huge number of passcodes that most would find impossible to remember but only severed as an annoying necessity to the genius known as Wesker.

After the ridiculousness he'd been put though with the world's poorest guide, Wesker had been told the general area of the mountain range in which his bedroom was located and then that his meeting with Dr. Marcus in the man's office—yet another undisclosed location—was in two and a half hours and that he shouldn't be late.

Huffing in annoyance, Wesker navigated the strangely familiar yet entirely alien layout of the facility. He had long ago disregarded the idiot's poor directions and was tackling the winding passages on his own. After what amounted to an hour of frustrating but not not entirely pointless wondering (he had mapped out a large part of the facility and the location of his meeting with Dr. Marcus), Wesker _finally _arrived at the plain white door sporting the correct series of numbers informing him that this door, unlike the hundreds of identical looking ones he'd already passed, was in fact his current destination.

Swiping his badge in front of the small black box to the right of the handle Wesker sighed in temporarily relief as he unceremoniously shoved though the door lugging his, by now, painfully heavy shoulder bag containing everything he currently had to his name with him.

His actions caused the slight form of the mousey boy kneeling amidst a huge pile of papers to jump up admitting something close to a startled squeak. The individual had just been digging messily through a series of drawers containing an ungodly disorganized pile of documents, half of which was now strewn across the floor. He quickly righted himself before just as quickly dropping the mass of papers he'd managed to hang on to after Wesker's initial disruption. The strange boy clad in a wrinkled lab coat met Wesker's hard gray eyes with his own pale blue ones underlined with dark circles for a split second before ducking down after the papers.

Wesker was forced to wait impatiently as the boy who looked about his age, retrieved his fallen documents, somehow able to pick them out flawlessly from among their identical copies. Finally completing the task, he again stood to his full height, a good four inches shorter then Wesker's own five foot nine, and smiled nervously up at him, running his free hand though his messy blond hair which fell erratically around his sharp pale features.

"Y-you must be Wesker. Albert Wesker right?" He offered the hand that had just been running though his hair. The slight pink color extending over both his cheeks and across his long nose deepened when he saw the less then thrilled way Wesker was regarding him though his thick dark shades. "I'm William Birkin, your new colleague and roommate."

Wesker's glare narrowed further. He hadn't been told he'd have a roommate. Wesker _hated_ roommates and he had had about enough of things he hated today.

Birkin's unsteady grin faltered slightly but his hand still rested awkwardly in the space between them.

As much to keep Birkin's precarious armful of papers from falling annoyingly to the floor again due to the one arm hold as to sate the offered greeting, Wesker gripped the teen's slender hand firmly with his own gloved one.

Birkin relaxed slightly, despite the ferocity of Wesker's grip. "Y-you know..." he started once their hands had released, "I've heard a lot about you. We-we all have." That awkward smile again. "You're kind of famous. Even more so then me."

Wesker raised an eyebrow before pushing himself into the room, trying to avoid the mess of papers, papers, and more papers covered with small graceful cursive that seemed to proliferate the entirety of every flat surface available in the room.

Birkin stepped back to accommodate him still wearing that same grin. "You're the first person I've met with an almost as impressive academic background as me."

The half complements half accusations amused Wesker.

Birkin wasn't really setting himself up as a friend, but more as a rival. This tactic had been used on him before, usually with a healthy helping of a condescending attitude by the men he had studied with who had viewed themselves as the "boy's" superiors. Never before had their challenges lasted more than a few days before they realized how hopeless taking on Albert Wesker truly was.

This though...this felt different.

"You are also working directly under Doctor Marcus?" Wesker inquired incredulously.

Birkin nodded. "Mmhm. Have been for almost four months now." He grinned. "At first I was put off by the idea of having someone else messing around in my lab, but after I did my research..." Another nervous glance. "I realized how much potential you might have."

His passive aggressive, barely there challenges were fascinating to Wesker. He was beginning to wonder if the jumpy, nervous, stuttering, rather weak persona Birkin put fourth was actually an intentional facade.

Wesker shrugged nonchalantly, the strap of his bag digging painfully into his shoulder. "I guess we'll find out. Should be...interesting to see if I can 'keep up.'"

Birkin nodded, pleased. His challenge had been accepted.

Wesker readjusted the weight attempting to dislodge his shoulder. "Top or bottom?"

Birkin blinked in a confused manner, his easy blush returning. "W-What?"

Wesker again raised his delicate eyebrow at Birkin's reaction before gesturing to the bunks, both of which were piled high with Birkin's papers. "Top or bottom." he repeated.

"O-oh!" laughed Birkin in acknowledgment. "Silly me, I should have cleared one off when they told me you were coming, but, it wasn't as though they gave me much warning and Progenitor _always_ takes priority."

Wesker had to bite his tongue to keep the question from springing from his mouth. This wasn't the first time he'd heard of this "Progenitor" mentioned in the facility, but what or who it was remained a mystery.

Though Wesker hadn't shown any outward signs of confusion, Birkin jumped on the opportunity he _knew_ was there. "Oh, but you don't know about 'Progenitor' yet do you?" He waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry, I'm sure Doctor Marcus will fill you in shortly."

Wesker gritted his teeth partly because his shoulders and back were screaming at him and partly because Birkin had dealt the first blow in their strange game.

Birkin's odd smile deepened, starting to show edges of the sneer it was hiding. "Top. I've always been on top."

With a malevolent smirk and a mocking cock of his head Wesker swung his heavy bag right on the loosely piled paper littering the bottom bunk, unmindful of whatever weak organization he may have just ruined. "This time? I seriously doubt it."

Birkin's smirk faltered slightly at Wesker's directness while Wesker's widened.

This was going to be fun.

Birkin took the brief moment Wesker's back was turned to him to put on a look somewhere between a scowl and a pout which quickly vanished as his roommate stood up.

"So, you have a meeting with Doctor Marcus right?"

"Correct." Wesker moved past him, their shoulder's slightly brushing due to the small constraints of his new living space.

It was cramped for one person, but for two? Birkin and him were going to have to get close, _very_ close, whether they wanted to or not. Wesker would certainly have preferred _not_.

"I see..." Birkin seemed almost pensive. "Well, don't expect too much from him, he's pretty much the definition of a recluse."

"Trying to psych me out before I even meet the man? Isn't that a little juvenile?" teased Wesker.

Birkin grinned amiably. "Well I _am_ only fifteen, so I suppose I'm entitled to a little more immaturity than you."

Wesker's slight frown at the fact that Birkin had gotten to this lofty position almost two whole years before he was able to accomplish the same thing was almost imperceptible, but William caught it.

The fifteen year old Doctor just waved a hand dismissively. "Anyways, not important." He paused. "But in all seriousness, Al, don't touch or even look at the man's leaches."

The fact that Birkin had called him, "Al" was almost as infuriating as his mention of "leaches" was confusing. Almost.

Since Wesker was unable to form an adequate comeback as he grappled between the indignation of such a nickname being used by a rival he'd just met and the confusing warning about Dr. Marcus's apparent pets, Birkin just smiled slyly and skirted around Wesker, exiting the room.

"See you around, Al," the scientist waved over his shoulder as he walked hurriedly down the hall, the white tails of his lab coat waving sporadically behind him.

Wesker growled. He couldn't tell if he hated Birkin or found him highly amusing bordering on even _likable_.

Wesker hadn't had anything even close to a friend since...well...ever, and he'd certainly never had met anyone with whom any form of real competition was even a possibility. Now he was looking at the prospect of perhaps both and he wasn't really sure how he felt about it.

In the end, Wesker concluded that he didn't know how to like or befriend someone and that the whole thing was stupid anyway, so he therefore hated the man known as William Birkin.

Satisfied, Wesker too exited the room and began traversing the distance between his dorm and Dr. Marcus's office.

It turned out everything Birkin had told him was completely accurate.

Dr. Marcus was a tall wisp of an obviously senior man with heavily grayed greasy hair that fell beyond his shoulders, the tangles of which frequently hid his pale features and darting suspicious eyes. Wesker noted with disgust that the man looked as though he hadn't showered in days. He imagined that, were it not for the overpowering smell of antiseptics that predominated the air filtering through this pristine white facility, his new superior's small would match his appearance.

The man must have been an absolute genius to make up for his heinous appearance and unforgettable lack of anything approximating manners.

Dr. Marcus's main goal throughout the short clipped interview seemed to be getting Wesker _out_ of his office as _soon_ as possible and away from the huge disgusting terrarium in the corner that was filled with at least a dozen black leaches each just under a half a foot in length.

Wesker of course wondered exactly what sort of experiments were being done with the slime covered creatures, but he wisely heeded William's advice and kept his inquiries and gaze away from the subject.

Aside from the way it was being conducted, the interview was fairly standard and Wesker was having no trouble presenting himself in a highly positive light while keeping his responses as Spartan as possible in order to further please his new employer.

That fleeting sense of normalcy was shattered by Dr. Marcus's next question.

"Do you have a problem with illegal experimentation?"

The words had come out so flat, so void of any emotion...almost like he was bored.

Wesker paused. "Such as what exactly? Stem cells?"

Marcus shook his head in disgust, his features becoming further obscured by the mated mess falling around his shoulders. "We are far beyond mere stem cells here, Doctor Wesker. No, I'm talking about highly dangerous, exceeding illicit viral and biological experimentation." He frowned. "We're currently mostly using lab rats but I feel that that avenue is quite rapidly reaching the end of its practicality."

Wesker hid his shiver with a roll of his shoulders. They were taking about a fast approaching switch from animal to _human_ experimentation, he was almost certain of it.

Wesker's features remained ice. He chose his words with the same precise caution that his name sake had before delivering them with an equally unwavering confidence. "I have no problem with the act, only with the consequences that would follow should one be careless." Wesker was surprised at how easy the words came out and that no guilt followed their escape from his lips.

Marcus's face actually split into what Wesker supposed was a look of pleasure. "Then I suggest you don't be careless..."

Wesker smiled. "Not in my wildest dreams, Doctor."

Seeming satisfied, Marcus waved his hand dismissively. "Report to your lab, Doctor Wesker. Doctor Birkin will fill you in on all the experiments, the Progenitor virus, and anything thing else you may need to know." He was already standing, literally shooing Wesker out.

It was an impossible "hint" to miss.

Wesker was on his way out the door when Dr Marcus called. "I want _daily_ progress reports on all experiments and _any_ changes fresh on my desk every morning. Understood? And _don't_ even think about bothering me with inane questions. If you got here, you should be acting like a scientist, not a lab assistant. "

Wesker nodded. "Not a problem."

The door was actually slammed in his face.

Musing about all the strangeness of Dr. Marcus, Wesker set about the task of locating his and Birkin's laboratory. The long trek gave him plenty of time to think over everything that he'd just learned.

Progenitor was apparently a virus and possibly the primary object of study in this institution. Dr. Marcus was evidently extremely paranoid, especially about his little "Leech Project," whatever that was. The doctor was also exceedingly controlling of his students while wanting as little to do with them as possible. Most important of all, Umbrella's illegal ventures did not just extend to whatever they had done to him seven years ago.

Wesker wondered briefly why Dr. Marcus would be so open with all of that sensitive material without feeling Wesker out first. He was then reminded of the nigh impassable security system and all the armed guards around every exit. If he'd refused or acted repulsed by the good doctor's lack of morality and attempted to leave, he would most likely only manage to do so in a body bag.

Wesker held no illusions about the corporation's willingness to kill at the slightest provocation. He would have to be _extremely _cautious.

It was curious that Umbrella had sought him out specifically. It wasn't as though he'd ever shown particular preference for the morally gray and beyond. Then again, he was highly suspective that he'd never truly been free of the pharmaceutical giant's watchful eyes and guiding hands.

Perhaps he'd been molded for this role from the beginning. Maybe this was just another step on their planned road they'd painstakingly paved for him.

With the almost god-like ego possessed by this company, Wesker would certainly not put it past them. He'd be surprised if they hadn't orchestrated the whole thing.

The question was, how long was he going to play along? How long was he going walk on their desired road?

Wesker's journey finally at an end outside the giant doors marked: _Progenitor-Main Laboratory_, he moved though the sliding reenforced glass doors after scanning his cards, imputing his finger print, and subjecting himself to a rental scan he knew would be the cause of a headache later today—he was extremely prone to them.

Anything Wesker had been imagining was put to shame

He looked around the room in awe. The huge space contained a plethora of unknown lab equipment, some of which he'd only seen in advanced prototype screenings, others that he thought he recognized from science fiction movies, and still more devices and stations he had had no idea could even exist. The great vastness of the world's finest technology surrounded the, by comparison, miniscule form of Doctor Birkin who looked nothing but at home in this array of scientific heaven.

The answer to his previous question now became inescapably clear. Wesker was going to be keeping to Umbrella's plan for quite sometime.

Knowledge was power and right now, he was at a _severe_ disadvantage.

* * *

**AN**: Yeah! And Birkin has been introduced. I can already tell I'm going to deeply enjoy writing for the two of them.

Okay, so just some quick time line related info because I had to look this stuff up to to make sure I got it right: 1977: a 17 year old (16 in this story due to his late birthday) Wesker joins Birkin (15) at the Training Facility under Marcus. T isn't discovered until September of 1978 through Marcus's experiments on leaches with Progenitor, and then they officially move on to human test subjects on October of that year (we all know from Lisa that they've been experimenting on humans for some time now but now it's "_official"_).

Hope you enjoyed! Reviews are awesomely appreciated and always responded to.

-Asiera


	7. PG05AW

**AN:** Just wanted to give a big thanks to my two very faithful reviewers littlevamp and Ultimolu. Thank you guys so much for your comments, I really, really appreciated it.

* * *

**Project W: Second Cycle **

**PG05A/W: The Progenitor of Everything**

_May 17th, 1977; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility: _

"They call it, The Stairway to the Sun." Birkin informed Wesker in an impossible mix of excited yet bored tones as he pointed to the seemingly innocuous gold and red flowers suspended in the yellow liquid of the test tube. Their shape was fairly consistent with those of daisies but their texture looked almost like a mushroom's; rough and spongy. All in all they weren't particularly spectacular and they certainly weren't something Wesker would consider putting in a bouquet.

Wesker gave him an incredulous look accompanied by a little quirk of his left eyebrow. "This is the big finale? The single most important object in the entire lab? I am _not _impressed, Will." Wesker informed his partner as he bent down to closer examine the withered looking petals though the glass.

"Will" was is own personal revenge for, "Al."

"Not into flowers, huh?" laughed Birkin, juxtaposing his face beside Wesker's.

"Not particularly. Explain."

"The Ndipaya tribes claim they have the power to ascend mortals to the levels of gods."

Wesker scoffed. "Please tell me there is more here then some West African legend."

Birkin allowed a comical pout to cover his features for a few moments as he glared behind the mask at Wesker's reflection in the glass. He had assumed his partner would not know a thing about the obscure indigenous tribe.

"Yes of course there is," he sighed in annoyance.

"Oh?" More doubt.

"These flowers are the origins of the Progenitor Virus."

He could practically see Wesker's eyes light up behind his heavy shades. Birkin couldn't blame him. The young doctor had spent the entirety of the day after Wesker had stalked into his lab orienting the "trainee" to his new surroundings. Birkin wanted Wesker up to date on every single piece of equipment and each procedure used in this high tech facility before he even mentioned the true nature of the research he was conducting here let, alone let Wesker participate in it.

Wesker had flown though the orientation that would take most days to complete in just a few hours. By now he was extremely impatient and tired of all the obstacles that William was enjoying putting between him and the Progenitor Virus.

"Flowers?" Wesker still sounded incredulous. Honestly he expected more tricks from the man he'd been forced to follow on a wild goose chase for the past five hours.

"Yes," responded Birkin straightening. "Flowers."

Wesker continued to stare suspiciously at the plants. "_This_ is the source of the virus?"

"Strange I know," replied Birkin boredly. "But the Stairway to the Sun are the soul known sources of Progenitor. To further complicate things they only grow in a certain region of Africa," explained William regarding his reluctant trainee's rather compromising position. One quick kick to Wesker's vulnerable rear would send him flying though that glass container and out of Birkin's hair; possibly for good. Birkin sighed rather wistfully as he imagined all the work he could have gotten done had he not been dragging an annoyed Wesker around.

Wesker stiffened in horror when he caught what he could only interpret as Dr. Birkin staring at his ass and sighing in the glass tube's reflection.

He stood up so fast it, along with the glare he sent in the boy's direction, caused the naturally skittish Birkin to jump. "What the hell, Will?"

Birkin laughed, obviously not getting the real reason behind Wesker's annoyance. "I know it's improbable, Al, but it's certainly not impossible."

Wesker's jaw almost dropped.

"There have been known cases before of viruses specific to certain species. You know, like your dog can't give you its cold."

Wesker narrowed his eyes. Either he'd missed something or...hell he didn't know. But they were talking about the weird flowers again so he just decided to drop it. "I'm a cat person."

Birkin wrinkled his nose. "I'm allergic to cats."

"Huh."

They stared at each other for a while, each trying to interpret the other's strange actions before temporarily giving up.

"Anyways, you get the idea right?" sighed Birkin.

"Yes," affirmed Wesker in a similar manner. "But why won't they grow here?"

Birkin shrugged more then a little peeved. "I don't know, some uncommon factor no one has been able to locate or maybe a combination of them. I'm a biochemist not a botanist."

Wesker smirked. "And why are we so interested in _this_ particular virus?"

Birkin seemed suddenly more engaged. "The virus has incredible, but highly unpredictable, mutagenic capabilities when injected into another living organism."

Wesker tapped a gloved finger covered in blue latex instead of his typical black leather on the glass. "I thought you said it could only survive in the flowers."

"The original strain yes." He folded his arms. "But like I said, it has unprecedented mutagenic and adaptive qualities."

"You mixed it with another virus and they spliced?" Awe was apparent in his voice.

Birkin nodded. "We've had success with several, especially those that undergo natural rapid mutations."

Wesker thought for a few moments. "When you say it possesses mutagenic properties, are we talking carcinogenic?"

Birkin was really excited now. "No! It actually alters the molecular structure of the DNA sequence, codes for entirely new _functional_ body cells!" He frowned. "But the mutations are always too strong and unpredictable for the host to survive..."

"That _is_ a problem." he grinned. "Fascinating though...quite fascinating." A pause. "Are you sure it's not the type of host you are working with?

Birkin sighed. "We've tried everything from rats, to rabbits, pigs, dogs, and even monkeys. Nothing thus far has been able to sustain Progenitor for more than a few days."

Wesker became silent. "What about humans?"

Birkin blinked at him for several seconds, the atmosphere suddenly strained. "N-no but... if we haven't even been successful on animals, why try humans?"

Wesker tried to shrug off his colleague's disturbed stare. "Just something Doctor Marcus said."

Birkin seemed to relax. "That old man says a lot of things. He may be the director of this facility, but he still can't act without Umbrella's, and more importantly, Lord Spencer's approval."

For some reason the name stuck in his mind, the addition of the "royal" title before it helping it to stay lodged in his subconscious..

Birkin continued. "There is no way that they would move on to humans unless we have a viable virus. The risk far outweighs the benefit."

Wesker looked back from the apparently deadly flowers he'd been staring at. He would have to go about this carefully. "So...you have no qualms about human research."

"N-No!" Birkin shook his head for emphasis.

Wesker raised an eyebrow.

Feeling suddenly defensive, Birkin snapped back. "What? Do you?"

Wesker's shielded eyes left the man who claimed ambivalence. His body language had easily given him away. Fear was practically oozing from him.

"Depends on the human."

"What?" Birkin narrowed his pale eyes.

A slight chuckle. "Well, I'd certainly have a problem with it if I was the one in the test tube."

Birkin's eyes widened and then darted away from Wesker to the empty chair in the corner of the room before the fifteen year old forced himself to meet his partner's gaze. "Yes...I suppose that would be rather horrid."

William was like paper, so easy to read.

"What was their name?"

Birkin blinked. "W-who?"

Feigning ignorance. Typical.

"The individual who used to work here. The one they experimented on."

William blanched. "I-I d-don't know w-what y-you're-"

"Will..." Wesker hissed. "Tell me." He wasn't going to drop this. Strangely he was enjoying making Birkin squirm as much as gaining the vital information.

Birkin put on his best attempt at a strong front. "I _told_ you I d-don't know what you're talking about, Al! Now if you'll excuse me."

Wesker had had enough. Between everything that had happened in the last few days and this current form of aggravation, his short fuse had finally set off his rather violent temper. Wesker grabbed Birkin by the lapels of his lab coat, spun him around, and slammed him up against the glass encasing the dangerous plants. It wasn't hard enough to break the thin protective layer shielding the scientists from the contaminated liquid, but it was enough to hurt and scare William into thinking he just might.

Birkin curled in on himself as best he could, whimpering as Wesker dragged him up the glass until they were level with each other, the smaller boy's feet no longer able to make contact with the ground.

"Let's stop playing around, eh Will? I have no desire to end up in the same position as whoever used to sit in that chair. _Talk_." Wesker's threatening face was inches from Birkin's.

"Okay! Okay!" he cried. "J-just please...stop. Just stop..." Birkin was out of breath and his eyes were beginning to water.

Wesker felt appalled at the sick twist of pleasure he got from seeing William so vulnerable; at seeing him so completely at his mercy. Suddenly just as scared of himself as Birkin was, he dropped him and took a few shaky steps backwards. His head was reeling and his pounding heart sounded unrealistically loud in his ears.

Birkin shakily pushed himself up from the floor where Wesker had deposited him. Taking a deep breath he looked Wesker in the eyes as directly as he could through the dark lenses. "Stephen. Stephen _Wesker_."

Wesker's already ragged breath hitched in his suddenly dry throat.

Birkin rubbed at his sore shoulders. "Surly you knew there were more of you?"

Wesker's look of horror said anything but.

"H-how many?" Wesker could barely choke the words out.

Birkin's hard expression almost softened. "You didn't...?" He sighed. "I don't know, Al. Hundreds? Maybe more?"

The thoughts, _expendable_ and _experiment_ ran though Wesker's mind, refusing to leave and bouncing repeatedly and chaotically around his consciousness.

Wesker stumbled backwards to sit on a long experiment table. The chilly lab suddenly felt unbearably hot and everything from his collar to his lab coat become constricting. He felt the start of what would soon become a head splitting migraine prickling behind his eyes. Pulling his ever present sunglasses from his face, he held his head and tried to calm his breathing and regain control of the situation somehow.

Birkin stayed frozen for a few minutes, just watching the old Wesker's replacement fight off what was probably a very nasty panic attack. He was angry, extremely so, at being treated so horribly by his domineering roommate. However...he also _understood_ what Wesker was feeling; what he was going though.

With feelings borderlining strangely on empathy, Birkin took a deep breath, got up, and slowly approached Wesker as though he was a wounded predator, liable to strike at any moment. Preparing for the worst, Birkin placed a tentative hand on his shoulder.

Wesker jerked at the touch which caused Birkin to do the same. When William's arm wasn't ripped off he relaxed. "Al," Birkin started slowly. "They killed Stephen because he was weak and he...he couldn't handle it...this." Birkin made a wide gesture around the room. "But you're smarter then he was, much smarter; I read your file. You just can't break."

Wesker was staring at him, unprotected eyes locked with William's.

Birkin placed a key on the desk next to him. "Right now you are replaceable. The obvious solution would be to make yourself the exact opposite."

Deciding that was all he was willing to do, Birkin pulled back and, after checking his watch, walked towards the door. "I'm going to bed," he informed the still paralyzed Wesker with a wave of his hand, "but I suggest you stay here and get caught up with all our previous experiments on Progenitor." He gestured to the giant row of filing cabinets knowing that Wesker would understand that that was what the key was for.

"Good night, Al."

"...night..." Wesker managed to murmur as the door slid shut, gripping the key tightly in his hand. "Thank you." he said for the first time he could remember to the empty room.

Wesker's still uncovered storm blue eyes stared at the now closed doors long after his partner had departed though them. He was utterly confused. Why the hell would Birkin, a man he'd only met hours ago, not to mention just thrown up against as wall, treat him as such? Almost like he cared.

Wesker shook his head. No one he'd met in the six and a half years of his life he could remember had _ever_ cared and it was highly unlikely that Birkin would be the one to break the cycle.

He looked down at the stupid key in his hand that would grant him access to all the previous experiments Progenitor had been involved in and glared. Of course Birkin would give him the key. He had to if he wanted Wesker to be of any use in the laboratory and during future tests.

It wasn't an act of kindness, only one of necessity dressed up as such.

Wesker cursed himself for showing such a lapse in strength, even if it was only for a moment.

From what he could tell, Birkin was just as self centered and self serving as he was. The only logical explanation was that the young doctor stood to gain something from his actions of supposed friendship and comradely. Perhaps he believed Wesker would be more easily manipulated if he trusted William.

It didn't matter because that was certainly not going to happen.

Wesker sighed, picking up his discarded sunglasses, replacing them over his highly sensitive eyes. Despite all the negatives associated with what just occurred, he had learned something _very_ important. Birkin hadn't been lying about Stephen or his fate. There were more Weskers, a fact he was hardly pleased about.

He briefly wondered if they'd been though the same memory wiping procedure that had been preformed on him and was almost unable to stop from running nervous fingers though his hair. It was likely that they all had, that girl, Laura, he at times believed he imagined, had had a similar surgical incision on her head.

It was chilling to think that hundreds of children and possibly their families could just disappear without anyone's notice.

He shook his head. The how didn't really matter, it was the why that was vital to understand.

What were they using them for?

It was possible that the existence of the Wesker Children was specifically for the testing of the Progenitor Virus, but Wesker doubted Umbrella would spend so much time, effort, and probably money into the world's smartest group of guinea pigs.

Such thoughts were laughable. Or so he hoped.

Regardless of the intention behind Birkin's strange actions, the boy was right. Even if they weren't originally slated to become test subjects, more Weskers meant he was replaceable and therefore at risk. Though he highly doubted any of them could be quite as extraordinary as he was, he wasn't going to test the theory by getting too comfortable. He had met Birkin after all, an individual he was loathed to admit just might be as good as he was. It was possible the _others_ were just as good.

Tossing the silver sliver of carefully shaped metal up and down he made his way over to the daunting amount of filing cabinets and the documents they contained.

This was going to be a very long night and the headache that was just starting to come on full force wasn't going to make it any better.

* * *

_May 18__th__, 1977; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility: _

The sharp beeping of the alarm on his watch sent Birkin jerking out of bed. Usually this wasn't a problem, but as he'd moved himself to the top bunk just to prove a point to his new roommate, a position he was hardly accustomed to, Birkin now had a smarting head, shoulder, elbow, and hip. He was sure several of them would bruise...

Suddenly all of the surprisingly sincere intentions behind his actions last night towards Albert disappeared, and he cursed his new roommate heatedly. He convinced himself, much as Wesker already had, that all his actions were for his own self interest; to get his partner to quit moping around and feeling sorry for himself. Birkin now vowed that everything he'd said last night was to put some fire under Wesker's rather handsome ass instead of to comfort him.

Birkin froze in horror at the thought that had just sped heatedly though his mind. _"Handsome ass?!"_ He must have hit his head harder than he thought.

Around forty five minutes later, muttering to himself darkly about how much he, "_hated _top," Birkin let himself into his laboratory, only to find that Wesker was already hard at work and apparently taking over.

William blinked in shock at the vast array of experiments that were spread out over most of the work stations. Wesker's form was moving fluidly between the impossible workload, making quick notes on everything he was observing.

The teen who hadn't left the lab since he'd arrived yesterday smirked somewhat pleasantly at William who had just become the room's new door stop.

"Ah, Doctor Birkin. I've been waiting for you."

"You...you finished?" questioned Birkin incredulously referring to all the files detailing every boring detail of every single one of their experiments with Progenitor. He finally removed himself from the doorway, setting his things down in the small rarely used break room intended for the two workaholics that were the lab's only occupants.

Wesker nodded. "Yes, around 0300."

Birkin stared. "And then you just...started experimenting?" It was obvious from his tone that Birkin was less than pleased. He didn't like walking into his lab not knowing what the hell was going on, where the virus was, if it was being contained properly, what was infected, or what was and wasn't safe to touch. Stephen had always been much more hesitant and had to constantly be given direction on how to use his, until now, unrivaled talents. This Wesker on the other hand had no problems taking charge of the situation...or Birkin's laboratory as the case may be.

"Mmhm," affirmed Wesker eying the large white rat held in a plastic cage with some degree of disappointment.

He had the thing hooked up to several steadily dripping IV tubes and an arterial line as well as a monitor recording the creatures heart rate, oxygen saturation, respiratory rate, and blood pressure. If not for the information being displayed on the screen, Birkin would have assumed the rat was dead as it was laying motionless on its side.

"Did you infect it?" he asked as he came over straightening his lab coat and putting on his gloves.

Again with the monosyllabic affirmation.

"When?" Birkin asked even more peeved. "Which strain and how much?"

"Same one you were using at a tenth of your typical dose," answered Wesker as he continue to scrutinized the infected creature.

"Why so low a dose?" huffed William. "We've already established that dose as little to no effect on the body's reaction time."

"At 0400," Wesker continued as though he hadn't been interrupted.

Birkin stared between him and the rat's vitals in shock. They looked so normal! A little tachycardic, slightly elevated blood pressure with oxygen saturations in the low nineties, but still. Thus far, small creatures who had been exposed had only lasted thirty minutes or so with vitals that good. Wesker's experiment was well into the third hour.

"What's its viral load?" Birkin was now extremely excited. Could Wesker have cracked Progenitor in his first day? Impossible! What the heck had he done differently?

Wesker glanced at his notes. "80,000 copies per milliliter ten minutes ago.

Stunned was the only way to currently describe William.  
"A-Al...how did you...?"

Wesker sighed seeming to have come to some conclusion, his hidden eyes moving from the rat to Birkin for the first time since he'd walked in this morning. "I'm sure you've heard of drug induced comas? They are usually used to facilitate healing in certain grievous situations when slowing down the body's normal functions is a priority. I thought I could use it in combination with immunosupressing agents to give the rat more time to acclimate to the virus without such devastating reactions but..." He trialed off. "Looks like I only bought the thing a few hours."

He attempted to walk away but Birkin caught his arm. "What are you talking about, Al? This is _amazing_!"

Wesker raised an eyebrow at him as much because of the praise as the way Birkin was hanging off his arm like a giggling school girl.

Noting Wesker's gaze, a blushing William quickly dropped the capture appendage. "It's just...well this is really impressive," he concluded lamely. "You might really be on to something here."

Wesker just shrugged and moved over to the white board filled with his handwriting that, unlike everything else about him, was extremely messy and started to erase everything; quite literally going back to the drawing board. "It'll die by noon, Will. I'd call that a failure."

"You don't know that, Al" snapped Birkin taking over Wesker's abandoned experiment.

Wesker grinned. "Bet you lunch."

"Fine." Birkin could never resit one of Wesker's challenges even if the older boy was right.

* * *

_May 18th, 1997; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility: _

The rat died at exactly 1137.

Wesker leaned over his dismayed looking colleague's shoulder at the obviously dead, now hideously deformed thing that had used to be their experiment. The virus pulled from those harmless ugly looking flowers had started to cause massive mutations at the turn of the hour. Now all that was left was a swollen bloated hunk of bloody flesh and fur sporting extra appendages and for some reason, a sickening amount of tiny strangely formed eyes in all the wrong places.

"I think you owe me lunch, Will," Wesker whispered near his ear.

Birkin practically jumped out of his skin. He hadn't heard Wesker come over as he was desperately trying to save their blob and he certainly hadn't felt him lean over as the disgusting mass had flopped and "squeaked" one last time before lying still following its flat line.

The real question was, how could Albert even _think_ about food after watching _that_?

William jumped up out of his rolling chair so fast it almost tipped over, hand over his ear that was just as red as his face.

"Jesus, Al! What the hell is your problem?!" gasped Birkin.

Wesker laughed, obviously highly amused. "I'm hungry, Will." He gave his partner a mock pleading look. "You do realize I haven't eaten since those horrible excuses for snacks on the airplane ride over here right?"

Birkin stared at him incredulously as he got his blush under control. He knew the feeling of getting so wrapped up in work that you couldn't even find time to eat, but he had doubted that someone who looked...well...as put together as Wesker would make such sacrifices regarding self care.

He nodded. "Okay, fine...a bet's a bet," sighed Birkin, glancing at the mutilated hunk of flesh that had failed him. "I'll take you to the cafeteria after I incinerate the body."

Wesker grinned triumphantly. Not only was Birkin finally going to buy him the food his body was demanding, but Birkin was cleaning up his failed experiment that had surpassed all of William's attempts with Progenitor thus far. It was a very good day.

* * *

"You know," commented Birkin thirty minutes later as the pair walked down the pristine white hallway towards the cafeteria. "I think this might actually work."

"What do you mean?" asked Wesker. He had been trying to encourage Birkin to walk faster by increasing his own speed. He was starving. Unfortunately his tactic wasn't working, forcing him to have to slow down to continue the conversation and prevent from getting lost.

"You know, this relationship," answered William smiling.

Wesker actually froze allowing Birkin to completely catch up, raising an eye brow at him as the scientist walked by. "We're not dating, Will, we're _lab_ partners."

Dr. Birkin's easy blushes were starting to trouble the Umbrella Research and Training Facility's latest addition.

Birkin laughed. "You know what I meant."

In all honesty, Wesker wasn't quite sure he did. First he'd caught the man staring at his ass and sighing and now this? Wesker didn't know what to make of his strange new colleague.

"But you know," William continued thoughtfully, "in some ways they _are_ very similar."

Wesker glared and started walking after the odd man again. "No, they are _not_, Will."

Birkin scowled. "In some aspects, yes, Al, they are."

"Only if you're an idiot and overlook all the obvious ways that they are not even remotely alike," shot back Wesker feeling particularly annoyed.

"I am _not_ an idiot, Al!" retorted Birkin. "And what I meant is that they are similar in that they both involve two individuals working towards a mutual goal—preferably amiably—that have trust and respect for one another."

"One would entail sex to be successful," stated the taller bluntly.

Birkin blushed, paused for a moment, and then began to open his mouth to respond before Wesker stopped him with an upraised hand.

"If you even _think_ of making some stupid joke regarding the term 'chemistry,' I will quite literally kill you."

William shut up and they continued the rest of the way towards the facility's cafeteria in silence.

* * *

AN: So lots of interesting stuff between Wesker and Birkin in this addition. Hope you guys enjoyed.

Yes, I did totally make up Stephen Wesker but as he's never to be mentioned again and it facilitated some very interesting scenarios, I'd say the very temporary OC was justified /smiles/. I was going to have Wesker wait until he met Laura again to find out more about Project W but what can I say? The guy hates being left in the dark.

Finally, I used a lot of light scientific/medical terms in this chapter. I tried to keep it really basic for readability but I'm one semester away from graduation from nursing school so my idea of basic might be a little different. I'll be happy to answer questions if you have them and am curious to see how this will go over as I would like to keep the medical details perspective rolling.

Okay, I lied, one more thing. I'm an author, starved for reviews like most people who write on FF, so I'm going to try a fun tactic that's always worked before. _In __character_ **Albert Wesker** responds to all reviews of this chapter.

Later!

-Asiera


	8. PG06AW: (Clean-ish)

**AN: **And this is **_REALLY IMPORTANT_** so **_PLEASE READ!_ ** The chapter posted below is the "**_CLEAN" VERSION_** for the **_FULL EXPLICIT VERSION_** please follow the link on my profile under "**MA Content"** in the **"Project W" **section (it's at the bottom of my profile). I'm doing this in light of FF's semi-recent policy on MA content and out of a desire not to get banned (even if the possibilities are slim).

If anyone has any problems getting to the full chapter _please _PM me so I can work out any bugs (this is the first time I've done this).

Oh, and finally, please use common sense, this story is M-rated and if you follow the link you will be taken to a full, explicit, uncensored lemon. Cool? Cool.

* * *

**Project W: Second Cycle**

**PG06A/W: Physical **

_September 24th, 1977; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility: _

It was late September and it was _cold_. Quite unfortunately, it felt as if the Facility nestled deep within the Arklay Mountains had forgotten how to adjust its thermostats. The truth was worse. The heating system had failed a few weeks ago and for some unknown reason, it still wasn't any closer to being fixed.

Wesker normally didn't have a problem with the cold. He'd even become more accustomed to it since his time in the labs where they kept things chilly for the sake of the specimens, but this was ridiculous! He didn't even want to think about the fast approaching winter if they didn't hurry up and rectify the problem.

He dreaded the onset of that season anyways.

Wesker pulled the covers further up around his head. He was beginning to regret his lack of nigh wear. Wesker had always preferred to sleep nude. He hated how clothing restricted his movement and wrinkled uncomfortably under him when he rolled over at night. Now he was actually considering investing in a pair. Perhaps it would be better then shivering his arse off under these blankets.

Wesker was just thinking about how much he'd dread the trip down the mountain to purchase such items, when a small sneeze followed by a series of annoying sniffles form the bunk above him derailed his train of thought.

Now Wesker remembered why he was awake and freezing rather than asleep and ignoring the chill...

Along with the cold weather that had beseeched the facility came a rampant long lasting upper respiratory infection that had afflicted pretty much everyone working under the mountain, including a less then pleased Birkin. The boy had been one of the first to catch it about a week ago and was still coughing, sneezing, and otherwise spreading his germs around.

Despite Birkin's best efforts to the contrary Wesker was fairly certain that he'd compromised several of their experiments with his cold; a fact Marcus would have been furious with if the recluse hadn't boarded himself up in one of the lowest levels, refusing to make contact with anyone possibly carrying the virus.

Wesker had a suspicion that this was partially why the maintenance crew couldn't get anything done. Either that or they were still held up at the entrance with security.

A series of hacking coughs further infuriated the shivering teen to the point where he actually kicked the wooden frame above him several times. He immediately regretted the decision as the cold air wasted no time in wafting under the sheets and accosting his bare skin, stealing any heat his body had managed to produce and replacing it with an outbreak of goosebumps. "Will! Shut up!" he hissed venomously, now even more pissed off and cold than before.

Wesker was rewarded for his effort by the sound of Birkin jumping and his startled intake of breath which set off another coughing fit.

Wesker groaned and lay back down in despair. He hadn't gotten a goodnight sleep since Birkin had gotten sick.

Once he was done hacking, William responded just a vehemently. "You know I can't help it, Al!" another sneeze. "I have a weak immune system!"

"Funny you decided to work with deadly viruses than," responded Wesker hopelessly to the dark room.

"Oh shut it," he moaned. "You know I haven't gotten any sleep either..."

Wesker chuckled. "I'll try to take some comfort in that."

"Heartless bastard," croaked Birkin.

Wesker let out a long sigh. "You taken anything for it tonight?"

"Yes," muttered Birkin.

"When are you due next?"

"Two," came the tired response.

Wesker checked his watch, the soft blue light weakly illuminating the room for a few seconds. "It's one thirty."

"God I am miserable...an entire _week_ of absolute agony."

Wesker laughed. "You make it sound like you're dying."

"I _am_," he insisted weakly.

"Than take your next dose. Thirty minutes isn't going to hurt you, especially if you're 'dying.'"

Birkin nodded. "Fine. I just wanna sleep." Birkin attempted to get up but just ended up moaning about "indescribable pain."

Deciding to take pity on his roommate who had been cursed with the combination of a weak immune system and a very low pain tolerance, Wesker stopped his torture. "I'll get you your bloody medicine, just quit crying."

"I'm _not_ crying," he sniffed. "But...thank you, Al."

"Yeah, yeah," muttered Wesker as he steeled himself for the cold that would accost him once he left the sanctuary of heat provided by his layers of blankets. "Where is it?"

"Top drawer on my side of the dresser," he whispered.

Wesker gritted his teeth and slipped out of the blankets, immediately regretting this addition to his acts of charity towards Birkin that were becoming ever more frequent as of late. Using the light from his watch he searched though his partner's messy drawer until he finally located the desired bottle, cursing the freezing air that happily sucked the warmth right out of his exposed flesh. Hurriedly dumping out two of the capsules in his hands that would hopefully keep Birkin asleep for the rest of the night, he replaced the container and grabbed an unopened bottle of water from his much more organized side of the dresser top.

Remedy in hand, Wesker climbed up two of the ladder's steps and offered William the pills and bottle, his elbows resting on the covers of Birkin's bed. "Here."

"Thank you, Al," Birkin repeated in a relieved sigh. "You're an _angel_." He quickly popped the capsules into his mouth and forced them down his dry, sore throat.

Wesker snorted. "Hardly." He offered Birkin the water bottle so that he could flush the pills out of his esophagus where they had stuck halfway down.

"No really, I mean that," he vowed hoarsely after greedily gulping down most the water.

Wesker smirked and regarded him almost curiously. He looked so weak and helpless. It was...strangely appealing.

Wesker took the proffered near empty bottle that had brought him back to reality. Without a second thought he drained the rest before tossing it over his shoulder. It sailed in an unseen graceful arch though the air before landing perfectly in the trash can.

"Al!" cried Birkin his voice cracking. He grabbed Weskers shoulder in protest to the teen's most recent actions. "Why did you _do_ that?! Now _you're_ going to be sick!"

Wesker grinned at him though the darkness. "I don't get sick, Will. Never have."

Birkin blinked. "That's...fascinatingly strange... I'm envious."

"I bet." came the snide response. "But I hear you're dying soon so you won't have to be jealous for much longer."

Birkin was too tired to retort. He removed his hand from Wesker's shoulder but not before he'd realized that the contact had been skin on skin.

Birkin gave him a quizzical look. "Al...are you not wearing a shirt?"

Wesker shook his head.

"God you must be freezing!"

Wesker grimaced. "You have _no_ idea, Will."

"What does...?" Birkin trailed off unsure of the meaning behind Wesker's words.

Wesker just shook his head. "You had _better_ stop coughing now." With that, the older boy jumped down and quickly buried his shivering body under the sheets.

For some reason the skin where William's hand had been almost burned. Wesker dismissed it as being due to the boy's fever even though he'd thought that had dissipated two days ago.

* * *

_September 24th, 1977; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility:_

The day was slow. Miserably so. Since the previous month they hadn't really made much headway with the uncooperative Progenitor Virus that seemed hell bent on brutally killing anything it was exposed to. Though vast amounts of information had been learned since the discovery of the virus in 1966, Wesker believed that the last real progress made was the splicing of Progenitor with other viruses leading to the ability to infect a diverse number of organisms with the pathogen.

Such thinking meant that all the months he had Birkin had spent with Progenitor, while highly informative, really amounted to nothing. A less than encouraging thought. Furthermore, today they'd hit a proverbial wall, this lack of initiative further precipitated by the freezing temperature and Birkin's currently debilitating cold.

"This is pointless," muttered Wesker in frustration as he pushed himself away from the microscope through which he had been remotely observing the rapid division of the heavily contained infected cells on the other side of the glass for about the tenth time this morning.

"It's not-" a sneeze "-pointless, Al," finished Birkin sniffling as he blew his nose noisily into a tissue before tossing it into the near full trash can beside his work bench.

Wesker swiveled his rotating chair moodily back and fourth with his foot. "We're at a dead end. Until Doctor Marcus returns our last samples and data sets, there is absolutely _nothing_ new to do."

"That's not-"

Wesker sent him a glare.

Birkin sighed. "Perhaps...you are correct..."

Wesker's smirk at the fact Birkin had admitted he was right was weak and faded quickly before he just leaned his head back in the chair, his limp neck arched over its back.

William too remained silent and motionless for a few minutes before getting up and moving stiffly over to Wesker.

Albert cracked an eye in an almost feline fashion from behind his dark lenses at the approach, otherwise remaining unresponsive.

"Bored?" Birkin questioned in a way that said his own answer to the inquiry would have been "yes."

"Mmhm," was the only response made by the teen who was seriously considering taking this rare lull to catch up on some of the sleep Birkin's cold had been robbing him of.

Birkin stood there unmoving for several long seconds, then again broke the silence. "Al..." he started tentatively, "would you mind assisting me in a personal experiment?"

Wesker opened one of his eyes, positioning the chair so that he could better regard the young doctor looking curiously down at him. "Depends on what that would entail."

Birkin considered his words for a moment. "You taking your shirt off."

Wesker jerked up in the chair he had moments ago been reclined in, his body going rigid. "What?" he hissed dangerously.

Birkin just laughed as well as his cold would allow. "Also some blood draws and a few other tests."

Wesker continued to scrutinize him with a look halfway between confusion and suspicion.

"A physical, Al," giggled Birkin.

Wesker relaxed ...slightly. "Why?"

A pregnant pause. "I'm curious..."

Wesker's brows knitted together.

"You know, about what you said last night. About not getting sick."

_And you're a Wesker._ The words were unspoken, but they hung in the air between the two, too ominous to ignore.

The long silence seemed to stretch out indefinitely until Wesker eventually broke it. "Fine."

"Excellent," beamed Birkin clapping his hands together. "Let's get started."

Before Wesker could change his mind he'd been dragged over to a steel examination table where Birkin "encouraged" him to sit down on. The older teen felt several pangs of anxiousness shoot through him as he watched Birkin gather various pieces of medical equipment and deposit them on another nearby table.

Suddenly, the previously "deathly ill" man was bounding with energy.

"Just how extensive are you planning on being, Will?" questioned Wesker suspiciously when he saw how large the supply pile had grown.

Birkin paused for a moment, looking between Wesker and his tools of examination. "As much as I need to be."

"Wonderful," glared Wesker. "I feel loads better now."

Ignoring him, Birkin made a series of strange hand motions. "Well go on, lie down and take your shirt off."

Wesker grimaced as he removed his lab coat and then the black turtle neck sweater and tee shirt he'd been wearing underneath it, his chest and arms immediately breaking out in goosebumps due to the chilly air. As he lay down he was beginning to think this had been a really, _really_ bad idea.

Birkin paused as he roamed over his lab partner's chest with his pale blue eyes. It was true there were times when he'd been around Albert when he wasn't wearing a shirt, but without an excuse to stare, he'd just nervously averted his eyes, the gesture sometimes accompanied with a blush. Now that he had a chance to fully appreciate Wesker's bare torso, Birkin completely understood the reason's his colleague spent so many hours in the facility's gym after working in their lab.

The sleekly defined muscles extending over his arms, chest, and down his abdomen caused Birkin to retract all the comments he'd made about how Wesker spending time with the grunts being trained for the UBCS (_Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service)_ was dumbing him down by proximity and destruction of his brain cells though sparing induced trauma.

Honestly Birkin didn't really understand his obsession with this Wesker. It was true that the title he used for a last name made Albert fascinating by default, since Umbrella had chosen him from among billions to be a part their top secret Project W where they had done God knows what to him, but these feelings went beyond that.

Wesker was the most intelligent, intuitive, and driven individual Birkin had ever met. His ingenuity rivaled not only the higher ups in Umbrella like Dr. Marcus, but even Birkin's own abilities. This ingeniousness coupled with his calm almost cruelly cold demeanor, unexplored sadistic tendencies, and physical prowess made Wesker the most captivating specimen William had ever had the pleasure of examining. But perhaps most mesmerizing of all Wesker's unique qualities, was the boy's own confusion as he tried as desperately as Birkin to decipher all the wonderful mysteries that made Albert Wesker who he was.

The thought of finally getting to fully explore everything about the glowering, half naked, but obviously nervous Wesker before him sent a thrill of electric anticipation though Birkin's body. He had quite literally dreamed of this occasion off and on for months, the results causing less then desired physical manifestations on his sleeping body that, in their own right, were equally as intriguing. But one step at a time. Right now, Wesker was at his finger tips for the remainder of the day. He was _not _ going to wast this opportunity.

On the contrary, Wesker's own feelings towards Birkin remained a bit of a _purposely_ unsolved mystery. Birkin made him feel a strange intimate closeness he'd never experienced with anyone else. He'd supposed this was friendship. For the first time, Wesker felt as though he'd finally met someone he could relate to; who understood him and could sympathize with the past he'd struggled though and the dark future they were both headed towards. Wesker suddenly felt as though he'd found someone whom he could share his true thoughts with without holding back, bounce complex ideas off of that would have crushed anyone else, and basically rely on to be there when things got complicated...even if the younger boy was hiding in a corner quivering.

Speaking of which, Wesker for some ungodly reason loved seeing the timid boy in pain or with fear written all over his mousy features and showing throughout his fragile looking body. For obvious reasons, Wesker had avoided exploring those feelings as though he was worried doing so would infect him with Progenitor. More accurately though, Wesker was afraid that doing so would lead him further down a dark path he wasn't sure he wanted to be on or from which he could turn around.

Starting as only whispers at first, these odd inclinations towards Birkin had magnified over the past five months they'd spent together in the cold lab and their tight quarters until Wesker had no idea of how to properly interpret, let alone deal with them.

The feeling of Birkin's gloved hands on his chest brought him back to reality rather abruptly. It seems the physical was starting. Wesker swallowed. This was _definitely_ _not_ a good idea.

The first things to go onto Wesker's exposed skin were the twelve lead ECG pads which would be used to display a full picture of Wesker's perfectly normal, if not slightly elevated heart rate, on the large monitor. Wesker had figured that this was something he should expect but he had no idea why Birkin was putting them on so strangely! There was _no_ reason for William to touch the areas designated for placement so much, was there? Wesker shook his head which caused Birkin to bark at him to hold still. Perhaps he was reading too much into it. But damn if Birkin's hands weren't hot.

Within the next few minutes, Wesker had been hooked to every available monitor, each of them showing various readings taken from his body. He had more wires stuck to him then he could count. Now William was adding a few more to the mix as he hooked Wesker up to a device that would measure and record his brainwaves.

"Is _all_ of this really necessary, Will?" asked Wesker almost pleadingly. He was getting sick of being Birkin's new test subject; for good reason too as usually, they all _died_.

"Shush," admonished Birkin curtly.

Wesker growled in frustration but otherwise remained cooperative for the time being.

Birkin was feeling his way around Wesker's scalp as he searched for the best places to stick his latest set of pads. During his unwelcome but oddly relaxing roaming of Wesker's head, the searching fingers brushed up against something Wesker would have rather Birkin's digits had not discovered: his scar.

"What's this?" The curious teen doctor inquired as his careful fingertips mapped out the old incision's surface.

"Nothing," mumbled the owner of the assaulted region of skin.

Wesker had had enough of Birkin questioning about the unknown origin of his only other noteworthy scar when the researcher had grilled him the four inch long, rather jagged one on his left forearm just below his elbow.

"Al...is this from a surgery?" Birkin was getting really excited over the first really abnormal finding in his "physical."

"I don't know. Probably," Wesker grumbled. He knew Birkin was not going to let this go, he could see it in the way his eyes were sparkling. It was the same way they did when he discovered something new about Progenitor.

For some inadequately explored reason, despite not wanting Birkin prodding around in that area of his past, Wesker felt a strange sense of elation that something about him could cause that same reaction in his partner.

After a few seconds more of thoughtful palpating of the scar, Birkin suddenly started pulling off all the devices he'd attached to Wesker's smooth skin, unmindful of any painful yanking on Wesker's flesh or ripping out of the fine, near invisible blond hair on Wesker's arms and legs.

"Will! Ouch! Hey watch it!" came Wesker's unheeded protests. "What?!"

"I want to give you an MRI," Birkin announced, for some reason breathless.

The excited look in his pale eyes coupled with the nature of his voice did something funny to Wesker's stomach and throat, preventing him from protesting as Birkin dragged him firmly by the arm off the table and out of their lab's doors.

Wesker couldn't explain why he was feeling so warm and light headed as Birkin pulled him over to the rooms that contained the scanning device needed to examine the inner contours of Wesker's brain—maybe he _was_ getting William's cold after all.

Though Wesker had confirmed earlier that his roommate hadn't had a high temperature in two days, Birkin's body felt like it was burning up with fever, the places where William's hands were gripping his arms or brushing up against his side felt as if they'd been accosted by a searing flame; a sensation that was driving him crazy.

Wesker puzzled over this set of unexplained sensations for several minutes as William prepped him to go into the non-invasive procedure, unable to come up with a logical explanation as Birkin took a quick X-ray of his head to ensure that no metal had been implanted underneath the surgical scar.

After confirming that Wesker was metal free, Birkin proceeded to ready him to go into the MRI machine and Wesker's self searching was brought to a quick halt. At the moment he was too preoccupied to accurately decipher anything with the fact that the preparation required him to remove his both his sunglasses and his trousers so that the metal of his zipper would not be affected by the machine's magnet

It wasn't until the precise moment Birkin sent him into the device on the mechanical table that Wesker was able to correctly interpret the feelings and fully understand way the unbearable heat from Birkin's touches had traveled so low.

"I need you to hold absolutely still, Al!" called Birkin's voice over the microphone from the glass observation room he'd just sprinted to, the panting quality of his voice further complicating the situation. "This is going to take _at_ _least_ thirty minutes!"

Wesker mentally cursed with every nasty word in his vocabulary. Thirty blasted minutes to contemplate why he had a hard on for Doctor William Birkin!

One might have imagined that a half an hour of silence in the small cylindrical space created by the MRI machine would have given Wesker plenty of time to cool down. However, such a tactic doesn't work when one is perseverating the entire time about all the reasons they were hot and bothered in the first place.

For the whole of the thirty five minutes Wesker was trapped within the device, all he could do was replay every odd moment that had passed between the two scientists since they'd first met in that tiny excuse for a room they now shared, looking at each event in this strange new light. All the seemingly innocent touches and brushes, strange hints, and absurd jokes...they now had such a different meaning. Just like how Birkin's awkward grins never really just meant he was happy.

Unfortunately, the results of his actions were causing Wesker to grow harder against his own thigh.

_ Dammit!_ He silently swore. This was not good, not even close. The worst part was that many of the advancements he had, for the first time, just identified as such, had come from Birkin's end. This in combination with the scientist's curiosity driven personally made it very likely that if Wesker didn't get his suddenly raging hormones under control, this strangeness would escalate to levels he was unable to truly fathom.

He didn't want that...right?

Wesker shuddered internally. He wasn't sure. It's not like he had anything to go off of.

Since Wesker began his unnaturally sped up race though the world's best education systems he'd only focused on just that: His education. If he didn't have time to bother with friends, there was no way he had time to consider any sort of significant other. Sure there had been the occasional girl that had caught his eye, but that's all it had ever been, a glance, a short lived wistful thought and then he'd pulled himself back to reality.

This deliberate asexuality had left Wesker a complete virgin, even to his own touch. As such, the current situation was light years beyond anything that had come before and equally as far from his comfort level.

Then on top of everything else, he was experiencing these powerful feelings for another _male_, something Wesker _never_ could have predicted. In all honestly, this was probably more because of the fact that he'd only ever been this close to Birkin than any sort of tendency towards favoring individuals of the same sex.

All of this paled in comparison to the fact that he desperately needed to gain back his precariously slipping control.

Wesker had discovered long ago that he was a control freak. He had to have absolute command over every last aspect of his life. The current loss of his mind's ability to command the persistently growing fire in his physical being was causing his breath to hitch just as much as his rapidly intensifying thoughts of William in increasingly compromising situations.

Every cell in Wesker's body froze as the table started to withdraw smoothly from the cave of solitude offered by the device, carrying Wesker who was even harder than when he'd entered into the open where his lack of control over his body would be plainly visible to Birkin's perceptive eyes.

Wesker sat up as soon as he was able, positioning his bare legs so they would prevent a quickly approaching Birkin from seeing his stiff cock through the thin black fabric of his boxers. He really wished he had more on than just his underwear, a thought that hadn't even remotely been facilitated by the once cold feeling air.

Birkin was fortunately too absorbed in his delivery of his results to the owner of the abnormal scan to notice the nervous trepidation with which the usually unfazeable Albert Wesker was watching him.

"You have a significant amount of scar tissue surrounding your hippocampus, Al and some mild scaring in the surrounding areas, especially between it and the incision site."

Birkin was talking fast, but even if he'd been speaking in slow motion Wesker doubted he could accurately interpret what the man was saying. Despite his best efforts, the needy fire inside him was increasing in its intensity. Wesker swallowed hard wondering how much longer he could feign indifference.

"Have you ever had any instances of memory problems?"

It took Wesker several moments to realize that the pause in the rapid flow of words from Birkin's lips meant he had asked him a question.

"W-what?" he managed, trying to prevent his voice from cracking. _Dammit! This shouldn't be happening to me!_ He had to get things together..._now!_

Birkin sighed, folding his arms. "Very funny, Al. But seriously, any memory issues? Any whatsoever? I mean I know you're brilliant but..."

Wesker actually displayed the slightest bit of a flush at the complement. "No...Yes...but not currently I mean-" A hurried breath. He was tripping over his bloody words and almost blushing? What was next? He felt as though he'd been drugged. "I mean, nothing currently but...there was a time when..." He sighed looking away. "I can't remember anything before age ten. They told me I was in a motor vehicle accident but..."

He'd told Birkin just as much because he honestly miraculously trusted him as because he could no longer really think straight.

Birkin frowned, deciding to tackle Albert's odd behavior later. "That's funny...from what I saw from the scan it didn't look like any other structures were damaged, just that one area, and your physical body shows no signs of serious trauma." He did a quick glance over of Wesker's body, most of which was hidden by his pulled in knees. Birkin blinked at his partner's odd positioning.

Wesker shrugged. "I always suspected it was a lie." No he _knew_ it was, but he wasn't going to tell Birkin everything yet, maybe never, but certainly not during this crazy situation.

"Curious..." Birkin mused.

"Um...Al, are you uh...cold?" Birkin questioned in an unsure manner.

Wesker only further drew his knees up. "No, not really." Not even a little bit. God he was so fucking hot!

Birkin nodded, knitting his brows together as he further scrutinized the suddenly modest teen. Albert was acting weird, he'd been doing so since this physical had started and escalating by the minute. As of yet, Birkin had no idea of the reasoning behind Wesker's inability to look him in the eye, current scrunched up positioning, or wincing shudders every time Birkin laid a hand on him. He had a few theories; nothing concrete.

One of the possibilities caused a little briefly lived flutter of excitement to erupt in Birkin's chest, but it was so improbable... There was no way Wesker feelings towards Birkin could extend to the levels of the strange obsession he carried for the older blond.

_ Impossible. Best to ignore the abnormality and move on._

"Oh! I almost forgot!" Birkin produced a small sterile package from his lab coat pocket containing a blood draw kit as well as a few tubes in which to collect the blood.

"Now?" asked Wesker in exasperation. "Can't it wait?"

Birkin laughed. "What? Scared of needles?"

He glared. "No...I just...now is a bad time." He looked away.

Somehow Birkin found it all absolutely adorable.

Grinning slightly, Birkin ignored his excuses and pulled Wesker's arm from where it was wrapped firmly around his knees.

"Will!" Wesker yelled in protest. But the tourniquet had already gone around his bicep and Birkin was currently searching for a good vein. Wesker certainly had a lot of those.

Deciding more uncooperativeness would only succeed in further complicating the situation, Wesker gritted his teeth and helpfully extended his arm, resting the elbow on his own knee.

Knowing why his skin tingled and burned where William touched it didn't help and in all actuality, it probably made the situation worse.

Wesker shivered as Birkin deftly advanced the small hallow needle underneath his skin. He barely managed to force himself to remain still as Birkin attached a syringe to the catheter and slowly withdrew about ten milliliters of the burning blood pumping quickly throughout his body.

The young doctor carelessly left the blood filled catheter hanging from Wesker's arm, the combination of the good vein and still attached tourniquet causing a small but steady stream of blood to drip from the open end of the catheter and down Wesker's arm.

Birkin had obviously intended for Wesker to remove the equipment himself and hold pressure at the puncture site while he filled the tiny tubes with his friend's blood. Wesker knew this, but their was something about the steady unhindered flow of the warm blood down his arm and then over his leg before it started to collect on the table that was pushing him over the edge, advancing the pulsating heat within him to unbearable levels.

He couldn't fight this any more. It was pointless.

When Birkin turned back to his cherished specimen he cried out in shock, eyes widening as he saw the tiny river of blood trickling down Wesker's arm and pooling on the table all while Albert just stared at it as if mesmerized. Immediately dropping what he was doing, the small crimson filled vials rolling across the floor, Birkin yanked off the tourniquet, removed the catheter, and held pressure over the tiny spot. "Al! What the hell were you doing?!"

He winced as he felt Albert's blood contaminating his bare hands; he'd only just taken the gloves off of so he could more easily write on the vials. His scientific mind was screaming at him not to touch the ruby drops containing who knew what since Umbrella had gotten a hold of Wesker, but the look on Wesker's face following his actions was too captivating to allow him to release the bloodied appendage.

Suddenly, as if he'd just released the latch on the door of a caged wild animal, Wesker's hungry arms were around him, yanking Birkin forcefully down on the table so that he was straddling the older blond, finally exposing Birkin to the heat he'd been unknowingly inflicting on Wesker for the past hour or so.

"Al?!" Birkin gasped. This sudden display of uncontrolled lust was the last thing he'd expected from Albert who was always so cool and collected...until he snapped that is... But this...Birkin had never expected this: Wesker's fire engulfing his body that was already beginning to reciprocate the burning feelings of urgency reflected in Wesker's stormy eyes, Wesker's hard member digging into his thigh, and the warm crimson liquid he'd been appalled by moments ago staining the fabric of his white lab coat and wiping across his startled flushed features as Wesker roughly caressed his face and hair.

"W-what are you doing?" stuttered Birkin as his hands snaked around Wesker's shoulders, partly to steady his precarious position, partly because he suddenly discovered he too wanted this closeness.

For a moment only Wesker's heavy breathing and burning eyes answered him. It was a little late to back out now. It would be impossible for the ever perceptive William not to understand the reasons behind his actions; he doubted anyone could really misinterpret them at this point. Not to mention the blood from his arm that was now smeared in small amounts over Birkin's frozen features and light blond hair was driving the more animalistic part of Wesker wild with a sort of blood lust he'd never known had existed within him.

"Consider it part of the experiment."

That was all he'd managed to force out.

The comparison along with the unnatural huskiness of Wesker's voice caused a thrill of unbridled excitement shoot down Birkin's own body, his grip tightening around Wesker's bare shoulders. An experiment. That's _exactly_ what Birkin wanted.

"Mmph-" Before he could respond properly to his colleague's intriguing offer, Wesker had clamped his lips over Birkin's, the inexperienced movements drawing William eagerly into a new series of tests he'd never dreamed of preforming on his fascinating specimen.

Unknowing hands tentatively yet urgently explored areas neither had ever really considered venturing until this point, each new movement and touch sending jolts of pleasure though their neurons and causing small muffled gasps to escape between their locked mouths.

As if in response to the explosively cultivated blazes in their own bodies, the room's temperature seemed to increase almost exponentially.

The two separated just long enough to catch their ragged breaths and for Birkin to remove his lab coat and shirt. Somehow, in those few moments, the ever observant younger scientist uncovered what he viewed as part of the reason they were both starting to sweat.

"Huh," he panted as Wesker hands began to map out his naked chest. "Looks like they...nha...f-fixed the heat. Ah!"

Wesker slightly growled in annoyance at the ridiculous observation but followed Birkin's gesture to the vent located directly above them. Sure enough Wesker could feel the, by comparison, insignificantly warm air wafting down towards them.

Wesker managed to raise an eyebrow as he pulled William back towards him, relaxing his own back until it rested on the table. "W-Will," he swallowed hard, "I seriously d-doubt that has a thing to do...ugh...do with it." Wesker informed him as Birkin decided to find out what happened when he accosted Wesker exposed neck and clavicle with his mouth.

Things only got hotter from there.

* * *

**Where Explicit Content would Fall**

* * *

Several long hours later, filled with the arduous task of erasing any signs of their risky tryst in the MRI exam room and then making it look like they'd actually done something useful in the lab today, the two had returned wearily to their shared room, each collapsing into the now comfortably warm atmosphere provided by their separate beds.

A few more hours later, Wesker sneezed. An action that was followed by a small coughing fit that erupted from his somewhat sore throat.

Birkin chuckled from above. "What was that about _'never'_ getting sick, Al?"

"Shut up," snarled Wesker kicking the bed above him. Of course he was going to catch Birkin's cold after _that_.

* * *

**AN: **For obvious reasons I'd really love feedback on this one even if you've read the full version. Also, I welcome concrit. Please and thank you.

Thanks for reading,

-Asiera


	9. PG07AW: (Clean-ish)

**AN: _Full Uncensored Version_** available via the link on my **_Profile_ Page** (sames as last time)! Please use common sense, discretion, and all that good stuff. The link will take you to _**Adult** **Content**_. The story will make total and complete sense if you are only reading the "clean" version here.

* * *

**Project W: Second Cycle**

**PG07A/W: Unknown and Unforgotten**

_December 11th, 1977; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility:_

The soft beeping of the alarm on Birkin's watch was like a siren to Wesker's pounding temples. Wesker rolled over and yanked the covers over his head. His entire body felt stiff and was just as unwilling as his pounding mind to get up and greet the dreadful day.

It was December and every day in this godforsaken month brought him one step closer to the torture that awaited him in the final days leading up to the equally horrid holiday known as Christmas.

He hated every goddamn minute of it.

It took Birkin until he was completely dressed to realize that Wesker still hadn't moved. This puzzled him. Usually Wesker, though certainly not a morning person, was up before him. Birkin blinked at the unmoving blanket covered form. "Al?"

No response whatsoever.

Birkin frowned. His friend had been acting rather strangely for the past week or so. Come to think about it, Wesker had been "off" since the beginning of the month.

"Al." More forcefully this time but yielding a similar result.

Birkin huffed in annoyance. Sure, Wesker's behavior was pretty normal for a teenager (if it hadn't been around that special time of year when even Marcus cracked a smile once in a while), but they didn't have the luxury to mope about in bed like most individuals their age when they were having a bad day.

Too many of those and you ended up like Stephen.

"Come on, Al, get up! It takes you over an _hour_ to get ready every morning and I'd _like_ to be in the lab before eight today. We have a ton of new tests to run per Marcus's orders." He was almost whining.

When he still didn't get an adequate response from Albert, Birkin began to become slightly ticked. "Al! Seriously!" He probably shouldn't have but Birkin attempted the trick of pulling all the bed covers off the semi-conscious Wesker in order further motivate him to get up. It was a bad idea.

He got the blankets _mostly _off his colleague's naked form before he was met by some rather violent retaliation from a seething Wesker. Birkin was grabbed the the lapels of his lab coat and yanked down inches from Albert's livid face.

"Dammit, Will! I _heard _ you the first three times!" he yelled angrily.

Wesker looked exhausted. Now he too bore the same dark circles William always wore under his own eyes. He also looked paler than usual...and significantly more pissed off then he did on the average day. The fact that Birkin had to steady himself by placing his hands on both of Wesker's bare arms seemed to only further anger the youth. Well it was either that of fall in his only slightly obscured lap. Birkin had no idea what he was so mad about, really.

"You look horrible," Birkin stated bluntly. This may have seemed like a suicide move to most—insulting Wesker when he was highly ticked off and had William in such a precarious situation—but after working with Wesker for seven months and "dating" him—if their interesting relationship could be summed if with such a word—for three, it took quite a lot of effort on the older blond's part to intimidate him. In fact, in all honesty, Birkin wasn't really even scared of him any more.

Sure it was true that Albert was know for his violent streaks—something Birkin was not spared from and he had a few little scars to prove it—but as far as he knew, he was the _only_ person in the world who could calm Wesker down and at least partially control that animalistic rage the he harbored towards almost everyone and everything. Birkin prided himself in that regard.

Wesker scowled. "Shut up." It was all he could manage to do in response to William's steady calm gaze and gentle stroking fingers on his arms. He hated how Birkin could influence him so much. Wesker pushed him away and rubbed at his already throbbing temples. He didn't even bother to re-cover up with the stolen sheets. What was the point? It wasn't as if it was something Birkin hadn't seen before on multiple occasions.

"You sick again?" question an actually concerned Birkin as he pressed the back of his hand to Wesker's forehead.

Wesker shewed him away. "It was one time, Will, one bloody time!" He sighed. "Let it go already," grumbling.

Birkin laughed. "But it was so amusing, Mr. 'I never get sick'."

"It's an expression, Will." He was stretching now, almost cat-like in nature. Not only was it appealing to watch as his muscles rippled over his lithe body, it also meant he was getting up.

"A false one."

Wesker continued to glare, running a hand through his uncharacteristically messy blond hair.

"Okay, fine. I _rarely_ get sick and only when some virus leaching imbecile gets his body's various fluids all over me. Happy?

Birkin snorted. "Are you getting up?"

Wesker scowled at him for a full thirty seconds before responding. "Yes."

Birkin happily clapped his hands together. "Excellent! I will see you in the cafeteria." He was already disappearing out the door.

Wesker sighed tiredly and allowed himself to collapse down on his bed, moving so his forearm was covering his face. He hadn't slept, not really anyways. His nights of full restful sleep had vanished about a week ago as the day he dreaded most began rapidly approaching. Each new sign of the coming holiday brought with it a myriad of nasty symptoms: Restless nights filled with what must have been horrible dreams because he woke up gasping in cold sweats unable to remember what left him shaking; unpredictable mood swings ranging between rage, borderline euphoric happiness, and anhedonia inducing apathy.

Every December he came extremely close to meeting the criteria for being properly diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder; he'd checked.

But worst of everything that came during this horrid month were the headaches. They weren't like the ones he usually got—maybe two or three a week and completely manageable if he took the proper countermeasures—these were five time as intense, practically head splitting, and they lasted for most of the day everyday.

Wesker had been plagued by this nasty affliction every twelfth month for as long as he could recount and he "knew" why. But "knowing" the origins of such pain didn't even begin to help his situation. Perhaps it actually made it worse.

He slowly pushed himself up so that he was sitting on the edge of his bunk. His eyes were inescapably drawn to the locked dresser drawer where, hidden underneath the binding of his first bio-chemistry book, rested the tattered worn note he had written himself almost seven years ago.

No matter how hard he tried or how many times he read and re-read those fading words, he couldn't _really_ remember. Sure he could construct false renditions in his altered brain, but it wasn't the same and he knew it. Most the time he could ignore this discomforting highly disconcerting fact, but whenever this time of year came around, and all the things that marked this month as special from every single other one in winter began assaulting him in ever increasing amounts, he found himself lost in this...this dark void.

The progression was simple. This disruption of his ability to properly function would always start around the second week in December and worsen each day until finally reaching a peek on Christmas Eve...his damned birthday.

He hated it. Hated his lack of control and the weakness he would eventually be unable to hide from those around him. It made him sick.

When he was at school, he would just take the month off, lock himself away in his dorm; away from anything and everything associated with Christmas, and therefore, his family's murders. This of course had no detrimental effects on his grade as he was easily able to keep up and submit all assignments electronically; finals were the only hard part, but he'd managed.

Now...now everything was different. He was here in this facility that looked so hauntingly familiar to the one he'd been taken too as a child, working for the same company that was responsible for everything horrible that had happened to him.

It was everywhere; he couldn't escape it. He felt like he was sleeping with the enemy.

_Birkin._

He winced, holding his head as his thoughts traveled to how literal that statement may have been.

He trusted William, more than he'd ever trusted anyone else and Birkin always seemed to be on his side of things, but when you got right down to it, Birkin was working for Umbrella; a child prodigy who'd been thrilled upon being chosen to join the ranks of the pharmaceutical giant. Yes, he was scared of the human experimentation aspect of it, but he'd do it. He'd done it on Stephen Wesker.

Wesker gritted his teeth. If William knew. If he ever found out Wesker had come here for the soul purpose of driving this monster into the ground, would he still stand by his side? Or would he stab him in the back?

Wesker's very nature commanded him to believe the latter, even if it hurt, physically _hurt_ to do so.

That fact alone made Wesker squirm. He'd gotten too close, gone too deep. Not getting his act together might quite literally be the death of him.

Forcing himself to get up, he stiffly made his way to the shower. He tried not to think of Will. He didn't need anything else making this month miserable.

* * *

_December 20th, 1977; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility_

Birkin wasn't stupid, in fact, he was a genius. He knew when something was seriously wrong. He also knew when he was being purposely avoided.

Wesker's recent steep downhill spiral of emotions and functional status was not due to one of his typical mood swings that Birkin secretly referred to as "Wesker's Premenstrual Syndrome." For over an entire week now, Wesker had started interacting less and less with him until now, they were barely talking—not to mentioned they hadn't had sex since Thanksgiving. For two teenagers new to their relationship, living in the same room and dealing with raging hormones, especially when one of them was Wesker, that was certainly a far cry from normal.

Something was really, really wrong and William was sick of being left in the dark and with picking up Wesker's slack so Marcus wouldn't find out about his sudden lack of any form of motivation or productivity.

Birkin glanced over to the breakroom and scowled. Never had that room gotten as much use as it had over the past twenty days. It was as if he was hiding in there...perhaps he was.

Birkin would have felt bad except for the fact that Wesker had exploded at him last night over the stupidest thing: Christmas cards.

Seeing the card Birkin's rather uninformed parents had sent him yesterday had sent the blond into a rage. So much so that he'd actually refused to reenter the room until Birkin had disposed of the blasted thing. Then he had left to sleep in their lab's break room from which he had yet to emerge. Similar things had happened every time anything remotely involving Christmas had come up.

The words "Scrooge" didn't even begin to describe Wesker's loathing for, and apparent pain caused by the day.

Honestly, Birkin hadn't cared that he'd ripped the card. His parents only did it for show. Two cards a year, Christmas and Birthday, that was all he heard from them since he's been shipped away to some fancy boarding school at age eight. Well, that and every award ceremony so they could brag about their "little genius." Birkin would have tossed the thing the next day anyways.

No, what bothered him was that he wasn't able to even begin to ease Wesker out of that fit of anger. It was as though Wesker was purposely withdrawing from him, and that was _not_ something Birkin was about to let happen.

After he'd made sure the work from the previous night was in order, Birkin steeled himself and entered the breakroom. For all he knew, Wesker might no even be up yet, even though it was well past the eight o' clock hour.

It took William a while to locate Wesker in the completely darkened room. He was laying on the couch, long arms and legs curled in almost protectively so that the tall boy could fit within the small space, one arm draped over his face.

As far as Birkin could tell, he was asleep, but believing a "sleeping" Wesker wasn't dangerous, was like trusting a resting serpent not to strike. As such, Birkin approached very cautiously...that is until he suddenly imposed himself on the already cramped sofa, pressing his back into Wesker's stomach to keep from falling off the narrow seat.

Wesker jerked awake muttering a few choice, mostly inaudible, swear words in response to Birkin's rather rude invasion of his personal space.

"Hey," he greeted in a rather monotone voice as he fought the urge to lean back into the comforting warmth provided by Wesker's body he'd been missing as of late.

Wesker glared daggers up at him. "What?"

Birkin sighed, clasping his hands together on his lap. Wesker knew from experience that William only did this when he was really bothered by something. "How much longer are we going to pretend nothing's wrong?"

Wesker had to desperately wrestle the desire to shove him off the couch while at the same time, contrarily ignoring the suppressed voice in his head informing Wesker of his need to let someone help him get through these final hellish days; to dull the pain if only just a little. Of course Wesker dismissed this "weakness" heatedly, his blatant disregard for his own emotional needs further adding to the boiling anger festering somewhere deep in his gut.

"Who said nothing's wrong? You're in my seat," spat Wesker perhaps a little more venomously than he'd meant to.

Birkin rolled his eyes. Wesker could be so bloody stubborn! "I'm not retarded, Al. What the hell is wrong with you these days?" He started listing all of Wesker's problems on his fingers, each new complaint adding another long pale digit to the count. "You haven't been 'right' since November, your mood swings are bordering on clinically diagnosable, you 'freak out' every time anything remotely having to do with Christmas comes up, you've been _avoiding_ me all week, and finally, you've gotten so dismissive about your work that I've been _covering_ for you for _days_ and it's really starting to piss me off." He held up a full spidery hand in front of Wesker's scowling face for full emphasis of the dire situation.

Wesker looked away, deciding to glare at Birkin's shoes instead of his nearly pleading face.

"Then why don't you stop?" he muttered.

Birkin blinked. "Stop what?"

"Covering." The word had been spit out like it tasted foul.

Birkin's mouth became a thin line. "Because if I did, you'd end up like Stephen."

Wesker should of let it go.

He didn't.

"Ha. And here I was, under the impression that you _enjoyed_ experimenting on me."

The words hit Birkin like knife before leaving him feeling cold all the way down to his bones. That was possibly...no definitely the cruelest thing Wesker had ever said to him.

William stayed silent for a few moments before smacking Wesker soundly across his wicked face.

Wesker was too shocked by such an unexpected action from his usually quite timid colleague to manage anything in response besides stereotypically raising his hand to his stinging cheek as he watched Birkin stiffly get up and move to the other side of the room; back to Wesker, arms folded.

"I hope you're happy, Al," hissed William, obviously hurt.

When Wesker didn't do anything to fill the void he continued, whipping around to face him, his pale features etched in anger and pain. "What have I ever done to make you think that I would do something like that to you?! Huh?! Have I _ever_ done _anything_ to make you believe that you couldn't rely on me?! Because I sure as hell rely on _you_!" Birkin threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "Good God, Al! If we can't trust each other who _can_ we trust?! Not Marcus and certainly not Umbrella!"

It was all Wesker could do to stare into those raging sapphire colored orbs that begged him to see reason.

"I've seen first hand what they do! They'd throw us to the dogs without so much as blinking if we _ever_ became useless to them! I don't know about you, Al, but I don't want to face that alone! I cannot, _will not_ do that!" William let out a deep shaky breath holding his head with one hand. "Please don't make me do that..."

For a full minute Wesker couldn't make his vocal cords work. Birkin was about to give up on him and walk out in despair by the time Wesker finally spoke, the words coming out small and hoarse.

"My birthday..."

Birkin turned his eyes back on Wesker who was contemplating the scientist's rather unattractive shoes again. "What?"

"Christmas Eve."

Birkin stared at him in confusion. "Is the all because I didn't know when your fucking birthday was? God, Al! Honestly!"

If that was the reason behind all this drama, Birkin was going to kill him...

Wesker shook his head violently resting his pounding forehead in his hands, his elbows braced on either knee. He had _never_ told _anyone_ this. He _shouldn't_ be telling Birkin. But he had to. It was screaming inside him, ripping him apart, clawing at his mind and very sanity. Maybe...maybe if he told Birkin things would be better. Even just a little relief from this yearly torture, magnified intensely by this location and situation would be a blessing.

"That's when Wesker killed my family and brainwashed by brother into betraying me!" It all just came gushing out, like a festering wound being lanced open, releasing all the disgusting twisted baggage he'd been carrying around for nearly eight years. "I know it happened but I can't remember a thing! Not one goddamned thing,Will, but I feel..._everything _ like it just fucking happened. It's...it's destroying me! I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't do my job because everything about this retched place and this horrid time of year reminds of what I can't remember; smells, sounds, tastes, _everything_! It's like the worst itch in the world that you can never scratch and it just gets worse and worse until it's practically a burning in your head! So if you're wondering why I've been a little off, there you go! There's my my biggest fucking weakness!"

The room was still, stunned into silence by the burden Wesker had just thrown out into the open air.

Birkin had no idea how to respond. "Al, ….I...I had no idea...you...'Wesker'?"

Wesker hung his head more, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Wesker, Umbrella, same fucking difference. Seems the name is just another trade mark they like to smack onto everything they 'create'." He laughed humorlessly. "Just another reminder of what I can't remember..."

Birkin moved forwards to try to place a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Al, you're not just some creation-"

Wesker shrugged off the offending hand. He couldn't take anymore of this; not now. His emotions were too high, rushing and straining against the self constructed dam he'd been using for years to hold them back. It was too much. So he ran from it. He didn't know how else to cope.

"I can't do this right now..." he muttered, moving towards the door.

"Al..." Birkin attempted uselessly.

Wesker just opened the door. "Besides, don't we have work to do?"

"That can wait," insisted William. "This is much more important right now."

Wesker shook his head. "I'm starting." He paused before jerking his head over to the book stuffed into the crack between the sofa's cushions and arm. "Back cover, underneath the binding; if you're really interested anyways."

Not willing to explain more, Wesker disappeared into the lab, white coattails swishing behind him.

Birkin was only able to stand motionless in the middle of the room unmoving and stunned. In all the reasons he had come up with in his own head for why Wesker was acting so strangely, he had never imagined it was anything like the horror that had just been described to him. How Wesker could manage to function as well as he did was a mystery to William.

Birkin's mind traveled back to the damage that had been done to the sixteen year old's hippocampus. At that time he'd been a little too...preoccupied with other things to give it much thought, but Umbrella was certainly morally capable of erasing people's memories and he wouldn't be surprised if they had found a way to actually accomplish such a chilling but fascinating feat; he had the proof right in front of him.

But if Wesker's memories were gone, and he admitted not remembering anything, how did he "know" what had transpired? Birkin gulped as he looked over at the old bio-chem book stuffed into the couch. He had no idea what he would find should he read it, but he couldn't stop now. It was obvious to the blond that Wesker needed help and that he was reaching the end of his rope. Birkin was the only one really in the position to do any helping. He wasn't going to fail this Wesker too.

Ignoring his trepidation, William grabbed to text book and flipped it over to back cover. It took him only a few seconds to locate the slightly turned up edge of the binding. Carefully pulling it back, Birkin gingerly removed the yellowed envelope bearing an old Umbrella insignia.

One more deep breath and Birkin had removed the contents, gently opening the thin pages so that he could be the second person allowed to read the atrocities and rage filled demands spelled out in Wesker's messy handwriting.

Birkin actually had to sit down as it dawned on him that these murderous orders were put to paper by the hand of a ten year old, commanding that same child to brutally destroy Umbrella and all its members in the most torturous ways imaginable. It was sickening to read, even more so knowing that these were the first words a confused memory-less child had known and the only thing Wesker had been given to cling to after whatever terrible experiments Umbrella had preformed on him.

Suddenly his own tragic reasons for being here paled in comparison as his blue eyes finished absorbing all the pain, hatred, and malice signed by the boy named Albert Silvain.

He was about to replace the nasty thing when he noticed a tiny addendum in the upper right corner. He had to squint to make out the messy scribble. "'_You can trust Laura Muller'_...?" he quietly read in confusion.

Birkin felt a pang of jealousy shoot through him. He couldn't think of a single person Wesker would admit to fully trusting. Not even William made it on to that blank list...well, blank aside from whoever the hell "_Laura Muller_" was.

Birkin shook his head, he was letting that last bit bother him much more than he should be. Right now he had much bigger concerns then some random girl little Wesker probably had a crush on.

Replacing the secret envelope in its hiding place before setting it down on the couch, Birkin exited the room.

Wesker was working, albeit slowly, with the containment zone, transferring minute amounts of the virus into different tests tubes for processing via the large bulky gloves mounted in the glass completely separating the deadly virus from the outside world.

Birkin approached him slowly and quietly, waiting for his opportune moment. Wesker was jumpy as of late; now William knew it was for good reasons. He didn't want to startle the blond into contaminating the contained area; an event that in and of it self would take hours to clean not to mention all the days of research they'd lose.

Once Birkin was sure his actions would not have any sort of negative consequences, he moved up behind his friend, pressed his chest into his back, and wrapped his arms around his waist.

As expected, Wesker jerked but the careful timing prevented him from initiating a well contained biohazard.

"Will!" cried Wesker in a mix of annoyance and shock.

"Did you really think I'd pick Umbrella over you?" Birkin whispered sadly somewhere near his ear moments before Wesker felt the soft warmth of his lips on the back of his neck.

It was all Wesker could manage not to lean back into him. He wanted the comfort, but believed it would be showing weakness to accept it without at least just a bit of a fight first.

"I thought you'd be to afraid of the repercussions to do anything, honestly. You do realize what they'll do to you if something were to go wrong and they knew you knew about it?" His words were even and betrayed none of his emotion.

Birkin paused, resting his head in the crook of Wesker's neck and shoulder. "I am scared, Al. Terrified in fact. The thought of you trying to go up against all of Umbrella, it's laughable, a joke."

Wesker stiffened against him.

Birkin continued, his grip tightening slightly to prevent Wesker from attempting to slip away. "But you don't joke, not about things like that. Then suddenly it's anything but funny. And knowing that I'm going to follow you, help...oh I have no idea how, that chills me to the core. Just not as much as the thought of losing you."

Wesker choked out a hollow chuckle. "Sounds like you stole that speech out of some crappy romance novel."

Birkin shook his head against the taller boy. "Just made it up. You like it?"

Wesker finished what he was doing and pulled his hands from the thick glove placing them over Birkin's arms. "Could use a little work."

Birkin laughed quietly, edging a bit closer. "You really think you can do it?" he asked meekly. If he was any more scared by the prospect Wesker had just proposed he'd be shaking.

Wesker nodded. "I have to."

Birkin knew better than to question him on that topic, even though he also knew Wesker's goal was the equivalent to suicide. It would have been easier for Wesker to put that gun he was always practicing with to his beautiful head and pull the trigger, or better yet, inject himself with the virus he'd just been handling.

"Okay," was the only response Birkin could manage.

They just stood there like that in silence for what seemed like hours, enjoying the warmth from each other's bodies and taking comfort from the fact that neither of them was walking down this dark bleak path alone. Then simultaneously, though no words had been uttered, they separated and began to tackle the tasks Marcus and the virus had lain out for them.

* * *

_December 23rd, 1977; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility_

While it was true that Wesker had slightly improved after Birkin had basically sworn loyalty to him and his insane cause, he was far from great. If today was anything to judge by, tomorrow would be hell for his colleague... There would be no mercy. Here at Umbrella's top secret Research and Training Facility, it was a miracle they got off Christmas.

Birkin gulped as he stared at the imposing white door. It looked exactly identical to almost if not all the other doors in this veritable underground city, but behind this one lay Doctor Marcus and his private labs. Birkin was shaking, his palms were sweaty, and he was quite sure anything that came out of his mouth would be a stutter.

Birkin mentally cursed. The things he did for Wesker...

Mustering every ounce of bravery in his slight frame, he knocked on the door. Sure the knock was rather meek, but at least he'd done it at all. He didn't even run when Marcus angrily barked at him to, "go away!"

"S-sir," stammered William. "I-it's me, D-doctor Birkin...I um...can I p-please talk w-with you about something?"

Marcus grumbled for a while before he opened the door to glare at William—at least he'd cut off that mop of gray hair, but even without it he still looked intimidating.

"What?" he hissed angrily. "Is there a problem at the lab?"

Birkin barely managed not to squeak. He'd much rather deal with a furious Wesker _any_ day; a choice hardly no one else would make.

"N-n-no," he gulped. "B-but I-I had a q-question..."

Marcus glared. "Spit it out, Birkin, I haven't got all night!"

Birkin cringed before just letting his request gush out in a rush. "I was wondering if you'd let us switch the days we had off; Christmas Eve for Christmas!"

Marcus paused, eyebrows knitting together.

"T-think about it," continued William a little less rushed. "You have everyone off on Christmas so nothing will get done, but if we switch the days at least they'll both be semi-productive."

Marcus glowered. "If you and Wesker are so eager to get things done then why don't you just work _both _days."

Birkin winced. From what he'd heard, Dr. Marcus has fought tooth and nail for _no_ holidays. "Um...w-well, you s-see...um..."

Marcus just shewed him away. "Fine! Take whichever damn day off you want, just quit wasting my time with it."

The door was slammed in Birkin's face who gladly scampered as quickly as he could back to his room. By the time he got there is heart was still racing within his chest but the fear was quickly being replaced by a huge sense of accomplishment; he'd bartered with Marcus and gotten Wesker the day off tomorrow! At the moment, as silly as it was, this seemed like his biggest achievement.

Riding high on the wings of success, Birkin opened the door, his mood only slightly brought down by the gloomy atmosphere saturating this place courtesy of Albert Wesker.

Usually, since they'd just gotten out of the lab, Wesker would still be working out in the gym, but as with all other aspects of his life, he'd lost the motivation to continue doing so during this month. This resulted in him already being in bed, trying his hardest to lock out the world, his pain, and a splitting headache.

Moving carefully across the floor—a process that was only made hazardous by his own messy habits—Birkin approached Wesker's bed. He hesitated for only a moment before slipping in between Wesker's sheets.

Wesker yelled at the sudden very unexpected invasion of his bed—something Birkin had never done before. "Will, what are you-mmph!"

Birkin's feelings of grandeur only grew as he was able to shut Wesker up so quickly and effectively with a chaste kiss to his hot mouth.

"I got you tomorrow off," William whispered as the separated, stroking his hair.

Wesker blinked, trying to make his pounding head make sense of Birkin's words. "What? ...how did you...?" He was trying to push Birkin back but to no avail.

Birkin shuddered. "It wasn't easy. We have to work Christmas..."

Wesker looked away as the mention of that word made his chest ache for reasons he didn't completely understand. He snorted. "Like I give a damn."

Birkin softened when he saw Wesker's poorly hidden reaction. "I'm going to stay here tonight."

Wesker gritted his teeth. "That so?"

Birkin nodded. "And all day tomorrow."

Wesker swallowed as Birkin ran a hand over his chest and stomach. "And what if I said I didn't want you to?"

Birkin smiled and wrapped his arms comfortingly around him. "I wouldn't believe you for a second," he whispered moving closer to prevent the likelihood of slipping out of the twin sized bed.

Wesker winced as Birkin's belt dug into his side. But he gave in. As unexpected as this all was it was...nice. Birkin's gentle scent surrounding him, his long timid fingers stroking his hair, chest rising and falling against his own; it _almost_ felt safe. And it definitely was distracting him from his inner hell.

"Fine, but if you're staying you're going to have to take your work clothes off," he grumbled.

Birkin's smiled broadened. "I can do that..."

If Wesker wasn't feeling so damned bad he would have rolled his eyes. "That is _not_ what I meant, Will."

The man was already stripping.

Wesker watched languidly as Birkin began to remove his clothing, tossing it all heedlessly on the already messy floor; first his lab coat, tossed over a nearby chair, then his shirt, the pale flesh of his chest showing up wonderfully in the dim light.

Birkin was halfway through hopping out of his jeans when he noticed Wesker's rather piercing gaze. Suddenly he paused in his movements despite the awkward position and blushed, looking away. "Al...do you have to stare like that? ...It's embarrassing."

Wesker just continued to watch in response, his usually cold eyes felt like hot spotlights boring into Birkin's flesh. It probably didn't help that Birkin was naturally a self conscious person especially, now that he'd finally taken time to consider it, about his appearance, which when compared the the physical perfection that was Wesker, his gangly slight form and sharp features weren't really much to look at.

Birkin's color deepened even more before he almost violently yanked down his trousers and boxers and hurriedly re-hid himself under the sheets to get away from the practical model scrutinizing him.

Wesker chuckled hollowly, propping his head up on his elbow so he could better regard the blond next to him. "Honestly, Will, you have nothing to be flustered about. I wouldn't stare if I didn't like it."

Birkin's blush slowly dissipated. Wesker certainly had a very peculiar way of being "sweet," a strange tendency that miraculously still showed through despite him being so emotionally off. Birkin quickly reminded himself why he was here in Wesker's bed. Birkin's goal had been to distract his friend by any means necessary from the hell inside his head, and hopefully offer the man he cared so deeply for some measure of comfort for the ache Wesker had been carrying around in his chest all month.

Back on task and no longer focused on his own insecurities, William again wrapped his arms around Wesker's stiff body. He loved the heat radiating from Wesker's form that he could only feel pressed this close, skin to skin to the man he'd been sleeping with for the past two months now.

Wesker at first tried resisting relaxing into Birkin, but eventually, after putting up enough of a fight to maintain his sense of pride, he allowed his body to essentially meld into the man lying next to him.

It always surprised him how easily this happened, especially since Birkin was quite gangly—all knees and elbows. But Birkin and him just seemed to fit, as odd and stupidly romantic as that sounded.

They complemented each other perfectly, like two pieces of the same twisted puzzle; Cold strength defending fearful timidness; Calm rationality controlling fiery rage. The list could go on but Wesker felt silly dwelling on such things, even more so when it would involve him admitting to "needing" someone else.

Wesker was finding it hard to resist Birkin and the gentle kisses he was tracking up the sensitive curve of Wesker's neck ending at the older blond's ear which William began to lovingly abuse. "I'm here for you," Birkin murmured in Wesker's ear, his hot breath ghosting over the tender flesh.  
"Whatever you need." Another kiss. "Anything at all." And again. "Just say the word, Al."

Wesker couldn't fully contain the quiet moan that had been building in his throat since Birkin had started his very arousing ministrations and which was released by William's wonderful decoration.

Wesker gave in and wrapped his arms around Birkin, pulling the man impossibly close. He wanted this, he always had. It wasn't the thrill of sex per say—though that was a tantalizing aspect to their situation—but Wesker was desperate for this feeling of closeness; for this confirmation that he wasn't alone and that he would always have someone to turn to when things got unbearable. It made him feel "loved," that thing he didn't believe...rather _wasn't sure_ existed.

Regardless of his willingness to use certain nomenclature for the term, this was something he'd been searching for since Umbrella had stolen everything good in his life away from him and left him alone in the dark with only words of hatred, hurt, and vengeance to guide him.

Admitting to such things was something he would never do and would never dare ask for due to the fear of the catastrophic results should such a request be formally denied. It made him feel exceedingly weak and broken and he loathed it with every fiber of his being. As such, he would never ever tell Birkin any of it. How could he?

Wesker let all of his heated emotions and desperate needs pour out, manifesting themselves in a violent kiss instead of words, silently trying to communicate everything pounding through his throbbing head with his lips without uttering a single word.

The intense kiss left them both gasping for breath for brief moments that were never enough to fill their burning lungs before even stronger forces crashed them together again.

Wesker always wanted more.

Wesker's controlled but desperate hands pulled, tugged, stroked and clutched at Birkin's body leaving angry red trails in their wake as his mouth milked out beautiful sometimes muffles cries from the man beneath him reciprocating each of his actions. Wesker sucked, kissed, and bit the pale flesh beneath him incessantly, unable to stop himself at this point even if he had wanted to. He certainly didn't.

Birkin was happy just riding the waves of pleasure Wesker was causing to flow sporadically through him with each of his touches. The man atop him, wanting him, _needing _him fascinated Birkin beyond all else.

Wesker was a cryptic puzzle, ever shifting, ever changing right before Birkin's transfixed eyes. He was constantly bringing some new mask, visage, or putting up an equally clever defense to hide all the tantalizing mysteries making up his true being underneath. Every time Birkin thought he had Wesker figured out, some new truth was revealed or believable lie told that completely threw him off track and forced Birkin to rethink his entire approach. It was the best game he'd ever played.

Albert Wesker was the most fascinating experiment that Birkin had ever attempted, each new test and result leaving him begging for more. Birkin knew he could study Wesker his entire life and still never fully understand him, but that continued mystery was part of what made the experiment so spell binding to the blond gasping and moaning under Wesker's expert influences.

Wesker was Birkin's life work, a marvelous creation that put Marcus's foolish leeches to shame. Wesker would take up Birkin's thoughts until the day he died, and he was fine with that, fine with never completely knowing and always wanting more.

* * *

**AN: Where Explicit Content would fall.**

* * *

_December 24th, 1977; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility:_

It was the twenty fourth of December, Christmas Eve, Wesker's birthday, and the anniversary of the worst day of his life. He should have been miserable, stuck in the heart of the facility owned by the organization responsible for everything that made this day a living hell, and he was but...it wasn't as bad as he had imagined it would be. For the first time on this retched eve, he wasn't alone. Even his nightmares hadn't been so bad with Birkin's thin arms wrapped around him. He'd actually been able to sleep, really sleep all night and remain so until well after ten in the morning instead of what he usually did: Staring up into the blackness hopelessly, ruminating over every horrible detail he could never fully understand and stewing over the bleakness of the whole situation.

Laying here now, his back pressed up against Birkin's chest and stomach, he was still suffering from a splitting headache and felt like the entire weight of his dark past and most likely dismal future were crushing down on his chest, but it was bearable. As long as no Christmas music came on, he was fairly certain he could cope for the thirteen hours and twenty one minutes that remained before Christmas Eve was over.

Wesker sighed heavily against Birkin in an effort to release some of the pain trapped inside him, alerting his companion to the fact that he was no longer sleeping.

Birkin momentarily stopped his gentle slow rubbing of Wesker's available shoulder and arm to prop himself on his elbow and arch his head around and glance at Wesker's face. He ignored the throb of pain deep inside of him that became slightly more aggravated at the small movement; Wesker certainly hadn't been easy on him the prior evening

The now seventeen year old's delicate blond brows were knitted together in a way that suggested he was anything but peaceful at the moment.

"You up, Al?" whispered Birkin gently.

"Mmm," was all Wesker was willing to say, his eyes still tightly shut in order to block out any light that might increase the pain in his temples. It was an unnecessary gesture as the room was basically pitch black.

Birkin smiled before softly kissing Wesker's shoulder that had become exposed by Birkin's own recent movements. "Happy Birthday, Al..."

Wesker winced. "Hardly..." His birthdays had never been happy.

Birkin fell silent before pressing his forehead to Wesker's back. "Well, despite your justified horrible mood, I'm happy you were born."

Wesker snorted. "...you should write soap operas..." he mumbled.

"I'm better with chemical structures," Birkin informed him in a low voice.

Wesker just made some sort of inaudible response.

After a long pause, Birkin began doing just that, writing out molecular diagrams on Wesker's long back with his delicate fingers.

Wesker frowned when he realized their was a pattern to Birkin's light touches across his back. _Alternating __deoxyribose and __phosphate__ bases, hydrogen bonds between protein bases labeled A, G, T, and C..._He chuckled when he realized what Birkin was illustrating on his smooth skin.

"Why are you drawing a DNA double helix on my back?"

"Because I was board..." murmured William with a smile before he started on a new drawing.

"RNA transcriptase," decided Wesker after a few minutes. "Do something harder."

As a joke, Birkin drew out the molecular structure of the hormone testosterone, which had them both giggling like the teenagers they truly were for several minutes.

Before the mild fits of mirth had fully died down, Birkin began his next challenge that was arguably considerably less complex then his previous drawings.

"I'm sorry, Will," Chuckled the older blond, "I missed that."

Birkin nodded retracing it over Wesker's spine. "Uroboros."

Wesker frowned. "Don't you mean the Benzene Ring?"

"Same thing." He was now tracing meaningless little circlets down his back bone.

"I suppose," shrugged Wesker.

"The snake that eats it's own tail..." Birkin trailed off. "Do you ever feel like that."

"Like I'm destroying myself?"

"No I..." Birkin paused. "I didn't mean it like that. It's supposed to represent cycles. One part of your life ending completely before you start all over again in some new chapter."

Wesker shook his head. "Will, if the snake eats all the way up to its own head, all you get is self inflicted death, no new beginning."

Birkin frowned. "Are you always so cynical?"

"You're asking me this today?" There was some humor in his words so Birkin knew he hadn't strayed too far off the path into unmentionable territory but he also knew he was getting close.

"Sorry."

Wesker sighed. "You know that horrible motto Marcus has engraved into that distasteful Umbrella plaque?"

Birkin rolled his eyes before reciting it in a proper school boy manner with caused Wesker to smirk. "Obedience breeds discipline, discipline breeds unity, unity breeds power, power is life."

"Yes, but I was only talking about the last bit. They are right you know, power _is _life and the only thing that can defeat power is more power. That is the one constant in this universe. However, there is no point in power if it consumes itself."

Birkin's movements had stopped on his back as he listened.

"That's all your little cannibalistic snake is, a perfect representation of uncontrolled power that consumes itself. The only cycle of Uroboros is death. There is no such thing as rebirth. You only get one chance at life, and I don't intend to wast mine."

It was interesting how once Wesker would reach his own head, after the course of his life would devour his own tail and the entirety of his form, how his views on the creature known as Uroboros would change so drastically. Wesker, the man who had never believed in rebirth would die and breath again many times before the cycles truly ended.

Birkin felt sobered by Wesker's grim words, speaking of death and self destruction. He was determined to keep his friend from such a fate even if was the last thing he was able to do with the short time he'd been given on this earth.

"Al," he started slowly.

"Hm?"

Birkin couldn't bring himself to say it, so instead he dismissed the opportunity, instead opting to change the subject. "When I take up writing my romance novels, you should start your dark poetry."

Wesker laughed. "You think so, eh?"

Birkin smiled, glad things had become lighter once more. "Yes, either that or philosophy."

Wesker scoffed. "Hardly. Have you ever tried talking to them? All those existential crazed idiots inevitably end each of their arguments with questioning the opposing side's existence or reality in its entirety. I can't stand any of them."

Birkin broke out laughing against Wesker's neck. "You've summed up their position, or lack there of perfectly."

Wesker smiled and Birkin went back to the game Uroboros had interrupted, unknowing of how that vicious cyclic snake would never truly set Wesker free from its ever constricting, shrinking coils.

This quiet talking and tracing of various increasingly complex chemical structures that would sometimes take up Wesker's entire back or even have to extend to his side and chest distracted Albert from his strange affliction for the majority of the day

Honestly, when Wesker would look back on this moment he would feel almost humiliated with embarrassment, but right now this time with William Birkin, however brief it would be in the end, was Wesker's salvation and he loved Birkin for it.

* * *

AN: So I'm very glad I decided to do this chapter. I was thinking of skipping over it and going straight to the discovery of T and the move to the mansion facility (not in that order). But anyways, I'm REALLY pleased with the results.

Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear from you.

-Asiera


	10. PG08AW

**Project W: Second Cycle**

**PG08A/W: Tyrant Unleashed**

_July 29__th__, 1978; Arklay Mountains just outside the Spencer Estate grounds:_

Wesker sighed as he looked out the window at the rapidly passing rich green forest scenery lining the small paved upward winding road. Currently he was riding with his partner in the back seat of one of the vehicles belonging to a small caravan of black company issue SUVs, each sporting the Umbrella logo.

About a month and a half ago the order had been issued that Umbrella was shutting down the Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility and transferring most of the Research Division to the labs built beneath the Spencer Estate.

This mansion, as it was accurately referred to, was a veritable maze of twisting halls, secret rooms, hidden passages, and nearly unsolvable puzzles whose completion was a necessity to navigating the Victorian designed estate should the security system be activated.

Umbrella never gave a reason for the sudden closure—at least not one Wesker was important enough to hear about. They were just told to relocate themselves and the entirety of their research to the labyrinth of labs buried deep beneath the building that looked as though it had been transported from eighteenth century Europe to the heart of the Arklay Forest.

Wesker had never actually seen the mansion that had been designed by the famous eccentric of an architect George Trevor. Rumor had it that he'd gone crazy shortly after finishing the project and died wondering the halls, lost in his own ever shifting puzzle. The was, of course, a lie. While it was true that Mr Trevor had disappeared along with his entire family once the project was completed, Wesker just assumed he'd taken the ridiculous amount of money paid to him for the job and ran off to some foreign country to live out the rest of his days in luxury. Then again...Spencer and Umbrella as a whole were exceedingly suspicious. If George Trevor knew the secret of what lurked beneath the foundations of his masterpiece, there was no doubt he was dead.

Wesker still wasn't sure how he felt about the transfer. The process itself was extremely annoying and had caused them to lose entire weeks of productivity; a trend Wesker was sure would continue for at least two more as they re-setup in the new lab. On the plus side of things, he and Birkin had been promoted to the position of Chief Researchers. That was something at least.

Wesker stiffened when he saw the first glimpses of white washed walls, intricate window panes, and marble pillars reminiscent of ancient Greece though the thinning lines of trees. Most would have gasped at the beauty of the majestic building, but Wesker only shivered. Yes, it was true that he was rather impressed by the sheer majesty of the structure, but the knowledge of the secrets contained within the twisted halls turned beauty into a skillfully crafted veneer of wickedness. Wesker's dark perspective turned the grand building into a haunted structure, much like those seen at the start of many of the most famous horror movies.

Wesker elbowed Birkin harder than the sleeping recipient of the blow would have preferred causing him to jerk his head away from Wesker's shoulder which he had fallen a sleep on twenty minutes ago.

"W-Wha...?" William stuttered confusedly as he tried to get his bearings, a hand rubbing at his now smarting side.

"We're here," Wesker informed him in a monotone as the cars started to pass through the gigantic silver gates keeping the rest of the world safe from the horrors lurking beneath the brick and mortar sentinel.

Birkin's eyes widened as he stared over Wesker out the window, practically pushing the older blond out of the way to get a better look, his hands digging painfully into Wesker's thighs. "It's...it's _huge_!"

Wesker growled and pushed him back. "Honestly Will, it's just a mansion," grumbled Wesker in annoyance.

"A mansion we're going to _live_ in, Al!" gushed Birkin. "Why aren't you more excited?"

Wesker paused for a moment. "I don't know...it just doesn't seem that impressive. Perhaps I've lived in larger ones," he mused in a joking fashion as their vehicle came to a halt in front of the main entrance.

Birkin giggled. "I can see that. Maybe you were a prince."

Wesker only resisted the strong urge he had to smack William upside the head because he saw Doctor Marcus waiting for the couple at the top of the stone steps leading up to the very impressive oak doors. Their usually absent mentor had transferred here a few days ago to prepare the facility's laboratories. He looked impatient but significantly more well kept then usual and his hair was still thankfully cropped close to his scalp. Perhaps this change would do them all good.

Wesker stepped out of the car, his feet crunching over the gravel drive as he made his way over to the rather foreboding entrance. He felt dwarfed by the giant structure, a fact that was not helped by the dark shadow cast from the stone behemoth he now stood in. Wesker heard the car door close followed by Birkin's hurried footsteps as he joined his colleague and Dr. Marcus.

"Let's go then," the elder man muttered in annoyance. "The assistants will get your luggage."

They both nodded, following Marcus through the double doors and into the breathtaking marble and wooden entrance hall. The room was enormous, making all who entered feel small and insignificant in comparison to yet another of Umbrella's marvels.

Wesker could see doors leading off to the east and west wings as well as a multitude of doorways off the upper landing reached by the grand staircase. The white swirled with black stone steps were covered by an intricately embroidered carpet that extended over the foyer to the doors they had just stepped through. The shining white marble making up the structure of the foyer was accented by the deep red of a mahogany wood that practically glowed in the light of the rustic chandelier and Gothic candelabras.

The room looked fit to be the entrance to a king's castle, the only things missing being stained glass and an imposing throne. Whoever had designed the building had a serious obsession with the grandiose and intimidating.

Wesker actually had to grab Birkin's sleeve to keep him from being left behind as his wide eyes took in the vast amount of richness surrounding him when he should have been following Wesker and Dr. Marcus around the grand staircase and through a gate-like door at the back leading down into what Wesker presumed to be the basement. Both sides of the golden gate displayed a large Umbrella insignia made up of stone and metal, each fitted perfectly into the metal.

Once they had traversed down the narrow stone steps, the décor shifted rather violently from the luxurious entrance hall to that of a dimly lit, slightly damp, stone passage that could probably more adequately be described as a cave. Wesker had to seriously wonder about the sanity of the man who had designed this place when their path took them down a metal ladder and over a large square platform that seemed to rise up from the veritable abyss surrounding them.

Wesker had never viewed himself to be scared of heights, but even he didn't want to get close to the edge of their little walkway which was shrouded in darkness, dropping off to unknown, possibly unimaginable depths. Wesker shivered slightly at the icy draft wafting up from the black precipice surrounding them. It figured that Umbrella had a pit reaching down into the darkest reaches of the earth underneath their misleading mansion.

If he had been religious—which he certainly wasn't—he probably would have compared the disconcerting drop off to something much more sinister. The oddly shaped huge stones set at each corner of the room attached by heavy metal chains to what could only be a giant sarcophagus at its center certainly didn't help his outlook on the chamber. It was a sentiment Birkin seemed to share as he eagerly followed Dr. Marcus into an elevator located at the end of another small tunnel.

A few moments later, the three riders were deposited in what looked like a large outdoor courtyard whose near entirety was taken up by a large fountain bordering on being called a shallow pond. The mirror-like surface of the absolutely still water perfectly reflected the semi-cloudy July sky above. The edges of the pond were guarded by two rather grand looking statues. One of a wolf and the other of an eagle stationed at opposite ends of the fountain.

Dr. Marcus huffed something under his breath about "absurd doors" before he walked around to a matching emblem underneath the permanently howling canine and giving it a sound kick.

The surface of the water was quite no longer. With a loud rushing sound the fountain was violently and quickly drained and the base of the structure began shifting and opening to reveal another underground passage, this one leading to the real reason they were here: The labs resting beneath Spencer's gaudy mansion.

Even Wesker had to stare at this latest addition to their journey for a few minutes. Who would hide the entrance to the labs underneath a bloody fountain? Someone clinically insane, highly eccentric or perhaps both. Wesker was now equally very intrigued and extremely put off by the man under complete control of Umbrella: Ozwell E. Spencer.

Wesker was pulled away from just how impossibly ridiculous what he'd just seen was by his mentor's sigh.

"The entrance to our labs. I'd prefer they stay open all the time—makes things much less damp—but you know how Umbrella and _Lord_ Spencer are with their secrets. To get in just simply press in the wolf medallion which is programed to get pushed out of place once the elevator goes down. Thankfully getting back out isn't near as tricky. The draining and opening of this fountain are triggered as soon as the elevator is manually commanded to go from any of the lab's lower basement levels back to level B1—the floor we're about to enter." He sighed again, this necessary explanation obviously boring him. "You can also get to the fountain courtyard via the inner gardens which can be accessed by transversing the entirety of the mansion's east wing."

Wesker had a feeling he'd much prefer that method over the quicker but chilling rout that took him across the cold cavern.

"Well come on," huffed the annoyed looking man. "We've wasted enough time already."

The two younger doctors nodded and soon they were walking down the damp stone steps and through the somewhat ill kept stone passageway to another small elevator that would finally lead them to their new labs.

If Wesker had thought the equipment in the Research and Training Facility had been out of this world, then the vast array of impossible wonderful devices lining the walls of the rooms within this four level laboratory could be described as beyond the scope of this galaxy. What other "miracles" did Umbrella have up their sleeves?

"You two will be working in the main laboratory alongside me in level B4, but don't hesitate to utilize any of the other rooms on B3 as I'm sure they will all become invaluable to you at one point or another," drawled Dr. Marcus boredly as he took the pair though the huge area dubbed as the Main Laboratory which took up almost the entirety of the fourth basement level.

Wesker and Birkin both stopped in their tracks.

"You want us to work...alongside you?" Birkin asked in pure shock. Marcus was one of the most secretive paranoid people Birkin knew, even more so than Wesker. He shared his private research—whatever that was—with _no one_, absolutely _no one_. To have him nonchalantly offer up access to all his secrets like that...it was...unheard of.

Marcus stopped, raising a gray brow unscrupulously at them. "What is it, Doctor Birkin? Not feeling up the the challenge?"

"N-no, Sir! Th-that's not...I didn't mean-"

Wesker cut off his stuttering friend. "Of course not, Sir. We're just...surprised, pleasantly so I might add. May we inquire as to the reason behind this sudden honor?"

Wesker had always been better with words than Birkin.

Birkin sent him a thankful glance which caused the older blond so smirk ever so slightly.

"Well after working so flawlessly under my orders for just over a year, I believe it's time I took a little more advantage of your combined talents." He waved a wrinkled hand dismissively as he continued through the lab. "Besides, my research is reaching a critical stage. I'm going to need some extra hands."

_Ah, so it was out of necessity, not any sort of real trust...that makes much more sense_, mused Wesker.

"So your research," ventured Birkin cautiously. "It has to do with the leeches right?"

Marcus stiffened and Wesker almost cuffed Birkin on the head. This wasn't a topic they should just rush into. The man wasn't any less paranoid. He needed to bring the information to them rather then feel like they were prying for it like the eager little thieves they truly were.

"All in good time." Dr. Marcus responded in even but firm tones. "Right now there is someone I'd like you to Lisa does get so lonely down here after all..."

Wesker shot Birkin a suspicious glance. He had picked up on the strange sadistic glee in the doctor's voice that most would have found imperceptible and it made him shiver. He very much doubted the Lisa would be a fellow lab worker.

Birkin gave a slight nod of understanding signaling that he hadn't missed the inflection either. Not surprising. You couldn't get much past William Birkin.

The couple followed Marcus to a room located at the back of the lab, separated from the rest of the facility by a thick metal door bearing a safe-like lock operated by the twisting of what looked like a giant steel wheel. Once a key card had been scanned by their mentor, he nodded towards the locking mechanism. "If you wouldn't mind assisting me, Doctor Wesker."

Wesker nodded. Since he was the only one in the room with any sort of significant muscle mass, Wesker was certainly the best choice to operate the imposing looking door. Even though he was in pique physical condition, Wesker found himself grunting with exertion as he forced the large cog to turn.

He briefly wondered what the foreboding door was holding back and if he should really be forcing his way into the other room where this "Lisa" was waiting. He reasoned though that at this point, it would be a foolish move on Dr. Marcus's part to get him killed opening a stupid door. It was impossible that he'd accidentally initiate some sort of biohazard as opening the room would expose not only Birkin and himself, but also Dr. Marcus to any sort of airborne pathogen contained within. This Lisa was probably some sort of...test subject restrained or contained with in the room. Human? He doubted it. They'd never gotten anything larger then a rat to survive more than forty eight hours.

Still, when he felt the door give as the final locks released, he glanced at Birkin meaningfully and cautiously stepped back towards his companions, allowing the door to open on its own.

If Marcus noticed any of Wesker's trepidation mirrored by the other scientist at his side, he said nothing, a feral grin tugging lightly at the corner of his lips while Wesker moved away.

As the twelve inch think metal barrier swung forwards a chilling unearthly sound filled the room. It was an inhuman mix of hissing, moans, and what might have been quiet sobs. Wesker stiffened. It was obvious that whatever was contained in that room had been severely altered just by the shutter inducing noises it was making, but as far as he knew, there was only one creature that even came close to being able to make those sounds and that...that was a human girl.

Such knowledge in hand, Wesker steeled himself, his face becoming an impassive mask further assisted by the dark impenetrable lenses of his sunglasses. He was determined not to show any sign of weakness before Dr. Marcus, doing so could have drastic consequences, consequences he prayed Birkin understood as well. Perhaps they were looking for new test subjects? Already being a Wesker, Albert didn't want to give them any more reason to look his way.

Once the entryway to the room had been completely opened, Wesker a Birkin peered cautiously but curiously into dimly lit area from which the ghastly sounds were coming. This low light in combination with Wesker's always present choice of eye ware made it difficult to discern the what exactly had just caused Birkin to gasp and move a few steps closer to him, but he didn't take the glasses off; he never did. Instead, he waited the few extra seconds for his eyes to adjust and he too was able to make out the horror contained within this section of the lab.

Wesker felt his stomach clench painfully. Contained behind the thick bars of a steel cage barely big enough to hold a large dog was a...oh God he didn't even know _what_ it was anymore. Its shape was basically human but the arms—suspended above its grisly head by a barbaric wooden block chained to the ceiling in a manner that barely allowed the creature to sit—and legs were too long. The skin that was visible was a sickly gray color that resembled dead flesh and gave off a stench to match. The rest of its body was scarcely covered in a tattered, blood caked, and otherwise soiled nightgown that had probably once been white. Wesker could see a few of the giant eye-like boils typical of the virus protruding from her severely hunched back. The thing's toe and fingernails had been horribly elongated into something resembling dilapidated talons.

Worst of all were the face_s._ The most horrible part of the mutation's features was not just limited to one but at least three of the disgusting parts of anatomy. The first of the grotesque masses of flesh was where it should have been, centered in the front of her ugly scull only partially hidden by her messy scarce patches of stringy brownish blond hair. The jaw had been twisted to the side with sharp unnatural teeth sticking up at odd intervals with nothing even resembling lips to cover the skeleton-like grin. The forehead was swollen and out of proportion with the rest of the misshapen body, and the eyes were like two bulbous cesspools colored a dead yellow. Much like the absence of lips, there were no lids to cover the monster's always open, staring orbs.

Another of the thing's faces looked as though it had been smacked carelessly over the left hand side of its head. The flesh had a green tinge to it and looked to be well on its way to decaying, the features heinously marred by the rot and visible mold thriving on its surface. The other faces were in no better condition, perhaps worse. They too had been positioned over the twisted body in places that they didn't belong.

He heard Birkin gag next to him, one hand over his month, the other trembling one grabbing onto Wesker's shoulder for support. "W-What..." he coughed. "What in God's name is that thing?!"

Wesker gripped William's arm painfully, trying to get across the message that he _needed_ to calm down _now_.

Dr. Marcus's sick grin only widened as he stepped into the room, the disgusting whimpering beast recoiling slightly at his approach. "That...that is Lisa Trevor."

So much for Wesker's theory that the Trevors were living it up on some foreign beach...

"How long as she been infected?" Wesker inquired, his voice devoid of all emotion, his eyes locked on Dr. Marcus.

"Since sixty seven so..." he paused in momentary thought, "eleven years to date."

Wesker was stunned. "She's survived Progenitor for so long... How?"

"Unfortunately," sighed Marcus. "We haven't the slightest clue." He fetched her rather imposing looking chart from the table and passed it to Wesker who began to flip through it, holding it open so that Birkin might too benefit from the information. "There have been some speculations that it was her young age at the time of exposure—fourteen I think."

_...So this is the daughter..._

Marcus continued as if that fact didn't bother him in the least. "It it was more likely some oddity in her genetic makeup that allowed her and the virus to bond. Of course, her genes are so mutated now that we couldn't even begin to back trace the origins."

"Does she have any s-siblings?" questioned Birkin, finally having put himself together. "If the trait was...familial we might be able to..." He trailed off, but it was enough.

Wesker was floored. He comprehended the importance of keeping up with appearances and understood with a shudder that this meant he would most likely have to experiment on this abomination, but for William to suggest kidnapping and exposing others to the same treatment... Perhaps Birkin was a better actor than Wesker gave him credit for. Or maybe...maybe Birkin was just as curious and fascinated by the whole disturbing situation as Wesker was loathed to admit he was.

Dr. Marcus smiled. "An interesting suggestion, Doctor Birkin. Alas, aside from our Lucky Lisa, all the other Trevors are dead."

_Lucky? Hardly._

"Although...when her mother was exposed, to a different strain mind you, she showed no signs of mutation before they had her killed."

Suddenly Lisa was no longer a passive bystander.

The creature screamed and wrenched against the chains binding her.

Wesker tensed, his weight subconsciously shifting to the balls of his feet in preparation for a confrontation. Birkin jumped back, basically pressing his back into Wesker's chest, re-grabbing his arm. Marcus was too busy preparing a sedative to take notice.

"Muth...Muther! Whar me Muther?!"

Wesker was appalled. He had no idea the thing still possessed human reason and memory, a fact the deep guttural voice coming from the mutilated throat confirmed without a doubt.

"Nee...to...need..to giv it bak...!" Another roar. "Giv bak FACE!"

The sedative, enough to kill an adult bull elephant, was injected through an IV port, the device held firmly in place by the ancient forms of restraints.

After a few more seconds of barely interpretable shouts, the creature was subdued back into mindless mutterings thorough which Wesker could occasionally make out the word, "mother."

"Well," panted Dr. Marcus, "as you can see, best not to mention the 'M' word around her. Poor Lisa gets a tad bit upset."

_No, really? _seethed Wesker mentally. _I wonder why..._ Wesker was thankful his sunglasses hid his glare.

"It's quite a touchy subject with her. They tried sending in 'replacements' for 'M' and 'F,' other scientists but she..." He sighed. "Well, she ripped their faces off and stuck them to herself." He waved a hand over to the gangrenous pieces of flesh hanging from her form. "You can see the results for yourselves."

Wesker was surprised Birkin didn't faint.

"If I had of been in charge of the project, things would have never gotten so out of hand," the doctor muttered heatedly.

A few moments of silence before Dr. Marcus broke it with a clap of his hands causing everyone else in the room—including Lisa—to jump. "Shall we continue on with the tour?"

If Lisa was only the beginning, Wesker wasn't sure he wanted to see the rest. Thankfully, it seemed that the abomination formerly known as Lisa Trevor was the worst of the secrets kept beneath the Arklay Mansion. However, this fact did not make Dr. Marcus's six inch or larger black slugs any less disgusting.

Wesker was surprised when, without any prompting, Dr. Marcus took them over to the giant tank that had been built into the back wall on the west side of the laboratory that was infested with the sickening creatures their mentor had been avidly studying for the entire past year at least.

Wesker regarded the strange black shapes with expertly disguised disdain as they wriggled over one another and climbed up the glass leaving nasty black trails of slime in their wake. He listened to Dr. Marcus drawl on incessantly about the little monsters and his project as Wesker contemplated the satisfying _pop_ they would make if they were stepped on with his boot. His observations didn't miss the multiple rows or razor sharp, needle-like teeth lining the creatures tiny circular endlessly sucking maws.

"These leeches are remarkable," gushed Dr Marcus. "They are the only organisms thus far that have survived when injected with the Type-B variation of Progenitor—aside from Lisa that is."

"Do you know why they survived the exposure?" asked Birkin excitedly, his face inches from the thin layer of glass separating him from what was undeniably a swarm of hungry flesh eating mutant slugs—sounded like something out a bad sci-fi flick...

As Dr. Marcus became absorbed in his explanation of his extraordinary work, Wesker reached over and gently but firmly pulled back on Birkin's shoulder. His friend being so close to something that dangerous which could easily kill him was making Wesker exceedingly nervous.

Birkin glared at Wesker and pulled his shoulder free which only caused Wesker to growl and pull him back more painfully.

"Not exactly," responded Dr. Marcus, not noticing the quiet little exchange but preventing Birkin from continuing it. "It may be a phenomenon similar to flowers the virus was originally discovered within. Progenitor has obvious preferences for its hosts that were are still far from understanding. That's something I would like you and Doctor Wesker to find out if at all possible."

He gestured back towards the room serving as Lisa's prison. "Management of the Lisa Project will be primarily under your control." He nodded to both the doctors present. "While I will focus my attention on my current line of research since I'm most familiar with it. Between the three of us, I presume we should be able to uncover the secrets behind Progenitor."

Birkin nodded in understanding, even though the last thing he wanted was to go back into the sealed room and interact with the cadged monstrosity within.

"Why leeches?" wondered Wesker aloud as he looked into the dark tank with an unreadable expression. "What lead you to choose them as hosts for the virus?"

Marcus regarded him thoughtfully. "Their simple make up I suppose; less factors to address."

Wesker tipped his head in understanding. Regardless of the man's reasoning, he really hated leeches, especially the grotesque ones belonging to Doctor Marcus.

* * *

_July 29__th__, 1978; Spencer Estate:_

Wesker sighed in temporary contentment as he turned off the warm water, letting his body remain under the dwindling stream until the last drops joined their predecessors in traveling down his defined form. If there was one thing Wesker loved in life—aside from himself, power, and possibly Birkin—it was showers, hot ones. Calling Wesker a "clean freak" wasn't far off the mark. The always put together blond wasn't happy unless he'd partaken in at least two showers each day; one in the morning and one at night right before he went to bed.

Once Wesker had completely finished enjoying his second cleaning, he stepped outside the expensive looking, glass enclosed structure. Another plus to the move was that each of the sixteen or so scientists, Birkin and himself included—most of whom worked in the rooms on the third level of the basement—got their own _very_ nice rooms. These bedrooms were located on the both the first and second floors of Lord Spencer's mansions in the short hallway that ran straight back from the top of the mansion's main set of stairs and on either side of the other hall directly below it behind the grand staircase.

The blond had to admit, he was thankful that he and Birkin were located on the first floor rather than the second. For those unlucky scientists, the path to their living quarters would take them through a door depicting part of the huge rather creepy graveyard mural that took up the entire back wall of the estate's entrance hall. To be specific, through the gigantic headstone of the huge picture. What made it worse, the door at the end of that particular hall opened up to an actual graveyard located at the back of the mansion. Wesker was by no means superstitious but that situation was far too morbid for his tastes.

Wesker removed a black fluffy towel from the rack it had been hanging on and, after running it over his wet form a few times to get off the majority of the water, he wrapped it around his slender waist. Grabbing another as he exited the steamy bathroom Wesker rubbed it though his dripping blond hair that he would have addressed with his hairdryer had it been morning.

It would be an understatement to claim that he was very pleased as he stood in the bathroom door taking in his plush surrounding by the dancing light of the freshly lain fire in the room's hearth. Each of the living quarters allotted to the mansion's new scientifically oriented occupants were decked out to the nines, perfectly suitable to appeal to the tastes of even the most pompous of aristocrats. He imagined with a grin that the others, including his dear Birkin, were very far out of their element.

Wesker's own chambers were carpeted in a rich, deep red carpet which his bare feet slightly sunk into with each step as he padded silently across it. The mahogany wood used to trim the foyer and the halls of the mansion made a return in this gorgeous room in the form of a grand writing desk, huge dresser, gigantic walk in closet that he couldn't ever hope to fill, and a towering book shelf filled only partially with a wide variety of appealing reading materials he would be sure to add to.

The king sized bed he had just finished lazily walking towards actually had a canopy of a dark red velvety material a similar shade to the carpet with a matching, intricately embroidered bedspread. Underneath the heavy comforter hid a set of the most luxurious black silk sheets Wesker had ever laid eyes on.

The blond could _definitely_ get used to this and he briefly wondered how Birkin was handling the sudden switch from their cramped shared living quarters and rather poor cafeteria to the royal looking rooms and elegant dining hall.

Deciding these sinful looking sheets were more important then imagining Birkin bumbling though his own room, Wesker switched off the lights, dropped both his towels on an impressive looking arm chair, and slipped between their nearly liquid contours. With a sigh of pleasure, Wesker decided to never regret his decision to always sleep naked again.

It wasn't long after that Wesker found out exactly how Birkin had been fairing in his room right across the hall. Just as the blond had felt himself drifting into a blissful sleep between the unearthly sheets, he heard the door lock click and then swing slowly inwards. Wesker stiffened, previously lazy eyes shooting open, his hand tightening around the small but deadly knife hidden underneath his pillow. He relaxed completely when he recognized the slight form and mousey features of his friend in the dancing fire light.

"What, scared to sleep alone?" he mocked condescendingly.

Birkin didn't even deign to answer, instead wasting no time in jumping under Wesker's covers and moving as close as possible to the familiar body.

Wesker raised a eyebrow. "I'll take that as a yes..." he almost laughed, his arms opening automatically to accommodate Birkin's form before closing in around him.

"I don't know if I can do this, Al," Birkin muttered, burying his face in in Wesker's sensitive neck. "This is much worse," he took in a sharp breath, "so much worse than Stephen."

Wesker repositioned himself so he could better regard his friend, running a hand down his back before reaching it under the hem of William's pajamas so that he could better stroke the boy's sensitive spine. "What's the alternative?" he asked soothingly.

Birkin shivered, partially from the touch, partially in response to the question Wesker had posed to him. "There..." He swallowed. "There isn't one. We either do it or..."

"Or we die," finished Wesker unemotionally. "Probably in a very similar way to our new subject." He furthered lowered his voice so that he was practically whispering in Birkin's ear. "At this point we don't have the freedom, power, nor the resources to present any sort of evidence to anyone. Do you honestly think they'd believe us? We'd be dead before anyone saw it as anything more than a foolish prank."

Birkin nodded gravely, his grip tightening around Wesker. "We're...never going to be able to get out are we?" It was a hopeless plea placed to Wesker's soft skin by trembling lips.

Wesker hesitated. "No...right now, I don't see that as a possibility."

Birkin pulled back only enough to stare at him, the rest of his form clinging to Wesker like he was his last refuge in the raging storm crashing around them. "Then how are you going to...have you given up?" The despair in Birkin's voice was similar to a child being let down by their hero.

Wesker smiled cruelly before pressing his now much more talented lips to Birkin's sealing the kiss with the sharp bite that always followed. "Have you ever known me to 'give up'?" He inquired almost scathingly as he ran a hand through Birkin's messy straw colored locks.

Birkin pressed closer. "No..."

"Wesker placed his forehead against Birkin's forcing the younger boy to look him in his uncharacteristically uncovered eyes as best as the flickering light would allow. "Than why doubt me now? The time to strike may not be for years, Dearheart. But be patient, good things come to those who wait."

Birkin was heavily under Wesker's spell by now, but he still had to be difficult. "A-and in the meantime?"

"We play the part of good little researchers. That thing down there, it's already gone, it has no hope. I'm not going to throw away my future for a monster such as that. Tell me, Will," he questioned wickedly, repositioning their bodies until he was on top of his partner, domineeringly straddling him—William certainly had no objections, "whose lives are more valuable, ours or that thing's?"

"Ours!" Birkin gasped as Wesker snaked a hand under the front of his shirt to painfully accost on of his tender pink nipples.

"Hnnn..." crooned Wesker as he watched Birkin writhe underneath his touch; it was something he never grew tired of. "That's what I thought... Just detach from the whole thing," he purred in Birkin's ear before running his tongue over it. "Focus on what's _really_ important. And...do try to enjoy yourself."

"I-I don't know if you're talking about right now...or down stairs in the labs," panted a now flushed Birkin.

Wesker chucked deep in has chest, a sound that drove Birkin almost as crazy as his touches. "Perhaps a bit of both..." He paused as he moved Birkin's cooperative arms up over the seventeen year old's head. "Hmm...but I don't recommend we do this downstairs if that's where you were headed with that comment. Doctor Marcus would disapprove most adamantly."

Birkin scoffed. "God you are a perverted bastard sometimes, Al."

That dark seductive chuckle again. "Oh, and I wonder why that is," he laughed as he pulled Birkin's striped nightshirt over his head and tossed it somewhere in the dark room. Wesker then covered Birkin's mouth and raked his nails down William's pale flesh, leaving five angry red tracks in his wake.

Birkin moaned loudly against Wesker's flesh. Unlike his partner, Birkin never could contain the noises Wesker so easily drew out of him. As such, he was grateful Wesker was taking precautions not to let the rest of the hall in on their little secret romance.

* * *

Birkin usually never objected to any of the wild, crazy, painful things Wesker did to him when they fucked, made love, whatever, but he suddenly felt the need to voice his concerns to his domineering lover. Wesker had him braced up against the headboard face down and had begun to spread his naked thighs apart, sliding his knees up the impossibly slippery sheets.

"A-Al," he moaned, spitting out the makeshift gag Wesker had conjured up out of one of the silk pillowcases. "P-please use some c-com...common sense here...I...ahh...I don't want to have to...ha...ahh...explain to Doctor Marcus why...hnn...I'm limping...mmm!"

Wesker ceased the movements of the hand he had been using to temporally pleasure Birkin. "Well," he licked his somewhat sticky fingers, "I _was_ going to go easy on you, but then you had to get cheeky..."

"Oh, God..." muttered Birkin hanging his head before Wesker shoved the pillow case back in him mouth. This was _really_ going to hurt...

* * *

_July 30__th__, 1978; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4:_

"Doctor Birkin...?" Dr. Marcus regarded the younger of his two proteges curiously as he walked by the elder man's station towards Lisa's door following on the coat tails of his partner. There was an undeniable...limp to his step and the boy had hissed in pain when he'd _attempted_ to sit down for report a few minutes ago, opting to stand in the end.

"Y-yes, Sir?" responded a startled Birkin as he whipped around to face his superior.

"Something wrong?" inquired Wesker. The gesture was almost protective in nature and it gave Dr. Marcus a moment of pause before he proceeded.

"Are you quite alright?" he questioned of the youngest researcher Umbrella currently had.

Birkin blinked in confusion. "Beg pardon."

Marcus gestured vaguely towards the boy's lower half. "You have a rather pronounced limp."

Birkin flushed a color similar to the apple Wesker had eaten for breakfast as all the blood rushed to his face. The sight was quite remarkable as Albert had no idea people could be such a color. It made it that much harder to contain the snicker trying to burst from his throat and momentarily impossible to hid the wicked grin tugging at his lips.

As Birkin was obviously in no position to respond, Wesker took over when he should have left well enough alone. "He just sprained a few muscles when he was...settling in last night. Doctor Birkin's hips are, unfortunately, _very_ inflexible."

If Birkin could have died right then and there from mortification, he would have. He also would have strangled his complete arse of a boyfriend in front of Dr. Marcus if he didn't think it would make things worse. As it was, he allowed Wesker to lead him off with a gentle tug on his jacket sleeve while Dr. Marcus contemplated what William could have possibly done while moving in that would have involved pulling a hip muscle. He was even more perplexed when he caught a glimpse of Birkin punching Wesker probably as hard as he could in the shoulder as the door to Lisa's room closed.

Those two certainly had an interesting relationship...

* * *

_September 10__th__, 1978; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4:_

"Dammit, Will! Hold her back!" Wesker yelled over Lisa's inhuman shrieking.

"Mu..thur! Dad...dy! H-help...m...e!"

"I'm trying, Al!" called back Birkin frantically as he strained to hold the chains in place "Goddammit, Al! Don't get so close!"

"No! Wi...will rip off... tar off...fa..ce! Noooo!"

"You think I _want_ to be this fucking close to her?!"

This utter chaos in the back room had all started when Lisa's IV had clotted off this morning preventing the administration of drugs or subsequent viral doses and blood draws. Wesker and Birkin had tried a multitude of ways to save the venous access, but to no avail. Eventually, out of necessity, they tried knocking her out with a heavy intramuscular injection of pentobarbital long enough to restart an IV.

They had thought their scheme was a success, right up until Wesker had opened her cage door and removed her wooden wrist shackles. Suddenly Lisa had sprung to life and attempted to rip the blond to pieces. Somehow Wesker had managed to spring back away from her broken talons but she had followed, now halfway out of her cage door, crooked fingers reaching and clawing their way towards him.

The only reason she wasn't completely out of her prison was because of the thick leg shackles bound to the floor she was now straining so hard against that blood was running down her pale dead looking flesh.

Birkin had grabbed the chains through the back of the cage and managed to pull them back, keeping her from instantly killing Wesker, but he wasn't strong enough to do much and his grip was slipping, allowing the grotesque monster to inch closer to his friend who was pinned between the uncaged Lisa and the wall mounted computer bank. Thinking about what those razor claws would do to Wesker and the thought of this creature adding Wesker's face to her severed collection made Birkin grip the chains until his hands bled.

Wesker had tried moving away, but he was truly trapped, the only thing that was saving him being the tiny space cut into the computer alcove for the operators' knees and feet. Wesker's concealed frantic eyes searched desperately for a way out of this situation; he knew William couldn't hold on for much longer. _Who the hell makes shackle chains that long anyways?! _

Wesker's racing gaze had just fallen on the abandoned metal pole with a nasty hook on the end they sometimes used to "pacify" Lisa, when he heard Birkin cry out.

"Al! This isn't working! Get out of their! I can't-"

"_MINE!"_

It wasn't much of a warning but it was all Wesker got before the heinous witch was released and came flying towards him with a hellish scream.

With speed he didn't know was possible Wesker reached for, grabbed, and then flipped around the cruel device so that the thin cylindrical steel handle went straight into abomination's yellowed true eye and was carried by her momentum straight out the back of her disguising scull before she collapsed uselessly on top of him.

Wesker nearly gagged when the spongy flesh came down on him, covering him with all kinds of infected fluids, some leaking out of the hole in her hideous face, some seeming to just naturally ooze from her unnatural form. It was all he could do to turn his face away from the virus ridden corpse atop him and push uselessly at her slippery, poorly held together chest. In his desperate attempts to get the failed experiment off of him, he felt his hand pull free a large swatch of rotted flesh, the mat of dying cells sloughing off effortlessly.

"Al!" Birkin screamed in anguish as he rushed to what he presumed to be his dead or dying friend's side. He almost cried in relief when he saw Wesker struggling underneath the limp body.

"G-get...GET IT OFF! Get it off NOW!" Wesker was practically panicking. It would be a miracle if he wasn't already infected.

With Birkin's help they got the dead thing off of him. Wesker was barely able to keep a sobbing William from throwing his arms around his contaminated form as the elder blond made a b-line to the decontamination chamber. He was cut off by Dr. Marcus as soon as he exited Lisa's chambers and moved into the main lab towards it.

"What the _hell_ did you just do, Doctor Wesker!" He screamed at Albert's slime splattered face, pointing in rage at Lisa's body. "You just destroyed _years_ of precious research you _stupid_ brat!" He was advancing while yelling, looking very much like he wanted to take that pole out of Lisa's face and impale Wesker with it. While that may have been true, Wesker sure as hell didn't expect a tear stained Birkin to pull the instrument out of Lisa and practically offer it to Marcus.

"Y-you two m-might want to stand b-back," Birkin urged as he stepped as far away from the harmless body as possible.

It was just a hunch, but he was right, Birkin always was. The tissue samples from Lisa Trevor's body had shown highly regenerative qualities, this combined with the ever shrinking pool of sickening black blood that had poured from her eye socket had lead Birkin to believe that Lisa's suffering was far from over.

"What the hell are you blathering about, Birkin?!" seethed Marcus. "You are just as much to blame as Wes-"

"Mo...ther..."

Lisa's barely audible whisper as the mutilated tissue reformed caused the entire room to fall silent. They all watched in a mixture of awe and repulsion as the broken monstrosity pulled her way across the floor back into her cage where she lay in a corner, curled up in fetal position all the while sobbing for her dead mother, stroking the face she believed belonged to her.

"Incredible..." whispered Marcus as if he'd just seen the most beautiful of miracles.

Birkin closed and latched the cage. "Will you please let doctor Wesker go to decontamination now?" His voice was small but firm.

Marcus nodded and Wesker practically ran out of the nauseating room.

Once the exposed teen reached the metal showers he wasted no time in stripping off ever stitch of his clothing, careful not to break the skin with his frantic efforts. Wesker then took the longest hottest shower of his life, determined to scald the virus from his body, praying none of Lisa's fluids had gotten into his nose, eyes, or mouth.

* * *

_September 14__th__, 1978; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B3:_

Wesker sighed, letting his tired head fall against white wall behind him with a thump. He'd been in the isolation chamber for around four days now and he was sick of it all, especially the white. It was everywhere, the floors, walls, ceiling, bed, sheets, and even the scrubs he'd been issued upon entering. It was so much, it made him physically sick, a fact that sent a bolt of fear through his chest.

Every time his body gave the slightest twinge, real or imagined, he felt a little dizzy, his forehead seemed slightly warmer than usual, or he even itched, Wesker silently panicked.

_ What if I'm infected?_

The mantra had played through his mind every second of every day for the last four not even giving him any peace during sleep. His dreams were haunted by nightmares of Lisa and then by his own horrific transformation into something equally as disturbing.

It didn't even help that he wasn't showing any symptoms this long after exposure. So what if it was abnormal? He was a Wesker, so the virus might effect him differently. Maybe it would make him the next Lisa. Wesker couldn't even imagine being trapped in a mutilated rotting body, mind barely held together by a few obsessive thoughts, being cruelly experimented on for the rest of eternity by curious Umbrella scientists eager to see what made him tick. Such revelations almost made him feel sorry for Lisa. He would have if she hadn't tried to kill him earlier and if she wasn't the soul reason he was locked in this horrible white room.

He was going crazy in here.

Wesker heard the door open, pulling him from his fearful stewing and jumped to his feet as Birkin walked in. Wesker looked at him questioningly, relaxing only slightly. Birkin visited him everyday in here, but he'd never come inside, only listened to Wesker's endless lists of fears and calmly disproved each of them from the other side of the thick observation glass. He wasn't even wearing a Hazmat suit like the one he worn to escort Wesker to this room and that Wesker had had to don for the trip to this retched prison.

Wesker's questions were answered and fears quenched in the same moment as Birkin charged across the floor and wrapped his arms around Wesker's neck.

"You're fine," Birkin whispered in his ear as Wesker collapsed in relief against him and hugged Birkin with shaking arms. "No virus. Your blood is rather fascinating, but no virus."

"Took you long enough," muttered Wesker. He wasn't going to even bother with the second bit right now. He'd tackle that once he figured out how to stop shaking.

* * *

_September __19__th__, 1978; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4:_

Wesker didn't have the slightest clue how Birkin had managed to convince Dr. Marcus that the entire fiasco with Lisa had been an intentional experiment. Now the old coot thought they were geniuses—which they were...just not for the reasons Dr. Marcus believed.

Due to Birkin's ridiculous lie, the two of them had been allowed deeper access into their mentor's research. Unfortunately, thus far, all it meant was that they got to "properly dispose" of the squishy black bodies of the man's treasured pets that inevitably died from exposure to Dr. Marcus's endless barrage of tests and injections. It was a little degrading honestly; being "trusted enough" to look over a few sparse documents and dispose of dead leeches in the lab's furnaces.

They had nothing better to do with Lisa at the moment, who had been transferred to a test tube (Wesker hoped permanently). This situation lent itself well to easy completion of each of the two's desired tests. As such, since around eleven o'clock they were, once again, haplessly incinerating the gigantic leeches, forced to listen to the disturbing wet popping sound as the black flesh boiled, and breath in the overpowering smell of burning rotted flesh.

Birkin was about to pick one of the slimy things up in his heavily gloved hand when he could have sworn he saw it twitch. He stopped and examined the now still creature intently. He'd probably imagined it, but such misconception was rare to non-existent on his part so he just continued to stare at it.

Wesker stopped throwing his pile of decaying black ooze into the fire when he noticed Birkin's sudden lack of productivity. He sighed. "Come on, Will. I know this is menial labor but seriously."

"I don't think that one's dead," commented Birkin slowly, pointing at the small body he swore he'd seen moving.

Wesker cocked his head to the side. "Looks dead to me, Will." He nudged Birkin playfully but still rather sharply with his elbow. "Come on, I can think of much more _pleasurable _ things we could be doing..."

Birkin ignored to poorly hidden suggestion. Apparently Wesker _still_ hadn't gotten over the physical deprivation being locked in a decontamination chamber for four days had caused. Wesker's raging sex drive was nothing new to William and he infuriatingly found the obvious dead experiment more interesting then his boyfriend's current state of arousal.

Wesker huffed in annoyance as he watch Birkin ignore him in favor of moving his face down about a foot away from the rancid pile of goo.

"If you don't think it's dead, why are you getting so close?" he grumbled, folding his arms. "Black slime turn you on more than I do?"

Birkin turned to glare at him. "For the love of God, Al! Will you _please_ focus on something else besides sex? You've been unbelievably horny for almost a week now and I haven't been able to walk straight since you got out of isolation. Enough is enough!" he raged.

Wesker was grinning the entire time, debating which of three biting comments he already had prepared to retort with. Then he saw the thing on the table move, but it didn't just twitch, it reared up on his back half, exposing its horrific rows of teeth and opened them wide as it prepared to launch itself at the side of Birkin's face.

All the color drained out of Wesker's already pale features as he threw himself forwards, hoping desperately that it would be his shoulder slamming into William's face instead of the thing's razor sharp teeth ripping open his friend's cheek.

Birkin cried out as he hit the floor hard, holding his probably broken nose. Eyes stinging with tears, he held his bleeding face and looked up at Wesker angrily. "What the _hell_, Al?! Just because I wouldn't fucking stop what I'm doing to sleep with you?" He stopped his rant when he saw how Wesker was standing there stiffly, eyes locked on the table, breathing hard.

Picking himself up, his heart skipped a beat when he saw Wesker's gloved fist slammed into the strangely red tinged flesh of the now really dead leech. Wesker pulled his hand back, examining the thankfully unmarred surface of the thick glove that he'd squashed the into the needle like maw of the tiny B.O.W..

"I..." he swallowed. "I think it's dead now."

* * *

Wesker sighed in annoyance as Birkin continued to obsessively examine his hand. "It's fine Will," he grumbled. "Worry about your nose." He gestured to the somewhat staunched trail of blood running from the abused feature into Birkin's mouth.

Birkin scowled. "What is it with you and close calls with exposure?"

Wesker chuckled hollowly, unintentionally glancing over at thew tiny crushed body of the B.O.W. That had tried to make a meal out of Birkin's cheek "I don't know, Will. You were the one who almost let the thing make out with the side of your face. Trust me, it would bite more than I do."

Birkin glared. "I..." He let out a shaky breath, his hand's tightening over Wesker's. "Th-thank you..."

Wesker actually smiled. "In the future, just keep that hansom mug of your's away from blood sucking possibly undead monsters, eh?"

Birkin blushed rather deeply at the comment, a fact that only further amused Wesker. Birkin was seriously considering sitting on top of Wesker and giving him what he wanted—Albert _had_ just saved his life after all. He was thankful he hadn't decided to give just yet when he heard the door to the lab open. The youngest researcher desperately attempted to control his blush as Dr. Marcus crossed the white tile floor, walking purposely towards them.

Their mentor frowned when he saw the small pile of bodies that had yet to be turned into ash. He had expected his pupils to be done by now.

"Something the matter?" he questioned in a way that clearly showed he was peeved at their apparent lack for productivity.

"No," responded Wesker in a rather confrontational manner as he stood to glare at Dr. Marcus. "Unless you count one of your experiments trying to kill us again."

Birkin winced. He really hated Wesker's short temper. It was undoubtedly going to get them in real trouble someday; perhaps right this very moment.

Dr. Marcus narrowed his eyes. "Excuse me?"

"One of them _wasn't_ dead," shot back Wesker.

"Impossible," he argued, icy eyes darting over to the motionless metal tub filled with his failed experiments. "Every creature I gave to you had no vitals.

Wesker didn't even what to know how Dr. Marcus had determined this fact. "Hmm, my mistake then," he hissed folding his arms. "I suppose a _dead_ leech attempted to rip Doctor Birkin's face off."

Marcus glared back, but it was more thoughtful them aggressive. "_Impossible...could it really be..._" the old man muttered to himself. "Are you saying a dead experiment reanimated?" he questioned hurriedly of Wesker, desperate to learn the answer.

Wesker blinked, the conversation was very rapidly moving in a completely different direction than what he had been expecting. "I...was suggesting something more on the lines of you giving us a subject that had yet to fully die."

Marcus waved a hand dismissively. "Not a possibility. Which one was it?" He actually seemed...excited. Then his wrinkled face suddenly fell. "Please tell me you didn't incinerate it..." He looked as though he would feed them to his still alive and very hungry leeches if they had.

Birkin shook his head holding a tissue to his nose and pointed to the squished mess of goo and teeth pooled on the metal tabletop.

Dr. Marcus practically raced to the rancid pile. "Doctor Wesker, I want a sample of this tissue STAT!"

Wesker was still trying to process the reason behind this strange series of events as he passed his mentor the materials he'd require. The fact that Marcus was so intrigued by what had just occurred meant that this was much more then a deadly mistake. Wesker may have hated Dr. Marcus and viewed him as a wicked, self centered, pompous, and insufferably paranoid individual, but the man was an undeniable genius. James Marcus didn't make stupid mistakes and he certainly didn't act the way he was now without good reason.

_"Are you saying a dead experiment reanimated?"_

Was such an event even possible? Wesker remember with a shudder what had happened nine days ago with Lisa. Yes...yes it was.

The second the sample was prepared, Dr. Marcus was peering deeply into its molecular make up through one of the lab's most expensive and highly powered microscopes. What he saw caused his breath to hitch in his throat. It was beautiful, absolutely beautiful. He'd done it, _he'd_ conquered death.

"_My God..._" Wesker heard the elderly man whisper in awed elation. "_It worked..._" Instantly the suddenly spry old man was on his feet, packaging the sample in a way that barely adhered to laboratory precautions. "Send the rest of the body to my office immediately and then burn the rest of those things!" With that he was gone, leaving Wesker and Birkin with more questions than answers.

"That was...odd..." Birkin muttered as he started preparing to follow Dr Marcus's orders.

Wesker, freed from whatever mental debate he'd been locked in, stopped Birkin's actions by going over to him and roughly jerking his crooked nose back in place. The future attractiveness of Birkin's nose was hardly the priority right now, but it killed two birds with one stone.

"Ow!" howled Birkin in response the the unexpected "treatment," holding his throbbing now freshly gushing nose. As such, Birkin failed to see Wesker re-gloving his hands and removing a significant sized lump of tissue from the creature he'd killed and placing it in a petri dish.

"Al!" Birkin objected loudly once he'd gotten the pain under control and pieced together what Wesker had just done.

"What?" retorted Wesker heatedly. "I'm sick and tired of being left in the dark and treated like his damn lab assistant."

Birkin winced. This was _not_ going to be pretty... unlike his face, which Wesker had apparently taken great cares to fix. "Day one when I met you, what was the first advice I ever gave to you?"

Wesker smiled almost fondly as he took the necessary steps to allow him to see what Dr. Marcus had looked upon with such reverence. "Not to mention or even look at his leeches."

Birkin nodded gravely.

"Wesker just grinned like the devil he truly was. "Dearheart, when have I _ever_ listened to you?"

Birkin scowled.

* * *

_September __19__th__, 1978; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4:_

The rat died.

Then it came back to life.

Contained in a metal cage sealed behind the contamination glass, the rat had died in a horrible way, afflicted with a raging delirium inducing fever, a horrific skin pealing rash, massive swelling and inflammation, and a nasty outbreak of disgusting, foul smelling, puss filled, weeping boils that burst at the slightest of provocation. The illness had progressed rapidly causing massive internal bleeding and lesions within the tiny mammal's lungs that caused it to first cough up and them vomit copious amounts of blood and dead sloughed cells. Finally the rat seized, jerking powerfully and erratically as if trying to shake all the life out of its little body.

This new virus extracted from the reanimated leech killed the rat within three hours. The method of death was very similar to how Progenitor killed, but lacked the obvious disfiguring mutations of its mother virus.

Then this strain did something progenitor never had.

Fifteen minutes after the rodent had passed, all vitals ceasing, it came back to life.

First it twitched once then it jerked a few times before its empty, clouded over, blood shot eyes opened, it leapt to its bloodied feet, and began a slow, stiff legged repeating circle around its enclosure. It seemed for all purposes to be searching for something incessantly, but it still looked dead. The eyes were lifeless and the wounds it had developed prior to death looked worse and were covered in a mixture of puss and black coagulated blood with obvious signs of early decay setting in. It also had no heartbeat.

The biggest difference was in the creature's temperament. Whereas before infection it had been a rather docile albeit terrified lab rat, now it was extremely aggressive, trying to attack anything that moved with vicious enthusiasm.

Things _really_ got interesting when Birkin suggested they put another rat in there with it.

As soon as the other rat was introduced to the afflicted specimen's enclosure, the infected one had been drawn to it, constantly and insistently seeking it out and following it with slow uncoordinated movements. The unaffected rodent was trying its best to avoid the unnatural creature but it eventually grew tired and opted to attack its hunter instead.

The infected rat ate it.

The experiment didn't even wait until the other animal was dead. As soon as the infected rodent had got its teeth into its pray it latched on and started ripping, biting, and devouring. The infected animal quickly overpowered its victim and began tearing out its intestines, feasting upon the exposed innards, the other rat screaming the entire time.

"Dear God..." muttered Birkin as he watched the horrific act, eyes unable to move from the gore within the cage. Even through the protective glass he could hear the other creature's agony laced cries as it desperately tried to escape the torture of being eaten alive.

About fifteen minutes after the second rat had stopped struggling uselessly against the monster atop it and had fallen still, it too reanimated. Despite the obviously mortal wounds, it pulled itself to its feet and dragged its open hollowed out belly and what was left of its ragged intestinal tract across the metal floor, joining its murderer in its never ending pacing around the empty blood stained cage. The wound wasn't even bleeding anymore, instead oozing a sickening black layer of coagulated blood.

Once both of the creatures had died and reanimated they ignored each other, occasionally bumping up against the other but otherwise seemingly unaware of the other creature's existence.

Each of the infected animals were inescapably drawn to living flesh, desperate to sate an insatiable hunger by sinking their little razor sharp fangs into anything with a pulse. One of the rats they were experimenting on ate so much that its stomach actually burst wide open. Split apart by the sheer volume being stuffed ravenously into it, releasing a nauseating stream of blood, guts, and chunks of flesh, tendons, and bone onto the cage floor.

It still kept eating.

Finally, the infected rats seemed impervious to pain and unable to die from even the most grievous of injuries. One of the most unfortunate of the creatures had been ripped apart by a small hoard of the infected animals. Once the transformation had taken place, the upper half just pulled itself around the cage on its front paws, dragging the messy trail of internal organs and ragged spinal column behind it.

As of yet, Birkin and Wesker had only been able to kill the experiments by crushing their bloodied, matted heads. It was both the most disturbing and captivating thing the couple had witnessed.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" whispered Dr. Marcus venomously behind the two transfixed teens.

Each of them jumped as an electric jolt of fear shot though them, turning to face the deadly looking man behind them. Wesker wasn't sure whether he wanted his back to the doctor whose research he'd just severely trespassed into or the contained cage filled with the group of infected ravenous rodents trying to chew through the enclosure bars behind him. As the experiments were obviously distracted, desperate to get at the other cage filled with cowering uninfected rodents Wesker and Birkin were using to test if the virus was airborne or only transmitted by direct contact with infected body fluids—as with Progenitor—Wesker decided Dr. Marcus was the bigger threat.

"Sir!" yelped Birkin panicking. "I...we...um...this isn't...oh God..."

Wesker stomped on Birkin's foot to get him to shut up. "Seems you were correct about the reanimation of that leech," he responded coolly.

Marcus smirked in amusement. "Initiative...I like that. Just be sure that...motivation of yours doesn't lead you to a very _deadly_ destination. There is nothing I despise more than research thieves."

Wesker smiled calmly at him. "Sir, if Doctor Birkin and I had truly wanted to steal your research, I would strongly question our intelligence since we chose to preform the experiment in the same lab." He shoved their notes on the exposed rats towards Dr. Marcus. "We just found it necessary to obtain the knowledge needed to assist you further in this fascinating experiment."

Birkin would have kissed Wesker right here and now to get at that amazing silver tongue of his if Dr. Marcus wasn't here. Wesker's ability to spin words was truly remarkable.

Their mentor returned Wesker's cold smile. "I like you Doctor Wesker...but that is a very fine line you are walking."

Wesker's smirk only widened. "Well than, I shall have to take special care not to slip."

A few tense moments of silence passed before Dr. Marcus relented, actually laughing. "See that you do."

The lead researcher gestured to the cage behind his two proteges. "I call it the Tyrant Virus, for obvious reasons."

Neither Wesker or Birkin could argue. It was apt nomenclature.

"T-virus or T for short. The rabbits I exposed behaved in a similar manner."

Wesker and Birkin didn't even want to imagine the fluffy white rabbits that the mansion labs kept stocked within the animal testing cages ripping each other to shreds and being reborn as nightmarish little monsters; white fur all stained red, long tender ears ripped to shreds. Although, the concept of a herbivore suddenly exhibiting such violent predatory characteristics was fascinating.

"I have a feeling Tyrant will be much less selective about its victims, and as you can see, the results have a high duplicability between subjects. With the added scientific marvel of reanimation, Umbrella and Lord Spencer should finally have the virus they've been searching for."

Both his students stayed silent as they contemplated the implications behind his words.

Marcus chuckled gleefully, watching though the glass as the the undead rats reached their greedy little hands through the bars in a useless effort to cannibalize their uninfected compatriots. "All that's left now is to finally get the go ahead to move on to human test subjects.

The younger doctors' expressions stayed completely schooled as they imagined the horrors that would soon follow.

"The order should be put through by the end of next month. Just you wait, soon everything; all those long years...they'll be worth every last drop of sweat and blood. I'm going to change the world."

He was insane, and quite obviously talking to himself rather then Wesker or Birkin.

* * *

_October 23__rd__, 1978; Spencer Estate Grounds:_

Dr Marcus was right. Once the horrifically amazing data from the Tyrant Virus had been submitted to the higher ups in Umbrella, Lord Spencer in particular, Project T was approved instantly. Not long after that, Lord Spencer himself had given Marcus the go ahead to move on from rats, rabbits, and monkeys to human trials.

That same bleak October day, the first trucks arrived. They were huge black semis each supporting a giant Umbrella logo on their cargo boxes with the company motto, "_Our Business is Life Itself_," scrawled in fancy cursive under the octagonal white and red logo.

Wesker didn't think the people trapped within the rolling behemoths would agree with that statement.

Hidden in what could only amount to the last five feet of the cargo box closest to the truck's cab, behind a false wall, were about fifteen shackled, heavily drugged humans. Umbrella had sent four semis stuffed with innocuous lab equipment to hide the delivery's true cargo so that amounted to about sixty fresh human test subjects.

Wesker's insides were doing flip-flops and his hands were actually shaking as he watched the events from one of the Mansions windows with an obviously trembling Birkin.

The prisoners were being ushered down from the truck by the USS (Umbrella Security Service) soldiers clad in full out riot gear, caring billy clubs, activated stun rods, and holstered handguns. It all seemed like overkill, but the condition of their future "lab rats" was even more disturbing.

Each individual in the strict lines was shackled and wearing in crisp white scrubs. Their eyes were clouded over and almost unseeing due to the amount of drugs circulating through their systems, and their skin was pasty white, as if they never even seen the sun before.

Wesker felt Birkin cling to him tighter and he knew why. He too was remembering Dr. Marcus's chilling response to his question he asked their mentor earlier this week.

_"Where are they going to get human test subjects without anyone knowing that they've gone missing?" _

He wished he'd _never_ asked.

Apparently, to combat the rather annoying criminal justice system and its consequences to kidnapping and human experimentation, Umbrella had used its unending power and twisted ingenuity to develop a human breeding farm. Instead of capturing many, they only took a few from remote locations with unimportant status. Then they breed them, raised the children on a company prescribed diet in almost complete isolation and repeated the process until they had a significant population of heavily drugged, uneducated, socially unexceptionable, and essentially mindless test subjects from which to choose from. The factory was apparently located underground in some remote location in Canada to further avoid detection.

Oh how Dr. Marcus had gushed over the pure ingeniousness of it all while Wesker and Birkin had tried hard to keep their faces from turning as deathly white as the imagined the mass produced people they would soon be testing the T-Virus on and their gruesome transformations into the flesh eating monsters created by the virus.

It was sick; wicked; the most horrible thing Wesker had ever heard in his life. How had Umbrella, Lord Spencer, Dr. Marcus, and his retched name sake gotten away with their never ending, forever growing list of inhuman atrocities? Why had no one ever stopped them? Could they _ever_ be stopped? Or would Umbrella's blood soaked legacy continue on indefinitely?

These were the thoughts rushing though Wesker's mind as he watched the advancing line of doomed individuals being marched by seemingly uncaring USS soldiers towards the opening in the fountain. This cruel death march would be their last and only opportunity to experience the sun and breath in fresh air before they felt death's cold unrelenting grasp and then were brought back into a hellish existence by the unholy virus he and Birkin had helped to create.

Suddenly, one of the subjects below broke ranks and sprinted wildly and clumsily towards the imagined safety of the forest. He didn't get far. The loud gunshot meant that they now only had fifty nine cowering cave people to work with.

Wesker put an arm protectively around Birkin. Unlike the now dead body on the Estate's lawn staining the grass red, Wesker and Birkin had no grand illusions about escape.

There was no turning back now.

* * *

_ September 19, 1978...the day Tyrant was first unleashed upon the world starting an apocalyptic chain of events that could never truly be halted. It was a slow and painful end to all life and humanity that had already begun._

* * *

**AN:** I have officially completed and won NaNoWriMo! The good part? This story isn't even a third over with! Updates will probably not come as near as quickly but I hope that won't be a problem for anyone /smiles/.

Thank you for reading, I would be overjoyed to read reactions, comments, concrit, ect... especially on the topic of whether you like longer chapters with slower updates (this one was 35 pages) or shorter chapters with quicker updates.

Later!

-Asiera


	11. PG09AW

**Project W: Second Cycle**

**PG09A/W: Breathing **

_July 27th, 1981; Spencer Estate_

"A ten year old! A fucking _ten year old_, Al! What the hell is Umbrella thinking?" raged a distraught Birkin as he paced relentlessly up and down the richly furnished bar area of Lord Spencer's mountainside manner. The couple had discovered this grand lounge shortly after Umbrella had started testing on humans less than three years ago. Since then, the usually quiet room had become their personal sanctuary from all the madness and horror that their lives had spiraled into.

Wesker sighed in annoyance, his head leaning haplessly on his hand, elbow resting on the covered grand piano. Birkin had been going on, and on, _and on_ about the hiring of the ten year old child prodigy, Alexia Ashford by Umbrella ever since Dr. Marcus had brought it up for a bit of "light" conversation while they watched a mindless T-Carrier attempt to solve a semi-complex maze to get at the shackled human struggling on the other side. Intelligence tests of the creatures were never very successful but there was no denying that they were relentless...

"How long are you going to carry on about this, Will?" Wesker asked with a yawn.

"As long as I bloody want to, Al! She's _ten_!" yelled Birkin kicking the bar stool in front of him and watching in brief satisfaction as it crashed to the floor. He then started swearing about his smarting toe.

Wesker laughed. If he counted all the times Birkin had informed him of the young Ashford's induction into Umbrella he would be well into the three digits. "Yes, Dearheart. So you've told me, and told me, and then _told_ me again. _What_ is the big deal?"

"She. Is. Ten. Years. Old!" shouted Birkin, saying each word slowly as if Wesker couldn't understand the simple phrase.

"And?" he prompted.

"And _nothing_!" He threw his hands up into the air in exasperation. "What could Umbrella possibly do with a little ten year old?"

Wesker turned away, long ago exhausted with the topic, and curiously pushed up cover on the piano. Strange that they'd come to this room for so long but he'd never touched the instrument. He was quite sure he didn't know how to play, but the ivory and ebony keys felt somehow…familiar under his fingers as he ran them over the smooth surface so gently that the device didn't make a sound.

He wasn't getting anywhere with Birkin, but he still humored the raging twenty year old. "Oh I don't know, Will. They say she's the smartest individual they've ever tested. We were rather young when Umbrella hired us."

Birkin pointed an accusatory finger at Wesker's face. "_You_ were almost seventeen and_ I _was fifteen! That's not ten! What is she going to do? Play dolly with the viruses?"

Wesker snorted, abandoning his examination of the instrument's keys to smirk wryly at his boyfriend of four years. "So that's the real reason, eh? You're jealous because your record as the youngest individual to be hired by Umbrella's research department has been shattered by a little blond haired girl in pigtails?"

Birkin raged, storming over to Wesker like he was going to hit him—a rare occurrence indeed—before, after standing there motionless for a few beats, he just dropped to the piano bench next to Wesker, holding his head in his hands.

Wesker grinned and chuckled while running a hand over William's back. He'd won, again. Wesker _always_ won.

"You know she was only 'hired' because she's Edward Ashford's granddaughter…" Birkin muttered dejectedly against his hands, his fingers muffling the pitiful words.

Wesker blinked. He'd never really appreciated how long Birkin's digits were, he'd bet Birkin would be a wonderful piano player if he'd ever learned.

"That so?" he asked pulling one of Birkin's hands towards him and examining the digits, disrupting the distraught covering of the boy's somewhat humiliated face. "They why did they not hire her twin brother Alfred?"

Birkin had to stop and think about that for a few moments. "Be-because...he's a worthless twit!" he declared trying to pull his wrist free from Wesker's grip.

Wesker chuckled before releasing the captive hand. "You have long fingers," he commented, showing clearly that he couldn't care less about Birkin's ridiculous competition with a girl he'd never even met. His own fingertips now absently softly pressing a few random keys on the piano.

Birkin blinked. "What?"

"You have long fingers," he repeated. "I bet you'd play beautifully." Wesker's hands were moving absentmindedly to form a series of pleasant sounding chords he didn't know he was capable of creating.

"You aren't really listening are you?" Birkin sighed.

"Well I heard everything you said, I just don't care."

"Al!" Birkin whined, shoving on Wesker's shoulder like a slighted child. "This is _really_ distressing to me."

"I can tell," Wesker responded curtly.

Birkin sighed and leaned his head against his boyfriend's shoulder watching as Wesker stared in awe as his own hands which were calling out a quite beautiful melody form the grad piano. After a few moments of listening to the pleasant sounds as he quietly took comfort from Wesker's steady body, he spoke. "_You_ play beautifully."

Wesker didn't dare stop for fear that this nostalgic feeling that had welled up inside of him once his fingers had started milking the delicate sounds from the instrument would disappear. These blind trips deeply down memory lane usually gave him a severe headache and a horrible swirl of dark feelings in his chest, but this time, it was making him feel...wonderful. As if for once, his damaged mind was trying to recall something good instead of the horrible memories it usually dragged up to just beneath the surface of his consciousness.

"Apparently so," he whispered.

Birkin remained still for a few moments. "You didn't know?"

Wesker shook his head, knowing Birkin would understand; he always did.

Birkin nodded, fully appreciating the meaning behind Wesker's response. He was further fascinated by the complex being next to him playing the instrument as if he'd been doing it since childhood—in all reality, he probably had been.

"Scoot over," Birkin requested after a moment, shoving Wesker gently until they were sitting on different halves of the bench their shoulders gently touching.

Wesker watched Birkin curiously as he shifted through the sheets of music on the piano's built in wooden music stand. "Ah, the Moonlight Sonata, We can split the piece. You want to take the low part or the high one?" asked Birkin as he displayed the music that miraculously made perfect sense to Wesker.

"So you _can_ play?" asked Wesker, his eyebrow's raised.

Birkin shrugged. "A bit. I'm no Beethoven, but I managed to learn amid all the other subjects I flew through. I think my parents took the term 'Renaissance Man' a bit too literally," he grumbled.

Wesker laughed. "I don't think they foresaw the study and creation of deadly 'zombie' making viruses in your future."

What else could they call the soulless, mindless reanimated monsters Tyrant turned it's victims into?

"No..." responded William slowly. "No, I don't think they did." He switched sides on the narrow bench lining his fingers up on keys required to play the higher section of the piece, and thus deciding the positioning for Wesker.

On any other occasion, the older blond would have smirked. He viewed Birkin's constant preference for the upper position in various aspects of life as compensation for how often he pinned the weaker man's body beneath his each time they had more intimate relations. However, Wesker was more concerned with Birkin's words rather than his poorly fulfilled preference for top.

Wesker regarded his partner, intrigued. It was silly really, but Wesker realized that he had never found out how Birkin had come to work for Umbrella. Surprising, since his own past with all its memory gaps was a frequently discussed topic between the two; not that Wesker was particularly pleased about that, but it was. The younger blond had just never brought his past up before.

"How did you get mixed up in this mess, Will?" questioned Wesker, curious eyes boring into the younger man through the dark lenses of his sunglasses.

Birkin just shook his head before gently picking up Wesker's hands and setting them over the proper portion of the instrument. "Later, Al."

Wesker considered pressing him for the answer, especially after that reaction, but decided to temporarily drop it in favor of their newest experiment that would reveal just how well he could actually play.

After carefully reading the first line of daintily penned music, Wesker set his fingers to the keys and tried to emulate the sounds intended by the composer. Perhaps it was the pressure placed on him to actually play a specific piece of music, maybe it was from his own self expectations, or it could have been that he was simply trying too hard. Regardless of the reason, he seriously botched his first official attempt at playing the grand piano.

Birkin giggled. "Well that certainly wasn't what I was expecting for the Great Albert Wesker who was playing so beautifully a few minutes ago."

"Shut up," Wesker growled heatedly. The last thing he needed was Birkin mocking him. Berating William was his job, not the other way around.

Wesker's second try was better, but by no means the flawlessness he typically expected from himself.

"Dammit," hissed Wesker after the third time his clumsy feeling fingers slipped onto the wrong key. He glared at Birkin as if daring him to say anything.

Birkin just smiled, holding his hands up in submission. "You're gap was prior to age ten meaning you probably haven't played in over a decade. Some practice is certainly warranted."

Wesker grumbled something unintelligible and started back to the arduous process that had come so naturally to him not ten minutes ago. If he had been any less stubborn he would have angrily stalked away. As it was, his current level of emotions wasn't helping him to get his fingers to cooperate, each new mistake further perpetuating his unhelpful bad mood.

Before Wesker could start pounding at the keys in frustration, Birkin temporarily stopped his movements. "Hold on a second," he chuckled in the other man's ear.

Wesker glowered. "I do not need you're assistance, Will. Please kindly refrain from interfering." His tone of voice added the "or else" for him.

Birkin just shook his head. "You are not going to get anywhere like that. Here."

"Will..."

Despite the warning, Birkin continued to meddle. First he pulled the piano bench out a little, then he sat him self down on the narrow seat behind Wesker, forcing the other boy to scoot forwards until he was dangerously close to falling off. Wesker wasn't sure how this was any help to his current predicament but he wasn't going to complain about the closeness of Birkin's body against his back—inwardly at least, the image he portrayed to the world, that was another story entirely.

"Dammit Will," he seethed. "How am I supposed to play with you clinging to me like a monkey?"

Birkin just rolled his eyes and snaked his hands around Wesker's chest. "By relaxing," he whispered soothingly into Wesker's ear, his hands gently running up and down the twenty year old's chest and stomach. "You'll never play all tense like this."

Wesker shivered despite himself. "Oh, so your solution is to give me a hard on? I suppose I'll play much better with that."

Birkin snorted. "There is no winning with you is there?"

"No," came the simple response given through an unseen smile.

Birkin just rested his head on Wesker's back before releasing his grip around his partner's middle so his hands and arms would be out of the way. He then started running them calmingly up and down Wesker's long back. "If you must go there, consider it motivation for finishing."

Wesker scoffed.  
"In the mean time, quit your complaining and play," laughed Birkin.

Years ago, when they had first met and gotten together, this closeness and the steady beat of Birkin's heart on his back would have done nothing but distract Wesker as he had just suggested, but now, after around four years of knowing, working along side, and sleeping with William Birkin, Wesker found this closeness to be just that: Relaxing. It was because, even after all his claims to the contrary, Wesker really, truly _trusted_ the man sitting behind him, calming him so effectively without really even trying. Wesker would never say he really felt "safe" in Birkin's presence since it was certainly him who had more of the protective dominate role in their relationship. Perhaps "secure" or "stable"was a better word to describe how Birkin made him feel. Whatever it was, it was certainly nice.

True to Birkin's prediction, after a few minutes of practice under the soothing touches of the second youngest scientist ever to be hired by Umbrella, Wesker was playing like a professional, the hauntingly beautiful melody echoing melodically throughout bar.

Birkin stopped Wesker from playing the last bit by placing one of his hands over Wesker's. "Ready to play it with me now?"

Wesker just rolled his eyes. "Yeah, just make sure _you_ don't screw up."

Birkin nodded and moved to once again sit next to Wesker, squeezing his shoulders affectionately before he had removed himself. Once they were both reseated they started again from the beginning the notes each of the couple's finger's brought fourth from the keys perfectly blending together in order to make up the full scope of one of Beethoven's most well known masterpieces.

It was nice, a peaceful break from the horrors downstairs in the labs associated with the creation and following experimentation of the T-Carriers and of course Lisa. To know that they could make something beautiful amidst all the filth and cruelty, even if it was small and rather insignificant in the long run, was a bit inspiring. Wesker would never see it that way, but it was nice to know that despite their all consuming power, Umbrella couldn't take everything good about the world away.

The final note of the pair's little rebellion against the company which seemed to hate absolutely everything about life caused something as totally unexpected as this music lesson had been to happen. The back wall of the bar shuttered and then, with the loud cranking of gears, receded up into the ceiling (what this did to the floor above Wesker had no idea).

Wesker and Birkin stood simultaneously, suddenly on edge.

"Well that was certainly unexpected," muttered Birkin as the dust kicked up by the shifting wall section settled.

Wesker didn't respond, instead opting to slowly move towards the open passage. Birkin quickly followed him, staying a few paces behind his braver partner.

The hidden entryway revealed a short hallway which housed an oversized statue of a woman carved of a shimmering green stone, her arms spread wide, face tilted upwards to the hidden heavens. The strange stature was situated at the end of the small corridor atop a huge pedestal so that it barely fit within the passageway. This short tunnel was mostly made of stone aside from the right side wall which was constructed of a thick glass material. It was fairly dirty, but one could still see greenery located on the other side of its transparent surface. Wesker briefly wondered if that was the outside of the mansion.

"Why do you think that's back there?" William asked as the gazed into short tunnel, his voice dropping to something akin to a whisper.

"I...don't know..." muttered Wesker. "Seems a bit strange." A pause. "But you do recall how we get to the lab every morning. This place is probably full of rooms like this."

Birkin nodded, though the thought of an unknown amount of secret rooms littered throughout the mansion containing God only knew what was more then a bit unsettling.

Deciding that it was _probably _safe, Wesker advanced slowly into then small passage.

"Al!" Birkin exclaimed, grabbing onto his arm. "Don't! You...you don't know what's in there."

Wesker smirked at him and slipped his arm free. "And I won't know until I check." Against Birkin's better judgment and warnings Wesker advanced into the strange secret room, Birkin nearly hanging on his coattails.

The room wasn't much to look at really. Aside from the one glass wall and the weird statue in the back, it was just a plain, small, stone hall. The only other noteworthy thing about this secret room was what looked like a glass or ceramic emblem set into the base of the statue depicting the Spencer Coat of Arms—Wesker had seen it enough times throughout the manor to recognize the design, including on a nearly identical gold emblem which sat above the fireplace in the dining hall.

All in all, Wesker was still clueless as to why Lord Spencer would request such a pointless addition to the mansion. He couldn't think of a reason for it, unless it had something to do with the room on the other side of the "see-through" wall—perhaps this was some sort of observation chamber, though he seriously doubted it.

Regardless, it was clear that the room was in great disarray and hadn't been accessed or attended to for quite some time, not that Wesker was surprised with the strange method required to grant someone entry. The glass, was so dirty that it was nigh impossible to make out anything through it, and the fact that it was cracked certainly didn't help things. Wesker coughed. Nor did the thick layer of dust. It was actually making it rather hard to breath. A series of coughs from Birkin informed the blond that he wasn't the only one suffering from the tiny hallway's poor state of disrepair.

Deciding that further investigation was pointless and that it was probably wise to get the already hacking Birkin out of this dusty hall, Wesker turned from his brief examination of the glass wall and began to leave.

"Come on, Will." He coughed again. "I doubt there is anything to be gained here." He turned at the edge of the mostly stone passage to regard the man crouched in front of the statue's base. "Besides," he teased with a grin, "don't you still owe me a reward for successfully and masterfully playing that piece of music?"

Birkin ignored the obvious request as he stifled more coughing. "Al, I think this glass piece comes out."

"So?" Wesker huffed folding his arms impatiently. "Will, get out of there. You're going to have an asthma attack."

Birkin scowled as he began to dig out the delicate emblem. "I do _not_ have asthma, Al."

Wesker rolled his eyes. "Could have fooled me, you're allergic to pretty much everything."

"Everything with fur, Al," responded Birkin heatedly, voicing the primary reason why it was Wesker's job to handle all the research animals. "Do you see anything with fur in here? Besides, it's not the same thing."

"Arguable," sighed the other. "It produces the same symptoms and it qualifies as reversible bronchoconstriction. I'd call that asthma."

Birkin ignored the typical semi-hostile competitive banter that always flowed between the two of them because he'd managed to pull free the fragile emblem. "Got it!" he called happily.

"Good, now get your rather attractive ass over-"

Wesker's request was cut short by the deep rumbling sound of gears turning as the wall began to fall back into place. Birkin jerked up at the sound, the glass coat of arms slipping from his grip and shattering on the floor. By the time Wesker could process what had just happened the two foot thick stone wall had slammed down completely cutting him off from William.

That was cause enough for panic, but what he realized next chilled him to the core.

The nagging question of what was on the other side of the glass had finally clicked into place in his mind. Due to the layout of the mansion the only possibility was the west wing greenhouse, the same one that held the experiment known as Plant 15.

Since last April a hand full of researchers, headed up by Dr. Henry Sarton had gotten Dr. Marcus's approval to experiment on the effects of exposing various plants to the T-Virus. Plant 15 was the first viable result from this line of research.

Wesker wasn't sure of all the details surrounding this subject but he knew that the greenhouse had been temporarily locked down because it was found that Plant 15 had started releasing high amounts of airborne spores that had a severely irritating effect on the airways of a wide variety of organisms including humans. Exposure to small amounts or even moderate amounts over a short time wasn't deadly and so far, no one involved in the project had died, although Henry had come close.

The spores caused the exposed individual's airway to become swollen and irritated resulting in severe coughing, hacking, and wheezing—debilitating but hardly deadly. However, if exposed to high levels over a extended time period—say trapped in a room most likely saturated with the toxin—the victim's airway would completely seal off and they would suffocate. This process could be easily reversed with high doses of broncodilators and steroids—the treatment that had saved Dr. Sarton's life—but Wesker could hardly administer such medication with several feet of stone separating him from Birkin.

"Will!" cried Wesker slamming his hand uselessly on the thick barrier separating them. He of course got no response but he doubted that Birkin could hear him through the wall, or even if he had heard Wesker, how much longer he'd be in any shape to respond. The spore concentration in the room was probably extremely high judging by the size of the crack, the enclosed space, the amount of time they had to collect, and the fact that Wesker himself was now coughing so hard his eyes were watering.

Wesker forced his racing mind to calm. He had to think of a way out of this fast or Birkin was going to die leaving him alone to face the atrocities of the company he worked for. The thought was so unbearable it left him suddenly light headed.

Wesker shook himself. He didn't have time to dwell on that, he had to act _now_.

The combination of the proper playing of the Moonlight Sonata and the placement of the now broken glass emblem was the trigger for opening a keeping the door open. As far as he could reason, he had two plausible options. One: he could play the piano again and hope that between the near ten seconds it took for the door to open and then the extra five seconds it took it to close again that Birkin could get himself to the door or that he could get the message to William that this is what he had to do and then just keep playing until Birkin was close enough to the door for Wesker to get him out.

That was accepting two very big ifs. First that the piano would even open the door if the emblem was not in place and second that Birkin was in any shape to get himself to the door. The first complication Wesker had to take on faith. The alternative meant that he'd never get to Birkin in time to save him which was not an option. The second question was much more concerning, considering Birkin was already practically asthmatic and was rather physically weak Wesker realized expecting him to get himself out of that room on his own was folly. That would just wast more of the precious time slipping through his fingers.

There was however, one other course of action he could think of—aside from somehow getting to the locked down greenhouse and busting through the three inch thick glass, which didn't seem very plausible. The emblem above the fireplace in the dining hall, it was the same shape, same size, same everything and he knew for a fact it could be taken out—he'd seen the mansion's caretaker remove and replace it several times in order to mess with the room's giant grandfather clock (why the two were associated, Wesker neither knew or cared). It would serve as an adequate replacement for the broken one, it _had_ to.

Decision made, Wesker bolted. He raced out of the room, up the hallway, slammed through the door attaching the west wing to the dining hall, and skidded to a halt in front of the fireplace. Thankfully, it was late enough that no one else was around. Wesker didn't need any "concerned" bystanders slowing him down. He practically ripped the golden medallion from the mantle before sprinting back to the bar room.

The whole trip probably took him less then a minute but it was still time he didn't have. The human body could survive only around two minutes without oxygen before the brain started to die. Wesker was still quite a ways from administering the antidote to both himself and Birkin. Taking into consideration the fact that he was struggling to get enough air after his race through the hallway and that his own exposure to the toxin was much less severe than his partner's, Birkin's airway was probably already sealed shut or if not, soon to be.

All of this flashed through his mind nearly too quickly to process. Wesker could barely hear his own thoughts over the pounding in his chest as he practically fell onto the grand piano that had started it all. He swore, after he got this score right, he would never touch these black and white keys again.

Wesker took several deep wheezing breaths as he tried to fight both the panic and the tole Plant 15's spores were already having on him. If he didn't do this, if he couldn't play this piece right, his best friend and only solace in this madness would die. No pressure right? Hardly, this was possibly the most important thing he'd ever done in his life. Wesker had never imagined that of all things, such and event would come down to be playing the piano.

Wesker forced himself to sit down and then to push his surroundings, fears, and his all consuming panic from his mind until everything outside himself and this godforsaken instrument were erased from his thoughts. He focused on how it had felt to have Birkin's long fingers running over his back without thinking about the fact that he might never feel the boy's touch again; on how the notes had flowed effortlessly from his fingertips when he'd fist sat down on this cursed thing; and then on the piece of music before him that he had really only successfully preformed once.

All else gone Wesker played. The notes were flat, no emotion pouring through them as it had previously. This was no longer an art form or an escape; it was a necessity and outside this need, the song no longer held a deeper meaning. No mistakes could be made, each note representing further turning of the extravagant key opening the door between him what was currently his only purpose in life. A single slip could and most likely would result in complete loss; a total failure.

Wesker lost himself in this single task, everything else in existence banished to oblivion until he heard the gears turning and felt the rumbling of the giant wall opening and the reality of the situation once again came crashing down around him. Birkin was dying, he was probably not far behind, the required treatments lay across the maze of Lord Spencer's mansion, and the only hope he had was on a single golden coat of arms he didn't even know would keep the door open.

With one final deep breath which he held in order to minimize his exposure, Wesker snatched the emblem, vaulted over the now useless piano, and ducked under stone wall before it had even finished rising.

Through every fiber of his being commanded him to run to the William's side, he made himself instead attend to the empty slot underneath the giant statue. Attending to William now would only waste time and it wasn't as if he could do anything in here for his partner anyways. Wesker mentally cursed as he heard the heavy door begin to close. If this didn't work, they were both going to die in this room.

With shaking hands, Wesker carefully pushed the crest into place. It fitted effortlessly into the slot as if it were made to go there—God he hoped that was the case. Wesker waited, it was all he could do. He felt icy despair wash over him has the heavy door continued down, mercilessly devouring the already thin rectangle of light that was the couple's only chance at escape until it completely vanished with a mighty slam.

Wesker was already feeling the fear of death the semiconscious, barely wheezing scientist who might be sharing this tomb with him had minutes ago. Then he heard the click. Wesker would have gasped in relief if it wouldn't have precipitated further exposure to the spores as the heavy wall began to open for a third and final time.

Wasting no more of the precious few minutes he had left, Wesker scrambled over to Birkin. He didn't have time to examine him here, and the more time his friend spent breathing this tainted air, the greater chance he had of dying. As it was, the only comfort offered to Wesker as he rolled over the limp unconscious body were the weak wheezes coming from the boy's swollen throat and the slight moan that escaped his lips upon being disturbed signaling that he hadn't completely lost consciousness or the full patency of his airway yet.

Still holding his breath despite his burning lungs uncaringly demanding deep gulps of the deadly air, Wesker hoisted Birkin's limp body into his arms and moved as fast as the extra weight and his tingling oxygen deprived limbs would allow towards the bar room door.

Wesker only felt mild relief as he exited the formerly comforting room and made it into the hallway where he finally allowed his irritated lungs to suck in the air they desperately needed. This violent filling and use of his own affected airway sent him into a debilitating coughing fit ending with him crashing violently into a wall until it subsided—it seemed he'd been exposed to more of the toxin than he'd realized. The gasping sounds coming from his own throat as he tried to breath were proof enough of that.

But he couldn't afford to be weak and he certainly couldn't slow down now. Birkin was already barely conscious, and if he was still breathing it was so slight the resulting oxygen delivered into his blood stream was negligible. Wesker had less then two minutes to get him breathing again.

_Move!_

The very force of the thought propelled him forwards, down the West Wing's main hall, past the small lounge, through the door at the back, and up a fight of stairs that threatened to kill him via exhaustion. From here it was a winding path through what he liked to refer to on better days as the mirror corridors and now just thought of as a confusing death trap. Then it was through another door, across a small landing, and down another flight of steps.

At this point Wesker could barely manage to get air past the suffocating block in his throat and chest, he was seeing stars and his footing was shaky at best. This final obstacle proved too difficult to attempt without faulting. Around five steps from the bottom and only seconds away from the mansion's drug room, stalked with everything he needed to reverse the process caused by Plant 15's deadly spores, Wesker fell.

It hurt as he tumbled down the final steps and smacked his head against the side railing on the way, but it was a dull pain; one that was not near as severe as it should have been. This fact sent off a massive chiming of warning bells in his head. That goddam plant was killing him and only feet away from what he needed to save himself and William.

It would have been so easy to just quit, to let himself fall into the darkness that was threatening to overwhelm him and forever escape the madness of Umbrella, but Wesker never did things the easy way. He never surrendered to anyone or anything, and the last thing he saw death as was a merciful escape; he wasn't foolish enough for that.

Giving in now would make everything he had done in his life and all the time he'd spent fighting Umbrella to stay alive and swearing revenge on the twisted company a gigantic mess of worthless, meaningless nothing. Wesker was not about to let some carelessly crafted byproduct of Umbrella kill him. Not now, not ever. That would be losing, something Wesker was incapable of doing.

_Get Up!_

Wesker's body rose from the floor. It had to. There was no other option. Operating on sheer will and determination Wesker stumbled the few steps that felt like endless miles to the door, the desperate sounds of his own strained wheezing the only noise cutting through the still air. Wesker somehow managed to get the door open. He abandoned the probably dead body at the foot of the stairs and threw himself upon the shelves containing a vast quantity of medical supplies.

It was incredible, in his current state of mind Wesker no longer had the will to care about anything past his own survival. When it was all said and done, looking back he could justify it. He could say that if he hadn't tended to himself first there was no way he could have had the ability to save his friend, but he knew it would just be a pointless lie constructed by his subconscious to ease any guilt that he might feel for ignoring all else to prolong his own life. Why deny it? The instinctual will of any creature to enter its most base level of functioning to survive was a powerful and useful tool.

As he injected the epinephrin into his thigh and breathed in the mist from the inhaler as best he could through his tight throat he knew "giving into" this instinct had saved his life.

Groaning Wesker grabbed a a few more doses of the life saving drugs and made his way back over to the limp form of his only ally in this fight against the company that tried to kill its workers on a daily basis and administered him with the same treatment. It took a while but the sudden sputtering wheeze that erupted from Birkin's throat moments later followed by the massive wave of relief that crashed down upon Wesker upon hearing it proved that Wesker's determination to survive, no matter the costs, had saved Birkin's life as well.

Once he was sure that neither of them were going suddenly get worse and stop breathing again Wesker allowed himself to collapse beside the only person aside from himself that he could honestly give a damn about.

He didn't hate or despise the side of himself that most of humanity preferred to believe makes an individual a monster. Wesker embraced it. It had just saved them both hadn't it?

Such were his thoughts as he closed his eyes and marveled at the simple fact he could breath again. Amazing how one takes such vital things for grated. His hand lain across Birkin's chest so he could feel the mimicked motions of his own chest in his partner, he allowed himself to drift into a sort of vigilant semiconscious state and remained so until he felt the body next to him shift.

"Al..?"

God he sounded awful, like he'd been sand papering his throat for the last hour or so.

"Yeah?"

Wesker winced. He didn't sound much better.

"What..." he forced out, "happened...the wall...I..."

"Umbrella tried to...kill us...again..." Wesker tried clearing his throat but it didn't help, just made him cough.

"Th...they do that a lot... I...doubt this will be the last..."

Wesker nodded his agreement through his coughs. "Greenhouse...on the other side...Plant 15..."

"Oh..." A long pause, most likely just to breath. "How'd you...get me...?" His voice cracked but he didn't have to finish the sentence for Wesker to comprehend.

"Emblem...dining room." Damn his throat hurt. "Can't talk."

Birkin nodded and squeezed his hand. "Thank you."

Wesker only made some stifled noise in response.

A few minutes passed.

"I...doubt...she'll survive long."

"Who?" Wesker choked.

"Alexia Ashford."

Wesker would have strangled him if he'd had the energy and it wouldn't undermine everything he'd just gone through. As it was, he just cuffed him painfully upside the head. Unfortunately, Birkin would _never_ let his one sided competition with the Ashford prodigy go.

* * *

**AN: ** So I must apologize for the long delay but I have been anything but unproductive. Despite the craziness of the holidays further added to by the antics of a new puppy named Albert (PLEASE don't tell Wesker I named a _poodle _after him or he'll kill me before I finish another chapter!), I went back and edited EVERYTHING. Then I brushed up on my Resident Evil knowledge by re-playing Resident Evil Re-Make so the mansion layout in the previous chapter has been totally fixed. I also added a lemon to PG07A/W (you are welcome). Just look for the link on my profile page if you are interested.

Finally to ensure that I get back to timely updates I've started doing at least 1000 words a day which isn't 1700 but it'll still means decent update speed.

Oh and for anyone who's interested, after mapping out everything it looks like the entire story will span between 600-700 pages (we're at about 175 right now). So if you are sticking with me, it'll be for the long hall /smiles/.

That's all from me for now. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this update! I'd love comments and concrit.

-Asiera


	12. PG10AW

**AN:** Fair warning, this is an M rated story and as such there is a bit of mature content at the end of this one. It wasn't enough to warrant me creating two versions, but just know it's there /smiles/.

* * *

**Project W: Second Cycle**

**PG10A/W: Exposure**

_November 16__th__, 1984; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4 _

Wesker glowered as he looked down at the seemingly endless list of test results he'd need to interpret, report on, and probably replete over the course of the day in order to keep up with Birkin's ever increasing demands. Wesker sighed heatedly, unlike he had previously imagined, Birkin's obsession with besting Alexia Ashford had only increased after the incident with Plant 15 instead of dissipating as he'd hoped it would.

This unexpected turn of events could be blamed almost entirely on the fact that, for some unexplained reason, news of the newly formed competition between the Umbrella's two youngest researchers got out and become quite a hot topic within the facilities where they each worked. The daily score for who was doing what better in terms of their viral research—Birkin and Wesker or Ashford—was so heavily discussed around the mansion that one could barely go a day without hearing about it at least half a dozen times; and that was only if they were keeping up with her.

It certainly hadn't helped things that Dr. Marcus had jumped on board and was constantly demanding them to do better then the young upstart stationed at the Antarctic base. In truth, Wesker wouldn't have been surprised if the good doctor was the one keeping the rumor mill stocked in order to "motivate" Birkin and himself, but the fact was, Wesker couldn't care less about their frequently talked up "competition," and he very much doubted that Alexia did either. Wesker had little interest in further perpetuating Umbrella's ever growing stain on the world. His focus was more directed towards surviving long enough to get out.

Birkin...Birkin was another matter entirely. He already felt the sting from no longer being Umbrella's youngest and Alexia's expedient promotion to the position of Chief Senior researcher at the Antarctic branch. The added strain from everyone's ever increasing expectations and Dr. Marcus's grumbles and glares each time the brat halfway across the world came up with something better than the results at the Raccoon facility, proved to be too much for him. Within a matter of months following her hiring, Birkin had completely lost himself in their rivalry.

Sometimes Wesker felt as though Birkin had forgotten their true goal in all of this—revenge (on his part) and escape from Umbrella. He had to constantly remind himself that this was not the case. Losing himself in the research was simply Birkin's way of coping with everything around him. It was a method that Wesker would also implement occasionally, though not near to the degree of his partner; there were frequent occasions when Wesker hadn't even been able to get Birkin out of the labs for days at a time.

Other changes had flowed, not only with Birkin's personality which had become edgy, short tempered, and intolerant of even the slightest of errors, but in the very labs they worked in. In order to cope with the high demand of research and experiments made by both Birkin and Marcus, an additional research lab had been hastily constructed on the outskirts of the mansion beneath the Guard House that had earned the structure its name.

The whole place was a disaster waiting to happen, but ever since Birkin's damn obsession with besting a girl who'd never even heard of him had started, the man had been insistent upon the hiring of vast amounts of new scientist to further speed up his research on the Tyrant Virus. To Wesker's great loathing, Dr. Marcus had agreed and up went this poor excuse for an new research facility.

Located past the outer gardens, the Guard House was a conglomeration of cramped living quarters and research labs that often were paired much too closely or even combined with each other. The surprisingly large addition to the Spencer Estate was stocked with "the best scientists Umbrella could find." In reality, they were nothing short of a collection of narcissistic fools hell bent on creating the most deadly creatures they could using T, as quickly as possible, with little to no regard for safety or the repercussions of such careless research.

As it was currently, this death trap contained a colony of vicious viralized bees, mutant _highly _venomous giant spiders, a collection of deadly snakes of varying sizes, and Dr Sarton's research which was up to Plant 30 something. From what he'd recently heard, there were now plans to put in a gigantic shark tank...yes, a _shark tank_ in the basement.

It was chaos.

There was little wonder why Wesker loathed going down there and even less of a question why the idea that he and Birkin were supposed to be "supervising" this madness infuriated him. As bad as that was, it was not his biggest concern right now. He had to deal with the madness within his own lab.

After a few angry mutterings, Wesker turned back to the giant test tube before him containing the rather nasty looking experiment that was his first order of business this morning: The Hunter-α or MA-121. This monster, developed in 1981, represented the first of the B.O.W.s created solely by Wesker and Birkin and William's first success in his war with the Ashfords.

It was a rather nasty looking creature with its hunched, heavily built, reptilian form standing about four and a half feet from the ground. Green thick scales covered the majority of its body, providing a natural armor that made it difficult for a variety of weapons to pierce its hide.

The end of each of its long muscled arms blossomed into a series of razor sharp, six inch claws that were mimicked on the creature's talon-like feet. These deadly slashing blades were the creature's primary weapons and could be used to rip pray open within seconds.

The monster's head was drawn tightly into its body with nothing anyone could identify as a neck. The majority of the face was taken up by its mouth, filled with rows of needle like teeth perfect for digging into the unprotected flesh of its pinned victims.

Large closely set eyes, which allowed it excellent vision even in the dimmest of light, if open, would have relieved themselves as bright yellow orbs split by lizard-like slits. These, in combination with an uncanny sense of smell and an unyielding instinct to capture and savagely rip apart its pray, had earned this monster the apt name, Hunter.

The abomination was created by first implanting a human ovum with a deadly cocktail of reptile DNA and then administering the virus. What resulted was a test tube grown killing machine that took only three months to mature. It was a highly successful B.O.W. that was being mass produced in many of Umbrella's labs all over the world.

After this first success, others had followed at an astounding rate, including Cerberus—the T-exposed reanimated dogs with their rigid muscle structure showing through poorly held together sheets of ragged hanging skin—and many other twisted, deadly, uncontrollable monsters.

It seemed in their new line of research, raw power and a high kill rate took priority over control and caution, which Wesker accurately predicted would lead to disaster.

Despite all the madness now swarming around him in droves, mostly centered around Birkin, Wesker had endured. What choice did he have? As far has he knew, none, and he had continued in this way of thinking for two whole years, putting up with all the danger and sleepless nights until finally, the cause of all their problems simply disappeared.

In December of 1983, little twelve year old Alexia Ashford died in a "tragic" accidental exposure to her own virus: The T-Veronica which she had constructed by mixing Tyrant with an ancient virus she'd discovered within a fossilized queen ant. It was a sad day for Umbrella, but cause for celebration for most everyone at the Raccoon facility, especially Birkin. Wesker had also rejoiced. He had put up with the fallout from their moronic competition for far too long and took comfort in the fact that it was finally over...or so he'd thought.

Much to Wesker's dismay, his partner's obsession had persisted long past Alexia's death. In fact, it was almost as if nothing had changed, making December of that year particularly hellish for Albert.

This blatant disregard for anything aside from his research and had caused a deep rift to begin to develop between himself a Birkin, one that would have probably driven them apart...were it not for what Wesker would forever after refer to as "the Exposure."

To this day, Wesker still remembered every detail of how it felt to have that glass viral container shatter under his hands and feel the glass cut into his skin, sending the virus rushing through his blood stream.

"The Exposure" was an event that Wesker would one day look back on with the realization that this one simple accident; this tiny little fluke, is what saved him from certain demise in the years to come and enabled him to fully realize his destiny to become the equivalent of the "god" he now viewed himself as. Though when it happened, all Wesker could see was the end; the end of everything he'd worked for and the death he'd fought with all he had to avoid. In truth, it was this mistake that would forever bind him to Umbrella's dark path, making actual escape from the company that was destroying his humanity impossible.

* * *

_November 19__th__, 1984; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4 _

Wesker couldn't force his suddenly tight throat to make a sound. All he could do was stare down at the glass shards and his own blood mixed with the deadly blue serum containing the latest strain of the Tyrant Virus. Wesker couldn't think; couldn't process what had just happened.

After everything he'd been through; all the precautions he'd painstakingly taken; all the deadly experiments he'd helped create that could have easily ripped him apart, to be killed by a simple uneven surface of the floor? It was absurd; impossible!

But it wasn't. The entire unavoidable truth was scattered and splashed across the lab table before him like some tragedy or sick form of poetic justice. A trip. A simple stumble that was all it took to end him and his far away dreams of revenge on all of Umbrella.

All he'd have had to do was to let himself fall to the floor. The worst results would have been skinned knees, bruises and maybe a few jarred joints, but he'd caught himself. He'd caught himself on a lab table filled with the sealed cylinders containing the delicate twisting, double helix-like tubes filled with the T-Virus. His hand and the force behind it had easily shattered the contaminated glass, which in turn, dug deeply into his palm, unquestionably infecting him with the pathogen he'd exposed so many others to, and dooming him to their same grim fate.

Wesker didn't know how long he just stood there, staring at the mess on the lab table. He'd never felt so helpless in his life. There was absolutely _nothing_ he could do, no way to fix or reverse what had just happened.

It was over.

It was just that simple.

"Will..." he eventually managed to force out. His voice sounded desperate, almost pleading. Despite the hopelessness of the situation, he still found it in himself to be disgusted by this show of weakness. If he was going to die, he wasn't going to do it trembling and sobbing in a corner. Finding at least some comfort in the ability to control that aspect of the situation, Wesker forced all emotion from his voice and face. "Will, we have a Biohazard."

"What?!" came the partly panicked, partly put off response for the other side of the lab. In all their years working here, neither of them had ever initiated such an event—well unless you counted Wesker's near death via an uncaged Lisa, the undead slug that had nearly eaten Birkin's face, and the exposure to the spores released by Plant 15. Birkin couldn't even imagine what Wesker could be referring to and he certainly didn't want to try. Each of those experiences had been traumatic and highly life threatening and were something neither of the two wanted to relive.

"A viral container broke," stated Wesker as if he was just reading off another result from their multitude of daily tests.

Birkin froze in his tracks. That could be bad, very bad. T wasn't airborne, but still, depending on how it was broken... Birkin shook his head. Wesker didn't sound upset or panicked, meaning there must not be any real reason to feel alarmed. Birkin assured himself with such words. This would probably only serve as an annoyance, an unexpected and time consuming delay in their precious research-

His thoughts screeched to a complete halt as he rounded the corner and saw the undeniable facts of what had just occurred. The blood, Wesker's hand, the shattered vial, and the stoic acceptance on Wesker's features forcing William to accept a truth every fiber of his being was rejecting with all its might.

Wesker was infected.

The thought almost caused Birkin's body to drop to the floor as if the sturdy strings that had been holding him up the entire time had suddenly been cut. In truth, they had. If he lost Wesker, lost the only partner, safety, and solace he had in this chaos around him...he'd break, there was no other possibility. Birkin grabbed a nearby chair in order to compensate for the lack of support provided by his suddenly weak, shaking legs.

For a while, they just stared at each other, Wesker's stormy hidden eyes boring into Birkin's wide sapphire ones as though he was asking Birkin to fix it, to offer up some solution he hadn't seen before he fully gave into the bleak reality that he was going to die...or worse, become the a part of experiments he'd spent the last seven years preforming.

Birkin took a deep breath, after everything that Wesker had done for him, all the times the older blond had saved Birkin from exposure to the virus, death, or some combination there of, failing his partner now was _not_ an option. There was hope...even if it was slim. Wesker would not die; William wouldn't let him

The look that suddenly came over the other scientist's previously terror filled features; the sheer determination replacing all traces of fear and uncertainty, was something Wesker had never seen in the boy before. I almost made him believe that Birkin really could do something to save him, even though he knew the situation was hopeless.

"Take off your lab coat, don't let any more of the contaminate touch you, and then place it on the lab table over the spill," Birkin ordered in the strongest voice Wesker had ever hear him use.

Due to the sheer strength behind the order, Wesker found himself complying before he'd even fully thought it through. It was true that the best decontamination for the T-Virus was still incineration, or saturation with bleach or some other form of disinfectant. As long as the contamination was contained, it was fairly easy to eliminate. However, though the virus had only gotten on his hand and lab coat sleeve, as far as he knew, he was a walking time bomb and, if not already, soon to be highly contagious. He wasn't sure of the point in all this, but in the end, he decided to follow Birkin's directions for the time being.

Once Wesker had finished with Birkin's directions, the younger scientist then took off his own jacket and threw it to him. "Wrap that around your effected arm. You are going to the decontamination chamber."

Wesker opened his mouth to protest, it wouldn't do him any good. Unlike last time, the virus was already in his blood stream not just on his body. But any attempts from Wesker to argue back were cut off by the suddenly very changed Birkin.

"Al, go!" he yelled, pointing to the door's located near the lab's exit. "Now!"

Wesker stared at his partner's strangely stern features for a few moments. When he looked close enough, past his clenched fists, set jaw, and hard eyes he could identify the terror that was still lining his friend's features. The fact that Birkin had somehow found the courage to push through, even if his attempts were futile, was enough to get Albert into the decontamination chamber.

Once completely bare, his clothes disposed of in a bag set for incineration, and standing under the heavy stream of scalding hot water, Wesker held up his bleeding hand so he could fully appreciate the damage that had been done. The cuts were deep and jagged with some pieces of the strangely shaped glass still embedded in his flesh.

Carefully and methodically, Wesker began removing the pieces, wincing as each shard was pulled from the tender red wound before gingerly placing them in the same biohazard bin into which his clothes had been discarded.

Wesker had only just finished cleaning the throbbing gash when Birkin came slamming through the metal doors and into the steamy room.

Wesker blinked in shock at this sudden very anti-protocol intrusion by the other scientist. "Will, what are you doing?"

Birkin held up a vile identical to the one Wesker had broken minutes ago except that the liquid twisting in the glass channels inside the cylindrical shell were a bright green instead of the electric blue that had mixed with his crimson blood.

Wesker's eye brow's knitted together. He'd never seen...whatever that was before and stepped back despite himself in apprehension for what other horrors might be contained behind the glass. "What is that, Will?"

"An antivirus," stated Birkin hurriedly as he attached the canister to the painfully large three pronged needle model they used when infecting test subjects.

Wesker's eyes went wide and he felt his heart skip a beat, hope beginning to rekindle within his chest. "A what?" he gasped.

"Antivirus," Birkin repeated. "It's..." his hands were shaking. "Oh god, Al, it's only experimental, a side project! I never even got around to testing it one a live subjects, let alone humans! There has just been so much else going on...and...I..." All of Birkin's previous power was gone, leaving him looking as though he was about to cry. "Oh God I'm so sorry...b-but it's the only chance you've got now...a-and the sooner we get it i-in the higher ch-chance you have..." He didn't just look like he was going to start crying anymore.

Wesker remained still for a few moments, just staring at the trembling man before him. Part of him was furious because he knew something as important as developing an antivirus would not have been put off until now if it hadn't been for the blasted challenge Birkin had still been trying to win despite the fact that the competition had been dead for a nearly a year. The other half didn't care. There was a chance, a chance he wouldn't die here. No matter what it was, he'd take it.

"Dammit, Al!" cried Birkin. "_Please _let me try to save you!"

Birkin's shout snapped the older blond black to reality and he immediately stepped out of the pounding water and extended his arm out to his partner.

Birkin let out a sigh load enough to be a sob before he grabbed Wesker's wet arm and began rapidly drying it. Once he was satisfied with the abused pink skin he scrubbed the area again with an alcohol pad and then lined up the shaking needle with Wesker forearm. The man nearly jumped when Wesker reached up to steady his hard. Birkin met his friend's eyes for a brief moment before Wesker nodded and together they slid the needles home and injected the green tinged liquid into Wesker's body.

The silence that stretched between them was almost unbearable. The constant pounding of the scalding water was on the cement floor and the heavy steam air choking them were all Birkin tried to force himself to focus on. He couldn't look Wesker in the eye, couldn't handle the fact that his blasted obsession with a dead twelve year old had been the primary cause of this situation. He blamed himself. How could he not? If he had been focused on...on _anything _ else besides what was happening in Antarctica, he would not put off the development of the antivirus so long. Furthermore, if they weren't so swamped with his daunting level of experiments that _he'd _ ordered, vials of the T-Virus wouldn't have been left so carelessly on the table. This _was_ his fault.

"What about Dr. Marcus?" inquired Wesker slowly, breaking the painful silence. "You know the protocols. Once he finds out I'm infected, I'll be initiated into the experiments." Wesker's words were like knives into Birkin's chest.

Birkin found himself finally letting go of the breath he'd been holding ever since he'd injected Wesker with the barely tested antivirus that might or might not end up killing him just as effectively as Tyrant would.

"H-he won't," swore Birkin adamantly. "I'll decontaminate the lab with bleach instead of burning it and we'll proceed as if nothing is amiss." Birkin had never been so grateful that Dr. Marcus was too paranoid to put cameras in the labs.

Wesker shook his head. "That will increase your chances of getting infected exponentially. I can't just walk around as if-"

"I don't care about the risks, Al!" yelled Birkin interrupting him. "I am _not_ loosing you. Not like this. Not after everything you've done for me; after everything we've been through! And if I get infected because of it, so be it! It'd be my own damn fault! Don't you remember what I said? We can't do this alone..." He trailed off, no longer able to meet Wesker's eyes. "I can't do this alone..."

Wesker opened his mouth but then relented with a sigh. Birkin's last words were pitiful; weak. He _needed_ Wesker, that much was clear beyond a doubt. The power amounted by those words to Wesker was welcome in this new world where his life was on the brink of being extinguished.

"And if the serum doesn't work," he inquired unemotionally.

Birkin winced, knowing fully whose shoulders that blame would fall on. "Than...than I'll keep working on it. We'll keep working on it. The...the shortest time for an infected individual to turn was seven days. We...we have time..." Birkin wanted to run to Wesker, to hold him; a reassurance they both desperately needed, but not only did he know doing so was now a great risk to himself—especially since Wesker was still actively bleeding—but he didn't feel worthy of the contact right now.

Wesker sighed heavily again. Seven days wasn't a lot, but it was much better than the hopelessness that was Wesker's outlook two minutes ago. "Alright," was all he managed to say.

Birkin closed his eyes for a few moments and nodded. "I promise you, Al. You're _not_ going to die. This _will _work."

* * *

_November 21__st__, 1984; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4 _

The antivirus didn't work.

The miraculous part was that it didn't have to.

Wesker was pacing up and down the narrow hallways in the lab formed by the work stations and gigantic rows of B.O.W. containing test tubes, praying that he wouldn't soon be joining the grotesque specimens. So far he hadn't experienced any of the symptoms associated with the virus—well, aside from a shorter temper, a high anxiety level, and a case of skin crawling itches all of which Birkin claimed Wesker had caused through his own fears of becoming infected. William's conclusion made sense and Wesker desperately wanted to believe it; believe that the antivirus had worked, but it was hard to be optimistic when he was infected with something that had a hundred percent kill rate and no proven cure. Wesker glanced down at his watch, a frequent habit as of late. Less than five days...that's all the time they had if Birkin's experimental cure was a failure.

Wesker's shaded eyes traveled back to the corner where Birkin was preparing the slide of his blood to be examined under the electron microscope. God he couldn't wait anymore! He had to know now if he was going to live or...or if he was five days, eight hours, and twenty six minutes away from becoming an addition to their horde of walking dead.

Wesker continued this fretful pacing, occasionally scratching at his arms where his lab coat rubbed and cursing every time he did. Finally, he saw Birkin put the slide under the scope and found himself holding his breath. Each second Birkin stared deeply into the molecular structure of the red smear dragging on into whole eternities as Wesker desperately awaited the interpretation upon which his very life was hinged.

Finally, William pulled back from the eyepiece, brows knitted together in what looked to be confusion.

That could not be a good sign.

"Well?!" demanded Wesker much louder than he'd intended, causing Birkin to jump.

Birkin met Wesker's eyes, reading the vast flood of emotions even his dark lenses and fortified mask couldn't hide; not from him anyways. "There's nothing, Al."

Wesker's heart felt like it fell to a region near his feet. He swallowed, barely managing to control his voice. "No antivirus levels."

Five days, eight hours, and twenty three minutes.

Birkin shook his head quickly causing Wesker to collapse into the chair he'd been avoiding for the last few days due to the slight possibility of contamination via touching his body.

"No, Al," Birkin corrected quickly, "you don't understand. There's _nothing_, no antivirus levels but no T-Virus either!"

Wesker's heart and stomach continued to do an uncomfortable series of flip flops that he was trying hard to prevent showing. "Wha...I don't...Will that's impossible! I was infected! We know this!"

Birkin nodded his rapid agreement. "I know, Al! But now...now you're not. I can't explain it. There are no antiviral levels in your system so it wasn't the cure."

"Move!" Wesker commanded with such force that Birkin was sure he'd push him out of his chair if he didn't—that would have been the first contact he'd have had with Wesker since he injected him with his "cure" two days ago.

Birkin quickly moved out of Wesker's way who ripped of his sunglasses and threw himself on the microscope making that the first bit of lab equipment he'd touched since the nineteenth. Wesker stared into the sample of his own blood in shock. Nothing...absolutely nothing. It was normal. There was no sign that he'd _ever_ _been_ infected.

Birkin watched as his friend's form went from rigid to relaxed, so much his arms almost collapsed, back to being completely stiff again.

"Another sample." His voice strangely even.

"What?" blinked Birkin who wanted nothing more then to just throw his arms around Wesker and be grateful for whatever miracle had transpired.  
"We need another damn sample!" screamed Wesker, obviously beside himself at the moment—not that Birkin blamed him, he just hated seeing Wesker like this. "This...the..." He swallowed, reigning in his unpredictable emotions. "One sample is not conclusive!"

Birkin nodded, holding his hands up in submission. "Okay Al, we'll take another sample."

Wesker held his head, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger in an effort to alleviate the uncomfortable level of pressure pounding beneath his temples. "Just...just get me another kit," he requested, exhaustion showing through in his voice; unsurprising as Wesker hadn't been able to really sleep since the incident.

Wesker was left alone with his thoughts while Birkin left to get the equipment necessary to repeat the test. Wesker tried to think; tried to reason out why the results had been what they were, but the only thought pounding through his head was a single word: _Impossible!_

Apparently it wasn't. A second and third examination of his blood yielded the same results, and what came next was even more astounding.

In an effort to explain what was going on, Birkin suggested exposing a sample of Wesker's blood to the Tyrant Virus. Wesker, perhaps even more desperate than William to understand the reason he wasn't dying right now, had of course agreed. Several hours later the two were staring down into a double headed microscope in awe at the impossible events that were occurring.

Tyrant was usually, as its name suggested, ruthless when invading a host's cells. A typical case showed massive cellular invasion and viral replication levels within hours of infection. Since their experiments with strengthening the virus, this deadly attribute had only intensified. But this time, even three hours after the sample of Wesker's cells had been introduction to the T-Virus and no antivirus had been introduced, they remained completely unchanged; no genetic mutation; no viral replication; no cellular invasion. Even more shocking, Wesker seemed to have developed some rudimentary antibodies the the virus that despite in depth study, had nothing to do with Birkin's first botched attempt at an antivirus.

For the life of them, neither scientist could explain it and Wesker refused to even think about leaving the lab until they had found out why. For him. It wasn't real and he wasn't safe until they could understand both the why and the how of this mind boggling turn of events. Such a complex endeavor took them until the next morning before if finally clicked in Birkin's suddenly un-groggy mind.

"You're immune to Ebola!" he cried out, pulling his face from the gigantic microscope before him.  
"What?" called Wesker in confusion from his own work station.

Birkin scrambled over to him. "Inherited immunity! You have inherited immunity to Ebola!"

Wesker froze as the reality dawned on him. "Our latest strains of T were spliced with Ebola to up the infection rate and tenacity..."

Birkin nodded his head enthusiastically.

Recently, Umbrella had added the viral cause of hemorrhagic fever to their list of deadly pathogens undergoing research. Surprisingly, they'd gotten the samples from Africa "legally" by claiming to be working on a cure for the devastating disease, when in reality, they were only studying its potential as a biological weapon, and more recently, been augmenting Tyrant with it.

The legal means of acquisition got the corporation funding and supplies meant for the development of a vaccine—not that Umbrella needed any extra money or lab equipment. The most important thing Umbrella acquired from the move was increased support from the clueless sympathetic masses, members of whom were frequently used to stock its test tubes.

"That's...highly unlikely, Will," Wesker said slowly, reasoning through the proposal. "Look at me? Do I look of African decent to you? It makes no sense that I'd have an immunity to a virus discovered in the Zaire region of Africa."

Birkin hesitated. "That's true but...but the Marburg virus—a cousin of Ebola—traces its origins back to Europe, so it is possible that..." Birkin trailed off and then slammed his hand down on the desk causing his partner to startle slightly. "Hell, Al, I don't _care_ why you're immune. The fact is, Ebola can't enter your cells and neither can the latest strain of Tyrant with which we spliced it. The virus can't replicate so it dies and you're...you're okay..."

Wesker stood, sighing. "Yes but-"

"No!" Birkin yelled. "That's it! End of the fucking discussion! You're _okay_! That's all that matters!"

Wesker was a bit floored by such an admission for the man whose entire world had revolved around besting the currently dead Alexia Ashford for the past three years. It was...almost touching.

For a few beats, the two just stared at one another, complete silence—aside from the constant ambient noise of the lab—enveloping them before Wesker broke it. "No it isn't, Will," he stated, arms folded. "Because the only natural immunity I'm aware for either strain is a mutation in the NPCI gene which ends up producing a very debilitating disease, which by now, I think I'd know if I had. Furthermore, temporarily ignoring the question of _why_ I was immune, I've generated antibodies, antibodies that can be used to prefect an actual antivirus, which is why this conversation is fare from ov-."  
Wesker's speech was adequately cut off as Birkin practically accosted him, lips slamming into Wesker's own stopping him for uttering another syllable. It took a bit of coaxing before Wesker actually parted his lips, allowing Birkin's tongue the access it requested and even a small portion of the dominance it always uselessly fought for.

Once Birkin was fairly certain that Wesker wouldn't just start back off where he'd been "rudely" interrupted and William had finished relishing in the first real contact they'd had since exposure, he pulled slowly back, just enough to allow him room to speak. "Yes. It. Is." Birkin said, slowly and firmly into Wesker's ear before nipping it. "You're alive and you're going to stay that way. Right now, I wouldn't care if the fucking Virgin Mary came down and blessed the virus away in your sleep."

Birkin certainly had an interesting take on the Catholic religion he'd been raised in to.

"All those other, far less pressing matters, can wait until tomorrow. All I care about right now is _you_. You not dying. I..." he looked away from a, by now, highly amused Wesker, "...I don't know what I'd do without you."

Wesker's rather feline grin widened and he twined his fingers around Birkin's waist, all tension and fear completely drained from the situation. "Lose yourself in pointless competitions with little dead twelve year old girls," he answered scathingly.

Birkin glared at Wesker's black shoes. "Look, I get it alright? I was stupid and this was all my fault!" He paused, his slight form starting to tremble slightly. "N-never mind." Feeling absolutely horrible and completely guilt wracked—something he'd been holding back for the sake of being competent in his quest to save Wesker—Birkin tried to push back.

His efforts were far from successful as Wesker's much stronger arms held him securely in place, his hands pressing firmly into the small of William's back.

After a few moments of useless struggling, Birkin chanced a glance up at the softly grinning devil holding him captive.

"As long as you understand that," Wesker purred, "than I think we can move on."

Far from the words Birkin had been hoping for, the man again tried to break free to no avail. "Do you have to be such a bastard, Al?!" he hissed. "I already feel awful about the entire thing! What do you want?! Me to infect myself so I know how it feels?!"

Wesker's eyes narrowed to slits, his grip tightening painfully around Birkin. "I could hit you for saying something so flagrantly stupid," he growled causing Birkin to wince and shy away. Seeing this, Wesker loosened his death grip, just not enough to allow William to escape. "But I think we've both been through enough as of late."

Birkin slowly relaxed, before eventually letting himself collapse into Wesker. "I'm so sorry, Al," he muttered into Wesker's lab coat.

Wesker sighed, moving one of his hands up from William's waist and into messy hair. "As much as I hate to say it, I believe you are being too hard on yourself."

Birkin smiled from his position. "As if I'd believe _that_."

Wesker chuckled low in his throat. "Perhaps not." A pause. "But honesty, Will, this 'ability' you have to completely lose yourself in your research...it has the potential to get you killed."

"As long as I have you to snap me out of it, I think I'll live," responded Birkin.  
"Oh, that so?" laughed Wesker. "Well than, I suggest you don't get rid of me anytime soon."

Birkin nodded. "I wouldn't dream of it. Just...please do it in a way that doesn't come this close to giving me a heart attack next time."

"I believe we could both benefit from that," muttered Wesker, crooking a finger under his partner's chin so that he was forced to look up him, flicking a bit of his straw colored hair out of his face with his other hand. "It's getting quite long," Wesker commented in response to yet another aspect of his life Birkin had let slide.

The younger scientist rolled his eyes. "I'll cut it tomorrow, alright?"

"Hnn...you will also have to shave _properly_ and shower, I'm getting tired of living with a man who looks as though he's trying to emulate Doctor Marcus on a bad day in regard to his looks."

Birkin jerked his head back in mock anger. "You think I look like Doctor Marcus?"

"No," admitted Wesker. "But I'd say you're on the path to his long haired mad scientist appearance."

"..." Birkin just stared at him more than a bit put off. "Well then, I suppose I should thank you further for crushing those vials."

Wesker glowered slightly. "Don't push it."

The older blond sighed heavily, running a hand through the stiff strands of his own hair as he took in the mess they'd left the lab in. "Come on, the sooner we clean this up, the sooner we can get out of here. I believe I've seen enough of this place to last me a lifetime and been through enough to earn a break."

"Agreed," nodded Birkin happily dashing off to clean up anything that, left untended, could lead to further biohazards—they'd both had enough of those as of late.

After a few minutes of quiet cleaning, Birkin glanced over his shoulder at Wesker who was addressing everything he touched with added caution. "Al, you do no we have to come back tomorrow, right?"

Wesker growled as he proceeded to erase all traces of his very special blood makeup. "You just had to remind me didn't you?"

"Something like that," laughed Birkin.

* * *

_November 21st__, 1984; Spencer Estate_

Wesker readjusted his back slightly against the head board of what once had been his bed, and long ago become his and Birkin's. Ever since the two of them had cleaned up the B4 level of the lab—a difficult task to be sure—and themselves—especially Birkin who had quite a bit of self maintenance to catch up on—the couple had been laying in the gigantic king sized bed of their estate quarters. Each of them were deeply lost in their own private thoughts, taking some measure of comfort from the partial safety of their private room and each other's presence.

Birkin looked up at the stoic blond holding him securely against his toned chest. It was reassuring to feel the steady beating of his partner's heart on his back and to know that there wasn't _currently_ any significant risk of it stopping anytime soon.

Eventually Wesker felt Birkin's sapphire eyes on him and pulled himself from the distant place his mind had wandered to in favor of meeting those eyes. Stopping the rhythmic movement of his hand over Birkin's side, he stared down at his partner's rather pensive face.

Secretly, Wesker never tired of the expression that overtook Birkin's features whenever he was mentally battling with one or more of the conundrums that forever seemed to plague his ever active mind. During these moments, William's eyebrows would knit together, his sharp nose would wrinkle slightly, and a faint grimace would tug at the left corner of his lips. Depending on the level to which Birkin was confounded, he would eventually begin to chew on his lower lip. Though he'd _never_ admit to it, Wesker found this attribute to be exceedingly adorable—a word Wesker never recalled having used in his life and furthermore, had no desire to.

Once he'd gotten enough amusement from studying his colleague's expression. Wesker spoke, his tome teasing. "Something wrong, Dearheart?"

Birkin relaxed ever so slightly at the use of Wesker's favorite pet name before slowly shaking his head. "No...it's just...well..." He sighed and much to Wesker's private satisfaction, briefly bit his bottom lip. "What are you going to do?" he inquired slowly. "You know, after?"

"After?" repeated Wesker, perplexity showing in his unshaded eyes.

"After we get out. I know it won't happen anytime soon, probably not even in the foreseeable future," he clarified quickly in order to prevent Wesker from saying something rather negative as was his usual habit when responding to such questions. "But, if—_when _we do, what then?"

Wesker paused, he fingers which had moved down to toy with the hem of Birkin's shirt ceasing in their activity. Wesker had always been so focused on revenge and escape that he never really thought about what he'd do afterwards. He had no idea, and for someone who took great comfort from having every possible contingency planned out in great detail, that was not a pleasant realization to come to.

He couldn't ever see himself in a normal job, nor could he imagine living out the rest of his days in "luxury" on some private beach with the funds he planned to acquire from the pharmaceutical giant prior to its destruction. Honestly, and this was a chilling thought, Wesker couldn't picture himself doing anything differently than he was now.

Before Umbrella had reentered his life in 1977 he'd just been moving forwards with no true goal in mind; jumping through every hoop set before him as though on autopilot. Umbrella had given him a purpose, and while it was horrible to think that he'd be doing some variant of his current life for all eternity, it was just as distressing to revert back to how it had been before Umbrella had hired him: Purposeless.

"I...don't know," Wesker admitted quietly. "It's hard to imagine anything beyond this...what we're doing now, I mean."

Birkin nodded, smiling softly. "Same here."

Silence fell again, Wesker's demand to plan out every action and possibility forcing his mind to ponder the unpleasant subject. Finally, not wanting to continue to come up with the same blanks and the same unanswerable questions, Wesker quickly switched gears.

Suddenly, Birkin found himself being none too gently flipped off of Wesker, his back hitting the mattress with a muffled thunk. Before he could accurately interpret what happened, Wesker was leaning over him, slipping easily between his knees, his face and body hovering mere inches above a reasonably shocked Birkin.

"I may be unsure of what I'm going to do after I _dismantle _ Umbrella, but I _do_ know what I'm going to do now..." Wesker purred against Birkin's neck.

Birkin shivered and placed his arms around Wesker's shoulders as Wesker started to unbutton his shirt in a painfully slow fashion. "I think I could wager a guess as to where this is going," he muttered as he allowed Wesker to continue to toy with the row of buttons that suddenly seemed much longer than it did every morning when he got dressed.

"Hnn, I should hope so," replied Wesker after he'd finally opened the impeding clothing article and was softly tracing the lines of his partner's ribcage with gentle fingers.

Birkin's pleasurable shivers increased, this time accompanied by an outbreak of goosebumps across his chest and arms.

"Aren't you thankful?" gasped Birkin after a particularly fierce kiss had passed between the two.  
Wesker cocked his head to the side. "Thankful for what," he inquired almost boredly as he set about removing his own black shirt.

"That you are totally immune and not a carrier," murmured Birkin, helping Wesker toss aside the the currently unneeded garment.

Wesker paused in his actions, Half naked body poised above Birkin's equally bare one, then he started to laugh in that deep chuckle that always drove William crazy. "Yes," he agreed with a grin. "That would be very unfortunate for the both of us."

"I'd be infected before the end of the week," Birkin joked rather seriously.

"Ha!" laughed Wesker. "Do you think I really have so little control of my body?"

Birkin grinned. "No...no I don't _think _so," he teased.

"Hmm..." murmured Wesker, pretending to be in serious thought. "I believe you're being a tad too cheeky for your own good."

"Perhaps it's intentional," ventured the man pinned beneath the blond, running his hands firmly over Wesker's thighs.

Wesker closed his eyes for a moment in response to the touch. "Purposely pissing me off before I fuck you? How is that wise for someone with oh so little pain tolerance? Hmm?"

Birkin shrugged as he toyed with Wesker's belt loops. "Weren't you the one who said I was a masochist?"

"No," corrected Wesker, inhaling sharply when Birkin's hand traveled dangerously close to the rather prominent bulge in his jeans, "I believe I told you that it would behoove you to become one."

"Oh," giggled Birkin, his delicate fingers unbuttoning his pants and then slipping past the waistband of Wesker's boxers. "My mistake."

Wesker let a quiet moan escape his lips at the contact of Birkin's fingers to the cone of heat trapped beneath the fabric and dug his fingers deeply into the sheets and William's hair. "What say you we continue this conversation at a different time?" Wesker managed in a strained voice as a grinning Birkin continued his antics.

"I think you just proved my earlier point," Birkin teased.

Wesker managed to glare before yanking his colleague's hand out of his trousers and pinning it to the mattress. "Perhaps...but now allow me to prove mine," hissed Wesker moving in extremely close to Birkin's flushed face.

"Which one?" gasped Birkin, manipulating him hips and legs helpfully in response to Wesker's tug on his pants until they too had joined the pile of removed clothing on. the floor.

"The one about it not being a good idea to piss me off before I fuck you," responded Wesker dangerously, adjusting his hands down to grasp Birkin's knees, moving them up and then out to allow himself better access.

"I await the lesson with bated breath," panted Birkin in response.

Wesker chuckled. "I can only imagine."

Shortly after, the two easily fell back into the heated sensual dance they had perfected over the years; bodies easily melding into one; all thoughts of unmade future plans, past guilt, and "dead" little twelve year old girls long forgotten in exchange for the raging pleasurable heat and pressure currently enveloping them.

* * *

**AN: **So it looks like the self imposed 1000 word a day minimum is working for me to get this story continually updated. Hope you're as please with the results as I am.

Some notes on this chapter: I almost did this as a flashback about Wesker's exposure in what will now be PG11A/W, but between the facts that this was way too important of a piece to limit to a flash back and that combining it with the upcoming chapter would have created some 40 page behemoth, I decided to give "The Exposure" its own chapter. As such, I had to do a TON of editing to split the two up which is partly why updating took longer than I wanted this time-I'm not very used to rewriting as I've always been a first draft with only minor revisions/corrections kinda girl.

So, last update I can think of...next chapter will be the last of the Second Cycle as well as the end to the Wesker/Birkin chapters. For some of you I know that'll be disappointing and for others I'm sure you'll be pleased that we're this much closer to the Wesker/Chris section. Either way, know it's on the near horizon.

Any comments, thoughts, or questions? I'd love to hear it. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this addition,

-Asiera


	13. PG11AW

**Project W: Second Cycle**

**PG11A/W: Jealousy**

_March 13__th__, 1986; Spencer Estate Guard House Basement:_

"I severely dislike that woman." Wesker's gaze was pensive as he stared into the dark water contained within the near three story, over fifteen million gallon tank taking up the majority of the basement beneath the additional facility's main structure.

Umbrella was known for its unique rather insane grandness, but this latest addition possibly topped that unreal list of impossibilities. The god sized aquarium was used to house the five T-Virus exposed great white sharks, one of whom was beginning to quickly surpass the size typical of most members of its species due to infection.

"Who?" Birkin questioned glancing over at his stoic partner from his former position of leaning over the railing so that he could more clearly see the deadly water bound creatures.

"Your new 'lab assistant,'" glowered Wesker as the largest of the sharks swam past them, multiple rows of serrated teeth glinting in the eerie light.

For some inadequately explored reason the researcher in charge of this particular project had named this creature—his most promising subject—"Neptune." The names the other scientists, including Birkin, gave to the monstrosities they were so eager to create usually made perfect sense to Wesker but Neptune? It just sounded ridiculous, like a name you'd give a pet rather then a deadly two ton creature that would be very pleased to eat you and its creator for lunch.

"Annette?" puzzled Birkin in confusion.

Wesker's glare deepened. "Yes, Doctor Sparks." He actually felt the railing he was gripping shudder as the behemoth went by; either that or he was grabbing onto it too firmly due to his anger...probably the former, Wesker wasn't _that_ strong.

It didn't help things that his mood was further darkened by the fact that they were down here in this veritable death trap. Even though things had quieted down in the main labs beneath the estate after Wesker's exposure two years ago, the atmosphere in the Guard House were still plain old insane and Wesker still hated every bit of it with a passion. But it was not Wesker's loathing of the added on facility and the crazed Umbrella scientists that refused to heed his demands regarding safety precautions that was infuriating him at the moment. No, the source of his displeasure was much closer to home.

It was all fine and good that all these loonies had been packed in the Guard Hose lab together—they were usually far enough away from the main facility that it was acceptable to Wesker—but to start hiring more people to work in the main facility under the mansion, no even worse, their own _lab_, well that was crossing the line.

This sudden very unwanted turn of events had taken place in response to Umbrella, Lord Spencer in particular, wanting more expedient results from his most productive labs—the Raccoon Facility included. Wesker had not missed the irony that one of the reasons listed for the hiring of more lab workers—aside from Dr. Marcus's sudden transfer back to the Research and Training Facility upon its reopening a few years ago—was the death of Alexia Ashford and the following loss of advancements coming for the Antarctica Branch.

It wasn't as if he and Birkin had had any real choice in the matter, but it still enraged him to no end to have complete strangers working it what had once been their private labs and it certainly didn't help things that Wesker was quite sure that this new, unfortunately rather attractive, addition to their daily lives had a bit of a crush on _his_ William Birkin.

Wesker had been contemplating ways to "accidentally" expose who he viewed as the intruder to the true nature of their work for quite some time now. In the end, he had decided to forgo the myriad of problems that came with an "accidental" viral leak by bringing it up with William.

Birkin was by no means as paranoid as Dr. Marcus but the word did describe the man at times. How hard could it be to convince him that this Annette was a risk to the security and success of their research?

"Why?" blinked Birkin, returning Wesker's attention to the conversation. "She's been nothing but helpful in the past two months since we hired her. It's nice to finally have someone besides us who knows what they're doing in the lab."

Perhaps harder than he'd anticipated...

"Besides," he leaned back over the railing, "ever since Doctor Marcus retreated to the old facility to work exclusively with his leeches, things have gotten a bit hectic."

"Oh and," Birkin regarded Wesker's dark lenses again, an eyebrow quirked, "since when is Annette just 'my assistant?' Last I checked it's _our_ lab she's assisting in which therefore makes her _our_ assistant."

Wesker gritted his teeth. "That may be so, Will, but I recall me saying I didn't want a personal helper to clean up after me and you were the one with the big mouth who said, 'sure, we'd love someone else to meddle in our research and further complicate things,'" he mocked in a poor imitation of Birkin's acceptance of the "offer." "So therefore, that makes her _your _problem; your problem which is rather annoyingly impeding on my ability to work."

Birkin glared and stood to his full height. Unfortunately his five foot ten inches did little when compared to Wesker's six foot three. "I'm sorry, did I miss something, Al?" he shot back heatedly. "Since when did you become so hostile towards Annette? You just seemed mildly annoyed when she joined us in January."

Wesker rounded on him. He was losing his temper quickly but he still tried one final time to rein it in; the move wasn't very effective. "And since when did _you_ begin becoming so nonchalant about who you shared our research with? What happened to thinking every new researcher was a spy sent by another facility, perhaps little Alexia's twin brother, to steal our experiments, which wouldn't even make sense I'm sorry to admit, because they were never near the caliber of what sweet little Alexia was producing!"

It was a low blow, one Wesker probably shouldn't have resorted to, especially since he'd inadvertently insulted himself in that statement and he knew how sensitive Birkin still was about the results of that horrible rivalry and the repercussions they were still experiencing from it, current issues included. As such, Wesker was actually considering apologizing. That is, until Birkin started yelling at him.

"Oh I don't know, Al! How about after the silly bitch _died _three whole years ago! I haven't forgotten _that_ again or what my obsession almost did to you; to us! But you just can't let it go can you?!" Birkin turned away trying to calm his breathing, but before Wesker could say anything, he'd rounded on him again.

Trying to focus on anything besides the guilt that still haunted him, he decided to address the second half of Wesker's attack on him. "And how the hell do you view causing one's own death better quality research than what we've come up with? We discovered the goddamned virus! And what about Lisa? I seriously doubt that anything _she_ was working with could have held up to everything we've injected into that subject! And the Hunter's? Cerberus? We actually created viable bio-organic weapons! They're all over this damned facility! Look at the giant shark in front of you!" He threw a wild gesture in a slightly more agitated than usual Neptune.

"But that doesn't even fucking matter anymore! I moved on!" A lie. "And you...you know how I feel about what happened! Why...why would you...?" He made a noise somewhere between exasperated, despair, and furious, throwing his hands up in there air, panting as a result of his tirade as he glared daggers up at his partner.

Part of Wesker wanted to apologize for the off color remark. That wasn't fair of him and he knew it. Birkin had more than made up for what had happened two years ago. However, apologizing after that would be admitting he was wrong. Wesker was never wrong and his pride wouldn't allow him to say anything that might imply that he was.

"Are you done?" hissed Wesker.

Not wanting to touch on that dark time in their past again that refused to leave him be, Birkin returned to the original subject of the argument. "No! You still haven't answered my question. What is your problem with Annette!"

Wesker matched his glower before folding his arms and turning away from Birkin back to the shark tank. "Nothing," he shot curtly. "Just drop it."

This seemed to almost enrage Birkin more than the Alexia comment had. "What?! Like hell I'm dropping this! Not after you're so damn upset that you brought '_it'_ up again!"

True to his word, Birkin didn't drop it. He pried, prodded, and persisted well past Wesker's ability to ignore him. This constant "private" fight made it extremely difficult to talk to the scientists at the Guard House, further complicating a task that already grated heavily on Wesker's patience. All in all, it proved to be too much for the twenty five year old. Finally, as they were walking back across the gardens towards the mansion, Wesker broke.

"Goddammit, Will!" Wesker practically screamed. "I hate that damnable woman because the foolish thing can't stop fawning over you and staring at your ass! Not to mention all the perfectly good reasons I listed earlier for getting rid of her!"

Birkin froze blinking and opening his mouth several times in shock before he was able to speak. "She's staring at my...what...?"

"Your _ass_, Will. You cannot tell me that you haven't noticed! She's had a thing for you since she walked through those steel doors!" raged the blond.

"W-well I can because I...Al, I didn't...she...oh..."

A few tense moments of silence passed between them before Birkin broke it in the strangest way Wesker could have imagined: He started laughing. Quietly at first, but soon peals of hysteric mirth erupted from his throat that caused the twenty three year to hold his sides, barely maintain his balance on the cobblestone path, and actual tears to stream from his eyes.

Wesker had of course never been laughed at in such a way in his life. It was shocking, unheard of, and he was certain he didn't like it.

"What is so damned funny, Will?!" he spat folding his arms as if he expected the force of his glare and the venom of his words to stop his partner's ridiculous behavior.

It didn't.

Wesker had to endure full to minutes of this beratement until William could finally talk through his sudden hysterics. By this time, Wesker was seriously contemplating hitting him.

"I-" more laughter. "I can not believe you, Al! To think that I would-" the chuckling endured, threatening to rob Birkin of his ability to communicate what was so funny to Wesker. "With her?! After you, for...for almost _nine years_!" He was inconsolable again. "That's the most unintelligent thing I've _ever_ heard you say!"

Wesker might have been touched if Birkin wasn't still laughing.

"And how is any of this funny?" he questioned scathingly, his brow was twitching in annoyance.

After he finally managed to get himself under control again, Birkin answered. "That you, _you_ of all people would be _jealous_."

"Jealous!" Wesker gasped. "I'm not-!"

"Oh, yes you are," giggled Birkin. "And over _me_!" Birkin sounded as though such a thing was absurd, something that would bother Wesker later when he thought about it and probably had something to do with his earlier dragging up of the past. "Al..." he was much more serious now; well, at least he wasn't laughing any more. "Al, you're perfect. I'm...I'm uncannily fortunate to have had you for so long; to _still_ have you...after everything."

All Wesker could do was stare. In all the years they'd been together, Birkin had _never _said such things. This was the closest either of them had come to saying, _I love you,_ and Wesker had no idea how to respond or why these decorations were causing his breath to hitch in his throat.

"You're perfect. I'd be an absolute moron to pick anybody over you." With that, after a quick check to make sure they were really alone out here, Birkin leaned up and kissed Wesker deeply, his fingers wrapping around Wesker's neck, trying to convey the earnestness of his words to him.

Wesker didn't know whether to shove him back or pull him closer due to all the conflicting emotions swirling around inside of him. In the end, the latter impulse won and Wesker hungrily gripped William's waist pulling him in and further strengthening the kiss.

Birkin was lucky, should Wesker have shoved him, he would have fallen into the deep pool they were just passing by.

The kiss continued uninterrupted for several long minutes, deepening as Wesker's tongue requested and was granted entrance into Birkin's welcoming mouth. Wesker ran the skilled muscle over the tender flesh on the roof of Birkin's mouth before engaging Birkin's in a poor excuse for a battle of dominance. The older blond let the familiarity of William's body against his own and the promise of the security given by his partner's words eat away at the anger that had been boiling over in his chest.

To this day, Wesker didn't understand how Birkin was able to ease him out of his typical rages so effectively. At times it was extremely disconcerting to know the younger man had that much power over him, but, more often than not, he found himself grateful to the man holding on to him as tightly as Wesker was to him.

Eventually they separated, as much to breath as for any other reason, their bodies still clinging together in order to maintain the heat that had been building between them during the rather unexpected kiss.

"So," began Wesker as he ran a hand through his own hair, fixing the slight mess Birkin had just made of the stiff strands, "are you going to fire her?"

This tactic of simply moving on with the conversation was easier than dwelling on the deeper more sensual emotions that Birkin had just brought to the surface. It was the method Wesker typically employed to deal with the finer emotional points of life, usually to the dismay of his much more open partner.

Birkin rolled his eyes, not unwrapping his hands from where they had come to rest on Wesker's strong shoulders. "Really, Al?" he chuckled, burring his face in his friend's shoulder momentarily. "We're back to Annette? After that I was expecting well...more."

Wesker raised an eyebrow, tilting Birkin's chin upwards. "I stopped yelling, I said I was sorry, and I just made out with you for at least three minutes."

Wesker certainly hadn't said he was sorry, not out loud anyway. Birkin by now knew that this, and other similar tactics, were the only way Wesker had of offering up remorse for his actions. It may not have seamed like much, but considering who it was coming from, it was a lot, and Birkin could accept it.

"Define this 'more?'" Wesker smirked rather devilishly as he pulled William closer by his one arm grip on the man's hip. "You didn't want me to throw you down right here in the garden did you?"

Birkin's already flushed face became slightly redder. Sex was not what he had had in mind. There was far more to any relationship; to _their_ relationship than intercourse. Right? Sometimes, with the way Wesker usually ignored or blew off this side of things, Birkin wondered if that's all it was to him.

The younger blond shook his head. Far from true, all he had to do was think about every time Wesker had saved him or allowed the weaker man to lean heavily on him to know Wesker really cared. His partner just had a hard time showing it in the usual ways.

"No, Al. I just..." He swallowed. "I guess I expected you to have forgotten about it?"

Dropping it at this point would be easier then trying to get Wesker into the discussion what his earlier declaration had almost brought to the surface.

Now it was Wesker's turn to laugh as he released the hold he had on his partner. "Dearheart, you're going to have to kiss me a lot harder than that if you expect me to lose my head." He then turned and continued towards the entrance to the main labs

Birkin smirked softly and sighed as he straitened his lab coat. "So it would seem." A few hurried steps later he had caught up to Wesker and wrapped an arm around his waist for as long as the temporary privacy allowed.

In all reality, they probably didn't need to be so secretive about their relationship. It wasn't as though Umbrella really cared one way or another what their scientists did in their spare time regarding personal lives. But as Wesker and Birkin were planing treason against the company, any possible weakness that Umbrella could exploit, should the worst happen, had to be completely hidden. Plus, Wesker said the secrecy added a sort of thrill to it all; a typical comment from the blond.

As they were walking down the path revealed by the strange fountain door, Wesker proved once again that his tenacity and determination to always win could not be defeated. "So, we're transferring her to the Guard House correct?"

Birkin sighed as he waked through the elevator door held by Wesker. "Not...at the moment."

"Oh?" was Wesker's response, bordering on deadly.

"Al...we're going to start experiments with the NE-α Parasite very soon," reasoned Birkin. "We should be getting one from the European Headquarters by the end of the week."

"And?"

At least Wesker was entertaining his argument, even if the older blond wasn't pleased about it.

"_And_ we're going to be completely occupied with the resulting experiments meaning we'll have no time to maintain the rest of the lab."

Wesker silence spoke volumes about his opinion of Birkin's yet unspoken suggestion.

"You want to leave Doctor Sparks in charge of the rest of the lab?"

Nope, not happy at all.

"She's a very capable individual, even you have to admit that."

The look on Wesker's face informed Birkin that he most certainly did not have to do any such thing.

"She can handle the T-Caries, Hunters, and Cerberus tests so we can focus on what's really important," insisted Birkin.

Wesker still didn't look convinced.

"As soon as we finish with the NE-α, we'll transfer her. Okay?" he relented.

Wesker looked away sighing and tapped his gloved finger on his arm for a few moments. "Fine," he eventually agreed curtly before pressing the button that would take then into the labs below.

"Thank you, Al," whispered William kissing him for as long as the quick elevator ride would allow.

Wesker muttered something inaudible that may have been, "you're welcome," but probably wasn't anything close to it.

Latest argument having reached its conclusion, they continued into their no longer private laboratory.

* * *

_March 13__th__, 1986; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4:_

"So basically, Annette," concluded Birkin after a long winded speech that certainly should not have made the simple matter at hand so unnecessarily complicated, "Doctor Wesker and I need you to manage the rest of the lab until we finish the experiments with the parasite, and then after that, we'll see if we can't give you your own laboratory over in the Guard House. I'm sure if given the chance to do your own research on T, your results will far outshine those of the other scientist there. Such a talented woman should not be forced to work as a mere assistant," gushed Birkin with a smile.

After Wesker's unspoken but firm prodding—mostly sharp jabs with his elbow into William's now smarting side—The abused Birkin had been forced to talk to Annette about transferring to the Guard House. This was not however, the discussion the glowering blond had envisioned. In the option of the scientist with his back pointedly turned away from the pair towards the gigantic test tube containing there oldest experiment, Lisa Trevor, Birkin was doing a _terrible_ job of getting rid of her.

Wesker glared at the woman's faint blush through the reflective surface before him. It wasn't any wonder that the rage he'd been feeling towards this intruder had returned full force almost instantly, or why he had been so angry in the first place. There was really no reason for Birkin to give her such praise. Suddenly he wished he'd convinced Birkin to let _him_ fire her.

Annette, who had been patiently waiting through all of Birkin's pointless rambling, smiled softly at him. "Don't worry, William I promise that I'll take good care of the lab and your experiments, I'll have daily reports on your desk the every morning and I'll be sure to call you if there are any significant changes."

Another reason why Wesker loathed the woman; she had the gall to call Birkin by his first name. It angered him almost as greatly as how Birkin always referred to her as "Annette" rather than "Dr. Sparks."

"But really," she continued, pushing a strand of her dark blond, chin length hair behind her ear, "I doubt there is higher position in this facility than working under you...and Dr. Wesker and assisting with your research." Her words were steady and seemingly innocent, but the meaning was clear.

Oh Wesker was really seething now. The blatant flirting was going to kill him, or more accurately, her if he didn't do something fast.

Instead of focusing on the flustered way Birkin was trying to respond now that he fully understood Annette's friendliness, knew Wesker was listening, and was trying to keep the promise to his partner regarding her transfer without being too confrontational, Wesker poured all his attention into the ever hideous Lisa.

In the past eight years, he and Birkin had ruthlessly exposed the abused girl to everything they'd created at levels that could be considered nothing short of sadistic. As a result, Lisa's already disgusting form had further disintegrated into something barely recognizable as even remotely human. Her thin flesh had further rotted and pealed away and her back had become so hunched and swollen that her long impossibly thin arms scrapped across the ground whenever she was allowed to walk; a rare occurrence.

Just as her body had rapidly decayed, so had her mind. What little of her humanity was left had been twisted into an even stronger, sick, obsessive desire to find her long dead mother and return the moldy piece of flesh that she believe to be the woman's face. All else, aside from her bloodthirsty desire to tear apart everyone around her as the viruses had already done to her, had long been erased.

It was not this twisting of her body and mind that concerned Wesker and Birkin though, it was her unprecedented ability to withstand it all. The experimental torture they had put her through would have destroyed anything else years ago, yet still, Lisa was alive. Her regenerative body had accepted, adapted, and healed no mater what atrocities they inflicted upon her battered beaten form.

This seemingly inability to die was why he had requested the NE-α parasite from Umbrella's French Headquarters. The NE-α had thus far destroyed everything it had been administered to, but Wesker believed that it was possible Lisa, who had incorporated Progenitor, T, and every nasty strain in between into her grotesque body, could withstand Umbrella's latest creation.

The parasite itself was developed in Umbrella's European branch in an effort to control the masses of Bio Organic Weapons being created in their labs across the world. Apparently somebody _besides _Wesker had decided that it would be a good idea to have some ability to maintain order in the hordes of monsters surrounding them.

The NE-α had been created to replace the dilapidated rotted minds of the infected with the programmable parasite. An astonishing advancement indeed, even though initial trials showed that only very limited commands could be given though the artificial brain replacement. Still, it was better than absolutely nothing, which is what they had at the moment.

Perhaps the biggest advancement achieved by the NE-α was supposed significantly increased intelligence capabilities of affected B.O.W.s; supposed because thus far, everything exposed had been killed...and it hadn't been pretty.

The created parasite was to be inserted at the base of the subject's spinal column and was intended to advance upward into the creature's brain, where it was then programed to replace what was left. This process was extremely volatile and usually resulted in the rupture of the subject's scull followed rather instantly by their death.

Many, including Birkin, had viewed Wesker as crazy for offering up the only know test subject to survive both Progenitor and Tyrant while still maintaining some rudimentary form of intelligence. As Wesker saw it, she had the best chance of a proper bonding with the NE-α, and if she didn't survive, that would mean the greatest danger in their lab was no longer a problem. At the moment, Wesker knew of no way of actually killing her and _that_ bothered him more than the risk of losing her to this proposed exposure. So in essence, it was a win win situation.

Wesker allowed himself to be pulled from his thoughts by the light touch of Birkin's arm on his sleeve. Glancing back he saw Annette was busying herself with the row of test tube contained hunters.

"I didn't hear any real resolution," Wesker stated, his voice lowered but the disappointment was evident.

Birkin sighed. "I...I know but...she's coming around." He hoped that the offered compensation would be enough to sate Wesker.

"Oh?"

It wasn't. Wesker certainly wasn't pleased with the failed results of Birkin's attempts to "get rid" of Annette.

Birkin shot a quick look back at their assistant. Once he was sure she was quite busy and wasn't going to accidentally see what he was about to do, Birkin leaned up and pressed his lips to the side of Wesker's neck, just below his ear. "You have _nothing _ to worry about, Al," whispered Birkin, the damp heat of his breath tickling Wesker's skin and causing him to imperceptibly shiver. "Believe me, I'll be just as pleased as you to have these labs..._private _ again."

Wesker had to laugh quietly at Birkin's implications of what they did down here. Such actions would be very liable to start another biohazard and neither of them would ever be so careless; that's what the break room was for.

"Fine," Wesker stated, barely able to keep the amusement from his voice; a bit pointless since he'd already laughed. "I will relent...for now." He glanced at his watch. "But in the mean time, while you have such an _adept_ assistant, I think I'll let the two of you finish off the day."

Birkin froze, believing he'd pissed off his rather temperamental boyfriend more than he'd realized. "Why? Are...are you leaving?" he ventured cautiously.

"Yes," affirmed Wesker. "I have some business I must attend to; communication with the Research and Training Facility, that kind of thing."

He was lying and they both knew it.

"Look, Al, I'll fire her right now if you want," Birkin attempted to placate hurriedly. "You don't have to leave I-"

Wesker laughed again. "As tempting as that is, Will, it isn't necessary. I really _do_ have something I must see to."

Birkin didn't look convinced.

After a making sure there was still a row of test tubes between them and Annette, Wesker placed a chaste kiss to Birkin's lips. "It's fine, I'll see you tonight." He turned to go. "Just make sure she keeps her hands off you," a grinning Wesker called quietly over his shoulder.

Birkin's blush and stutters ushered the older blond out.

* * *

_March 13__th__, 1986; Raccoon City:_

God Wesker hated this; hated being outside Umbrella's facilities and out in the "real" world. During the past nine years, he'd found himself leaving the shelter of the labs less and less. There was really no reason to, Umbrella provided everything its workers needed: Food, shelter, daily necessities, convenience items, and a fair few comfort measures. As such, seeing the blond outside on the streets of Raccoon as he was now was rare occurrence indeed.

He hated the crowds of clueless people, the way their shoulders would sometimes brush against him in their hurried bustle to nowhere important and the unintelligible noise that seemed to occupancy them everywhere they went. It grated on his last nerves and left him extremely out of his element. People out here lived by an entirely alien set of codes, rules, and customs that he'd long ago traded in for those strictly mandated by Umbrella and as a result no longer had any clue how to follow. He didn't know how to live out here.

It bothered him of course; this hatred and unfamiliarity with anything not Umbrella, perhaps more so than his dislike of being out here. It meant he was that much further away from escape, that much more integrated and trapped within the pharmaceutical giant.

Wesker tired not to think of any of this as he walked stiffly away from the company issue car that had been instructed to pick him up in the same location about forty five minutes later—oh no, Wesker didn't know how to drive. When had he ever had the time to learn and practice something that he had so little use for?

Such a lack of what most considered a crucial life skill hadn't affected him in most the big cities where public transportation was much more prominent, but here in Raccoon, where it was a two hour drive from the Spencer Estate into town and where there was only had a single rather limited subway line, not knowing how to properly operate a vehicle meant he'd had to ask one of the non-lab workers to give him a ride into town and once there, navigate the streets on foot. While this was extremely annoying, he usually only did it once a year, and therefore, wasn't motivated enough to actually take the time to learn how to drive.

Wesker sidled as far to the left as the paved sidewalk would allow in order to avoid a group of teenage girls, probably hailing from the near by Raccoon City High School judging by the identical uniforms whose plaid skirts were hiked up well beyond school policy. The five of the overly loud females were all blatantly staring and giggling in his direction.

Another reason he hated going into town: Women refused to leave him be.

Before one of the bolder ones, urged on by her fellow classmates, got up the nerve to ask him for his company issued cell number, Wesker picked up his pace and disappeared around a corner.

It wasn't that much farther to his destination, but Wesker was still cursing his decision to have the driver—a man he didn't even know by name—drop him off in a random location in Down Town Raccoon, instead of his actual goal; a choice made out of the desire to preserve privacy. It wasn't as if the place he was going to required discretion, but Wesker disliked the fact that every second of every day, _someone _from Umbrella always knew his whereabouts. Hence his privacy in regards to something as simple as picking up Birkin's birthday present.

Wesker smirked. It was ten days away, but he very much doubted Birkin had remembered. The man's mind was too busy mulling over the upcoming NE-α experiments and Wesker's recently brought up problems with Annette, which suited Wesker just fine. While Wesker hated surprises he often enjoyed pulling the rug out from beneath others, especially Birkin.

Wesker sighed in relief as he saw the building he'd been aptly searching for come into view. The fine jewelry store wasn't what most would have guessed to be the location of Birkin's twenty fourth birthday present. On the contrary, everything Wesker had _ever _gotten William was completely practical and this year would be no different, well, aside from the outrageously large price tag attached and the _several_ trips to this dreadful city he'd had to make in order to get the gift in order.

Steeling himself for further interactions with the "friendly" staff he secretly hated, Wesker walked through the glass door. His presence was announced by the happy tinkling of the brass bell above the frame, causing him, as it always did, to wince. He hated how suddenly all pairs of eyes in the shop, including those of the customers who had naught to do with him or his reason for being here, were suddenly on him.

Despite his feelings of unease, Wesker smoothly made his way over to the glass case containing a variety of extravagant items people adorned themselves with.

As expected in a shop this upscale and fancy, someone immediately came over to help him. Unfortunately, the beaming petite brunette was not the person he'd spoken too before. This meant more time wasted and possible hassle, but no inconvenience Wesker was imagining prepared him for what happened next.  
"So..." she singsonged, " Who's the very, _very _ luck lady?" The woman, Sally, according to her name tag, punctuated the question with a beaming smile and a wink.

Wesker stared, unable to form a proper response to the absurd question. Why in the hell would she ask him tha- He looked down. Oh...he was standing in front on the engagement ring case...

Before he could inform her of her grievance misunderstanding, she pressed onwards in the outrageous assumption that his lack of ability to speak was due to him being shy. "It's okay, Sir," She actually had the _nerve _ to place a hand on his shoulder. "I've helped a lot of guys in this...very special area before. Don't worry, we'll find the perfect ring; the one she can't resist saying yes to!"

Where as before, Wesker was feeling only slightly angered and mostly shocked, he was now livid; a mood that came with several vivid images of all the possible experiments he could put her through back in his lab. The pretentious slip of a thing should be fired.

Reigning in his temper, Wesker responded to her a coolly as possible; which for him meant quite a bit of his annoyance shown through. "I'm here to pick up a _watch_."

He observed the results of his statement in satisfaction: Her previously beaming face froze and them morphed into one of utter embarrassment, a heavy blush covering her previously only slightly pink cheeks.

"Oh my, God, I am _so _sorry!" she exclaimed hand flying to her mouth. "It's just, when an attractive guy comes over to this area he's usually..." She shook her head rapidly. "I'm really sorry, please forgive my _very_ incorrect assumption."

Wesker couldn't hide his grin as she continued to become more and more flustered. She was new, it was obvious. He doubted calling costumers "attractive" was part of the approved sales strategy. Then again, women out here usually acted inappropriately around him. He _almost_ wished Birkin was here with him. A little revenge jealousy—not that that was what Wesker felt towards Annette—would do the younger blond some good.

"An understandable mistake," Wesker falsely forgave her. "But I assure you I'm not getting married anytime soon."

She smiled sweetly at him, thankful he'd let it go. But damn was he _cute_! Tall, athletic build, blond, and dressed _so_ nicely...he was even wearing sunglasses _inside_ like some sort of movie star. "Sure I can't change your mind?" she joked.

Wesker was far from amused, but he managed a very fake smile in response which she seemed to buy. "I'm afraid not."

"Can't blame a girl for trying!" she giggled.

Oh the hell he couldn't.

She cleared her throat. "Where is my head today?" she laughed a little nervously.

_Out the window with your class..._ thought Wesker scathingly.

"Anyway, you said you were here to pick up a watch?" she asked, _finally_ back to the matter at hand. She had already wasted _far_ too much of his valuable time flirting shamelessly with him.

"Yes," he responded as politely as possible. "I was called today and told it was ready."

"Okay, sure!" she beamed. "Right this way."

Wesker followed her over to the main checkout area where she began flipping through a key ring, searching for the correct one to open the locked cupboard beneath the cash registers where they kept the completed custom orders.

"What was the name?" she asked casually as she bent over to unlock it. Wesker was not imagining the purposeful way she was attempting to draw attention to her well defined _ass_ets.

"Muller...Alex Muller." He mentally winced. Yeah...that had been _real_ creative on his part, but they were the first names that came to mind at the time he'd placed the order. There would have really been no problem giving this tiny insignificant shop his real name, but it was hard to overcome the paranoia beat into the scientists working for a company that killed them if they let the wrong thing slip or became a liability. Wesker was actually surprised his former mentor was still around, what with the huge inconvenience he'd become for Umbrella and Lord Spencer.

She glanced up, her hazel eyes meeting his shaded ones for a moment. "Alex..." she said slowly, "I like that."

Good, because he _hated_ it.

"Ah ha!" she called a few minutes later from a view that only properly allowed him to see her nicely formed ass. "Got it!" She rose from her compromising position and placed a long rectangular box on the counter. "Sorry it took so long, I was looking for a wrist watch instead of a pocket watch."

The first thing today he couldn't fault her for.

"Let's take a look shall we?" With that she opened the box, displaying the grand device that would serve as Birkin's present this year.

The watch was sterling silver inlaid with a gold filigree creating the delicate ring of scales forming a snake with the tip of its tail wrapped around its own fangs surrounding the delicate cursive lettering spelling out the phrase _'Power is Life_.'

Pairing Uroboros with the final line of the Research and Training Facility's motto on the gift was Wesker's way of reminding Birkin of the past, and the dangers of losing control of one's own power; in Birkin's case, his research. It was also a rather uncharacteristicly nostalgic reminder of the conversation they'd had during their first Christmas together; the first Christmas Wesker didn't look back on and shudder.

The back of the watch was transparent, allowing the owner to see the many intricate wheels and cogs that brought the device to life; Birkin always enjoyed seeing exactly how things functioned. The watch itself was set on an ivory face around which ebony hands traveled and pointed out the time by means of delicate roman numeral characters. Opposite the face was another engraving, these characters forming, _'William E. Birkin'_ in more graceful calligraphy. It was quite the task to uncover Birkin's middle name and seemingly pointless as only the E in Eric made it onto the gift. Finally, the device was suspended by a beautiful yet sturdy sliver chain, one that Wesker was currently holding the exemplary watch up by in order to examine it properly.

"She's a beauty..." whispered the sale's clerk. "You certainly have fine tastes."

She was right on both accounts, but Wesker really just wished she'd shut up.

"It's adequate," he finally relented, setting the fine piece of craftsmanship that had took him months to have made back into its silk wrappings.

Sally just continued her ever present, highly grating smile. "So will that be all for you today, Alex?"

Wesker mentally shuddered at hearing that cursed name again. It could have been any name under the sun and he had to pick _that _one. "Yes, that's it," he responded curtly, in a hurry to be done with this place. Before she'd even finished ringing up the gift, Wesker had already started counting out the ridiculous amount of cash required to buy it—paranoia again keeping him again from taking a more convenient rout.

By the time she'd gotten around telling him the actual damaged he'd already placed fifteen hundred dollars bills on the counter before her. That may have seemed an absurd amount but what else was he going to do with the impressive sum Umbrella paid him every month? The company pretty much paid for everything he could want for, why not go "all out" on the one gift a he bought year? Wesker never had and never would celebrate Christmas.

She just stared at him; apparently carrying around that much cash in his pockets made him even more appealing...fantastic.

Wesker exchanged as few words as possible as the transaction was completed and kindly declined her offer for a "special discount." Nothing in life was _ever_ free, and he'd be damned if he was going to owe her regardless of whether or not it was possible for her to collect on it.

Finally out of the oppressiveness of the fine jewelry store, Wesker quickly made his way back up the well kept sidewalk at a brisk pace towards where he'd been dropped off—Wesker checked his, by comparison to the one he was carrying, much less grand watch—only twenty five minutes prior? Huh, he'd thought all the infuriating interactions with that silly sale's woman would have held him up more; he had plenty of time. Slowing down, Wesker walked the remaining distance to his the pick up location at the corner of Ennerdale and Central at as leisurely pace as his current discomfort at being out here allowed.

Once there, he found a pleasant spot on a wooden bench under a large shade tree and sat down, waiting the remaining ten minutes for his ride. As he sat, his eyes were drawn to his surroundings. Most of Raccoon was quite aesthetically pleasing, which was due almost entirely to the Umbrella Corporation which made its home in and pretty much controlled everything in the unknowing city. Ignorance was bliss he supposed, leaning further back in the bench.

After a few minutes of idle boredom, Wesker's eyes were drawn to the rather grandiose building across the street from him: The city's art museum. The huge building took up almost an entire city block with its visually attractive architecture reflective of the treasures held with in. Wesker had never been a very big fan of art, but on several occasions he'd found himself tempted to enter the grand structure.

He sighed, as with all his other excursions when such thoughts had taken him, he didn't have the time. He severely doubted that he'd ever be presented with an opportunity to set foot in the building, a fact that didn't really bother him but would serve as a great source of private amusement to the blond in the year 1996.

Having nothing better to do and in an effort to fight off the nagging impatience clawing at the back of his mind, Wesker removed sleek leather box containing Birkin's gift from the inner pocket of his black trench coat. After turning it over idly in his hands for a few moments, Wesker reopened it.

His expression went from frozen, to shock, to anger in the span of about two seconds. Folded neatly atop the silk wrapping covering the sliver pocket watch was a note hand scrawled in a bright pink ink re-informing him of the name belonging to the nuisance he'd thought he'd left behind in the shop and her telephone number next to the words, _"Call me."_

Wesker angrily ripped up the note and tossed the shredded pieces to the wind.

It took him a moment before he started laughing. Oh the look on Birkin's face if Wesker hadn't checked and just given it to him on the twenty third...now that, that would be jealousy.

* * *

_March 13__th__, 1986; Spencer Estate:_

A strange sort of relief flooded Wesker once he finally set foot back inside the familiar mansion. After all the trouble he'd had in town, not to mention his earlier fight with Birkin regarding Annette Sparks, Wesker wanted nothing more than to retreat to the relative safety of his quarters. Unfortunately, Wesker had one final stop to make before he was able to get in the well deserved shower awaiting him. Taking the flight of main stares up to the second floor, Wesker begrudgingly stalked through the East Wing towards the large office serving as the facility's mail room.

He was going out of necessity, in case more information on the soon to be arriving NE-α had been received; though he doubted he'd find anything of that regard here. For highly important matters such as this, much more expedient routs of communication were utilized, and unless someone had _really_ screwed up—to the point of being "terminated" by the company—Wesker was certain he wouldn't find the actual parasite sitting in his cabinet drawer. Much more likely that he'd find more of the typical correspondence from Dr. Marcus who, even in his reclusive paranoia, found it necessary to constantly check up on his two past protegees; as if he still had any measure of control over the pair.

Upon opening his locked section of the giant filing cabinet serving as a mail box to the workers at the Spencer Estate Labs, Wesker found neither. It was pleasing that not everything thing today was going to serve as an annoyance; he'd had far to many of those in the past twelve hours already.

Out of habit and his lack of belief that his partner should have any form of privacy from him, Wesker produced a second small key, nearly identical to the one he's just used, and checked Birkin's drawer. His efforts rewarded him with a good sized stiff envelope bearing a Connecticut return address. Wesker didn't even have to read the senders' names to know that this had come from Birkin's parents.

Like clockwork, twice a year about a week before his birthday and then again several days before Christmas, the parents who had nothing else to do with William sent him a card with a scrawled note adorning its inside surfaces asking him in one way or another when he was going to make Umbrella's Board of Directors.

Wesker still remembered the day shortly after their near death experience with Plant 15 when Birkin had finally opened up about his past and the reasons for him ending up under Umbrella's watchful eyes. It was that day that Wesker had also come to understand the truth about William's parents which was the reason he was now glaring at the simple envelop with such disdain.

* * *

_July 31__st__, 1981; Spencer Estate_ _Underground Labs Level B4_

"My parents always viewed me as more of an investment than as their child," Birkin blurted suddenly as the two of them were sorting through Dr. Sarton's copious amounts of research notes on Plant 15; an experiment that Wesker had personally terminated the prior afternoon after _finally_ getting the approval from Dr. Marcus to do it. "It was just one advanced placement program after another; constant coaching and pushing; the best was never enough, it always had to be better."

There was nothing Wesker had done to prompt the sudden rather off the wall admission form Birkin. It was so unexpected, all Wesker could do was stare at the man across from him over the stack of papers he'd been sorting through as he tried to process the strange comment. In the end, he had no idea what a proper response would be so opted for staying silent.

Birkin looked away from what he knew to be an intense stare hidden behind Wesker's dark lenses, suddenly feeling very flustered. "You asked why I was here..." he clarified quietly.

Wesker nodded, recalling the inquiry he'd made last Thursday prior to being nearly suffocated to death.

When Wesker didn't say anything in response and just kept looking at him expectantly, Birkin continued, his eyes refocusing on the desk between them instead of Wesker's passive features.

"First it was private tutors from the best schools around the world, than it was a whirlwind of private academies with other kids twice my age, none of which were apparently good enough for me. I finished high school at age eleven with the highest grades in the region." He sighed. "After that I flew through collage and graduate school. When Umbrella sent me the personal request to join their Research Division, how could I refuse?"

He shook his head. "The 'plan,' as we used to call it, was for me to make the company's board of directors within five years." He laughed with only a small amount of humor showing through, his eyes moving up to meet Wesker's. "Guess I kinda got off track."

Wesker was unable to form, the proper words; wasn't sure what to tell him. When he'd pictured Birkin's past...well Wesker guessed it made sense. It certainly explained his outrage at Umbrella's recent hiring of Alexia Ashford. It was just strange hearing it, imagining the childhood, or lack there of Birkin had just described to him. Perhaps they had even more in common than Wesker had believed.

The continued lack of a response from his partner was starting to really affect the younger blond who started nervously fidgeting with the papers he was holding, his eyes once again darting away from Wesker's. "I guess it's not uncommon for parents to attempt to live through their children...They were never around except to attend the graduations." A small sad smile. "They never missed a single one. Other than that, they just went through the motions." Birkin's thin fingers continued to pick at the corner of the folder in his hands. "It doesn't bother me," he declared quickly. "Not anymore anyways. I'm just glad to be away from all that." He smiled. "Even if this place is far from what most people would consider an improvement."

Turned out neither of them had wonderful pasts...

* * *

_March 13__th__, 1986; Spencer Estate:_

Wesker shook his head, clearing the memories that were flying around it. Then, without hesitation, Wesker ripped the meaningless thing in two, tossed it in the trash can, and then exited the room. Birkin certainly didn't need to see it.

Thinking back now, he should have burned it. This facility was full of prying eyes that had no business reading that ripped card.

* * *

_March 19__th__, 1986; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4:_

The loud rushing of water filled the small metal encased room at the back of the lab as soon as Wesker pressed the large button beside the rapidly draining test tube holding Lisa Trevor prisoner. The NE-α Parasite had arrived late last night, meaning it was time for the hideous girl to be given her next, round of torture at the hands of Wesker and Birkin

Wesker had had a hard time keeping Birkin from immediately getting up to work with the specimen when it had arrived at around two AM, but he had his ways, and after a few choice words about the man's past, which Wesker seemed incapable of letting go, a rather wounded Birkin had relented and they had started the necessary pretests first thing in the morning.

It was noon by the time they'd finished prepping the parasite; now they were ready to administer Lisa what may have been her final injection.

After the water had finished rushing out of the last of the Trevor's glass prison, the front of the device began to open slowly down and outwards and towards the immaculate tile floor, carrying the hideous Lisa with it who was beginning to stir. Wesker could help but grin in amusement as the creature writhed below them, straining uselessly against her bindings. They had learned from last time, there was no way she was getting a second chance to try to kill him.

To prevent a repeat of the day Lisa had tried to add Wesker's face to her disgusting collection, Lisa was securely fastened to the front section of the test tube, which by now had completely lowered itself to the floor. This binding was accomplished by a series of thick, tight metal bands confining her legs and arms in at least three separate placed per appendage in conjunction with additional bands across her hips, abdomen, chest, and one final shackle, tightened to just short of choking, around her neck.

As a result, Lisa was trapped inescapably on her side in a fetal position, arms and legs curled towards her chest, back curving in a C-shape around them which gave the two scientist perfect access to the base of her neck where the parasite had to be inserted. Lisa certainly wasn't happy about her current predicament and was letting them know in a mix of screams and guttural hardly understandable shouts.

Wesker sighed, if he had to hear one more thing about her mom and faces...  
"You ready?" asked Birkin, drawing Wesker's attention away from the abomination before him.

Wesker nodded and took the unrealistically gigantic syringe attached to the glass, purple fluid filled vial containing the NE-α with his medically gloved hands.

"Al..." said Birkin hesitantly, halting his progress. "Do you...do you really think she'll survive this?"

Wesker paused for a moment. "I don't know. I believe there is a good chance that she will. But honestly, Will? I don't really care either way. Finally getting rid of this freak," he gestured to the squirming crying monster before them, "would please me just as much as finally finding a suitable host for the NE-α."

Birkin nodded slowly. "I guess...but she _is_ one of a kind..."

Wesker scoffed. "Don't tell me you are feeling sympathy for this _thing,_" inquired Wesker in disbelief. "Will, she's gone. She's...beyond hope. Killing her would be an act of mercy, no matter how horrific or painful; that's how twisted this monster has become."

Birkin winced as a particularly loud wail escaped what was left of Lisa's lips. "I was more approaching this from a researcher's point of view. We'd lose a valuable specimen."

Wesker shook his head. "We'd easily make do without her. Lisa Trevor outlived her purpose long ago."

Hesitating no longer, Wesker moved his fingers to her sticky, loosely held on flesh at the base of her scull, having to push aside one of the disgusted loosely attached faces in his search for the correct location to inject the parasite.

Lisa reacted violently to his touch, screaming a jerking away as best she could, but her efforts were ineffective.

Finally finding the proper spot between the malformed vertebrae, Wesker jammed the needle in and pushed down on the plunger hard enough to introduce the parasite into her subdural space.

Lisa screamed in agony at the sudden and very rough injection into so sensitive a region, clawing desperately at her own restraints in an attempt to get away from the pain and the torture that plagued her everyday of her cursed existence in this world. All she managed to do was cut up her own wrists and arms on the unforgiving metal holding her in place.

Wesker stepped back, discarding the empty device on a nearby counter top and then moved out of the way so Birkin could wheel over the portable MRI machine, and place it around her head. A few moments later, it was up and running, the monitors in the adjacent room displaying the contours of her dilapidated mind and the progress of the parasite now squirming within her.

Once everything was set, the two moved into the small observatory to record the success of their latest experiment on what was left of the terrified little girl who had come into this hellish mansion so many years ago, little hand held securely by her long dead mother.

Wesker, ever the cynic, was expecting her to die rather violently as her head exploded in a manner typical of other B.O.W.s exposed to the parasite no more than a few hours following her exposure. This belief was strengthened when Lisa started intermittently seizing, the restraints drawing blood from her thin skin as her body inadvertently jerked and strained against them. This was punctuated by more earsplitting screams and pleas for her mother.

Wesker looked away from the monitor as it recorded the moment of the NE-α up the last bit of her spinal column and into her brain stem and rubbed at his temples. Wesker didn't even want to imagine the headache she had now or how exponentially worse it would get right before her brain matter splattered the protective glass separating her from the monitors they were sitting at; there was something about heads exploding that really bothered him... He supposed it was strange to find it odd that it did; watching heads explode wasn't exactly everyone's favorite pass time, but after everything he'd seen, it was just weird that he was so unsettled by it. Unfortunate as well since that was the best method to kill the creatures brought back by T. It always seemed to give him a bad taste in his mouth...

"Al are you seeing this?!" exclaimed Birkin suddenly, pulling Wesker from his own thoughts.

Wesker jerked his eyes over to the monitor in order to visualize what had his partner so excited but was only met with the sight of Birkin's face held inches from the monitor.

There were times he really wondered if William was near sighted...

"No," Wesker growled, grabbing Birkin's shoulder and pulling him back so that he could actually see the monitor. "But now I-"

Wesker froze. He had been right; right in assuming that Lisa was the only creature alive that could adapt with the NE-α Parasite. The scans showed it actually fusing with her brain stem, her cells actively and rapidly incorporating the invading organism into her neural structure.

It was fascinating; still to close to call, but fascinating.

Lisa certainly didn't think so, the poor creature was yelling her lungs out to an uncaring world, her body trying and failing to flop about like a fish out of water as a foreign creature burrowed its way into her brain matter.

It bothered him; seeing her like this. It shouldn't and he hated that it did, the creature had tried to murder him in the past and would have absolutely no qualms about doing it again, but it didn't change facts. Wesker saw a possible similar future for himself in this girl; a way his path could easily end and almost had on numerous occasions. It wasn't pity, no, far from it. It was more like fear—an emotion he was equally loathed to admit feeling—a fear that one day, he'd be the unrecognizable monster in the test tube screaming for mercy to the uncaring scientist slowly murdering him.

"Sedate her," ordered Wesker, his voice monotone, inwardly seething at the unwarranted feelings driving him to say something.

"What?" Birkin blinked in confusion. "What does that have to do with-"

"I can't imagine her being in that much distress his good for the process," snapped Wesker, trying to put the reason back on science.

Birkin just continued to stare between him and the monitor. "Al...I don't think that'll make a difference in the outcome..."

Wesker mentally cursed, but stood up and grabbed the appropriate pre-filled syringe. "Fine than, I'll do it."

Before Birkin could question the why behind his partner's sudden actions, Wesker went over to the sick creation, thrashing, writhing, and screaming as if she was begging a humanity that had long since abandoned her to end it permanently; her constant sobs of, "MOTHER!" driving Wesker to the brink.

Rather roughly he jammed the sedative into her arm. Wesker didn't even know if such an act would really affect the agony they'd happily induced, but at the very least, Lisa could finish her newest transformation in silence.

* * *

_March 23__rd __, 1986; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4:_

The experiments with the NE-α Parasite on Lisa Trevor had been a complete success; well, in the fact that she hadn't died, aside from that, it had been a utter failure. Lisa's body had completely assimilated the parasite, but that was about it. Her brain hadn't been replaced and no orders could be remotely programed into the NE-α, or at least none that she would follow. She hadn't really changed either. Lisa was still the same disfigured, grotesque, bloodthirsty monster she'd always been to Wesker and Birkin with the same unending obsession with her mother and the faces.

The European Branch of Umbrella had been shocked by their results, envisioning that their precious parasite would be wasted on the Raccoon Facility. This hadn't been the outcome they were looking for in a successful binding, but it was more progress then they'd ever made with their creation. As such, Birkin, Wesker, and Lisa were, once again, the talk of Umbrella, something the three were thrilled about in varying levels reflective in the order they'd been listed.

As far as Wesker was concerned the only good thing that came of all of this, was a rapidly approaching transfer for the female still lurking about their laboratory to the Guard House as soon as Birkin was satisfied with the results of the myriad of tests they'd been preforming on Lisa ever since her latest exposure.

Wesker couldn't imagine what else Birkin could possible do to the girl as a follow up to the injection of the NE-α, but that's what he'd thought yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before...well, you get the general idea. The fact was, they were here in the lab on the morning of William's twenty fourth birthday—a fact that was lost on the man—slaving away over an overly examined specimen that was suddenly, the interest of everyone in Umbrella again.

Wesker sighed as Birkin got up again and then returned with yet _another_ slide a few minutes later which he placed underneath the electron microscope on the lab table before them.

"Will," started Wesker, trying and almost succeeding in keeping the annoyance out of his voice (he was trying to be nice since this _was _ his partner's "special day"), "How many times have you looked at that thing's various bodily fluids under the microscope."

"I don't know..." muttered Birkin in the voice he used when he was deep in thought, wanted to be left alone to his work, and was paying minimal attention to the person speaking.

Wesker had had enough of that tone a long time ago.

"Since her exposure to the parasite? _Fifty seven_," Wesker informed Birkin, still trying to keep his voice even."

"Oh?" replied the still completely absorbed scientist.

The continued treatment caused Wesker's brow to twitch in annoyance. "And how many more times are you _planning_ to look at the _same thing_?" questioned Wesker, more of his true feeling showing through.

"As many as it takes," came the unemotional response.

Wesker began tapping his fingers in annoyance on the metal table. "Will...you know how you told me to tell you up front when I was pissed so I didn't explode later?"

"Mmm?"

"Well. I'm. Pissed," seethed Wesker, pausing for emphasis on each word. "This is _pointless_, we've been doing it for days! What, do you expect? It to magically change before your eyes because you stare at it enough! Can we please put this to bed?!" Wesker froze. "Will?"

No response.  
"Will..."

Nothing.

"Are you even listening to me, dammit?!"

Birkin slowly pulled back from the microscope, wide eyes turning to lock with Wesker's ever-shielded ones. "Al...what is that?" he questioned breathlessly pointing at the scope.

Wesker glared daggers at him. "I'm not going to look at your ridiculous blood smear! You weren't even god dammed _listening_ to me!"

"It's not a blood smear, it's a sample of her synovial fluid!" explained Birkin hurriedly, excitement palpable in his voice. "And yes, I heard everything you've said, you're pissed because we're still down here and I'm ignoring you, but, Al, this is _really_ important!" cried Birkin gesturing to the microscope frantically. "Just look at it!"

Wesker just folded his arms and glared at him. "So you not only ignored me, you did it intentionally?" Oh he was _really_ livid now.

"Al, _please_!" he begged.

Wesker finally relented, though he was far from pleased about it. What he saw caused most of his anger to vanish. He didn't know what he was looking at.

"That's _not_ Tyrant or Progenitor!" exclaimed Birkin. "Right? Or am I seeing things?!" he questioned breathlessly.

"It's no virus I've ever seen..." replied Wesker slowly.

Birkin was practically rocking back and fourth on his heels. "It's got to be due to the parasite, it just has to!"

Birkin let out a long shaky breath. "Alright, we're going to cultivate it, then we need a full barrage of tests, and we have to expose at least a dozen of the subjects to it-"

Wesker cut him off by slapping a hand over his mouth.

"Not _today_" Wesker commanded firmly. "Whatever new virus you've discovered will be there tomorrow, at which point, I will assist you with whatever tests and experiments you desire."

Birkin pulled his head back, blinking at his partner in confusion. "But...why I don't understand what-"

"Today is the twenty third of March," Wesker stated blankly.

It took a while to register, then once it did, only a small surprised, "Oh..." followed.

Wesker sighed and then pulled Birkin over by latching a hand around the back of his neck so that he could kiss his forehead. "Happy Birthday, Dearheart."

Today would be the farthest thing from "happy," today was the day everything broke...again.

* * *

**AN:**Okay...so I lied (more like a suck at estimating where chapter ends fall), THIS will be the last Wesker/Birkin chapter before I do the rather traumatic break and we reach the end of the Second Cycle. There was just so much that I had left to do that I needed to squeeze in (the brief introduction of Annette, the NE-α tests, the set up for William's birthday, and the "discovery" of G) I WAS going to divide the rest of this cycle into three chapters, but after talking to a friend, I ended up making this one much longer so I could finish up the preamble before the actual "incident." Hope you enjoy the 32 paged chapter /smiles/.

I think that's it for my note...oh! Yes, I totally made up the date of Birkin's birthday, his middle name, and Annette's maiden name. Hope that's cool with everyone since, as far as I know, none of those facts were ever stated (please let me know if I'm wrong here).

Okay, so, I hope you enjoyed. I'd love any reviews, comments, or questions you may have. Seriously, it's amazing how excited I get reading those brief paragraphs telling me what you think of my work. Kinda embarrassing really but /shrugs/ I'd love it if you made my day /smiles/.

See you in a week or two with the final update in the Second Cycle,

-Asiera


	14. PG12AW: (Clean-ish)

**Heads Up:**** If you are looking for the new chapter posted on 3/6/13 or are wondering why there are now fourteen chapters instead of thirteen, look back to just after PG03A/W for the first Alex Bonus Chapter. **

**AN: **Hope you are all prepared for the craziness of the 45 page long final addition to the Second Cycle (more on that a little later). However, if you want the **Full Explicit ****Version**, jump on over to my X-tra Content site. As always, use digression. It's posted over there and not below because it's **MA**, not because I just like making my readers juggle sites. If you are okay with MA, I **H****ighly Recommend** you read the explicit version because otherwise you do** Miss** some** Important** character developing **Content**.

Okay, so due to the highly emotional ending to this chapter, I'm placing my usual end note up here so I don't ruin the vibe. I have a lot to talk about since this is a cycle end, sorry...

So...insane chapter I know. I've certainly never written anything this drama oriented hence why I spent to much time editing and having a few of my friends look it over; the last thing I wanted was for this to read like a soap opera (please tell me it doesn't).

I thought A LOT about the emotions Wesker expresses near the last bit of this chapter and whether or not it would be in character for him to do so. In the end, my conclusion was: Wesker is not a robot and despite how much he acts like a cold heartless bastard on the outside, he's still human and has real emotions on the inside. So, while he'd probably never express himself as such to anyone else, I think it was perfectly fine to have him do so in private. This is further supported by the fact that this Wesker has not made the full transformation into the Wesker from say, RE5. Anyway, rant over; I stand by my decision.

So, now that the Second Cycle's finished, I'll be taking a brief break to re-edit everything before I start the Third. And, just a little teaser, be prepared for a few surprises to pop up during this "intermission" in the way of a few new added chapters here and there, not necessarily placed after PG12A/W /winks/.

Speaking of the next section of this story, this will mostly be me making it up as I go with a lot of creative license taken since there is basically nothing known about the time between Wesker's days in the lab and his time on S.T.A.R.S..

I will be drawing a lot from RE content that would otherwise not be visited (movies, extra games, and the S.D. Perry books). Of course I won't be following them to a T as I have basically been doing with the RE history and will be with the games (or adding Alice as a character...rest easy), but giving little "shout outs" to certain aspects of them.

Also, expect to see several of my highly developed _almost_ original characters return (Laura and a certain "evil" Wesker twin, etc...), as well as some new additions of a similar origin (think a few more Wesker Children form Alex's list in RE5), and finally, I'll be bringing in some classic RE characters with a very new twist to their back stories.

I hope all of you will enjoy this highly personal take on the next section of Wesker's life and I look forward to your continued support in the next highly uncharted chapters.

Okay, enough from me. Enjoy the next 15,887 words (if you are reading the full version) and please, if you have the time, send me a review or ask any questions you may have. I'd really like to get some opinions on the announcements I just made before I start writing the next section.

* * *

**Project W: Second Cycle**

**PG12A/W: Everything Breaks**

_March 23rd , 1986; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4:_

"William?" Annette's questioning call rang through the seemingly empty lab. She could have sworn he and Dr. Wesker were down here working with Lisa's samples again, but as far as she could see, the entire room was empty. Maybe they were in back room with the creature... "Doctor Birkin?" she called again, making her way towards the gigantic metal door separating Lisa from the rest of the lab.

She stopped dead in her tracks when she heard a crash followed by muffled swearing coming from the lab's break room. Thinking correctly the pair must be in there, she redirected her steps towards the darkened room.

Wesker and Birkin had been deeply... "involved" on one of the break room's couches when Annette had first entered the lab this afternoon. Upon her calling out the name Wesker had moaned just seconds ago as he accosted the subject of her search beneath his body, Wesker had jerked off of Birkin so quickly and violently that he'd wound up on the floor with the room's floor lamp on top of him, exclaiming a few choice swear words in the process.

Birkin had blinked at his partner in shock from a very comprising position of his own on the disheveled cushions. It wasn't until he heard Annette's second call that he realized why Wesker was frantically pulling up his trousers. Birkin immediately jumped to his own feet and started retrieving his discarded clothing items and replacing them at a rapid pace.

It was a miracle that they managed to get themselves mostly decent by the time Annette came through that door.

Annette unknowingly took in the odd scene, a curious frown on her lip. Birkin's face was bright red as he finished pulling on his lab coat and Wesker's sunglasses were slightly askew as was his usually perfectly styled blond hair which was falling haphazardly around his face and sticking up at odd angels in the back. Yet all of this amounted to close to nothing when compared to the vicious look Wesker was giving her; it actually caused her to step back a bit, staring nervously at the glaring blond. All in all, Annette had no idea how to interpret this very strange situation.

"Did-" Birkin cleared his throat, trying to get the remaining huskiness out of his voice Wesker had put there once he'd presented his real argument for why they shouldn't be working today. "Did you need something, Annette?" he asked nervously, hoping that she hadn't figured out what was really going on between Wesker and himself. He was also praying that this would be a quick interruption; Wesker looked about ready to kill the woman.

"Oh," she startled, her bright blue eyes returning to a still rather flushed Birkin. "Yes I..." She took a breath, suddenly adding quite a bit of urgency to her voice, her expression going completely serious. "Something's happened down in the Guard House. I'm not sure, but I think one of the experiments got out. They need you and Doctor Wesker down there right away!"

Wesker couldn't help but be suspicions about the sudden change in Annette's demeanor. If there was _really _something going on in that godforsaken building she would have come in shouting from the get go, not to mention their phones would have been ringing off the hook. He knew this fact hadn't escaped Birkin either—the man never missed a thing unless he had his head buried deeply in his research—but it seemed the prospect that something so (predictably) catastrophic had occurred at the neighboring facility was enough to get him to ignore the inconsistency between her tone and her message.

"Oh my God..." Birkin shook his head quickly, still trying to get rid of the Wesker induced fog filling his brain. "Right, we're coming." The look he shot at Wesker clearly communicated that this would _not_ be a quick interruption.

Sighing, Wesker nodded, but instead of moving to follow the already retreating Annette, he walked over to the work desk he and Birkin shared at the back of the room. Unlocking one of the side drawers, he pulled out the powerful gun he kept hidden there: The Desert Eagle Mark 1 .44 magnum; a weapon he was quite skilled with. Wesker practiced with it at least three times a week in the make shift shooting range he'd constructed in the surrounding forest.

As he was one of the two ruling authorities at the mansion, no one gave him any grief about it—this probably had something to do with the fact that anyone who did would probably end up in his and Birkin's experiments...or perhaps shot. Wesker wasn't sure if Umbrella knew about his shooting practices or would even care if they did, but regardless, it was comforting to have some form of absolute protection against the hoards of creatures contained within their facilities.

Once Wesker had checked to make sure the familiar weight in his hands was in full order and slammed what he was now sure was a full clip into place, Wesker moved to the door where Birkin and a wide eyed Annette were waiting.

"Um..." she stuttered staring down at the deadly weapon held in Wesker's right hand, not really sure she liked being so close to him at the moment. "I don't think...do you really need that?"

Wesker gave her a look that clearly told her he thought she was extremely unintelligent. "If there _is_ a B.O.W. or possible B.O.W.s loose in the Guard House, I'll not only want a gun but need it," he informed her coolly. "Unless of course...there really is no situation worthy of this," he flashed the magnum in front of her, relishing in the way she filched back, "or our presence. Then I'll be happy to stay behind with it."

The combination of his tone and words told Annette in no uncertain terms that he didn't buy her story for a second. Unfortunately, she was not so quick to give up whatever game she was playing. Her features once again schooled, she shook her head adamantly. "No, you're right. But really, we're wasting time!"

She was determined...He'd give her that much.

"Let's go!" With that she turned and jogged hurriedly to the end of the hall the other two scientists having no real choice but to follow her.

Annette swore to herself as she ran with the two men towards the fake emergency. She _really _disliked Wesker. She'd been put off by the cold natured blond since the day she'd set foot in this facility, but that unease was quickly turning into a mixture of hatred and almost fear. There was definitely something very "off" about that man. She had no idea how or why William put up with him. Perhaps Wesker was threatening the other man somehow?

Annette pushed the thought from her head. There would be time to deal with that later. Right now she had to worry about keeping Wesker from shooting any of the well meaning scientists at the Guard House...

* * *

_March 23rd , 1986; Spencer Estate Guard House:_

"_SURPRISE!_"

Wesker nearly shot someone.

There was no B.O.W. loose down here, the only thing that slipped its carefully constructed bindings was the secret of the day on which Birkin's birthday fell. Though how such a thing had come to pass... Wesker's gaze fell on the beaming Annette and darkened. Of course _she_ had something to do with this. How she'd figured it out was another mystery entirely.

Wesker glanced to the left at his partner who was somehow managing to blush crimson while looking as white as a ghost—a strange combination indeed—in response to being shouted to by what looked to be every last scientist who worked in the Guard House packed tightly into the facility's two story common room.

Wesker sighed, stuffing the cool metal of the gun he'd almost drawn farther beneath his lab coat. So much for keeping today a private affair between the two of them.

"I...do hope you don't mind, William," Annette tested tentatively, "but once I told them, everyone was thrilled at the thought of throwing you, one of the most talented scientists in Umbrella, this party." She beamed hopefully at him, trying not to look at his obviously less than pleased partner.

And there was the flirting again...Wesker really wished he'd let his instinct to shoot take over when they'd been verbally assaulted upon entering the large common room...and that it had been Annette who'd been directly in front of him. What an _unfortunate_ "accident" that would have been. Simply tragic...

Birkin rather skittishly turned to the obviously hopeful Annette, still eying the other scientists with suspicion. "Annette...how...how did you know?" He glanced quickly at Wesker. "Al, did you...?"

"I had _nothing_ to do with this," the blond responded coldly, his expression a blank mask.

Annette smiled a bit mischievously. "Oh...I have my ways." She winked, and quite suddenly her delicate hands were around Birkin's arm. "Come on! One of the guys even picked up a cake!"

Birkin protested, his now frantic eyes darting back over to Wesker, hoping for an expedient rescue. "I-I'd really love to Annette, but I...we have experiments we _have_ to perform on Lisa. I'm sorry I-"

"Will," Annette whined, cutting him off in a way that made Wesker want to strangle her. It was bad enough she called him "William" but "Will?" _that_ was crossing the line. "You're always working _so_ hard. One day won't kill you, especially your birthday."

Aside from the silly female tone and word choice, that's exactly what Wesker had said to him before they'd dragged each other into the break room to start their own private little celebration; something this pretentious woman was still happily interrupting.

"I-" Birkin didn't get more a a chance to object before he was dragged away into the crowd of scientist who really couldn't care less about Birkin, but were just thrilled to get a brief holiday from Umbrella's terrible work schedule.

* * *

Between the tightly packed, rather rambunctious crowd and the groups of enamored scientists either asking him about his and Birkin's most recent test with the NE-α, or looking for approval for more of their absurd experiments, it took Wesker nearly twenty minutes to finally catch up with Birkin and the woman who'd stolen him. Mentally, Wesker was uttering a whole slew of swear words in response to the dreadful situation he'd been dragged into. This was perhaps worse then the recent trip he'd made down to Raccoon City. He hated crowds; swarms of foolish people with no useful purpose. It was even worse when they sought him out and attempted to interact with him.

That was it! He didn't care anymore! He was killing Dr. Annette Sparks! Of course...first he had to find her, and more importantly, Birkin.

He was just telling Doctor Sarton, another researcher who had cornered him, in no uncertain terms that he was _not_ to move his crazy plants experiments to the facility's main hall when he caught sight of Birkin's familiar mop of messy blond hair. Quickly excusing himself from the conversation with the man he still blamed for his and Birkin's near death experience, Wesker moved over towards William.

The newly turned twenty four year old was surrounded by a circle of researchers, including Annette, all of whom were aptly listening to his description of how the Tyrant-Virus had been discovered; practically hanging on his every word.

Wesker froze. He couldn't help but notice, aside from the fact that Birkin was severely downplaying Dr. Marcus's part and almost implicating that the discovery of T could solely be attributed to himself and Wesker, that Birkin looked to be really..._enjoying_ it. The older blond had to remind himself that while this situation—thrown in a buzzing room filled with idiots who all wanted something from him—might have been torture to Wesker, for William it was quite the opposite; the man _loved_ all the positive attention and practically thrived on their meaningless praise.

Wesker supposed he shouldn't be shocked. Birkin had always been like this. His parents' constant drive to perfection but rare praise probably helped to shape him in such a way. He sighed. Well, William _was_ supposed to be having fun today...

As if he could feel Wesker's shaded gaze, Birkin looked over his shoulder an instantly locked eyes with his partner. Hurriedly, Birkin dismissed himself from Annette and his ring of admirers and walked briskly over to the glowering blond.

"Hey," he breathed nervously. "Sorry, I didn't see where you went. I um...kinda thought you just left me here. I know how you hate these kinds of things..." he finished, running a hand over the back of his neck.

"Not quite," assured Wesker evenly. "Though I must admit, I was tempted."

The older blond eyed the drink in his partner's hand cautiously. Wesker knew from past "experiments" in the mansion's bar room that neither of them could hold their liqueur worth a damn, and Birkin was even worse than he was. Wesker still remembered with a shudder what had happened at the last Umbrella sponsored banquet they'd been too in commemoration for the discovery of Tyrant. Birkin drank when he was nervous and after that...well, let's just say Wesker had had to give that speech for him.

"Did you want to leave?" Birkin inquired hesitantly.

_ Yes._

"No...it's fine. You seem to be having quite a bit of fun here."

Birkin gave him a knowing look. He knew Wesker; knew how much he must be hating the current circumstances. He also didn't miss the slight strain in his partner's voice. Wesker's silver tongue might be able to easily fool everybody else, but tricking Birkin was another matter entirely.

"Al, really. We can go." He smiled. "I'd much rather spend the day with you anyways."

Wesker should have taken him up on the offer, should have whisked him away from this damnable place, but he was trying out this new tactic of being nice; something he was never going to do again for a _long_ time. Birkin had been through enough lately, most of it inflicted by Wesker. He deserved to enjoy this.

Mind made up, Wesker forced out a rather convincing laugh. "Will, you spend everyday with me. Besides," he continued, carefully maintaining his tone and expression, "when are you going to have another opportunity like this?"

Birkin was slightly taken aback by Wesker's very uncharacteristically unselfish words. No way he believed their earnestness for a second. "Al...if this is about your thing with Annette-"

"I do not have a 'thing' with Annette!" shot Wesker heatedly, his gentle facade cracking. "Yes I hate her beyond words and yes I am actively plotting her very untimely demise even as we speak-" Birkin couldn't help but to laugh at Wesker's honesty "-but that has nothing to do with what I just said."

Wesker sighed. "I want you to have fun, Will. It's your damned birthday for heaven's sake and it's about time you spent one not hanging over a microscope. It only makes sense that at least one of our birthdays should be pleasant and it sure as hell isn't going to be mine," he huffed in annoyance. "Yes, I was planning to spend it with you, but this blasted party isn't going to last all day and I can busy myself in other ways until you finish here," concluded Wesker, being sure to inform Birkin that, while it was fine if he stayed behind, Wesker was certainly not waiting in the dreadful place.

Birkin blinked at him for a moments in shock of Wesker's disgruntled, yet quite sincere attempt at kindness; a gesture that usually alluded him. Then he was hugging Wesker and chuckling slightly, careful to make sure that to anyone watching them, the embrace looked nothing more than friendly. "Okay Al, you win. I'll hang out here until they get the cake cut—I'm sure that won't be too much longer—and then I'll meet you back upstairs." He hesitated. "Thank you. That was very sweet."

Wesker winced as Birkin pulled back from the hug. "Sweet? Call me that again and I'll release one of the B.O.W.s on the way out just to prove otherwise."

Birkin laughed. "Fine. I'll just think it."

Wesker rolled his eyes from behind his dark lenses. "Whatever." He gestured to the glass in Birkin's hand. "Just try not to get too drunk...I don't want to have to come get you and discover you've been letting Annette put a few moves on you in your inebriated state." It's not as though Wesker really believed his own warning, he'd just said it to be difficult. If he had been even the slightest bit suspicious that something along those lines would occur, things would have turned out a lot differently.

Birkin flushed. "Honestly, Al?" He laughed as Wesker turned to go. "You worry about the silliest things."

Wesker said something inaudible and waved unceremoniously over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd once again, leaving Birkin to his own devices.

Wesker never should have left him alone.

* * *

_March 23rd , 1986; Spencer Estate Guard House:_

Birkin had no idea how he'd become so intoxicated—he recalled only having two of three drinks...okay maybe four of five, it was difficult to remember—or how it had gotten so late—a glance to his rather cheap wrist watch showed that it was well into the nine o'clock hour. Many of the other scientists had long ago gone back to their research or had wandered off to the other entertainments offered in the Guard House commons, leaving him and Annette alone at the bar; something the woman was quite thrilled about.

Birkin looked over at his female companion, who smiled back at him sweetly, her cheeks slightly flushed from the levels of alcohol she'd already consumed, one finger lazily stirring around the ice clinking pleasantly in her glass. Maybe it was the alcohol, the soft lighting falling gently on her features, or some combination thereof, but it suddenly struck him that she looked quite beautiful.

Did he just think that?! What the hell was wrong with him? It was true that he'd always known she was attractive—such a fact was just impossible to miss—but he had never; _should_ never have thought of her like he'd just did. _That_ was how he thought of Albert.

Birkin tried to shake his head, but the pleasant buzzing fog that was the primary cause for such inappropriate ideas refused to vacate his now much less brilliant brain. His sudden bought of nervousness at his mind's current train of thought caused him to carelessly shoot back the remaining befuddling liquid from the glass in front of him.

"So..." started Annette playfully, drawing his attention back to her gentle features. Her cheek now rested comfortably on her hand, elbow propped on the bar table. "Did you enjoy the party?"

"Y-yes...it was nice," he admitted, his tone suddenly shy. "Thank you for doing this."

"Not a problem. I love it when you smile," she informed him, easily doing as much.

He mentally winced. This situation was quickly going from bad to worse. Trying to expel any awkwardness from settling in, Birkin grasped at the first topic that came to mind. "How did you know? You know, that today was my birthday...I mean?" he inquired, tripping over his words.

She didn't seem to take notice. "Promise you won't get mad?" she questioned, looking coyly up at him from behind her graceful black lashes.

Did she always wear that much makeup? It wasn't heavy or anything she just looked...different than usual. It was nice.

He swallowed. "Okay, I promise," he answered meekly.

Annette smiled and shifted herself into a more comfortable position on the bar stool; one that was slightly closer to him. The movement from her petite form caused her perfume to waft up towards him, assaulting him with a soft mixture of warm spices that reminded him of bit of kitchen around the holidays. It was a calming sweet aroma that matched her perfectly and he found himself leaning in imperceptibly closer to follow it.

Adequately re-situated, a maneuver that involved her uncrossing and then re-crossing her bare legs extending from the hem of her gray pencil skirt that had replaced her typical khaki colored trousers tonight, she began her explanation. "I'll admit it...I snooped." She grinned guiltily at him, an expression that only succeeded in making her look more appealing. "Sorry, I know I shouldn't have-"

"No, no...it's fine," he found himself blurting.

She smiled again. "You're sweet, William. But anyways, I was in the mail room and...well," she reached into her open lab coat's pocket and produced a carefully taped together, slightly sparkling card, "this."

Despite his familiarity with the overly neat cursive adorning the card, in Birkin's current state it took him a few moments to recognize the origin of the item Annette was holding out to him.

"Where did you...?" Unsure how to finish, he left the question hanging in the air as he clumsily grasped the repaired card.

"From the trash can in the mail room," she revealed slowly. "I really wouldn't have looked," she clarified quickly, "but I saw your last name on the envelope and Doctor Wesker was just walking out...I just...sorry..." she finished lamely.

"No, it's alright..." he muttered again as he forced his eyes to focus on the small writing, taking in the message adorning the light cream colored paper on the typical birthday card from his parents. "Albert was leaving?" he questioned vaguely, slowly putting the picture together of what had transpired in his buzzing mind.

"Yeah," she nodded. "I kind of assumed he was the one that had thrown it out...of course I could be wrong," she retracted hurriedly, not wanting to offend the young scientist sitting next to her.

Birkin returned her nod, thankfully not seeming to have taken offense. "Yes..." he agreed slowly. "That does sound like something he'd do."

Wesker's persistent intolerance and anger at anyone close to Birkin was nothing new, but sometimes...sometimes it was quite grating. On any other occasion, when Birkin's mind was functioning at its usual brilliant level, he would have been quick to remind himself that this "overprotective" nature was one of the biggest manifestations of just how much Wesker cared about and needed him. But at the moment, for some strange reason, William didn't want to think of Wesker, and as a result, all he felt was tired; tired of how Wesker always became so upset every time one of these ridiculous cards showed up in the mail. He _knew_ Wesker's anger wasn't directed at him, even if the blond did take a fair amount of it out on Birkin, but there was a disconnect right now, one that could easily be faulted on the alcohol rushing through his system and the entirely different intoxicating effect Annette was having on him.

"Why would he do that?" asked Annette innocently, pulling Birkin back from the thoughts he was struggling to understand. Annette herself still didn't comprehend the complexity of the strange relationship Wesker and Birkin had, and she certainly didn't want to step out of place and offend the doctor beside her. This was the first time she'd been able to talk to Birkin without Wesker listening from the shadows or hanging over his colleague's shoulder; she was _not_ going to mess up this rare opportunity. If she did...she'd probably get transferred to this crazy facility; demoted and that much farther away from Birkin.

This obsession with the young extremely talented doctor was foolish. She'd told herself that countless times. She _should _be focused on ensuring her future here at Umbrella, but such self advice had proved useless. Partly because one of the best ways to safeguard her future _was_ to become irreplaceable to Doctor William Birkin, but mostly, it was because idea of being that close to him sent a thrill of excitement through her body every time she thought of it.

"He..." Birkin sighed heavily, easily drawing Annette back in. "I don't have a 'great' relationship with my family." He laughed awkwardly. "Sometimes I think Al has a bigger problem with them than I do."

"You...don't want to talk about it, huh?" she inquired astutely.

He shrugged. Of course he didn't want to talk about it. It had taken him years to tell Wesker, but for some reason, he did anyways. "Not much to tell really. All they cared about was my constant success; first in the academic side of things and then with my career. The rest was just show. That's...kinda how I ended up here," he finished, suddenly loathing how loose his lips had become, but it was a dim sort of distaste; a light pricking at the back of his mind that would only later turn into a searing flame of regret for everything that had and would take place tonight.

Annette placed a warm hand on his shoulder. He thought he'd pull away but instead, urged on by the pleasant fuzziness clouding his mind, he found himself accepting, no embracing the light touch and taking comfort from it.

"I'm sorry, William. That must have been awfully hard on you growing up like that," she said soothingly, her thumb rubbing a small gentle circle on his shoulder blade; an area that, along with his neck and back seemed to collect all the vast amounts of stress and tension that he was exposed to over the day. Right now, aided by her kind touch, he felt all the stress thinking about the past and desperately planning for the future brought to him softly melting away into a stream of warm carelessness.

He took another drink out of his seemingly ever refilling glass. A Part of his mind he wasn't really aware of knew that it was steady shots of alcohol into his system that was keeping him floating in this nearly mindless bliss; a carelessness that a deep, nearly visceral warning was trying to steer him away from, but that was something he didn't want right now, so instead he chose to dull and ignore it.

It was a mistake. One that would cost him dearly.

Oh, she was talking again. It wasn't so much that he cared what she was saying. Her voice, it just had a soothing almost melodic quality to it; something that was very pleasing to his ears. It was almost as fascinating as the manner in which her lips moved when her words left them...almost.

Why should he feel so wrong thinking about the soft warm feeling her lips would bring to his should they meet...? There was something...

"So, just how close are you and Doctor Wesker?" She asked, rather playfully nudging him with her foot under the bar once she'd finished her own very short version of her particular lack of a normal childhood—seemed the theme was common one among Umbrella scientists. "It's just, if he knows too—about your past—than you two must be quite good friends." She sipped her own, much fruitier method of numbing rational thought. "I heard you and he have been working together almost since you joined Umbrella."

She laughed, a light tinkling sound that cause a few of the butterflies flitting intermittently around in William's stomach to stir up again. "I don't know how you do it, the guy kinda creeps me out."

She was trying to keep things light. That look Birkin had just been giving her, it made her think that maybe... No, there was no way she'd get _that_ lucky tonight. At the very least she could possibly shed some light on what kept the two very different scientists so closely held together, though whether she'd remember it or not was another story entirely.

Annette hardly ever drank. In fact, this was the most liquor she'd ever remembered consuming. But if it kept Birkin talking and continued to settle the nerves in her stomach, she'd stay seated at this bar all night with him.

_ Wesker._

The name resonated like a bell of momentary clarity in his foggy mind. Suddenly he felt wrong, uncomfortable, and guilty as hell. It was horrible. He hated it.

In any other state of mind, Birkin would have clung to those feelings, the results of which would have caused him to throw his drink down, push away from Annette, and bolt out of this ridiculous party and straight into Wesker's waiting arms.

But he wasn't in his right mind, not even close. All he wanted to do was continue to feel this good; to allow the current beauty of the moment, enhanced by his alcoholic lenses, to continue to engulf him; shoving away everything bad, and keeping him warped in the false arms of safety for as long as possible.

He didn't want to think about the past or the rather foreboding future, all he wanted to live in was the fleetingly wonderful now.

"_I want you to have fun, Will. … It only makes sense that at least one of our birthdays should be pleasant..." _

Wesker's parting words, horribly twisted, floated up from the depths of his mind, burning all the doubt and trepidation he'd had left from every crevice and neuron making up his consciousness.

"I...don't want to talk about Wesker right now."

That was all he needed to let go. Everything; every precious moment and memory he'd had with Wesker and every last possibility of a future with the man he claimed to love slipping through his fingers as he did.

* * *

**Where Explicit Content would fall.**

* * *

_March 23rd , 1986; Spencer Estate Guard House:_

Annette felt the first stabs of fear begin to clutch at her trembling form a few moments after Birkin had taken her screaming over the edge, filling her with his seed in the process. Once she'd shyly looked up at the man she was now more determined than ever to spend the rest of her life with, she felt that fear increase exponentially. He looked like he wanted to die.

What Birkin felt crashing down upon him as reality began to shed its unyielding, unforgiving light on the situation was infinitely worse. _He'd __**cheated**__ on Wesker._ It was like ice water had just been dumped over his very soul. He felt sick, disgusting, horrible, wrong...the list could go on forever, each nasty word branding itself on his skin until he wanted to scream and cry.

It couldn't be real. This _didn't_ happen; it was a _dream_ a _delusion;_ it just couldn't be fucking _real!_ He wouldn't he _couldn't_ ruin everything; hurt Wesker like this!

But he did.

It was over. It was done. No matter how much he would give to take it back; to be currently held in Wesker's strong arms instead of Annette's trembling ones right now, he couldn't do a thing to change it. All he could do was hate himself.

"W-William?" she tried tentatively, running a hand over his heaving sides.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to look at her like she was the most amazing creature he'd ever seen. He was supposed to hold her in his arms and kiss her softly. And goddammit, she didn't _care_ if she sounded like a hopeless romantic, he was _supposed _to whisper he loved her into her burning ear. But regardless, that was _not_ want he was doing. He was looking at her like...like he hated what had just happened...like he hated _her_.

Annette didn't cry; she just wasn't that kind of girl, but she felt her throat tighten and he eyes start to burn as he recoiled from her touch, pulling away like she was something he'd never wanted to make contact with, let alone hold.

Birkin's abrupt retreat from the now terrified looking Annette only took him so far as the edge of the mattress before he just collapsed in on himself both emotionally and physically; holding his head, his lungs forcing in and out short gasps of air as his entire body panicked. He didn't know what to do. He just wanted it all to go away, but he knew such thoughts were only a fantasy.

It was the same as how he'd felt when his own carelessness had led Wesker to become infected with Tyrant, but this, this was somehow so much worse. That had been an accident. It was still his fault, but it had been completely unintentional. This...this was not only his fault.. it was..._intentional_. He'd done everything knowingly. Continuing to compare the two instances would be akin to him having actually shoving Wesker's hand onto the vials.

He felt a strangled gasp escape his tight throat as despair attempted to overcome him. He wouldn't be surprised if he lost Wesker over this. The thought was so chilling. He knew the weight of such a loss would crush him into a deep dark oblivion from which there was no hope of escape and it was _All. His. Fault._

Annette continued to watch in horror as her own dreams broke and shattered around her. He...he was crying. What had she done? What had she done to deserve this? She loved the man for God's sake! Why was he treating her like this?!

"William, look at me!" she screeched.

Birkin jerked up, his face pale, eyes red, staring in horror at the naked woman on the bed not a few feet from him.

Suddenly Annette deeply regretted commanding him to do so. As soon as his wide blue eyes were on her, she felt terribly self-conscious. The way he was staring at her made her feel like the most hideous creature on the planet right now and left her desperately wanting for something to hide her exposed body; a luxury the unfurnished room and bed neglected to supply. As a result, she just drew her knees up to her chest in an effort to hide most of her shaking form from the man she'd so happily stripped for a few minutes ago.

"Why are you doing this?" she managed to choke out, her wavering voice miles from where she wanted it to be in strength and determination. She looked away, no longer able to meet his gaze. "I don't understand what's wrong," she whispered almost inaudibly as she desperately fought back the tears that threatened to spill for her shimmering eyes.

If William had been any less of a person, he would have used Annette as the perfect displacement for his guilt; he would have blamed it all on who he could have easily viewed as the stupid clueless girl who'd been trying to seduce him for months and had finally succeeded tonight at the bar. But Birkin wasn't foolish, and he wasn't cruel either. He was to blame, not her. Annette had just been dragged along for the ride, something he could tell by her actions, left her feeling absolutely miserable; something he could relate to wholeheartedly.

"A mistake," he managed to force out, his voice cracking. "This was all a huge...huge mistake."

Annette let a small sob escape her throat. That one word, "mistake;" it crushed every last bit of hope she'd been uselessly carrying around in her chest and left her feeling as cold as though she was sitting naked and alone in the storm raging outside.

"A _mistake_?" She was no longer able to fully contain the tears now trickling down her cheeks. "I-I don't understand," she repeated hopelessly. How could _that_ have been a "mistake?" It was everything she'd wanted and dreamed about for the last two months. How was that wrong?

Birkin focused his blurred vision on his hands, clasped tightly to prevent them from shaking too badly. After that...after how royally he'd just screwed up three of the lives in this facility; after how deeply he was wounding her, she deserved to know.

"I...Wesker and I..." he swallowed, "I love him." It was the first time Birkin had said those words out loud, a fact that caused his chest to twinge painfully as though someone was physically stabbing it.

What if he never got a chance to tell him that?

Annette blinked away her tears in confusion, mascara already running down her face. "W-what?" She had no idea what Birkin meant by that. The truth of the matter hadn't even occurred to her yet; it was just too absurd.

Birkin winced his eyes shut. "I've been with him for nine years! And this?" He could quite literally shoot himself right now for what he'd just done. "How could I do this to him..." He glanced briefly up at her. "I'm...I'm so sorry Annette. I shouldn't have-I don't know why-" He closed his eyes briefly. There was nothing he could say right now to fix what he'd done. "You shouldn't of had to go through this," he whispered guiltily. "I'm...sorry."

That little word wasn't even close to communicating how awful he felt.

Annette was only able to stare in horror at the man she'd just allowed to make love to her. Not only was he not the least bit interested, he was...with another man! Suddenly the words _Disgusting! Dirty! Tainted! Filthy! Slut! _and, _Whore!_ all flew through her head, mentally branding her in the worst possible way.

"Oh God..." she muttered, hand moving to cover the entirety of her mouth.

Birkin sat there in silence for a few more minutes, his mind flashing from blank to uselessly searching for a non-existent solution to the horror he'd just immersed himself in, before he shakily pushed himself to his feet and began collecting and replacing his clothing. The entire time he felt Annette eyes on him and he uselessly tried not to imagine the pain and hatred burning behind those usually beautiful orbs.

He couldn't face Annette. How was he going to face Wesker? The thought almost brought him to his knees as he walked to the door.

Before he allowed his hand to turn the knob, he took one final look at the woman he'd just broken nearly as badly as he'd torn himself. "Annette, I'm so-"

"Just go!" she cried harshly, gesturing violently to the door.

He nodded deftly and quickly escaped to room.

Annette waited until she'd heard the door click before she allowed herself to collapse to the bed, sobbing in earnest for her first real heartbreak. She was stupid; stupid for ever letting herself slip from her plan; from her path, and now she was paying the price for it.

Once she'd cried out every last tear in her body, she picked herself up, went back to her room in the mansion, signed the transfer sheet, left it on Birkin's desk, and began the arduous process of moving everything she had from the mansion into the Guard House—except her heart; that she left behind. The whole time she wished hopelessly to never again see the man who melted it and then ripped it out all in one fell swoop.

* * *

_March 23__rd __, 1986; Spencer Estate Grounds:_

As soon as he'd left that horrid room where he quite possibly had ruined _everything_ good about his life, Birkin bolted. The Guard House disappeared moments later, throwing him out into the raging storm with its icy howling wind and biting rain; it was as though the very weather was punishing him for his mistake—as if he needed any help.

Birkin could barely see an few feet in front of him in this angry darkness, but he still kept running, stumbling blindly though the blackness. It was like part of him truly believed that if he ran fast enough, he could escape everything that had happened. Of course, this was the farthest thing from the truth. A few seconds later, the uneven, mud slick ground reminded him of this, catching his feet and slamming him ruthlessly into the slippery, rocky earth.

The pain he felt physically as he laid there in the mud was nothing compared to the emotional ache searing through his chest. Momentarily unable to force himself back up, Birkin curled in on himself and just cried.

He was so scared; so scared he'd lose everything. All he wanted was for Wesker to hold him in his strong arms and tell him it would be okay. But if he knew...God if he knew, Wesker would _never _do that again, and so, Birkin just continued to sob.

* * *

_March 23rd , 1986; Spencer Estate:_

Wesker sighed as he set down the book he'd been reading and checked the clock for about the millionth time that night. _Ten fifty four._ Birkin was certainly taking his sweet time. He'd been there since three.

"Be back as soon as they cut the cake my ass..." Wesker muttered heatedly.

He'd considered going to get Birkin starting around six but had convinced himself otherwise. Birkin could handle himself and Wesker had said he was going to let him spend the day as he wanted to. Unfortunately, Wesker had stood by that promise. If that was how William wanted to spend his birthday fine, he'd make him pay for it tonight when he fucked him.

The thought caused Wesker to grin as he re-picked up his rather poorly written true crime novel—what else was he supposed to do while he waited? He was about to start reading again when he swore he heard footsteps outside in the hall, followed by the sound of the door across from him opening and slamming shut. This caused him pause; that room was Birkin's and no one had used it for years—well, except to contain his partner's paper mess.

Wesker hesitated for a moment before setting the paperback down and getting up to go check. Perhaps Birkin was too drunk to remember which side of the hall they slept on.

What Wesker saw once he'd opened to door and switched on the light caused him to freeze. Birkin was laying on the ground in a puddle of his own vomit, muddy, soaked to the bone, and shaking like a leaf.

Instantly Wesker was at his partner's side, cursing his decision to leave him alone. The smell of alcohol was so strong from the combination of what was on his breath and what was now covering his front and the floor it almost caused Wesker to recoil.

Birkin was lucky. The stench of regurgitated liquor did a perfect job of completely masking Annette's perfume.

"Oh god, Will...how much did you drink?" gasped Wesker as he pulled him up by his shoulder's out of the mess on the floor. Wesker was trying his hardest not to breathe in the overpowering odor, but that was quite hard to do when he kept nearly gagging himself.

Birkin turned horribly red bleary eyes on him, staring at him as though he feared the most horrible form of retribution to come crashing down on him. "Al...I'm...I'm so sorry," he gasped, looking as though he was about to cry.

Wesker gave him a strange look. It was true that Wesker was quite pissed about him staying out so dammed late and exceedingly annoyed at the fact he'd let himself get so drunk, and from the looks of it, went tromping through the forest for a few hours, but Wesker had bigger concerns than letting Birkin know how angry he was right now. For one, Wesker was extremely worried about the state his partner was in, and that aside, even if he'd decided to be a bastard and yell at William now, the look of dread on Birkin's face was completely disproportionate to Wesker's rather subdued wrath.

Wesker sighed, the strange look could probably be blamed on his level of intoxication; he quite literally smelled like a bar...and other things Wesker didn't even want to try to picture.

"It's alright, Will," he muttered in mere annoyance. "Let's just get you cleaned up, okay?"

Birkin stared at him as though he'd gone mad before he suddenly broke down and threw his trembling arms around Wesker, sobbing into him as he fully exposed Wesker to the warm vomit still covering his shirt and the front of his trousers.

"Oh God!" gasped Wesker, trying uselessly to separate himself from the man covering him in the disgusting mess he was wearing.

Unable to dislodge Birkin's wailing form uttering mostly unintelligible apologies, Wesker just fell back on his haunches glaring daggers at his partner.

"Now we _both_ need a shower," he huffed.

"Al, listen to me," Birkin breathed though his sobs.

"Now is _really_ not the time," Wesker growled, beginning to struggle slightly again.

"No, Al! _Listen_!" Birkin cried in absolute distress.

Wesker glared, but relented due to the tone of William's voice, even if he thought this could all be attributed to his level of drunkenness. "Fine...but make it quick. I'm covered in your vomit."

Birkin looked down. "I...I..."

Wesker sighed, running a hand over William's back. "Out with it, Birthday Boy, or I'm dragging you into the bathroom regardless."

Oh God, he couldn't tell him. If he told him, he'd lose him. Birkin buried his face into Wesker's chest, mindless of the foul smelling mess and causing Wesker to cringe. The question was, could he survive through the guilt? It didn't matter. He couldn't live without Wesker, and he figured he deserved any and all suffering he felt as a result of his infidelity.

"I...I love you." he finally whispered.

Wesker's from stiffened beneath him.

"I love you with all my heart, Albert. I...I can't do this without you. Please...please, don't ever leave me."

Wesker froze completely. He had no bloody clue what to do in response to that. Birkin had never..._ever_ said _anything_ like that in the nine years they been together and Wesker certainly never had either. He wasn't prepared...he had no response.

"Will..." he eventually managed awkwardly. "You're...you're _really, __**really**_ drunk...I-"

"I know I'm drunk, Al!" yelled Birkin, further stunning Wesker into silence, "but that doesn't change the fact that that's how I feel! I...I could just...never say it before..." he looked away. "I love you," he said again.

It was at this point that he leaned up to press his mouth to Wesker's in what would have been the most disgusting, yet most emotionally deep kiss to date...if Wesker hadn't stopped him that is. "Will, please," Wesker begged. "I will kiss you to your heart's content in the shower as soon as you brush your teeth." He sighed. "I'm...I'm not going anywhere, Will. Believe it or not, you are just as important to me as you just stated I am to you. But I am literally begging you. Can we _please_ get into the shower?"

Birkin pressed his head back into Wesker's chest and nodded, arms firmly planted around his partner's shoulders.

Wesker ended up carrying him into the shower.

Birkin let the warm water rush over him, removing the dirt and grime with the help of Wesker's mostly gentle hands. Birkin _almost_ believed the guilt could be washed away too, but that would never happen. He would carry it with him until the day he died.

Birkin's mind was slowly pulled away from the inner turmoil he was going through by the increasingly intimate touches of Wesker's hands over his no longer physically dirty body. Ironic, because while they were serving as a distractive intervention, at the same time, they were increasing the feelings of guilt pounding through him. He should be hurting right now. Wesker shouldn't be caressing him, he should be punishing him severely for what he'd done; he wanted Wesker to hurt him.

Suddenly Birkin turned around from his position under the stream of warm water and pressed himself to Wesker's chest, one hand tangling into Wesker's wet hair and pulling him down slightly so his mouth could slam onto Wesker's, silently begging him to take away the inner pain he knew he deserved by making it a tangible, physical thing; something that could be healed. Wesker was quite good at making love a rather painful affair, and right now, that was the only way Birkin could bring himself to touch the man he was clinging to so desperately.

Wesker grinned into the kiss, eagerly deepening it by adding his quick tongue and sharp teeth to the mix. He'd been toying with Birkin for the past ten minutes with little to no results to show for his endeavors until now. He'd started to wonder if the alcohol had numbed more than his partner's mind; a strange occurrence indeed.

As he pulled Birkin closer, he was happy to be proved wrong.

* * *

**Where Explicit Content would fall.**

* * *

_March 24__th __, 1986; Spencer Estate:_

Wesker was awake long after Birkin had collapsed next to him in their cool bed, finally allowing his exhausted intoxicated body the rest it was begging for. His partner on the other hand, was far from slipping into the gentle oblivion sleep offered. Quite to the contrary, his mind was mulling repeatedly over and over all the oddities of the evening. The whole situation was strange to be sure, but there was one particular area where his mind became repeatedly stuck.

"_I...I love you. … I love you with all my heart, Albert."_

Wesker ran a hand over his face. Why had he said that? It'd just been because he was drunk right? Or...had it been something deeper?

Wesker glanced over at his heavily sleeping partner, staring intently at his slack features as if doing so would provide him with an answer.

_ Love_... Such a simple four letter word that Wesker had never even considered using to describe anything in his life. It had been used too much to the point of becoming cliché, but that's not what was bothering Wesker.

The way Birkin had said it, in combination with how long it had taken either of them _to_ say it—not that Wesker ever wanted to—made him think that, despite the ridiculous utilization of that seemingly innocent word and the wide variety of meanings it could hold as such, even in his inebriated state, Birkin meant what he'd said, and had meant it in a deeper emotional way than Wesker ever wanted to really think about.

Regardless of his wants, Wesker was forced to consider it now.

Okay, ignore the stupid word talking up the pages of every crappy paperback romance novel ever created; without putting a cliché label on it, how did he feel about Birkin?

God he was loath to admit it, but he _needed_ William. Birkin was the only person he could trust, rely on, and relate to in his life. Further than that, Wesker was painfully aware that Birkin was the only individual in the company who would ever see him as anything other than than _a _Wesker; a part of another Umbrella experiment. Birkin was also the only individual aware of what Wesker's true intentions were. Not only that, the usually timid blond was willing to stand by Wesker in his nigh impossible goal; to assist Wesker in whatever way he could to achieve it. Finally, William was his only means of escape from the horrors that saturated his everyday life in this mad facility.

Wesker didn't know what he'd do without him.

Maybe that wasn't the typical definition of the term, but if this undeniable need for the other man would qualify...yes...he could say it...

A few more moments were spent in nearly still silence as Wesker gently stroked Birkin's messy hair from his sleeping face, a slight genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He motions slowed as Birkin almost imperceptibly stirred, his eyes, reddened by tears, lack of sleep, and alcohol, opening ever so slightly. Wesker continued his soft touches until he was sure Birkin was mostly awake before gently pressing his lips to his partner's.

"I suppose I love you too, Dearheart," he whispered quietly.

Birkin just was able to stare up at him for a few moments before just burring his face in Wesker's neck, letting out what could have been a strangled sob, and wrapping his arms more tightly around the older blond.

Not the reaction Wesker had been expecting, but he knew liquor made Birkin highly emotional, and judging by how closely William was holding him, it was certainly a positive response. As such, Wesker just returned the embrace, comforting his partner by rhythmically stroking his hair and back until they both fell asleep, wrapped in each other's embrace.

In the morning, Birkin wouldn't be sure if this had really happened. For Wesker to have said that...after everything...if felt too much like a dream to be real. No matter, Birkin would always remember this; the bitter sweet emotions swirling around in his chest assuring him that Wesker loved him and that he would never deserve it.

* * *

_March 24__th __, 1986; Spencer Estate:_

Birkin awoke the next morning in absolute agony. His head was pounding like a tribal drum with every beat of his heavy heart, his body felt heavy, as though he was coming down with something in result of his extended time out in the rain, every inch of him was radiating discomfort in response to Wesker's assault on all his body's the various areas, and—_FUCK!—_the slightest movement he had made; just a little shift in position had caused a red hot jolt of pain to shoot through his lower body, burning deeply within him as though he'd been ripped apart from the inside (an apt comparison considering what had happened last night). The pain was so intense, he couldn't help but whimper, tears stinging at his winced shut eyes.

He welcomed the pain.

Just as clearly as the agony had shot through his pounding mind, so had the clarity of what he'd done yesterday. He deserved this. Every second of it and more.

Biting his lower lip to prevent himself from being too loud, Birkin tried to sit up on the sheets. It was a mistake, and it hurt bad enough to get him to cry, water streaming down his face as he gasped out. Immediately, Birkin ceased all movement, whimpering pitifully as he tried to ride out the waves of hurt.

"...I knew you'd be regretting that little stunt of yours come morning," commented the warm body lying next to him.

Birkin directed his gaze towards Wesker, feeling both relief and guilt wash over him. "I-I don't..." He hissed again. "...don't regret it in the least..."

Wesker snorted in disbelief and then rolled to face him, careful not to jostle his partner. He would be very relieved to discover later today, that while Birkin was far from undamaged, nothing more drastic than the narcotics Wesker was about to offer him would have to be done to rectify the situation caused by last night antics.

"Here." He held out the pills and a glass of water. "I'll give you a heavier dose once the hangover wears off, don't want you dying of respiratory depression after all that." He chuckled. "I can't even imagine how awful you feel right now, Dearheart. I hope it was worth it."

"It wasn't," he winced as he gratefully accepted Wesker's assistance in getting him up enough to take the medication.

"I thought you said you didn't regret it," Wesker said skeptically, as he helped his partner take the oxycodone and then the entire glass of water.

"I don't," he coughed, having downed the liquid too quickly.

Wesker rolled his eyes, carefully pulling Birkin back down into the silken sheet and his arms.

They laid like this for a while, both lost in astronomically different thoughts before Wesker reached over to the night stand and pulled out a small, unwrapped rectangular box which he then presented to Birkin.

"What is this," asked Birkin in confusion.

"Your present," stated Wesker bluntly. "In all the insanity yesterday, I forgot to give it to you. You'll have to excuse the lateness as it can pretty much be blamed on you."

Birkin winced. He had enough blame to deal with.

"You...you didn't have to..." William muttered as he took the box.

"I am aware," was Wesker's only response.

Having no more excuses, Birkin opened the box and was subsequently sunned speechless by the content.

"I...Al it's...I don't know what to say..." stuttered Birkin as he fumbled through the examination of the beautiful gift. He couldn't even comprehend how much the obviously custom watch had cost his partner. "I-I don't deserve this," he blurted out, immediately regretting doing so.

Wesker fixed him with a quizzical look. "Well that's quite an absurd thing to say..." He cocked his head to the side, but put any questions he may have had on hold. "Deserving or not, it's yours. You have no idea what I went through to get the blasted thing so you better damn well use it...and don't lose it either," he added, recalling of often Birkin seemed to misplace things.

Birkin just continued to stare between the engraved watch and Wesker.

The older blond's uncovered stormy eyes narrowed. "You don't like it?"

Birkin rapidly shook his head. "No! I...I..." He just embraced his partner at a loss for words. "I love it...th-thank you."

Wesker relaxed into the hug, gently stroking his partner's back and sides. "Perhaps it will serve you in keeping better track of time than your old one did last night."

Birkin grimaced and pulled himself closer, wanting nothing more than to ball out endless apologies and beg for forgiveness for the crime Wesker wasn't even aware he'd committed.

The watch gripped tightly in his hand would carelessly and relentlessly count down the remainder of the short time Birkin would be able to hold Wesker like this.

* * *

_April 11__th __, 1986; Spencer Estate; Guard House:_

All Annette was able to do was stare at the result sheet in her shaking hands, eyes wide with disbelief and horror.

This could not be _real_! After everything..._everything_ that had gone wrong over the last two and a half weeks this...this was impossible!

Her legs lost the ability to support her body and she collapsed back into her chair, hand clasped over her mouth. Never before had she been so grateful for the privacy offered by her own laboratory.

Annette admitted that she'd been worried when her cycle had been a few days late, and after four, simple paranoia had driven her to perform an HCG (Human Chorionic Gonadotropin) blood test on herself.

Never in a million years had she really expected the results to come back positive.

* * *

_April 14th , 1986; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4:_

The last twenty two days had been harder for Birkin than he could have ever predicted. Not only did he have to deal with his own feelings of irrepressible guilt, he had to quell all of Wesker's suspicions revolving around the night of his birthday and the subsequent fall out.

Wesker wasn't oblivious, quite the opposite in fact. He knew _something_ was going on. He just didn't know what and Birkin was having a hell of a time keeping it from him. The only thing that was continuously saving him from having the truth come to light was Wesker's own apparent inability to even entertain the idea of what had actually happened. He could be infinitely jealous of Annette—something Wesker would never admit to—but the older blond would never believe that there was any real warrant to his hatred of the woman. For Birkin to have cheated on him...well, it was unimaginable and, as such, never even crossed Wesker's mind. Although, the look that had covered Wesker's face when he'd seen Annette's signed transfer order sitting on their desk the day following Birkin's twenty-fourth birthday had certainly made William sweat.

The current lie he had Wesker "believing" which "explained" his behavior that night and Annette's sudden transfer and lack of desire to associate with either of them was as follows: After they'd both gotten unimaginatively drunk at the party, Annette had started severely flirting with him; something he had foolishly let continue for a good while (and oh was Wesker pissed about that; pissed, but not _gone_). That part was true and explained to Wesker why Birkin felt so guilty and been desperate to make it up to him that night as well as convey to Wesker just how much he cared, but neglected to divulge the entire truth—something that would have ripped them apart.

The lie continued that, once he'd pulled himself to his senses—something he wished with every fiber of his being that he'd done—Birkin had rather abruptly and impolitely turned her down. _That_ certainly wasn't true but offered a plausible explanation of why Annette had so suddenly agreed to the Guard House transfer and was avoiding William like he'd been infected with one of the viruses they worked with.

As horrible as the entire situation was, things were...getting better. Birkin was not for a second under the impression that he could completely wash his hands of what had happened—he'd forever bare the stains of what happened that night as a close, painful secret—but he was starting to honestly believe that he could put most of it behind him, write it off as a terrible mistake, and move on with his life with Wesker.

That is...until Annette showed up outside his lab looking as though she was about to go into hysterics. Then suddenly, everything he was trying to bury was right there on surface again.

The decision on Annette's part to come clean to Birkin had not been an easy one to arrive at. In fact, Annette had struggled for days to come up with how she was going to deal with the terrible twist her life had taken.

The researcher had been so desperate, she'd considered a chemical abortion—it was certainly early enough in the pregnancy—God, she couldn't even call it that yet, she supposed she was still partly in denial about it—but she couldn't do it, couldn't kill the life growing inside her. The shame would destroy her.

She had never pictured herself to be capable of being a good mother, she was too cold; too absorbed in her research to manage that, but to...to kill her own child, someone who was completely innocent and had no hand or control over the circumstances that had created its tiny little life force...it was unimaginable to Annette.

Her Catholic upbringing had never really had much influence on her life and the decisions she made, but it certainly had a hold of her in this aspect.

Annette supposed it was a bit of an oxymoron; she could experiment on and basically murder other human beings, but she couldn't pop a handful of pills to eliminate a tiny embryo whose miniscule immature heart had just stared to beat but was yet to even resemble the person it was slowly becoming.

It didn't matter. This child was _**hers**_, and that made all the difference in the world.

That was why she was standing here before Birkin now. That was why she was going to beg him, on her knees if she had to, to be there for her; to be there for his future child.

Annette had no illusions of being able to do this on her own. Umbrella didn't need a pregnant woman unable to perform many of her typical duties and responsibilities her dangerous job required of her on their pay roll. However, if Birkin, one of Umbrella's top and most invaluable scientists, supported her, claimed her and the child, she'd have a much higher chance of survival within the vicious company.

Looking at Birkin's wide eyed expression, clearly stating that she was the _last_ person he wanted to see, it was clear that attaining the support that was vital to both her's and the child's survival would be quite an uphill battle. The way he was regarding her made her want to run and retract her decision to involve him in the "family" he'd helped create, but she forced herself to take a deep breath and stand her ground.

Running away wouldn't get her anywhere good.

"Annette..." gasped Birkin. "What...what are you doing here?" he inquired hurriedly, his voiced hushed. He was obviously nervous as hell about her presence, because he quickly shut the door and threw a nervous glance back at Wesker.

Wesker...She shuddered. She couldn't even think of Wesker's involvement in all this...

Fortunately, his partner's full attention was on the rather demanding tests he was performing on the prototype virus Birkin had discovered in Lisa and tentatively named G—no, Wesker had no idea why Birkin chose such a name and supposed he really didn't care either. The older blond wasn't even the slightest bit aware of what was going on outside their door nor of the implications behind it.

Annette somehow managed to keep her cool, ignoring her conflicting desires to either hit Birkin, or hold tightly to the scientist before her she was rather loathed to admit still having deep feelings for despite what he had done to her.

"William, we need to talk." Annette barely recognized the calm level voice that had just come out of her mouth. It was miles away from the anxiety she was truly feeling. She briefly wondered if she'd managed to keep the emotions from showing in her features as well.

"I..." Birkin glanced back into his lab, wishing terribly that this was something Wesker could save him from. He lowered his voice further as he became even more acutely aware of the horrible feelings, emotions, and memories he thought he'd finally stared leaving behind. "I can't Annette...I'm sorry, I just-"

He tried to escape back into the laboratory behind him, but Annette caught him by the sleeve of his white coat just in time.

He froze, looking as though he was fighting between the urges to slip quickly out of his lab coat or hit her arm away. She allowed him time to do neither.

"William," she spoke sternly. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't...immensely important. I need to talk to you, please...you owe me that much don't you?"

Birkin grimaced and shot one more desperate look back at Wesker before he nodded. "Yes...I-I suppose I do..." He shook his head. "But not here." With that, he led her up to one of the private offices on the facility's third basement level and locked the door.

For a while, they just stared at each other, before William finally broke the deadly silence. "W-well...? What is it...?"

This was it. Her only chance to make this work. Her entire future depended upon this. It should have been much more eloquent but all that came out was, "I'm pregnant."

Those two little words completely shattered Birkin's world and any illusions he had about spending the rest of his life in Wesker's arms.

* * *

_April 14th , 1986; Spencer Estate:_

Birkin had disappeared again... One moment Wesker was in the lab with him working on isolating the G-Virus and the next, his partner was gone on some errand to fetch another set of sealed vials, a chore he'd never returned from. At first Wesker was merely annoyed, then worried, and by the time evening had rolled around with no sign of the sandy haired researcher, he was downright concerned.

If he hadn't been so busy with G all day—they were preparing to start the live experimentation phase—he would have gone to look for his partner much earlier. As it was, around six PM, he been forced to stop—he never had gotten those viral containers he needed—and was now searching for Birkin.

He wasn't in the lab, nor could Wesker reach him on his cell phone. When Wesker had finally gotten around to checking in their room, he was fairly livid at the researcher sitting hunched over on their bed, shaking hands clasped tightly on his lap, head lowered so that his messy locks fell over his features.

"Dammit, Will!" raged Wesker, anger trailing quickly behind the flood of relief he felt at seeing Birkin alive and...unharmed? He certainly didn't look great...but he was here. Wesker had seen too many instances where Umbrella scientists and workers just disappeared. No explanation was ever given, but it was clear what had happened. "Where the hell were you?!" demanded Wesker, walking over to where his partner was. The unspoken words, _'I was worried,' _hung clearly in the air.

Birkin felt the dread that had been building up within him ever since Annette told him that in less than thirty eight weeks, he would be a father to a child he'd never meant to help create consume him. It was like an icy cold nothingness that was enveloping and destroying every last visages of warmth and happiness inside of him.

He had no hope left. What he said next would end everything.

"Al...I-I need to-to t-talk to you," he whispered, the utter despair in his words causing Wesker to completely reevaluate the situation. If William was this upset...this _was_ something serious.

Wesker felt a chill begin to creep into his chest. He couldn't imagine what horrible request Umbrella had made now or...what if there was another accident? "What is it?" he questioned blankly, folding his arms, his tone only a little less harsh than before.

Birkin let out another shaky breath, this one so long Wesker was under the impression that Birkin would completely deflate before his eyes. The scientist rose and then moved so he was standing before Wesker. The expression on his face when Birkin had finally gotten up the courage to look Wesker in his shaded eyes was one of absolute hopelessness and defeat. It was as though he was waiting for Wesker to pass judgment on him.

Wesker felt the iciness the seemed to leach from his partner begin to claw more vigorously at him. He wanted to reach out and touch Birkin, perhaps just a supportive hand on his shoulder or maybe even to hold William's trembling body to his, but there was something in the air between them, a palpable separation preventing Wesker from moving.

Birkin didn't know how he managed to do it but he forced his eyes to remain locked with those he could just make out through the dark lenses and then compelled his lips to move.

"I lied to you."

Once he started talking, no force on earth could stop the dark exorcism of the truth, no matter how badly either of them wanted to.

"The night on my birthday, I got drunk, I forgot myself; forgot everything. I-I screwed up." His voice cracked. "I don't know what happened or-or why I did it Al...but..." a small sob. "I slept with Annette!"

Ice. Those four words froze him down to the core, turning the entirety of Wesker's form to ice; ice that started to crack.

"I-I'm sorry," wailed Birkin, tears actively streaming down his face.

"_I'm here for you...whatever you need...anything at all...just say the word..."_

_ Lies..._

"I-I didn't mean..." he shook his head.

"_Don't you remember what I said? We can't do this alone...I can't do this alone..."_

_** Lies.**_

"And now...now she's pregnant and I...I don't know what to do!" His hands were digging in painfully to where they were clenching into his own arms.

"_I cannot believe you, Al! To think that I would-with her?! After you, for...for almost nine years! … Al, you're perfect. I'm...I'm uncannily fortunate to have had you for so long; to still have you...after everything… I'd be an absolute moron to pick anybody over you..."_

_** Lies!**_

"I'm sorry," he sobbed.

"_I...I love you… I love you with all my heart, Albert."_

_** LIES!**_

I'm so, so sorry, I never-"

The resounding smack from the blow Wesker had dealt to Birkin's face, sending the smaller man crashing to the floor, resonated throughout the cold room.

William looked up in fear at the dark figure standing over him, and impossible blend of emotions all etched in rage painted across his threatening features. Birkin's hand was glued to the intense pain radiating from the bruise already blooming across his jaw, blood trickling from his split lip and collecting in his mouth from where the inside of his cheek had been sliced open against his own teeth.

It wasn't the fact that Wesker had hit him like this, something the older man had never done, that was causing Birkin to shake, it was the way Wesker was looking down at him. The only emotion burning in those inadequately covered eyes was pure hatred.

"I hope," Wesker's words were absolute steel, "That you're _happy_ Will."

Without wasting another second, Wesker stepped over his crumpled body and walked quickly to the door.

"No, Al!" Birkin practically screamed through the tears and the pain. "I'm _sorry_! Please don't-"

The door slammed, forever cutting him off from the only person he would ever really love.

"Leave me..." he whispered to the emptiness around him.

He'd lost Wesker..._forever_.

Birkin allowed himself to crumple to the chilled floor, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the blood as the sensation of being truly alone over powered his entire being.

He wanted to die.

The only reason he didn't—besides the fact that he was too much of a cowered to inject himself with the myriad of viruses in their lab that would have instantly done the trick—was that, without Wesker, trapped in Umbrella's madness, he was sure he wouldn't last much longer.

* * *

_April 14th , 1986; Spencer Estate:_

Wesker ran, blindly and as fast as he could through the twisting hallways of the manor, as if he really believed that if he could move fast enough, he could outrun intense pain building in his chest, threatening to shatter him.

This special type of agony felt familiar somehow, and in the back of his mind he'd known the world shattering devastation of such a deep betrayal before, but he couldn't place it. If he had been thinking clearly instead frantically trying to avoid the pain that was crashing down around him, he would have accurately deduced that this was more severe version of the agony he'd felt when his Brother Alex had left him for dead within the company that was still trying to kill him, but Wesker couldn't think. He didn't want to. All he wanted to do; all he could do was run.

The anger he'd shown when slamming his fist into Birkin's pleading face had only acted as a temporary flimsy shield to the more dreadful emotions that were hounding him, nipping at his heels like vicious dogs from which there was no escape. He knew it was only a matter of time before the shock wore off and the true reality of the situation became painfully clear to him, but still, he pounded through halls and wooden doors; scrambling like a rat in a cage or, more accurately, one of his human test subjects; searching for a nonexistent way out he would never find.

His entire world was crashing down around him, burying him beneath unimaginable amounts of aching truths and lies that he couldn't help but flee from. He felt foolish, stupid, hurt, enraged, devastated, crushed, weak, alone, betrayed, used, and a slew of things he was helpless to put a name to but that were all happily ripping him apart from the inside out, something a thousand times worse than how he felt each Christmas Eve.

He gasped and almost fell to the ground, the thought of having to face those days alone; face the rest of this insane life alone; or having taken comfort from arms that were only too happy to wrap around another and to have foolishly believed that they would hold only him for eternity almost bringing him to his knees.

Nine years. Nine years; basically his entire life; all rendered meaningless in a single night.

Why? Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhyw hy_why__**why**__**WHY**_ had Birkin done this to him?!

It all made sense if he thought about it; why Birkin had come back to him from that...that _slut_ like that. Sobbing, groveling and pleading with Wesker to hold him.

He felt, sick his hand flying to his mouth but unable to stop the heaving of his stomach from emptying its contents in whatever room he was currently seeking refuge. He'd done it. He'd held Birkin, kissed him, told him that he...he _loved_ him—more bile forcing its way out of his tight throat—after Birkin had done the same exact thing to that _bitch_; after he'd left her panting on some mattress in a dark room with the makings of his _child _inside of her.

Wesker's running had come to a halt and he swayed dangerously into some nameless piece of furniture as his body started to succumb to the unbearable pain in his chest shattering the heart he'd never meant to open.

It wasn't until his ringing ears heard the sound of music and he understood his fingers were deftly, numbly, calling out the melody from the instrument that he'd crashed into that Wesker realized where he was.

Trying not to recall the memories that haunted this, and pretty much every nook and cranny of this mansion, Wesker finished the tragic song and stumbled into long since spore-free passage that was revealed, collapsing to the floor at the base of the statue, and clumsily ripping out the metal emblem that rested in the rock; the same one he'd used to save the life of the man he now couldn't think about without screaming.

As the stone wall closed soundly behind him, locking him safely away from the rest of the world and everyone that could possibly take advantage of his weakness, Wesker let himself break, unable to hold the pieces lodged inside his stinging chest together any longer.

For the first time in his life that he could recount, Wesker felt tears falling down his face and gasping sobs forcing their way out of his lips. Unknown to anyone besides the shaking blond crumpled on the floor, dismantled by the foolish mistake of the only person aside from himself that he'd really trusted, Albert Wesker cried.

He promised himself that this would be the first and the last time he would subject himself to such humiliation.

Tomorrow, he would pick himself up, replace his masks and his sunglasses which he always hid his true emotions behind; tomorrow he would lock what was left of the shattered thing in his chest behind a wall of ice he would allow no one else to melt and he would face the world; Tomorrow he would confront all of Umbrella's atrocities and trials and overcome them without fail, but that was tomorrow.

Tonight, he would allow himself to succumb to his humanity and cry himself into the unforgiving oblivion offered by the exhaustive sleep that would claim him well after midnight and well after the last tear he'd sworn ever to cry had fallen.

* * *

_The Second Cycle Meets Its End. _

_From the Remains of Devoured Coils, the Serpent Begins Again..._

* * *

-Asiera


End file.
