(no subject)
There's a note for Suzi, because Suzi made it part of the. . . house contract to know where he went when he left the bar. There are no other notes. He sat for the small eternity of five minutes trying to figure out what to write, then fed the fish in the fire with his pages and moved on.
The smells wrap around him once again as he opens the door and steps through. Ash and rich carpeting, furniture varnish and wallpaper. No chemical reek yet, even from the doors beneath the grand staircase. He heads down the stairs without looking around, past the bodies still fresh despite months and months of his time. He goes out the window.
Come here, he says to the puppy, and it does, so quickly that it nearly trips him. It gets underfoot, all stumbling paws and nubby nose and it's going to trip him up. He scoops it up--
Thank you thank you thank you oh you're my best friend let me wash your face-
Be quiet, he orders with as little harshness as he can manage. He doesn't want the thing to urinate in a show of submission next. Stop that. It starts licking his fingers, instead, which he tolerates.
Getting Birkin out of the bomb shelter is simple.
"What is that? Why did you bother with an experimental-"
"Because it won't always be this small."
Will he pet me?
"Not right now."
"Yes, it will take years," Birkin agrees, watching him with some concern, and Wesker rolls his eyes and grabs his arm and starts moving.
He doesn't have a lot with him, because it would raise too many questions. His assets consist of a tarp for shelter and a few tools. Besides those, he has food, a puppy, and Birkin.
I'm cold! "I'm hungry." I can't see! Where are you? "How are you navigating in the dark with such thick clouds?" It's too big here! "It's cold."
Birkin's also exhausted, and although he planned around that it's still a nuisance. He puts together a lean-to, lets Birkin roll into the corner over the edge of the tarp, and settles in between him and the open air.
Birkin hesitates, then rolls against him, back-to-back, for body heat.
"--Albert, you're burning up."
I'm cold I'm cold the puppy stops shivering as Wesker unzips his jacket and pulls its spine against his chest. -oh, warm.
"You have a fever? What are you doing dragging us out here-"
Keep your wet dirty paws away from me, Wesker demands as subtly as he can. The puppy ceases its attempt to snuggle.
Birkin puts the pieces together, their escape from the lab, that awful, ever-present curiosity Wesker has to admit he shares, the fascination with what should be unlearned: "what did you catch?"
Yes! I am a good puppy! Pet me?
No. Sleep. "I'll tell you everything in the morning, Birkin. I'm not contagious. I'm well enough to be lying on the ground."
"...what if something follows us?"
"I said lying, not sleeping. Rest. I'll be awake."
He goes through the remaining plan in his head. From here, it's a straight shot, unless something goes terribly wrong. Albert listens to the forest, to the wind, analyzing it all for rhythms that might be footsteps or movements that might be hunters. He can see perfectly. The world's in beautiful colors now, lit surreally by moonlight and starlight (when the clouds part) and sober drabs when the clouds are thick.
Birkin makes a small worried sound in his sleep, and Albert narrows his eyes. He did this, he struck at Umbrella, he's the one building a new future. If he makes a mistake, Birkin suffers.
The puppy wakes up, sniffs the air. Where am I?
Outside. In the forest.
I'm scared.
Wesker pauses for a moment, and is pretty sure he says: You're a smart puppy. Still, I'm going to watch out for you.
Am I your puppy?
Dogs, Wesker says, rolling his eyes. No. You belong to the male lying behind me.
What's a-? He got the word wrong, and the puppy's reaction is Joy all over, and Wesker sighs and lifts the puppy to see Birkin. Him. He's sleeping. He'll pet you when he's awake. Doubtless under duress, but Wesker needs to know someone less threatening than he can look after Birkin.
Where is everyone?
New homes.
I miss them.
Wesker says nothing.
I'm hungry.
Go to sleep. There will be food in the morning.
The puppy dozes off obediently, leaving Wesker to think.
Dawn breaks, and Wesker ruthlessly drags Birkin from the tarp and makes him pet and feed the puppy. He wants the animal to bond more to William. But it's time for questions, eventually, and Albert explains as much of the story as he can while making sense; it doesn't make a great deal, he has to admit, but their knowledge of theoretical physics helps some-
"But that's impossible."
-what.
"But none of that can be proven," William finally remarks.
"While I was there," Wesker pauses, "there seems to have been a problem with the timestream, and a sample of your work got through."
"My work?"
"Tailored to alter a specific host into a bioweapon." Wesker pauses while Birkin blinks a great deal. "Me."
"You're claiming that's the sickness," Birkin says, and Wesker's quite sure William believes he's contracted the T-virus and a mental illness. "But when would you cha-"
Wesker takes off his sunglasses. And from there on, he has Birkin's attention, explaining the hallmarks of the sickness, the path of infection, the accident in the manor, the age-long recuperation-
"I wish I knew what I did in the first place to know why it went wrong-"
-and brings them up to the present day.
"Incredible." Birkin is watching him like something under glass, and Wesker's amused enough and pleased enough with Birkin's cooperation that he permits it. Even when Birkin grabs his wrist for a pulse check, shoves his face further to the light to watch his pupils contract, asks him test question after test question.
Birkin sits back on his heels. He stares at Deitmar's eyes and thinks. A full three minutes goes by.
"--oh," Birkin adds belatedly, as something occurs to him, "good on you for not dying."
Wesker understands.
The smells wrap around him once again as he opens the door and steps through. Ash and rich carpeting, furniture varnish and wallpaper. No chemical reek yet, even from the doors beneath the grand staircase. He heads down the stairs without looking around, past the bodies still fresh despite months and months of his time. He goes out the window.
Come here, he says to the puppy, and it does, so quickly that it nearly trips him. It gets underfoot, all stumbling paws and nubby nose and it's going to trip him up. He scoops it up--
Thank you thank you thank you oh you're my best friend let me wash your face-
Be quiet, he orders with as little harshness as he can manage. He doesn't want the thing to urinate in a show of submission next. Stop that. It starts licking his fingers, instead, which he tolerates.
Getting Birkin out of the bomb shelter is simple.
"What is that? Why did you bother with an experimental-"
"Because it won't always be this small."
Will he pet me?
"Not right now."
"Yes, it will take years," Birkin agrees, watching him with some concern, and Wesker rolls his eyes and grabs his arm and starts moving.
He doesn't have a lot with him, because it would raise too many questions. His assets consist of a tarp for shelter and a few tools. Besides those, he has food, a puppy, and Birkin.
I'm cold! "I'm hungry." I can't see! Where are you? "How are you navigating in the dark with such thick clouds?" It's too big here! "It's cold."
Birkin's also exhausted, and although he planned around that it's still a nuisance. He puts together a lean-to, lets Birkin roll into the corner over the edge of the tarp, and settles in between him and the open air.
Birkin hesitates, then rolls against him, back-to-back, for body heat.
"--Albert, you're burning up."
I'm cold I'm cold the puppy stops shivering as Wesker unzips his jacket and pulls its spine against his chest. -oh, warm.
"You have a fever? What are you doing dragging us out here-"
Keep your wet dirty paws away from me, Wesker demands as subtly as he can. The puppy ceases its attempt to snuggle.
Birkin puts the pieces together, their escape from the lab, that awful, ever-present curiosity Wesker has to admit he shares, the fascination with what should be unlearned: "what did you catch?"
Yes! I am a good puppy! Pet me?
No. Sleep. "I'll tell you everything in the morning, Birkin. I'm not contagious. I'm well enough to be lying on the ground."
"...what if something follows us?"
"I said lying, not sleeping. Rest. I'll be awake."
He goes through the remaining plan in his head. From here, it's a straight shot, unless something goes terribly wrong. Albert listens to the forest, to the wind, analyzing it all for rhythms that might be footsteps or movements that might be hunters. He can see perfectly. The world's in beautiful colors now, lit surreally by moonlight and starlight (when the clouds part) and sober drabs when the clouds are thick.
Birkin makes a small worried sound in his sleep, and Albert narrows his eyes. He did this, he struck at Umbrella, he's the one building a new future. If he makes a mistake, Birkin suffers.
The puppy wakes up, sniffs the air. Where am I?
Outside. In the forest.
I'm scared.
Wesker pauses for a moment, and is pretty sure he says: You're a smart puppy. Still, I'm going to watch out for you.
Am I your puppy?
Dogs, Wesker says, rolling his eyes. No. You belong to the male lying behind me.
What's a-? He got the word wrong, and the puppy's reaction is Joy all over, and Wesker sighs and lifts the puppy to see Birkin. Him. He's sleeping. He'll pet you when he's awake. Doubtless under duress, but Wesker needs to know someone less threatening than he can look after Birkin.
Where is everyone?
New homes.
I miss them.
Wesker says nothing.
I'm hungry.
Go to sleep. There will be food in the morning.
The puppy dozes off obediently, leaving Wesker to think.
Dawn breaks, and Wesker ruthlessly drags Birkin from the tarp and makes him pet and feed the puppy. He wants the animal to bond more to William. But it's time for questions, eventually, and Albert explains as much of the story as he can while making sense; it doesn't make a great deal, he has to admit, but their knowledge of theoretical physics helps some-
"But that's impossible."
-what.
"But none of that can be proven," William finally remarks.
"While I was there," Wesker pauses, "there seems to have been a problem with the timestream, and a sample of your work got through."
"My work?"
"Tailored to alter a specific host into a bioweapon." Wesker pauses while Birkin blinks a great deal. "Me."
"You're claiming that's the sickness," Birkin says, and Wesker's quite sure William believes he's contracted the T-virus and a mental illness. "But when would you cha-"
Wesker takes off his sunglasses. And from there on, he has Birkin's attention, explaining the hallmarks of the sickness, the path of infection, the accident in the manor, the age-long recuperation-
"I wish I knew what I did in the first place to know why it went wrong-"
-and brings them up to the present day.
"Incredible." Birkin is watching him like something under glass, and Wesker's amused enough and pleased enough with Birkin's cooperation that he permits it. Even when Birkin grabs his wrist for a pulse check, shoves his face further to the light to watch his pupils contract, asks him test question after test question.
Birkin sits back on his heels. He stares at Deitmar's eyes and thinks. A full three minutes goes by.
"--oh," Birkin adds belatedly, as something occurs to him, "good on you for not dying."
Wesker understands.