Project W Subject 013 ("Albert Wesker") (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
subject_013) wrote2020-09-10 09:59 am
subject_013) wrote2020-09-10 09:59 am
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deerington/deercountry Inbox - UN:A_Wesker013
”Greetings. You’ve reached the voice mail of Albert Wesker. I can’t come to the phone right now, as I’m either at work in the laboratory or chasing some Beast off my roof. At the sound of the tone, please leave your name and number and a suitably short message and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.
“However, if you’re Chris Redfield, stay on the line….”
no subject
[Underneath that seemingly light tone is a threat: if Wesker does get up to his old tricks, Leon will do what he has to do.]
After your timeline? What, there's time travel involved? [The most tired sigh. Jesus fucking Christ. Zombies and Wesker and all this multiverse travel shit weren't enough, apparently, now time travel's getting involved. Leon pinches the bridge of his nose—it's a good thing he'll be meeting with Wesker in a dive bar, because this is a lot to handle already.
He'd ask more, but Wesker's already shutting down any more conversation.] See you then.
[Indeed, Leon makes it to the bar as soon as he can, taking note of the number of strange prints depicting fantastical creatures and hunts. His eye is drawn to one in particular depicting what he knows is a BOW, being run down by a hunter on a horse. Seriously, a horse?
He orders himself some whiskey, sits at the counter, and is nursing it and watching the clientele when the door opens. Leon, to show that he's willing to play nice, pushes out the stool beside him, but he doesn't beckon the bartender over. Wesker can barter for his own damn drinks, Leon might want answers but he doesn't owe the guy shit-all.]
no subject
Much appreciated. There are... worse things here than I, capable of far more damage. [He says this completely serious, not a trace of flippancy.]
One of several timelines that are or could be or could have been in our shared world. But I believe we share the same one, albeit with a different outcome for me. However, that's something better discussed face to face.
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[The barkeep might have one hand under the counter as the door opens wider before closing and a soft, but measured footstep strides across the floor, accompanied by the creak of a leather coat. The shadow creeps up the wall behind the counter.]
A bottle of the usual red wine, if it's available today, Emenri?
[The barkeep gives the newcomer a nod and goes in search of the interloper's request.]
Well. At last encountering the fellow who bedeviled me in that Spanish village. Greetings, Mister Kennedy.
[If he looks up, he'll find the bane of his world of origin standing behind the barstool next to his. Wesker appears to have gone native, given the Victorian-esque three piece suit he's wearing under his black leather duster. Outside of that, with his hair slicked back and the dark glasses hiding his eyes and the small smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth, he's unmistakable.]
no subject
And certainly he's older now than the agent who threw a wrench into Saddler's and Wesker's plans while trying to rescue the president's daughter, all those years ago. His hair's darker and a little longer, and while true to his word he hasn't brought any weapons, his hand still goes to his belt out of instinct, where he'd have a knife sheathed if he'd brought one. He's older now, significantly so, and more haunted.
Better at holding his alcohol though, at least, if the ease with which he knocks back his shot is any indication.]
Wesker. [Flat, and unimpressed.] I thought that was more of a team effort, really. You should try hiring more loyal and competent people next time—one out of two seems to end disastrously for you.
[Smartass. But Leon's not here to sass Wesker, he's here to get information, so he goes ahead:] Earlier, you said there were worse things here than you. Care to talk about those?
no subject
[That gesture, reaching for a weapon that isn't there, brings out the smirk, though it's one of easy amusement rather than a dangerous quirk. As they're on neutral ground, he's keeping a tight rein on himself.]
Ultimately, I was the one holding the aces and suits, or at least some of them. [He perches himself on the stool, though he keeps one foot on the floor.] Though you did well eliminating that idiotic midget. Some people's ambition is too easy to utilize and too quickly becomes their downfall.
[He might not simply be speaking of Ramon Salazar, given an odd thoughtful note that slips into his tone.]
Straightforward in your question, though I regret that the answer isn't as easily presented [Turning his face toward one framed image on the wall, a male humanoid with a squid-like head, accompanied by a recognizable human female, he falls silent for a moment before he continues.] Some of the Pthumerians, or at least their actions and influences, aren't always to be trusted, and they are beings far more powerful than I, in any form that I've foreseen. I might have manipulated some naturally-occurring pathogens, but no version of me ever gained power over the forces of nature, or the fabric of reality itself.
[He turns to look directly at Leon, and at this close range, Wesker's weird, feline eyes might be visible through the tinting on his lenses, the pupils more oval-shaped than slit-like here.]
Has anyone told you about Julia Sodder?
no subject
Compared to people like you, Simmons, and Spencer, Saddler and his subordinates were pretty small-time. [And now Arias, too. Honestly, if it wasn't for how recently Los Illuminados' bullshit had cropped back up, Leon would've probably forgotten most of the salient details. It's been so long and he's fought a lot more bioweapons and terrorists since then, most a lot worse than some no-name cult in the middle of rural Spain.
Frankly, he figures that if it wasn't for Krauser, they wouldn't have managed to kidnap Ashley in the first place.
He's quiet for a moment as Wesker speaks, watching him with wary eyes. Then:] Pthumerians, huh? So, what, they're reality warpers? Functionally gods?
[Functionally, because Leon doesn't really trust them as higher powers.]
No. First I've heard of a Julia Sodder. Why, she's one of these Pthumerians?
no subject
Simmons. A clever individual, but too caught up in politics and personal affairs. I don't doubt some emotional entanglement will trigger the end of him, but I could be wrong in my prognostication.
[The barkeep returns with a bottle of red wine and a glass, which she sets before Wesker.]
A second glass for my companion? [She obliges.] It's a local vintage: part grape, part mushroom*, nowhere as strange-tasting as it sounds. [He fills one glass, then makes a move as if to fill the other.]
The Pthumerians may seem the stuff of nightmares or the object of awe, but they serve as the guardians or gods of this place. Why they have so genuine an interest in us remains to be seen, but their influence on this place and those who dwell within it touches every fibre and facet.
[He takes a sip from his glass, then pauses, as if weighing his words or bracing for the revelation to come.]
She is. And yet, she is something more. She was the daughter of Roderick Sodder, the mayor of a small town in Maine, and a woman known as Cynthia, the human mask of the daughter of the Pthumerian Queen. She had the reality-shaping skills of her mother's people, and the infinite creativity of her father's kind. Unfortunately, her powers ran out of control, frightening the townspeople, and her parents tried shutting her away in a laboratory where she was put into a medically-induced coma. But to little avail. She started reaching out to the multi-verse, summoning people into her dream. But she was doing more than that: within the dream, she was shaping a world of her own. On her death, that world was born, the world we see around us.
I was plucked from our world and into that dream, from the rocks under the window of Spencer's estate. Why she summoned me still remains a mystery. She didn't exactly win my approval.
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((*This is a thing.))