Dear dead Spencer.
You regarded Birkin and me as expendable material, as tools for achieving your own goals. We saw for ourselves how you could raise a person, use his talent, appropriate his work… and dispose of him once he became inconvenient. We always despised people like you: old managers and bureaucrats, lords, all those corporate old men who judge by status and title rather than by results. To me, that is repulsive. I respect strength, intellect, efficiency. And you were a typical wealthy aristocrat, sitting at the top and commanding the discoveries of others.
Both Birkin and I understood that Umbrella does not reward geniuses – it devours them.
You dreamed of creating a new "superior" breed of humans through the virus, and we, the "Wesker children", were merely part of your program. I admit, for me, that was a monstrous revelation. All my life, I had built myself as a sovereign individual.
Intellect.
Volition.
Discipline...
And then it turned out that, from the very beginning, I had been designed by someone else. You shattered my conviction that I had created myself.
I could have endured many things: filthy experiments, betrayal, political games. But I could not endure the thought that my life had not been my own design.
Your goal was, in a way, religious: to reshape humanity and approach your own version of divine power. Project W was part of your dream of a world of the "gifted" and the "worthy", raised according to your ideals. Years later, when I found myself in your mansion, I expected to see behind Project W a figure of colossal scale – a demiurge equal to his own design. Instead, I found only a dying, helpless old man.
To me, that was especially vile. In that moment, I saw that the man who had spent his whole life playing God had never managed to overcome human insignificance himself.
You thought I belonged to you. But I belong only to myself.
I killed you as one final reminder of my chains. They are gone now.
