a story is true. a story is untrue.

Birkin was thrilled when he wrote down all the changes, chewing the pen in half. He almost knocked Albert’s glasses off, excitedly waving his hands and begging him to transfer to the science department. He refused.

Wesker smoothly turned the steering wheel, and stopped at the bakery, filled with mouthwatering aromas. He went inside without looking around and joined the queue.

A fair number of people were already there. He could feel some smoker standing behind him. His cigarette odor could not be saved with the mint chewing gum. He was breathing with an effort, making hoarse gasping sounds.

Albert examined the pastries, pondering over the choice. His shoulder holster was not visible under his leather jacket.

The last time only a zipped up jacket held him back when some citizen had an asthma attack in a diner. He came to his senses only when the man applied an inhaler and apologetically smiled at the worried waitress, assuring her that everything was fine. His hand was already on the gun. He had to make an effort to release his grip.

Albert stiffly turned away and continued finishing his lunch. He didn’t feel the taste of it. Or rather, he didn’t give a damn. Meals were necessary, that was all. He quickly finished the dish, and took a long sip of coffee, staring through the diner’s window. The quiet, familiar clattering of forks and knives couldn’t cover the noise of his own heartbeat in his ears.

He knew what was happening to him.

The hubbub of birds outside the window morphed into the moans of mutated crows. His peripheral vision caught the shadow of a passing monster that turned out to be a stray dog. The main hallway in front of his apartment door was deceptively calm until it was filled with the muffled groans and shuffling of elderly neighbors, or those who were no longer them.

He tried to concentrate and stay in a strange daze, just listening to everything around him. He could feel the area with his whole body. Wesker didn’t need to turn his head or follow the surroundings with his eyes. He felt the rhythm changing around, like a response roll inside his body cavities at live symphony concert. This new ability showed him the actual reality and saved him from a breakdown and his bloodstained face on the front page of the Raccoon city newspapers. It would be bad.

It was bad enough at work already.

The handshakes were bearable, but his hands were fully covered with gloves. He could train the team in sparring as before, but he didn’t accept any touches outside of the tatami. Once, when he finished the pre-holiday briefing in the office, a rookie reached out to pat him on the shoulder, and Wesker instantly grabbed his hand and stared at him, until the newbie got embarrassed and apologized. It was a big luck that Wesker controlled himself and didn’t break his wrist.

He couldn’t tolerate if someone was standing behind him, unless it was one of his old S.T.A.R.S. members. They were always trying to lead people away from him, saving his nerves. They understood. They understood too well.

If Wesker tried to avoid people, Chris was greedily absorbing the noise of their busy office. He laughed, high-fived, and enjoyed wrestling with the newbies at trainings... and he was never alone, always leaving RPD with someone.

Jill could disappear in the shooting range for a long time, shooting at the targets over and over again, until there were too many reports waiting and Barry threatened to lock all the magazines in Wesker’s safe.

Barry got a new scar on his arm and gained some weight, but his gaze was calm. He took days off more often and spent time with his family.

Rebecca looked the most unharmed of them, but she became stricter. She was reading all the time, it seemed that half of the RPD library had already been on her desk, leaving new excerpts in her thick notebook.

When she knocked on his office door, he knew what would happen next. She closed the door firmly behind her and asked him to sit across from her.

“Captain. Take off your glasses.”

He obeyed calmly. Rebecca pursed her lips, as she always did when she tested physical evidence with reagents and her theories were confirmed.

Albert knew what she was observing. He saw it in the mirror every morning. People had previously been confused by his direct gaze, like eyes of a frozen fish, but after the mansion he became a reptile, looking nowhere and everywhere, ready to pounce without warning. The fact that his light blue eyes became almost white didn’t help at all.

Rebecca examined him a little more, asking him to pronounce a certain word, or smile broadly. She gently touched his face, slightly pressing on some muscles and testing his reflexes.

His nerves were fine, but his face became even less emotional. With an effort, he could make his facial expressions obey, but his natural reaction allowed him only to raise his eyebrows, slightly smirk, or flare his nostrils in frustration. It became harder to speak, and his voice became even more monotonous. After all, he just let people do the talking, answering in monosyllables or simply nodding back, saving his time and efforts.

Finally, Rebecca let him put his glasses back on.

“The government is directly funding S.T.A.R.S. now,” she said in her soft voice. “We can afford rehabilitation specialists, physical and mental. I think you should exercise this right.”

Like hell he would.

“My resources are enough for now.”

“Captain.” She looked at him attentively, and Wesker squeezed her hand reassuringly. She squeezed his hand back.

“I know. I have everything under control, Rebecca. You have my word.”

She nodded reluctantly, and got up from chair, preparing to leave his office.

“I trust you, Captain. Please let me know immediately if you need any help.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He didn’t show up for work the next day.

He opened his eyes an hour before his alarm. Everything seemed normal. The clock ticked steadily, the morning bird sang outside the window. He didn’t feel any pain or struggle, he just realized that he wouldn’t leave his apartment today.

Albert slowly straightened up and sat on the bed. The sheets weren’t soaked with sweat, quite the opposite. They were fresh. He turned his head to the phone and started dialing a number. The phone handset felt too light and fragile.

“Barry? I’ve caught a cold, I won’t show up today. No, I have everything I need. Do you remember all the instructions I told you?”

He heard worried exclamations on the phone.

“No, there’s no emergency situation. At least, I’m not aware of it. Just an unplanned day off. I’ll be back. Good. Don’t let Chris throw a party. At least not in the office. Yes. Thank you. See you later.”

He hung up and pulled out the phone cord. He began to shake. He felt like a bridgehead for a thousand ant legs marching over his skin. His face seemed to be trembling slightly.

He held out his hand. It was steady.

Wesker got up and walked over to the mirror.

If he had seen this in the Mansion, he would have shot it without hesitation. He was too pale, and the dark circles under his eyes didn’t help. He turned his head and ran his palm over his smooth chin. He hasn’t shaved since he died.

Wesker snapped his head to the door and froze, eyeing the hall, flooded with cold morning light. There was no one there. He knew that no one was there. He felt there was no one.

He blinked. And then closed the bedroom door and barricaded it with a heavy wooden dresser. It weighed like a cardboard box. Not satisfied, he moved the wardrobe and blocked the window. The room became dark.

Wesker winced and got into bed.

It didn’t help. The room started spinning, and he couldn’t get enough air, no matter how deep and fast he was breathing.

His heartbeat was too loud.

Wesker jumped out of bed and pushed the wardrobe back, almost throwing it away like a paperboard. The dresser blocking the door flew into the corner.

He grabbed his heavy duvet and headed to the bathroom, slamming the door and almost throwing himself into the bathtub. He managed to settle in and buried his face into the duvet, covering his head with his hands.

The pipes transmitted the usual noise of his neighbors’ mundane life.

One floor up some man was singing in the shower.

One floor down someone urged the children to hurry up with teeth brushing.

Some teenage girl behind the wall was arguing with her mother about her makeup.

Some couple was making love and giggling playfully.

Wesker slowly drifted off, breathing deeply and steadily.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale.

Their elite S.T.A.R.S. squad had lost almost everyone. The survivors could hold the letters of their abbreviation and take a New Year’s photo... That would be sad, though.

They quickly gained new recruits. There were a lot of applicants after their last operation had gone public. S.T.A.R.S. could afford to choose the best. Wesker transferred Rebecca to the Alpha team, being unwilling to split the pitiful remnants of their squad. The Bravo team was completely new. However, judging by the neighing outside of his office, Chris found the new S.T.A.R.S. members pleasant. Wesker could already sense the future troubles coming from their clownery at tactical meetings.

And yet… It was shocking how quickly they recovered and returned to familiar routine. Stacks of documents, training sessions... If it hadn’t been for the arrest of Iron and the plaque for their fallen comrades, everything would have felt the same. Sometimes he could almost hear Dewey and Aiken whispering to each other to get off the duty early, and Sullivan rattling mugs in the break room.

Damn it.

The Arklay Mountains operation was a catastrophe. After a series of brutal murders that did not look related, the new police chief handed over the investigation of the case to S.T.A.R.S. On Thursday morning, the Bravo team went to the crime scene, and was supposed to return with new data by Friday morning, handing over the shift to the Alpha team and then leave for the weekend.

Birkin called him that evening and invited for a drink. William drank with him exactly three times: when he got his doctorate at 15, when he plucked up the courage to propose to Annette and when he found out he was going to be a father. Judging by the tone of his voice, it was not a new cause for celebration. Was something wrong?

As it turned out, it was. Very wrong. William looked terrible. If Albert hadn't known him almost all his youth, he would have assumed Birkin was having a psychotic episode. William sat him down on the sofa, negligently brushing aside folders with documents, and almost shoved a glass of brandy into his hand. Brandy?

“William, what-”

“Have a drink first. I’ll have one, too.” He immediately threw back his head and swallowed his portion without waiting for a reply. His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously, as if it trying to clutch at an invisible straw.

Wesker carefully sipped the drink, studying the taste. An ordinary brandy.

“Will.”

“Give me a minute… Oh God!” he clutched his hair.

That was serious. Birkin was a radical atheist, and despised all religions. Finally, William calmed down a bit and stared at Wesker. His eye capillaries were ruptured. More than usual.

“Albert. We all belong to Umbrella, that’s hardly news. But there’s something you don’t know...” There was a lot he didn't know. Secret operations. Illegal research. Umbrella didn't just study virus stamps - they tried to modify them and use as weapons. The secret laboratory in the old Spencer Mansion, reeking with battle mutants?

“B.O.W. Bio Organic Weapon. I saw them and… Helped to make them. Some escaped and apparently caused a bloody mess.” William kept telling, periodically jumping up and pacing across the living room, speaking too fast and gasping for breath.

“Lisa Trevor. She was a little girl. They had been keeping her as a test subject since 1967. She is mutated terribly and practically immortal.”

Wesker would have been happy to just call it delirium and put Birkin in a hospital, but he had seen this kind of speech before, during the interrogation of former police chief Brian Iron. At first, Iron denied everything, but after irrefutable evidence, he gave up and began to describe his adventures, becoming more and more ecstatic, openly enjoying his memories. There was a similar case - Birkin couldn't stop, but William was in a real panic, fully terrified. He was lighting cigarettes, then immediately putting them out in a cactus pot.

“Do you want to make this public? I have connections with the feds and few strings in the Congress-“

“They want to test B.O.W. on S.T.A.R.S.”

Everything in the room froze. William stared at Wesker, nervously rubbing the dirt between his fingers. Albert carefully took off his glasses, fixing his gaze on his friend.

“They what?”

“They want to record a real combat engagement with professionals, and then they will most likely destroy the mansion, and if necessary, the entire Raccoon City. I have heard about a possible scenario of a massive B.O.W. infection within the city. We have already started the transfer of basic assets.”

Birkin fell heavily into a chair. “I took Annette and Sherry to New York. Supposedly on a field trip. Statue of Liberty and other crap.”

Wesker slowly inhaled through his nostrils. Bravo team.

“Part of the squad flew to the mountains this morning.”

Birkin dropped his head on the back of his chair. “Then everything has already started. Albert, I...” He straightened up and glared at Wesker. “They will force all of you to come. And you can’t do anything without the real proof.”

Wesker had seen that face before. Make-or-break.

“You have a plan.”

“Better. I have the access codes and... this.”

William rose from his chair with a smooth, collected movement and handed Wesker a small, shiny briefcase.

“There is an injection gun loaded with serum. Albert, you can use it only as the last resort. I repeat, the last resort. The chances of survival are about 1,5 %. Yours are about 13%. The serum will either make you a super soldier, healing all your wounds, or it will kill you, and painfully.”

They were talking for a long time. Captain Wesker was asking the necessary questions, and Birkin was telling him everything he could remember. They finished at 4 a.m. Wesker forced them both to eat, and sent Birkin to his family, personally putting him into a taxi. He even managed to get some sleep.

On Friday morning, the Bravo team didn’t contact the control center.

Alpha team’s preparation took longer than usual. Wesker personally checked all the gear, lying something about the rabies, making sure that everyone was protected as much as possible with full uniforms, despite the summer heat. His tension was passed to the others.

“Is there anything particular we should be wary of, Captain?” Jill watched him carefully, noticing his unspoken concern.

“If the suspect does not respond to your words, shoot in the head to kill. Including civilians. Kill anything that seems abnormal to you. Do everything in your power to survive. Stay together.”

The team members looked at each other in disbelief. Frowning Chris asked, “Is it that serious?” 

“Yes.”

“Shit.” Chris exhaled smoke, putting out his last cigarette before the flight.

“Shit” was a too weak word to describe the horror that followed. “Hell” was more appropriate. And it started immediately after landing. The mutated dogs chased them into a mansion, where they were warmly welcomed by spawns of all sorts. Zombies, moving carnivorous plants, wasps the size of cat, a damn snake as thick as a bus, sharks. Madness.

The squad was focused and cohesive. They opened all the secret doors, moving deeper and deeper into the mansion guts. They even managed to find Rebecca, alive and unharmed, all what was left of the Bravo team. Albert began to hope that they could get through it.

And then Lisa Trevor found them and everything fell apart. He managed to shout to take cover before Lisa threw him away like a pup, knocking the air out of his lungs and breaking his ribs. Everything became hazy and booming. With bleary head he could hear screams and gunshots, disgustingly warm blood was flowing from his mouth. Wesker groped for the injection gun and pulled the trigger. Make-or-break.

He died.

For one endless moment, everything was quiet and peaceful. Nothing bothered him. Albert swam in comfortable darkness, without any worries and thoughts. If this was his afterlife, he would be satisfied.

Then the pain came, sharp and sudden, as if he had been plugged into a power socket.

He opened his eyes abruptly.

Albert slowly raised his hand and took off his cracked glasses. Everything looked incredibly clear. He had quite sensitive eyes before, but that... That was superhuman eyesight. All the details seemed to jump out, and the colors... He had never seen such shades. A simple stone couldn't have so many hues, and yet, it almost glowed with soft rainbow reflections. He stared at each rainbow splash as mesmerized, until his gaze finally reached the bodies lying on the cold floor. Vickers’ bright yellow vest was stained brown with blood. Frost’s neck was twisted at an unnatural angle. Their chests didn’t move, and their eyes were stayed in one spot. 

He snapped back into consciousness. Umbrella. He had some work to do.

Wesker got to his feet, checking his chest. All the ribs were intact. His heart was beating steadily and calmly, like a well-oiled machine. He could hear mutated crows flapping their wings in the greenhouse, and zombies wheezing and howling hoarsely behind the heavy corridor doors. He could smell sweat, cigarette odor, gunpowder and the blood of his people who had run for a cover next door. All his senses were sharpened, like a chef’s cleaver, making lace from vegetables and easily chopping bones. Wesker adjusted his grip on his gun and went forward.

Birkin’s access codes didn't let him down. He walked into the heart of darkness, the laboratory under the mansion, successfully killing all the mutants and zombies on his way, only to meet the real monsters later.

“Wonderful, Albert, you are the most worthy of them all! And just on time! We were just about to leave the mansion before the explosion.” Spencer himself was sitting in his wheelchair, rubbing his hands in front of the monitors, like a giant fly who fancied itself a spider. An unknown tall man in a white medical coat was standing next to him.

“The Wesker project was successful, after all, despite the low survival rate of candidates.” Spencer looked at him like a botanist at a unique kind of drosera, and for the first time in his life Albert felt a shiver running down his spine. The things this man was saying, with measured and contented voice, defied both logic and morality. B.O.W. trials. The new step in evolution. Project “W”. The right to become a God?

“You have proved my postulates. Only chosen ones will survive and change for the new order. However, I was deeply disappointed that you traded your brilliant academic education for a military profession. Although, youth is prone to impulses and passions. Now, Dr. Gideon will be your guide in a new world. You have a lot to catch up on. Science wasn’t waiting for you to finally finish playing cops and soldiers.”

Albert didn't have time to react, as a tall man shot him with some drugged dart. However, that had no effect, and Wesker casually pulled the needle out of his neck, pointing his gun on them.

Their long faces were a pleasant sight before he pulled the trigger. Two shots, two corpses. Those who played with the future of the human race like bacteria in a Petri dish, were lying dead as the other killed people.

He came closer, expecting some trick, but nothing happened. The bodies did not move. Not tempting fate, Albert quickly set the remains on fire.

The firelight danced on the walls like a raging demon. It lit up the laboratory, and Albert, like Faust free from Mephistopheles, bent over the keyboard. The codes didn't fail him again. He quickly downloaded all of Umbrella's data, while deleting information about the Birkins and himself. Project “W” never existed.

What followed next blurred into one endless act, like a long dive into the ocean. He found the rest of the S.T.A.R.S. thanks to the monitors, and practically dragged everyone to the helicopter on the roof. They made it on time. The hot blast wave almost brought down the helicopter, but they managed to hold on. Five people, only five. Chris, Jill, Barry, Rebecca, and Wesker himself.

The tension left him only after the data were made public on the court. The consequences were catastrophic. The collapsing of the Umbrella corporation drew extensive news coverage. Every day more and more details were popping up, and when the feds discovered the experiments on children in the orphanage... Disaster.

Raccoon City ended up in the history books, so did S.T.A.R.S. Their testimonies were checked and rechecked until they were decorated and kicked back to their lives. The government was impressed by the idea of rapid-response units, and was planning to integrate them in major cities. Since the Incident S.T.A.R.S. was funded directly by the government, promising new gears and trainings. Oh joy.

Someone’s furious screams pulled Captain Wesker out of his memories, and before he could get up from his desk, the main S.T.A.R.S. office was filled with a disgusting smell. The door slammed, and Barry’s booming voice rang out.

“The RPD sewer has exploded! I’ll be damned if it doesn’t look like some idiot flushed down the M-80!”

He was greeted with a cacophony of laughter and disgusted groans.

Wesker scrunched his nose in displeasure and sent everyone home, suggesting the rookies for the city patrol.

If that was Johnny Handsome and that slob from the explosives control department, he would catch them and hang them both in the RPD lobby like damn pinatas.

Albert locked the S.T.A.R.S. office and gave the keys to the attendant. Despite the mountain of unfinished paperwork, the sudden change of his routine was a pleasant opportunity.