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THE MIDNIGHT HOUR WAS FAST approaching and brought with it the stuff conspiracy theorists would wet themselves over, a kind of plotting imbued with shared glances and perhaps, the mutual steepling of delicately ( and deliberately ) arched fingers. The man they called the Corrupter listened with an intentness, an intrigue most genuine – far more than he would allot to even some of his closest associates on a day to day basis. 

It was no surprise to him as to why. 

He’d managed to elevate Bruce into the kind of position he’d once paralleled, himself. The Admiral was a mere year older to what the Captain had been, all those years ago, exemplifying leadership under the weight of sinister forces at play. Bruce had only begun his work, and more would come with time and with patience: the doctor aimed to inspire sagacity, a kind of shrewdness that only came about with age and experience combined. 

He’d constructed a steady foundation for this piece of him, of the proverbial Atlas – all to better hold the balance of the world. 

❛ You’ve accomplished quite the feat. ❜ He managed, after a period of intent rumination wherein he composed the delightful delicacy of Bruce’s features, twisted in ecstasy. The likes of which would only occur after the satisfaction of accomplishing the greatest goal yet. In all their dealings over the years, he’d found himself privy to witnessing pieces of his own self reflected back in the man, who had proven not so much his opposite so much as a complement – in being a veritable beam of light piercing the darkness of the chaos wrought by the ( damning ) courtesy of bio-terror. ❛ That is, halting my thoughts, and allowing for me to enjoy reprieve. I found a certain peace in listening to this chunk of a story that, in many ways, has paralleled my own. ❜ 

Fact, full-stop. 

Legs stretched outward, no longer folded. The next piece to the puzzle that was their dynamic revealed itself precisely as he made to stand, a singular, graceful movement. 

Black King, on to the White King – check without the mate.

❛ The choice of President can wait. Come here, Admiral. ❜        

Bruce McGivern, just shy of 40 years of life and experience, had managed to stop the musings of Albert Wesker; an ephemeral, fleeting moment that made Bruce’s chest constrict. Coiling with amusement — surprise even — that he’d taken the words from the master of shadows. 

They’d come a long way since a ‘ chance ‘ meeting in a bar roughly over a decade ago.

The panther rose to his full, staggering height, and coerced him forward, voice rousing and dangerous in all the ways that would make most turn tail and run. 

Who was Bruce to deny him — ? 

It’s a dangerous dance somewhat familiar, Bruce’s memory alight of times where chaste, hurried kisses and clothes disturbed by the grasp of one another had only gone so far as that. As he rose to his feet in kind, his shorter stature putting him at the disadvantage, Bruce closed the distance between them, his lips parted by a coy grin as he dared let his fingers slide the tie from Albert’s neck — already loose from the other man’s fidgeting before. 

“Not gonna lie, I like it when y’call me that,” he remarked quietly, his voice a low drawl. 

THE RANK OF A COMMANDING officer suits his high-level asset. With accumulation of years to his age and change of dress to suit the influence he now wields in the government sector – and abroad – McGivern cuts quite the striking figure. Wesker’s appraisal – in the form of roaming gaze – is cut woefully short for the sake of things. 

Chuckles lowly at the quip, and places the wine-glass aside. Less corrupt, indeed…but with thrice as much of an impact.

❛ The loss of Adam Benford is a pity. He was a good man, and such cannot be said for others in the political sphere. ❜ 

“We are beyond sympathy at this point. We are beyond humanity.” A certain operative said, soon after the fact.

❛ His absence must be capitalized upon, cruel as that may sound. I am aware he was your friend, someone you were attached to. ❜ For a moment, his speech halts – the minute twitch to his lower-lip indicative of a memory arising in the deepest recesses of his mind, veritable fortress. William and Annette Birkin, lost to terrible tragedy and madness, to a mishap that he could have prevented – oh, Admiral, the Doctor knows death, knows it intimately. 

Black on black – inadvertent, but eternal mourning colours.     

❛ I certainly have candidates in mind. I will however, inquire first as to your adjustment to the position you have secured. ❜ Bio-luminescent irises flare in momentary intrigue and he conveniently brushes aside his personal involvement in the matter. After all, as far as they were concerned, Wesker’s pulling of the strings never happened. ❛ You now shoulder twenty times the responsibility you once had as an agent. The bureaucracy of it all is irksome, surely. ❜

The excitement of the approaching predicament is a slow build, and he relaxes sinuously into his armchair in anticipation of a rousing tale – the fire off to their side seeming to crackle in delight. One gloved finger hooks into his collar, loosens it – in succession, the knot of his tie slips free. 

Such a long day it’s been. Surely his companion could understand…this is his hotel suite, after all.  

The faintest trace of a chink in the ever-present armour Wesker came from a place of solidarity — familiarity. Wesker was man who’d walked over the corpses that marked the path of his own ascension in usurping the festering corruption that had been Lord Spencer. Such a climb came with losses of his own on the journey. Bruce knew the past was seldom mentioned between them, a courtesy both professional and personal, but his role in the Anti-Umbrella Unit of STRATCOM had given him privy to enough internal company information to read between the lines. 

The question of his promotion and how he was faring drew a soft chuckle from the blonde.

"I already hated paperwork, and now I have doubled it immensely,” he lamented, the grin that spread across his features full, boyish despite his years, reflecting the amusement it brought him despite his grievances. “Every day is full of red-tape, but it does give me an opportunity to admire how backwards some of the old hats like to bend to appease particular people.”

Some of the old brass were insufferable. Upset and upstaged by his rapid progression in the ranks for his national service to his country and the war on bioterror. Bruce ensured he made their lives hell as well as he bureaucratically could whenever they tried to stick their noses where they didn’t belong. His role had allowed him to tighten the coil on STRATCOM, unafraid to run an internal investigation after the 2013 bio-disaster that bled into the DSO and FSO itself in kind, rattling so many cages that even the FBI and CIA walled themselves in.

Much like Wesker, he was glad that they were in safe solitude in that room, the weight of their respective days allowed to melt away in companionship. Bruce loosened the dress cuffs of his shirt, lazily hooking an ankle over his knee in a wide relaxed seat, relishing the warmth of the room.

“You’ve got your eye on a prize if you’re looking this far ahead of the other moves in the game,” he drawled lowly, blue eyes unafraid to lock with the molten glow amidst pitch. “I suspect you want to use my position to give you some intel on potential candidates?” 

THE SCENT OF FAMILIAR cologne wafts to his nostrils, increasing in intensity as footsteps draw nearer, adjacent to his immediate vicinity – thus, when the Head of US-STRATCOM, Admiral Bruce McGivern walks through door 313 of the Four Seasons New York, he will see that Dr. Wesker is already seated in a plush arm-chair by the fireplace with one leg neatly folded over the other, a glass of Chianti in hand. 

( No fava beans, unfortunately. )

Perhaps to purposely add to the theatricality of what is to take place, or perhaps, he simply enjoys the wine. No one needs to know. Regardless, it’s on to the matter at hand. 

❛ Admiral. ❜ He intones in greeting, bassy rumble reverberating through the hotel room, a gloved hand gesturing in McGivern’s direction. ❛ Opportunity thrives in chaos – I’ve quite the lucrative venture to discuss with you. ❜

❛ How would you like to assist me in cherry-picking the next President of the United States? ❜ 

Thereafter follows a look of ghoulish amusement upon placid features; subtle, but there nonetheless.

W E B O F I N T R I G U E . . . @gunnshot

The summons had come somewhat as a surprise — although not entirely unpleasant. McGivern had come to rather enjoy the company he kept and the steps they took to right the wrongs of corruption from both within and out, but it still had him on edge. 

Such privacy usually meant something Big was occurring. 

A woman at reception slid him a key no questions asked, wisely quiet upon his entry into the foyer of Four Seasons, and he was greeted by a languid sight once he arrived at room 313. The supposed Merchant of Death himself, resplendent in his form like that of a panther, molten eyes full of amusement as his silken voice carried toward him at the doorway. 

“Sounds less corrupt than most political rallies already,” the Admiral quipped lightly, catching his bottom lip between his teeth out of thoughtful habit as he slid his suit jacket off and neatly over his arm, stepping beyond the threshold toward the chair purposefully set across from Wesker’s own. “It’s been nothing but a shit-show since we lost Benford.”

Bruce had known the late president well, Adam having once been of the same military blood as he with STRATCOM. Adam was one of his strongest advocates in his promotion following the dismantlement of the FBC, and the investigations into the federal funding of bioterrorism that resulted from it. When he’d formed the DSO and FSO and had taken over the Anti-Umbrella Pursuit and Investigation in 2011 in terms of federal jurisdiction, he insisted STRATCOM still hold some reigns over investigation rights.

— they just found out too late about Simmon’s intent. 

Bruce slid onto the seat, his jacket cast over its arm as he set his chin against his knuckles. 

Being one of the sailors present on the INS Viraat during Malabar had been an honor. She was a magnificent ship, the flagship of the Indian navy at the time, and to be the commanding officer present on her vessel had been an experience in of itself. However, paying witness to the Americans’ gargantuan supercarrier, the USS Nimitz, had definitely added to the overall experience of the joint exercise. He had to hand it to the US where it counted – in terms of military technology and resources, no other country was ahead of them. It inspired both envy and fear in the enemy, but for what technology the MARCOS lacked, they made up for in true grit. Meeting the American hero and working alongside him had only served to up his respect for the other country’s men. All the world had fine warriors, regardless of the side they chose to play for. 

“At your service.”

He shook Bruce’s hand in a professional manner despite their prior familiarity – old habits die hard and as it were, he’d only just completed the work day and was still transitioning into a casual mindset. It didn’t take much observation to note that they’d both changed with time and age. if anything, Aditya enjoyed the change. Adaptability was important in the world they lived in.

“I retired from active duty a year after Malabar. My SSC had ended and I decided I wanted a change, so I got myself a couple of degrees, switched jobs a couple times – now I live and work here. Guess you’re stuck with me, McGivern, it’s your lucky day.” He laughed.

“And what about you? The facial hair indicates wisdom – stayed with STRATCOM yourself, or…?”

“Dang, sounds like you’ve had a couple of eventful years.”

The wisdom comment garnered a laugh from Bruce, his fingers grazing against the beard he was sporting -- he’d given up on daily shaving with some of the more recent stressors of the job and took to maintaining a beard instead. He’d eventually have to shave most of it off if he was called into a press conference where he’d be expected to be in full dress blues, but for now it was staying put. 

“Maybe not a lot of wisdom, but no one is really willing to fight me on having facial hair right now,” he mused, chuckling. “Definitely still STRATCOM. Got reassigned and nominated last year -- as Admiral.”

He set his hands against his hips, head tipping up to better bridge their height difference. Aditya was built like a brick house, still. Bruce certainly hadn’t let a less field-active role cut into him keeping up his physique but he would never become that solid. 

Or tall. 

“STRATCOM’s ‘Blonde Bombshell’, as I live and breathe.” The commander grinned – a familiar face in a country he still hadn’t quite found his footing in was most definitely welcome. Years of training and conditioning along with personal memory recall allowed for him to recognize the other man by face, despite having only briefly interacted in person during 2005′s Malabar joint naval exercise, twelve whole years ago. Still, it had been at the peak of Aditya’s military career, just a year prior to his retirement and just a couple years after Bruce’s own overwhelming success story with the takedown of international bioterrorist Morpheus D. Duvall to boot. That brand of heroism – and the face attached to it – wasn’t one to be easily forgotten.

“It’s been a while, man. Never thought I’d run into you again.” 

@gunnshot

Well shit. 

The warm bass of the other man’s voice jolted Bruce’s memories into full overdrive. When he’d been made Captain as part of his (semi) hostile take over of STRATCOM. He’d been one of the major players in the 2005 Malabar joint exercise, where he’d struck up a friendly rivalry with his opposing commander: Rathore. 

He extended an arm with his hand out in greeting, his grin broad and boyish despite his age. “As I live and breathe, is that you AD? It’s been a decade.” 

Okay, maybe a bit longer, but the point still stood: it’d been ages. He was an Admiral now, the days of unified training exercises long gone for him, and yet despite it all Aditya’s path had crossed with his once more. 

Bruce kept his grip firm and friendly when the other man shook with him, his smile broadening even more. 

THE OPPORTUNITY FOR A [NECESSARY] BLOODBATH would not be passed up. Not when so much was at stake, and he was nothing if not daring, the high-roller when all others were too cowardly to step up to the plate. The agent had clearly done his homework – classified information unavailable to the public eye would, of course, avail itself to Bruce given the man’s line of work and track record in helping to liquidate Spencer’s Umbrella. There were, however, some facts Bruce had yet to know, facts not just anyone would become privy to; they had to prove their worth, but in lending his willing co-operation, for the sake of the bigger picture, the renaissance man had deemed the other the ace in his set of cards.

“The legal takedown of Umbrella in 2003, the Raccoon Trials regarding the ‘Sterilization Operation’ carried out on Raccoon City…” He purred, most pleased – “It was I who handed over essential data to implicate Umbrella completely during litigation, ending the trials and leading to the international manhunt for that blasted old fool, Spencer.” And this invaluable knowledge was something no one would ever be able to find any form of record on, all evidence destroyed in order to avoid implicating the government along with Umbrella for the numerous biological weapons deals made between them. A simple copy of the data from the U.M.F.-013 had been the final nail on the coffin for Spencer and Umbrella’s international monopoly. 

“Knowing that, agent, understand that there is nothing I cannot and will not do in order to achieve the equilibrium most desirable for the state of affairs.” In other words, yes, weapons and all matter of transportation would easily be supplied. 

“You had better prepare yourself. We fly out come the morning.” The tyrant had some… communications to make with a certain special associate, the security clearance would be attained within 48 hours and then, they could take their show on the road.

Bruce knew that being made privy to such detail, how intricately wound into the decline of Umbrella Albert Wesker had been, was the quintessential trust test. Such information had never crossed his desk when he’d done some digging after their first point of contact, Wesker clearly having an extremely efficient means of scrubbing the information without a trace that certain senators would salivate at the thought to have.

The brisk order of preparations spurred him easily into action, the agent coiled to activate at the drop of a hat under such guidance.

“Bright n’early. I’ll be there.”

As instructed, Bruce patiently awaited his entourage on the tarmac at 0457 hours for their initial flight out: private charter of course, from a private airstrip. He expected no less given he was about to undertake a mission with the man of the shadows himself; the information of said departure zone was yet another piece of secrecy he’d been given access to, and Bruce idly wondered if he was the first outsider to be aware of it.

His watch beeped. 0500.

As if on queue Albert Wesker made his presence known, practically melting into existence from the low light before dawn. Bruce felt a knot of both anticipation and excitement coil tight in his belly; his body knew he was heading into a mission, though his territory was yet unknown beyond it being an intel recon. Bruce found himself standing with his hands against his hips once more, eying his partner-to-be up and down with approval.

He wanted to ask him if it’d been a while since he’d seen the field.

Instead he cut straight to the mission at hand.

THE CORNERS OF HIS LIPS UPTURNED into a knowing smile. One cannot stop a dog of war, no matter the form it chooses to take. This could be a game of justice being served by the unlikeliest partnership, the dead and the living, the outlaw and the sheriff. Bruce spoke of movie conspiracies, but life imitated art more often than one would think.

“What I am suggesting is you take matters into your own hands rather than rely on an imperfect system.” The silent and unknown face of the original rebellion – as the international conglomerate of Umbrella had crashed to the ground ( the bigger they are, the harder they fall ) he had emerged from the wreckage, dusting his hands and straightening his lapel. They could play the game again, this time with an even bigger foe; a mammoth company was an imperative cog in the machine, but an entire governmental structure was a whole different kind of beast.

And he had to admit, it had been far too long since he had been out in the field getting his own hands dirty. Surveillance and the gathering of assets and intel had its own purpose, but nothing could compare to the thrill of getting what he wanted without having to rely on middlemen.

“You are a wild card, something they hardly expect coming for them – the perfect white knight who saved two countries from destruction and the loss of billions in currency.” The tyrant was still grinning, almost boyishly, piecing together a maneuver on the fly – one of his finest talents. 

“A security clearance for the ‘top secret’ classification – I can have my people attain it and then, you and I will personally hit them where it hurts.” 

Revenge is best served cold, after all.

The game of chess was meant to only have two sides: black against white in a tactical fight to secure the throne of the opposing shade with either as little or as much force necessary. They, however, came from each opposing side. Muddying the playing field with the grey blend as they united to usurp the corrupt from the board.

“A joint operation — covert and strictly off the record. Probably the least worst thing I’ve done in the eyes of my COs honestly.” His shadow’s grin was almost infectious, Bruce setting his hands against his hips as he mused aloud. “I’ve seen your record, Captain. It’d be nice having a marksman with your talent as a partner, s’long as you think you could work with this wild card.” 

It’d be catharsis in a way. To strike at the body of the hyrda instead of needlessly lopping off heads would channel the anger he had toward the overall situation and the needless innocents caught in the crossfire, but more importantly it would give him the information that they needed. Bruce knew this would come as a benefit to the deadman as well: there were always two sides to a coin, but Wesker (of all people) was the significantly lesser of two evils. 

“We’d need weapons, you’d be fine with supplying them?” 

FEAR IS THE MINDKILLER and rage is the motivator. Without even so much as a glance, the doctor could feel that empire-ending anger emanating in waves from the agent, the man who was the knight’s piece stuck in a terrifying Kriegspiel. To truly follow the path Bruce claimed he would was to make plenty of sacrifice; he had already done his duty for his nation, and now, would be going against the very people who governed it. A flag that was left tattered in the wake of the first incident and now, left in shreds after this one. Not everyone in the world had a purpose; some were better off dead due to their own incompetence, while others would step over those fallen corpses and  snatch the goals of the dead in order to build off of them: perhaps, something far superior.

“Why not kill two birds with one stone?” He hummed, briefly contemplative – for the show of it. “Every tragedy has an upside. In the wake of this incident, play your hand politically, McGivern. Use this opportunity to expose the ample corruption and place yourself at the head of STRATCOM. Power is what gets things done, after all, no matter how one might deny the fact to save face.” 

The agent’s heartbeat was a war drum. Just as Albert’s own had been, once in a dream, as he had gazed upon the experimental Progenitor strain in his hand and made the conscious decision, a plan to die and consign himself evermore to the role he currently played.

“The government has been in bed with bioterrorists for a long time, Bruce. Anyone who attempts to unveil the truth becomes a target. Key figures will stop at nothing to put an end to your life.” On the screen, the city had become completely submerged. 

Outside, the sun was setting, an amalgam of beauty spreading throughout the sky in ironic contrast to the thousands of lives being extinguished forever.

“The rotund ones, I find, are oft the most greedy.” 

He spoke, quietly, turning then to look Bruce in the eye. Though the room had been soundproofed and security surveillance had been completely disabled prior, the agent was former military and there was never any harm in keeping extra measures of secrecy. Bruce would understand the code.

To place himself at the head of STRATCOM felt like it went against every grain of his being. For years the upper brass in the USAF had been pushing against him promoting up ranks for his brashness on the field and how he questioned his superiors, even if his actions had saved lives while putting himself in the most direct harm, and to be even considered he’d have to be an Admiral at a minimum. 

It’d be a power climb to the top to become the king. One he could easily do with how he was still praised for his work in the downfall of Umbrella.

But it would not be without consequences. As Wesker said: he’d be painting a target on himself.

“What you’re suggesting is insubordination.” 

Technically. After all, the saying it’s only illegal if you get caught had its merits. Bruce caught Wesker looking at him from the corner of his eye at first, the agent’s jaw ticking as the news feed continued showing the destruction, before he properly tore his gaze from the horror. Insubordination was welcome here — a den of secrecy where only the two very men in that room would know the contents of their discussions. 

Bruce broke the line of sight shared between them, walking with measured strides toward the broad windows that opened the room into the expanses of the sky. They were so high up that the rich red colours that bled across the horizon were the only thing visible, with no other buildings nearby. He’d dare call it beautiful if it didn’t reflect the anger that had barely simmered down in his core. 

“Politics haven’t always been my strong suit,” he dryly chuckled. “I know enough to navigate the lion’s den without bein’ mauled but never had to apply ‘em. At least not on home turf.” 

In China, for sure. The parallel between both countries and the way politics could be swayed however wasn’t dissimilar; it instead just felt wrong. But once more, Albert Wesker was right. He’d have to play this cooly. 

“Lansdale is already going to be sliding under pressure for how he handled Terragrigia, all I’ll need is definitive proof that this was beyond just poor management to start making the house of cards fall.”  

MID-2004: THE TERRAGRIGIA PANIC.

US-STRATCOM HAD BEEN RESTRAINED from action during the ill-fated Mediterranean aquapolis’ supposed destruction at the hands of the Italian bioterrorist organization, Il Veltro. In lieu of STRATCOM involvement, the U.S.’ Federal Bioterrorism Commission, along with the Global Pharmaceutical Consortium’s B.S.A.A., had been sent in to counter the B.O.W.s released into the city, along with the continuing spread of T-Abyss.

“According to your observations of the F.B.C., I should hope you now have knowledge of the horrible truth, Mr. McGivern.” He addressed the STRATCOM agent, gaze remaining upon the television screen and watching, grimly, as the metropolis began to submerge – having taken the full brunt of Regia SOLIS’ devastating destructive power. 

Another government-authorized choice that led to genocide, eerily reminiscent of 1998. 

“Bioterror has many faces, in the end. The very establishment you have worked for diligently has been involved since prior to Raccoon City.” The anger the agent must be feeling was surely insurmountable. Such was the tragedy of this story: no side was exempt from sin. 

—– @gunnshot​ ;

Bastards. 

The entire lot of those Silver Wolves were complete. Fucking. Bastards. 

Ever since he’d been allowed into the deadman’s information cache Bruce had begun an investigation into the F.B.C., wanting to prove his gut feeling he’d had ever since the agency has hounded him for months after the Spencer Rain incident, and he’d found more than he’d bargained for -- especially with regards to the Alpha of the rabid pack, Morgan Lansdale. The man had a less than sparkling record, and though to the public eye he had been nothing but proactive in the fight against bio-terror since the consortium had been founded, Bruce had been distrusting of him after finding a number of files scrubbed a bit too clean.

Files that, when he was able to recover portions of them, lead to a lot of deals between governing bodies amidst the US, and a whole lot of black market shares. 

The fruit of those shares was unfolding before his very eyes on the TV in the hotel room they’d met in discreetly. Terragrigia had been under siege for days and STRATCOM had been rearing to be first response but had been shut out by red tape overhead from their own government, opting only to let the F.B.C. lead the operation with the B.S.A.A. as their backup. 

Only earlier that morning TerraSave had been allowed in to try and evacuate whoever was still alive. Now anyone still stuck there were melting under the hell that was the Regia SOLIS. 

All because of Lansdale. 

Bruce balled his hands up. His knuckles popped loudly for the exertion, a barely restrained tremor crawling up his arms. 

“I will do anything to take that man down, and all the dogs that follow him,” he growled low. “If I have to dismantle STRATCOM itself to weed out those who’d let millions pay with their lives for the sake of money I’ll do it.” 

“Insects enjoy chittering, agent.” Another sip of the whiskey. He took his grand, old time, time that would not be slipping away from him anytime soon; perhaps, were he less invested in global scientific progression, he would have slipped underground and bade his time as the surface world would burn again and again with the appearance of those who had nothing better to do than make use of exquisitely-engineered viridae ( born of the Mothervirus that ran in his blood, mixing in flawless harmony with the Ouroboros – turning red to black ) for chaos and destruction. 

“Being alive and existing are two different things entirely,” Added as an afterthought, the alcohol being consumed leaving no burn and subsequently, no warmth, behind. “Certain things are occurring in the world as we speak. My agenda hardly correlates with recent events on a global scale, but it will soon – and not in a way you may believe.” Idly, the tumbler was turned around and around on the polished wooden surface. “You and your lot ought to pay greater heed to what is happening out there, particularly in other countries. For the time being, America is safe from harm. The Mediterranean, on the other hand…” 

A chuckle, bereft of any humor. 

“I would not trust the F.B.C. if I were you, Mr. McGivern. But, you did not hear this from me.”

Umbrella’s downfall was never going to mean the end of bioterror -- anyone to think so were blinded by naivety. Bruce dwelled hard on the spectre’s words, trading his beer for some more of his stew in the meantime. Most wanted deadman walking or not, the agent knew there was no trouble to be had with the tone of the conversation at hand. Nor was he going to jeopardise the safety of any citizens by going Rambo on an unknown threat-level: that’d be a rookie mistake. 

“The consortium’s B.S.A.A. might be more capable in what’s to come,” he wagered, spearing a potato with his fork as he mopped up gravy with it. “STRATCOM is getting more and more tied up with the war in the middle east now that we’ve mopped up the Spencer Rain, for better or worse.” 

It was his way of stating that his hands, at least for the moment, were mostly tied. 

Polishing off the plate Bruce leant back on his stool and wearily itched his stubble. The F.B.C. were the other new-comer to the anti-bioterror brigade that had recently formed in the wake of Raccoon and other less-public incidents, and through some grapevine they’d heard of his unlikely escape and successful quashing of a near pandemic. Yet for being so new, Bruce’d smelt a rat whenever he’d met with the various recruiters who’d been requesting he join. 

“They’ve been trying to recruit me for months. Hard to ignore a gut feeling that something wasn’t right.” 

                         at the tail end of 2002, the spencer rain fell. 

the tyrant had briefly made an appearance upon the original umbrella’s luxury cruise liner – a large hunk of veritable junk aptly named in honor of albert’s deranged adoptive father – only to witness a showdown taking place betwixt former umbrella scientist morpheus duvall and a certain US-STRATCOM member. with minimal words exchanged, he had disappeared, phantom-like, as his primary goal to recover additional samples of the t-Virus had been accomplished. why would he bother to get his hands dirty when another was so seemingly willing to die for their ideals…? 

the diner was mostly abandoned. a chilled tumbler of whiskey was placed down, and albert’s voice was quiet when he spoke.

❝ so you made it out alive – impressive, albeit reckless. you hero-types never cease to intrigue me. ❞

—– @gunnshot !

The diner was one of the few places Bruce knew that could serve a long-neck and cook up a decent stobhach gaelach that was almost as good as his mom’s. 

Almost. 

The beer made up for it though. 

Ever since setting foot back on US soil since the Spencer Rain incident, the STRATCOM agent had been through a whirlwind of paperwork, helped face off in legal battles due to the slew of evidence he and Fonling had brought back, and had been lovingly hounded by a newly formed anti-bioterror group called the FBC to join their ranks. Needless to say, it’d been a hectic few years, and his quiet evening out had been one of celebration for things simmering down.

However the sonorous tone directed toward him was hardly missable, even for it’s low volume so the other diner patrons wouldn’t catch wind. Nor was there any mistake to it’s owner. Bruce’d never met the man before, but he did have a good memory and could recognise the face of one of the most wanted men in the United States, even if the public didn’t have a clue as to who and why that were the case since it was never publicised -- especially not after Umbrella had pinned Morpheus for the hot mess of Raccoon and other incidents up until 2002.

Just his luck -- a good agent was never meant to catch a break after all.