Accidental Murderbeast

I’ve been gone for a while, haven’t I? I wish I could convey just how sorry I was about that, because if there’s one thing that stresses me out to a level I cannot even begin to describe, it’s the feeling of letting people down. Which I have; I have let every single one of you down, and for that, I am immensely sorry.

As you could probably gather from so many of my previous posts, my life is incredibly hectic. I’ve been pulled thin to the point of snapping and have been ridiculously depressed over the state of my life, stressed over everything that is expected of me, and to be honest? RPing on tumblr has been the last thing on my mind, compared to dealing with the constant barrage of “DO THIS” shoved in my face offline.

Which makes me sad, because I have so many wonderful friends here who probably thought I dropped off the face of the Earth, and I really miss you all. I just have been… braindead? Broken? By the time I’m done with the day, I can’t even think straight, let alone write or be witty. And usually, I end up locked in a studio or something anyway.

What does this mean?

I don’t think I have the time or energy to keep up with these blogs anymore. Which hurts to even type, because I… I can’t even. I loved doing this, I got so excited about interacting with all of you, and now? I just can’t. I don’t have it in me.

Am I deleting my RP blogs?

No. I’m not. I keep hoping that—Wesker willing!—things will calm down and I can resume where I left off.

What about in-progress RPs?

If you want to continue threads—particularly Lloyd, since it was kind of important to his character’s story—just let me know and I’ll see what I can do. I don’t want to leave people hanging if it’s critical, because what kind of douchebag would I be if I did that?

And to my friends or people who want to speak with regular old Amber and not Wesker/Steve/Karsaga:

I have a personal blog at partykain, and an art blog at basementbeast. The personal blog is mostly reblogs, admittedly, since I don’t have time for much else, but I can be contacted through there. Basementbeast may see more use, because my grades are slipping for “technical reasons,” and I’m going to end up posting a lot of practice and classwork. I can also be contacted through there.

That’s in the past now, though. No matter what his intentions were, you’re here.

... And, you know, I would be a little more embarrassed by the fact you saw me running around in less clothes than the Incredible Hulk, if not for the fact that I've lived so long as a science project. I was in a vat, nude, on full display. Boss' scientists, my partner, everyone... eurgh, everyone I work with knows what I look like without pants.

On the bright side, makes it easier for me to, y'know, mutate. What is this "shame" you speak of?

And storming infected areas is what I do. I can give you a brief overview of what's what and whatnot. Which is totally not the most redundant sentence in the world. I mean, I already know you know how to use a gun, so I'm guessing all you need to know personally is the specifics of the different kinds of BOW known to our database right now.

Ada bled grace and elegance; it was so profuse that it glittered, leagues more brilliant than the rock that dangled from her ears. The napkin was settled atop her lap like unfolded laundry, shoulders were upright and her spine well-poised. Etiquette was something she long since learned and excelled and took pride in.

The whole concept of etiquette was confusing. He was trying. He tried to keep his back straight, he tried to speak the language of the people (albeit badly), he had mimicked Ada's silverware layout although he now noticed it was in reverse.

Oh, well. People skills didn't equal being a sophisticate.

His well-hidden embarrassment broke with Ada's words, though. There was something heart stopping about her smirk, something he was completely unused to. Maybe it was the wine. More likely, she was just messing with him.

Mission accomplished, Miss Wong. He was adequately rustled.

Oh yeah, gotta love the political food chain. 

… I was frozen the whole time. He didn’t thaw me out until he was one-hundred percent that I was at full capacity and capable of function. I dunno if that was an act of mercy—probably not—but I appreciate it.

–chuckles-

“Yeah. I’d rather not get a beating for not being cooperative. Besides. The worst I get from being cooperative is when I get drugged to sleep or the tests.”

Man he hated those scientists. All those damn beatings he had gotten in the past were still fresh in his memories. He could even remember where at least three locations on his arm or back where bruises used to be. Nowadays he usually does as they say to avoid that unpleasant part.

Well the constant injections and tests weren’t all that bad. Honestly the injections never had given him any problems. Though the tests weren’t exactly pleasant since he always had to fight, run laps, or do something physical. At least he got to keep in shape in that case.

Speaking of envy. He would admit he was pretty much jealous of the other for not going through the shit he had to go through. Then again different realities lead to different possibilities. Not much one could really complain about since every outcome is different.

“C-Virus?”

Oh great. Neo-Umbrella came up with another Virus? Great. Just great. How bad could this one have been?! From the sounds of it… It sounded pretty bad. Neo-Umbrella was definitely just like Umbrella.

However a smirk came onto his face as he heard the part about the commercials.

He finished his cigarette and extinguished it on his boot, nervously fidgeting for a second before he dug another one out from his pocket. He almost considered offering one to his younger self, but he had a pretty strong hunch that his facsimile hadn’t picked up the habit yet. It was probably for the best that he not add “addiction” to the things wrong with his life.

Instead, he bit the tip of his finger—just enough for a pinprick of blood—and lit his cigarette with the smoldering substance just before the wound cauterized itself shut. He looked up to his copy for a reaction, waiting to see if there was one; if he seemed shocked, it would give him a little insight on just how different their strains had become, based on how they were treated.

A scientific mind at work, he realized. He really was becoming more and more like the boss.

“No need to apologize, there was no offense taken.” He listens in silence—however upon mention of the C-virus, an interested quirk appears to thin lips. Ah, but his plans did indeed involve the C. His facsimile had not been the only source to have informed him of the newfangled virus’s effects. Quite disastrous, and a perfect weapon if harnessed correctly.

“If you speak of counteracting the mix of substances already inside his system with the C itself—or if you mean flushing them entirely out of his body. There are two paths to take here, one significantly more dangerous than the other.”

He gestured as he spoke, almost as though trying to give directions to the nearest Waffle House. It was a habit he developed that the boss was accustomed to, seeing as he realized it was Steve’s way of organizing his own thoughts, but the boss’ doppelganger seemed less than thrilled to be spoken to like a lost tourist. Realizing this, he dropped his hands and sighed. There had to be an easier way to go about explaining things, especially since the man he was talking to was infinitely smarter than himself.

“Uroboros was only supposed to leave behind the Chosen: people of superior genetic makeup who would be ruled by the boss in a new world. Problem being that Uroboros ate everything it touched, even the boss to an extent. The C-virus could be substituted for Uroboros, though. It’s more pliable, the resulting infected are absolutely obedient. It would take a little work, but…”

He nodded resolutely and dared to look into the other Wesker’s eyes.

Steve’s behavior, let alone exclamation of his old companion’s name in such a way, did cause for William to raise a brow slightly. That had been hardly called for, of course, then then again he perhaps he was ultimately not surprised by the behavior – he after all didn’t give much credit to the younger man’s intelligence – and he merely studied him.

Still…the idea might not be an entirely poor one.

William just wanted the walking flamethrower out of his goddamn lab. That much was evident.

“He’s busy, but he can make time. Trust me.”

Rubbing his arm, Steve made his way to the door. He knew the way out, of course, and he was rather excited to get the hell out of there. In his experience, staying around a scientist longer than necessary was a gateway to vivisection, a process he unfortunately always survived.

“I’ll let him know, and I’ll have Krauser sent. Just be warned he’s got a knife attached to his nervous system. Watch his arm.”

With that, Steve finally stepped out of the lab, automatic door sliding shut behind him. A sigh escaped his throat as he meandered toward the exit, footsteps echoing through the empty hall.

The young male knew it was a trap and perhaps suicide, if he would attack this huge creature, but he had no other choice. Either he would attack him and have a chance to get a virus sample or he would run away without a sample.

“Geezus..” murmured the former soldier and shook his head. “I hate you, Burnside. You lucky, dude. I have no other choice than fighting against ya, right?” Wrinkles appeared on his forehead.

“Let’s get over it, dumbass.” Piers licked his lips and snorted frustrated. His right arm still hurt a bit, but he ignored it. He needed to focus on his goal ..and also on his enemy. 

All he had to do was take one hit and turn his momentum against him…

The blow was harder than he expected, claws slamming down into his smaller bicep and a jolt shooting through his body. The sound he made was loud and ear-piercing, a shrill shriek of alarm as he tumbled backwards, a spike snapping on his back from a mixture of the impact and his own weight.

Considering that spike had once been a bone, the pain was excruciating. He huffed and snarled, slowly rolled to his feet, and winced as he tried to balance on all four limbs yet again. Head craning toward Piers, his entire body twisted in the man’s direction and—furious and hurt—he charged in his direction.

He wasn’t sure why, since it seemed like a terrible idea, but Veronica had kindly pushed logic out of the way and grabbed the steering wheel. She was in control now, an outraged driver ready to crash into the asshole who cut her off. It didn’t even matter if they ended in a ball of fire. Her only motivation was the almost childlike desire to hurt the one who caused her harm, a petty act of revenge that would make her feel better about herself.

Gloved digits snatched up a small translucent, unmarked tube of deep red contents and proceeded to place the individual container into a metal brief case. It hissed as it unlatched and popped open. Space was exuberant in comparison to the tiny vial en masse. Clicked, closed and locked down.

Would the boss bite? He certainly hoped not. While he didn’t fear for the boss’ safety, he highly doubted that Wesker would be the only one involved in any attempt to recover his “favorite specimen.” Krauser might become involved, and that man had more than one bone to pick with the woman that stood before him. In the end, he doubted it would end pretty for the big guy. It hadn’t before.

He cringed at the thought. He hadn’t been awake to see it, but he had been told of the almost hopeless condition Jack had been in upon his recovery. Half of his skin peeled away, multiple lacerations, only kept alive by the stubbornness of the bug on his spine.

“He won’t come,” Steve said resolutely, answering Ada’s question before she could fall into her own thoughts. He glanced up to see if she reacted at all, and pleased that she had heard him, he decided to continue talking.

“He’s Albert Wesker. Do you think he actually gives a shit about the people who work for him? I said when you caught me and I’ll say it again now: Veronica is pretty fuckin’ common nowadays. If he wants a sample, he’d pick one up on the black market. Easier than negotiating for the sake of getting me back.”

He didn’t wait for a response, because he doubted he’d get one. Instead, he stood from the floor and took a seat on the bed, cracking his knuckles and turning to look at the barred window. It reminded him of Rockfort. The whole situation reminded him of Rockfort. Taking a deep breath, he wondered if this would end the same way.

No. No, he wouldn’t let it end the same way. And he’d weasel his way out of this before the boss even had the opportunity to get involved.

“I think I should warn you that I require injections to stabilize myself,” he stated after a long silence, leaning forward with his elbows rested against his knees. “Every twenty-four hours. It was three when I was abducted. You have until that twenty-four ends before I lose my mind, mutate, and—if hypotheses are correct—spontaneously combust. I’m not sure if that’s what happens, since I’ve never missed a dose.”

That wasn’t entirely a lie. He did require the dosages, and continually missing them would prove unfortunate. Not fatal to him, but unfortunate to anyone present at the time. Still, Ada wouldn’t know that, and if she required a bargaining chip she would probably want him in one piece.

He didn’t think she’d let him go. Oh, no; she would never let him go willingly. But perhaps, if he could get her distracted…

The nervous wreck was endearing and perhaps entertaining to a degree. Taking someone out of their comfort zone and pitting them against foreign planes was a spectacle in of itself. Diamond chandelier earrings glittered against the side of her ears like wind-chimes and tassels, especially when the hair was peeled behind them with the use of manicured fingernails.

Painted up like a collectable porcelain doll and coquettish like a courtesan or concubine.

The other woman.

Prismatic pools of sight garnered its attention ‘pon his handsome visage. There was a nuance of boyish features. High cheekbones, slender face and nary a wrinkle or line of age. He was symmetrical and well-proportionate.

He glanced through the menu quickly, realized nothing stood out as familiar, and laughed. Good thing he had grown accustomed to being a clueless, embarrassed wreck. Temporarily forgetting that Ada was across from him, he acted a bit more true to himself, turning up to look the waiter in the eyes. The words came out faster than he meant them to. Already the wine was loosening his tongue.

“Sie würden nicht geschehen, zu sprechen, nicht wahr?”

The look on the waiter’s face was priceless, and Ada was probably similarly horrified although he didn’t turn to check. Instead, he just smiled, and rattled off a response in the best French he could muster, although most of it lapsed into Italian. He hoped that would be good enough. Prior to Excella’s death, she had insisted that the two languages had enough lexical similarity to practically be twins.

“I feel sorry for that guy,” Steve muttered with a smirk, finally turning back to Ada and, most importantly, his drink. “Romantic languages aren’t my strong suit, unfortunately. I guess I just favor the rough.”

He stopped and blinked mid-sip, realizing just how awkward that had sounded.

Then it happened. 

She caught his body mid-stride.  Laughter was infectious.  And so, her shoulders shook, the giggling fit was coerced.

Wood.

That was a funny word.

Wood.

He looks at Ada, practically collapsing and only held aloft by her arms. He wants to explain why he's laughing, but words? Words. He tries to touch her face, to direct it to look at the wall, but arms are hard.

Hard. Wood.

One of them looks kind of like a dog with crossed eyes.

He snorts a laugh and finds it impossible to stop, falling over on Ada. He gestures at it and tries to explain it, but no. No. Nobody can understand the dog. Nobody can understand the dog.

There is no use in putting up any form of pretense with those who know me. He understands that, but you do not seem to. Realize that Albert Wesker is but a maelstrom of different qualities: Your boss is simply holds the lighter side of said qualities. He made his mistakes, learnt from them, and mellowed out.

On the other hand, I have not made any myself, and don’t plan on doing so any time soon.

Guess I'm just used to my "Wesker Lite."

-sniffs, crosses his arms-

Got any idea on how to work around the stuff that knocked him six ways from Sunday? I figure the C-virus would be a good place to start, but I'm gonna suppose you already thought of that. I never think of anything before a Wesker does, after all.