Wesker had met many men who hid their shortcomings beneath an exaggerated sense of bravado. Soldiers, executives, scientists with drawn faces and god complexes too large for their meagre bodies to handle. He knew weakness dressed as authority, hatred dressed as conviction, and stupidity dressed, most commonly, as courage and this man, as much as Wesker could so far tell, was not quite any of those things.
Crude, certainly, but he had a certain finesse about him that made him loud in the way of a man who had learned long ago that contempt could be made into armour if worn with enough confidence. That ugliness was not simplicity, not the accidental ugliness of poor breeding or rural neglect, no, Wesker could deduce, even from where he stood, that this was something cultivated, honed; like a rusted blade clutched tightly in its owner's hand because it was the only weapon he could fashion himself in the severity of his surroundings.
Amusing, then, was where his mind settled in how he felt about this man. A thought that brings a curve to his mouth, smearing the ghost of a smile across his lips. Civility was the weapon he chose for himself here in this squalor, a stark deviation from his initial demeanour, but that was before he'd assessed there was something here capable of intelligent thought and of course, he did not miss the gleam of interest behind Heisenberg's lenses; it was in the way he remained here to converse rather than trudging away. Good. At least the village had produced one mind capable of doing more than salivating and lunging blindly at what mistook for prey.
β Albert Wesker β he offers at last, only because withholding it would have been more tedious than useful. His name was not an answer so much as a declaration, and he stands here bare-chested, blood-smeared, leather-clad and half-mad with the irritation of his displacement, looking less like a man lost and more an invading force deciding where to first begin its conquest. β I was in the middle of something rather important as far as my memory serves. β
There was no need to explain Uroboros, Kijuju, the bomber, the missiles or Chris Redfield. The details were still foggy in his own mind, frayed at the edges where trauma and the instability of the progenitor had gnawed through his recollection like acid through soft tissue. He remembered enough to know he had been interrupted, remembered enough to know he had been attacked, and he remembered enough to be irritated by it.
β The BSAA had become involved, β he continued, his tone cooling by several degrees as he does, β Meddlesome little men convinced that standing in the way of progress makes them righteous. β His eyes narrowed faintly, gleaming luminously and venomously alike. β I was attacked, and beyond that, the sequence of events has become... Inconveniently unclear. β
His gaze shifted then, toward the village and the isolated misery permeating the air; He had heard the moniker offeredβ the "big bitch," as Heisenberg had so eloquently put it. Not the source of the Lycans, apparently. Responsible for maggots and tremors, but perhaps not whatever other grotesque parody of humanity still remained here. That alone was enough to spark his interest. If it wasn't, Karl and it wasn't the "big bitch" that meant there were others...Β Β
And this? This crude attempt at evolution wasn't the result of poor weather or bad breeding. He nudged the mangled Lycan again with the toe of his boot, turning what remained of its head to expose the distorted jaw, broken and unhinged thanks to his own efforts, the exaggeration of predatory traits layered over an unmistakably human frame β violent adaptation and useful musculature, certainly, but limited cognition, a something designed either by a mind with no appreciation for refinement or by circumstances too primitive to sustain it.
β Ah, now, of that I remain unconvinced. β His voice sharpened just a smidge, not with hostility as such, just the playful air of a certain sarcasm. β These miserable husks are the result of human interference, that is crystal clear. β He said, letting the ruined head drop back into the mud. β Whether by intention, exploration or negligence is another matter entirely, but make no mistake there is always an origin, a progenitor - a creator, if you will. β
And he knew, perhaps mercifully, that he was not that creator. This was not Uroboros... This was... Something entirely different, but it was no less something, something unnatural, tampered with, something brought into being by the hands, the wants, the ambitions of man, as varied and colourful as they could be.
At last, those burning eyes returned to Karl as he moved, unhurried, carnage clinging to him as if it were beneath his dignity to notice, a few steps carrying him forward, toward the other man as he spoke. β I imagine you are much the same - so perhaps the better question here is.... Who made you? β
