#chaotic reader insert

There were a lot of things you could say about yourself. Bold. Daring. Maybe even slightly unhinged, depending on who you asked. But above all else, you were consistent—consistently putting yourself in the most absurdly dangerous situations just to see if Leon would actually show up every time like some gun-toting, government-issued Disney prince with an arsenal and perfectly timed slow-motion entrances. Today? Oh, today was no different.

You dangled upside down from a rope trap—again—in the middle of what looked like a half-collapsed, Umbrella-owned abandoned science lab. The place was straight out of a post-apocalyptic fever dream: flickering lights, ominous sirens, and several suspiciously intact glass tubes filled with questionable goo. Because of course it was.

"Note to self," you muttered aloud, blood rushing to your head as a loose wrench clanged to the floor. "Next time, skip Reddit threads titled '10 Toxic Ways to Test His Love.'"

From somewhere deep in the facility, you heard the click of tactical boots, followed by the unmistakable swoosh of a door being kicked open. Leon S. Kennedy stormed in like a leading man who showed up late but insisted it was all part of the act.

Wind—there was always wind when Leon arrived, somehow—blew in dramatically, tousling his hair like he was auditioning for a shampoo commercial.

"Heard you were in a bit of a bind," he announced with a smirk that could probably be weaponized.

You groaned. "That pun hurt more than the rope burn."

With one smooth motion, he unsheathed his knife and cut the rope like it was warm butter. You landed on the ground with an unceremonious grunt, arms flailing.

"You alright?" he asked, arching an eyebrow, clearly used to this by now.

You dusted yourself off and gave a casual thumbs up. "Physically? Mostly. Mentally? I've had healthier coping mechanisms."

This wasn’t even the first incident this week. On Tuesday, you infiltrated a Plaga-infested chicken coop wearing feathers strapped to your back because, quote, “Leon needs to witness me in my avian prime.” On Thursday, you sold your own location to a black-market merchant under the condition that he reenact a hostage scenario—complete with rope, duct tape, and fake demands. Leon showed up with two pistols and one-liner energy to spare.

"You know, there are easier ways to get my attention," he said now, sliding a flash grenade into his jacket pocket purely for dramatic effect.

You gave him a deadpan stare. "Yeah, but where’s the fun in not risking tetanus every time I flirt with you?"

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then gave that tired little smile—the one that screamed, “I should report you to HR but I’d probably follow you into a volcano first.”

You scooped up your slightly-burnt backpack and peeked through a cracked window.

"So… sushi after this?"

Leon tilted his head. "You just got nearly decapitated by a ceiling saw blade."

"Exactly," you said. "Nothing says ‘date night’ like dodging death and then drowning our trauma in soy sauce."

He sighed and checked his ammo. "Fine. But if I have to dive across a sushi conveyor belt to tackle a guy in a hazmat suit again, I swear I’m charging you hazard pay."

You saluted him with two fingers and a wink. "Deal. And I’ll even throw in a free wasabi dare. Bonus points if you don't cry."

Day 127

After the "incident" involving laser pointers, disco lights, and a suspiciously choreographed Nemesis dance routine, Wesker implemented "mandatory professionalism protocols." The memo he issued was six pages long, with four appendices, three graphs, and a very serious "Tone of Voice" guide.

New rules:

No memes in lab reports.

No "motivational" posters featuring Mr. X flexing.

No altering the PowerPoint transitions to "exploding pigeons."

No spontaneous karaoke battles during viral sample testing.

Absolutely no party hats on B.O.W.s during inspections.

A formal dress code: no novelty socks, regardless of how "morale-boosting" they were.

Naturally, you took this as a personal challenge. Each rule became a personal quest to break, preferably with maximum flair and theatrical timing.

Day 130

You replaced all of Wesker's serious lab safety posters with ones that said, "Remember: World Domination Starts With Safety First!" The posters featured cartoon B.O.W.s wearing tiny hard hats, goggles, and some inexplicably carrying clipboards. One even had a safety vest two sizes too small stretched across Nemesis' chest.

Wesker ripped one down and brandished it like it was an offense punishable by firing squad. "Who authorized this idiocy?"

You took a slow, deliberate sip from your #1 Evil Genius Assistant mug. "OSHA."

He inhaled sharply through his nose, visibly counting. You counted silently with him. He lasted until "six" before storming off, muttering something about "corporate betrayal" and "insubordination through art."

Day 145

Field mission briefing. The air was tense. Operatives lined the walls. Wesker strode up to the podium, ready to deliver his meticulously prepared speech. At the last second, you switched the presentation to "Top 5 Ways Wesker Could Improve His Monologues," complete with pie charts, celebrity reenactments, and edited video clips of Tom Hiddleston's best villain speeches.

"Tom Hiddleston could do it better," you noted helpfully, clicking to the next slide showing Loki monologuing to an audience of terrified civilians.

Wesker stared at the screen. Then at you. Then back at the screen. A vein near his temple throbbed in rhythm with the red emergency lights. He said nothing. He simply turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

Behind him, some of the operatives exchanged glances. One barely stifled a laugh. Another whispered, "She lives dangerously," with clear admiration. You called that Victory by Technical Knockout. Bonus points for style.

Day 158

You found Wesker genuinely sulking at his desk, glasses off, scribbling aimlessly across crumpled notepaper filled with increasingly dark doodles of broken coffee machines and burning cupcakes.

"Albert," you said seriously, kneeling beside him like a tired parent coaxing a stubborn toddler. "You have to stop taking my jokes so personally."

He didn't look at you. "You called me an anime villain suffering a midlife crisis."

"Affectionately," you clarified, patting his shoulder with mock sympathy.

He shot you a look over the rim of his sunglasses. "Get out."

"I'll go bake cupcakes," you offered. "It's Nemesis' adoption day anniversary."

"That is not a recognized event."

"It is now. I made invitations." You handed him a glittery card with Nemesis drawn in crayon.

Wesker blinked at it, dead-eyed, and quietly placed it face down on his desk.

Day 165

You "accidentally" filled the break room vending machines with rubber ducks instead of snacks. When Wesker discovered the situation, a rubber duck squeaked mournfully beneath his boot. He stood frozen, as if deciding whether to commit mass murder or have an existential crisis.

You peeked in. "Team morale, sir."

From the corner, a couple of lab techs desperately tried to hide their laughter behind clipboards. Mr. X stood beside the coffee machine, holding a rubber duck gently in both massive hands, gazing at it like it was a newborn child.

"Get. Out."

You didn’t. Instead, you handed Wesker a rubber duck wearing sunglasses and a tiny red cape, whispering solemnly, "For courage."

Then you walked away whistling Barbie Girl, leaving him speechless in the break room.

Day 180

In a last-ditch effort to regain control, Wesker handed you a sealed manila folder labeled TOP SECRET with grim determination. Inside? A single sticky note: STOP BRINGING BALLOONS TO BLACK SITE OPERATIONS.

You stared at him. He stared at you. Somewhere between you, silent warfare broke out.

"You're just mad because the B.O.W.s liked them," you said.

In the corner of the lab, Nemesis solemnly patted a deflated balloon tied to his massive wrist, like a child mourning a lost pet. Someone had drawn a smiley face on it in Sharpie. It was tragic. Wesker sighed—long and heavy—like a man who had seen the end of his dreams and found only rubber ducks, cupcakes, and glitter.

"Fine."

"Fine," you agreed brightly, victorious once more.

Naturally, you brought balloons to the next ops meeting anyway. With glitter. And party hats. And, for good measure, a bubble machine.

Wesker stared at the chaos unfolding before him: B.O.W.s batting balloons into the air, operatives ducking glitter explosions, and Nemesis carefully tying a party hat around Mr. X.

He rubbed his temples, muttered darkly about "auditions for a circus," and—for the first time in recorded Umbrella history—seriously contemplated early retirement.

(At this point, even Wesker knows: resistance is futile.)

👀 Next time on Wesker’s Assistant Chronicles… Let’s just say Nemesis is about to discover skincare. And Wesker? Wesker’s about to need a stronger headache medication.

“Self-care night.” “WHY IS THERE A SCENTED CANDLE IN MY LAB.”

Stay tuned for Operation Glow-Up ✨

Nemesis grunted approvingly.

INT. CRYO-WING – 16:00 HOURS

You took a deep breath, letting the icy silence settle before dramatically stepping forward, mic outstretched like you were hosting a true crime documentary.

“This,” you whispered dramatically, “is where they keep the emotionally repressed. It’s giving ‘ex-boyfriend energy.’”

Rows of cryo-pods lined the hallway, glowing pale blue. The hum of the generators was the only sound—until your boots squeaked with every step. You leaned in to a frosted pod, mic activated.

“Sir,” you asked the frozen Tyrant inside, “do you feel trapped by your conditioning, or is your cold shoulder just metaphorical?”

A crack ran up the glass like a bad omen.

HUNK was at your side in an instant, hand gripping your collar as he yanked you backward. “Touch anything else and I’ll personally freeze you myself.”

You adjusted your scarf with dignity. “Wow, okay, hostile environment.”

Nemesis silently draped a thermal blanket over your shoulders like a gentle yet horrifying nanny.

“See?” you said, beaming. “At least one of you cares about my wellness.”

INT. TEST LAB – 21:07 HOURS

You sat cross-legged on a dusty workbench, sipping hot chocolate from a mug labeled ‘Cryo-Queen’, while flipping switches with reckless confidence.

“Update,” you whispered into the mic. “Our emotional support mutant has adapted to the tundra. Our field commander is plotting my murder. I’ve found the good marshmallows in the supply closet.”

HUNK was in the corner trying to hotwire a panel with an expression that could curdle milk. Sparks danced behind him.

“Stop. Talking,” he barked.

You gave him a thumbs-up and sipped. “Too late. This is canon now.”

Nemesis stood in the background like a gothic statue, the glitter bat strapped across his back with pride, which you had gifted it to him before this mission. Occasionally, he shuffled snow into corners with surprising tidiness. You made a mental note to recommend him for janitorial MVP. “He’s the backbone of this operation,” you whispered proudly to your mic.

“Also,” you added, “I’ve nominated him for hallway maintenance duty. He’s very organized.”

INT. MAIN REACTOR CORE – 02:00 HOURS

It was supposed to be a routine sweep: check structural integrity, record data, leave. Instead, the facility alarms went off. The room was on fire. A mutant worm had launched itself at the ceiling.

Nemesis swung a steel pipe like Babe Ruth reincarnated. A screech echoed off the walls. HUNK was beside him, mag dump steady, eyes calculating every angle.

You? You were crouched behind a crate with your mic, narrating like you were hosting a wildlife documentary on fast-forward. You imagined David Attenborough quietly judging you from heaven—or wherever he spectated chaos.

“Here we see two natural predators in their element,” you whispered, crouched low and peeking over the crate with wide-eyed awe. “One is tactical, silent, deadly—he hasn’t blinked in an hour.” You zoomed in on HUNK with your mic like you were documenting a rare species. “The other is... covered in glitter. And rage. And I love him.”

The mutant launched again. You threw your clipboard at it like an Olympic discus.

“Note to self,” you muttered, “bring throwing stars next time.”

Nemesis roared like a freight train with hurt feelings. Something exploded behind you—possibly the mutant, possibly the cafeteria. You ducked instinctively as flaming debris flew past.

HUNK, covered in soot and visibly out of patience, kicked open an escape panel so hard it screeched like it owed him rent. “MOVE!” he barked, his voice cracking for the first time ever.

You dove through the opening with the mic still recording. “That concludes today’s field report,” you wheezed. “We rate this experience: 10 out of 10 emotional breakdowns.”

INT. OBSERVATION DECK – 04:00 HOURS

You laid on a bench wrapped in three blankets, mic still recording. Nemesis sat nearby, re-braiding your scarf because the wind messed it up. HUNK paced, checking his gear like he could will himself out of this narrative.

“You okay, team?” you asked, voice muffled by marshmallow breath.

HUNK stopped pacing. “No.”

You grinned. “Perfect. Let’s do this again sometime.”

Nemesis nodded solemnly.

EXT. ANTARCTIC SURFACE – EVAC POINT – 05:30 HOURS

Snow whipped around you with vengeance. The evac chopper’s blades churned the sky like it owed them money.

You were curled in your parka, eating a granola bar and broadcasting into the mic. “Mission complete. Ice broken. Literal and emotional. Results: fiery.”

HUNK sat slumped beside the bird, bruised, silent, recalculating every life choice that brought him here. Nemesis stared at the sun like he was pondering poetry. He offered HUNK a blanket. HUNK declined with a grunt, recoiling slightly like the warmth might infect him with feelings. Nemesis then offered you one. You accepted and tucked it over both of them.

“We are a team,” you said. “The worst team. But still.”

Post-Mission Debrief – Wesker’s Desk, Somewhere Warm

Wesker stared at the screen, stone-faced.

You feeding Nemesis soup.

HUNK manually rebooting a reactor while muttering death threats.

You trying to knit them matching beanies labeled “Cryo Bros.”

Nemesis doing yoga.

He closed the laptop with a click that echoed like the crushing of distant dreams. For a long moment, he just stared at the blank screen, expression unreadable—but one vein in his temple visibly throbbed.

“She survived Antarctica,” he muttered, eyes narrowing like the words physically pained him to say aloud.

He opened a new file:

SUBJECT: Assistant Termination Attempts – Failed (5x)

Then scribbled one final note:

Consider sending her to space.

End Log.

Operation Glow-Up (A One-Shot Mini Series)

It started innocently enough. You were cleaning the lab break room when you caught Nemesis staring longingly at the vending machine—specifically, at the lone bag of sour gummy worms trapped behind the glass.

“Do you want snacks, big guy?” you asked softly.

Nemesis blinked his one good eye. “...STARS.”

You took that as a yes.

Later that afternoon, you snuck him a whole bag of gummy worms. His single eye widened slightly, a low rumble of pleased surprise vibrating from his chest as he gently accepted them with both hands. He poked at them curiously, then carefully ate one with all the delicate precision of a giant bio-organic toddler. His claws were far too big for the tiny candies, but he tried valiantly—pinching them between two massive fingers and placing them in his mouth like they might shatter.

That’s when you decided: Nemesis deserved nice things.

“Hold still, Nemy, I need to get under your chin.”

Nemesis sat cross-legged on the lab floor, hulking shoulders slumped slightly forward. His claws rested obediently in his lap. His entire face was slathered in a green clay mask, cucumber slices balanced precariously over his eyes. You’d even managed to clip a tiny pink bow onto one of the stitches on his coat.

You adjusted the towel turban wrapped around his head. “There. Perfect.” You stepped back to admire your work, hands on hips. “Now we wait fifteen minutes and then rinse.”

Nemesis grunted quietly. He hadn’t moved the whole time. Honestly, he’d been remarkably cooperative for an unstoppable bio-weapon. There was something deeply peaceful about it—except for the occasional ominous rumble that shook the beakers on the nearest lab table.

Just as you were admiring your handiwork, you heard the unmistakable sound of expensive shoes clicking against the tile floor, followed by a long, ominous pause at the doorway. That was the moment Wesker walked in. He froze. The lab lights flickered ominously behind him, casting a red glow across his sharp cheekbones.

“What,” Wesker said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion, “is happening.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Self-care night.”

Wesker stared at you. Then at Nemesis. Then back at you. Nemesis slowly lifted one cucumber slice and peeked out from under it.

“…STARS,” Nemesis offered helpfully.

Wesker pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Why is there a scented candle in my lab.”

You gestured proudly to the flickering lavender candle beside the foot bath. “Ambiance.”

He sighed. Deeply. “Is that a loofah.”

“Technically, it’s his loofah,” you corrected. “We got it monogrammed. See? N.” You pointed to the embroidered letter stitched onto the handle.

Wesker’s jaw tightened. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

You ignored him and pulled out a nail buffer. “Don’t worry, Nemy. He’s just jealous.”

Nemesis rumbled in agreement.

By the end of the week, Nemesis had a full skincare routine—each day adding something new: a strawberry-scented moisturizer on Monday, an under-eye cream on Tuesday, a hydrating mist by Wednesday. You even caught a junior scientist sneaking him a sample serum on Thursday, while on Friday, Nemesis proudly donned a fluffy bathrobe you’d somehow tailored for him. His “spa corner” in the lab expanded too: fairy lights draped along the counters, a bean bag chair nestled between equipment, and a poster that read “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

Every evening, you found him there—quietly soaking his feet in an inflatable foot bath while watching cooking shows on a small TV you’d balanced on a lab cart. Wesker gave up trying to dismantle it after you pointed out Nemesis hadn’t smashed any equipment since spa day began.

“…At this point, he’s more emotionally stable than the rest of the department,” you told Wesker.

Wesker just walked away without a word. Nemesis munched another gummy worm and waved a claw in a slow, serene goodbye.

Later that night, you found Wesker standing silently at the doorway to the spa corner, his arms crossed and expression unreadable, as if silently questioning every life choice that had led him here. For a brief moment, you wondered if even he was starting to appreciate the absurd peace Nemesis radiated.

“…He snores less now,” Wesker admitted quietly.

You smiled. “See? Told you. Spa days fix everything.”

Wesker muttered something under his breath and walked away again, leaving you to switch off the fairy lights as Nemesis softly snored, his face mask drying in gentle streaks.

(Resistance is futile. And so is skincare.)