Chapter Text
“My name is Albert Michael Richardson. I am 28 years old. I am from London, England. I am here for my interview as a security guard at the Chicago Field Museum. My name is Albert Michael Richardson. I am 28 years old. I am from London, England. I am here for my interview as a security guard at the Chicago Field Museum. My name is Albert Michael Richardson. I am 28 years....”
Albert repeats the tangent over and over as he stares into the bathroom mirror. Despite his flat, emotionless expression, his heart thunders in his chest. He can feel his hands start to sweat as he grips the faded porcelain of the sink in front of him. Any slip in intonation, any suspicious twitch in his expression, any hint that he's not the man he says he is, and he's done for. He has to appear as normal as possible, has to behave as typically as possible, has to pretend that he is just an average man in his late twenties and not the product of a devious, decades-long eugenics program. Not someone who has seen dozens of people die in screaming agony as he coldly took notes on their condition. Not a monster. He's not a monster.
He takes a deep, calming breath, pleased that it's not as shaky as he predicted. He's good. He's got this. Nobody could possibly know who he really is or what he's done. For all anyone knows, James Marcus committed suicide. He has nothing to fear. The anxiety he feels is just normal nervous tension. He's fine. He's absolutely fine.
He loosens his grip on the sink and shakes his hands to dispel the tingling numbness in them. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he exits the bathroom and immediately lets out a cry of disgust as a large cockroach skitters out from under his nightstand. He grabs a shoe he doesn't particularly care about and smashes the creature, grimacing as its insides ooze out from under the rubber sole. He makes a mental note to call the landlord as soon as he gets back from his interview. As tough as his nerves and stomach are after years of performing and observing abhorrent human experiments, insects still fill him with a kind of dread and nausea that he can't completely explain.
Of all days, of course the day of his interview has to be one where it rains. As he joins the crowd waiting from the public transport system, Albert sees at least a dozen red-and-white umbrellas. The imagery, even divorced from its context, still makes his hands tremble slightly as he grips his own black umbrella. He hates this, hates the way the smallest things threaten his peace of mind, ignite his paranoia. He should be stronger than this. He has to be stronger than this. The mere sight of a familiar umbrella pattern cannot be what breaks him.
Neither can the sight of Umbrella Pharmaceuticals advertisements on the train itself and plastered on skyscraper facades and billboards. The smiling faces of the models, holding consumer products in their manicured hands, oblivious to the real nature of the company that employed them. He turns away from the window, scanning over his resume one more time for typos and inaccuracies. His fabricated identity is watertight, with no existing family and all his connections to Umbrella neatly severed. He's fine. He's absolutely fine.
The woman at the museum front desk greets him with a smile, her permed brown hair bouncing along to the rhythm of her steps as she leads him to the Security Manager's office deep in the bowels of the museum. It's a fascinating place, the Chicago Field Museum, full of wonders and curiosities from all over the world. “Sue,” the massive Tyrannosaurus fossil, greets visitors in the main hall, all prehistoric majesty and razor-sharp teeth. A gaggle of children stand gawking at it as a tour guide recites facts about the specimen.
“Steven, your 8 o'clock is here,” the woman says as they enter the office. “Um....what did you say your name was, sir?”
“Albert Richardson,” Albert says without a hitch in his voice. “I'm here to interview for the night shift security guard position.”
Steven is a large man of African American descent with a thick mustache and a bald head. His demeanor speaks of authority and precision, of years spent protecting priceless artifacts. He smiles at the woman, his teeth large and bright.
“Thank you, Katie. Come on in, Mister Richardson. If you could remove your sunglasses for me, I'd appreciate it.”
Albert gives an apologetic shrug. “My apologies, sir, but that won't be possible. I have a genetic condition that makes it difficult for me to see in bright light.”
Steven lets out a grunt of annoyance, but nods. “I suppose that's why you applied for the night guard position.”
Albert's interview goes off without a hitch, and he almost has to laugh at himself for his earlier anxieties. Even though Steven Matthews is an intelligent, perceptive man, there's no possible way he could know about any detail of Albert's past. He gets hired on the spot, and is quickly introduced to the men he'll be working with, the three of them just ending their shift. They all seem like hard-working, honest men, clear from any suspicious behavior. He does his best to act friendly and personable, since he's been told he comes off as cold and arrogant. He is then escorted to the entrance by Katie, who is clearly attracted to him. He cuts that tether immediately by claiming he already has a girlfriend and heads back to his apartment extremely satisfied with himself.
That satisfaction drops through the floor as he notices someone watching him in the lobby of his apartment complex. The woman is unfamiliar but the way she stares at him is enough to send chills up his spine. Not to mention that she's carrying one of those damned red-and-white umbrellas. Albert finds himself practically sprinting to the elevator, only feeling comfortable again as he double-locks the door to his apartment. He curses at himself for being so paranoid until he notices something has been slipped under the door in his absence.
It's an Umbrella Pharmaceuticals advertisement. He darts over to the stove, trembling as he watches the paper go up in flames. It has to be a coincidence. A complete coincidence. He's fine. He's absolutely, completely fine. He just has to tell himself that until he believes it.