Chapter Text
It’s a small, unassuming diner with scratched linoleum floors and dirty windows. Rose ordered the “Special”, a burger with a ton of fries, bacon and eggs, and a smoothie. The smoothie is way too sweet and watery, and the steak is so dry it feels like chewing a piece of leather, but she’s so hungry she could eat anything, and, more importantly, it was cheap.
The waitress is hanging around the cash register, looking bored. The only other patrons are a couple of fifty-something truck drivers, who drinks their beers in silence with twin-looks of wariness. The speakers crackle with something that could be generously described as music if one didn’t know what music was.
Rose is almost done with her burger when a shadow falls into the table. She raises her head, ready to tell the waitress that she doesn’t need anything, but it’s not the waitress.
It’s a man, dressed like he’s heading out to a Matrix-enthusiasts convention, with sunglasses on his nose and a black leather coat that shines wetly in the harsh neon lights. It has started raining outside, apparently.
“May I sit here?” The man’s voice is perfectly polite, borderline emotionless.
That, and the fact that he looks like the embodiment of every Saturday cartoon villain, makes Rose frown.
“There are a lot of empty seats,” she points out, slowly putting the last bite of her burger back on the plate.
The man tilts his head. He stands like a soldier, his back straight and his feet slightly held apart. The posture reminds Rose of Chris.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” He asks, a different tone to his voice, almost amused. Rose stares at him.
He knows her, somehow. Maybe he’s part of one of those illegal bioterrorist groups. She doesn’t know if he’s here to kill her, recruit her, or something else, but she’s too tired and hungry to care. If he tries anything, she can kill him.
“Do what you want,” she says, shrugging. Projecting something that looks like confidence and nonchalance is always a good thing, she has learned. If she acts scared or suspicious, the man will think she’s an easy prey.
The man nods, as if to thank her, and slides into the booth, sitting in front of her. Rose throws him one last glance, noting his gloved hands, and polishes the rest of her burger.
She swallows, pushes the plate away, and grabs her fork to start digging into her eggs and bacon.
The man just watches her. It should be unnerving, but Rose is hungry, and she trusts her instincts. This man is not here to harm her, or he would have attacked her as soon as he entered the dinner.
The shuffling of feet on the linoleum makes her glance up – it’s just the waitress, hiding a yawn behind a closed fist and fanning herself with her notepad.
“Ya need anything?” She asks, skidding to a stop in front of their table, her eyes glancing at the man and deciding his outfit is not worth her surprise.
“One black coffee,” the man says after a brief pause, his head barely turning to look at the waitress. She nods and shuffles back toward the counter.
Rose can’t help but snort. One black coffee, really?
“You’re not hungry?” she asks, feeling like making conversation can probably make the man leaves her alone faster. Her fork scraps against the plate as she tries to catch the last bit of bacon.
The man slowly looks down at her plate, and even if his face stays perfectly calm, she can almost taste the disdain rolling of him in waves. This man wouldn’t put this dinner’s food in his mouth even if he was starving to death.
Rose shrugs and piles her plates neatly, fork at the top. She only has her smoothie left, and once she’s done, she’s leaving. Whatever the man has to say will have to fit into this tight schedule.
The man waits – rather dramatically – for the waitress to bring him his coffee before opening his mouth again. Rose is already halfway through the smoothie.
“You are a difficult woman to meet, Miss Winters,” he says, after taking a careful sip of his coffee.
The name should surprise Rose, but so many people in the business know it, and at this point she doesn’t have enough fingers to count the number of times someone greeted her with a dramatic “Rosemary Winters, at last we meet!”.
“Yeah. I like when people stay out of my business,” she mumbles around the straw, feeling a childish sense of satisfaction when she sees the man’s brows furrow a fraction. She has manners, thank you very much, but interrupting her diner is one way of putting oneself on her bad side. “What do you want? An autograph?”
The man smiles, more of a sneer than anything, his already razor-sharp features seemingly struggling against the unwanted feeling. In short, he looks like he just ate a whole lemon.
“Nothing of the sort, Miss Winters. I can hardly be considered one of your… admirers.” His finger taps idly against the edge of his cup.
“A detractor, then? You want to have a fist-fight in the parking lot?”
Whatever Rose expected, a laugh wasn’t it. It’s a real one, not a discreet chuckle; the man throws back his head and barks out a deep, belly-deep laugh, like it’s the funniest thing he has ever heard.
Rose sips the rest of her smoothie loudly, waiting for the man to calm down. It’s always the quiet ones who need to be watched carefully. They are calm until something sets them off, and then everything is on fire, Chris is having a panic attack and Rose has to clean up the mess.
So she watches the man closely until the laugher recede. The truck drivers glance at them, but ultimately decide that it’s not their business, which Rose can appreciate.
“As interesting as it would be, I’m not here to fight you, Miss Winters,” the man finally says, a small, amused smile still lingering on his lips. “I just wanted to have a… friendly conversation.”
The man says friendly like the word doesn’t agree with him, and considering his attitude and appearance, Rose can understand why. Her straw scrapes the bottom of the glass and she puts it back on the table, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.
“About what?” She starts fiddling with a packet of sugar, bending and twisting it. “I’m not interested in joining whatever organization you represent.”
“I work alone, Miss Winters. You don’t have to worry about unwanted offers.”
Rose stays silent. The waitress comes back and picks up the empty plates. “Need anything else?”
Rose shakes her head. She’s done. Apparently sensing her disinterest, the man leans forward, his elbows neatly crossed in front of him.
“My name is Albert Wesker. Does it ring any bells?”
It takes Rose a few seconds to pinpoint why the name is familiar. She straightens her back, suddenly more interested in the conversation.
“You’re the guy Chris threw into a volcano,” she says, pointing a finger at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”
If the man is upset about being remembered solely for his hilariously violent death, he doesn’t show it. His head tilts to the side.
“Is this the only thing you have been told? How I died?”
Rose twists the packet of sugar, feeling the thin paper strains under her fingers. She wasn’t expecting this.
“More or less.” She shrugs. “Chris told me that if he went off the rails, I had to follow his example and throw him into a volcano. Something like that.”
The man’s brows lift, and something like amusement passes briefly on his face. “A cautionary tale,” he says. “About the corrupting edge of power.”
“I guess,” Rose says, even if the man doesn’t look like he’s expecting an answer. “It’s more of a joke, really. There are easier ways to get rid of someone.”
The man lets out a small chuckle.
“You died a very long time ago,” Rose continues. “For what I know, you’re just an impersonator, or a hard-core fan of the guy. Nothing tells me you’re really him.”
“Good point, Miss Winters. I don’t have the means to prove myself to you, but let me ask you.” He puts his chin on his joined fingers, like a benevolent teacher. “Why would I do this? I’m putting myself in much more danger than necessary by telling you my name. I could have approached you without revealing who I was. You would have been none the wiser, considering the… gap between our existences.”
Rose starts rubbing her sticky fingers with a napkin, frowning. The man is right, in a way. Telling her his name is basically useless. To Rose, Albert Wesker is just one name amongst others Chris routinely references. The name is usually followed by “crazy bastard”, “grade-A asshole”, and other more colorful insults.
Albert Wesker doesn’t mean anything to her. He’s a ghost that haunts Chris.
“Alright,” she decides. “Let say you really are Albert Wesker. You betrayed Chris numerous times, and died in a volcano. Why talk to me?”
The man leans back, and she has the feeling he’s recalculating how the conversation should go.
“You don’t seem surprised by my miraculous return,” he points out, something like irony dripping from the words.
Rose grabs her gloves and puts them back on her hands. “Do you want me to?” She’s not going to tell this man that with the mold, death kinda loses its edge.
“On the contrary, Miss Winters. I always enjoyed level-headed people.”
If Chris was here, he would probably roll on the floor in hysterical laugher at hearing someone call Rose level-headed.
“I’ve read the reports,” the man continues, ignoring Rose’s dull look. “Your powers are theorized to be able to bring people back from the dead.” He smiles, a cruel twist of lips. “Of course, you never showed an ounce of interest for the matter, much to the dismay of your – ah, handlers. They were promised ungodly powers, and you limited yourself to destroying a few buildings.”
“I’m difficult to work with,” Rose says, not appreciating his tone. “Where did you get those reports?”
The unimpressed look is visible even through the glasses. “Miss Winters. I thought you were smarter than that.”
She sighs and shuts him up with a wave of her hand. “Alright. There are leaks, I know that. But I’m not… with them anymore.”
“Indeed. The last report I’ve read was from two years ago. Your last mission before your mysterious disappearance.”
Rose narrows her eyes at him, and he throws her what’s probably supposed to be an innocent look. “Are you here to bring me back?”
He laughs. Again, the same deep, visceral laugh, like Rose is doing a particularly funny comedy routine.
“Oh, Miss Winters. I told you, I work alone. Why would I throw you back to the wolves? You are much more interesting when you are not playing the perfect little soldier.” His tone shifts minutely, coming across as almost affectionate. “I have no interest in the pitiful wars humans are so fond of. Not anymore.”
He leans, coming face to face with her, and she doesn’t move away. “Miss Winters, you have that look in your eyes. You are still young, but you are already tired.”
He gently taps her forehead. “Tired of the power struggles, the insignificant battles, the pathetic attempts at taking control. Humans will always be the same, as long as they will exist. You put a gun in their hands, and they try to take over the world.”
He leans back, a small smile on his lips. “You decided to leave before they could turn on you. Before they decided that you were more useful as a weapon than as a soldier. A smart decision, I must say.”
“And now, I ask you, Miss Winters. Where do we go from here?”
The packet of sugar snaps suddenly, spilling its content on the table. Rose swallows, and grabs a napkin to wipe the mess, avoiding the man’s eyes.
“I’m not taking over the world with you”, she warns, but the joke falls flat.
“And I’m not asking you to do so,” the man says gravelly. “But tell me, where do we go from here?”
The sugar is sticking to her gloves, and she wipes them with the napkin, sending tiny crystals all over her laps.
“You want a real answer, or you’re just here to play mind games?” She asks, feeling very tired all of a sudden. The two truck-drivers have left at some point, and the dinner is empty, save from the waitress leaning against the counter, eyes on her phone.
“An answer would be more than welcome, Miss Winters.”
She leans back on her seat, feeling the worn-down vinyl scratches against her head.
“There is no bad answer, Miss Winters. I simply wonder what you are planning to do, now that you are no longer playing by the rules.”
Rose can see the waitress glancing at them, probably wondering why they are still here. Maybe she should order something else, just to look like everything’s alright.
“I don’t know,” she says, and she hates how her voice goes low, almost shameful. No bad answer, she tells herself. “I knew I had to leave, but I’m still figuring things out, you know.”
The man nods like he understands, but she can tell he’s disappointed. It makes her smile, strangely enough. “I’m still working with Chris. Freelancing, something like that. It gives me something to do in the meantime.”
Maybe she shouldn’t tell the obviously shady guy from Chris’s past about her life, but there are not a lot of reasons not to. She’s not even saying confidential stuff. If the man can get his hands on Rose’s files from before, he probably already knows that she hasn’t totally dropped under the radar.
Chris needs her, sometimes. And she can’t say no to him.
“You still work for the man who dragged you into this?”
“Chris was the one who saved me from being a lab-rat,” she states, feeling the beginning of a good, red-hot anger churns in her guts. “Being dragged into this, as you say, was preferable to being locked up in a cell. I’m not angry at him for offering me the lesser of two evils.”
The man hums, apparently not really surprised.
“Ah, yes, Redfield is a charismatic man, able to drag anyone into his pointless crusade against evil-doers and the likes.” His voice takes a vicious tone. “He recognized how useful you could be, Miss Winters, and knew it would be better for you to be on his team, rather than on the opposite side of the battlefield.” His smile is cold. “He’s pragmatic, Miss Winters. You did have a third option, one that did not involve a cell or a leash, but he never presented it to you. You had to find it yourself, but it was almost too late.” He shakes his head. “He almost ruined you by turning you into a soldier.”
He spats the last word like a snake spitting venom, and Rose wonders distantly what exactly went down between him and Chris, apart from the volcano bit. There is something more than just anger against the man who killed him in his speech – it almost sounds like disappointment, bitterness, and jealousy, of all things.
They stare at each other in silence for almost an entire minute.
Nothing he had said is surprising to Rose. She reached the same conclusion two years ago, and even if she loves him, deep down she still resents Chris, for literally drafting her into the Hound Wolf Squad as soon as she turned eighteen. She never told him – she knows he tried really hard to do what he could, but a part of her still wonders if he was relieved to be the one to get his hands on her. If he considered her a valuable asset the same way a doctor had called Rose a “wonder of nature” while talking about potential experimentations on her regenerative powers.
But Rose is twenty-five now, and she learned the hard way how messy real life is. She thinks she has made peace with the fact that every relationship she has is tainted by what she is, what people can gain from her, what danger she represents by simply existing. Her own mother lost custody of her and basically gave up, but Rose still loves her and tries to keep in touch with her, now that she’s an adult and more or less free to go wherever she wants.
(And if it isn’t a proof that Rose may not be over it, may still cling to the childish idea of being loved unconditionally, well, it’s between her and her non-existent therapist.)
“Chris did what he could,” Rose finally says, unwilling to spill her heart to a man like Wesker. He probably has a dozen ulterior motives for this stupid meeting, and Rose doesn’t need to give him any more ammunition. “I don’t know what really happened between you two, but I’m not interested in whatever you’re trying to accomplish here.”
“You didn’t answer my question”, Wesker points out, as if he hadn’t just gone on a rant about Chris’s wrongdoings that sounded like it had more to do with him than with Rose and completely derailed the conversation.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Rose responds honestly. “Are you hoping for some great advice about life? I don’t have any.” She leans forward, mimicking his earlier position. “I don’t know if this is some kind of weird power play for you, but I’m not interested.”
She gets up, grabbing her backpack and awkwardly stepping around the table to get off the booth.
And then she trips on something that wasn’t here before and almost falls flat on her face, catching herself on the edge of the table at the last second.
She looks at the man. He looks back with the same kind of satisfied-but-hiding-it face Chris has when something goes his way. Smug, but not willing to show it.
She looks down. A black… tentacle? Tendril? Thing? Slithers on the ground, hiding under the table. It looks slick, almost wet, quite different from her mold.
“Don’t leave, Miss Winters. We have much to discuss.”
She doesn’t sit back down. She puts her hands on the table and leans toward the man with the most threatening expression she can muster.
Chris always says that her greatest advantage is how harmless she looks. People underestimate her all the time. She looks so normal, so human, blonde hair and blue eyes, her height placing her on the side of people who routinely get confused for high-schooler in liquor stores.
Right now, she wishes she possessed a fraction of Chris’s intimidating aura, just to wipe off the amused smirk dancing on Albert Wesker’s face.
“What are you playing at?” She hisses, staring straight into the dark lenses of his glasses. Guys who wear sunglasses indoor are always assholes. “Conversation got boring so you want to fight now?”
“Miss Winters, sit down, please,” the man says, insufferable smile still on his face. “You are making the poor waitress nervous.”
Rose glances at the counter. The waitress is indeed watching them, something like concern on her face. Her hand hovers over her phone, like she’s contemplating whether or not calling the police is a good idea.
Rose can only wonder what the situation looks like for her. A tall guy with sunglasses and a leather trench coat being threatened by what probably looks like a college student with severe sleep deprivation.
“You are making her nervous,” Rose states. “Looked in a mirror recently? You look like you got lost in a Hot Topic.”
Vanity was not something she expected from the man. He frowns, lips pulling downward in a displeased grimace.
“Miss Winters, you are wearing what can only be described as lumberjack’s rejected idea of a good outfit for a night’s out. You truly have no leg to stand on.”
Rose can’t help the small, disbelieving laugh that escapes her mouth. Really? Insulting the man’s fashion choices is all it takes to rile him up?
“It’s comfortable and sturdy. How the fuck do you run with leather pants?”
“I’m usually not the one running, Miss Winters.”
Rose rolls her eyes and straightens her back. It’s an impulsive decision, more curiosity than desire, when she sits back down, her bag on her laps, just in case.
“Are you done insulting me?” The man asks, rather pleasantly, like a parent asking a child if the tantrum is over.
“Are you? Annoying someone until they give you attention is only cute when you’re five and don’t know how to spell your own name.”
“I knew how to spell my name when I was five.”
“Congrats. Did you also burn ants with a magnifying glass? You strike me as the kind of kids who enjoyed torturing helpless animals.”
The man stares at her, and a slow, unnerving smile lights up his face. “You are a funny one, Miss Winters. And, for your information, I did not torture helpless animals during my youth.”
The smile turns almost cruel. “I was already beyond such pitiful matters.”
Rose really needs to get her hands on Albert Wesker’s file. Because so far, all she knows about him is that he died (in a volcano) and likes to dress up like a Scooby-Doo villain.
“That’s not disturbing at all,” she mumbles, checking on the waitress. The woman is back to watching something on her phone, apparently reassured by Rose’s apparent compliance. “Anyway. I’m pretty sure you aren’t here to trade heartwarming childhood stories. What do you want, really?”
“I told you. A conversation. An answer.”
It’s like pulling a tooth. The man is frustratingly evasive, and Rose doesn’t like it. Chris once said that she was too blunt to be good at counter-interrogation tactics, a subject he tried very hard to teach her, to no avail.
She groans and settles back more comfortably on her seat, stretching her legs on the side.
“I don’t have an answer. I’m just trying to live my life. I don’t have a grand plan for the future, I don’t want to join your one-man cult, and I don’t want to take over the world.”
“You could,” the man says, his tone almost wistful. When Rose throws him the dullest look she can muster, he just shrugs, the gesture stiff and unnatural. “As I’ve said, I’ve read your files, Miss Winters. You have so much… potential. And the only thing they thought you were good for was cleaning up.”
He sounds almost frustrated on her behalf, which is hilarious.
“You’ve read my file,” Rose says, picking up another packet of sugar just to have something to do with her hands. Wesker nods, an almost expectant look on his face. “Have you read… other files?”
There is a beat of silent, and she looks up. The man seems to be thinking about it, probably trying to come up with an answer that doesn’t reveal too much about how far his reach goes. She sighs.
“I don’t care. Everyone and their mothers have read them,” she says, her voice almost bitter.
“I know about Dulvey,” Wesker says carefully.
That’s all Rose needs to know. “So you know how out of control it can get, right? Is your idea of a perfect world one were people are just mindless husks controlled by a sentient mold?”
She whispers the last words, leaning forward, trying to catch the man’s eyes behind the glasses. “It’s chaos, and not the fun type. My potential, as you put it, is a disaster waiting to happen.”
“You are not E-001, Miss Winters. You have tremendous control over your powers.”
“Eveline was child, and she killed dozens of people without even trying to. I’m twenty-five, military trained, and immune to most anti-virus they tried to inject me with.” She’s angry, and she doesn’t know why. “Do you think I’ve never thought about it? About what it would be, to let go of my tremendous control?”
She bares her teeth in an ugly smile. “It would be magnificent, Mister Wesker.”
She leans back, forcing herself to take a deep breath through her nose. It’s rare for her to lose her temper like that. But this man knows how to push her buttons.
Feet echo on the floor, and the waitress, looking like she really wants to ask them to leave but can’t because Wesker still have a half-empty cup of coffee in front of him, stops by the table. She’s fiddling with her notebook, and the way she looks at Rose is definitively concerned.
What does it look like to her? Wesker is old enough to pass for Rose’s father, and the blond hair probably doesn’t help. Does she think Rose is fighting with her dad?
The thought almost makes Rose giggles hysterically, and she clamps her lips tightly.
“You okay here?” The waitress asks. Her tone strongly implies that she hopes everything is good, but if needed, she will call the cops and throws Wesker out of the dinner.
“Yeah,” Rose says, trying to smile. “Can I get, uh, a waffle?” She asks, saying the first thing that comes to her mind. A waffle sounds good. Something to occupy her mouth so she doesn’t spout anymore nonsense at Wesker.
The waitress nods, her eyes softening just a bit, and she looks at Wesker, who politely shakes his head, pointing at his coffee.
They wait in silence until the waitress is gone, disappearing behind the counter, probably to tell the cook Rose’s order.
“Thank you for your answer, Miss Winters,” Wesker says, his voice back to his monotone cadence.
“I didn’t answer you,” Rose points out.
There is a smile hidden in the corners of the man’s lips. He tilts his head, again. “But you did. You have freed yourself from the confines of human society, but you still, in a way, play by their rules. You won’t let your natural instincts take over your mind, because you are acutely aware of the consequences it would bring to the world.”
He adjusts his glasses. “E-001 was a cautionary tale for you, just as my death was one for Redfield. Power corrupts, Miss Winters. Once you had a taste of what it could give you… you can so easily lose yourself into it.”
“Speaking from experience?” Rose asks, and she’s surprised when the man nods. She wasn’t expecting an answer.
She really needs to read the man’s file. And maybe ask Chris a few questions. But considering how tightly-lipped her former CO is with personal information, she feels like it would be easier to ask Albert Wesker about it.
“And what’s your answer?” Her question is met with a smug smile.
She’s starting to understand why Chris once described the man as “an insufferable douchebag”.
“I thought I had one,” Wesker says. He’s clearly in love with the sound of his own voice, because it sounds like he’s winding up for a big monologue.
Rose has some experience with people like that. You either interrupt them by speaking louder, or you just wait for them to tire themselves out.
Considering the fact that they are in a public space, Rose can’t really start yelling at him to shut up, so she crosses her arms on her chest and bites back a sight.
“Just like you, I was content with following orders. They told me where to go, what to do. Who to kill. Who to cajole. Who to threaten into compliance. It was easy, and rewarding.” The wistful tone of Wesker’s voice makes Rose’s skin crawls. “Like a dog. Obeying any orders throw my way as long as the reward was worth it.” His smile is almost a grimace, more teeth than mirth. “But one day, I started wondering.”
He leans toward Rose. “What if I could be more? Have more?”
Rose doesn’t like the fact that she understands exactly what’s he’s talking about. Uncomfortable, she plasters herself against her seat, making a face that clearly says back off. Wesker wisely straightens his back, putting some distance between them.
“Ultimate control,” he muses, lifting a gloved hand in front of his face. “The world was mine to take.” He closes his fist in an overly dramatic gesture. “Humans were beneath me. Little insects I could easily crush.”
Cockroaches, Rose’s mind helpfully supplies.
“Let me guess, you tried to take over the world but the little insects managed to stop you, and now you have a newfound respect for the human race?”
Wesker barks out a laugh, shaking his head. It was worth a shot.
“No, Miss Winters, I still find them annoyingly dull. They create the most beautiful things and ruin them by making them fight senseless wars.” He waves a hand around. “Look at you. An incredible amount of powers in the palm of your hands, and you are reduced to cleaning duty.”
“I was not created”, Rose warns, softly.
Wesker seems briefly taken aback, staring at her for an uncomfortable amount of time. She hates the fact that she can’t see his eyes.
“Were you not?” The man asks, in the same soft voice. “The Connections creates E-001. E-001 creates your parents. Your parents create you. And you, Miss Winters, can create whatever you want.” He smiles, an indulgent thing that makes him even more punchable. “Creation doesn’t have to start from nothing. It can be brought upon already existing beings.”
“It’s not creation. It’s destruction,” Rose hisses.
“Is it? I would love to hear your thoughts about evolution, then. Do you think monkeys learning how to speak with their hands is unnatural? Going against God’s orders, perhaps? You didn’t strike me as the religious type, Miss Winters.”
The smell of freshly baked waffle and the sound of footsteps thankfully stop Rose from lunging across the table to wipe Wesker’s smug grin off his face.
The waitress puts the waffle in front of Rose with a small, nervous smile.
“Thanks,” Rose says, because she was raised well. “Sorry about the…” she gestures between her and Wesker with a wince. Better to play the part of the apologetic patron than to be thrown out or worse, have the cops called on them.
“It’s okay,” the waitress says. She throws a quick glance at Wesker, then bends to speak directly into Rose’s ear. “Family reunions can be tough.”
Rose almost chokes on her own spit, but manages to nods feebly, her mind reeling at the implication that she can, actually, pass for Wesker’s daughter.
Her father is probably rolling in his empty grave.
The waitress wanders back to the counter, one eye lingering on Rose, and in any other circumstances, Rose would have been touched by the show of support, but this is not the time or place to bond over terrible families.
She busies herself with her waffle while Wesker goes back on track.
“Creation and destruction are simply two different sides of the same coin, Miss Winters,” he declares, and Rose angrily stuffs her mouth with more waffle so she doesn’t start to insult him. “Your creation led to the destruction of many others.”
She waits for him to say it, fork halfway between the plate and her mouth.
“Including your own father, of course.”
She immediately stabs her fork through his hand, pinning it to the table. He barely reacts.
“Sensitive subject?” His question makes Rose’s blood boil, and she pushes the fork down, down, grinding through bones and meat.
“My father dying was not some kind of great plan to bring balance to the universe, Mister Wesker,” she says, staring at him. His face is not even twitching. He looks more curious than anything. “He died because a mad woman kidnapped me and tried to use me to resurrect her dead daughter. He died because the BSAA was corrupted. He died because Chris refused to let him know what was going. He died because my mother lied to him.”
She wrenches the fork away with a sickening sound. Wesker simply takes his hand back, watching the wound closely.
“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” she states, wiping the blood off the fork with a napkin. She’s not even hungry anymore, but eating gives her something to do.
“Duly noted, Miss Winters.”
They stay silent for a surprising amount of time. Maybe Wesker is wondering how to keep the conversation going after Rose drove a fork through his hand. She doesn’t care; she just wants to finish her waffle and get the hell out of this place.
After tipping generously the waitress, of course. Poor woman didn’t deserve to have two bio-weapons having a stupid and pointless debate right under her nose.
“How would you define death, Miss Winters?”
The man is clearly not taking Rose’s silence well if this is the only question he could think of. She lifts her brows, swallowing her last bite.
“The cessation of all biological functions that sustain an organism,” she states, pushing her plate on the side. “If you’re done with the edgy questions, I would like to go home now.”
“Interesting,” Wesker muses, one hand coming up to support his chin. “What does that make me, I wonder. What about father, who according to you died, but was caught on camera in one of The Connections’s labs two months ago?”
Rose pinches her lips. She thought she had destroyed the camera feeds, but she was obviously sloppy.
“He’s dead,” she says, instead of denying it. She avoids Wesker’s eyes. “I’m just using the mold to lend him a body. Temporarily. It never last.”
“But you don’t create mindless creatures resembling the dead, Miss Winters. He appears to have retained his personalities. And, even more astonishing is the fact that he hasn’t lost his minds.”
Rose frowns. She doesn’t want to talk about it, but it’s more a reflex than anything. She spent years hiding the scariest parts of her powers to the outside world, terrified of something finally being the pushing point for people to lock up her into a cell.
Chris doesn’t know. Rose hasn’t even told him about her little trip to the Realm of Consciousness, almost ten years ago; she can’t imagine herself strolling up to him to explain that her father watches over her from his moldy grave, has always did, ever since she was a baby.
She never told him about the shadow that lurked in the corner of her bedroom when she was a kid and hummed lullabies when she had nightmares. Or the same shadow catching her when she fell from the tree in the backyard.
Or the Accident when she was eight and one of the doctors who monitored her suddenly got suddenly replaced after an examination, and never came back.
(He was a bad man, cruel and sadistic, always hurting her when he took blood samples. The shadow scared him away, and Rose never told anyone what happened.)
After the Realm, the shadow disappeared, but Rose had soon found out that she could, sometimes, get her dad back, just for a few minutes.
Wesker doesn’t need to know all of that.
“Yeah, because his consciousness was ‘stored’ in the megamycete,” she explains, doing the quotation marks with her fingers. “He’s dead because he doesn’t have a body anymore, but his… mind, who he was, is still here, and I can access it.”
“So death is a simple biological fact?”
“What do you want me to say?” Rose asks, throwing her hands up in frustration. “I don’t have a degree in biology, I don’t have the patience to sit here and split ends with you just because you’re… I don’t know, bored?”
“I have one,” Wesker says pensively.
“What?”
“A degree in biology,” the man explains, sounding weirdly proud of himself. “I was a senior researcher. I specialized in virology.”
Rose groans and wipes her face with her hands. She doesn’t know why she’s still here, honestly. Ditching the guy sounds more and more appealing. “Great. So you don’t need my opinion on death and whatnot. If I leave, are you going to follow me?”
Wesker’s low chuckles just make her want to throw her plate at his face. “I would never, Miss Winters. But it took me a great deal of effort to track you down. I would like to enjoy your company for a bit longer.”
“You don’t get to decide how long I’m willing to listen to your bullshit.”
Wesker has the audacity to put a hand on his heart, like Rose hurt his feelings or something.
“I thought you, of all people, would understand,” he declares, something almost soft in his voice. “How hard it is, for people like us, to find likely-minded individuals. To talk with someone who understands what we are going through. What we’ve been through.”
He leans forward, slipping his glasses down his nose. His eyes are red, pupils slanted like a feline. Rose has seen worse, but it’s strange to see those eyes in the face of a perfectly normal-looking human.
“You are still young, Miss Winters. One day, you will understand.” He adjusts his glasses.
“If you’re lonely download a dating app or something. I’m not going to be your emotional support bio-weapon buddy.”
At the mention of a dating app, Wesker’s brows lift to his hairline. It shouldn’t be funny, but it is.
“I already have enough on my plate as it is,” Rose adds.
Wesker hums. He doesn’t look surprised by Rose’s rebuttal, but maybe he was expecting it. He’s older than he looks, he probably knows, deep down, how insufferable he is.
Rose refuses to feel sorry for him.
She gets up. “Are you going to trip me with a tentacle if I leave?” She asks, trying to convey her annoyance in her glare alone.
“I won’t, Miss Winters,” Wesker says, also getting up from his seat. His cup of coffee is still half-full, but he hasn’t taken a sip in what feels like hours, so it’s probably not a great loss.
Rose throws him one last warning glance before heading to the counter. The waitress looks at her up and down with a worried smile before ringing her bill.
“You okay here?”
The question makes Rose smile.
“Yeah, don’t worry. He’s a handful, but I got it,” she says, digging a few bunched up twenties from her wallet. It’s probably way too much, even with the tip, but she can’t be bothered to count, and the waitress deserves it for putting up with them. “Have a good night.”
“You too.” There a small pause, and then the waitress leans and whispers, “stay safe”.
Rose throws her a quick smile. “I will. Thanks.”
She turns her back and walks out of the door, not bothering to check if Wesker is following her. She hopes he pays for his coffee.
It has stopped raining, and the concrete is wet and glistening under the streetlights. The parking lot is empty, save from an old car that probably belongs to the waitress or the cook.
Rose is not that far away from her apartment, she can walk, but the sound of the door opening and closing behind her makes her reconsider her options.
“I thought you weren’t going to follow me home,” she says, turning her head.
Wesker is standing at an acceptable distance, hands behind his back. He’s tall, Rose realizes.
“I am not. I have something to give you before we part ways.” He slips a hand inside his coat, and Rose feels the sudden urge to duck and find cover, because it almost looks like he’s going to whip out a gun.
But it’s just a USB drive, small and unassuming. Wesker hands it to her unceremoniously. Rose doesn’t move to take it, staring at the man with her eyebrows raised.
“What’s this?”
Wesker’s sigh is loud in the empty parking lot.
“A token of good faith, Miss Winters. I believe you are currently working on dismantling The Connections with Redfield’s help. This drive contains the locations of their most used bases across North America.”
His smile looks predatory in the yellowed lighting. “Your quest for revenge should provide an interesting distraction.”
“It’s not revenge,” Rose says, staring at the drive. “The world is just better off without them.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Miss Winters.”
She snatches the drive from his hand. She needs to get one of Chris’s technicians on it as fast as she can.
Maybe it’s a trap. Wesker looks like the kind of guy who enjoys fucking with people just for the sake of it. But it’s simpler to accept his gift for now.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Winters.”
“The pleasure is not shared, Mister Wesker.”
The man must have a thicker skin than she thought, because he merely smiles and nods.
“We will be in touch,” he says, and it’s probably attended as a farewell, but all Rose can hear is a warning.
“Don’t come back!” She starts to protest, but in a few quick strides, the man has already crossed the parking lot. She debates on whether or not she should follow him, but ultimately decides against it. He could take it the wrong way and thinks she actually wants to… whatever he thought he was accomplishing tonight.
Start a friendship?
Rose sighs, staring at the drive in her hand. Well. At least she got something out of this mess.
With one last glance in the direction of Wesker’s departure, she turns on her heels and starts to walk back home. Fishing her phone from her pocket, she calls Chris.
“Rose,” Chris’s gruff, tired voice greets her. It’s late, but the man has sleeping problems and always answers when Rose calls him, not matter what time it is.
“Hey Chris.”
“Everything’s okay?”
Rose stops under a streetlight. Suddenly, she doesn’t know if she should tell him. She takes a deep breath. The air smells like rain.
“Yeah. Got my hands on some interesting information. Can I swing by tomorrow morning so we can get a look at it?”
“Sure.”
Chris is a man of a few words. He always has been, but it has gotten worse with time. Rose starts walking again, debating internally over the resurrection of Albert Wesker.
Maybe she can tell Chris later. Telling him over the phone seems cruel.
“See you tomorrow,” she says, and her voice has taken a softer edge. “Try to get some sleep.”
“Yeah, you too. See you, kid.”
She hangs up and stares at the screen for a few seconds, her feet moving on autopilot.
“This is going to be a mess,” she whispers.
The only way from here is forward, toward utter chaos.