Chapter Text
In researching his unique biology, Wesker has determined a singular fact that stands out above all others: the growth of his abilities is ultimately limited by the strength of his own immune system. Ever since gaining his powers, his body has constantly been fighting the virus that runs through his veins. Like walking a tightrope, his immune system forms an uneasy equilibrium with the disease that both helps and harms him. All the while, damaging viral overgrowth remains a constant threat, balanced out solely via regular, limited injections of TRICELL-patented antivirals. With every new injection, Wesker despises the company’s leverage even more. Wesker has no desire to dance to another’s strings ever again.
So Wesker does what he always does. He takes TRICELL’s money while simultaneously working against their interests in favor of his own. His alliance with the rapidly rising Gionne quickly bears fruit, allowing himself access to a lab facility that enables him to work freely on a serum to break his dependence on TRICELL once and for all.
In order to break his dependence on the company’s antiviral concoctions, he must strengthen his immune system enough to prevent viral overgrowth, while at the same time maintaining a consistently large enough viral load to preserve his superhuman abilities. A challenge, to be certain, but one Wesker is sure he will overcome with time. In theory, if Wesker can cause a sudden shock to his system through a sufficient quantity of viral material, he should be able to trigger a large enough immune response to permanently increase his body’s ability to deal with viral overgrowth. A vaccine, of sorts.
The first few serums, tested on his blood, are abject failures. Some cause too strong an immune response, leading to cell death as the virus helping to sustain cellular activity drops to levels incompatible with life. Others trigger an insufficient immune response, leading to a slow decline as cells flood with viruses and gradually burst. The failed serums pile up, and Wesker slowly grows more and more frustrated.
“Damn it!” Wesker shouts, smashing a beaker onto the floor. “Another failure!”
Running a hand through his hair, the blond begins to pace.
“This clearly isn’t working,” he puffs out, voice dripping frustration. “What am I doing wrong?”
Suddenly, he stops.
“Wait, what if I—” Wesker says, eyes lighting up. “Yes, that just might work!”
Rushing over to the lab table, he re-mixes the previous concoction with some slight modifications, hands shaking slightly in excitement. He takes the modified serum, adding it to a blood sample, before examining it under a microscope. Before his eyes, the sample comes together almost perfectly, blood cells melding with the virus without any signs of adverse viral activity.
“YES!” Wesker yells, grinning like a madman.
He’s always loved it when his plans all come together. With a functional serum, Wesker is finally able to move onto the next stage of his plans: preparation and injection of the product of his efforts. Resynthesizing the serum, Wesker transfers it to a syringe, the red of the concoction shining ruby-like through the glass. Rolling up a sleeve, he carefully injects the serum into his bloodstream, pressing down on the plunger until it meets the syringe’s base. Placing the now empty syringe on the lab table, he grabs a stool and sits, waiting for the serum to take effect.
It isn’t long before a wave of agonizing pain washes over him, alerting him to the fact that something has gone very, very wrong. If the serum were successful, it would have triggered a minor fever, at worst. This? It feels like Wesker’s body is splitting apart, every inch of him tearing itself apart on a cellular level. How— the serum was perfect!
Another wave of sheer agony hits, a million little nails digging into every inch of him, and Wesker screams, tipping sideways off his seat. He lands hard on the cold lab floor, twitching and seizing. With a rush of panic, Wesker realizes he can feel something inside him ripping and tearing.
‘No! No, please —’ Wesker mentally begs, pride warring with bone deep terror. ‘I don’t want to die again!’
With a shout, his head cracks against the tile, teeth clacking together as he seizes yet again. Somehow, the pain intensifies even further. Something shifts until, with a sickening
SNAP,
Wesker is treated to the agonizing sensation of a rib bone cracking like an egg. Black sneaks into the corners of Wesker’s vision, spreading and spreading until finally, Wesker falls headfirst into the grasp of blissfully merciful unconsciousness.