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Your vision fades in and out as you’re lifted from the stretcher and placed onto what feels like a bed, strapped down. You know there’s noise, but the voices and sirens and frantic beeping of medical machinery all morph and twist together in your head in a way that makes it all incomprehensible to your adrenaline-filled mind. You don’t have to see to know how badly you’ve been injured. There was an explosion. The pain in your chest has been almost blocked out by your mind, but every time something brushes against your burnt skin you seize in agony. Someone picks up your injured arm and puts a needle in it, and you grit your teeth to avoid flinching. And suddenly you’re moving again, being rolled down a hallway that’s too bright, into a room with too many frantic voices. There are more hands on you, more needles, you feel your burnt clothing being peeled away.
You’ve never felt this hurt before. You’ve been injured during your jobs before but not like this. Never like this. You can feel the hot tears on your face. You want to scream but you can’t, you can’t disrupt the doctors, so you bite your tongue until it bleeds. You focus on the fragments of conversation around you.
“Severe loss of…”
“A transplant could be…”
“Chances of survival are still…”
“They’re discussing whether it’s…”
And your mind begins to focus in on a new voice. It feels so far off, but it’s firm and it’s familiar.
“Sir, they’re in critical condition, we’re doing everything we can to-“
“Let me in.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t let unauthorized personnel in during a-“
“I can assure you that I’m authorized to be here. Let me in.”
A familiar pattern of footsteps joins the others and approaches your bed. You do what you can to turn your head. Despite still lacking the ability to see clearly, a dark shape comes into your vision.
He doesn’t speak. You feel his hand on your cheek, turning your face towards him. It’s cold, but you feel warm inside regardless. Your eyes start to focus on the shape of him. His expression isn’t clear- it’s never clear.
“Talk to me.” He says. The first thing on your mind spills out.
“Sir, I’m scared.” Your voice is shaky. You’re too afraid to be embarrassed by what you’d usually consider showing weakness. He stands back up, and turns to one of the doctors. You see him hand them something.
“Use this.”
“Sir, you must understand that I can’t allow you to-”
Wesker persisted. “I am their handler. I know more about their condition than anyone here. Use this.”
The doctor nodded. They approach you, pick up your wrist, and put a needle to it. As soon as the fluid enters your veins, you feel like you’re being burnt alive. It rivals the pain of the explosion- no- it passes it. You know this feeling, It’s what you feel when you’re given your stabilizing dosages of the virus, but oh god- it’s so much worse. You can’t stop yourself. You start to scream and thrash against your restraints. Wesker places a hand on your chest, maybe to comfort you or maybe to keep you still. But it’s pulled off moments later as the doctors begin to yell at each other.
“What the hell was that!?”
Wesker didn’t even raise his voice.
“Their system is reliant on these chemicals, I’m well aware it hurts them. But I would not do this if it wasn’t vital to…” at this point, your senses begin to fade out, and you fall unconscious for a second time today.
When you wake up, it's sudden. The same whiplash as if you’d been slapped, minus the pain. It’s quiet, and you realize from just the pattern of the tiles on the ceiling that you’re in the medical wing of your own facility. The pain is dulled. You turn to your side, and Wesker is sitting on the edge of your bed, holding a needle to the vein on your wrist. He makes eye contact with you. He’s still wearing his shades, but you’ve come to be able to tell. You do the first thing that you can think to do.
“I’m sorry.” Your voice is little more than a whisper. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m-”
“Stop apologizing.” he says. You go quiet immediately.
“It wasn’t your fault you were attacked. You defended yourself the best you could when unarmed and at moments’ notice. I can guarantee the man who did this will be harshly dealt with.”
You try to sit up, but he puts a firm hand on your shoulder.
“You’ll tear your stitches.”
You lie back down, but his hand lingers on your shoulder.
“Your condition is still fragile. The injuries would have been fatal without the virus to aid your healing. You’ll recover, but it may take a while.”
You have a question for him, but you’re afraid to receive an answer.
“Sir?” You ask.
“Yes?”
“If I…” your voice trails off. But you try a second time.
“If I don’t recover all the way. If I can’t ever fight again. What’s going to happen to me?”
“I will see to it that you heal properly,” he says. “You have no reason to worry about anything like that.”
“But if I wasn’t?”
Wesker hesitates to answer.
“If you were damaged beyond repair, I suppose I would still see to it that you were cared for. I’d let you stay at my side regardless.”
You hadn’t expected this. Wesker had always prioritized efficiency over anything else.
“But why?” You ask him. “There wouldn’t be any point in it.”
He sighs.
“Because, although it’s not something I like to admit, I do enjoy your company. After all I’ve put you through, You’ve proved yourself to be loyal. There are few who I can say that about.
“And besides, it would be a waste to discard someone who has not only survived but thrived with the virus.”
His words repeat in your head. You’ve been at his side since years ago when you’d first woken up, disoriented and strapped to a metal table in a lab, an unknown chemical being pumped into your veins. The memories of your life before Wesker had faded over time as the virus took hold of you, but they all seemed irrelevant now. You felt a sense of purpose you’d never previously had. But for some reason, you’d never considered that Wesker actually thought of you any higher than how an officer thinks of a dog trained to assist them.
You feel your face heat up. You silently hope Wesker doesn’t notice, But you know that’s wishful thinking. Not even the smallest mannerisms escape him, and your cheeks are undoubtedly dusted with pink by now.
“Does that flatter you?” He asks.
“You don’t give praise often, sir.” you say.
“I give praise when it’s earned.” He responds. “And you know very well what I was asking.”
“I’m…” you hesitate. “I’m honored that you have such respect for me. Nothing more.”
A bold-faced lie. You aren’t a fool. You know Wesker sees right through it, and that all it does is make it clear you’re afraid to confront your feelings towards him. But you aren’t ready. All you can do is hope he doesn’t continue to prod at it.
“Very well, then.” Wesker says. “I’m sure you know how busy I am. I’ll visit you at the next opportunity.” He pauses.
“Until then…”
You’re frozen in place as Wesker leans over you, tilts your head up with one hand, and places a kiss on the corner of your lips.
“I’ll see to it that they take very good care of you here.”
He stands up, straightens his coat, and leaves you alone with nothing but the silence of the rest of the ward and the stars in your vision.