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Meetings in the Connections are always boring. Some scientist brings in a pitch for a bioweapon, you all figure out what to do with it, and move on. Even today, with someone bringing in an actual bioweapon, you're prepared to be bored. You hadn't bothered to read the report sent to you--it's probably just the millionth rendition of a Licker.
Of course, in your bored scribbling in your notebook while you wait for the weapon to arrive, you miss the way your colleagues look at you. Between you and the door, every couple of seconds, like they're scared they'll miss your reaction when the weapon walks in. You also miss the distinct lack of animalistic noises when the door slides open, the simple click of shoes echoing through the room. In fact, the sounds are so normal, you don't look up until your boss says something to the weapon's handler, thinking that the silence means they hadn't arrived yet.
You nearly throw up when you finally do look up from your notes.
You can tell the man standing beside the handler is the weapon by the amber glow of his eyes behind his tinted glasses, but you don't care about that. No, you don't care because you're far too preoccupied with the fact he looks just like Albert Wesker. Sure, there's some differences, his hair is a little more white than blond, his eyes are different, his style is more flashy than practical, but his face is exactly the same. You'd heard rumors of successful cloning, but this...
You must look as sick as you feel, because you can feel your colleagues' eyes on you, like they expect you to get up and leave. You're tempted, but you refuse to be so openly weak. You steel yourself, gripping your pen tight enough to nearly snap it, focusing on remembering how to breathe.
Of course, any composure you've regained completely falls apart when the weapon--clone, man, whatever he is--looks at you, glowing eyes narrowing at you with slight recognition. Which is impossible. You've never met him, you'd certainly remember if you had--
"...It's imperfect, but we were able to complete the memory transfer, too. Ask him something Wesker would know." The handler is acting like this man is just another weapon, talking about him like he isn't even there. Despite knowing he's not Wesker, and you have no reason for loyalty, you feel a little indignant on his behalf.
Your boss, bless his heart, does his best to be normal about it, but the bitch from the pathogenic research division across from you interrupts before he can. "What's her name?"
The man's eyes follow her pointing back to you, and it takes him a second to answer, like the memory is blurred. The corner of his lips twitch upwards, like whatever memory he finds is a pleasant one.
"...__. It's __."
Any sympathy felt for you in the room is discarded as everyone oos and ahs over the development, while the man with your... well, you don't really know what you were to Wesker. You know for a fact you felt more strongly about him than he did you, but that didn't stop you from feeling like your chest had been cracked open when you got news of his death. It's certainly not stopping you from feeling ill as you watch this man with Wesker's face try to dodge everyone's eyes and questions.
He seems to tense whenever Wesker's name is brought up, which isn't surprising. They're big shoes to fill, and based on the handler's statements, he's meant to be a replacement.
The meeting ends, and you spend the next half hour in the bathroom crying.
--
You think this must be some divine punishment for throwing in your lot with Wesker, then the Connections. There's no other explanation for why the man--Zeno--would be taken in by the Connections, and seems insistent on following you around. It feels like every time you turn around, he's there, and it's slowly driving you insane. The break room, your office, the lab, it doesn't seem to matter what dark corner you've holed yourself up in, he shines a light in.
You try not to think of how much it reminds you of Wesker. How he'd always manage to find you, no matter how upset or far away you were. You're unsuccessful, to say the least.
Though, he is quite different from Wesker, certainly in personality. He seems warmer, a little less detached from humanity. Sure, he's no saint, but you can be relatively sure his goal isn't to watch the whole world collapse. He's generally more human, too, even with the mutated T-virus in him. He gets anxious easily, even if he won't show it plainly, he needs corrective lenses, he's insecure about his status as a clone. He strikes you as someone who's rather tormented when he's alone, and you feel... sorry for him, for lack of a better term. You find yourself being kinder to him, even if it makes your chest ache for what you once had. It doesn't help that the nicer you are, the more he clings to you.
At least Zeno is quiet, for the most part. You've gathered he sort of just likes to hover, occasionally asking a question here and there about your work, but otherwise staying silent. It contributes to you nearly dropping a vial in surprise when he starts an actual conservation, late at night in the lab--he shares your penchant for avoiding sleep.
"Who were you to Wesker?" His jaw is tight, and he says your former lover's name like it's a curse. He looks like he might not want to know the answer.
You stall out, stabilizing the sample in your hand before setting it down with a deep breath. "How do you not know? I thought- they gave you his memories, didn't they?"
"They're... not all there." His jaw twitches again, like the notion bothers him. You've noticed he doesn't like to admit any mishaps with his cloning--from the corrective lenses to his memory, it would seem. "I recognize your face. Your name. Some positive association, but that's it." He hesitates for a brief second, like he doesn't know if he should say what's on his mind. "You looked frightened when you saw me the first time. You go pale, even now, when I've been here for months. Were you one of his experiments?"
Your laugh rings dry and hollow, echoing off the clinically white walls. "Something like that. He probably was just playing with me. But I wasn't scared of you, y'know. I... I had a relationship, of a kind, with him. I cared about him more than he did me, but still. It felt like seeing a ghost when you walked in." Your voice tapers off into fragile, and you can't quite meet his gaze. "I know you're not him. You're much different, but it's taking some adjustment. Please know it's nothing I hold against you."
He looks briefly startled by your words, like he's not used to anyone commenting on anything but his similarities with Wesker. He smooths it back quickly, regaining his composure. "So you're alone then, now?"
You nod, turning your back to him to set the sample in an incubator. "I keep busy. Keeps my mind off it."
It's silent in the room for so long you think he'd left, but you find him right behind you when you turn back around. "Jesus! Weren't you ever taught to not sneak up on someone like that?"
His lips curl, amused, and the corners of his eyes crinkle a little. Begrudgingly, you find it cute. "No. Raised in a lab, and all."
Smartass. You roll your eyes, side stepping him to throw away your gloves. "Well, do take note-"
"Let me take you to dinner."
You freeze in place, head snapping in his direction like you'd heard a gunshot. "What?"
He suddenly looks a bit nervous, maybe a little flighty--expressions you haven't seen on him since that first meeting. "Dinner. I'd... like to get to know you. The memories I have, they're-" He huffs, making a frustrated gesture towards his skull. "They're tangled, but I don't think he treated you how you deserve."
You stall out, sure you look like a gaping fish, and he takes the opportunity to take a few hesitant steps closer to you, pushing his glasses up so you can see his eyes clearly. There's something dark, maybe a little obsessive in those amber pools that excites you more than it ought to. "I feel drawn to you. I want to find out why."
"Okay." The word leaves you before you can really think about it, quiet and breathless. "I'm- I'm free Saturday."
He straightens up a little, jaw unclenching. He looks the picture of pleased, eyes glittering and mouth set in a smirk. You're overcome with the urge to kiss it off him, and you have to white-knuckle the bench to stop yourself.
"I'll pick you up at six?"
"You have my address?"
That smirk morphs into a smile, gaze sharp, and you have a feeling you just sold your soul. "I can be very resourceful when I want to be."
He's quick to leave, and you feel just as sick as the first time you saw him. Though, the despair from before seems to have flipped to excitement, your mind already racing with what you should wear, and how you can get him to smile at you again.
You're fucked.