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Delivering to the Umbrella Corporation’s sister location was never Bryan’s favourite drive to make, especially in fuck ass January.
Bryan’s late; he knows he’s late. A plethora of excuses already sat on his tongue as he flitted down the white halls in the building. His car lacked equipment for colder weather, causing it to skid on unchained tires. Bryan’s data plan was also shit, so offline roaming on his GPS had already been spotty, and the hospital gave him the wrong address for this shift.
He doubted anything he said would help when he finally delivered the package.
He was so going to be fired, written up, or something else that’ll dock his pay.
If only someone actually took the bag already so he could get whatever was inside it signed off so he could go home for the night. The workers inside Umbrella Corporation weren’t making anything easier as he tried to find someone to hand the bag over to, but everyone seemed to be in some sort of rush.
“Hey, excuse me-” The white lab coats shuffle past him without a word, ID keycards clicking noisily as they passed. Assholes. He hated delivering to these places.
He gestures at the bag towards a man wearing strange plastic suits, some sort of protective gear covering him from head to toe. There must’ve been some sort of chemical spill or something, but Bryan really needed some answers. “B-7 here. You know where I can... “
The guy also paid him no mind, ducking through the double doors Bryan initially came through. Did none of the staff know how to communicate with the glorified postman? “I don’t have a pen, but somebody’s gonna have to sign for this shit!” He called, watching as a woman scurried out of his way towards the emergency stairs, muttering something about specimens and breached containment, followed by a sharp fucking Paul and leak something city.
Great, had he entered an actual contamination zone? No one answered him, and the staff here were being far too skittish for his liking. What did a guy have to do to get someone to actually respond to him?
He stops and does a slow circle, holding up his little cooler bag by the strap. Maybe if he holds it high enough to the light, it’ll emanate like a beacon and finally get someone’s attention. “Hello? B-7 here! Anyone order a heart or a liver or whatever this is? Anyone? Seems kinda impor-- “
“You’re late.” Bryan jolts at the sudden voice. The cooler is suddenly plucked from his hands from behind him, the strap pulled over his head with no fanfare. “I believe your ETA was an hour ago.”
The tone was flat and to the point, but honestly, Bryan was relieved. Thank God someone was finally putting an end to this ridiculous goose chase. As long as he didn’t have to nag at the guy to actually look at the receipt instead of harassing him in a surgery room because he was late.
Bryan turns, the lack of weight in his hands disorienting him at the new lightness in his body. “I came straight here, man. They gave me the—“ Holy shit, that was a man. A very intimidating-looking man shouldering the strap over his own broad shoulder. He looks almost out of place in the hallway’s constant bustle despite the similar white coat and clipboard in hand. “--wrong address.” He finished lamely.
The doctor or scientist stood tall, rigidly tall, like someone had implanted a steel pole into his spine. The posture practically screamed control and restraint with how rigidly he stanced himself. The slick-backed blond hair and the professional tuck of his shirt made Bryan too aware of how rumpled he looked with the three different layers he was wearing just to keep warm as the guy loomed over Bryan’s uncertain stature, staring back.
A small part of him wondered if the guy was actually staff. There wasn’t an ID card pinned to the pristine white coat. But what really set him apart from the rest of the staff were dark glasses resting along the bridge of his nose when the stranger spoke again.
“Hm, I’m sure.” Bryan can’t see the man’s eyes properly through the tinted glasses on his face, but he can see the shifting shadow of them tilting down his body before pulling back up again. “Mr. Hodukavich.”
How did he — Bryan glanced down at himself to where the man had been looking; the laminated tag reflected against the fluorescent lights attached to his lanyard. A poorly taken picture of his face stared back at him, his name printed beside it. Right, that made sense. “I need you to sign the receipt of delivery.”
The man watched him patiently, his expression still impassive as Bryan pulled out the creased form from his jacket. “Just the line along the bottom, and then I’ll get out of your hair,” and then he could finally grab some dinner. Not to mention it was dark outside when he arrived; it was going to be a bitch to drive back in again if the snow picked up.
Bryan glanced back at the man’s face again as he mechanically took it, smoothing the folded edges against the clipboard surface. Pulling a pen from the depths of one of the lab coat pockets, he began to go down the printed text. The more Bryan stared at the glasses, the longer he realized what it was about them that was bugging him. Those weren’t tinted reading glasses; the lenses were too thick and completely covered the periphery. He was wearing sunglasses at night.
“Are you epileptic?” He blurted. It would explain the odd fashion choice, since bright lights would be a stressor, especially if the guy worked the night shift constantly.
The man’s pen didn’t stop moving at the abrupt question, the nib scratching along the dotted line.
“No.”
Bryan frowned at the answer. “But you’re wearing sunglasses inside.”
“What an astute observation.”
Well, that was condescending as fuck. Bryan pressed his lips together; any sort of impression he had of this man’s mysterious persona was quickly sinking into the ‘asshole’ category. “Right. Okay.”
Yeah, fuck you too, buddy. Now they were back to an uncomfortable silence again. God, he couldn’t have any small talk with anyone working in a pharmaceutical company, let alone hospital staff.
The definitive click of a pen echoed between them as the domineering man finally finished.
He handed Bryan the form back shortly after, tucking the pen away as Bryan glanced down at the bottom of the page, narrowing in on the scrawl along the line.
Albert Wesker.
Definitely an asshole name. He folded the sheet back up and tucked it back into his jacket. “Alright, man, everything looks good.” His shift was officially over, and he could pick up something greasy on the way. “See you around.”
“You got time for another run?” The rising lilt in his consonants made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Wesker stated it less like a question and more a demand, as if Bryan’s actual answer didn’t matter.
A cold wave of sweat trailed down his spine.
“Uhh... I’m actually pretty much wrapped up for the night.” Bryan said, trying to nudge his way around Wesker. He did not want to do another run, especially with the snow coming down. The man sidestepped in the same direction, blocking Bryan from going back to the double doors.
He stood like a statue, and Bryan wondered if he had even moved at all.
Wesker tilted his head at him stiffly, which only unsettled Bryan further. “How about another trip that’s double the pay?”
Bryan hesitated.
That was definitely an incentive. Fuck. Money was what made the world go round, wasn’t it? Especially when he had rent and bills to pay if he wanted to continue living in his apartment, and he really didn’t want to be written up if Wesker reported it. Bryan stopped his retreat, forcing a smile onto his face. “Yeah, man. Cool. Where’s it going?”
“Raccoon City General.”
***