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Umbrella Pharmaceuticals / One-shot: Hollywood, Alfred Ashford, part. 2

Two days into high school, the Ashfords visited the temple of American lifestyle: the Hollywood Shopping Center. The good weather, coupled with the heterogeneous crowd of people milling through the wide corridors and getting lost among the numerous stores and restaurants, invigorated him in a way that was almost unknown to him; an excitement only surpassed by the tangible sense of personal security he felt in the complex. With no bodyguards escorting them and his father strolling nonchalantly behind them, Alfred and Alexia entered a bookstore. Alexia lost herself among the shelves overflowing with books, while Alfred selected his first school bag. He opted for an olive green one decorated with an American flag patch. He also chose his first case with a set of pencils, several notebooks and, separately, a box of charcoals for drawing. Alexia selected a philosophy book, plus a cream-colored backpack without patches and the same pencils and notebooks as Alfred. Alexander paid with a platinum card.

Outside the tent, the twins sat at the edge of a fountain ornamented with statues and reliefs of different varieties of fish. The water gushing from its many pipes cascaded into a pool covered with multicolored tesserae. Alexander sat on a nearby bench, drinking a chocolate milkshake. He was dressed in a baggy cream-colored sweatshirt, cream-colored shorts, long white socks and light-colored sneakers. He topped off the outfit with an off-white baseball cap. He loved that country. Alexia was flipping through the new edition of Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra that she had bought. Alfred was testing the charcoals on a sheet he had torn out of one of the notebooks. The hubbub of voices was confused with the sound of water and the sound of footsteps, impacts and shuffling.

No one paid any attention to them. Accustomed to being the center of attention, he found this indifference strange, but comforting. He concentrated on finishing drawing the facade of the clothing store in front of him. Alexander stood up and threw the smoothie carton into the trash.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

The twins nodded.

They were seated in a fine dining Asian restaurant located on the second floor of the mall, next to a window from which they could see the Hollywood sign nestled in the mountains. Alexander asked for the best of the menu to be brought to him, without requesting any specific dish. Alfred and Alexia shared starters and then a main course each. This unusual atmosphere, different from what he had experienced so far in the UK and the Netherlands, made him feel foreign. Alexander, on the other hand, looked as if he had been born there. He had taken off his sweatshirt and turned his visor backwards, and his good mood was infectious, as if he did not care about anything. Alfred suspected that this was the way Alexander had always wanted to live.

The first round of Asian food they were served did not dazzle Alfred, as he discovered that this type of cuisine was not to his palate’s taste. Alexia did not seem too convinced either, although not as disgusted as her brother, and Alexander devoured whatever was put on his plate. In view of Alfred’s obvious lack of desire, Alexander looked at him and asked:

“Don’t you like it?”

His first reaction was restraint, as the governesses who had overseen his upbringing when he was little had taught him, but the family psychologist they were attending stressed the importance of being assertive. In response to the cognitive dissonance, he shrugged.

“You don't like it,” said Alexander as he smiled, glimpsing his son’s authentic opinion.

“Not at all,” Alfred replied, looking at the half-eaten duck with some distaste.

“And you?” he asked Alexia.

“Fine,” she answered tersely.

They did not usually converse over food, a habit they shared with his grandmother, but Alexander seemed intent on reversing the trend. She did not know for sure, but Alexander and Elizabeth argued after what happened in Antarctica. After the argument, Elizabeth said goodbye to them and flew to the Netherlands. From that time to the present, they had only met on special occasions. The reason for the argument must have been something to do with them, and especially with Alexia, because Alexander suddenly became the kind of responsible, caring father they only knew from the movies, and their grandmother distanced herself from them. Elizabeth, though engaged and equally responsible, never treated them in a particularly loving way. Always concerned about her grandchildren’s behavior and outcomes, it seemed that her fondness was contingent on them being as she wished. This especially affected Alexia, who was reluctant to obey. As Alfred readily conformed to his grandmother’s demands, he hardly suffered the wrath of his ascendant in his flesh, but he did suffer her disdain. The thought seemed cruel to him, but he preferred that his grandmother stayed away from them if they could enjoy a lighter life with Alexander in return. If it had not been for the depression that came upon him after Edward died and his subsequent mistakes, perhaps they would have made a happy family. But the past cannot be fixed, Alfred thought, you could only fix what you did in the present. Did his father want to fix the present? He intended to, but he did not know the outcome. Even if the three of them became a happy family, they could not deny or escape their origins. Their family was not like others, and they knew it. They had to be content to weather the storm, in this case, the demons of anguish and depression; but rejoicing that, though unhappy, they had been born rich and aristocratic.

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[メイソン家族 series: ハーリ . メイソン]

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First post! Can't wait to hc my babies in 4k

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Umbrella Pharmaceuticals: One-shots

I have opened a new fanfic on AO3 to upload the one-shots. I had thought about it before, but I was waiting until I had enough chapters to do it. In the one-shots, what I upload mainly are the ideas I had thought of for the previous fanfic but couldn't implement, as well as new ideas and further developing the characters.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66879739

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Umbrella Pharmaceuticals / One-shot: Hollywood, Alfred Ashford, part. 1

The Ashfords moved from Malibu to Hollywood, Los Angeles. Unlike their mansion in Malibu, which became a summer residence, and Ashford Hall, a historic country house, their home in Hollywood was comparatively small but comfortable for living together and suitable for maintaining the privacy of its occupants, with no display of wealth or unnecessary rooms that would hinder movement from one wing of the house to another. Martin, now butler in place of Scott Harman, who accompanied his grandmother Elizabeth, was listed as the sole member and leader of a domestic service outsourced to a gardening company and a house cleaning company.

The house, like most of the place, sat atop a hill overlooking the vast Los Angeles skyline. Behind it, the Hollywood sign was silhouetted against the futuristic flat roof and the open pool in the middle of a garden with evergreen palm trees and other local plants. The sun reflected directly off the white walls and square windows, warming the Carrara marble slabs of the rooms’ floors. Alexander, a lover of the country, spared no expense or cultural sensitivity, making the home a direct reflection of the prevailing American spirit: grandiloquent, futuristic, optimistic; a monument in honor of his adopted country.

Alfred loved the house and Hollywood. His depressed state of mind was boosted by the idea of sharing the street with movie, music and television stars; with personalities from the world of business and high politics; with the opportunity to visit the most cutting-edge movie studios at any time and with the best luxury stores right down the street. In short, Alfred could not wait to enjoy his renewed, and much needed, lifestyle. The benefits of this radical change, on his father’s initiative, were in the improvement of Alexia’s mood and in the progress of her recovery. Alfred noticed them in himself as he found himself relieved after sitting alone on the bed in his room. The last two years had been chaotic and had nearly driven him insane. The destruction of the Antarctic base, Alexia’s attack, his father’s reconciliation, his grandmother’s departure to the Netherlands; events had been moving at full speed and, in his case, had come together with his frustrating inability to be there for his sister when she needed him and his shitty situation at school. Killing Jonathan... it had been wrong, but Alexander still had not scolded or chastised him about it; he had not reprimanded him at all, as if it had not happened. That made him nervous. It was as if he had been set up; too good to be true.

He spent the first day of his stay in Hollywood decorating and tidying up his room. He hung the three flags on the wall, one of Scotland, one of the Netherlands and the last one of the United States of America. He pasted up his posters of sports cars and frames with stuffed butterflies. He kept his sketchbook on the desk. He was glad not to see his school uniform hanging in the closet. He picked up Glock 17 from the suitcase. It was missing a bullet. He hid it in the top drawer of the nightstand, where Alexander, who hid a revolver and his favorite pair of American cuffs, had advised them. They set up a piece of furniture on which he plugged in a television to which he connected a VHS player and an Atari 5200 that had been given to him for his birthday and which he had not been able to try out until the summer of that same year. Once he was done, he started playing with the console. He was afraid to leave the room and found out that it was a lie.

He fell asleep on the bed with the console on.

“Alfred.” Alexander woke him up, shaking his hands with which he was still holding the controller. Alfred woke up suddenly, startled. His father was sitting on the floor next to his bed. His expression was neutral. Alexander stroked his hands. “We need to talk.”

Alfred rearranged himself in his bedside alcove. Alexander got up and sat on the edge. He was not angry, or upset, or raging, or anything resembling an irate mood; just calm.

“The first time I killed a man was in a roadside motel in the Mojave Desert.” Alexander continued with an absent expression. “It was during my last summer in college, working on my doctorate. I got involved in the hippie movement. We were doing drugs, fucking and doing immoral things. In that last summer, we decided to take a tour of California. We rented a van and stocked up on drugs. I got hooked on amphetamines. We needed dope.” Alfred raised his head, absorbed in the unexpected story his father was telling with utter disaffection. “Soon we ran out of money.” Alexander’s expression changed: he looked at Alfred with grim seriousness. “I prostituted myself. We went from motel to motel looking for interested parties in exchange for money to pay for gas and drugs. I slept with men.” Alfred shuddered. “One of these men tried to rape me. It was in a motel in Mojave, at two in the morning. I pointed my gun at him and shot. In the head. We dismembered the body and dumped it in a ditch. We never heard from him again. When I pulled the trigger, I felt nothing, or I thought I felt nothing. But I did feel: I felt an uncontrollable hatred, an immeasurable contempt for human life.” Alexander paused in his story, visibly affected. Alfred remained petrified in his seat. “Man is evil by nature. That’s what Grandpa Arthur always said. I guess he was right.” He leaned against the edge of the bed. “When you spoke to me on the phone, it reminded me of that. I can’t blame you.” He looked at Alfred. “I’d be being hypocritical. But... I don’t want you to make my same mistakes.” He lifted a hand to caress Alfred’s cheek. “I don’t want to lose you.” Alfred, impressed by his father’s speech, hugged him. They hugged each other tightly. “The world is full of evil people,” Alexander whispered to his son. “It is our duty to stand together and not succumb to our enemies... I will not lose you as I lost my father...” Alexander kissed him on the head.

The first night in Hollywood they dined in the company of Martin, who occupied the penthouse bedroom. Alfred was strange, as if he were gone. Alexia glanced at him from time to time, but Alfred paid no attention. Alexander chatted with Martin about the house and with Alexia about whether she liked her new house, then they talked about Alexia’s enrollment at the University of California for her doctorate and something about High School.

“Alfred.” Alexander caught her eye. Alfred woke up out of his sleep. “You’re going to enjoy going to school in this country, I assure you. There’s an ideal High School for you; we’re going to visit it next week. What do you think?”

The school in question was Hollywood Hills High School, a newly founded institution nestled in the rolling foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains. The school’s principal, George Kernell, greeted them with a fabulous smile. During the tour, Alfred became familiar with the facility and its attendees: majority white, minority Asians, blacks and Latinos; quite the opposite atmosphere from Jacob II. No one wore uniforms; he noticed no undue pressure for appearance; no prefabricated speeches and feigned friendliness; and there were girls, lots and lots of girls. In the principal’s office, he was asked about which course he wanted to enroll in. Alfred imagined the equivalent of the one in England, but his father interceded with another proposal: he insisted that he take the one that corresponded to his age, to enjoy to the maximum what could be the best stage of his life. It sounded good, but it did not convince Alfred. Then, something completely unexpected happened; a plot twist that no one in the room was able to predict.

“I wish to enroll in High School with Alfred,” said Alexia, and looked at Alfred.

Alfred chose to attend the grade that corresponded to his age, the ninth grade, popularly known as freshmen. Both twins enrolled at the same time. They would start in two weeks, at the end of November. Alfred did not dare ask Alexia why she had done that, sometimes his sister acted incomprehensibly, but it had happened. Fourteen years after they were born, Alfred and Alexia would go to class together for the first time.

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Umbrella Pharmaceuticals / One-shot: 9 mm, Alfred Ashford

In August 1985, Alexander, Alfred, and Alexia became naturalized US citizens by taking an oath at the California State Capitol. They celebrated their new citizenship by purchasing three firearms at a local store. Alexander bought an AR-15 assault rifle, Alexia a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun, and Alfred a state-of-the-art Glock 17. The three tested the weapons at the makeshift shooting range they set up on their property in Malibu. The deafening noise of the gunshots awakened in Alfred an uncontrollable excitement for the destructive act of power that came with wielding that instrument of extermination. On the last day of August, Alfred returned to England for the start of the school year. Before the trip, he hid the Glock 17 in his suitcase.

On October 31, during the cold and damp night of Samhain, Alfred shot Jonathan, a seventeen-year-old English student. After eleven o’clock, while his classmates slept, Alfred fled the boarding school. He ventured deep into the thick forest, following an imaginary path that led to a stone embedded in the ground of enormous proportions. Alfred drew the Glock he kept in his pajamas and placed it on a smooth portion of the stone. Alone, in the dark, with the moon illuminating him at intervals, he took a black candle and a lighter from the bag he had brought with him. He placed the candle on the stone surface and lit it with the lighter, also burning some twigs and leaves that he arranged in a circle around the black candle. The dim torch highlighted Alfred’s tired, haggard features. He knelt on the ground and began the ritual in honor of the daoine síth. It was Stanley who established the custom of ritualizing Samhain to remember his ancestors and make offerings to the deities and creatures of nature. The custom had been observed continuously since then, according to different rituals. Stanley had celebrated it by offering rabbits as sacrifices, his great-grandparents by burning a bonfire, and his father and grandfather by making a pilgrimage to the Highlands that ended at a monastery where they prayed to God, whoever that might be, for a prosperous future for their lineage. They celebrated by gathering around the ritual stone in their garden at Ashford Hall, where they lit a bonfire and burned flowers, leaves, and branches while Alexia recited a prayer in Scottish Gaelic. In the absence of his family, Alfred improvised a ritual stone with a black candle he bought in town and some leaves.

He recited the praise in Scottish Gaelic.

A deafening noise. Alfred turned around. A human figure appeared behind him. Jonathan.

“What the hell are you doing here, kid?!” Jonathan spat out with a smile, eager to tell Alfred’s caregivers about his escape.

In a reflex action, Alfred grabbed his gun and took it off safe. He aimed directly at Jonathan, at his head, as his father had taught him. Jonathan paled; his face contorted into a grimace of pure fear. Despite the poor lighting, Alfred noticed the drastic transformation in Jonathan with the simple act of pointing the gun at him. Like in action movies, Jonathan raised his hands, pleading.

“What are you doing, kid... What’s that... Did you take it from the school armory?”

Jonathan thought Alfred was carrying one of the blank-firing replicas kept in the school armory for use by Army Cadet Force recruits, a handful of kids who played soldier with toy guns. But this gun was not fake; it was real and loaded.

Alfred took a step forward; Jonathan backed away, scared to death.

“It’s not from the armory,” Alfred said dryly. “It’s mine.”

“Sure, from your house,” Jonathan replied nervously, thinking that it was a hunting gun he had stolen from the country house.

“I bought it at a gun shop in Los Angeles,” Alfred added to maximize Jonathan’s fear. “It’s my right under the Second Amendment.”

Jonathan raised his eyebrows, visibly confused.

“Ah,” he clicked his tongue mockingly, “so now you’re an American.”

Alfred nodded solemnly.

“You’re a fucking brat!” Jonathan lowered his arms, tired of the charade, and moved toward Alfred, ready to hit him.

Alfred fired.

The bullet hit him in the neck. Jonathan fell to the ground, lifeless. Blood pooled around his head. Alfred touched his face; it was splattered with blood. He knelt in front of the motionless corpse. The bullet had pierced his neck from one side to the other, severing his central veins. Alfred felt nothing; he was numb to what had happened.

Leslie Campbell, dean of Jacob II College, a distant relative and brother of Jacob’s Circle, took charge of disposing of the body along with the soldiers of the Circle. On Sunday of that week, a mass was held in honor of the presumed missing boy. Alfred attended the mass, as usual, but he did not pray for Jonathan, but for the daoine síth, to whom he had offered Jonathan’s blood. Alfred hid the Glock in the closet again, with one less bullet. When Leslie asked him why he had done it, Alfred replied with a lot of nonsense; however, he could not fool Leslie. His relative knew perfectly well why he had done it.

Leslie forbade him from going into the attic, first; then he received a call from his father, Alexander. Alexander asked him why he had done it. Alfred replied:

“I went to celebrate Samhain, and he followed me. He insulted me and tried to hit me.” Alexander insisted that he tell him the truth. “He was harassing me. He insulted me, calling me a brat, a sissy, a faggot, a retard... He said you were a whoremonger and that our mother abandoned us.” Alfred sobbed. “He said... He called me a traitor, a loser, that he wished I had never been born,” said angrily. “He said he wished I were dead, that I should kill myself.”

Alexander sighed on the other end of the line.

“Leslie told me what you’re doing in the attic of the house,” said his father. Alfred didn’t answer. Another sigh, accompanied by a groan of pain or despair, of regret or frustration. “Alfred, son.” Sigh. “You need to be by my side.” Alfred nodded, crying. “All this... It’s getting out of hand. Alexia...” Pause. Blasts of air into the receiver. “You’re coming to Los Angeles, okay? I want us to be together. I’ve talked to your grandmother; we’re going to do it my way. I’m sick of this situation."

“Dad, do you love me?”

“I love you, son.”

Alfred flew back to the United States of America. Leslie Campbell accompanied him until the boy was reunited with his father and sister on the tarmac. The boy hugged his sister and then his father. Leslie returned to England with the task of covering up, as best he could, the murder that had taken place in the vicinity of Jacob II College.

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I know this isn't a question for your story but I had small hcs of albert when he was still with his family

So in the last chapter you wrote (chapter 63) when you mentioned albert's family in the 1970s depression. He joined a youth gang with his other older brother but since in the 70s, long hair on men was seen as fashion so albert must've let his hair grow, but his brother thought he looked 'feminine' so kept pulling his hair everyday becuz why tf not. dad noticed it and then decided to cut albert's hair, albert BEGGED not to cut his hair but dad didn't care

"It's getting long, slavko. Time for a chop, this shouldn't hurt unless you want it to be."

So after his dad finished. His hair looked like this in the pic so good ol' albert must've walked around in a haircut that looks like he chopped it off himself

I'm REALLY sorry if this was ooc of him, but still ur story is cool and I just wanted to make wesker have an embarrassing memory (T＿T)

Unfortunately, I have no way of showing you the fanfic, but all the characters would dress according to what was fashionable in each decade. In the 70s, long hair, bell-bottom pants, and disco music were in style, so Albert would have had long hair and worn bell-bottom pants, even if he didn't like disco. So yes, you could say that episodes like this could have easily happened, hahaha. I really enjoy reading other fans' headcanons, and I'm thrilled that it's specifically about my fanfic, hehehe.

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Since Jake is albert's son in re6..

Did wesker fall in love with anyone or does he not in your story? (Extra: if sherry found out about her father, how would she feel?)

No particular romantic relationship, although many sporadic ones. He never found anyone good enough to be worthy of his love. I have always thought that Sherry would hate him for becoming such a horrible person, although, on the other hand, she would understand why he divorced Annette and distanced himself from Sherry, this being the only aspect that Sherry values positively about him.

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Umbrella Pharmaceuticals / One-shot: Lysergic Acid Diethylamide, Alfred Ashford

A torrent of sulfuric acid fell to the bottom of his stomach, driven by a sip of Blue Label that burned his throat. For the first couple of minutes, he felt nothing, as if he had died. From the third minute onwards, his nervous system contracted into a painful fetal grimace; his pupils dilated beyond their physical capacity to handle the light from the spotlights burning his retinas, and he flied.

The space around him was transformed. Black became red; metal became wire; heavy became light; dark became bright; corporeal became incorporeal; real became dream. The cries of pain from the tormented souls begging for their lives took on the sweetness of angels. Cutting, tearing, severing; Mozart composed the requiem by playing the strings of a chainsaw that dismembered muscle and bone.

Peter turned off the chainsaw; the requiem ceased. The poor devil was dead, but the journey continued.

He lay down on the floor, exhausted, impassive, numb. Auguste sat calmly drinking a Coke in his armchair while listening to rap music; he hated that music about black people, drugs, women, alcohol, insipid crap that Auguste liked because he too was a gangster, in his own way; they were all gangsters; my father is a gangster, he once said to a Wall Street yuppie who had been showing off after Alfred had corrected him about his terrible taste in clothes.

The acid ate away at his temples; he detached himself from himself. His train of thought separated from his body, projecting itself onto the wall. An anthropomorphic shadow appeared, hovering over him as he lay motionless on the floor. The shadow advanced toward him and he felt fear, even panic. He tried to scream, but the acid had consumed his vocal cords; he just stood there, like a deer in the headlights, waiting for the impact.

The shadow turned out to be ALF, the alien from the sitcom of the same name created by Tom Patchett and Paul Fusco, originally broadcast by NBC between 1986 and 1990. He hated the sitcom genre for its irritating inability to genuinely satirize the white American nuclear family as an aspirational ideal, but above all he despised ALF. The alien stared at him with his stupid hydrocephalic anteater face; his nose resembling a used condom; his stinking black eyes fixed on him. He hated ALF and wanted to kill him, burn him, dismember him, quarter him, dis, dis, dis.

He forgot his words. ALF mocked him. He gave him a mocking grin that felt like a kick in the testicles. No one laughed at him.

Alfred, can you hear me? Is anyone there?

ALF called out to him.

What are you doing there, son? You’re staining the Dolce & Gabbana cashmere shirt you bought two days ago at the only luxury store in downtown Raccoon City. Didn’t your father teach you manners?

ALF spoke inside his head like when a song got stuck in his head and his brain played it tirelessly during his sleepless nights, which were most of the time.

Alfred.

ALF approached him. His bow-legged gait overlapped with the permanent bleach and caustic soda stains stuck to the factory floor. He could not move. He was afraid. Suddenly, ALF fell to the ground and entered his body painlessly. A voice sprang up inside him; he had regained his speech.

This morning’s Patty Winters Show was about a heterosexual pair of conjoined twins who had unprotected sex.

Peter restarted the chainsaw. It roared like a steel Leviathan. Auguste turned up the volume of the song playing on loop.

Peter ripped off the arm of a homeless man whom Alfred had given a five-dollar buck before Auguste hit him on the head with a baseball bat and they put him in the trunk of the van. He had been raised to believe that charity was a virtue, so that was how he acted.

There is no compelling reason to justify the exaggerated degree of atrocity of my actions except mere pleasure. Sadism is not a mental illness, so I am not sick, but rather I am on a different plane of pleasure than everyone else. My fetishes are unconventional, I admit, but I am just a 25-year-old white boy from an ultra-conservative, billionaire family; my life unfolds like the rigid narrative arc of a sitcom: introduction, climax, and denouement. Achieving pleasure is not a goal, but a process I go through from time to time to give myself momentary satisfaction. Happiness is a concept that is foreign to me, since I have everything, I want.

Auguste hummed the chorus. Peter gouged out the homeless man’s eye with red hot barbecue tongs.

I exist in a permanent stalemate, without choosing any direction, but I admit that I feel secure in conformity. Not much is expected of me: to be the head of the family, to show up occasionally at some philanthropic event for tax deductions, to get married, to have children, to pray to God, to plan the future Jacobite coup against the Hanoverians, to do drugs with my friends, and to humiliate the poor. It’s simple, but even so, thinking about this kind of life makes me anxious, as if I didn’t really want it.

Auguste changed the cassette.

A month ago, I invited a prostitute to the penthouse of the skyscraper my father bought in Manhattan as a birthday present to himself. The police never found the prostitute’s right hand, Chrystal.

Peter began to dismember the rest of the homeless man’s body.

I am a monster. When I look in the mirror, I see a slim but attractive young boy with blue eyes and blond hair. I have inherited my father’s beard, and that makes me feel unequivocally dissonant emotions. I always thought of my father as a complete jerk who ignored me because of his favoritism toward Alexia, but it turned out he was just going through a bad phase. His father, whom he had loved very much, had died unexpectedly, and he privately acknowledged to me the mistake of not having confronted that event like the Scottish macho man he used to be before retreating into the complacency of self-pity. In any case, I still thought he was a complete jerk for ruining my self-esteem and not spending quality time with me.

Peter collected the guts from the corpse with a broom and dustpan.

Family therapy helped us get through this rough patch, and since then I have never felt as close to my father as when I hired a second prostitute to the skyscraper apartment my father had self-regulated for his birthday. The cheap gold earrings belonging to the prostitute, Jade, mysteriously appeared in my father’s office in New York.

Peter cut off the ear of a severed head and threaded a piece of wire through the lobe to make a necklace.

There is a form of determinism that is transmitted through the blood and reinforced by the environment in my family. This determinism manifests itself as a latent drive toward the inexpressibly macabre, as if God had decreed that we must act this way because it is our nature. But I don’t know. I’m not sure if this is true; it could be a figment of my imagination, a way of making sense of something that makes no sense. I’m just an attractive, white, practicing Catholic, 25-year-old boy from an ultra-conservative, billionaire family: I’m only sure that it’s not worth it.

Peter burned his second victim’s skin with a blowtorch.

As a child, I believed I was a good person. Alexia didn’t care whether she was a good person or a bad person, because life was shit. She just wanted to prevail and pursue her own ambition regardless of everyone else. I was content to be by her side to feel accompanied, and because Alexia compensated me for my lack of character, she made me feel strong, she emboldened me to act. Is it still the same?

Something squeaked into the factory. Alfred coughed up saliva and vomited the bile. The voice inside him fell silent. The music stopped.

Darkness. Cold. Bodily fluids. Nauseating smell.

Alfred began to tremble, crouched on the floor.

From dream to reality.

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For albert and William's headcanon's and backstory in ur story was actually really good!! But I meant by like things u think they'll like, actions u think they did in their past ect. :3

William Birkin:

-He is a fan of Star Trek and especially of Mr. Spock, with whom he identifies.

-He never had a good relationship with his parents, even though they were quite flexible with him. In general, William's parents indulged him, so William grew up with a certain sense of entitlement toward them. This entitlement led to him displaying inflexible and irascible behavior, which strained his relationship and caused William to isolate himself even more.

-His social skills are quite poor, so he prefers hobbies that are individual or, at most, for two people, such as chess, collecting figurines, or computer games.

-He never had a partner or girlfriend until Annette Birkin.

Albert Wesker:

-He grew up in a poor and abusive home in New York, so his childhood was terrible. He grew up hating his older brothers, who mistreated him, and spent his days begging and surviving, so he had few childhood hobbies other than watching cartoons on television.

-From an early age, he had to learn how to use knives and razors for self-defense.

-Although his parents are Serbian, he never learned Serbian. In fact, he strives to hide his poor and foreign origins. This leads him to omit his entire childhood until he was adopted by the Weskers.

-After being adopted by the Weskers, Albert was able to start developing new hobbies such as playing the acoustic guitar, piano, and learning hand-to-hand combat at the military academy.

-At first, he really thought about pursuing a career in the military and aspiring to be a high-ranking officer, but Umbrella's invitation convinced him otherwise.

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In the games, Alfred always appears in his iconic red uniform, and we can see that he has a passion/obsession for war. Is this "military aspect" of Alfred completely absent in your alternative fiction? I was wondering about this while looking at images of Alfred's private museum, and prototypes of the character drawn by Satoshi Nakai.

This aspect is absent from the fanfic because its inclusion makes no sense. Alfred developed this obsession during Alexia's absence and in the original timeline. These events do not occur here, so he never develops an interest in the military. However, he does have a fondness for weapons and hunting, like most members of the upper classes, and in this case, he usually dresses in white or cream, as these colors are indicators of status.

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Small question! Is there any headcanons u have for albert wesker? (Or maybe William birkin)

I have many headcanons. In fact, I have a chapter dedicated to my origin story for Albert Wesker and William Birkin. Please note that this interpretation of the characters differs from the original story of the franchise, especially Albert Wesker's, since it didn't fit with the plot and style of my fanfic, and because I consider the Wesker Project to be a rather poor last-minute addition, although I would end up rescuing the character of Alex Wesker for the fanfic.

The chapter

William Birkin:

He comes from a typical middle-class American family, with a mechanic father and a mother who became a housewife.

He is a social misfit with self-control issues, partly stemming from a childhood of self-imposed demands, isolationism, and bullying.

Part of his hatred for Alexia stems from projecting his own shortcomings and insecurities onto her, including not having been born into a wealthy family that would have provided him with all the fame and money he wanted to be someone and not a nobody who had to climb to the top on his own.

Albert Wesker:

Son of a poor Yugoslavian couple who emigrated to the United States to fulfill the American dream. He was abused by his parents and his two brothers, among other reasons, because he always refused to sink into poverty and do anything to fulfill his ambition.

He was adopted by the Wesker couple, who took him in because of his innate talent for learning. Albert never bonded with them because he realized that to the Weskers he was nothing more than a pet, although the Weskers never abused him.

He ends up developing a toxic relationship with Oswell E. Spencer because of the latter's abusive but extremely ambitious and ruthless character.

[antaxzantax]

What headcannons do you have if Alfred, Peter, and Auguste started a cult? What would their roles be? What would the motive/goal be (since it’s not money)? And what would the end result be? Would disaster sure to follow?

Interestingly, this is one of the ideas I thought about introducing into the fanfic, but in the end it didn't happen. The idea was to have Alfred, Auguste, and Peter escape to Rockfort and, taking advantage of the fact that Vladimir is the commander, start a Hellraiser-style cult. Of course, Alfred would have been the leader and master of ceremonies, Auguste would have been in charge of the administration and organization of the cult, and Peter would have been the executor. The cult would have taken root among the island's native inhabitants, and eventually the whole thing would have resulted in a mass suicide. The cult would have been set up as a continuation of what they were doing in the factory, and to reach the peak of sadism, that is, for pleasure and to test themselves. I'm still considering this idea, anyway.

[antaxzantax]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals / One-shot: Ordinary Vanity, Alexia Ashford

She alternated viciously between the bedroom and the study. The same anonymous crowd chased her through the corridors, attentive to her spurious demands. No one bothered her, the crowd aware that her time was worth more than that of anyone beneath her. But her birth into privilege did not insulate her from suffering a strange sense of distressing estrangement, as if reality were a dream; or she were in purgatory. Reading Heidegger had not helped. His concept of Angst she considered vague and distant, as a phenomenon only applicable to ordinary people. She felt that she was far removed from it, a prey to nameless anguish.

She used to play the piano in the twilight. In contrast to her usual taciturn character, she improvised a melody that stood out for its extroverted melancholy. She did not recognize herself in that composition, however, it came from herself. A moan of pain or a requiem, perhaps. Attracted by the ineffable beauty of those improvisations, her father accompanied her, sitting silently at the back of the room. He never interrupted her or complained when she abruptly plucked a dissonant note that woke him from his deep reverie. It was simply there, like a specter. She became accustomed to the unwelcome assistance of this ghost as she had become accustomed to coping with a corseted lifestyle and an arid paternal-filial relationship.

Her grandmother forced her to succumb to the well of hard work no matter how exhausted she was. With loving words, she would convince her that she should continue studying, continue striving, to be someone great in an uncertain future; because that was her destiny, after all, to be someone great, as was her destiny. She, in spite of everything, did not resist. She lowered her shoulders and bowed her head, aware that she could not go against her grandmother's omnipotent authority for fear of losing her protection against a brutal world she did not know; because her grandmother was demanding, but she knew how to defend her family. But knowing how to defend the family did not entail knowing how to take care of it; and she, her youngest and most remarkable granddaughter, suffered in her flesh the haughtiness of an old woman more concerned with the result than with the means. By repetition over seven years, she had become accustomed to the routine, even grateful for it. However, no matter how satisfyingly rigid it was, she occasionally fell into it. Prey to unmanageable stress, she would seclude herself in her bedroom or study to be alone; she needed to be alone. Before he left for boarding school, her twin brother would open the door and sit on the floor with her to hug her and let her cry it out. After his departure, she would hold back her tears to prove to herself that she was not dependent on anyone, even though she felt tremendously helpless. She must not show even a hint of weakness or she could not look her grandmother in the eye for fear of seeing herself reflected in them as a disappointing being, ostracized to oblivion and eternal humiliation. There was no alternative: succeed or perish.

But there was always something that emerged. A bad gesture, a bad answer, a slightly stooped posture, saddened eyes. The therapy sessions she was forced to attend did not do her much good. She would lie to convince her therapist that nothing was really wrong, that she was just tired; but her attitude reflected the opposite. The anguish was eating away at her state of mind and her bad mood manifested itself with certain aggressive outbursts that surprised her father, but not her grandmother. Her grandmother dealt with her son’s outbursts until they were completely tamed, just as she would with her granddaughter. Her grandmother knew that the outbursts stemmed from an immature desire to rebel against the impositions of elders; rebellion that she nipped in the bud by appealing to the imperative of their status in the world. They could not indulge in such wild displays of irrationality, her grandmother would say and her father would nod. She could do nothing but repress her anger and return to her natural state of self-denial and repetition. Thus she repressed her emotions, but not the anguish; until one night she caught herself thinking about what would happen if she suddenly ceased to exist. If she threw herself from the window to the ground, what would happen?

She never talked to her father about it. Her father was strange to her. She knew that he was still on medication because of her grandfather’s death and that sometimes he also locked himself in the office, watching TV at maximum volume and ignoring the existence of his fellow human beings. Her relationship with him was cold because it was as if he himself did not want to ingratiate himself too much with his children for a reason he hid behind an absent look. He was sympathetic and attentive, fulfilling his role as a father, but at the same time absent. For this reason, that rare moment they shared while she played the piano understood how much more emotionally close they were to each other, like an instant in which both, without mediating a word, understood each other. But silence did not make up for the lack of contact, so that presence was not enough to appease the anguish she felt and could not share with anyone except her own loneliness.

The anguish that nothing would change; that what awaited her was not a future of glory, but of desolation, that all she would know in life would be sadness and isolation, incomprehension and a permanent self-demand for being someone she had not decided. She knew that her father was complacent, incapable of aspiring to anything better, but she still resisted.

Still, she felt that she could be something more; that there had to be something more than simple obedience and ordinary vanity.

[antaxzantax]

How would Alexia be as an aunt? Would she visit Alfred’s kids frequently? Would his kids like her?

As a child, she had little contact with people her own age outside her family, so she has no experience dealing with children. This means that her commitment to Alfred's children is minimal, both for her own sake and for theirs, as Alexia does not come across as a particularly affectionate aunt, not because she does not love them, but because she does not know how to relate to them. In any case, and because they are Alfred's children, she makes an effort to be friendly and get along with them. Contact with her nephews is relatively infrequent, as her work takes precedence over everything else, but she makes an effort to at least visit them during important family gatherings and birthdays. Alfred's children love Alexia for her commitment, despite her strange personality, and because she is Alfred's twin sister, and Alfred's children know that the two love each other, even if each twin shows it in their own way.

[antaxzantax]

Ah,I almost forgot...I don’t need your prayers, you subhuman. Honestly, I hope you get cancer and die slowly.

Vale.

[antaxzantax]

Why are people threatening to feed your work to AI, it's just making the AI freakier

How tf would that effect you?

Because these people are retarted? I mean, trying to threat me with a "fanfic" that is public, that could be plagiarized by anybody and that probably has been already feeded to any shitty LLM, is like, I don't know, pretty stupid.