divine-power

[divine-power]

"I am no mirror," he digresses. Head downcast, he feels a frigidness spread across his forehead to compensate for the heat that courses through his veins. Ouroboros hungers. A flash of teeth spark like lightning, a strike in the darkness of the enigma who inevitably cheated Death. "--What I witness is Adonis before me."

Defined jawline exposed just as his rotten heart upon a silver platter, the strained grin softened into something genuine -- only affordable for his dear counterpart.

"And yet, it was you, Albert, who brought your plans to fruition."

     ’ would that i could play this off as merely narcissism, however —— ‘ truly, the elder gave him excessive credit, honey laced with venom that he would gladly swallow, if only to return in good time. they were ouroboros, unending serpents that ate the other’s tail —- he was not complete without his madness, just as his facsimile was not himself without his pragmatism. forehead tips forward, leaning against his counterpart’s, whilst fingers uplift to place the index and middle ‘neath the identical chin.

     ’ you’ve been of great assistance to me, and have done far more for me than any other. it is only right that i allow you my rare affections.‘

[divine-power]

"A work of art deserves to be not only admired, but worshiped." A twitch, easily mistaken for a muscle spasm, assaults thin lips to form a ghost of a smirk -- a mere shadow in the presence of the other. The megalomaniac to complete the composed tyrant. 

     ’ ever the flatterer, are you not, albert? come now, we’ll leave the rest of the worms to their own devices —— i do not plan on letting you out of my sight until the following morning. ‘ an upturn to one corner of regal tiers, arms crossing ‘pon the breadth of a chest clad in colors of mourning, but ne’er did they look as good on anyone as they did upon himself — themselves.

[divine-power]

"[N]one of them are your equal, I daresay. No counterpart to match your kingdom, your divine right."

     ’ about time —— and here i thought i was to be forced into spending this dreadful day with equally dreadful individuals. ‘

[divine-power]

Alas, this magpie was not a mimicry of his raven for a brother.

Fixated on his failures, haunted by his faults, the enigmatic Albert Wesker had been thrust and locked into a crisis: the one block of time that kept him painfully frozen in place. The volcano did not rest distant from his heart. On the contrary, his mind dissipated, withering away until the golden child had been sullied.

Above average, but not quite. How Spencer would surely laugh at his impending demise.

"You may prosper whereas I do not."

A sharp pain seized his chest and his lungs howled in protest. Organs quivered, persistent with life. Yet, crippled by his current state. He was a mere shard to a mirror, cracked and jagged enough to cut like a dagger.

All concept of Truth had been lost, tossed into the flames that once hungrily lapped at his crawling skin. Poor Albert -- an unfortunate soul -- knew not the difference between reality and falsehoods. No truth, no lies to spread from a venomous tongue. All blended together in a near impenetrable grey. Limbo, indeed.

Unblinking, unyielding, the Serpent cast his gaze ahead. Crimson ghosted along the bold letters, a legacy not his own. The muscles within his cheek twitched to form an unpleasant grin -- seductive to most, but horribly wrong to the one who knew him best of all. A thin line curled 'round his lips, which tasted of iron and wine.

"You've done well for yourself," came the dry remark, now standing, disposed of his metal throne. The leather of his jacket bared tiny flecks of ash, the remnants of his past holding onto him -- a prisoner of his own mind. "How He must be proud..." His voice grew fainter still, smooth howling akin to the warm wind.

Shoulders rolled, similar to how many heads he disposed of -- recalled the maroon droplets of their life source, splattered across the ground (for he was an entity known as betrayal). Muscle strained against leather, screaming for freedom that could never be granted. All caged birds sang within gilded cages.

The painful realized dawned on him: the Albert Wesker, known only as Himself, was a phantom. A poor player who strutted upon the stage, brazenly marked as The Fool. Tethered to the ground, he felt a sharp pain 'round his ankle. A metaphorical noose. How side of a life he lived.

"--I am not you nor you, I."

This was a being, an ethereal beauty, who would not bend to the wind. Nor nature. His fate, he stubbornly believed, remained his own.

"Neither of us are whole."

Emptiness, an astounding feeling.

Still, he smiled.

— ouroboros. [ wesker & wesker. ]

' oh, you're far from dead, dear facsimile. one should not dwell on past failures for too long — … and yet, your death was but the beginning. ' 

there could only be one tyrant king —— but for the other, would he give a sole exception. tattered and torn were the once glorious being’s wings, invisible to the naked eye and a product of inherent madness. the child had grown into his legacy, as the cycle of the neverending serpent continued. where one ended, the other would began, and on and on would it go until the very earth wrapped in their clutches was crushed to rubble and only memory remained. the younger notes the other’s poetic words, crimson glare cast upon snow pale skin, turning it to fire even as they spoke in this little pause betwixt time itself. this was certainly not the first time he had met himself or even empathized with himself —— if this was what it could be called; fate was a ball of string and it existed only when he allowed it to uncurl.

an acute scent of blood hit his own nostrils as he now, stood behind the elder’s seat —— head tilted down, with lips next to the right ear. the legacy whispering to the wise one of what he had achieved in his toil, ' see now, wesker — i reign supreme, the world entire worships not a god, but i, and i save lives just as i snatch them away. we are fathers, the creation of a new genesis without the genocide. ‘ referring to the little slip of his tongue four years back when confronting the ignoramus of a soldier, who now, might he add, had no time to rest: chasing after a new enemy who had taken up the mantle of bioterrorist much to albert’s pleasure. he had no time for child’s play, the title of corporate mogul and father of virology suiting his needs much better than anything else. a gloved hand ( slender, like an artist’s, like a fine k i l l e r’s own ) moves from the shadows, snaking around the side of the metal throne and down to place itself atop his mirror’s own. his body followed thereafter a moment’s passing, a poisonous smirk plastered to beauteous features, a stray strand of flax hanging loose from his crown.  

' only the weak are lonely, and you are f a r from alone. i exist in you, and you in me —— and that is how it will remain. ‘ that very same hand would uplift, the tips of shadowed extremities gently, ever so gently caressing against his duplicate’s fissures, as if to apply a healing touch.

the cherubic child, the golden boy and the apple of their dear father’s eye had grown into the embodiment of sin, and each movement was akin to a most sinuous panther; completely before the other, he seduced with decadent charm and the pride that swelled within a heart that should no longer beat. but it did; a war drum constant, lifeblood filled with what made them regal and what made them monsters.

' and i welcome you to the future, ‘ a colorful plethora of pigments seemed to explode from the shadows, the harnessing of his antimatter fading to reveal a city. grey was the sky, but not the people; the humans skittering about as if they were ants, and they were. the two apex predators stood, and the younger would turn his chin that-a-way, anomalous eyne hidden ‘neath shadowed facade of shades rising to dictate the sight the other should follow. to look upon the glory of their future, not a mere vision — but reality. a towering structure, c a l l i d u s in capital letters emblazoned upon the front.

‘ look upon albert wesker’s glory, look upon his legacy, ‘ he hissed, delight stretching lips to form a smile any angel would possess.

—— too bad he was the absolute opposite.

[divine-power]

Mercy had not been granted for the soulless. His life was nonexistent, cast into a state of perpetual limbo which sent the poor phoenix spiraling down, wings ablaze, in sheer agony. Had he been so foolish to believe in a false deceiver -- some omniscient force that controlled his face -- then he would he laughed with a voice resonating off of ice.

"I am but a spirit to guide you along, Dante."

A petty quip, alluding to The Inferno.

The classic he adored or feigned adoration for.

Teeth slid along the inside of his cheek, porcelain canines to scrape away at his identity. Warm metal, maroon liquid, waltzed on the tip of his tongue. His own livelihood turned against him.

Frigid digits were bound by leather, curling into the arms of his throne. Black consumed him, clung handsomely to his sculpted body, a fine product, but like all marble, he cracked. (Chip upon chip to be lost. Whatever happened to the brightest star?) The Serpent refused to budge for he bowed to no one.

For his name was synonymous with fear, as lethal as the snake's venomous bite. Morbid revulsion seeped into the center of his core -- his black, black heart twisting like ivy.

Narcissistic to a fault, there was pride in his eyes. The magma within, borderline feline-esque pupils straining against the light (desperate for the shadows), burned to life.

Self-preservation was the key.

This child, this phantom, this carnal sin -- his legacy.

"Welcome to Purgatorio, Albert."

when god is gone, and the devil takes hold —— may the lord have mercy on your soul.

      death sat upon this throne of metal, madness embodied indeed —— there remained a stark difference betwixt the two, so very much the same and yet, different; the passing of time held effect on his counterpart, but not he, not ever. mayhap was such a fate deemed suitable for future’s stronghold, but the present entity remained fair of face and fresh in youth. an endless bounty that never would fade as he aged, and albert began to feel … jealousy, a vile thing, form deep within the pit of his stomach. not for the elder, but for the fact that while the latter had readily allowed himself to fall to his ruin —— his own convictions were far too strong to do so in kind.

      blue-grey pigment that color eyne twain flickers with light from his opposing half, orange to azure, lava to a still lake and back again. the circle of their union was unbreakable, and upon god’s knee did the younger sit as if this were all a dream to fade when the first light of dawn shone upon alabastrine features. when spencer called for him and kissed his temple, the golden child that he was.

     ’ you speak that name as if you know it yourself —— as if it has been bestowed upon you in kind, ‘ words spoken with wisdom far beyond his years… it seems that, minute by minute he can feel himself age, the illusion falling further and further to reveal the truth beneath the rose.

      empires fell whole whilst the world mourned its losses, but one serpent would forever remain in his garden of eden, never to be banished —— but revered, instead. 

      ’ you are i. we are he. ‘

[divine-power]

"Albert."

Here sat the snake who consumed itself, past and present gnawing away at his wicked, black core. The Mad King, regal upon his throne, grew rigid in his seat. Talons for fingers curled unexpectedly. O, how his skin crawled!

Mind and heart consumed by fire. Nerves sizzled, steam nearly oozing from the pores. Passion for the sciences held him captive (a Renaissance man was he) and it had been his sad, little demise.

For the boy, he remained composed. Subtle lines, akin to cracks that riddled a porcelain facade curled around his lips. Parched, this fatal beauty was doomed to crawl across the tainted promenade, but never could his thirst be quenched.

He was a mountain that time would crumble.

The Morning Star shone brightly, albeit with warning -- a flash of crimson, the truth within his eyes: Do not follow my lead.

"No angel am I for my wings have withered to bone. Empires will turn to ash beneath your step. Nations will crumble in your wake. A soldier to become your ghost."

Do not stroke my fire, dear child, for you will burn.

The little moth had such beautiful wings.

' wesker? that’s your name? ‘

he should excuse himself for the sudden outburst, however —— he had been correct earlier regarding what he felt about the embodiment of mystery and shadow before his very eyes…there was kinship. the name of wesker was not just thrown about any and everywhere, the likelihood of sharing the same surname with a complete stranger very little. and consequently, albert would assume what felt ever so obvious.

and the boy would step forward, as if a son to a father, or a brother to a brother, or —- one half, to the other half. ouroboros, the concept of infinity — spencer had taught it to him but a few days ago, and certainly this occurrence reflected that. in those eyes that burnt unnaturally, he saw himself mirrored. the fissures, so very subtle, not commented upon; this man had led a difficult life. 

he reached where the darkness sat, and clambered up with all the gall and curiosity a little boy should possess — a highly scientific mind already processing the details before him. the anomaly, the future.

his future.

' — you’re beautiful. like the paintings in my father’s study, angels with wings burnt to crisps… ‘

[divine-power]

Brazen Icarus flew so high, only to cascade down into the Devil's mouth -- the kiss the most fatal of all. He recalled the fall, bitter on the tip of his silver tongue. Tiny cracks and fissures hissed beneath his skin, flashes of lava repetitive in his mind.

Burning him alive.

"Thank me not," came the crisp tone. "Gratitude amounts to falsehood for man is insincere to a fault."

Leather creased, clinging to the contours of his body, sculpted muscle that Michaelangelo himself would be proud of. Seated on a chair composed of metal, a gloved hand extended toward the golden child.

"Wesker."

What was in a n a m e ?

--A hive mind?

Or an identity...?

     ’ —— … … ‘ 

     for a brief amount of time would the small child gape at the elder, eyes blinking owlishly —— why was it that this man reminded himself so much of a familiar person, he would not know. the sunglasses that now sat atop downy blond strands, he knew he would keep and cherish forever. as for this man, he would need to thank him.

     ’ thank you, sir. this means a lot to me. my name’s albert, and yours? ‘ 

[divine-power]

Give the Lunatic a Chance

{{ Just a little something for this Wesker. Didn't think I'd be coming back to this account, but the mod deserved something a little special. uwu }}

All I know Is heroes come and villains go Just give the lunatic a chance! And all I know Is something out is something old I’ll never win, I’m just a man!

In his glory days, the immortal corrupter wears the uniform of the past. The S.T.A.R.S insignia lingers like a foul brand, clinging to the contours of his musculature. Shades obscure an icy gaze that has yet to be marred my temptation in the guise of virology.

Still, Captain Albert Wesker feels high and mighty, as if nothing can destroy him. In languid strides, his arms fall limp by his sides. A dark alley beckons for him like a impatient lover, whispering a decadent melody.

A hand glides across cool brick, damp with freshly fallen rain. He thinks nothing of it, merely enjoys the slick sensation.

At the end, past a fire escape, he spies another man of another time and place. Ah, but Albert recognizes that face. The billowing winds of stress have aged him, carved deep lines into his forehead. Black defines him, wraps around his form in an inky cloak. The leather of his jacket squeaks when it creases and slithers—as venomous as a viper slithering about.

Closer and closer, Captain Wesker walks; his movements akin to a waltz. With the distance sealed between the two, he can see every crack in that once marvelous facade.

The older blond's face contorts into one with pain, rage—everything that equates ruin.

“My dear facsimile, what has become of you?”

“I've... fallen,” he rasps. His voice is unusually quiet, but still manages to contain that English lilt.

“No...” The younger man tuts; he isn't naïve, but foolish for the assumptions he possesses. He has yet to unlock Eden. “You've been grasping for your humanity.” The word is the foulest one Captain Wesker will ever utter. “Yet, you have forgotten that you have risen above them. You, the brightest star of all.”

Slender hands ghost over hollowed cheeks, a thumb stroking sun-kissed lips. The magnificent captain whispers reassurances that are as cunning as lies.

Too tired to respond, Wesker sighs: the image of a broken God.

“You are destined for greatness. Do not let your hatred consume you, my dark prince.”

The younger blond dips his head, allows for his lips to brush across the back of the hand of the future.

Of where it would start, of where it would all end.

[divine-power]

“Pain is simply a part of success.”

Leather flexed in his subtle moments.

“Ah, yes. Redeem me and restore me to my former glory.”

In response, the younger looks away, a perturbed expression on a previously amused face.

“Don’t mention that, I cannot imagine the pain you must have felt. I will bring you the glory you so deserve, of that, I can assure you.”

[divine-power]

Notice

{{ Roleplaying as Wesker has lost a lot of its allure for me. In my eyes, muses come and go all the time. Therefore, a temporarily lost muse is a commonality for me. I play a multitude of character and have a variety of accounts, some more active than others.

Originally, this account was for group affiliated purposes. We appeared to be relatively close-knit. Then, the group went down. My lack of a drive for Wesker began there. As I said before, I play a lot of characters. Most of which are not from the RE fandom.

There may be a time where I leave this account since I can't stand to force out a reply. Roleplaying is meant to be fun, not exhausting.

I intend on finishing all the RPs that I am a part of.

However, I do not know how long I will stick around for. You've all been a wonderful bunch of people, friendly and kind in your own right. There are also multiple portrayals of Wesker, some far better than my own.

So, I conclude with this: I need to gather my thoughts and think about whether or not I truly want to stick around. Life'll go on, regardless. }}

[divine-power]

Well well now. There were various reactions the younger man knew he could've received.. but he had not expected for the fallen one to seem as if he'd seen a ghost. Of course, he reasoned with himself, perhaps it should be of no real surprise. Still. A half-smile, however twisted it might be, appeared for a fleeting moment.. genuine, there, before it too vanished. "It's good to see you, old friend."

"The feeling is mutual," he responded tartly.

Was it, truly? Wesker could not say for sure. His mind was a mess of things that could never be mended. His teeth ground against the inside of his cheek whilst his mask remained in place. He remained civil, emotionless. It was all he knew how to do.

By then, his emptiness was the one thing to keep him together.

[divine-power]

Like the great Caligula, Albert Wesker's treated life as a game. For him, the world was to be conquered. In the midst of his actions, he, too, demonstrated cruelty and insanity. Ultimately, nothing would stand in his way from obtaining the prize.

William Birkin was the key to success.

An acquaintance that had been his one and only friend. Poor, poor Albert. He put all of his devoted trust into that young scientist and where did it bring him? Closer down the downward spiral of insanity.

Diligently, he tracked the other down--much like a blood hound hot on the trail. Instead of the crimson elixir known as life, Wesker chased after memories. He drew nearer and nearer, but could never quite reach what he strove for.

Abandoned facilities defined all immoral men who had a secret or two to hide. It was the stereotypical location of the cliche villain.

Wesker wound through the establishment, which contained familiarity long ago. Now, the place reminded him of a tomb--some twisted burial ground where glorious men had been put to rest.

Once he located the source, he hovered in the door way as an imposing shadow would.

"William," Albert began. No affection. No warmth. Sheer nothingness. "How long has it been, old friend?"

Oderint dum metuant [Wesker ll William]

Stability?

Admittedly stability had become something rather strange within the scientist’s life, but it had not been an entirely unwelcomed change ultimately. With that and other factors keeping him from working himself utterly to death, quite literally, William had felt comfortable enough in actually leaving the lab for the day. The retrovirus he’d engineered to assist Alfred wouldn’t be going anywhere - it was completed anyway and merely needed its final testing on the host himself.

Either way he’d left the city with a particular goal in mind. There was a long abandoned facility that had once been owned by Umbrella that he knew for a fact - as he himself had it done - had been utterly struck from their records. There was nothing left there anyway and he didn’t think anyone other than perhaps Wesker knew of it, but it had served best as a place of storage for the younger blond in this case. It wasn’t as if he had much in the means of personal possessions that meant something to him. Now that he had a stable home once again that wasn’t his lab he felt comfortable enough that he could move those away from the forlorn, dilapidated place there instead.

Wincing a little at the creak the metal door caused as he stepped inside he pushed it shut, using a flashlight to guide his own way through the halls instead of bothering with using the emergency lights from the limited power that still existed from the small generator. Things hadn’t changed much from what he could see from the last time he’d been here in this place those some odd years before he’d started working on G. Two rights and down one last long hall, having to duck a bit from where part of the roof had started collapsing in on itself, brought the scientist to a room that may have once been an office.

In the silence his footfalls had echoed heavily enough, but he expected no one or nothing to be anywhere remotely near him as he strode over to the desk, resting the flashlight on the old, worn surface with it pointed towards a filing cabinet. A rattle sounded as he fished through his pocket - the bottle of prescription pills for his headaches loud in the silence as well - and he’d pull out the key to unlock it.. kicking up dust that brought coughing and waving from William as he tried to clear it away.

Reaching inside, after only a moment, the blond pulled out a equally worn metal box… its metallic surface stained with age. Setting it down on the desk he twirled the flashlight around so he could see, pulled over a chair, and settled himself - opening the lid before he started to rummage around through the old papers and photos that lay within.

Memories of the past, of often better times when his work hadn’t consumed him to the point it literally was killing him, lay within.

[divine-power]

Failure was not an option.

His kingdom had fallen, shattered like glass. The cracks had been too much of a burden to bear. When his empire crumbled, Albert Wesker vowed to start anew.

Another lab, another virus. He hired the best, most elite and prestigious staff in order to complete the task at hand. Only the best for a monster who claimed to be the embodiment of perfection.

The winter breeze did little to detour his endeavors. In the present day, he welcomed to brisk weather. It felt far more satisfying in comparison to the hellish flames of molten lava. He practically shuddered from the memory that played through his mind like a broken record. Yet, Gods showed no emotions.

Faceless, his shaded mask defined him.

The head researcher was none other than Albert Wesker. He masqueraded as a pathetic mortal to detour all. A change of name and voice did wonders for him.

His presence loomed over all in the main lab. His arms folded behind his back, white lab coat swaying with the ministration.

"A pleasant morning to you all."

He spoke with an American accent that had once been lost, but now was found.

Deception rolled off of his tongue.

"We have much to discuss."

The Devil in Details.

It’s still cold, was Rebecca thoughts as she huddled into the warmth of her light purple colored pea coat. She wasn’t a big fan of winter, and it had already snowed enough last week. While she loved snow, she was already beginning to miss the warmth of the sun. She felt like she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen the brightness and felt the warm rays. All that was left now was the murky, gray colds. No wonder they say people get sad in winter, she mused

Today was one of her assigned research lab days. She had heard there was a big project coming out, a deeper look into a new virus strand. An adaptable one. Extremely so. Further details hadn’t been specified, so, it was all a mystery to Rebecca. Now, she wished she had grabbed a cup of coffee on her way, but it was too late for that. Hopefully, someone had started up the coffee maker in the break room so she could sneak in one cup before heading to their assessment. 

When Rebecca finally reached the laboratory, it was still cold inside as typical. She was used to the indoors chills of the AC by now, however. Years and years of being in it had made her so. She slipped inside, stepping into the break room that was separate from the actual lab room. One of her co-workers had started the coffee maker after all. She smiled at that.

“So,” she began, making herself a cup, “any new talk on the project yet?”

“None,” her co-worker answered, adjusting his glasses. “There’s a couple of new faces among the researchers though.”

Rebecca quirked a brow at this, peering up from her cup. This was news to her. She supposed the allure of the information had attracted a couple of new recruits.

“It’ll be interesting then,” she mused out loud, taking a sip or two from her coffee cup. Mm. Hazelnut. She finished it as quickly as she could, feeling warm and settled afterwards. With that, she threw the Styrofoam cup away, and headed with her co-worker into the main lab room where the others were waiting to hear from the head researcher. Details, details, details.

[divine-power]

The ambition of his fellow self was admirable. Such diction reprimanded him of past failures, which he simply couldn't tolerate. Each and every word was a shard of glass, pelting his bloated ego in an attempt to carve it all away.

Wesker seemed to be incapable of admitting mistakes. Like a scolded child, he had been rendered speechless. Hushed, he cocked his head--a small movement, barely visible.

Half-lidded orbs transformed into thin slits. His lips were void of emotion. Apathy defined him.

His arms lifted in the guise of a pendulum swing. The palms of his hands gingerly collided with one another to produce a light, clapping sound. Applause for the leading actor on the stage.

"Strive for more than you are capable of. For, one day, you will reach it. This entire world is your pawn and I am merely your pseudo-self." Like Michael, Wesker would loyally remain at his younger version's (the one who now aspired to be God) side.

The change in scenery did not faze him. He regarded it as an altercation in the temperature.

"Destroy what I could not. Break what I could not. Gain what I failed to gain."

Simple words that carried a plethora of meaning: a coded mystery.

A Time When I Was Just Human [Past and Present Wesker]

“To underestimate yourself would be the biggest mistake you could ever commit, my dear facsimile,” returns the younger Wesker in a tone not impolite—simply matter of fact. This was all but a maelstrom of warring thoughts inside his head. He had watched as the copy’s ruined flesh had sewn itself back together, and the subtle reaction it had evoked.

“My reach will be all encompassing. I will succeed in our endeavor— and you will see, see how the world will fall to our feet. But I will do it all differently.” A pause, what one would describe as theatrical, but no.This was simply the way Albert Wesker spoke.

His voice was what could only be described as normal, almost atonal in quality, but if one noticed enough: It was laced with a sort of mania.

You will know in time, as well. Much glory was lost—“ And suddenly, completely uncalled for, the Captain’s eyes shut.

The dream is changing.

And when they open, once more, it makes a world of difference. Ice, replaced with Hell’s fire…

…and a cat’s pupil. It had begun, again.

He could only smile. One with glorious purpose.

[divine-power]

It became apparent that Joseph Frost still embodied his typical snark. In Wesker's eyes, this trait was not welcomed. Even in his divine form, it irked him  terribly. The man's humor left an ill taste in his mouth, similar to ash or rotting flesh--all things grotesque.

"One would assume so," Wesker countered.

For the pseudo-God, Joseph was merely a broken man with potential for divinity. A shame that they didn't see eye to eye. In Frost's viewpoint, everything seemed to be defined by black and white. While Wesker wore black, he preferred to be a man of grey. He foolishly believed that his actions would lead to salvation.

"You have changed, for the better or the worst." Mild amusement tainted his stoic tone. Each word, at times, felt forced--as if it consumed all of his strength. "The key to that change is the blood running through your veins, Frost."

A faint smirk in the guise of a half-grin appeared. It quickly vanished like vapors of smoke drifting up towards the midnight sky.

"A man copes with grief through anger or sorrow. You perform the former. How does it feel to lose everything?" He inquired through parted lips.

Wesker deserved the title of 'hypocrite'.

"It was for the better," he said. His justification was distorted, torn asunder like a schism. "We are all one step closer to perfection. You, perhaps, more so, Frost. I have already attained such." He sounded pleased by this notion. "Nor was mine."

Again and again, Wesker returned to the living. His presence was akin to the constantly returning grin of the Cheshire Cat.

"I am far beyond life and death, something which you could never aspire for."

Memento mori [Wesker ll Joseph]

[divine-power]

Obsidia Ft. CoMa - Beautiful

[divine-power]

His laughter was akin to a dry cough, a gravelly noise that slithered out of his throat. Perhaps it originated from the dark cavern in his chest that was known as a heart.

A shaded gaze flitted to and throat, keeping an eye on the young male. Arrogant, but that trait was minute on Wesker's scale. Albert's ego far outweighed the rest. Observing the other fellow led to a pursing of the lips. He remained calm and in place.

How could he be mistaken?

Albert Wesker was never wrong.

He could not afford to withstand the humiliation. Slowly, skeletal digits curled. Joints audibly popped. A loose fist pressed against his chin. One finger graced a pale, sunken cheekbone--which appeared to be as sharp as a dagger.

"Mind how you speak to your elders," he quipped.

Agitation flitted across his face in the guise of a raised brow. His broad chest jerked somewhat. "Chasing ghosts if your hobby," Wesker countered. Ever so snide, he lifted his head and regarded Thomas with an up-turned nose. "Or have I been mistaken, Christopher?" Oh, how terribly wrong he was...

The Gravedigger's Song [ Thomas l Wesker ]