Resident Evil: 'Political Suicide' *Claire/Wesker*
Title: Political Suicide
Rating/warnings: PG-14 (dark themes)
Fandom: Resident Evil (AU so very AU!)
Pairing/Characters: Albert Wesker (Claire Redfield and Excella Gionni mentioned)
Beta: A huge thank you to cariel for beta reading this so it looks all spiffy and makes sense! =D
Artist Notes: This was inspired by knune's tales Running up that Hill Part 1 and part 2 as well as Poet and the Muse and Little Negative of Hopes Refined all of which are must reads for all Claire/Wesker fans! Believe me you won't be disappointed
On that note this tale takes place during the events of 'Poet and The Muse' and 'Little Negative of Hopes Refined'. Any mistakes in the personalities and setting are entirely my own and I apologize in advance *bluses*
Also this ficlet/drabble was written and inspired by knune's universe (as they have given me permission) so credit goes to her for letting me play in her playground! =D
As such this tale is for her.
It had been four months, five days, twenty-one hours, fifteen minutes and nineteen since he had last seen her. It was also five months since the game ended. Five horrifying months since he, Albert Wesker, had lost to Excella Gionni.
All it took was a slight of manicured hands, a needle’s prick against cool skin, and his entire world had come crashing down.
Oh, I have my eyes set on something much bigger.
Wesker could still hear the echo of her final words as he discovered too late that what she had injected into his arm had not been the Uroboros virus. He had underestimated Excella’s ambition and it cost him everything.
Trapped and paralyzed by the very poison he had created years ago the former Umbrella agent was strapped to a sterile table helpless as excruciating pain coursed through his veins bringing him to new heights of suffering.
The sound of distant voices, one familiar, another unknown, echoed and pounded against his throbbing ears, a vicious reminder that even a god could be made mortal. Wesker did not know where he was, but he knew the all too familiar sterile setting of a testing chamber. He had never been on this side of the double-sided windows before, nor had he anticipated that he would be here.
Footsteps approached; the soft click of heels gave away the identity of his captor. Warm, soft hands, so repulsive and unwanted, touched his throat, holding it tight before piercing it with a needle. Slowly, the plunger sealed shut as a new toxin filled his veins. It was too soon for another injection; too soon and far too much.
His vision shivered and blurred a silent warning of the horror that was to come. A breath later, every cell in his body felt as though they were constricting, expanding, and threatening to burst. The pain he had felt moments ago paled to the white-hot stars that began to explode violently behind his eyes and beneath his skin.
Pride ensured he did not scream; he refused to give the bitch the pleasure.
Needles continued to pierce his flesh, forcing his coherent thoughts to shatter beneath the ever-increasing crescendo of pain and the primal instincts of the progenitor virus he carried. Echoing faraway and pounding into his ears he could hear the sound of voices calming speaking of live test samples, subjects, and hypotheses.
It was very sort of conversation he so often had with the late William Birkin. Only now, he was the subject in question and his body was the sample.
The destiny he once believed was so clear and entirely within his grasp was no longer in his control. It would be weeks later before he would find the strength to wonder if it had ever been.
It had been four months, five days, twenty-one hours, eighteen minutes and seven seconds and all he could think about was her.
Rating/warnings: PG-14 (dark themes)
Fandom: Resident Evil (AU so very AU!)
Pairing/Characters: Albert Wesker (Claire Redfield and Excella Gionni mentioned)
Beta: A huge thank you to cariel for beta reading this so it looks all spiffy and makes sense! =D
Artist Notes: This was inspired by knune's tales Running up that Hill Part 1 and part 2 as well as Poet and the Muse and Little Negative of Hopes Refined all of which are must reads for all Claire/Wesker fans! Believe me you won't be disappointed
On that note this tale takes place during the events of 'Poet and The Muse' and 'Little Negative of Hopes Refined'. Any mistakes in the personalities and setting are entirely my own and I apologize in advance *bluses*
Also this ficlet/drabble was written and inspired by knune's universe (as they have given me permission) so credit goes to her for letting me play in her playground! =D
As such this tale is for her.
It had been four months, five days, twenty-one hours, fifteen minutes and nineteen since he had last seen her. It was also five months since the game ended. Five horrifying months since he, Albert Wesker, had lost to Excella Gionni.
All it took was a slight of manicured hands, a needle’s prick against cool skin, and his entire world had come crashing down.
Oh, I have my eyes set on something much bigger.
Wesker could still hear the echo of her final words as he discovered too late that what she had injected into his arm had not been the Uroboros virus. He had underestimated Excella’s ambition and it cost him everything.
Trapped and paralyzed by the very poison he had created years ago the former Umbrella agent was strapped to a sterile table helpless as excruciating pain coursed through his veins bringing him to new heights of suffering.
The sound of distant voices, one familiar, another unknown, echoed and pounded against his throbbing ears, a vicious reminder that even a god could be made mortal. Wesker did not know where he was, but he knew the all too familiar sterile setting of a testing chamber. He had never been on this side of the double-sided windows before, nor had he anticipated that he would be here.
Footsteps approached; the soft click of heels gave away the identity of his captor. Warm, soft hands, so repulsive and unwanted, touched his throat, holding it tight before piercing it with a needle. Slowly, the plunger sealed shut as a new toxin filled his veins. It was too soon for another injection; too soon and far too much.
His vision shivered and blurred a silent warning of the horror that was to come. A breath later, every cell in his body felt as though they were constricting, expanding, and threatening to burst. The pain he had felt moments ago paled to the white-hot stars that began to explode violently behind his eyes and beneath his skin.
Pride ensured he did not scream; he refused to give the bitch the pleasure.
Needles continued to pierce his flesh, forcing his coherent thoughts to shatter beneath the ever-increasing crescendo of pain and the primal instincts of the progenitor virus he carried. Echoing faraway and pounding into his ears he could hear the sound of voices calming speaking of live test samples, subjects, and hypotheses.
It was very sort of conversation he so often had with the late William Birkin. Only now, he was the subject in question and his body was the sample.
The destiny he once believed was so clear and entirely within his grasp was no longer in his control. It would be weeks later before he would find the strength to wonder if it had ever been.
It had been four months, five days, twenty-one hours, eighteen minutes and seven seconds and all he could think about was her.