[Drabble]
Player: suzumeshoujo
Subject: Birkin, Wesker
Table: A
Prompt: 001: Evidence
Notes: For a fun drinking game, take a shot every time I say the word usual or usually. Remember kids, don’t drink and drive.
March 4, 1988. 5:59 a.m.
Birkin hadn’t had a chance to sleep at all. He was still coming down from his adrenaline rush. This had to be why psychopaths killed people. It was, in a word, fun. Not that he was a psychopath. Not at all. Wesker and he hadn’t done that for their own gratification. Well, maybe Wesker did. But not Birkin. No, Birkin actually had something physical to gain: Dr. Marcus’s research that he guarded so thoroughly, that he must have told at least one person he would only give up over his dead body. It’s not wise to tempt fate like that, doctor. He chuckled darkly to himself.
The alarm clock buzzed its usual morning greeting. Birkin, as usual, didn’t even need it. As usual, he immediately poured himself a cup of coffee. As usual, he was trying to focus on the next great breakthrough of the T-virus. But all he could see when he closed his eyes was an old man murmuring his name with his last breath as he laughed. Tossed his head back and laughed. Not even Wesker laughed.
He was sick. Needed help. Must have been the stress of this job. He just cracked under pressure finally. Like everyone said he would when he started and they learned he was just fifteen. He was twisted. Crazy.
He shook himself from these thoughts. Spencer ordered it. Needed it to be done. Marcus’s work was going nowhere. He needed two newer, younger, smarter scientists to take over. And Birkin and Wesker were perfect for the job. Besides, Wesker was the one who wanted to see the old man die with his own two eyes. He just followed blindly, as usual. And, as usual, Wesker said something suave: “Ah... Time to die, doctor.” As usual, he was more focused on advancing his own career: “I’ll take over your research.” There was nothing unusual about this, so why did he feel so... Out of place?
Wesker barged into his room. “There’s been an accident,” he said. They had rehearsed this several times before. Just in case someone was listening, they wanted it to be believable. Not leave any breadcrumbs in their direction.
Birkin just stared blankly at him, the question written in his eyes. As usual.
“Dr. Marcus is dead.”
Birkin mocked fear and shock and worry. Sadness was an emotion he knew he couldn’t fake. He didn’t want to fake it. Everyone would know it was fake. No Umbrella employee was ever actually sad when this happened. This was usual enough to make most employees numb to the deaths and disappearances of top scientists. Besides, it usually meant everyone would get promoted and you didn’t work for Umbrella if you cared about human life more than you cared for yourself.
As usual, Wesker simply took off his sunglasses, polishing them on his lab coat while his friend ‘grieved’. “Come. Spencer is counting on us to dispose of the evidence.” He returned them to his face, turning around and beginning to walk out.
“What?!” That wasn’t part of the plan. Unusual. Someone would suspect something. They’d go to jail for life if they were lucky. Get killed if they were unlucky. They still use the electric chair in this state, don’t they?
“Spencer personally asked us to take care of this. Perhaps he figured we might want to say good-bye.” A smirk, barely noticeable to most, painfully obvious to Birkin. A dead give away. But then he smirked, too. Couldn’t help it, really. After ten years of boring, stagnant research on leeches, he had a lot to say to that idiotic old man. ‘Good-bye’ was certainly not one of them and ‘good riddance’ was significantly more accurate.
They walked in silence to the labs. Various researchers, technicians, and janitors were already cleaning up the rest of the mess: Broken glass, blood, bullets, leeches that had gotten free... In an hour, no one would suspect there had been a dead body in here, that the two murderers were getting the promotion of a lifetime, that a pair of twenty-somethings could kill a man in cold blood... No, not cold blood, Birkin reminded himself fervently, hoisting the body over his shoulder. He chose to ignore that Marcus had managed to give him a final ‘fuck you’ from beyond the grave by smearing the collar of his lab coat in his already-stale blood. We did this for research. For the good of the company. For the good of ourselves. For Spencer. He would have fired us - or worse - if we refused. We were backed into a corner. We had to do this. We had no choice!
As usual, the body was carried to a nearby lake close to the train-tracks. A nice fishing spot, from what he’d heard. As usual, it floated for a few seconds, staining the water red, before the only true evidence against them sunk to the bottom.
As usual, Birkin and Wesker stood there in complete silence for a few seconds before exchanging a look that spoke volumes. They’d both crossed over the threshold and there was no turning back now.
Subject: Birkin, Wesker
Table: A
Prompt: 001: Evidence
Notes: For a fun drinking game, take a shot every time I say the word usual or usually. Remember kids, don’t drink and drive.
March 4, 1988. 5:59 a.m.
Birkin hadn’t had a chance to sleep at all. He was still coming down from his adrenaline rush. This had to be why psychopaths killed people. It was, in a word, fun. Not that he was a psychopath. Not at all. Wesker and he hadn’t done that for their own gratification. Well, maybe Wesker did. But not Birkin. No, Birkin actually had something physical to gain: Dr. Marcus’s research that he guarded so thoroughly, that he must have told at least one person he would only give up over his dead body. It’s not wise to tempt fate like that, doctor. He chuckled darkly to himself.
The alarm clock buzzed its usual morning greeting. Birkin, as usual, didn’t even need it. As usual, he immediately poured himself a cup of coffee. As usual, he was trying to focus on the next great breakthrough of the T-virus. But all he could see when he closed his eyes was an old man murmuring his name with his last breath as he laughed. Tossed his head back and laughed. Not even Wesker laughed.
He was sick. Needed help. Must have been the stress of this job. He just cracked under pressure finally. Like everyone said he would when he started and they learned he was just fifteen. He was twisted. Crazy.
He shook himself from these thoughts. Spencer ordered it. Needed it to be done. Marcus’s work was going nowhere. He needed two newer, younger, smarter scientists to take over. And Birkin and Wesker were perfect for the job. Besides, Wesker was the one who wanted to see the old man die with his own two eyes. He just followed blindly, as usual. And, as usual, Wesker said something suave: “Ah... Time to die, doctor.” As usual, he was more focused on advancing his own career: “I’ll take over your research.” There was nothing unusual about this, so why did he feel so... Out of place?
Wesker barged into his room. “There’s been an accident,” he said. They had rehearsed this several times before. Just in case someone was listening, they wanted it to be believable. Not leave any breadcrumbs in their direction.
Birkin just stared blankly at him, the question written in his eyes. As usual.
“Dr. Marcus is dead.”
Birkin mocked fear and shock and worry. Sadness was an emotion he knew he couldn’t fake. He didn’t want to fake it. Everyone would know it was fake. No Umbrella employee was ever actually sad when this happened. This was usual enough to make most employees numb to the deaths and disappearances of top scientists. Besides, it usually meant everyone would get promoted and you didn’t work for Umbrella if you cared about human life more than you cared for yourself.
As usual, Wesker simply took off his sunglasses, polishing them on his lab coat while his friend ‘grieved’. “Come. Spencer is counting on us to dispose of the evidence.” He returned them to his face, turning around and beginning to walk out.
“What?!” That wasn’t part of the plan. Unusual. Someone would suspect something. They’d go to jail for life if they were lucky. Get killed if they were unlucky. They still use the electric chair in this state, don’t they?
“Spencer personally asked us to take care of this. Perhaps he figured we might want to say good-bye.” A smirk, barely noticeable to most, painfully obvious to Birkin. A dead give away. But then he smirked, too. Couldn’t help it, really. After ten years of boring, stagnant research on leeches, he had a lot to say to that idiotic old man. ‘Good-bye’ was certainly not one of them and ‘good riddance’ was significantly more accurate.
They walked in silence to the labs. Various researchers, technicians, and janitors were already cleaning up the rest of the mess: Broken glass, blood, bullets, leeches that had gotten free... In an hour, no one would suspect there had been a dead body in here, that the two murderers were getting the promotion of a lifetime, that a pair of twenty-somethings could kill a man in cold blood... No, not cold blood, Birkin reminded himself fervently, hoisting the body over his shoulder. He chose to ignore that Marcus had managed to give him a final ‘fuck you’ from beyond the grave by smearing the collar of his lab coat in his already-stale blood. We did this for research. For the good of the company. For the good of ourselves. For Spencer. He would have fired us - or worse - if we refused. We were backed into a corner. We had to do this. We had no choice!
As usual, the body was carried to a nearby lake close to the train-tracks. A nice fishing spot, from what he’d heard. As usual, it floated for a few seconds, staining the water red, before the only true evidence against them sunk to the bottom.
As usual, Birkin and Wesker stood there in complete silence for a few seconds before exchanging a look that spoke volumes. They’d both crossed over the threshold and there was no turning back now.