(no subject)

[president_evil]

"What do we have?"




The Games:

Tribute, Victor and Mentor, Peacekeeper, Rebel. Villain? Hero? The last two two are debatable, depending on who's asking, but there's no denying Wesker wore a lot of hats during his stay in Panem.

Pick your poison and give me all the things!.


Other:

Something else you want Wesker for?

Give me even more things!

Comments

For Poe - Future AU

[president_evil]

The virus carried him through the ages; the gift that kept giving - strength and vitality unending. Greater even than any of them had guessed. As the rest of Umbrella and her creations withered and died, he endured, a guiding hand in mankind's slow rebirth. A whisper in the dark. A God among mortals.

But for all his knowledge, for all his power, Wesker couldn't stop humanity from being what it was. Couldn't save it from itself. The world raged, and burned, and died from T, from war, from famine, from the very weight of itself. Again, and again. Blood and screaming, rebuild and rise, and then another great shuttering cataclysm. Even again unto the stars. Into worlds even he never could have imagined.

And he'd grown so weary of the cycle. So sickened by the same failings. The same limitations. Mankind's inability to get out of its own way; to see beyond itself.... T might have been the answer, as it had been for him, but its secrets remained locked away. It's temper fickle. It's gifts selective.

So, like other gods before him, he turned his eye, and left them in the dark.

Into the ages he slumbered, shuttered safely away, his secret carried only by a few. So very few. Details were eventually lost. The truth faded away.

Until only the whisper of remembered power remained.

[flightforfreedom]

Poe was not used to flying with cargo - that much was obvious. He'd had to 'liberate' a freighter from a nearby smuggling den in order to even somehow get the giant thing aboard. What it was, he had no idea. A casket? A stasis pod? Who even knew.

All he knew was that the First Order wanted it, and that meant he wasn't going to let them have it.

It was almost by chance that he even discovered it at the first place. BB-8 had intercepted a signal on the First Order communications, with excited chatter and a location. He had just been damn sure to be the first one to get there.

He'd had to hide his X-wing, which was not his perferred method but there was no way that the Object was fitting into his small one-seat fighter. The smugglers who had previously owned the freighter still had another ship, so Poe and BB-8 had to gently render it out of order. Not forever. And he'd make sure that the ship was returned to them later. But he needed it, right now.

Lugging the Object onto the ship had been a Thing. BB-8 hadn't been any help, so Poe had to do the whole thing himself, half expecting for the First Order to jump out of the shadows at any moment. He heard the TIEs rip by overhead, but he'd used the X-Wing to transport the Object a little while away with just a tether, so they didn't spot him. He hoped they didn't find the X-Wing.

Now he was on the way home. A long few days in Hyperspace, with only BB-8 for company, but that, at least, he didn't mind.

[president_evil]

It was meant to be cumbersome. It was not supposed to be a simple affair. The terms of his suspension were Wesker's own, despite the instructions he'd left in his wake.

Always a fail-safe. Nothing left to chance.

So tomb scrapped along. Bumping. Grinding. And within there was thunder, and a roar like waves, as the all-chemical bath shifted for the first time in an eon. There was lightning as neurons shivered and came alive.

There was a whisper. An ancient voice, grey, in the space between life and death.

It promised. It commanded.

The heart in Wesker's chest beat - once, laborious, and painful, then again, hard, but quicker, and then again, and again the rhythm smoothing, strengthening.

The tomb hissed, seals breaking in a rush of amniotic fluid. The shutdown sequence commencing as Wesker took his first breath.

[flightforfreedom]

"What have we broken now?" Poe sighed allowed to his droid companion, swinging himself out of his seat to investigate the hissing. This heap of junk that he was flying felt liable to fall apart at any moment, so he wasn't leaving anything to chance.

He followed the sound, leading right to the loading bay, and the giant Object.

Which was now making odd noises.

Okay, that was bad.

He reached for his blaster at his side, fingers hovering over it as he called back to BB-8, without taking his eyes away from the Object.

"Hey buddy? We might have a problem."

[president_evil]

For several long, tense moments, nothing happened. The hiss faded into silence as the pressure stabilized and then there was only the lingering drip of the fluid, splattering against the deck floor. Drip, drip, drip, like the first uncertain drops at the edge of a storm front, warning of what was to come.

Suddenly, some hidden machinations came to life and with a crack the face of the tomb split neatly down the middle. The two halves lifted with a slow purr, and folded aside, were they sat like the wings of some great beast. From inside came the sound of movement, a wet shifting - stretching. A careful test after so long a slumber.

A hand appeared, its long, pale-fingers gripping at the edge of the pod. Then the other, on the opposite side. Together they squeezed, pushed, and the muscled body rose up. Red serpentine eyes blinked, narrowing against the light as they moved unerringly across the hold and landed on Poe.

[president_evil]

Being captured was disappointing, but not an especially surprising turn of events. Of course The First Order wasn't simply going to give up the chase because they'd been outmaneuvered once - he wouldn't have. And Wesker was, there was simply no denying it, a millennia behind. The historical vids could tell him what a Sith was, but encountering one in the field of battle for the first time was another thing entirely.

A true learning experience. One of his first in a long time.

Despite the pain of his defeat, both to his physical self and his ego, there was something in that at least. A new challenge. New possibilities. ....And, if nothing else, being taken to the Order's base of operations gave him a chance to gather intel. When he escaped, everything he saw and heard would be of use.

He kept these things in mind, as the one calling himself Kylo Ren, appeared in his cell again. As he felt the first ripple of pressure at the base of his skull. As the room began to fade again into a burning blur and the voice whispered from nowhere and everywhere Tell Me.

[flightforfreedom]

It was pure luck, that Poe was here. He had gone to get supplies in a town, and come back to Kylo Ren marching Wesker onto his shuttle. He had sworn violently then gone straight for one of the tie-fighters that had landed with the shuttle, knocking out the pilot and taking his place - outfit helmet and all - and following them back to the Star Destroyer.

Then he disappeared into the crowd.

It wasn't the first time he'd gone undercover, so at least he knew the routine. The trouble was trying to get to Ren's torture chamber without making himself obvious. He had to keep his mind clear, or the Dark Knight would pick up his thoughts and come out to kill him. So instead he ran flight checks, and tried to get closer to the room.

With a little luck, maybe Ren would be too distracted.....

[president_evil]

Wesker was no Sith, no Jedi, but he had the virus. T swimming in his veins; bonded to his very cells. Resisting, repairing, shielding him, as Ren attempted to force his way into Wesker's body, into his mind. A battle of wills, they pushed one another. Bone snapped and knit again. Vessels burst and bled and swelled again.

Wesker's eyes burned red. Blood dripped from Ren's nose.

Wesker snarled, the curl of his lip the only movement left to him. Ren drew back, gathering up his power, and slammed it forward again.

There was a cry, an animal wounded and enraged, as the wall between them shattered.

[flightforfreedom]

Not far now. So far so good, no one had seen him, and he was close enough that he could slide into a dark corner of the hall in sight of the door --

And suddenly everything was pain, and he blacked out.

[president_evil]

The power surged, and spilled over. Wesker's mind rushed with it, a rush of images. Sounds.

A laugh. Pale hair.

Then red and white. A logo, everywhere. An i.d. badge, cufflinks, a necklace, above a blackboard. There was Wesker's voice, higher, younger, in the sing-song monotone of recitation: "Obedience Breeds Discipline, Discipline Breeds Unity, Unity Breeds Power, Power is Life."

A man, older, power and confidence radiating from him, "You were born for this."

A heartbeat. Slowing. Skipping. Stopping. And then pain, blinding and burning. And water, in his throat, gagged up onto the floor between his hands as figures in white closed in.

Hunger. Copper in his mouth, heat running down his throat. Flesh between his teeth.

Strength surging, the heartbeat a drum as a man's face stared up into his own with bulging eyes and blue-tinged lips. Wesker's hands unwound slowly from around his throat.

"You know what to do," the man of confidence and power again as they walked together. "Only you will know. I can only trust you."

Screaming. People running. Beastly shapes lurching after them. A world burning, lights winking out across a slowly revolving globe. A flash of red and a soft, young voice, "1,482 humans remaining," as honey-colored liquor splashed into a iced glass.

A woman. Dark hair, and a sharp, beautiful face. Her eyes blazing with determination. "I'm going to kill you." That dark hair spilling across her face as he kicks her to the floor and she tumbles and rolls, gasping in pain. And then her face again, inches from his own as she forces the grenade into his bloodied hand. As the powerful man flees, a shadow on the edge of his darkening vision.

Her voice, softer, older. "You're dying. Get on with it."

A heartbeat skipping. Stopping.

A heartbeat skipping. Starting.

Pain, burning and blinding again.

A mop of dark hair, and a bemused expression....

Insert Smut Trope

[president_evil]

It was inevitable. Wesker had long accepted this fact. It was also inconvenient, and grated upon his very nature to have anything else dictate his actions for him, but he was resigned to it.

The virus needed to feed.

And so long in the dark, years upon years of replication, the need came again. Stronger. More demanding than he'd ever known before. It burned in his veins, turned his throat to ash.

He stalked the halls of the ship, eyes like flames, following the siren call of a distant heartbeat.

[flightforfreedom]

Poe was flying. Or, more accurately, he was sitting lesuirely in the cockpit, watching the universe go by while they flew through hyperspace. He hadn't been able to sleep - fidgety and restless - and had hoped he'd feel better in here.

He didn't. Not really. His mind kept wandering to places it shouldn't, to the point where just thinking about going into the back and finding Wesker was making his trousers grow tight. Moron. He was a god damned moron with half a death wish, but...

Well, damn.

[president_evil]

A whisper of leather, the gentle tap of a boot heel on leather. That was all the warning Poe would get. Then Wesker was there, a blur of muscle and heat.

One tightly gloved hand wrapped in fabric of Poe's shirt, hauling him bodily from the jumpsuit as if his weight were nothing. There was no pause, no hesitation, only a shift of weight before that same fist was pinning him to the wall of the hull.

The red eyes were pitless, boring into Poe's as Wesker's nose flared and the muscles of his throat rolled.

[flightforfreedom]

Wesker moved impossibly fast, and suddenly Poe was slammed up against the bulkhead, eyes wide as all the breath was forced from his lungs. He coughed, trying to swallow.

"What-- what the hell are you--"

[president_evil]

A flex of his fingers, a ripple of muscle, and he pulled Poe away from the wall to slam him against it again.

"Silence."

Inconvenient. He needed a pilot. He needed this man, at the present. Killing him, while satisfying the most basic of his needs, would not further him in another other way. Wesker was an intelligent enough man to recognize and respect his own shortcomings.

But he also needed to feed.

His throat constricted, muscles shifting, splitting. Demanding. His voice went low and hoarse.

"Not one word." Another slam, for emphasis, and then he was shifting closer - a silken step, a knee sliding between Poe's thighs. "And you may survive."

For Molotov

[president_evil]

There are flowers on Wesker's desk. Pale, long-petaled affairs, with a soft, sweet scent that drifts gently in the air of his office. It doesn't quite mask the chemical taste that lingers even here, floors above the hot labs, but it helps.

He never did care for the burn of recycled air.

He also appreciates the unexpectedness of them in his presence. The way they catch guests off guard. The surprise so clear on their faces amuses him.

It's the little things.

He prunes away the dead blooms with steady, long-fingered hands. Stems snapping like bones; heads rollings across the gleaming desktop.

[molotov]

If there's anything that can fail to surprise Molotov, it's flowers. She's now so constantly surrounded by plants of all kinds that she's more surprised to walk into a room and not find a vase or two. It's not her choice -- she likes flowers just fine, but she's not the kind of woman who's infatuated with them -- but between her husband and her fans, she's received more bouquets in two years than she had in her entire life previously. So she's not shocked to see flowers on Wesker's desk; it's him personally pruning them that makes her quirk her eyebrow as she walks in.

She walks in as she knocks, with the kind of confidence that might suggest that not only does she herself work there, but that she might be Wesker's superior, someone who has the right to behave in such a way. She is clutching a fine bottle of red wine, though, to soothe any wounds her ridiculous nerve inflicts.

"I would have saved the money if I knew you liked flowers," she quips, offering the bottle. "God knows I have more than enough of them in the garden."

[president_evil]

He hears the footstep before the knock - barely, like a whispered suggestion - and if he is surprised to see her, it doesn't show. Neither, does he seem to take any offense at her presumption.

He's had worse guests, with less announcement.

Molotov, and occasionally her husband, he even enjoys - as much as he does any person. Enough even to regally tip his head, and return to plucking petals.

"Tom treats them like pets," he pulls sharply on a bloom, and studies the effect. "These were bred to die, and smell all the sweeter for it." Seemingly satisfied, he settles back in his chair and gestures to a low side-table, where a serving tray waited. The bucket chilled, glasses gleaming. "Wine doesn't come with a lecture."

[molotov]

She pours glasses before she places the wine in the bucket, and as she turns to place his in front of him, she takes a healthy sip of her own. Molotov won't smoke, out of courtesy to Wesker's heightened sense of smell, but that does mean she has to drink to dull the absence of a cigarette in her hand. She sits in the seat across the desk from his ridiculous dragon chair (infinitely more badass than Tom's tree throne, she can admit) with a laugh.

"I see you have never had the pleasure of listening to a monologue about soil conditions and how they affect grape crops." Her tone has the knowing, affectionate lilt of someone who has sat through a lot of lectures about plants. So many lectures. But she loves her husband deeply, and is willing to tolerate it for the sake of his happiness. (But it better make him really happy.)

Reaching out, Molotov brushes one of the petals with a vague curiosity, like she's trying to see whatever made that particular pull the right one. She can't see it though, and sits back to take another sip, rolling her shoulder in a shrug. "Everything dies, especially here. The plant is lucky it only has to die once. That sweetness will be the same kind of fetid as everything else when the time comes."

A smirk ghosts across her face when she thinks about it for a moment. "Or do you like that smell too?"

[president_evil]

He drinks, by contrast, slowly, and slightly. A courtesy, more than a pleasure. Well they both knew what little taste he had anymore, and what little there was capable of stimulating it. It was a show for her, respecting the gesture she'd made, out of what he could remember from when he could still feel the bite and the burn.

He sipped, and leaned easily back between fangs of the beast, swirling the bloody remainder languidly in the glass. (Aesthetically, she was, as ever, on point.)

"It can cloy," he admits, as casually as if discussing the passing weather, but in the comfortably low light, his eyes gleam. "But one has to appreciate the distinctness of it. It's practically an instinct; from somewhere deep in the species' collective past. There's no mistaking it, or what it means."

You Think You're the Only One Who's Ever Taken Aim - Joan, AU [Before Black and Grey]

[president_evil]

"I'm flattered."

Joan's visit was unexpected, but not unpleasant, Wesker decided. A fingertip tapped against the edge of his glass as he stepped back and watched her enter his home. Watched her take it in and make her notes in that silent way she did. Observing. Thinking, even as she pretended not to.

It was modern and sleek, but not austere. There was art: carefully selected, thoughtfully placed. Flowers, an almost shocking splash of red, in a heavy crystal vase. The rugs thick and luxurious on pristine stone floors.

Things that pleased him, often for no other reason then they existed.

Beauty, he believed, had it's purpose and he saw no reason to pretend otherwise.

"Can I offer you a drink?"

[formersurgeon]

Joan takes in the sleek aesthetic of the place, appreciating it even as she reflexively analyzes it. It seems fitting that his house have this particular balance of stark functionality and essential beauty. The man himself seems to her to have a similar dynamic. She's not blind to the fact that he's ruthless and, to be generous, morally gray. But there's something to him she's still drawn to. Something she can't exactly explain.

"Sure," she says, accepting the offer of a drink with a smile.

[president_evil]

There was a small curve to his lips, and he turned to lead her deeper inside.

"Should I be expecting more company this evening?" he asks, after her partner.

Wesker could appreciate Sherlock's refreshing blunt directness, and respect the sheer brilliance the man possessed, but he found it more interesting still that he wasn't present. She'd chosen to come alone.

He turned that over in his mind, considering the possibilities. (It's more than interesting. There's a something... satisfying.)

He slips behind the bar with easy movement. If there is normally staff to do this for him, they are no where to be seen now.

"Or perhaps you have news best delivered alone?"

It's an out. (But for whom?)

[formersurgeon]

"Sherlock is meeting with the captain for another case," she answers as she follows him. It's true, but Joan is also okay with coming here alone. She's not under the delusion that Wesker isn't dangerous. He clearly is. She's aware of his intentionally undefined military service, of his Machiavellian actions for Umbrella. But she doesn't think he'd harm her. And she suspects he may be more open when it's just her he's talking to, without Sherlock's bluntness.

"I do have some things to go over."

[president_evil]

"Oh?" His hands are efficient, plucking a second glass from the polished back of his bar and setting it with his to refill them both from the bottle he'd left out, but his eyebrows lift. A low amusement warms the edges of his voice. "Am I to be saved already?"