liewiththedead (liewiththedead) wrote in harmony_fics, @ 2010-10-08 00:54:00 |
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Current mood: | sleepy |
Current music: | Deadboy and the Elephantmen - Evil Friend |
Entry tags: | albert wesker, author: dannielle, wesker/birkin, william birkin |
[It never ends at the death of things. Love will swing. Burn everything and sing, evil friend]
WHO: Albert Wesker and William Birkin
WHAT: For Ilene. Based on this conversation. Wesker and Birkin went fishing and brought their catches back for a little, uh, fun.
WHERE: Laboratory/morgue under Birkin's office.
WHEN: Wednesday, October 6th, late night
WARNINGS: Contains violence, and might be nonsensical in some places. I blame sleep deprivation.
“I much prefer the cold chambers with individual slots,” Birkin declared as if he’d been asked, giving his own a fond pat on one of its doors.
This was answered immediately by a plea for mercy from the individual flailing about inside that particular compartment, but Wesker spared neither distraction more than a glance before turning his attention back to the squirming body strapped to the mortuary table.
Even if he cared to hear the reasoning behind Birkin's preferences, encouragement was not necessary. Short of a gag or a debilitating jaw injury, few things could deter the man from nattering on when it suited him, and alcohol, it would seem, only ensured his ever crisscrossing trains of thought came to an audible collision that much faster.
“The design makes escape difficult,” Birkin continued, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of limbs frantically pounding against the steel, however his brisk tone was sullied by an occasional slur, lending to the impression that his words were pouring out on top of each other. “They can’t attack easily if you put them in headfirst. Of course, the refrigerators with the full height doors will suffice in a pinch, but it's a shared chamber, so there’s a high risk of contamination. It verges into meat locker territory, if you ask me.” He giggled. “I would just as soon fold them in half and stuff them into a deep freezer. And those lateral storage models--”
“Very hazardous,” Wesker drawled.
“Thank you. You would think that would’ve been common sense in our line of work. I almost lost Annette to a T-carrier in one of those infernal things.”
“A near tragedy.”
Birkin contemplated that remark for a moment, then discarded it. “Did you ever see the morgue in the Raccoon City labs?” he asked wistfully. “The cold chamber there was enormous. Individual slots as far as the eye can see. It was like walking into a funhouse--” With a quick breath, he inquired, “Now you’re certain this is faked?”
“Quite.”
One did not spend years posing as a police officer without learning how to spot a fabrication, and a poor one at that. Of course, given Birkin’s selective attention span regarding that which did not concern him directly, ignorance about such a thing was to be expected.
Straightening up, Wesker gently deposited the scalpel in a nearby instrument tray before reaching over to pluck the last strip of meat free. The torso beneath his fingers arched and writhed as the young woman on the table gave a muffled sob of disapproval, but he paid it no mind, instead turning to add the excised tissue to the neat little pile that was sitting atop the adjacent autopsy podium.
“Perfect,” he murmured, more to himself than his plaything -- or Birkin, for that matter, who was still examining her companion’s altered drivers license with a dopey smile on his face.
Wesker then stepped back, cocking his head one way, then another, admiring his handiwork from a variety of angles.
“Shave and a haircut,” Birkin said suddenly, jarring him out of his self-satisfied trance.
“Mm?” He raised his gaze from the mutilated midriff to the man, absently flicking blood off his fingertips.
Birkin nodded toward the cold chamber door. “Wait for it.”
Wesker waited, listening between the rapid, whimpering sighs of the specimen on the table. The girl inside was slamming every inch of herself against every inch of accessible surface within the compartment, yet he failed to discern that familiar rhythm.
“I believe you’re imagining things.”
Birkin flapped a hand at him. “Shut up and listen.”
Seconds bled into minutes before, once several promising thumps had been followed by a guttural scream, Birkin shook his head ruefully, heaving a loud sigh. “Well now she’s just improvising.”
Wesker snorted, moving away to rinse his hands in the sink. In the time it took for him to dry them with a paper towel and turn back around, Birkin had slinked across the room, stealthy as a nervous cat, to invade his personal space.
“How can you be certain?” he demanded, waving the license in his face.
“Thickness,” Wesker replied easily, squeezing past Birkin and crossing the laboratory to fetch the phone from the pocket of his coat. “The card was re-laminated after the birth date was altered. Among other things.”
It wasn‘t long before he heard the inevitable follow-up.
“How old do you suppose she really is?” The man was nothing if not obsessed with age. “Sixteen?” he ventured hopefully.
“Older.”
“Well she can’t be twenty-one.”
“So what does that tell you.”
“…You know, don’t you?”
Wesker gave a noncommittal noise, adjusting the settings on the phone’s camera.
“Albert.”
“Yes?”
“Tell me.”
“Do you really wish to know?”
Birkin stamped his foot. “Yes!”
“Nineteen.”
A long, miserable pout was his reward for honesty.
“Why is that when I want you to lie you go and spoil it by telling the truth for once in your life - your second life? Which I have yet to be thanked for, by the way.”
Wesker chuckled. “My mistake. Perhaps the university I.D. in her wallet was also a fake.”
“You think?” Even easier to please when intoxicated, Birkin brightened like a ray of sunshine. “Where--?”
“The fireplace in your study. Along with the rest of their personal effects.”
“I despise your practicality sometimes,” he murmured, slumping dramatically, before his brain randomly switched gears, prompting him to saunter closer. “…What on earth are you doing anyway?”
“Fulfilling a promise.”
“A promise.” He sounded unconvinced, peering over Wesker’s shoulder to see the image on the screen. “What sort of promise?”
“William, you stink of alcohol.”
He sniffed. “This is part of some kind of warped foreplay with your elf, isn’t it?”
Wesker grunted.
“Does she send you interesting pictures too?”
“William.”
“May I see them?” He cleared his throat. “For research purposes, you understand.”
Grasping the younger man by the scruff of the shirt, Wesker lifted him an arm’s length away and dropped him.
Instead of acknowledging the dismissal, Birkin, much like a human wind-up toy, simply marched off in the direction his feet were pointed the instant they hit the floor.
“CR… AW?” he read aloud, leaning over the quivering form on the table. “CRAW? What does CRA-- Oh. Oh.” He spun around, sporting a lopsided smile and wagging a finger. “You are one sick, sick puppy, Albert.”
Pot. Kettle. Honestly.
Wesker‘s lip twitched.
“Does Cymoril know?”
“It does not concern her.”
“Shows how well you understand the fairer sex.”
Choosing to ignore that comment, Wesker ushered Birkin aside with a sweep of his hand and finally snapped the picture, then sent it to a certain number he had lifted from patient files prior to the downfall of the Doctor‘s grand experiment.
Tormenting Claire Redfield was fast becoming the next best thing to ripping her fool brother’s heart out of his chest and force-feeding it to him.
“Did it come out blurry?” Birkin, who had once again sidled up next to him, was interested to know. “I imagine it did. Your friend here is not very lucid, but you definitely picked a wriggly one.”
Wesker slipped the phone into the pocket of his slacks. “It will suffice.”
Having accomplished what he set out to do, he picked up a second scalpel - one with a significantly larger blade - stepping forward wordlessly and raising it toward the woman’s throat.
Weak, but fearful, she reared upper body away instinctively, sobbing into the gag, her eyes rolling back in her head like that of a frightened horse.
“Wait!” Birkin barked, darting in to swat his hand away. “Don’t waste it.” They were always ‘it’ once he decided he had further use for them. “You are such a savage sometimes.”
“What do you have in mind?"
“We can discuss it later," he said, about-facing, prancing over to the cold chamber. “You had your play time, now I want to have mine.”
“As you wish.”
Amused, Wesker pulled up a stool and sat, watching Birkin wrench the door open and skillfully dodge the swinging high-heeled feet that awaited him. Years of experience dealing with human test subjects had served him well, indeed. He drew the slab out with enough force that when it reached the end of its track the girl lying upon it was launched like a projectile, thereby removing the need to wrestle her into submission.
She struck the floor hard, the sudden impact cutting short her frightened yelps, and Birkin circled closer, grinning wide.
“Hey there, sweetheart.” He toed her in the ribcage until she abandoned the fetal position to roll supine. “Still wanna see my Gigli saw?”