William Birkin (mutation) wrote in evilinresidence, @ 2008-07-23 23:13:00 |
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Entry tags: | birkin |
Who: William Birkin & Sergei
What: Time for Dr. Reanimator to show his stuff.
Where: An underground lab in the Coralon Complex.
Rating: We'll see. No sex though! :D
Birkin hadn't expected the conditions of being let out of the cell would mean he'd become Spencer's personal assistant. He felt almost like an intern, catering to the man's every whim. It left a horrible taste in his mouth. Even as a rookie at Umbrella, he hadn't been treated quite this way. Birkin had never been the type to respond well to demands.
When a man (clearly a Umbrella soldier) came to William's "assigned habitat" to deliver the message from Spencer, Birkin had considered breaking his neck and leaving him on the front porch. It would certainly keep any future messengers from coming to his home at four in the morning, telling him Sir Spencer "required his immediate presence" at the Complex.
But Birkin had gone anyway. Perhaps he was bored and interested in what the man wanted, now that he was unfortunately awake. Or perhaps he really was buying into Spencer's bluff. William liked to think it was the former, but thought perhaps he knew better.
The messenger led him back to the building he'd made his escape from only a few days prior. There, he'd had a short meeting with Spencer, and the man briefed him on what he was to do. Birkin couldn't say he liked the idea. Sure, he'd, as Spencer put it, brought a man back to life before, but that had required considerable planning ahead of time to pull off correctly. And now, he was supposed to work with limited resources and a mind still fuzzy from the mutations (and lucky to be functioning properly at all) to raise a man from the dead?
"You realize," William argued, "the chances of him being compatible with the virus are--"
But Spencer silenced him by raising a hand, a small, amused smile on his face. "Oh, no no no, sweet William." (William cringed visibly at the nickname.) "He is not dead. Not completely. Not yet, anyway... or, at the least, not when I last checked him."
The two men stood outside the room housing Sergei Vladimir's body. William watched Spencer carefully.
"If that's the case, why did you call me here?" he asked.
"You are a doctor, are you not? I believe the man may be in some need of medical attention. But of course, you'll see that for yourself..." Spencer smiled. "There is a communication device within the room. You can use it to contact me when you have finished. In fact, you can keep it."
William frowned, but nodded. He glanced towards the door, a thoughtful look on his face.
"Then I guess it's time to get to work," he answered, quietly. He walked through the door to the lab, taking in the stark, sterile environment.
When the door fell shut, he heard it lock.
Turning quickly, William stared incredulously at the door knob. He rushed to try it, but it was useless.
"Shit," he said, suddenly. "You can't be serious, you..."
And then, on the other side of the room, a device on a small metal prep table came to life, a voice issuing from its speaker.
"When you have finished, call me so I can undo the lock." It was Spencer's voice. "Good luck, doctor!"
With that, the voice died -- though whether it had more to say or not was unknown. Before Spencer could utter another word, Birkin had crossed the room, grabbed the device, and threw it hard against the wall.
Not the smartest thing to do to his only key to escape -- but too often, his anger came before his sense. Far too often. Albert had been able to balance that, to calm him, to...
But, Albert, he reminded himself bitterly, was not there.
...Another man, however, was. The body of a man known as Sergei Vladimir, according to Spencer, lying on a makeshift operating table before him. The man was quivering, his breathing shallow and irregular. Birkin placed two fingers to the man's neck -- his skin was cold and clammy -- and felt for a pulse. No surprise -- irregularity there, as well.
The injuries were certainly interesting. Birkin took his time examining the body. Who could have caused such damage? Or what?
...And what was he supposed to do about it?