A/N: This takes place during S.D. Perry's 'Umbrella Conspiracy' novel, which is a retelling of Resident Evil 1. Wesker has been clubbed over the head by Barry and barely escaped from Barry and Jill, and is now suffering from brain trauma.

Another wave of pain washed over him and he shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut tight. The blond had often been respected for his speed and precision in his movements, extremely agile and graceful when the need arose.

Right now both hands were pressed hard against the computer desk to support his weight, his previous journey anything but graceful or precise. Wesker had been forced to press his shoulder into the wall and lean into it, and even then his knees frequently locked up and sent him stumbling. Twice he'd fallen to his knees, caused by a floor swaying and changing shape and depth like the ocean, his disoriented senses failing to aid against the man's confusion.

The second time he fell, the blond considered not getting back up. The S.T.A.R.S. captain had just made it off the elevator and into a room short of his destination when all of his strength and energy seemed to leave him in a great, trembling exhale. Albert could feel the moist trail of blood running from his ears, felt it impairing his hearing. It was hard not to shake his head to rid himself of the uncomfortable sensation, but something stayed his desire for any sudden movements. Perhaps it was the nausea.

Wesker's bare fingers tightened on the floor, desperate to clutch something – anything, as a warm blanket began to descend on him. It wasn't so much that everything went dark as he simply ceased to care, retreating from the world as if slipping into a dream.

A loud thump forced his senses back – and too quickly, he noted, drawing a low groan from suddenly-parched lips. Tired blue eyes stared up at the grotesque bouncing figure of a 'mesh monkey', its claws looking particularly sharp.

Get up.

It lunged at him but he expected it; still he was too slow to truly intercept it. It buried its claws in his scalp and he felt teeth gnawing on his head, the hollow sound reverberating through his skull. Either from adrenaline or a lack to do otherwise he remained cold and distant, hands pressing on either side of the beast's head and squeezing. His grip was weak but steadily grew, the creature trying to shake its head and in the process tearing more of his scalp open, drenching his neck and behind his ears with the sticky fluid. It gave one last growl, attempting to pull back just as he pulled it close.

SQUELCH.

The skull finally collapsed, the attack ceasing immediately. He hadn't anticipated the other collapsing atop him (drenching him further in blood), but with soft grunts and gasps he'd managed to crawl out from under it, Wesker's adrenaline operating what little of his body still functioned.

Albert stood up slowly, his legs wobbling under him and causing him to sway. Quickly he threw his weight forward, slamming shoulder-first against a door. Behind him he heard the faint clacking of claws on metal, and trembling desperately grasped the door knob and twisted it sharply. The door couldn't have swung open quickly enough, and falling rather unceremoniously into the room he lashed out a leg to kick it shut once more. Wesker heard the angry snarl and bang of the monsters and allowed himself a quiet smile of satisfaction.

Finally.

And now here he was, weight pressed into the desk. His fingers had gone numb and his hands were shaking clumsily, which meant attempts to activate the self-destruct sequence had been especially difficult. But he'd done it, after only a few tired lapses of confusion (what was he typing again? Where was he?), and a woman's voice informed him of his success with a warm voice.

There was no surviving this. Wesker wasn't sure when he had accepted his fate, but it certainly brought a sobering clarity to the situation. Initially upon entering the room he'd hoped there would be a first aid spray, or a herb, or anything to help with his wounds, but quickly dismissed it as childish optimism with an overriding sense of survival.

Oh, Wesker was a survivalist, to be sure. But a trail of blood had crossed in front of his left eye, blinding him in that one, and the world took turns twisting and turning and simply fading to black. It was difficult to focus on any one thing, and his scientist's mind reminded him of what precisely blood running from his ears meant.

Given he could still hear, it could only be brain hemorrhaging.

It was satisfying to at least know Barry wouldn't get out. Barry, who had turned on him. Barry, who had taken his gun. Barry, who was so stupid and strong he'd broken the blond's skull with one meaty swing of his gun and no doubt thought nothing of it.

Albert's knees and arms were sore as well, but it was a detached sort of throbbing that was easy to ignore in the wake of his disorientation.

A loud bang at his side made him turn, but the action was too delayed to do more than watch as the door flung open and one of the primates lunged at him, toppling him over and tearing at his chest. The Kevlar vest was thankfully durable enough to keep it from puncturing organs immediately, and frightened he raised a forearm to its throat to keep it from tearing into his own.

So desperate.

Albert might have laughed in another situation. Here he was, resigned to death, the mansion ready to blow in – what was it, again?—and yet still he wasn't willing to let the thing have its way with him. Wesker did not lay down quietly; even certain failure he faced head-on. It wasn't a hope for success but a willingness to fall, a determination and perseverance to rise again and again, no matter what.

Because even failing was a learning experience. And because giving up meant surrendering a piece of yourself; but if you fought until the end, even if you loss you still won. A confusing paradox, but one borne of experience.

Albert cried out loudly when he felt teeth bury in his sensitive shin, crushing the bone there and shaking at his leg like a rabid dog. Everything was getting hazy now and he suddenly felt very, very dizzy; the primate atop him batted his arm away carelessly and the S.T.A.R.S. Captain found he couldn't breathe.

Gasping shallowly, he felt a sharp tug on his leg, and could only assume the monster there had torn a strip of flesh off and was now devouring it. A new creature took its place higher on his thigh and again he found himself crying out, twisting and kicking as a pounding drum began to play at the front of his skull, making his vision turn red and cloudy.

Blood and spittle ran from his lips, and a sudden searing pain caused him to arc up with one final cry, almost knocking the creature right off his chest. Then he stilled, head hitting the ground with a wet thump.

All at once the pain stopped. He could breath (though it burned) and his leg was sore but no longer had the sharp sting of something being torn into. A hiss followed by a squeal rattled to his left; but it seemed far off and distant, like the distant rumble of thunder miles away.

Then darkness spread over him, and his one good eye tiredly blinked up at the sight. What met his gaze immediately made all of his pain fade to the back of his mind, a tired but sincere smile crossing his lips.

There, stood over him curiously, was the Tyrant. Gorgeous to behold… A magnificent warrior, apparently born and not slain as he'd thought. On its massive claws the dead corpse of one of the primates twitched faintly; hopefully the other monsters had met a similar, gruesome death. Albert felt the briefest hint of pleasure at the beast being able to combat and destroy, as it had been intended to do.

With a flick of its wrist the primate was sent flying; again a dull sort of muffled noise met Wesker's bleeding brain, and he couldn't connect it with an actual action.

The Tyrant suddenly leaned over him, and a single glazed blue eye watched it in awe. Its teeth were completely exposed, its eyes a blank white. A large thudding tumor on its right breast acted as a heart, thick growths crawling out of it and up the creatures neck and head.

The Tyrant was a marvel. It was injected with the same virus as other humans, with no changes in conditions or dosage. Yet one in every five hundred people transformed into this super soldier; this beast, who was capable of speed, strength, and agility beyond any human comprehension. It was perfection; everything he and Birkin had worked for culminated in a single entity.

The creature grasped him suddenly, and Wesker fancied that it was lifting him from the torment and horror of this place.

It wasn't. It rose with an arm around the blond captain's waist, holding the body high against its own so that their faces were more or less even. The empty white eyes seemed to peer at the blue orb staring back at it, the movement of eyelids and brows indicating some form of thought on its part.

Perhaps it recalled his scent, or remembered him as the man constantly standing outside the tube admiring it through some odd peripheral sense.

The Tyrant suddenly set him down; Wesker wobbled, his left leg giving out where the shin and thigh had been torn into by the primate. Before collapsing a hard blow to his cheek sent him flying, twisting mid air and landing a few feet away on his belly. He gasped as new pain found its way through him, his arm twisted painfully under his stomach. The massive beast stormed over and Albert realized it was all over.

The creature stopped not a foot away.

At first, Wesker didn't understand. It suddenly took a menacing step, and something not yet shattered within the blond's mind clicked.

Get up.

Weakly, and gasping as sore muscles ached in complaint, he forced himself up onto his knees. Carefully from there he put his weight into his right knee and forced himself up, his left leg left alone.

The S.T.A.R.S. captain stared defiantly at the marvel before him, body swaying and so laughably fragile. His shoulders were hunched, eye narrowed. He would not lay down, even in the face of his own demise.

The Tyrant cocked its head. Then it struck Wesker again, with not nearly enough force to kill him or anywhere near its true potential, and again Albert was sent soaring, this time his back colliding with the edge of the desk before he crumpled forwards and collapsed on the metal floor. His knees stung through his pants, but that was the least of his worries. Adrenaline pumping once more, and blood running fresh from his mouth, he groped behind himself for the desk and used it to lever his broken body up, stomach knotting and threatening to eject its contents.

The grey figure moved to stand in front of him, staring down at the bloody male. Albert refused to back down, setting his jaw as it drew its hand back. A glassy sort of quality was there, a dim confusion, but that was the only sign he was mentally falling apart. This was competition; even at the most basic mentality he could understand that.

Wesker hadn't been prepared for the Tyrant to suddenly raise its foot and slam it down on his left kneecap, crushing the joint and causing the leg to bend backwards. Wesker cried out in pain, spittle and blood splashing the impassive tyrant, who merely curled its fist and slammed it into the side of weak human as a follow up. Albert didn't go quite as far this time, collapsing instead at its feet, but the pain was immeasurable and a thumping black seemed to pulse across his vision, obscuring his sight and allowing him only flashes of visuals, as if he were watching a slideshow.

There was something worse; Wesker was drowning. He was sure of it. Every raspy, wheezing breath did nothing to help his lungs and merely set his side aflame, and even the subtle attempt to shift caused lancing pain up and down his sides. Confusion tore at his mind; what the hell had happened? Why couldn't he breathe? Was he drowning?? Was there help nearby?? Why did everything ache so much?!

The pain incurred by breathing left a simple solution; not to breathe. In his delirium he attempted it, only to gasp hard for breath after a few seconds and reignite the pain in his side.

The pain in his left leg was far from comfortable as well, though it was nothing compared to having broken ribs. Most of his leg had gone numb now anyways, and besides the occasional throb he was more deadest on trying to breathe.

A large grey foot set itself in front of his face.

It's playing with me. He realized, a startling moment of clarity breaking the confusion and fog clouding his mind. If Albert just laid there it would get bored and kill him. So long as he was moving the Tyrant could draw this out, bat him around like a cat with a mouse.

All he had to do was stay down, and it would all be over.

It was a nice idea, though some childish, wistful Wesker tantrumed inwardly, wishing desperately for somewhere dark and safe to curl up where he could hide.

The second grey foot set itself in front of his face. The blond shuddered, terror momentarily stiffening his joints. Then, with a stubbornness only Albert Wesker could muster, he forced himself up amidst his screaming side and ruined left leg, shaking as he did so. Once on his feet he trembled, staring up at the Tyrant with no fear; only a raw determination.

It was all about getting up even when you knew you would fail. Knowing there was no way to win and standing up anyways.

The Tyrant grasped him by the front of his vest, though when the grey figure tugged the human forward the vest tore entirely and revealed a grotesque meaty mess left over from the primate that had been on top of him. The sudden movement had caused him to lurch forwards, but before he could trip up the hand grasped his bicep, pulling the blond close and squeezing hard. Wesker felt the muscle and bone being crushed, felt pain screaming in the back of the skull and wanted to scream back in frustration and confusion, but ultimately refused to back down. With his other arm he hit at the tumor pulsating on the grey body, unable to do much damage to the hard, calloused flesh but causing it irritation none-the-less. Even in his beating though, Wesker admired the muscular form of the creature, its tall stature and impassive presence. It was precise but curious, examining him the same way he had many others.

Unfortunately, it was now irritated from the batting of its heart. It dealt with irritation poorly.

With a growl it slammed the long claws of its free arm through Wesker's, lifting its arm and forcing Albert to lift his now impaled one like a doll. The blond gasped, mouth open and eye wide at the new shock to his system, shuddering violently before falling into a series of tremors and quick gasps of air. The single blue eye stared past the tyrant at nothing, going into a form of shock.

The Tyrant gave a low growl of approval at the perception of the man suddenly submitting, lifting him up off the ground by his arms and stroking a long wet tongue up the dried, crusty trail of blood that ran from Wesker's hairline to his jaw. The blond didn't respond, still gasping short sharp mouthfuls of air despite the protest of his ribs and lost in a world of pain. The Tyrant paid little mind, running the tongue over the torn skull of Wesker, suckling at one particularly deep wound near the top of the human's head before massaging his tongue over a piece of scalp that had been peeled back.

The grey hand holding the human's arm released the blond, sliding down to Wesker's thigh to massage the wound there from the primate. Wesker's breath hitched as he was suddenly supported solely by the claws shoved painfully through his now ruined left arm, and again the Tyrant didn't seem to care. Finishing with the head wounds it took a moment to look at the blond's face once more, then licked the eye and forehead with a sharp movement, slicking some of the blond locks back into place carelessly. The human blinked quickly, before the blue eye slowly swiveled up to look at the empty white ones, Albert drawn back into reality.

A haggard gasp ripped forth from the S.T.A.R.S. captain as he was dropped atop the computer desk, the Tyrant leaning over him to lick and suckle at the superficially disturbing (but thankfully not deep) wound the primate had left on his chest. The world seemed to slow down, no longer spinning and darkening, though it was more a dulling of the senses than a healing of the mind. Slowly Wesker grew less aware of the room, of the cold air and buzz of monitors, of the damp warmth on his face where the beast had groomed him or where it now licked at his chest.

It really was gorgeous. It was a sick sort of lust, and impossible to explain… but the Tyrant represented all of Wesker's successes and everything he had done; all of the control and power he had so desperately fought for. He had won; he had done it. The beast was beautiful because it was his, and nothing could take that raw force from him. It was everything Wesker could ever want.

Moaning softly he felt the hard teeth of the other on his sensitive, soon-to-bruised flesh, his one good arm weakly sliding over the creature's neck. His glove stunted most of what he could feel, but his finger tips brushed over its ear, over the throbbing growth running up its neck.

Wesker's world began to turn black, lights and shapes blurring into indecipherable objects.

The Tyrant paused, looking up at half-lidded blue eyes. A moment of silence fell, and the blue eyes seemed to suddenly focus. Overcome with pride the human forced himself forward and smeared his lips against the hard teeth of the other, feeling his lips bruise and catch and not caring. The creature was silent, allowing the human the rancid taste of its grey flesh, curiously extending a tongue to taste the human's mouth.

Then the human gave a sharp gurgle, the Tyrant having impaled the blond. It forced its arm through as far it could go, the bright blue eyes slowly fading to a dull shade. Perfect… Was on his lips, though the human had been robbed the chance to speak it.

The creature spared the corpse a moment of silence, perhaps expecting it to speak, or continue its interactions. Slowly the arm fell away from where it had been wrapped around its muscular neck, but that was all. Limp as a doll and hardly of interest, the Tyrant resumed eating in silence, now awarded a fresh hole to gnaw on.

-----

Only minutes later the blond would awaken, alone and surrounded by dead primates. Wesker's vest hung off of him haphazardly, and the blue shirt under it was also torn beyond use; but his attention was solely dedicated to the smooth flesh of his chest and stomach revealed through the gaping holes.

There were no markings or blood; no sign he'd ever been attacked. Curiously he rose a hand to his chest, running his fingers down the bare skin with a child's curiosity. His leg, too, was back to normal; Albert outstretched said limb carefully, then bent it inwards, testing the joint and finding himself pleased with the result. Even his head felt fine. Reaching up, the S.T.A.R.S. captain performed a long overdue slicking back of his locks, pleased to find no blood came away on his hands.

Wesker rolled his shoulders once; twice. Both eyes surveyed the room with a clarity he hadn't had before. Then a voice came on overhead, a woman's voice declaring that soon the entire mansion would be up in flames. Quickly lifting his belt so that it would hold his belt and shirt in place, he spared a passing glance at a monitor and noted an odd pair of golden red eyes staring back and briefly paused.

Not a second later and the blond was gone from the room, determined to escape the explosion. Wesker noted the remarkable increase in speed and agility, pondering briefly if perhaps the Tyrant had somehow passed the virus on to him, which had perhaps mutated into a new strain due to it being second generation. The eyes were certainly not normal after all, though Albert had a hard time placing any Umbrella creations he'd seen them on.

Dwelling on it no longer, Wesker instead let his mind settle on a far more amusing fact.

He was going to live.

For all his preparedness to die, all his willingness; he would live. This had just been a test.

Wesker laughed, a cold dark sound that echoed through hallways and corridors; the world had no idea what creature had just been released upon it, and the thought gave him a sick delight.

A/N: Haha, so... yeah. Hopefully it wasn't too weird? I really loathe S. D. Perrys characterizations of Wesker (especially in this novel), but this scene in the novel was really, really awesome. Particularly Wesker fantasizing about the Tyrant saving him and such, it was strangely... touching. xD

Anyhow, please review if you enjoyed! ^_^