Author's Note: This collection of vignettes are a continuation of BetaReject's one-shot tale A Question of Destiny. As such I have received her permission to continue with her tale.

Beta: A huge thank you goes to AceofHadeon for taking the time to go over this for me and ensuring its all spiffy good! =D

Albert Wesker stared at the virus in the mirror, and the virus stared right back at him in silent accusation.

Failure.

His fists clenched tightly around the edge of the sink as memories of the evening's events accosted his thoughts. After years of searching for answers, Wesker confronted the very man from whom it all began: Oswell Spencer. The meeting had been a double-edged sword, a fruitful victory and a horrifying revelation. Spencer was dead, yet the old scientist continued to exert control over him. Distracted by the weight of newfound knowledge, Wesker lowered his guard; it cost him more than he could have anticipated. Now Jill was gone, along with the samples of his latest creation: a prototype variant of the Progenitor virus he created.

Victory always was a fickle lover.

Albert suspected another was attempting to interfere with his work; the events of past the night had confirmed it. He cursed himself for being weak, and then cursed himself for wasting so much time chasing after the man who both built and destroyed his life. He should have been perfecting his virus instead.

It was not the first mistake he had made in the recent days. The realization troubled Wesker more than he cared to admit.

Albert was, if anything, predictable - at least to himself. The virus that coursed in his blood had robbed him of most all emotions, ensuring a constant sense of clarity no matter the situation. Even before the progenitor virus, he never suffered doubts or bouts of insecurity. Such mindsets were for the weak. As a child, he was proud of whom he was and the man he was meant to become. That is, until that night. With a single statement the aged megalomaniac had tipped the scales, leaving Wesker uncertain of everything he had once firmly believed and knew to be true.

Prone to production flaws, malfunctions and in need of constant upgrades. The memory of (the deceased) William Birkin's clipped words replayed in his mind as his sub-conscious mocked him.

Beneath his clenched fingers the porcelain sink cracked, cutting the soft flesh of his hands. The wound went unnoticed, as crimson eyes glared through rather than at the reflection in the mirror.

Unconsciously, Albert recalled Claire Redfield's sleeping form, peacefully curled under thick comforters and cheap cotton sheets. If only he had not gone there, none of this would have happened. Why had he gone there in the first place? A chill ran down his spine at the thought, and he swiftly buried it.

The alarm on his wristwatch suddenly went off, forcing his thoughts back to the present. Time was not on his side. Instinctively reaching for the Magnum that rested on the counter, Albert caught sight of his ragged, aged expression from the corner of his eyes. Words once spoken by his arch nemesis, Chris whispered in his mind.

You're just another of Umbrella's leftovers.

The mirror shattered beneath his fists. Blood and glass intermingled, staining the pristine marble floor. Storming out in silence, Albert Wesker did not look back.

Failure was not an option.