Author: Sivan IXXX PM
Wesker ignored Sheva his entire time in Kijuju. Now that he's been detained, 'rehabilitated', and is now a normal man, he rethinks his outlook in life, and decides he needs a queen to rule alongside him. Who does he choose? Your one and only, but she sees this as a different opportunity. For what? Revenge. Genre is also romance. Complete.Rated: Fiction T - English - Humor/Parody - A. Wesker & Sheva A. - Chapters: 5 - Words: 20,396 - Reviews: 33 - Favs: 15 - Follows: 6 - Updated: 08-27-12 - Published: 06-09-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8201940
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A:N: Okay, this is for all those Shesker fans out there. I know it's an unlikely pairing, but a lot of people were saying Wesker ignored Sheva's existence throughout his conversations with Chris except when he grabs her and starts ranting about humans and blah blah blah. But anyway, this is a role reversal, definitely for laughs, definitely non-canon, so please, no one be offended if they take Resident Evil seriously. Just don't read it.
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from Resident Evil that appear in this story or any part of Capcom for that matter, so please do not sue.
Part One: I Am A God!
"Uroboros...will elevate all humans worthy of its power!" he growled menacingly.
"This guy's lost it!" Sheva remarked, her pistol still aimed at the crazed scientist.
"I don't think he ever had it," Chris retorted, his eyes dead-set on that exposed part of his neck. If he could just get near the madman, they could pull this off, save the world from Albert Wesker again, and go home.
"Sheva, you remember the plan, right?"
She nodded. "Yeah. I've got it ready. Just say the word." Chris fired a few rounds at him, and Wekser dodged them effortlessly, laughing at their attempts to hurt him.
"Don't you understand? You'll never be able to hit me with that pesky gun of yours...Chris," he hissed. Suddenly, he was a black streak barreling right at the B.S.A.A operative, and in the next moment, Chris found himself pummeling through the air and into a metal beam, falling to the floor.
"Agh!" he groaned, opening his eyes painfully, helplessly looking on as his once ally and now hated enemy marched towards him. Sheva was nowhere in sight.
"You...are weak," Wesker spat, snatching him up by the neck. "And unworthy to live in my new world. So I'll make your death quick and painless...Chris." He was really starting to hate the way he dragged out his name every time he said it. Chris looked around for his partner and found her crouched low to the ground, tip-toeing towards the tall man in black.
"Y'know, you may want to think of some new insults, Wesker. They're really starting to get stale, like your stupid black outfits," he managed to get out through a clenched throat.
Wesker's smile faded, and his pointed teeth gnashed together as his grip tightened around his neck. It was really starting to hurt, and he was beginning to see red and purple spots.
"You little cockroach. Since you insist on prolonging your death, I promise I will make it very painful as I tear each limb from your body...like twigs from a tree." Sheva was right behind him, needle in hand, her presence unknown and Chris laughed.
"You won't be able to keep that promise today, Wesker. Or any other day. Now, Sheva!" The operative felt his grip loosen as he turned, but it was too late. The needle was in his neck, and he dropped Chris to the floor to rip out the syringe.
"Aah!" he growled before turning his sights on the female who dared to sneak up on him. His glasses having fallen off after she attacked him, Sheva could see his bright red eyes focused solely on her, and she felt her heart drop. Before she could raise her hands to defend herself, he grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the wall. His other hand was at her waist, and she was certain his griping fingers were drawing blood as she let out a groan of pain. "You dare have the gall to prick me with a stupid needle?" His eyes roamed over her form in an almost human-like way and he smirked. "Are you even a real soldier, girl?"
Gritting her teeth together, she shot back, "Soldier enough to do this!" He saw her knee jerk up in slow motion, but it was too late. The bone connecting her thigh to her shin made agonizing contact with his center, and he saw stars. The universe could have imploded, but he wouldn't feel as much pain as he did than at that moment.
Silently, he fell to the floor, unfamiliar to this...this, oh what was the word? Pain. He hadn't felt it after all these years of being above human expectations, so he cast it aside, but it had come back to him in a regretful way, like an ignored boomerang. He felt something burning in his eyes. They couldn't be. They couldn't be...tears could they? Tear ducts belonged to humans; he was not human. He was a god. A god!
"Argh, you stupid woman! What did you to me?" he demanded, trying to uncoil the muscles in his legs so that he could get to his feet. He felt like a crushed spider, drawing up and into his body until he couldn't any longer.
"Show you that even gods can fall. Literally," she smirked. "It appears you are one of us again." What? How could this be?
"What was in that needle?" he asked. A headache was forming in the back of his skull and ripping through to the front like streaks of lightning. The lamps above proved to be too bright for his sight, and he squinted, only increasing his pain. He felt...smaller...weaker. Less than a god.
"The God Slayer. But that title doesn't belong to you anymore...Albert," Chris teased him, picking him up by the collar. He resisted, but it was to no avail. This puny human was actually stronger than him! The roles were reversed, and his plan dashed to pieces by the same man who he called his best.
"You lie. Nothing can stop Uroboros from—"
A fist connected with his jaw, and all colors quickly turned to black.
He remembered loading the plane with the missiles, injecting Excella with the Uroboros, choking Chris, choking Sheva, and then everything fading to black. What had happened?
That's right. Chris Redfield had punched him in the face, and that little...actually, she may have been one of the few chosen to live in his new world. Quite a lovely specimen...
"Lucky for you, we didn't kill you. But unfortunately, you get a chance to redeem yourself," Chris' voice suddenly interrupted his thoughts. Before he knew it, he was being hoisted up from the cold metal floor by the hook of his elbow and down the ramp of his plane. There were police everywhere, medical personnel, and an ambulance—who needed an ambulance?
"Bring him here," one of the paramedics said, and Wesker felt his body being dragged to the stretcher. Chris was careful not to injure him even more, but was still smirking at his pitiful state. Sheva was close behind, her hazel eyes observant, but lacked emotion. "He's got a cut under his eye." Immediately, the medic sprayed some antiseptic on his cheek, and it stung, but he growled as if punched in the gut.
"This body is weak," he grumbled.
"Then maybe you should work out. You've got plenty of time to do that where you're going," Sheva suggested, her arms folded.
"And exactly where would that be?" The paramedic taped a gauze to his cheek, and they both smiled.
"I am not insane," he stated flatly for the seventh time that morning. He folded his arms across his chest as he tapped his foot impatiently. The thick mustache hid his psychiatrist's lips from view, but an audible 'humph' left his throat.
This man was older than dust, and he had the nerve to tell Albert Wesker, the ideal image of perfection, a being of superior intellect, class and right, that he was crazy? Apparently, the world was madder than he had previously assumed.
"Sociopaths never think they're mentally unstable. But there are many things wrong with your line of thinking. You have the classic symptoms of being an alpha male."
"Sociopath?" the arrogant blonde scoffed. "Dr. Keeling, I was trying to save mankind from themselves, you hairy-faced fool! Uroboros were the next link in the chain of human evolution! I was a god! I had created a new race!" he yelled, trying to break free from the restraints. If he were still a god, he could breathe on the leather cuffs and they would fall off from the sheer grace of his will.
His doctor nodded towards someone, and he knew they were coming.
"Life has taught us that only the strongest survive and I was merely ensuring that that rule stay enforced! I deserve to be a god! I, Albert Wesker, will never be silenced!" he shouted as one of the guards held him in place. "Only I have the rights to be—" A needle sunk into his neck, and he fell silent.
"A god. We know," Dr. Keeling said, clicking his pen. "Take him back to his room."
Once fully conscious, the blonde man sat up and scooted to the edge of his bed, rubbing his neck where they had injected him. If he still had the Uroboros, if he were still superhuman, if he were still a god, the sedative wouldn't have hit him like a ton of bricks. He'd be on his throne, his rightful place, watching his new subjects ravage the world, let it burn, and grow into the grand utopia he had always imagined.
But with every last strain of the virus gone, and his capabilities severely stunted, that utopia was, and always would be from that point on, nonexistent.
He got to his feet and looked into the mirror. The black slits surrounded by blood red were now replaced with a mellow gray blue color, and he turned away from the reflection in disgust.
What was he to do, now that he was normal?
"How are you feeling?"
"I said," Chris chuckled, putting a hand on her shoulder. "How are you feeling? You look sick, partner."
"I'm fine," she dismissed with a wave of her hand. The warm spring breeze blew her shoulder-length hair behind her. The sunset was beautiful, a burning fiery red hue, but it also reminded her of the eyes of the madman that they had apprehended almost a year ago to the day. "But knowing he'll be released today makes me wonder: will he try again?"
"I ask myself that every day. But even if he does, we'll be here to stop him. And I'll make sure we kill him this time," he winked with a smile. He seemed pretty confident in their abilities as a team, but she couldn't help but feel the gnawing uncertainty forming in her stomach.
"Even that may not be enough."
The gates were open, the guards were totally absent, and he was no longer bound. No more syringes, no ropes, no ancient relics trying to rehabilitate him, no Chris Redfield to throw his weight around and give him another black eye.
He was free.
Albert Wesker was finally free, and deemed 'cured'. All it took was a few crocodile tears, some faux tale of how being tank-bred really messed him up and that his insurmountable arrogance made up for his emotional void, and fabricated ideal plans to start a 'normal' life. The old geezer seemed to buy it, and he was due for release May 17th, 2010, almost an exact year since he fell from his glorious throne. Although his strength had been mostly depleted, his knowledge was still nearly bottomless in depth, so he would start again.
His game plan had been altered—but only slightly.
He would rule the world.
But not without a queen.
And he had one in mind.
Freshly showered and ready for bed, the newly arrived 'American' opened the door of her bathroom wrapped in a lilac-colored towel to let the steam out and began brushing her wavy brown tresses with a smile on her face.
Her new apartment was lovely; Claire had been so kind as to become her first official friend when she stepped foot in Los Angeles, and showed her around a little before they went apartment hunting.
The rent was reasonable, all utilities were paid for, and she could keep Abdin, her orange tabby. Could it get any better?
This sure beats the crap out of that hovel I was living in in Kijuju. No offense to my country. After the devastation of all those villages, their lives had fallen apart, and no one had volunteered to pick up the pieces. So along with the broken families, she and Chris and Jill—who felt partly responsible—helped rebuild one day at a time, and after eight months of sweat, tears and lots of splinters, the villages were looking quite normal—better even, with running hot and cold water and plumbing. With the basics out of the way, the people knew how to survive, and Sheva was content with leaving, knowing they would be alright after all that they had been through.
That Wesker...he should have been the one to do all we did for Kijuju. Watching him shovel animal crap would make my day, wipe that smug grin off of his face.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang, and she jumped, dropping her brush in the sink. It was 11 PM according to her clock. Chris the straight-lace boy scout was at home sleeping, Jill had been called out for a mission in South America, and Claire said she'd let her settle in and call tomorrow.
Who could it be?
Slowly, she padded her way to the door in her fuzzy slippers and peered through the peephole. The body was nonexistent since the person was so close, and all she could see was a pale forehead.
She opened the door, and wished she hadn't been thinking so loud.
Albert Wesker was at her front door—with flowers. Purple irises, to be exact. She was certain that her jaw hit the floor as she gaped at him. He held that same statuesque, authoritative air, but something was different about his smirk. His thin salmon-colored lips actually looked sincere, and his cool blue eyes were intensely interested, but with this whack job, he could have a syringe full of the T-virus behind those flowers or some kind of hybrid spider waiting to bite her face off in there somewhere.
"Good evening." He looked over her towel-clad form and she suddenly felt exposed. "I guess I came at the right time. Do I smell chrysanthemum?" he asked, taking a step into her apartment. Sheva snapped back into reality and pushed him into the hall, slamming the door. Bewildered, he stared at the apartment number for a moment before coming back to the moment. "That was very rude, woman!"
"You're not supposed to be here!" she shouted back. "How do you even know where I live?"
"The city updates public records all the time," he rolled his eyes. "It's not like you're in Siberia or something. And I've been there; you'd hate the cold."
"Why'd you bring me flowers?"
"I know your favorite color is purple, and you're growing irises on your balcony."
"How do you know?"
"I have a spider camera. I can see everything."
"Ah! So you've seen me naked!" she accused.
He leaned against the door. "Of course not. I respect your privacy. Although your singing could use some work..."
"Go away, Wesker!" she shouted. My singing is fine.
He put his large palm on his face and sighed. "I'm not here to hurt you! I just want to talk!"
"Sure, and then I'll wake up with itchy skin and a huge appetite! No way!"
"Sheva, I'm growing impatient with you. Just open the door."
"No. It's not like you can break it down anyway. You're just a 48 year old loser now."
He felt a blood vessel in his forehead swell, and he took a deep breath. "I'll have you know I still have the body of a 30 year old. I can break this door down if I wanted to; I've lifted weights every day since I was arrested."
"All you have are noodles for arms! Go away!"
He growled, running a hand through his thick blonde hair and felt a presence behind him. It was an elderly couple eyeing him suspiciously; had they been standing there the whole time?
"There's nothing to see here. My girlfriend locked me out of the apartment." With a hunch of their shoulders, they walked towards the elevators and disappeared around the corner. "Sheva!" he hissed. "You have people thinking I'm crazy! Open the door!"
"Good! They should know you're insane! Unless you're dying or being chased by a killer, I'm not letting you in."
"I've changed, Sheva! For good! I'm normal now!" But now my plans involve you. "At least let me prove it to you!" You writhing, annoying sack of flesh...Dr. Keeling had done intense shock therapy to control his anger, but all that training was going out the window as he stood there, his face slowly turning red. "I'll leave the flowers at the door and walk away." She remained silent, listening carefully as he placed the flowers against the door and retreated slowly.
I'll just have to find another way in...
True to his word—and an utter shock to her—Wesker had left the irises leaning against her doorpost and he was gone. She picked them up, and looked up at the ceiling. He wasn't there. Good. He really was normal.
To think the man that was trying to make himself a god would come to my door with flowers at 11 o clock at night...what kind of sick joke is this? she thought, sticking her nose into the bouquet; they smelled lovely. There was a little note inside, a folded red piece of paper.
Beauty is the only thing I recall.
The petite African scrunched her nose at the thought. Wesker, Mr. Too Sexy for Anyone, thinks I'm attractive? she questioned as she found a pot for the plants.
As she filled it with water, she recalled that his eyes were no longer nightmarishly colored; they were cobalt blue, much less unsettling, yet still intense and pensive, like he could see the millions of blood cells rushing through her veins and the heart pumping it, fresh and red.
Why couldn't he bother Jill or Claire? I just got here... Sighing, she turned the water off, and took a step back, bumping into something hard. A pair of hands gripped her waist and she felt hot and cold at the same time.
Immediately, her survival instincts went into play, and she rammed her elbow into her assailant's face, and with a sickening crunch, he fell to the floor.
"For all that is good and holy!" Wesker shouted, trying to stop the fountain of blood leaking onto his black shirt. "I was trying to keep you from falling!"
"You're not supposed to be here, so don't blame me!" He continued groaning and complaining, and she hurried off to get cotton balls and a wet towel. "Shut up you big baby!" she demanded as she opened the pantry doors, grabbing the plastic bag full of round gauze and returned to him, helping him to her new gray leather couch.
Why am I helping him? she asked as she went to the sink to drench and wring out the towel.
"Is your arm made of glass? That really hurt," he mumbled as she sat next to him.
"What happened to the indestructible god I fought almost a year ago? Stop moving," she snapped, grabbing his chiseled jaw. Sheva went to work on the blood quickly drying on his cheeks with a damp towel, careful not to touch his nose, which was quickly growing red.
He glowered at her. "The man you see today is a product of your own efforts, so I guess I owe you."
"Oh, looks like someone's a comedian. I didn't know that could co-exist with your massive ego." She stuffed his nostrils with the cotton balls, making him wince. "Done. Now shoo."
"I'm not a dog," he protested, his long finger wagging in her face. "Now I owe you," he added with a smirk.
She swatted his hand away,"You don't owe me anything but more cotton balls." He chuckled as he got to his feet, and a shiver went down her spine as she followed him.
"I'll see to it that I do replace them—with interest, of course. I'll be back, woman." Wesker took his time to the door, his wide frame moving out into the hallway. Sheva rolled her eyes and he smiled.
What's wrong with this guy?
"I'll make sure to have Chris over, and we can have a party." At that, Wesker's face dropped, and she slammed the door shut.
That's what he gets for ignoring me in Kijuju.
Okay, go ahead and flame me. Attack me. Say whatever you want about Wesker/Sheva and how unlikely it is. I said it before, and I'll say it again, it's for Shesker fans and I KNOW it's ridiculously off. Wesker is dead and Sheva will not be in any more RE games, so there's no chance of them meeting ever again. But this is for fun, and I played on a common concern fans noticed: he ignored her, so now it's time for her to get even.
I don't know if anyone would consider this first chapter funny, but it will get better with each chapter; I promise. I'm not usually a humor writer, so bear with me please. It's ironic because I'll laugh at anything.
Thanks for reading.