Why Power Is A Must.
Summary: Oswell E. Spencer is known for corrupting Albert Wesker, or so everyone believes. Jake Muller comes upon an account behind Wesker's corruption. "The only thing that can defeat power, is more power."
A BSAA agent guides me to a conference room; his face is downcast, avoiding my stare. From what I've heard about my father, my resemblance to him must feel awkward to the highest extent; a dead man's eyes following his every move. That was one thing that Mom said resembled my bastard of a father, my eyes. The door in front of me is ajar and beckoning me to enter into the empty room. It takes a while for it to dawn on me; where the hell is Redfield? The BSAA is his family, so I'd assume that he'd be here first, awaiting my arrival and sweating like a whore in a Catholic church. Yet, he's nowhere to be found. I saunter over to one of the chairs and sit; whilst positioning myself into a comfortable manner – feet on the table and back halfway down the chair – Redfield appears in the doorway. Let the awkwardness begin. He sits down in the chair nearest to the door and keeps checking the door, as if he knows an alarm is going to sound any moment. His eyes meet mine for a second and then turn down towards his twiddling thumbs. His mouth opens and closes; it's synonymous with the motion of a fish.
"If I wanted awkward downtime, I would just go see Sherry, again." I crack the silence; it's true. Sherry and I weren't anything past co-workers, and when all was said and done, she left. The first time I saw her again, she smiled – in a pitiful manner – as she wandered off to find her friend. Sherry Birkin – super girl – is just like everyone else.
"No, I – um, I'm –" Redfield clearly can't get his shit together, and it's ridiculous really. He survived Raccoon City and my insane father; why can't he just hold a conversation with me? Why doesn't anyone have time for me? Am I meant to live in the shadows of all these great or corrupted men before me?
"Trying to piece together what to say. Well, I'll start. I'm Jake Muller, Albert Wesker's bastard son, nice to meet you. I know Wesker was a nutcase, and you killed him." That's all there is, right?
"Albert Wesker was a strong – noble – man, who was corrupted with contempt for humanity, but I find myself loathing him from time to time. He was a natural leader to me, but I cannot forgive him for all the lives that he wasted – took – without a second thought. When it came to the end, there was no way to bring him back. He was too far gone – too damaged – too volatile."
"Well, let me cut it short. He was insane; you stopped him and saved the world. Congrats! I don't give a shit about him. He didn't have the decency to stay with my mom long enough for me to be born, so he has nothing to do with me." "Your father's actions have nothing to do with you." "You can blame your father all you want, but at some point, you have to take responsibility." "His choices, mistakes, and everything have nothing to do with me."
"Well, I'm sorry to waste your time, Mr. Muller." Redfield jumps up; I know he wants to leave.
"It's Jake, and it's fine." His hand extends towards me, and I shake it in a professional manner. "Glad to have the talk, Redfield."
"It's Chris, and there's one more thing." He reaches in his back pocket, and I jump a bit when I see a black object in his hand. I realize that this is pointless though; I am no Albert Wesker. Redfield has no need to kill me. In his hand is a beaten black journal; it's earned its fair share of wear.
"Great, I needed a diary to confess all my daddy problems to." I sneer.
"It's Wesker's." His grip on the journal is ironclad, like it's burning him but he can't let go.
"And I thought my deadbeat father gambled off all his belongings somewhere in Edonia, leaving me without a single item of inheritance."
"Your father – Wesker – wasn't completely bad."
"I know. I've been told." I grab the journal from his hand and head for the door. "Thanks, Redfield."
"I know." I make my way out of the building, to my bike, to the road, to nothing.
It finally occurred to me that I should read the journal of Albert Wesker, but it's so easy to find some other mind-numbing task to do. Yet, here I am, at three in the morning, reading his stupid memoir. The handwriting ranges from small acute letters to almost machine-like compact words, and all of the things accounted for in this journal... I find myself lost in the story of someone else, and I often find hints of additions of paper to continue within one journal. And slowly, despite my distaste for the man, his entries from an average man to a power crazed psycho make sense. The gradual insanity that swallowed him whole. It all made sense, and it sickened me that I could understand this. Even worse, I felt somewhat sickened with humanity after finishing the journal. It's seven in the morning, and the sun is rising like any other day. However, this sunrise feels almost metaphorical; it is the dawn of new understanding of a man of mystery.
I feel it is somewhat of a duty to revise this journal as a biography – a retelling – of the life of Albert Wesker, my father, the man who tried to rule the world.
A/N: This is my first Resident Evil fanfic, and I hope you enjoy it. Please review, critique. Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.