Chapter Text
Friday, September 2, 1977
For a multi-million dollar corporation with shares soaring in the hundreds and businessmen desperate to get a harvest of the crop, Wesker had expected the executive training facility to have a larger population. The class is made up of maybe 30 students at best. All young, most white, and all from prestigious families that have found themselves under Umbrella’s watchful eye.
Albert knows he’s just as privileged as every other person here. He observes the class from under the dark trim of his glasses as several students retrieve notebooks and pencils from designer bags, eyes eagerly set upon the far wall, lit by the projector. The assistant director still hasn’t shown up. Which only reflects poorly upon Umbrella and their lack of punctuality. Wesker was under the impression this was a prestigious school. Though, he supposes nothing that comes free is truly of the highest quality.
Another sweep around the classroom before his eyes rest on his hands folded before him. The screen reads, “Umbrella Executive Training Facility – Day One Initiation.” The projector flickers, never solid for more than a few seconds. Students chatter with each other, speaking in hushed tones about the wonderful opportunity they’d been presented to work under Umbrella. The opportunity to make vaccines and help the population, how they’re so lucky to have been given this invitation.
It wasn’t something momentous for Wesker. He’d been out of University for barely a month before he received a letter in the mail: the Umbrella logo and the formal invitation. It’s a logo he’s seen for many years growing up, between passing billboards and brochures at his childhood home, staring at it for too long while he waits for the nanny to return from the grocery store. Alex pulling him away to instead focus on that virology assignment they’d been told to study. That red and white checker has tainted his vision for as long as he can remember, and still – at seventeen – it follows him like a ghost he can’t shake.
The doors swing open loudly, creaking as they do so. Although the facility’s not that old, the doors still creak on their hinges as if worn from years of abuse, and grime coats the floor in sticky graying masses. It’s suspicious and something that most people wouldn’t think twice about, but Albert’s learned it pays to be a bit paranoid.
The assistant director – who had introduced himself just the day before when Albert had arrived – holds an age to him that Al can’t quite put his finger on. He seems young and speaks with a clear, high voice, untainted by years of cigarettes. The only conclusion he can come to for his worry and frown lines are the result of Umbrella’s working conditions. Stress . Albert wonders if he, too, will find the same marks upon his face with years of work under his sleeve.
“Good morning. Sincere apologies for arriving so late.” The man steps through the middle aisle between the four rows of desks and chairs. Wesker’s sat in the second row, at the second to last chair of the row as to not draw attention to himself. The woman beside him straightens up. Wesker suppresses a scoff. Suck-up . “I presume everyone has brought a notepad and pencil as provided yesterday at initiation?”
A few people raise up their supplies to show. Wesker continues to examine the room, his gaze falling to the door, where he notices an older man standing. A strong widow’s peak of slicked-back gray hair frames his forehead over a set of strong brow bones without a strand upon them in sight. Wrinkled, aged skin. Sunspots. His skin’s melting off his bones.
Wesker’s seen this man’s portrait before in the elegant decor of the school. Wesker can’t say he knows his name, but from the suit upon his body – sheen and tailored specifically to his frame – he knows the man is one of the higher-ups of Umbrella. Pleasing him will be detrimental to getting anywhere in this place.
“Excellent. Now, before we get started – “ With a wave of the other man’s hand, the words die in the director’s mouth. Wesker was correct in his assumption.
“Before anything else,” The man starts, voice gruff, American, and distinctly aged. “I believe it important that each of you understand the core beliefs of Umbrella and exactly what is expected of you to succeed here.” The man strides slowly to the front of the classroom. All eyes rest upon him like he’s a great deity set upon them. Wesker blends in just as seamlessly. He knows how important it is to impress those from corporate on these sorts of things. Treat them well and – with luck – you’ll gain a share of the harvest.
The older man reaches the podium, the assistant director moving out of the way for him to hold attention.
“Umbrella Corporation is not an easy company to find yourself in, especially looking for an executive position as I assume you all are.” His eyes sweep the room, crossing to Wesker before continuing back the other way. His gaze lingers on him longer than seems normal, a twitch under his eye. “Look around the room and know – you are not friends. These people are competition .”
Wesker doesn’t follow the man’s gaze. He knows who sits here already, and he knows that none of them could even begin to meet his level. These are schoolchildren brought together to learn about the things he spent years working for. He has no anxiety his abilities will prove his place here.
“Obedience is top priority. Obey your superiors and know that through the work of following instruction, you will do well.” He clears his throat. “Our company motto, after all, is obedience breeds discipline. Discipline breeds unity. Unity breeds power.” A beat as he stares across the room at the new recruits. The future of Umbrella, or perhaps, the infamously failed class. “Internalize that, and you will go far in this company.”
He turns his eyes back to the assistant director. Wesker thinks he caught the man’s name once but can’t be sure. It must have slipped his mind. What he is interested in, however, is this older man’s name. He’s the one he needs to remember, gain the trust of, and impress. But not in the same way as the several voices that pipe up to thank the man.
From a young age, Wesker learned that groveling does nothing to establish one’s status. Flattery is for the subservient to expose a power imbalance, a display of admiration, and a confirmation of one’s status as lesser than. “Thank you for imparting upon me the wisdom I, myself, don’t have.” It’s a foolish concept for people who wish to be taken advantage of.
Wesker wants to make equals with this man. He wants to prove that he’s just as wise as him and already knows these things. So, truly, only through his own work will his climb to the top of the class succeed.
There’s a sharp “Thank you, Doctor Marcus” from the assistant director. Marcus. And then the man’s leaving out the door again, unfazed by all the eyes upon him. Wesker sighs and leans back in his chair, turning his eyes to his right. Even through all of the commotion, the man beside him has hardly taken his head out of his book, sandy blond hair falling down upon baby-fat cheeks and framing deep blues, stuck upon the words of whatever textbook he’s studying.
This is the type of man that Wesker admires. He shoots a glance at the badge on his lab coat. William Birkin.
“Now, before we begin, I’m going to pass out this sheet. Please, keep your eyes on your own test. This is just a quiz to ensure we are all on the same page and there’s nothing we need to review to ensure success for all of you.” The assistant director makes his way down the aisles, passing down four sheets per row. The blond kid finally puts his book away and turns his eyes up.
The papers come down the aisle quickly, and as he takes his own and passes the last down to Birkin, he quickly realizes this is content he’d gone over in his last year of virology at the university. It’s all review. He assumes the easiest assignment they’ll receive this year.
Filling it out doesn’t take much time for Al at all. It’s all content he knows well. He’s spent years dedicating himself to virology, learning how viruses interact with different forms of life, parthenogenesis, virus classification, and synthesis and splicing in practice. It’s easy. Deathly easy.
He’s about halfway through filling out a short answer on the back of the page when the man beside Wesker stands, not five minutes after the test was distributed. Wesker can’t help himself but stare as he makes his way to the front of the class and hands the assistant director the sheet. He walks with a pep in his step, head held high and eyes fixated upon his destination, unbothered by his surroundings.
The assistant director takes the test without question nor second glance. A soft “Thank you” leaves his lips. Formal and without emotion. And then Birkin returns to his seat beside Wesker, retrieving his book again.
Maybe someone here finally does live up to Wesker’s needlessly high expectations. And that man sits beside him with a virology textbook in hand, eyes skimming the pages as if it’s light reading. Wesker quickly finishes his test, eyes returning to his work with ambition that hadn’t rested there before.
William Birkin. 16-years old. Child prodigy.