Marriage, to Dr. William Birkin, was a meeting of the minds, a grand merger of intellects. It was about finding someone who shared his goals, someone who could at least somewhat match his intelligence, someone who would fully support him in all of his various and highly questionable scientific endeavors.
And if there was one person Birkin felt he could count on in this cold, uncaring universe, it was his wife.
Except not right now, because she’d sicced fucking Wesker on him.
Birkin's hand spasmed, the pen in his grasp trembling with a blend of anger and over-caffeinated fatigue, nearly tearing through the pages of his notebook as he scrawled sharp, erratic marks on its surface—markings that looked more like the ravings of a lunatic than the methodical work of a gifted scientist. His knuckles paled from the strain, his head tilted at a sharp angle, an awkward brick of a phone nestled between the crook of his neck and shoulder.
"I can’t believe this," Birkin nearly spat, the words hissing like steam from a pressure valve. "My own wife and my greatest intellectual rival, conspiring against me!"
All around him, one of the Recreation Dome’s many fancy food courts buzzed with idle chitchat and the clatter of silverware, a weirdly mundane setting for the, quite frankly, fucking absurd conversation he found himself tangled up in.
Not that anyone paid him any mind. Most of his fellow employees were acclimatized to Birkin's countless ‘spirited’ telephone discourses by now, and those who didn’t know him seemed leery of the man’s frenzied scribbling and gave him wide berth, anyway.
Thank god.
"Oh, please," Wesker's voice was a staticky chuckle in Birkin’s ear, slick and dark like oil on water. If Birkin didn’t know his old buddy so well, he definitely would’ve gotten the heebie-jeebies; as it was, he merely sneered contemptuously. "Don’t be so dramatic, William. Dear Annette is merely… concerned for your well-being, and I concur with her assessment. Be realistic. You're a lab rat, not a fighter."
His face screwing up into an ugly scowl, Birkin hunched his shoulders further, sinking down into his seat. His eyes darted across his chicken scratch notes, as if he hoped they might spontaneously manifest a clever rebuttal to Wesker's heckling.
Instead, a crumb fell from his hastily gnawed-on ham and cheese sandwich and onto the page, leaving a tiny smudge of grease on the scattered numbers and formulas.
"A lab rat," Birkin grumbled under his breath as he flicked away the crumb with a scoff. His chair squeaked in protest as he shifted his weight around, one knee jumping with a fitful, jittery energy. "Where do you even get off, Al! And when did you and Annie start getting so chummy, huh?"
William started suddenly. He slanted an accusing glance at the hard plastic phone cradled between his cheek and shoulder, his blue eyes narrowing down to stormy slits.
"Wait a sec. You’re not… seeing each other or something, are you?" he asked, tone low with suspicion, a hint of paranoid tension creeping into his slumped shoulders. "Actually, don’t bother answering that. I couldn’t care less. But you better not be trying to take my research by cozying up to my wife, Albert Wesker!"
"I assure you, William, I have far better things to do than put your fractured marriage out of its misery," Wesker’s voice crackled from the receiver. A soft hiss of static marked a quiet, disappointed sigh. "You truly have no idea what awaits you out there, do you…? The physical rigors alone would surely be enough to break a man of your… stature."
Birkin paused mid-scribble, feeling a tad bit self conscious, but mostly pissed. His stature was… it was fine! Wasn’t it?
The virologist straightened slightly in his seat, thoroughly offended, and puffed out his scrawny, too-thin chest. "My genius will make up for any… alleged shortcomings," he insisted, clenching his jaw. "Strength isn’t everything, you know. That’s why there’s that saying! You know the one. Brains over brawn."
"And what of your fellow competitors? They're not exactly going to be playing fair," Wesker's sibilant voice sneered in a familiar way that never failed to send a jolt of ire through Birkin. "Your brains won’t be worth very much when they’re spattered all over the walls, will they?"
William shoved back from the table, standing abruptly enough that his chair toppled over with a loud clatter. A few heads turned in his direction, but they quickly lost interest and returned to their meals and discussions upon seeing some nerdy little guy in a lab coat just kinda… standing there. Birkin barely noticed; his focus was laser-like on Wesker's disembodied taunting.
"Says the guy who called me about gluing his arm back on when your people fudged it," Birkin countered viciously into the phone pressed hard against his ear, his fingers wrapped tightly around it, almost crushing it in his grip. "I don’t need fair! With Golgotha, I… I have everything!"
Wesker let out a heavy exhale, a condescending sigh that was so thoroughly laden with false sympathy that it seemed practically designed to only aggravate Birkin further.
"Perhaps," he drawled, sounding uninterested. "This little tantrum of yours aside… do remember to consider my previous offer. Annette has informed me that you’ve been funneling her the necessary funds for a private endeavor. I would simply hate to continue such a personal project in your stead, but if I must…"
The line went dead. Birkin stood there for a moment, swaying slightly... then glanced sharply down at the fallen chair.
Slowly, he crouched down, straightened it out, brushed away any debris from the seat, and settled back into it.
Fine, then. He’d just… do it himself.