...Well, it sure was, anyway. Wesker has to admit that he isn't certain what to make of most of it - likely because there isn't much desire to make anything of any of it. It lends the entire memory a bizarre quality that he can't quite shake off; it unsettles him a good amount, in a way that he can't really articulate very well. Perhaps it reminds him too much, again, of that time in the mansion, the sort of thing that leaves him feeling mildly repulsive for simply doing things without feeling anything about them. It's...not precisely something he wants to experience again, even if the fighting was interesting; he doesn't particularly envy Jaeger for the memories he's receiving if they're all like that, to put it gently.
However...
His own memories, obviously, aren't really any better.
The first thing that's immediately obvious is the pain - it spreads quickly from your system, though it's particularly gripping at the back of your head, spreading up and over your skull and into your temples, the pressure heavy and pulsing and as the migraine ebbs out for brief periods of time it's replaced immediately by the sensation that your nerves are on fire. Your spine, your extremities, everywhere, it's like there's something sharp and burning digging into your skin, setting off clusters of pain and causing your body to resist movement, but you're going to keep pace as you make your way toward wherever it is you're going - you can hear voices, a pair of people talking, and as that registers so, then, does the heat.
It's unfathomably, unfathomably warm where you are, the heat rippling off the exposed skin of your upper body in waves that are almost visible, and it's likely not long before you see the reason why - there's a lava flow very close to you - no, not a flow, an open roiling lake of it, an entire active caldera lying open in front of you and in areas just below the metal structure you're standing on. A plane? It seems to be, one of those large, expensive jets that the military likes to buy for two billion dollars a pop nowadays.
But that doesn't matter, none of it matters - not the heat or the molten rock or the plane or the pain centered in your head. What matters is the people down below you, and even though your sunglasses are off you can't fucking see - you're aware of their forms, you can tell that they're people, one large and bulky and the other smaller and slighter and less important to you overall but you can't make out their features, and for a brief moment you really, really want to be able to make out their features and the fact that you can't agitates you but in a moment that doesn't matter either, a momentary urge that you're quick to dismiss as pointless - but as it stands the point is that you know Chris is there, and that knowledge sends a sharp, cold burst of anger flooding down your spine, dripping down frigid from the inside of your ribs like cracked ice.
"I should have killed you years ago... Chris." Your breathing is jagged as you speak, labored and heavy and forced out hard; whatever's happened to you before this has taken a toll on your body, as little as you like it you're not in any sort of condition to fight - but what the hell else are you supposed to do? Lie down and die?
Not while Chris is still alive, not while you're still able to breathe in the first place.
"Your mistake. It's over, Wesker!" Chris is quick to yell back, and he and his little friend - the woman, the one that doesn't matter to you - they've both pulled guns on you. You don't have yours, but that's all right.
Perhaps more than all right.
"Over...?" And even though your breathing is labored and your body is still resisting movement, you're able to walk toward them, moving a few steps closer atop that downed plane, ignoring the smoke and the heat from the metal. And because you know this plane better than anyone else in the world - better than Chris, better than his friend, better than anyone else who could have possibly harbored the foolish desire to stop you - you manage to laugh a bit, the sound deep and harsh and there's a flicker of genuine anticipation underneath it. Not amusement properly, but eagerness; the sort of coiled, predatory feeling one would expect from a cat toying with something before breaking its neck. "I'm just getting started."
And because you know this plane better than anyone else in the world, you're confident when you break the hull, punching it so hard the metal ruptures and so does the missile immediately beneath it, and while there's pain in it - not from the break, but from what you've broken into - it's a good sort of burn. The kind of thing that reminds you that you're still alive, even if your body hasn't been properly alive for eleven years.
It takes your right arm almost immediately.
It stings, really, perhaps a bit more than you'd expected, the thick black tentacles wrapping quickly around your wrist and traveling up over your arm, spreading to take your chest, your shoulders; it bites hard into your skin, most of the sting centralized over the place where your heart is located. You can feel a similar process happening at your back, just over your spine, digging into a spot between your shoulderblades; the pain is worth it, however, dragging out a massive amount of pure adrenaline from your system as the virus floods your mind, and after a while you can't feel the distinct line where you end and it begins and there's pleasure in it, undeniable massive amounts of sheer ectasy, and you can feel the power coursing through your body as readily as the agony was when the memory first began.
Some of the tendrils hit you in the face, whiplike, as you draw your arm back, and you can feel the scars burn into your skin immediately, portions of it simply corroding away; when you withdraw your right arm from the hull a large amount of shrapnel comes with it, and you twist it around between the structures enveloping your hand. The control you feel over Uroboros is immediate, there's no question over whether it will allow you to use its power to do whatever you want it to do; Chris and his friend make the mistake of lowering their weapons, as though they're trying to process what it is they're seeing.
You had so much faith that Chris would understand; the action serves as visual confirmation that he never will.
no subject
...Well, it sure was, anyway. Wesker has to admit that he isn't certain what to make of most of it - likely because there isn't much desire to make anything of any of it. It lends the entire memory a bizarre quality that he can't quite shake off; it unsettles him a good amount, in a way that he can't really articulate very well. Perhaps it reminds him too much, again, of that time in the mansion, the sort of thing that leaves him feeling mildly repulsive for simply doing things without feeling anything about them. It's...not precisely something he wants to experience again, even if the fighting was interesting; he doesn't particularly envy Jaeger for the memories he's receiving if they're all like that, to put it gently.
However...
His own memories, obviously, aren't really any better.
The first thing that's immediately obvious is the pain - it spreads quickly from your system, though it's particularly gripping at the back of your head, spreading up and over your skull and into your temples, the pressure heavy and pulsing and as the migraine ebbs out for brief periods of time it's replaced immediately by the sensation that your nerves are on fire. Your spine, your extremities, everywhere, it's like there's something sharp and burning digging into your skin, setting off clusters of pain and causing your body to resist movement, but you're going to keep pace as you make your way toward wherever it is you're going - you can hear voices, a pair of people talking, and as that registers so, then, does the heat.
It's unfathomably, unfathomably warm where you are, the heat rippling off the exposed skin of your upper body in waves that are almost visible, and it's likely not long before you see the reason why - there's a lava flow very close to you - no, not a flow, an open roiling lake of it, an entire active caldera lying open in front of you and in areas just below the metal structure you're standing on. A plane? It seems to be, one of those large, expensive jets that the military likes to buy for two billion dollars a pop nowadays.
But that doesn't matter, none of it matters - not the heat or the molten rock or the plane or the pain centered in your head. What matters is the people down below you, and even though your sunglasses are off you can't fucking see - you're aware of their forms, you can tell that they're people, one large and bulky and the other smaller and slighter and less important to you overall but you can't make out their features, and for a brief moment you really, really want to be able to make out their features and the fact that you can't agitates you but in a moment that doesn't matter either, a momentary urge that you're quick to dismiss as pointless - but as it stands the point is that you know Chris is there, and that knowledge sends a sharp, cold burst of anger flooding down your spine, dripping down frigid from the inside of your ribs like cracked ice.
"I should have killed you years ago... Chris." Your breathing is jagged as you speak, labored and heavy and forced out hard; whatever's happened to you before this has taken a toll on your body, as little as you like it you're not in any sort of condition to fight - but what the hell else are you supposed to do? Lie down and die?
Not while Chris is still alive, not while you're still able to breathe in the first place.
"Your mistake. It's over, Wesker!" Chris is quick to yell back, and he and his little friend - the woman, the one that doesn't matter to you - they've both pulled guns on you. You don't have yours, but that's all right.
Perhaps more than all right.
"Over...?" And even though your breathing is labored and your body is still resisting movement, you're able to walk toward them, moving a few steps closer atop that downed plane, ignoring the smoke and the heat from the metal. And because you know this plane better than anyone else in the world - better than Chris, better than his friend, better than anyone else who could have possibly harbored the foolish desire to stop you - you manage to laugh a bit, the sound deep and harsh and there's a flicker of genuine anticipation underneath it. Not amusement properly, but eagerness; the sort of coiled, predatory feeling one would expect from a cat toying with something before breaking its neck. "I'm just getting started."
And because you know this plane better than anyone else in the world, you're confident when you break the hull, punching it so hard the metal ruptures and so does the missile immediately beneath it, and while there's pain in it - not from the break, but from what you've broken into - it's a good sort of burn. The kind of thing that reminds you that you're still alive, even if your body hasn't been properly alive for eleven years.
It takes your right arm almost immediately.
It stings, really, perhaps a bit more than you'd expected, the thick black tentacles wrapping quickly around your wrist and traveling up over your arm, spreading to take your chest, your shoulders; it bites hard into your skin, most of the sting centralized over the place where your heart is located. You can feel a similar process happening at your back, just over your spine, digging into a spot between your shoulderblades; the pain is worth it, however, dragging out a massive amount of pure adrenaline from your system as the virus floods your mind, and after a while you can't feel the distinct line where you end and it begins and there's pleasure in it, undeniable massive amounts of sheer ectasy, and you can feel the power coursing through your body as readily as the agony was when the memory first began.
Some of the tendrils hit you in the face, whiplike, as you draw your arm back, and you can feel the scars burn into your skin immediately, portions of it simply corroding away; when you withdraw your right arm from the hull a large amount of shrapnel comes with it, and you twist it around between the structures enveloping your hand. The control you feel over Uroboros is immediate, there's no question over whether it will allow you to use its power to do whatever you want it to do; Chris and his friend make the mistake of lowering their weapons, as though they're trying to process what it is they're seeing.
You had so much faith that Chris would understand; the action serves as visual confirmation that he never will.
Shame.
His loss.
"Time to die, Chris."]