Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Knuckles rapped sharply against the solid door of Albert Wesker’s office. “Captain Wesker.”

“Marini,” Wesker acknowledged, his voice flat, his attention still fixed on the research spread across his desk. Interruptions had become an unwelcome distraction, hindering his progress more with each passing day.

Irritation flickered across his features, though it was often difficult to read. These were the early days, a turbulent shift from the controlled environment of the laboratory. Yet Wesker thrived on challenges; he would conquer anything he set his sights on. In this case, it was S.T.A.R.S. Once he had his team in place, he would position each member precisely where he wanted them. The vision in his mind was flawless.

His eyes drifted to a scribbled note in the margins of his research—a reminder from William Birkin: If only you were here to see this. The words tugged at something within Wesker, a twinge of envious distaste. Perhaps Marini’s presence wasn’t such a disturbance after all. “Still putting together your team of boy scouts?” he asked, his tone laced with mockery.

Marini’s expression flashed with momentary anger, but Wesker remained impassive. He didn’t need visible confirmation to feel the satisfying thrill of his effect.

The file dropped on top of his desk with a soft thud. Wesker arched a brow, methodically pushing aside the research notes - precious fragments of his work with William that required discretion. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as he beckoned Marini closer with a single, gloved finger.

"Air Force. Experience in piloting, remarkable marksman," Marini continued, professional as ever despite Wesker's earlier barb. The morning sun slanting through the venetian blinds cast prison-bar shadows across the desk, across the photograph that had caught Wesker's eye.

The image was standard personnel fare - front-facing, regulation haircut, serious expression. But there was something in those blue eyes that made Wesker pause. A defiance, poorly masked by military discipline. Wesker's finger traced the stats with clinical precision. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Twenty-three years old. Blood type O - same as his own, he noted with quiet amusement. 181 centimeters. 80.4 kilograms.

"Ex," Wesker corrected, his voice carrying that razor's edge he reserved for others' mistakes.

"What?"

"Ex-Air Force." His finger pressed into the words until the paper dimpled. "Dishonorably discharged. Counts of violation and failure to obey a lawful general order or regulation." The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. Interesting. Very interesting.

Marini's throat worked visibly. "Yes, sir. I know, but he's still young. Barry recommended him and you know that I tr-"

Wesker's raised hand cut through the air like a blade, silencing Marini mid-word. The captain turned away, allowing himself a moment of open disdain. The file should have been an insult - a candidate with a documented history of insubordination. Yet something in those frozen moments of studying the photograph, of reading between the carefully typed lines, sparked an idea. This wasn't just another potential pawn. This was... potential.

His eyes returned to the photograph, to those defiant blue eyes that stared back at him through glossy paper. Yes. This one might be exactly what he needed - young enough to shape, skilled enough to be useful, and just rebellious enough to be interesting. The thought sent a pleased shiver down his spine that he carefully kept from his face.

"He's exactly what I need." The words came out slow, deliberate, savoring each syllable. His finger traced the name beneath the photograph one final time, like a scientist marking his next specimen. "I want Chris Redfield."

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Chapter Text

The morning sun had barely crested the horizon when Wesker arrived at the S.T.A.R.S. training facility. He preferred these early hours—before the facility filled with RPD officers, before the air grew thick with gunpowder and sweat. The shooting range stood empty, targets pristine, waiting.

Footsteps echoed through the corridor. Early, but not early enough. Wesker didn't turn as Chris entered, the younger man's boots scuffing against the concrete floor with casual disregard.

"Morning, Captain." Chris's voice carried that same easy warmth that grated against Wesker's nerves. A paper cup of coffee was clutched in one hand, his tactical gear haphazardly arranged—functional, but lacking the precision Wesker demanded.

"You're three minutes late, Redfield." Wesker kept his eyes forward, noting how Chris's reflection in the observation glass faltered slightly. "In the field, three minutes could mean the difference between life and death."

"Traffic was—" Chris began, but Wesker cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"S.T.A.R.S. operatives don't make excuses. They adapt. Prepare. Plan ahead." Each word carried the weight of command. "Put that coffee down and show me your stance."

Chris complied, though Wesker caught the slight roll of his eyes as he set the cup aside. Promising recruit or not, such insolence would need to be addressed. But first—

"Draw your weapon."

Chris's movements were fluid, natural. His grip was textbook perfect, stance solid. The Air Force had taught him well, at least in basics. But Wesker saw the imperfections: the slight tension in his shoulders, the fractional tilt of his wrist that would throw off long-range accuracy.

"Incorrect." Wesker moved behind him, close enough to sense Chris's surprise at the proximity. "Your form lacks discipline." His gloved hands adjusted Chris's posture with clinical precision. "Here." A firm pressure between Chris's shoulder blades. "And here." Fingers repositioning Chris's grip on the weapon.

"I qualified expert marks—" Chris started to protest.

"In the Air Force," Wesker finished, his voice dropping to a low timbre near Chris's ear, close enough that his breath ghosted against skin. "This is S.T.A.R.S. We exceed excellence." He stepped back, observing the improvements. "Again."

For two hours, Wesker drilled him relentlessly. Draw. Holster. Stance. Aim. Again. Again. Each repetition needed to be perfect, each movement precise. Chris's earlier casualness gave way to focused concentration, though Wesker caught flashes of frustration in those expressive eyes.

"Enough." Wesker finally called a halt, noting with satisfaction how Chris's breathing had grown heavy, how sweat dampened his hair. Good. Let him feel the weight of real training. "Your coffee's cold."

Chris laughed—actually laughed—and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "Yeah, well, somehow I don't think that was an accident, Captain."

Wesker's jaw tightened at the familiarity, but he couldn't deny the improvements in Chris's form. Perhaps there was hope for him yet. "Tomorrow. 0500 hours." Wesker's voice carried the same authority it had when he'd ordered Chris to arrive early for today's special training session—a deviation from standard S.T.A.R.S. protocols that had raised eyebrows among the other officers. "Don't be late. These sessions will continue until your form meets my standards." It was unusual, dedicating his pre-shift hours to training a single recruit when there were reports to file and operations to oversee, but Wesker told himself it was merely about maintaining unit excellence. Nothing more.

As he turned to leave, he caught Chris's reflection again. The younger man was already breaking form, rolling his shoulders to ease the strain, but there was something else there too—a glint of determination that hadn't been present before. Despite his casual demeanor, it seemed Redfield understood the significance of these private sessions.

Interesting.

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0458 hours.

Wesker checked his watch again, a habit born of precision rather than impatience. The facility's lights hummed to life under his touch, casting long shadows across the empty range. He had arrived fifteen minutes earlier, as always, enough time to prepare the day's regimen.

The sound of approaching footsteps made him pause. Not the casual scuff of yesterday's arrival, but measured steps. Deliberate. When Chris appeared in the doorway, his coffee was notably absent, tactical gear properly arranged. His expression carried none of yesterday's easy smile—instead, there was something darker in his eyes. Determination, perhaps. Or defiance wearing a new mask.

"Captain." The greeting was clipped, professional.

Wesker felt the corner of his mouth twitch. "I see yesterday's lesson made an impression." He turned to face his recruit fully, noting every detail of Chris's improved presentation. "Though I wonder how long this... reformation will last."

Chris's mouth tightened at the implied challenge. "Depends on whether you plan on correcting my breathing next, Captain."

"Your form requires more than just basic adjustments." Wesker circled him slowly, assessing. No coffee-laden hands to occupy Redfield's nervous energy today—instead, his fingers twitched near his holster. Ready. Anticipating. "But since you mentioned breathing..."

Wesker stopped behind him, close enough that Chris's next inhale seemed to catch. "Draw."

The movement was smoother than yesterday, more controlled. Chris had clearly spent time practicing. Interesting. Wesker had known the potential was there, had seen it in those personnel photos, but watching it emerge under his guidance was... satisfying.

"Better," he admitted, the word carrying less frost than usual. "Though your grip—"

"Is exactly how you corrected it yesterday," Chris interrupted, a hint of his usual boldness returning.

Wesker's hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Chris's wrist. The leather of his gloves creaked softly. "Is that insubordination, Redfield?"

"No, sir." Chris's pulse jumped under Wesker's grip, but his aim didn't waver. "Just accuracy."

A moment of silence stretched between them, heavy with something Wesker chose not to examine too closely. He released Chris's wrist, noting how the skin had flushed where his fingers had been. "Then you won't mind demonstrating that accuracy. Twenty rounds. Moving targets." He stepped away, towards the control panel. "Unless you'd prefer to continue discussing semantics?"

Chris's only response was the sound of his first shot hitting dead center. The corner of Wesker's mouth lifted slightly.

By 0700, the training facility had filled with the usual morning crowd. RPD officers filtered through, their voices echoing off concrete walls that had witnessed far more intense exchanges just hours before. Chris's arm ached from the drills, but he kept his posture straight as he made his way to the S.T.A.R.S. office.

"There he is!" Jill's voice carried across the room. "The captain's new project."

Chris felt heat rise to his face. "It's not—"

"Early morning training sessions?" Forest chimed in from his desk. "Man, what did you do to deserve that kind of special attention?"

"Probably that smart mouth of his," Joseph called out, grinning. "Captain's trying to drill some discipline into our rookie."

Barry caught Chris's eye from across the room, his expression more thoughtful than teasing. He'd known Chris longer than the others, had recommended him for S.T.A.R.S. himself. Something in Barry's gaze suggested he was piecing together a puzzle Chris wasn't sure he understood himself.

The office door opened. Wesker entered with his usual measured stride, and Chris felt his spine straighten automatically. The morning's intensity still lingered in his muscles, a phantom pressure of gloved hands correcting his stance.

"Valentine, status report on the Carlton case." Wesker's voice carried none of the low authority it had held hours ago. His attention swept past Chris as if the morning had never happened. "Frost, I need that weapons inventory by noon."

Chris busied himself with paperwork, trying to reconcile the captain who had spent two hours drilling him on proper breathing techniques with the efficient commander now striding through the office. But he caught it—the slight pause in Wesker's step as he passed Chris's desk, the barely perceptible tilt of his head.

"Redfield."

"Captain?"

"Your report from yesterday's patrol. It's incomplete."

Chris reached for the file, but Wesker had already moved on, leaving only the ghost of leather-clad fingers against Chris's wrist and the memory of that voice in his ear: Again. Better. Exceed excellence.

"Earth to Chris," Jill's voice broke through his thoughts. She was studying him with narrow eyes. "You okay there? You looked a million miles away."

"Yeah," Chris said, rubbing his wrist absently. "Just thinking about proper form."

From across the office, he could have sworn he saw Wesker's shoulders tense slightly. But when he looked again, the captain was absorbed in conversation with Barry, every inch the professional commander.

Chris turned back to his report, his handwriting steadier than it had been yesterday. If Wesker wanted excellence, he'd show him excellence—even if it meant arriving at 0445 tomorrow.

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The day crawled by with agonizing slowness. Chris found himself tracking Wesker's movements through the office like a cadet monitoring a target—each command issued in that clinical tone so different from their dawn exchanges, every deliberate step echoing against the precinct's worn tiles. Even the soft whisper of papers being signed seemed amplified in the stifling summer air.

"Your trigger finger getting itchy from all that range time?" Jill's wry voice cut through his thoughts during their lunch break. She was perched on the edge of his desk, field report balanced on her knee, dark hair falling across one eye as she scanned the document. Her question carried that particular blend of curiosity and concern he'd come to expect from her.

Chris took a slow bite of his sandwich, buying time. The truth about Wesker's morning sessions felt too complex to voice—how those gloved hands would adjust his stance with surgical precision, the way that voice would drop to a low, expectant rumble when Chris showed promise. The weight of attention that felt less like training and more like... assessment.

"Just want to keep my scores up," he said finally, aiming for the same casual tone she'd used.

Jill's pen paused mid-signature. Her eyes, sharp as a marksman's, flicked to his face before returning to her work.  "Brad's been looking for a reliable backup pilot. Might want to check the flight schedules."

The afternoon briefing brought temporary relief from the heat as the ancient AC unit rattled to life. Chris claimed his usual spot near the back wall, where the cold air hit his neck and his view of the tactical board was unobstructed. Wesker commanded the front of the room, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across his angular features.

"Redfield."

Chris's spine straightened automatically. Even without seeing those hidden eyes, he could feel the weight of Wesker's scrutiny like crosshairs settling between his shoulders.

"Sorry, sir. Could you repeat that?"

"Your assessment of the approach vector." The captain's tone carried none of the intimate intensity from their morning sessions. "Given your... particular qualifications."

Chris studied the diagram, remembering how Wesker had drilled him on reading terrain features until the skill was reflexive. "Western corridor offers better coverage, but the summer thermals off those glass buildings will create unpredictable turbulence patterns." His finger traced the alternative route. "Eastern approach means a longer exposure window, but we'd have stability for the extraction."

The silence stretched taut as piano wire. Chris caught the subtle flex of leather as Wesker's hands clasped behind his back—a tell he'd learned to read during their sessions.

"Noted." Wesker turned back to the board with characteristic precision. "Vickers takes primary pilot position. Redfield, you'll provide backup support. Valentine, Burton, Frost—ground team coordination..."

The team filed out after the briefing, but Chris felt the presence behind him before he heard it—like standing too close to a high-voltage line. The hair on his arms rose in primitive recognition.

"0445, Redfield." Wesker's voice was quiet enough that only Chris could hear, carrying that familiar commanding tone. "Since you seem so interested in aerial tactics."

Chris kept his gaze forward, ignoring how his pulse picked up rhythm like distant rotor blades. "Yes, sir."

The scent of gun oil and leather lingered after Wesker passed, mixing with the artificial cool of recycled air. Chris waited until his breathing steadied before gathering his notes.

"Captain's got you burning daylight lately," Joseph observed as Chris passed his desk. The words were light, but carried an undercurrent of respect. They'd all experienced Wesker's demanding standards firsthand.

"Better than burning ammo," Forest added with a knowing grin. "Though some of us wouldn't mind the extra range time."

Chris managed a tight smile but kept walking. Let them speculate. They hadn't felt the intensity of those dawn sessions, hadn't experienced how Wesker's usual cold precision seemed to sharpen into something else entirely when Chris showed potential. Like a predator catching the first hint of promising prey.

The wall clock ticked steadily. Fifteen hours until tomorrow's session. Time enough to review those flight patterns again—after all, excellence demanded preparation.

The afternoon sun transformed the helicopter pad into a shimming mirage of heat waves. Even in the shadow of the aircraft's bulk, sweat traced familiar paths down Chris's neck as he ran through the pre-flight checklist. In the pilot's seat, Brad's nervous energy manifested in constant minute adjustments to the controls in a way that made Chris's fingers itch.

"You sure you don't want primary on this one?" Brad's fingers drummed an uneven rhythm on the cyclic. "With your Air Force background..."

"Captain’s orders," Chris replied evenly, keeping his focus on the instrument panel. "You're primary, I'm backup." He didn't mention the morning's brutal training session, how Wesker had drilled him on chain of command until the responses were carved into muscle memory. A team functions on discipline, Redfield. Individual talent is secondary to unit cohesion.

Brad nodded, but his anxiety remained palpable in the confined space. "Right, got it. Just... you know how these equipment checks can get complicated. Sometimes under pressure—"

"Walk me through it," Chris interrupted, recognizing the spiral building in Brad's voice. "Step by step, like we trained."   

For the next hour, they methodically checked every system. Chris could have completed it in half the time alone, could have pointed out the inefficiencies in Brad's approach. But Wesker's words from this morning’s session echoed: S.T.A.R.S. succeeds through coordination, not competition.

Chris settled into the co-pilot's position, hands hovering near the controls. As they lifted off, movement caught his eye—a familiar silhouette on the observation deck, sunlight glinting off dark lenses. Even at this distance, that presence carried weight

"Status report." Wesker's clinical tone cut through the headset, carrying that same commanding presence even through the static.

"Systems green," Brad responded, some confidence returning. "Commencing patrol route."

The patrol route was textbook—maintaining visibility while running equipment checks. Brad's flying was competent but conservative, following standard patterns that brought Wesker's criticism to mind: Predictability is a luxury we cannot afford, Redfield.

The wind sock snapped violently westward, drawing Chris's attention. "Cross-wind's hitting twenty knots," he noted carefully, watching Brad's knuckles whiten on the controls. "Try bringing her about fifteen degrees starboard. It'll align us with that office complex."

Brad's jaw tightened. "The flight plan—"

"Is a framework," Chris finished, remembering countless dawn lectures. "Look at the building layout, how it channels the wind. Like the captain covered in the briefing..."

He guided Brad through the adjustment, watching their vector smooth out. It wasn't how Chris would have handled it—he'd have used the crosswinds aggressively, turned the turbulence to their advantage. But this wasn't about showcasing skill. It was about proving he could integrate into the unit.

The sun had already begun its descent when they completed post-flight checks. Most of the team had cleared out, but Chris found himself lingering, flight manuals spread across his desk in the dimming light. The building's temperamental AC had finally won its war against the summer heat, leaving the office almost comfortable.

The diagrams had started to blur together after hours of study. His muscles still carried the memory of the morning's training, a constant reminder of Wesker's exacting standards. But surrender wasn't an option—not when he'd finally started to recognize that subtle shift in the captain's demeanor, that barely perceptible nod of approval when he exceeded expectations.

The creak of metal hinges broke the silence, followed by measured footsteps that Chris had learned to identify like a signature. His pen stilled mid-notation, suddenly aware of how exposed he was in the empty office.

"Still here, Redfield?"

Chris didn't turn, but Wesker's presence registered like a change in air pressure. "Reviewing flight patterns for tomorrow's operation, sir."

The footsteps approached with deliberate purpose. Chris forced his attention to remain on the manual, though his awareness had shifted entirely to the figure now standing behind him.

"Your dedication is..." Wesker paused, and Chris heard the soft sound of leather adjusting glasses. "Noteworthy."

A gloved finger entered his field of vision, tracing a line on the diagram. "Though you've been analyzing the wrong approach vector for the past twenty minutes.”

Heat crawled up Chris's neck. He hadn't realized he was being observed. Again.

"The western corridor," Wesker continued, his voice dropping to that reserved register, "requires more than technical proficiency. Show me why."

It wasn't a request. Chris marshaled his tired mind to focus, acutely aware of Wesker's proximity, of the late hour, of how different this felt from their usual interactions.

"The buildings create wind tunnels," he began, following the path with his finger. "But it's not just turbulence. The angle means flying directly into the setting sun during evening operations. Even with Brad at the controls..."

"Continue."

Chris swallowed, noting how Wesker hadn't moved away. "It leaves the ground team exposed during extraction. Unless..." The realization hit like a round finding its mark. "Unless that's intentional. A calculated risk to draw attention from the eastern approach."

The silence stretched taut between them. The scent of leather and gun oil seemed stronger in the confined space.

"Fascinating analysis, Redfield." Wesker's voice had taken on that particular quality Chris had come to recognize—like a blade wrapped in silk. "Tomorrow's session should prove... illuminating."

"Yes, sir."

Chris waited until Wesker's office door closed before releasing a carefully controlled breath. He looked down at the flight manual, at the diagram Wesker had touched. Something had shifted in their dynamic, subtle but undeniable.

He began gathering his materials, mind already turning to tomorrow's session. Whatever Wesker had planned, Chris would be ready. He had to be.

The office lay empty and dark as he left, but he could feel eyes tracking his movement until the elevator doors closed. Tomorrow would bring another test, another chance to prove himself.

Excellence wasn't just a standard anymore. It had become something else entirely.