Raccoon City, 1990

I always feel like a prop at these functions, Umbrella yearly conventions. Having to show up, stand there and smile for the board and their simpering wives. Spencer totes us both out every year. No matter what our feelings on the matter were, no matter what we had going on. It’s just unpleasant. It leaves me with the familiar feeling that my skin is crawling. That my body is not mine, that it doesn't belong to me. That there’s an Umbrella logo stamped on each of my organs. That I wholly belong to these people. That I am caged. That I’m not /real/. It’s always been a struggle of mine, though Albert has never seemed to feel it…which is a blessing. I look in a mirror and see a ghost looking back at me, trapped, pale, /suffocating./ I would not wish that feeling on him. No. I never want him to feel that.

Despite my feelings, I am ever the dutiful daughter, I smile and make polite conversation. I am poise and grace. It's all a farce, though. I don't care about most of them, and some I actively hate. I just don't put my foot down and say "No, I'm not going, I have other things to do." because it's really just not worth the fight it would cause. Also, I always get to see Albert at these things, since he always seems to show up, too. We are both dutiful children, if nothing else.

I haven't seen my brother yet, and usually he's quite easy to spot. He cuts a fine figure in a suit, and there are few here that young with a shock of blonde hair. So, I make my rounds, waiting for him to arrive. He's the only person I actually wish to see.

"Earl Ashford, it's wonderful to see you! How is the deep south treating you?" I asked the blonde man, who for a second I had hoped was Albert, until I saw the jacket that he was wearing. Albert wouldn't be caught dead in that crazy get up. It was some sort of formal regalia for nobility that had been replaced a while ago. The real power lay in science these days. Alfred Ashford wasn't really the smartest of the bunch...but nepotism is a powerful thing for birth children in noble classes. Some of us aren't quite so lucky.

Some of us had to pay a high price indeed for our places in the Company. I hate him for it.

The young man looks at me, and for a second I think he's seeing someone else in me as well, but he recovers himself and nods, "Ms. Wesker, you look lovely this evening, and I find the climate to be detestable but it's perfect for the studies that we're doing." He offers me his arm, with a charming smile at my pun about the weather in Antarctica. I take it, keeping an eye out for the Lord Spencer, pleased to be free of him for the time being. It's a short calm before the storm, because I know I'll be called to prance for him all too soon. He trots me out in front of donors after he tells them about my brush with death as a child. Every year.

"Thank you, my Lord. You're quite handsome as well, dressed to impress. I feel like I should curtsy." He starts to say it's not necessary, but then it turns to a laugh as I do so, seemingly flattered as we continue to move across the room, and I spy Albert at the door, speaking with two people who I would guess are the Birkin couple.

"Ah, it seems my brother is here, I must go snag him before he gets swept away from me in this crowd. It was a pleasure, my Lord." I give his arm a gentle squeeze before I'm moving away, skirting the dance floor, towards Albert. Seeing him has been quite difficult as of late, he was always either working in the labs with Will or living his cover life...it's left me quite lonely. We're probably a bit codependent at times, but it's simply a product of our upbringing.

He was the only one to show me any kindness when we were young, as I was the only one to show him any. Our bond is the strongest relationship that either of us have. I don't even understand how to relate to other people, they're small and strange...and their lives seem so easy? So uncomplicated. And yet they struggle so with them. I have no sympathy for their troubles, and no empathy to speak of either.

I almost make it to the small cluster of three, and I even raise my hand to get one of the trio's attention but then...it's too late. Spencer and his sycophants are there and demanding my attention, as if they sprouted foul and fully grown from the tile floor under my feet. "Alexandra! I was just telling our guests about our miraculous projects in gene therapy, decades ahead of anything else on the planet and they said they simply had to meet you. This is Dr. Amira and Dr. Norannon, they're thinking about coming to do their research projects with Umbrella." Spencer's voice feels likes nails in my ears and I tense like a scared rabbit for one single moment. Telling me with just that last sentence what my role is to be, how I am to perform, what is expected of me.

I have been trained well over the years.

Albert glances up at the exact moment I tense, almost as if he can feel it from across the room, eyes narrowed and looking for me. I can only hope that he sees me as I turn to face the new trio, smiling my most winning smile and forcing the tension in my back to lessen some. I'm taller than all of them in my heels, and I've been told I'm intimidating when I 'tower'. "Pleased to meet you both."

---

"It's amazing, what the Lord Spencer has been implying, they have a way to cure autoimmune diseases? Simply amazing. Good lord!" Amira is an eager, interested sort, and I have a feeling that if I could calm him down, we could actually have a proper and spirited scientific discussion. However, there's a bit of social ineptitude there too, as I get the distinct impression that he's just about to reach out and start groping my joints to check for pain and inflammation. A slow drip of cold anger begins to trickle down my spine.

This is when I am at my best, when I'm subtly angry, my thoughts are glittering crystals. Sharp and lethal as any scalpel. It's when I lie my best. "The Lord Spencer plays his cards close to his chest, we have to in times like these...but yes. I did have a terminal autoimmune disorder as a child, extremely rare, but with Umbrella's help? I'm still right as rain sixteen years later. With no further treatment. All because they took a chance on a 'far fetched' research project. Umbrella's still changing the world today." It's perhaps not a full lie, but it's highly embellished and there is a lot omitted. The core is true, but my feelings on the matter do not bring a smile to my face, far from it.

Norannon seems the more hesitant, but even he is partially swayed by my charms. I can tell by the way he asks more personal questions. "And you, what have you done with your second lease on life?" There's a reason that I'm the one who sells the dream. Most in the Scientific community are male, over the age of forty, and lead very dull social lives. I'm the charming, beautiful success story, and the fact that, most of the time, their eye line is closer to my chest in heels than my eyes doesn't hurt matters.

It's sickening, but the name of the game. Sex sells. "I actually came to work for Umbrella, my brother and I both did. I'm just finishing up my doctorate. My dissertation will be done this year, and I'll be going into research soon after. It's very exciting, and all thanks to Lord Spencer." I give the old man my most grateful look, leaning to press a brief kiss to his cheek, mimicking the feeling that I know he wants to see....all while wanting to dig my fingers into the sagging flesh of his face and tear it free. Let him show his true grinning skull to the world. They'd recoil properly.

I hate him. I've hated him for years. The cool drip of anger has started to become ice in the middle of my chest, and it's only a matter of time before I can't keep it out of my eyes any more. Subtle anger is one thing, but a prolonged performance leaves me cold. I only have so much in me to give. Thankfully, I hear a smooth baritone over the surrounding conversation.

"Alex?" At the first syllable, I could sink into his voice...solace, a balm for the ice in my veins, warmth and all the safety I've ever known. "I've been looking all over for you. Has Lord Spencer been keeping you all to himself tonight? That's not very fair." There's a solid presence to my left and sure enough I turn and there's a pair of slightly darker blue eyes, and a head of blonde hair. Always coming to save the day, it seems. My hero.

"Oh, this is my brother I was just talking about. Albert, I've just been meeting two wonderful men who are thinking about bringing their projects into Umbrella. These are Dr.s Amira and Norannon." I place a hand on his arm, and use the other to gesture to the two doctors in turn, the seemingly casual touch a cue that I am not doing well. We have a language all our own, like twins, but it's a faceted thing, a code no one else would be able to break. Body language, touch, a pause in a sentence with eye contact, a series of slight chips in the paint on a door frame or a table top. A language built in a place where we were always watched, but never loved.

"Pleased to meet you, but I'm going to have to steal my sister...I feel like I haven't gotten to see her in months." His tone is light and casual, but he doesn't quite pull off the smile. He's a leader, and he is used to having his orders followed. These meek creatures are putty before him, already nodding their goodbyes. Spencer, though? In his eyes is a rage at being disobeyed. Someone may have to pay that price, but for now Albert gently guides me away, and we head for the large balcony and the open air.

"Thank you..." I manage in a quiet whisper, one hand a tight fist, nails digging furrows into my palm as I master the anger and do my best to keep the tension only in my hand and not in my walk, shoulders, or face.

"It's fine, let's get you a seat and I'll grab us some drinks." His tone is quiet, almost soft. He isn't a soft man, by any stretch. Charming, callous, and firm...soft is not something he shows other people. Softness equates to weakness, which equates to failure, and neither of us can afford to fail. Ever.

The balcony is less packed than the ballroom, and there's an empty table by the railing that I sit down at...uncoiling my hand and placing it flat on the table to try and let go of the twisting feeling in my stomach. Without a word more, he's gone to get us drinks from the waiter at the wet bar that's been set up out here and I can finally breathe properly. Free of the miasma that hangs around the old man like a choking fog.

I think he knows why I get so upset by Spencer, but we've never talked about it. I don't believe we ever will...because I think that if the words were said? I really believe Albert would kill him. I can't let that happen...it'd be too high profile, and Spencer is why we are allowed as much freedom in Umbrella as we are. Without his indulgence, I fear that things could be far worse than they are at the current time. There's so much anger in us both, but his sometimes translates into physical action. I just have to make sure that I won't be the cause of something so drastic, I couldn't bear to see him in trouble for something I'd said.

Not that it wouldn't be intensely satisfying to watch my brother crack the old man's skull on the pavement like an overripe melon. Oh no...that would be very pleasant. Very...cathartic to watch.

---

"...Alex." I heard, almost distantly after what felt like a long time of sitting there, lost in my own head. I'd been...distracted by things that were old, and best left dead where they lay. Hidden in basements. Abandoned and sealed shut.

"Yeah, I'm sorry." I replied, smiling faintly to reassure my brother that I was fine, when he returned with drinks. Champagne. It was the color of our hair, and still fizzing slightly. I didn't doubt for a second that if there was more light that he would see my smile for what it was, placation. A lie. I was not fine, but we weren't the type to talk about our problems, unless they were fixable.

A childhood of varied traumas is not fixable. Not really. You scar up and you move on. You don't let it happen again. You sleep with a knife under your pillow and carry a gun in your purse. No matter what, you do not allow it to happen again. That's how you deal with trauma. It doesn't change anything, neither does hand holding or coddling.

"Don't apologize to me, you're fine. As good a reason as any to get out of that ballroom." The words are casual, but I know that he's placating me as well. It wouldn't have bothered him to remain back there, he'd only just arrived. Albert tapped the table twice with a finger, next to my hand that was still laying flat on the table, palm down. Signalling for me to turn over the hand I'd been curling into a fist, knowing better than to touch me at the moment. Perceptive. Kind, in it's own way. He wanted to see the damage.

I watched the back of my hand for a moment, deciding if I wanted to rip the band aid off before downing the glass of champagne, or afterward. I decided on afterwards and downed the glass in one go. They weren't large glasses to begin with, but when I set the glass down I turned my hand over for him to see. Four, tiny bloody crescents marred my palm.

On which he placed a cocktail napkin, allowing me to curl my hand back up to clean up with. Ballroom dancing may yet happen and I can't go around leaving bloody tracks on people. Wouldn't send the right impression. The impression is that I am happy, that I am smiling and graceful. That I am...pleased to be there. The impression matters more than reality, because this isn't reality. This is a masquerade ball, and the mask is my face.