Link : https://m.fan fiction.net/s/13312456/1/The-Supermen
WC : 31k+
Plot : Wesker drags himself out of the volcano, barely alive. He has not given up on his plan to take over the world and he is more determined than ever to get revenge on Chris. Then something even Wesker couldn't plan for happens, and he finds himself in the DC Universe. But Wesker is sure he can turn the situation to his advantage and conquer both worlds.
Chapter 1
Hall of Justice, Washington DC, New Earth [Interdimensional Universe Classification 4443]
"It's been pretty quiet the past few days," Hal Jordan said. He'd just finished checking some recent reports of extraterrestrial activity. None of them had been real. Mostly planes, balloons, and clouds. There were a few objects that had been too vaguely described for him to identify, but they definitely weren't spacecraft.
Batman—Bruce? Hal had known Batman for two years now, but had never quite gotten into the habit of calling him Bruce—glared at him. "You should know not to say that by now."
Hal laughed. "What, are you superstitious? Saying it won't make anything happen."
West Africa [Interdimensional Universe Classification 5245]
Wesker ducked his head at the last second as the rockets flew towards him. He closed his eyes, but the flash of light as the rockets detonated still hurt. The shock wave hit him next, then the sound. Pain shot through him, more pain than he'd felt in over a decade, more pain than most people ever felt. Then nothing.
When he regained consciousness, a deafening screech was still reverberating in his ears. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious for. Where was he? He tried to think, but his thoughts came too slowly.
He realised his eyes were still closed, and opened them gradually. He could see nothing but whiteness all around him. He blinked. Still whiteness. He shook his head—not one of his best ideas, as it made his brain feel as if it was crashing against his skull—but his vision didn't clear.
Despite being unable to see anything, he had the sensation that the world was spinning. Which of course it technically was, at about 1000 miles per hour, but he wasn't generally so aware of it. He had almost fallen unconscious again when he became aware of the burning across his whole body. The pain restored some measure of alertness.
He was in the volcano. He'd half sunk into the lava when the ground gave way. If it hadn't been for the Uroboros, he would have been dead. As it was, the lava had burned away the tentacles that had resulted from his mutation, but he was alive. With any luck, he might be capable of movement.
As he regained consciousness, the details of the situation came back to him. He'd fallen from the plane, been poisoned, stabbed, shot, and suffered third-degree burns at least from the lava, before he even included the injuries from the explosion. This day had not turned out nearly as well as he had hoped. And one person—one human—was responsible for this.
Chris. Chris had escaped in the helicopter. Chris had poisoned him, shot him, fired missiles at him, and survived, flown off to safety somewhere. Chris had destroyed everything he had worked on for the past ten years.
Wesker would find Chris. He'd track him down, and he wouldn't make the mistake of allowing him to live this time. He'd kill Chris, slowly, painfully. But to do that, he would have to find some way to avoid dying slowly and painfully here himself.
Wesker reached up and tried to grip the burning hot rocks above him. His movements were slow and weak, but he managed to get a handhold. He pulled himself up, ignoring the agonising pain as the skin on his hands burned away, and grabbed the rocks with his other hand. Slowly, he dragged himself out of the volcano, until he was sprawled on the ground above the crater.
He still couldn't see. How long was this going to last? If he'd just been blinded by the light from the explosion, his vision would probably recover within a few minutes, but if his eyes had been seriously damaged it could take several days, even with his enhanced rate of healing. Still, if he didn't get out of here now he'd be unlikely to live that long.
He needed a plan. He tried to think clearly, to assess his situation. The heat of the volcano seemed to have destroyed the Uroboros. His strength and speed were roughly at the levels they had been before he'd been exposed to it; or at least they would be, once he'd recovered from his injuries. The Prototype virus was clearly still effective, or he wouldn't have survived at all. The burns from the lava, however, were severe. He'd never had good luck with fire; he still remembered his battle against Alexia Ashford. He also hadn't fully healed from the PG67A/W overdose. His head hurt, breathing was difficult, and…
What was happening? He'd known where he was a few minutes ago, but now he struggled to remember. Several voices started repeating strange words that he couldn't understand. He didn't even recognise the language. They echoed, distorted, then became one voice. It sounded like Will. Will was dead, though, wasn't he? Wesker was almost sure he had heard something about Will being dead, but he couldn't remember when. Then Will was standing in front of him. Wesker could see him, somehow. But he'd been blinded by the explosion. He shouldn't have been seeing anything. Maybe his vision had healed, but it seemed unlikely since everything else was still white. Even Will was blurry.
Will hadn't stopped talking. Will never stopped talking. But Wesker still couldn't understand him.
"You're not making any sense, Will," Wesker said. The effort of speaking sent a sharp pain through his chest, and his throat felt like it had been burned.
Will was silent. That was strange.
"Will?"
Will disappeared.
Wesker tried to get his thoughts back on track. PG67A/W overdose. Painful. Hard to breathe. Not fully healed...and he was clearly having difficulty staying conscious, let alone focussing on anything important. Of all the things to see in a hallucination, it had to be Will. He hadn't even told Wesker anything useful. What was the good of seeing dead people if they couldn't help you out?
He needed to get back to the research facility. The plane had travelled maybe one hundred miles. Normally, he'd have been able to cover that distance in less than an hour. Now, he wasn't sure how he'd get there at all, unable to see and almost certainly concussed. Still, he had to try. The facility had medical equipment, including some substances which would work as an antidote to the PG67A/W poisoning; once that was treated, his other injuries would heal in about an hour, ignoring the unknown extent of the damage to his eyes. The facility also had the advantage of not being in the middle of a lava field.
After that, he'd need to get some weapons and some form of vehicle (there was a second bomber plane; with any luck he'd be able to take it), not to mention clothes.
Then he could fly the plane to another Tricell base. Probably one in Europe—the authorities were still looking for him in America. The biggest Tricell base in Europe was in Germany; that would probably be the best one to head to.
He struggled to his feet—his muscles felt weak and he found it hard to balance. He tried to take a step forwards, but collapsed. He wasn't going to be able to walk. Still, while he was blind it would probably be safer to crawl down the mountain anyway; it would allow him to feel where he was going.
He started to crawl. It felt painfully slow, although he knew he was still faster than even an uninjured human: probably around 5 miles per hour. For now, he could just head down the slope of the mountain; he hoped by the time he'd got down his eyes would have recovered enough to let him work out how to get back to the facility. He tried not to think about the time it would take him to get back. Unfortunately, he found he'd calculated it anyway. 20 hours, nearly a whole day, even if nothing went wrong and he went the right way the whole time. Still, it wasn't as if he had much of a choice. He couldn't stay where he was.
Two hours later, Wesker stopped, gasping for breath. He was lying flat on his face at what seemed to be the bottom of the mountain. This was humiliating. A god should not have to crawl across the ground like an insect—and a blind insect at that.
He was tired. He'd forgotten what it was like to be tired. He didn't want to move. He wanted to stay here, which made no sense; the place was hardly worthy of a god...but he just wanted to stop...why were there black dots swirling around? Just when he'd somewhat adjusted to everything being white, it had to go and change... and there were more black dots… he reached up weakly and tried to brush them away but they stayed where they were…
What was he doing? He couldn't just lie here. He tried to focus on remembering the area around the lab. He knew it fairly well. If he'd been able to see, finding his way wouldn't have been a problem.
At least the ringing in his ears had died down now: he could hear normally again. In fact, he was starting to wonder if he could use that to his advantage, and try to navigate by sound somehow.
He struggled up onto his hands and knees, then raised one hand and snapped his fingers. He listened to the echoes, tried again. It took a while, but eventually he'd worked out quite a bit of information about his surroundings. As he had thought, he was at the bottom of the mountain. The area he was in was relatively flat. He thought there were marshes somewhere in front of him; the sound was different, softer than the echoes from the rocks.
If he headed through the marshes, he should get to the lab. The first 20 miles or so would be the most difficult. After that, for the next 50 miles, there was a narrow path. Then the marshes ended, and he'd just have to head through the oilfield for another few miles until he reached the caves.
A day later, Wesker dragged himself into the lab and collapsed unconscious.