1997, Raccoon City Police Department. It was a relatively calm and uneventful Wednesday afternoon for the S.T.A.R.S. Alpha Team—As calm as it could be with the team’s differing personalities. Jill sat hunched over at her desk filing a report; Barry rearranged his desk and looked at the framed picture of his family; Brad was roped into a conversation with Barry about some menial topic; Chris loudly swivelled in his chair, moving from place to place as a substitute for walking, and aimed a scrunched up discarded report towards Jill, hitting her precisely in the forehead. This earned a disgruntled yelp from Jill, and a string of profanities aimed towards Chris.

The Captain, Albert Wesker, was holed up in his office, doing God knows what. It wouldn’t take long for him to come out and snap at all the wrongdoers, which didn’t matter who was in his line of fire.

“Chris, cut it out.” Jill shot Chris a warning glare, and when he threw yet another paper ball, she retaliated by pegging one of the erasers laying around.

It didn’t take long for Wesker to emerge from his office, stalking towards the group and fixing them with a cold, icy glare. Immediately, the room quieted, knowing they were in deep shit.

“If you value your positions here at S.T.A.R.S., then I’d suggest you stop such foolishness.” His tone was biting and final. He turned his gaze towards Chris, his signature sunglasses he never took off hiding his glare. “Redfield, I’m sure you’d revel in a chance at another week of desk duty?” The warning in his tone was enough to make Chris mumble an apologetic “Sorry, Captain,”

Wesker’s authority as Captain benefitted the team and pushed them to perfection, shaping the mould for success. Still, Wesker was cold, cunning and clinical, and he had no problem separating his work from his personal life. S.T. A. R. S. were merely a tool for his greater scheme; he was a man of science, emotions were a fabrication.