A perhaps unexpected sight Quintus would find in Eleven was one Albert Wesker, looking startlingly like he belonged. His usual dark attire - those blacks and blood reds and midnight blues - had been replaced by a simple, all white assemble. A button-down and slacks that appeared breezy and relaxed as he sat in elegantly carved seat in the orchard.

Like a image out of old history. A wealthy plantation owner in the heyday of the grand old South.

Holding court with a pair of sponsors until their mayfly attention spans had them fluttering off to see what else the party had to offer. ("I hear ten has actual dogs.")

"Take care not to overdo it," he told them as they left. Voice dropping low and dry as they moved out of earshot. "I don't know how I'd ever manage."