Author's Note: It's here. I've been wanting to tell this story for quite a while. The first act of a three part story. Enjoy the ride.

Prelude: An Ada Wong Story

What are you fighting?

Whatever the hell gets in my way.

- Ada Wong, Resident Evil 6

Raccoon City, Zero Hour

The Raccoon City Tribune

He was old, but that wasn't why I disliked him.

The man's name was Bernard Lowell and he was the editor-in-chief of The Raccoon City Tribune, the city's most prominent newspaper. His office was opulent and excessive; everywhere your eyes fell, there lay somewhere framed award or picture with a famous politician/celebrity. Hideous trinkets and gifts from the various VIPs he knew littered about on shelves or in glass cases in a manner that someone apparently decided was tasteful. Dozens more frames adorned the office walls, each featuring some news article that had garnered awards in some bizarre trophy display – even though such articles had come at the impressive efforts of his reporters, neither of whom held any love for their editor-in-chief, but where forced to work for him if they were to receive any sort of recognition in the world of journalism. His desk was ornate and large, made from some dark wood that I didn't recognize, with intricate designs built into each of the corners. A cabinet in the left corner of the office held a significant cache of liquors and wines, presumably to entertain any important guests that came to visit.

Opulent and excessive, just like the man himself - who resembled, if nothing else, a large red potato. His suit was ill-fitting, but expensive, the buttons straining against the fabric. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the air-conditioning; watery blue eyes stared out from a round, red face that came from drinking too much, too frequently.

Bernard Lowell was one of those rare combinations of someone who rose to a high position of power despite a high degree of incompetence. Any reporter outside his office, working away in the bullpen, was twice the journalist than he could ever hope to be. He couldn't find a story if it bit him in his enormous rear.

No, it wasn't because he was old that I disliked him.

It was because he was old and stupid.

Unfortunately, I had to be sweet to him. The job came first, and he had information that I was looking for.

"Let's try this again," I said to him. "Ben Bertolucci. He's one of your reporters: I need to find him."

Lowell waved a meaty hand carelessly. "Look, Miss – I didn't catch your name?"

"Because I didn't give it. Try to focus, Mr. Lowell, if it isn't too much for you."

The insult went over his head. "Lady, I'm in charge of a lot of reporters, all running around, getting me leads and stories. Do you even know what's happening in Raccoon City right now? All these riots; rumors of cannibalism in the street! You can't expect me to keep track of them all."

My trigger finger itched madly. I ignored it. "My employers will reward you handsomely if you help me out."

He paused at that statement. "I already have money."

"Not the kind of money my employers currently possess."

Lowell considered that for a moment and then said, "What if I want something else?"

"Name it."

The fat man's face grew lively at that thought, and I felt my distaste for the man grow. I had done my research on him and some of his activities tended to be lewd. The way his eyes kept centering on me only further added to his high creep factor. The sooner I was done with the man, the better for him to stay unhurt.

He shook his head after awhile and said, "How do I know you'll keep your word?"

My patience was beginning to fray. "I always keep my promises, Mr. Lowell. You must have records. Consult them."

"Records of what?"

Count to ten. Breathe.

"Records of your employees. Addresses, contacts, phone numbers?"

Lowell scrunched up his face, considered that thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, I might have something like that."

Finally. "If you could let me see them, then?"

Lowell tapped a button on his desk and spoke into an intercom. "Janice? Janice, I need you to hop over to Admin and find Bertolucci's file."

The intercom squawked, but there was no other answer.

"Janice? Janice!" Lowell slammed a fist into his desk. "I swear to God, if she's taking another smoke break . . ."

I was spared the rest of his rant when an explosion drowned out all other noise. We were safe on the fifth floor of the building, but the building shook slightly nonetheless. Lowell did an odd jump out of his chair, falling to the floor in a messy heap. Ignoring his loud oaths, I stepped quickly to the window, wincing at the glare from the blaze below.

"What the hell happened?" Lowell, groggy from his fall, but otherwise uninjured.

I felt mildly disappointed. He wasn't even suffering from a concussion.

"Two cars just pancaked each other on the street." I narrowed my eyes, making out dozens of figures below surrounding the scene. "Looks like a mob is gathering around the accident."

"This whole goddamn city is coming apart! Riots, murders, and the police are nowhere to be found – where the hell are my reporters? They need to get on this!" Lowell, energized by the prospect of another story to sell, moved with a speed and purpose that seemed incompatible with his body type. I moved towards him, intending to remind him of his prior obligation to me. He threw open the door –

A diminutive woman stood there, her glasses askew, hair mussed. Lowell almost crashed into her, took a step back, and blinked his piggish eyes until he recognized her. "Janice! Where they hell have you been, you stupid woman!"

Something was wrong. Janice just stood there, eyes not seeing, mouth slightly agape – a red substance dripped from her chin –

I was already moving toward Lowell, some instinct within screaming at me but it was too late.

Janice made a gurgling sound and grabbed at Lowell. He was still yelling when her mouth opened wide, impossibly wide and took a chunk out of Lowell's throat.

Blood spilled in a torrent. The two collapsed onto the floor, wet, sickly tearing sounds filling the room. Before I could reach them both, two more like Janice entered the room.

I lashed out with a kick at one, a tall, broad shouldered man of Asian descent with thinning hair breaking his neck. He stumbled backwards into his companion, a dark-skinned woman with vacant eyes and a blood-stained mouth.

Instead of dying though, the man made a groaning noise and shuffled towards me once more. Only this time, his neck lay at a grotesque angle, his head flopping about uselessly on his shoulders like a flaccid limb.

My stomach twisted at the sight. "Well," I muttered. "This is new."

Time for Plan B. I took out my gun and pumped a round into each of their foreheads. Both went down and did not move again. Moving cautiously, I kicked at each one several times to ensure that they were not playing possum.

Satisfied that they weren't, I hunched down and studied their profiles. They each suffered from a bite mark – the man on the cheek, the woman on her arm.

"So Umbrella really did do it," I murmured.

The T-virus – my employers had suspected that an outbreak was a question of when, not if, and had correctly assumed that it would occur in Raccoon City. Something had sped up Umbrella's plans though, since projections had the infection spreading much, much later. If it was here now . . .

John. I needed to find him.

But first, I had to find reporter Ben Bertolucci. I stood up, went over to where Lowell struggled with what was once Janice and shot her in the head. She slumped and toppled over, giving me access to the fat man beneath. I pulled him further into the office and latched his door shut to prevent any other infected from getting in.

His wound wasn't the worst one I've seen in my line of work, but not by much. His eyes jerked erratically and he reeked desperation from his every pore. He was bleeding out fast, and didn't have much time.

"Help . . . please." His voice was barely audible.

"So you can talk. Where is the file room, Mr. Lowell?"

His meaty hands scrabbled to cover his wound, but I knew that he had mere minutes left to him. Any heartbeats he had remaining were strictly a formality at this point.

"It . . . hurts."

"The file room, Mr. Lowell. I need to get to it. Is it on this floor?"

He grabbed at me, his eyes practically shouting his terror. "The pain – please . . . it hurts."

"Focus, Mr. Lowell and I can help you. Where is the file room?"

His eyes became glazed, unfocused, and he began to make gargling noises. "The . . . pain. Hurts so much."

I caressed his face gently in soothing circles and put on a sympathetic face. "Would you like me to take away the pain?"

Lowell nodded.

I placed my gun squarely in his shoulder and fired. He would have screamed if it weren't for my hand muffling his mouth. His body bucked and arched, but I held him firm. I looked the fat man in the eyes and said, "I lied. Now, listen to me Mr. Lowell. You are going to die, that is a fact. You may think that nothing matters anymore, but I assure you that right now a choice remains. You can die quickly and relatively pain free or you can die in tremendous agony, because if you do not help me achieve what I need, I will hurt you in the short time remaining in your pathetic life. Do you understand?"

I removed my hand from his mouth.

He spat at me. I calmly wiped it off, placed my hand over his mouth again, and twisted my gun in his wound.

I counted to ten, and then stopped. "That was not a yes, Mr. Lowell. I will repeat the question: Do you understand?"

He nodded vigorously. I smiled sweetly at him. "Good. Now is the file room on this floor? A nod or shake of your head will be fine since you can't speak with all that blood filling your throat."

Lowell shook his head.

Damn. I didn't want to stay in this building any longer than I had to, but I needed to find where Bertolucci lived in case he left something of value there.

"Is it on the floor above or below?"

Instead of answering, Lowell's head began to droop. The blood loss was beginning to take its toll.

"Pay attention, Mr. Lowell," I said and shoved my gun into his shoulder wound once more. He jerked to consciousness with satisfying speed. I repeated the question and his eyes flicked up.

"Thank you, Mr. Lowell." I patted his face in an affectionate manner.

"Will you . . . help me?"

"Of course. I always keep my promises, Mr. Lowell. Now close your eyes."

I didn't want to waste bullets, so I settled for a more physical approach. Gripping the sides of his head, the break was quick and clean.

I wiped my hands on his expensive suit and left for the sixth floor.

The offices of The Raccoon City Tribune were empty, save for a few scattered infected that were easily dispatched with a significant blow to the head thanks to the fire axe I had acquired on the way up. It seems that the reporters had all fled, taking few possessions with them as they did so.

Good luck to us all. We're going to need it tonight.

The door to the sixth floor opened with a creak as it opened, and I held my axe at the ready, expecting the worst.

Nothing came and I pressed forward. Desks and chairs lay strewn about and countless papers littered the floor. At the end of the room, I spotted the door that said ADMINISTRATION and moved towards it, caution preventing me from sprinting forward.

My instincts screamed at me to run and high-tail it out of there, but in a rare moment of exception, I ignored them. Crouching behind an overturned desk, I grabbed a sizeable book and threw it into the room's center. It landed with an audible thunk.

I was right to do so.

Five infected popped up, curious at the noise. It wasn't long before they started shuffling towards the noise. Instead of popping them all in the head, I decided to conserve bullets and instead moved quickly, but quietly towards the ADMIN door, keeping eyes on them the whole time.

Crossing the room at a brisk pace took less than a minute. It was clear that although the infected returned to life, they did not return with their intelligence intact. Their movements reminded me of cattle, but even a stampede could kill if they were properly motivated.

Certain that the infected wouldn't be turning in my direction any time soon, I turned around –

Something grabbed at my foot, causing me to look down.

An infected was about to much on my leg. I slammed my axe down on its head, or would have if it hadn't pulled at that precise moment. I fell flat on my back.

The commotion caught the attention of the other infected in the room. Gritting my teeth, I kicked at the infected grabbing my leg. "These – are – new – shoes!" I hissed, punctuating each word with a kick. Its face caved in after the last kick, but the hand remained gripped on my leg. I scrambled for the axe, which had landed somewhere to my left after the fall.

The other infected were coming closer, their speed increasing at the sight of me. "Now it's turning into a party," I said.

My hand found the axe's handle and I swung it at the infected arm still gripping my leg. It came off. An infected grabbed at my face; still on my back, I kicked out and caught it on the chin. It fell over and I hurried to stand and face the others.

I aimed the fire axe and it landed with a wet, meaty sound on one, cleaving its head into two. Another was getting too close to my left, I swerved to attack –

The axe was stuck in the other one's head. "Damn it!"

No choice. I drew my gun and put it point blank into the infected. It fell.

I heard more groaning, saw the stairwell door open; a flood of infected came inside. They must have heard the gunshot.

With a final effort, I wrenched the axe free and swung it at another infected to my right. The upper half of its head sliced clean off. The group from the stairwell began moving forward – I lined up a shot and fired into the crowd, aiming at the leaders. They fell and the ones behind them tripped over their bodies, slowing the mob of infected down.

I had bought myself some time. I took care of one last infected with another swing of the axe, threw open the ADMIN door, and stepped inside. The latch clicked with a satisfying click when I shut it, but I knew that the safety was temporary; the door wasn't meant to withstand a whole mob.

I made sure that the file room was empty before sifting through any files. Once I was sure that it was so, I opened the nearest file cabinet and started looking for Ben Bertolucci.

Three file cabinets and several tense minutes later, I found his file and the address of his apartment. It was on the other side of the city, and with the infection spreading across the city, a suicidal venture on foot.

Good thing I've got a ride waiting.

A chirp at my side got my attention, and I took out my communicator device – a blocky, ungainly piece of equipment that was the prototype of a new type of wireless phone. "I'm here," I said into the machine.

The female voice that came back was scratchy and tinged with static, but I understood it. "About time. It's getting a little hairy out here in case you haven't noticed. Have you located Bertolucci?"

"No, his boss was useless. But I did manage to attain his apartment address from his employee record."

"It'll do, I suppose. Be quick about it, Victoria. The city's not getting any safer."

"Of course, Maxine. On my way out." The call ended.

Victoria. Not the first false name I've used in my line of work and certainly not the last. The people I worked for required that we use falsified names as extra precautions in the field. The names used were personal choices of the agents, small figments from their own lives; it was the only truths we allowed ourselves in a career that demanded constant deception. Maxine chose her name from a cellist she admired.

Victoria was the name of the first boat I ever sailed on. Stupid, I know, but I had no one I admired or liked.

Except one. But I didn't dare use her name.

A noise outside the door returned my thoughts to present matters. I pocketed the communicator and pressed my ear to the door.

I didn't need to. A loud bang caused me to jerk my head back and it was soon accompanied by an eerie chorus of moaning that raised the hairs on my neck. I shivered at what lay in the room beyond.

"Not going out that way," I said to myself. A window at the corner of the room caught my eye. Opening it, I found a fire escape that led straight to the dark alleyway below. It was clear thanks to the gate at the alleyway's opening, but that could change soon. I closed the window behind me and made my way down, taking care to be discreet as I did so.

Maxine was waiting with our car at the end of the alleyway. She waved at me impatiently. I made my way towards her.

A movement to my right caught my eye. What I had assumed was a pile of garbage turned out to be a woman, clutching at her midsection. She had an open, honest face with few lines and wrinkles; a ring on her finger indicated marriage – gray strands in her brown hair told me she had kids.

The gash in her side leaking blood told me she was dying.

I felt a strange tightening in my chest. The woman looked at me, and to my surprise she did not beg or plead as Lowell did so. The expression on her face was one of resignation and grim resolve. She opened her mouth to speak and I cut her off. "Don't tell me your name. It'll make it easier that way," I said in a harsh tone.

She nodded, although I couldn't tell if that made any sense to her. "Then I won't," she said wearily. "But I will ask you for a favor. Please."

I knelt in front of her. "I can't save you."

"I know – I know that!" The strength in her voice was like iron. "But please, I don't want to turn into one of those things. I don't want to come back and hurt my husband or child."

"Victoria!" Maxine's voice sounded urgent. "We need to go, now!"

I closed my eyes, the tightness in my chest increasing. "Don't ask me to do this."

There will be more than enough killing to be done when this night is over.

"You are my last chance to make sure – please. I can't do it myself. Promise me you'll do this."

And we keep our promises, don't we, whispered a poisonous little voice in my heart.

"Victoria!"

I took out my gun. Aimed it.

She never stopped looking at me. A small, contented smile – so odd, so out of place in this nightmarish situation – spread over her weary face.

"Thank you."

I returned the smile with all the energy I could muster. If she was going to go, it would be with a friendly face. "Thanking me," I said, not quite stopping the quiver in my voice. "That's new."

I squeezed the trigger.

It was only afterwards, in the car with Maxine on our way to Bertolucci's apartment, that I began to relax. We had been driving in almost complete silence, only speaking about the current state of the city.

It was a mess. Raccoon City was turning into hell, quite literally. We passed burning buildings, deserted cars, mobs of infected, and the bodies of police officers who had tried to quell the uprising panic. Random looters and rioters still filled the street, smashing and taking whatever they could. Everyone was running, or hiding, but no one was trying to help.

I shuddered inwardly. Not all the bodies we passed were policemen. Some of them were small, hands still clutching their favorite toy or stuffed animal.

"They're not worth saving," Maxine noted, her tone disgusted.

"More words of wisdom from Saint Maxine," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Oh and you are? Saint Victoria, ending the life of that mother back in the alleyway. Such an act of heroism."

I gritted my teeth, biting back the retort that was forming in my mouth. Maxine, the partner I never asked for on this mission. Arrogant, snobby, and completely amoral she, unfortunately, had the skills to back up her outrageous claims. Somehow I got the feeling that she was sent here to keep an eye on me, rather than actually help get the job done. She considered herself the better agent, and I let her think that, preferring to have the element of surprise when I finally got the chance to slap the bitch down.

I hoped it would be tonight.

Maxine swerved to avoid an upturned vehicle, uttering a nasty oath as she did. "You cost us time, you know. Every minute we lose, the closer the government gets to razing the city."

I shook my head. "It won't come to that. There are still people to evacuate."

"Is that optimism? Coming from Victoria? Have you finally become a good person?"

I pointed my gun at her head. "Maxine," I said, politely, "shut the hell up."

"Continue pointing that gun at my head and I will crash this car with the both of us in it," replied Maxine calmly.

After a few tense seconds, I slowly lowered my gun. "I knew you wouldn't do it," sneered Maxine. "Good people have so many rules, it's a wonder they get anything important done - "

I whipped the butt of my gun against her head. The car bucked and swerved, but Maxine eventually regained control. She touched the side of her face; blood trickled down from the cut that was now there. "You hit me," she said in wonderment.

"I am not a good person. Good people don't need rules." I let my words become frosted with an icy edge. "If you continue to push your luck with me tonight, you'll see why I have so many."

"Hmph," said Maxine. "Very well, then." Her tone was unimpressed, but I detected a slight degree of respect that was not present before.

I closed my eyes as we passed another group of people – a family by the looks of it. Their faces were scared and haggard. A man, the father I'm guessing, caught sight of the car and began to wave his arms frantically and started shouting. Maxine stopped to maneuver around some debris and wreckage lying in road, and within a few minutes we were on our way again.

We didn't stop. They became dots of blackness in the rearview mirror.

"Almost done, Victoria," said Maxine.

I reclined my seat and didn't answer. Best to conserve my energy now while I still could, since I knew better.

The night was only beginning.

Author's Note: I've been itching to tell this story for a long time. For all you asking, where's Ada? It's kind of obvious since the title specifically says "An Ada Wong story". She's here in the story. And yet, she's not. This is Ada before we met her in Resident Evil 2; before Leon could work his magic on her - much more remorseless, brutal, and a much scarier person than we're accustomed to. Also, she's not bearing the name Ada Wong. I thought of this story of how she ends up taking that name and what it means to her to do so. Also, I forgot how easy it is to write in first person - I think I'll do that for future stories, 'cause third person is a pain to do. As always, read, review, and spread the word. See you in the second act, and don't worry - Leon and Claire will pop up, but only at the end.

Sincerely,

ShiningScribbler

P.S. - Don't forget to check out my other works: Bastion and the Hunnigan Files!