I don't own Resident Evil or [PROTOTYPE] and make no money from this fanfiction

Chapter 1: Release

Gentek Research Facility. 17/5/10

Chris Redfield stood with his back to a wall – metaphorically and literally. He was panting in exhaustion. Perspiration soaked his shirt, fatigue gripped his muscles and wore him down, and blood oozed out of a roughly bandaged wound. He would be dead by now, were it not for the monster having decided to toy with him, rather than kill him outright. Chris cursed fate for providing him with yet another monologue spewing, arrogant, super-powered villain after finally destroying Albert Wesker. That fight alone had only barely allowed Chris to survive – if it wasn't for Sheva, Jill and Josh supporting him, Chris was certain that he'd be dead. And now he had absolutely no one to help him, no helicopter to provide an escape, no rocket launchers, absolutely nothing to fight this…thing. Easily the most powerful mutated freak Chris had ever faced, he was certain that he couldn't win. Not this time.

Shooting his Samurai Edge was more of a formality now – his opponent had survived far worse – and even the miraculous headshots that had taken out so many enemies in the decade that he had fought against Bio-Organic Weapons (BOW's) failed to even faze this creature. As the booming shots changed to rapid clicks Chris mentally compared this monster to a physical manifestation of death. Dropping the handgun and drawing himself upright, Chris stared daggers at death.

"Sorry about this, Redfield. You don't deserve to die, and that's more than I can say about a lot of people." Death paused, about to say something else. Seeming to think better of it, the monster continued forwards. Chris thought back to the thousand and one times he'd somehow managed to evade the end. It seemed that the end had finally caught up with him…

Washington DC. 10/5/10

The crowded café seemed like the worst place in the world for the business of weapons dealing. With dozens of witnesses, complete lack of privacy and every possibility of being discovered, one might wonder why Lugosi had chosen it as her place of transaction. Of course, if one were to ask her then they'd be called an, "Amateurish sod". Lugosi had been in the trade of black market dealings since turning rogue from the British Branch of the BSAA and knew every trick in the bookcrw of illegitimate dealing. The busy café made an ideal spot for a less than legal transaction; the public location being the last place anyone would look, the usual legitimate business dealings providing a smoke screen, and if things went wrong then the customers and staff provided hostages. With all this in mind, Lugosi sat confidently in an inconspicuous corner, setting a steel briefcase against the table leg. She was a beautiful woman, with long, flowing blonde hair, sharp brown eyes that shone with intelligence, and a toned body.

Awaiting her client, she gestured to a waiter with a regal flourish. Ordering a Black Tea in a clipped, British accent, she looked down at the briefcase. The unremarkable case contained a deadly weapon, a biological weapon; it was a modern Pandora's Box. Since her time in the BSAA, she had taken down many bioterrorists, biological weapons dealers and the like. It was ironic that now she was one. The waiter returned with the tea, he was young, barely out of high school with a kind smile and a naïve look in his wide eyes. As Lugosi thanked him, she reflected that if things went south then she wouldn't regret killing him. Sipping on the crisp, hot tea, she sighed and closed her eyes as the tantalizing aroma drifted up. Without opening her eyes she said, "Murdock, you're late."

"Always catch me, don't you Bella?" came a deep voice with a Southern accent. Opening her eyes, Bella Lugosi saw a large, broad shouldered man, wearing an expensive dark suit that in Washington acted as camouflage. He was an average businessman, except that his business involved murder. From what she'd heard, business was good.

"You may be able to garrote the unsuspecting senator, Murdock. But you can't sneak up on me," she joked lightly, having learnt long ago that clients paid more if they liked the salesperson. "Now, we've been in business for a while, but this order is far bigger than any that you've asked for. What could you possibly wish to do with this? After all, an M16 or a couple of Cerberuses is one thing, but a sample of the Tyrant Virus? What's going on?"

"Please, Bella. Whatever happened to your policy of 'sell first, never ask questions ever?'" Murdock replied evenly.

"Very well, I was simply curious." Bella said. "Now, as for the price; a vial of the Tyrant Virus, capable of the degenerating an entire city into an anarchy of undead monsters and whatnot, being sold in Washington DC of all places…hmmm, I'd say it would be worth billions. But for you, a hundred million might be more reasonable. I mean, a sample of the T-Virus whilst we're in Washington of all places? Whoever's hired you can certainly afford that." She knew that haggling would reduce the price and had deliberately set the bar high. Writing something onto a tissue, she turned the blank side up and slid it across the table. Her client didn't turn it over.

Murdock nearly choked. "A hundred million? That's insane. I say; twenty -"

"You must have gone round the bend! This is worth ninety million!"

"Twenty five."

"Eighty."

"Forty!" Murdock growled.

"Fifty, take it or-"the weapons dealer began.

"Deal." The hit man said reluctantly. Bella smiled as Murdock turned over the tissue to see a number written in an elegant style. It read, "Fifty Million." Murdock exhaled, annoyed.

"I don't know how you always do that, Lugosi." He said, slightly miffed that she'd correctly foretold the final price once again. "Well, I guess you get another ten thousand for that."

Bella smirked mischievously. "As I told you when we made that wager, I never lose."

A row of five dark cars pulled to a sharp stop in front of the café. Immediately, armed men stormed out, wearing urban camouflage body armor, black balaclavas and wielding compact SIG 556 Carbines. Making their way to the doors, the men lined up guns up and at the ready. At a subtle hand motion from the leader the door was thrown open and one by one the soldiers streamed in, each covering the other and spreading out to neutralize any possible threat. Customers screamed, illogically believing a robbery was taking place – as if a café raid required a team of a dozen men with military-grade weapons and body armor. As the shouting quieted down and the soldiers restored order, the leader made a beeline for Lugosi's table. Covered by two of his men, the leader reached a hand beneath his balaclava and tugged it off to reveal a handsome, rugged face with dark hair and matching eyes. "Isabella Talbot," he stated accusingly, not taking notice of her companion who was trying to look as inconspicuous as possible…and failing.

Bella looked surprised, her cool eyes narrowed as she tried to remember the familiar visage. "Chris? My, my, what are the odds of running into each other? Isn't Washington such a small place? Oh, and it's just Bella now. Bella Lugosi."

Chris was all business. "Talbot, you're under arrest for more offences than I can list."

Raising a curved eyebrow, Bella smirked at Chris. "Oh, surely what's in the past should stay there? Whatever happened to 'Live and let live'. Besides, surely you can let me off for old time's sake."

"That's out of the question, Talbot. Corporal Parker, arrest her." Chris ordered, glaring out of the corner of his eye as Isabella's client tried to sidle out of his seat at the word 'arrest'. The client froze in place and settled back down. One of the soldiers stepped forward with steel cuffs in hand. Bella smiled maliciously.

"Come now, Chris. I remember a time when you used cuffs for quite a different reason. But, I'm afraid a penitentiary isn't high on my list of places-to-see…" she reached a hand into her pocket and clutched a hidden remote. Pressing one of the buttons as Parker reached for her wrists, Bella took a deep breath, tensing up as she waited for…BANG! An explosion sounded as bricks rained in from one of the walls. Forcing its way through the gap, a truck backed in – running over a couple of elderly patrons as it did so – and halting at the centre of the café. A tense second passed as everyone was frozen in shock, and then the door began to slide up automatically. Chris was yelling for the men to prepare to fire, his years of experience warning him that whatever was in the truck wasn't good.

A deep growl emanated from the darkness of the massive box. One of the soldiers shook himself out of his reverie and raised his weapon, just as a red blur flew from the box to slam into the man's chest, knocking him down. The man, an unfortunate Private whose name was Stuart, screamed as claws the size of machetes sank into his torso and tore the skin and muscles, crushed the bones and ripped the organs out. Bullets flew from the surrounding soldiers and the gun in Stuart's hand, while the beast above him roared in a combination of pain and triumph. The last thing that Stuart saw was an eyeless, skinless head, a massive, exposed brain, and a set of vicious jaws from which a long, barbed tongue flailed. That was when the monster shot its tongue into Stuart's forehead like a harpoon, ending his yells for help. The whole process had taken only five seconds, and during that short amount of time five more of the beasts had leapt from the container to engage the rest of the solders. Chris shouted orders as his men teetered on the edge of panic, monsters roared over the turmoil as civilians broke and ran for the exits – falling to stray bullets, flailing claws and each other as they struggled to escape.

"Cover each other! Engage the closest target! Aim for the head!" Chris yelled at the top of his lungs. As he gave orders he fired with a large handgun, squeezing off accurate precise shots that blasted the heads of the monsters that tried to kill him. As he went for a third its tongue lanced out and knocked the gun out of his hands. Sidestepping to avoid a gross decapitation, Chris reached behind his shoulder and drew a massive kukri knife out, and then whirled it down to slice straight through the tongue. Ignoring the furious roar, Chris dove for the fallen firearm, sliding along the ground, grabbing the pistol and twirling around just as the mutant soared for him, teeth bared and claws ready. The gunshot boomed like a cannon as the point blank shot blasted a hole into the beast's forehead and sending out clumps of brain matter and blood out the back. He had faced these beasts before, recognizing the grotesquely enlarged brain, large claws, quadruped stance, skinless body and the elongated tongue. It was the long, barbed tongue that was its namesake: a Licker. A product of extended infection of the T-Virus, the Lickers had once been human. Chris could only speculate on where Isabella had gotten the subjects. 'Speaking of the backstabbing, murdering, treasonous female dog…' Chris turned to find her. Amid all the confusion, with Lickers mauling and spearing before succumbing to a hail of bullets from the rallying soldiers, with the last of the civilians pushing through the doors or simply smashing through the windows, and with the sheer anarchy that ruled the unassuming café in Washington, Isabella and her client had vanished. As the last of the Licker's howled, Chris turned to see dozens of wounded and dead civilians – a young waiter looking like he'd barely left school, pain clouding his eyes and clouding his features while a hand clutched his stomach where blood flowed and organs threatened to spill from a ragged tear. His men had suffered two casualties and three major injuries. Kneeling by the unfortunate waiter, Chris pulled out an intercom, reported the mission status and requested help for all the victims. Once done, Chris returned his attentions to the wounded. Encouraging and comforting all of them, when he had a spare moment Chris thought of Isabella and cursed under his breath. "That bitch!"

"A total failure – thirteen deaths, two people stuck in hospital wards and being tested for possible T-Virus infections, $150, 000 dollars worth of damages, fifty witnesses and absolutely no arrests!"

Chris struggled to keep his emotions in check as he was scolded like a child. It was infuriating and embarrassing to be treated like rookie when he'd had years of experience in combat. The man before him took a moment to pause in his tirade. Chris stood rigidly at attention, knowing better than to object. The man who reprimanded Chris was a Colonel named Sullivan, though he didn't wear a regular uniform – opting instead to don a dark tactical combat harness over a matching jumpsuit. Armed with a holstered Beretta 92FS handgun – Chris idly noted that it was the same model as his customized Samurai Edge, a handgun that he had carried around since his days in STARS – and a sheathed combat knife, Sullivan didn't strike Chris as a regular Colonel. Part of a pitch black shadowy unit that's name Chris wasn't authorized to know, Colonel Sullivan had all the authority in the world, authority that apparently overstepped that of the United Nations.

Within the BSAA Chris was respected for his countless success as well as for his status as one of the original eleven members of the association, and though he loathed admitting it Chris had gotten hooked on that status – he hated being talked down to. Even in his days in the Air Force he'd had a problem with authority – that was one of the things that had prompted him to join the STARS team in the first place.

"So not only has this mission been a complete and utter failure, but now an international, biological weapons dealer is now on the loose in the capital city of America! You couldn't even capture her client – a man who, by the way, is wanted for mass murder and attempts of genocide on behalf of who knows which of the innumerable countries that want America flatling. Now, I've pulled your file, Redfield. After your little victory against Umbrella and the incident in Africa last year I would have thought that you wouldn't have botched this op too badly. Apparently I was wrong. Not only have you failed, but so has the BSAA. Hold on, I apologise; the Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance isn't a failure...it is a joke."

Finally, Chris could stand it no longer. He could handle being insulted, but he wouldn't let his organization be offended. "Sir," he burst out. "What were we supposed to do when six Lickers attacked and civilians stormed around? It was chaos; of course Isabella managed to escape in the confusion."

Colonel Sullivan froze, and one eyebrow slowly rose. Chris had a mild suspicion that no one had ever dared to interrupt him before. A man in his fifties, Sullivan had a slightly wrinkled face bearing scars from his years of combat. He had a silvery mess of hair cut past regulations, and ragged stubble grew on his cheeks. Most noticeable were the Colonel's eyes. An extraordinarily luminous blue, they gleamed with intelligence and ruthlessness.

"According to your report, the target used a remote to signal the truck to enter the building – after minutes of conversation with you. Tell me, Redfield, why did you give her the chance to do this? Absolutely typical of the BSAA strategy; engage target in small talk, make vague threats of arrest, screw the pooch, suffer casualties and lose the target." Sullivan growled. "Just a simple question, Redfield, why didn't you go in there, then shoot her in the arm and haul her ass out? Failing that, you could have used a nifty little device called a taser. Unless you were thinking of her as Isabella, rather than as a target."

Chris frowned. "Sir, regulations prohibit the use of unnecessary violence-"

"Regulations! Redfield, the pencil pushers that write regulations aren't the ones on the field. One of the…'mottos'…of my organization is 'When in doubt, shoot to kill'. Next time you go onto the field, remember that. Then maybe you won't have the blood of thirteen people on your hands. Now get out." Sullivan turned away, as if the mere sight of Chris infuriated him. Chris – who felt the same way about the Colonel – responded in kind, turning on his heel and marching out of the room. Passing two similarly clad soldiers standing guard outside the office – only these ones were equipped with gas masks and blue goggles to obscure their faces, and clutched large assault rifles in their hands – Chris wondered what morally grey unit had taken over this case…and just what this case would escalate to.

Elsewhere in the city, Murdock clutched a steel briefcase. Despite the fifty million dollar loss, he was in a good mood. The organization that had purchased his services had done so for a very hefty price. And the job wouldn't be difficult at all. Striding through the streets as the sun began its descent; Murdock saw the distinctive shape of the White House against the beautiful red sunset. Reflecting that if this was a movie it would have been raining, Murdock laughed heartily at the lack of pathetic fallacy, causing some of the people around him to glance inquisitively. Ignoring them, Murdock arrived at the gates of the White House. Clipping on a badge that allowed the hit man to masquerade as a food inspector, Murdock easily bypassed the security detail. The overweight guard gave the ID a cursory glance before waving Murdock through. Even if he inspected the briefcase, all he'd find would be a bunch of folders.

Marching through the corridors of the White House, Murdock maintained a cool façade that no one questioned. He felt a shred of regret, the presidential building had been rebuilt impeccably since the Russian attack. The décor was so soothing, lush carpets and curtains, and oaken furniture. A shame, Murdock thought, that the place would soon be stained by blood and guts.

Making his way to the kitchens, Murdock pretended to inspect the cooking dishes whilst the chef's nervously watched him for signs of displeasure. The pretend inspector nodded slightly, the cooks let out a sigh of relief and went back to work – it was nerve racking to prepare meals for the leaders of the country. When he was certain that no one was watching him, Murdock retreated to a quiet corner, opened the briefcase and removed the false bottom. There, secured in a cushioned interior was a small vial with green contents. Unscrewing the top, Murdock walked around the kitchen again, pouring a small portion of the green liquid into every dish that was unattended. Speaking to the head chef and telling him that everything was satisfactory, Murdock left the bustling kitchen. Within fifteen minutes he would leave the White House. Within an hour he would leave the city. Within two days he would be on a newly purchased yacht in the Caribbean, sipping champagne and congratulating himself for having an early retirement. Within two days he would also be dead.