A.N. I'm writing this becuase my first story was most likely a failure. This is better.

Disclaimer: Aren't they all the same?

Prologue

Location: Beijing, China

Target: Russian Ambassador Ivan Arkov

Date: Friday, May 19, 2006

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A pain in my neck tells me that I've been looking up for too long. The hotel looks nice from the outside. It's a tall building, probably twenty or so floors. Panes of glass surround the outside reflecting the city's lights back on itself. I can see people walking about in their rooms, some moving to close the curtains and cut off the rest of the city from watching them. But there is always one who is watching. I'm not here to relax, however, oh no; my target is here, resting up. If not for Arkov I could loosen up here and disappear. But what I do is sacred. It must be done. I take one last breath and step toward the entrance.

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According to the digital alarm clock on his bedside table, Arkov could read that it was 3:41 in the morning. Oh wait, 3:42. So who the Hell was it that was insistently knocking on his door? Arkov grunted as he slipped out of bed, reaching for the small lamp, his robe and his custom, suppressed Makarov 9mm from the drawer. It was just a little protection as his bodyguards would be sound asleep down the hall. Plus he'd had it since his Cold War days.

He'd been, what many people would think as, crooked. But they were the crooked ones. From the inside he had tried to gain control of the Red Army, but to no avail. His efforts were continuously put to waste as no one wanted to focus on him. Everyone was waiting for that siren to go off telling everyone that a missile had been launched. Had he gotten a hold of the Red Army, he would've marched it to Moscow and make himself Premier as was supposed to be. He had spilt his share of blood to get that far but it was just too much at the time. The Soviet Union wasn't ready for another revolution. But he would have it soon. A few more lives would be spent, he calculated. He would also have to do some outstanding work in China to maybe gain some favor. But for now, he would have to deal with the persistent person at the door.

Arkov navigated his way through the dimly lit suite. Being an Ambassador did have its pros. He had been given a large suite on the twentieth floor, the top floor. He had a balcony that provided an excellent view of Beijing but also gave him front row seats to Beijing's terrible air. In the large living room sat a large leather sofa, perfect to watch his large plasma screen TV. His Chinese wasn't that great, however, but he figured he could understand most of it. His bathroom had been larger than normal, including a shower and one of those soothing therapeutic baths. Maybe I'll drown who ever is knocking on my door in it.

Tucking the 9mm away in his robe, he slowly approached the door. He grabbed the knob, turned it, and pulled the door away revealing a somewhat medium sized man. He was Caucasian. Adorning him were khaki pants, a white dress shirt, a tie, and a pants-matching blazer. On his face, he wore sunglasses, to mask his facial expressions and on his head sat a Fez. Who is this fool?

"What do you want? It's three, almost four, in the morning and you decide to wake me up just like that?" Arkov questioned in English, his accent somewhat improved then from several years ago. "Who are you?"

The man took a breath, stepped inside and shut the door. Arkov became alarmed by this new intruder. Just who the hell is he letting himself in?

"I asked you a question! Who are you?" This time Arkov slid his hand into his pocket, lightly clutching his Makarov.

"My name is Mustafa," the man claimed in a slight Indian accent, "and I am the man who will be killing you now."

Before Arkov could actually register what had just been said, the man lunged at him, removing a knife from the inside of his blazer. Arkov jumped back, hastily trying to remove his Makarov. It was stuck and 'Mustafa' was coming at him again. He came down with the knife, Arkov barely able to catch his arm and punched Mustafa in the face. Mustafa recoiled taking a few steps back. Readying himself, Mustafa charged Arkov again. This time Arkov grabbed him and tossed him against the wall making his sunglasses fall off, grinding his teeth as the knife somehow made contact with his flesh. Arkov was finished, this wasn't going to go on any longer. He ripped the Makarov from his pocket just as Mustafa charged yet again, and squeezed the trigger.

"Gah!" The man gasp as 9mm round entered his body. Mustafa dropped the knife and stared wide eyed at Arkov. Slowly, he placed two fingers on the wound in his lower abdomen and brought them to his face, his fear suddenly being realized. He looked at Arkov again who now had a cold look on his face. Thwap! Another 9mm round, this time entering just underneath his rib cage. He stumbled back to wall and leaned up against it. This was it, his sad career as an assassin would be over in just a few- Thwap! This one punched through his right lung. Breathing became a difficult as his right lung began to collapse and filled with blood. He coughed, spattering some blood on to the hard wood floor. With one last breath, Mustafa crumpled to the floor, leaving a bloody trail down the wall.

Arkov smirked. Try to assassinate me, will he? He approached the body and spat in his face. In Arkov's short but educating run as Ambassador, there had been five attempts to assassinate him. This would be the sixth, and undoubtedly the worst, attempt on his life. Who just shows up and says 'I'm going to kill you now'? What an idiot. I want a challenge. But that would have to wait. For now he was stuck with a bloody corpse sitting at the base of one of the walls of his suite. After placing the Makarov on he nearest counter he grabbed the nearest phone and called down for room service, asking for someone to clean up a certain mess. After he hung up the phone, he checked the cut on himself. Not too deep; I'll live. His mind slowly trailed back to the therapeutic bath. Maybe while room service cleans this up I'll take a bath. Might sting a little, but over all it'll help me calm down.

There came another knock on the door. Arkov went to the door and opened it revealing a bald shaved, short, but lean, Filipino, about 5' 6" compared to Arkov's 6' 1", and a platinum cross around his neck. Behind him was the kart of cleaning tools and old towels.

"Do you speak English? Chinese?" Arkov inquired before letting the man and his kart in.

"English." Replied the Filipino man, his accent strong.

"Ah. I called because a man just tried to assassinate me."

"Are you okay?" the Filipino man asked, his concern sincere.

"Yes, but he did manage to cut me, but I'll be fine. He's over there," Arkov pointed out the bloody mess, "I managed to take him out before he got me." Arkov chuckled at this. "So just clean him up, or clean up the blood, whatever you're supposed to do." Archov moved for the bathroom and stopped, deciding that this room service guy can set up the bath, too. "Before you do that, could you prepare the bath for me?"

"I'm not supposed to do that," the Filipino mumbled.

"Come on, I'll tip you extra. Just do it, please."

The Filipino didn't say anything, instead moved to the bathroom and began to prep the bath.

Arkov bent over the body, reaching into Mustafa's pockets to search him. Now let's see who hired you. He pulled a small envelope from the inside of his blazer an opened it. Inside was a picture of himself, with words written on the back saying, "The target." There also was a bundle of money, about $100,000 dollars in US currency by the looks of it. Too bad…

"Sir, your bath is ready," the Filipino startled him, calling from the bathroom.

Arkov smiled and moved to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He removed his clothes and settled in to the nice, warm water, wincing a bit as the hot war stung his wound. It would go away soon, and he could just relax. Actually, he was feeling really relaxed already. He felt like sleeping but that might be fatal. He would just shut his eyes and settle in to the hot bath. It was so soothing that he eventually forgot about everything. Being abruptly woken, the attempt on his life, shooting the man; it was gone. He was so relaxed that he felt as if he couldn't move at all. Wait a minute. Arkov's eyes popped open as he looked down at himself. He couldn't move; he had some how been paralyzed. Instinctively he called for the room service man. And then came the panic. I can't move! This is impossible! How could I be…what the hell is going on! At that moment, the Filipino man walked in sending waves of relief to Arkov, or at least to the parts of his body that he could feel.

"Oh thank you! You have to help me, I'm paralyzed!" Arkov cried. The man just looked down at him, a grim expression upon his face.

"I know," the Filipino said coldly, his accent replaced by an American one.

"What? What the hell have you done to me?" Arkov began shouting Russian insults at him.

"Be quiet," the man said, sharply. "You want to know what I did?" The Filipino removed a bottle and dangled it in front of Arkov's face. "I prepared your bath, and you had a cut. That's what I did."

Arkov became quiet, but his mind still kept going. I'm going to kill you. I'm going to fuckin KILL you! That is, if he would be able to move again. The Filipino slowly moved beside the bath tub and stared Arkov in the eye.

"Your sins have not gone unnoticed, Ivan Arkov," he said slowly.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Arkov asked, grinding his teeth.

"I said QUIET! You have spilt the blood of many and He doesn't appreciate that. And He also knows that you plan to do more evil deeds in order to get what you want. I can't allow that to happen."

He had a lot of nerve calling Arkov evil. Sure some people had to die, and more would have to, but once he had Russia he would quickly return it back to the United States rivaling country that it had been and spread the ideals of socialism and communism all around the world and restore peace. And he wasn't going let some short Filipino stop him. Arkov continued to listen to the man's slow, cold voice. 'He'? Who's 'He'?

"Who's 'He', your employer? Your 'Client'?" Arkov spat at the Filipino, the hit man, the assassin. Perhaps he could buy some time and his bodyguards would come for him.

"No, my 'Clients' and employers are merely messengers for Him," the assassin replied.

Wait a minute… He'd heard of this man before. He'd heard of his style, telling his victim some kind of biblical or religious reference before killing them in a related way. The Advocate as they called him.

"You're the one they call the Advocate, aren't you? Death's Advocate?"

A look of true surprise came upon his face. "So that's what they call me nowadays. No matter. Ivan have you ever been baptized?"

"No, I'm not Christian." True, he was atheist.

"Well, had you known you would know that it washes away our sins with water and oil. You are in need of this sacrament."

Arkov frowned at him. Now what's he talking about? He looked back on himself and took note of all but his head being submerged in water. And he figured it out, a large fear taking hold of what was left of him to feel-

-and his fear was realized as the Advocate lightly pushed his head under water. There was no sense in fighting it; he was going to drown and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Something had been placed on the top his head, the part that was still sticking out of the water, like a large quarter. But it didn't matter what it was. He hadn't been holding his breath for too long but it already felt as if they were going to burst. Slowly, he lost consciousness, a blackness slowly taking over him until he could no longer feel anything at all.

The Advocate had already left, leaving both Mustafa and Arkov where they sat leaving no trace of a third person ever being in the room. By the time his bodyguards found Arkov, he had been long dead. The peculiar thing that they found, however, was a large wooden coin with the words 'His eyes peer into the soul and lays judgment upon thee' in Latin and an eye carved into it; a calling card of the assassin now known as Death's Advocate.

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Five Days Before…

Albert Wesker slammed his fist down on his desk again. Damn her, giving me that fake plagas. That bitch. It had seemed convincing when she had first delivered it to him, alive and kicking, as they say. But the moment she disappeared it literally had died before his very eyes. Sure it had been two years ago, but something like that was like a sting that wouldn't go away. He had been eager to study it, extract it and test it out on new subjects. But because that bitch, Ada Wong, decided to double cross him, he got some crap in a vial. Wesker tapped his finger on the messy desk, the taps echoing through his dark office. Oh well. Won't be long now; I got most of the equipment set up already and should be able to start work any day now. Yes, he would start work on a new strain. He already had the T, G, and the T-Veronica viruses to work off of. But that plagas would've been it. He could've tried to combine them, inject two in to a test subject. But no. And if he did manage to get things off to a start again, he would have to remove some individuals, first.

They had tried once before to go public, but no one had believed them, until the spill. And then after that they just disappeared. That was rude of them. Didn't even send a card. He had met one of them shortly afterward, however, but then he went back in to hiding, this time taking his sister with him. He just knew, though, that once he started up they would interfere again and he wouldn't have it. If only he knew where they were…well there was a reason why it was called "hiding". Once he found one of them it wouldn't be long until he found the rest. Wesker shook his head. What was he thinking? He didn't have time do anything. He had to get working, he had to start production. And once he'd fabricate plans for a new tyrant design he would send it to track down and kill those who apposed him. Or…

There was a man who could do it for him. But where to find him was an even bigger mystery. If worse comes to worse I can always use the trusty internet. He had plenty of other sources to use. It wouldn't be too hard to convince him to kill, as he had heard that he killed only those that deserved it. Well, in Wesker's mind they did deserve it. Yes… Albert Wesker turned to his computer, sending out messages to all his hidden contacts. Where are you, Advocate?

A.N. Okay, I want the reviews that tell me somthing. I want more than one sentence reviews. Tell me what's bad/good about it, including suggestions you may have.