Legal disclaimers: I don't own or lay claim to "Resident Evil" in any way, shape or form since its owned by people who earn far more money than me. In any case, the owners created the world in which I dabble, so thanks go to them for creating the concept in the first place then going on to develop it. If they happen to read this, keep up the good work. The only things I do claim as my own from this two-part story are original characters and ideas. On that note, Amber Bernstein is being borrowed from Hyperactive Hamster of Doom so everyone knows, nor do I own Kevin Ryman.
Disclaimers: This story is a sequel to my earlier story, "Lost Souls", focusing on the character of Serena Baccarin again. Yes, this does again make it connected to Matt6's story "Operation: Falling S.T.A.R.S.", but the story stands alone, it simply leads into O: FS. References to the RE:1 and RE:0 games will be made, as well as references to the first RE film. Apart from that, a Y stands for a page break.
Sentences
/July 24th 1998, North Korea, near the Chinese border/
The camp was referred to as a "Re-education Facility" officially. It was almost as entertaining in its attempts to avoid accepting its nature as Stalin's Gulags had been, if one wanted to play historian. They were never called Death Camps either, just "prisons", which could really mean anything.
Nine foot high steel and wire fences, topped by barbed wire, a second set of fences beyond that of the same design between which guards with automatic weapons and dogs patrolled, all of the time, surrounding an area almost half a mile square, that was the camp. Four Watchtowers, one at each corner of the square structure, contained two guards each, one armed with a high-power Snipers rifle, the other being there to man the searchlight and sound the alarm, a piercing wail that could have been heard in Pyongyang. The buildings inside the fence were simple, two large barracks areas for the prisoners to sleep in, a warehouse structure for them to labour in when they couldn't work outside, showers and two toilet areas. Apart from that, only a small, solitary almost metal room-size structure stood off to the far end of the camp to the guards barracks, approached by none of the inmates. No distinction was made between men and women. The Commanders quarters were in a fenced-off area at the north end of the camp, a small but secure structure designed like a white brick house crossed with a stone fortress, small windows and steel-barred door giving way to warm, pleasant inside where electricity and warmth were constantly provided by a generator.
The generator was secured behind the guard's barracks, a larger structure designed to hold twenty men in Spartan comfort but secure warmth and safety. Two doors opened in and out but the guard's weapons locker and ammunition were all secured inside, within a steel vault for security only ranking officers and the camp Commander had keys for. The area containing the commander's home and guards barracks was secured from the rest of the camp the way the camp itself was secured against escape.
Nobody had ever dared try to test it after the one known victim of the guards who had, a young man of some agility who had believed he could be quick and quiet enough. They'd broken every bone in his body, gouged out an eye, beaten him to a half-alive bloody pulp then disembowelled him and let the dogs eat what was left. The story was still passed around the camp as a story that could not be forgotten. This place wasn't a step up from Hell, it was said, in fact it was what happened to you there while you were still alive. Nobody knew about the camp who could or would do anything about it, the people who could have done something considered it an eyesore, a political embarrassment they didn't want to know about, so they ignored it and let sleeping dogs lie, caring nothing for any suffering or death which occurred within high walls. Anyone asked who knew it always replied "There's a time and a place".
A guard barracks containing fifty soldiers stood half a mile outside of the fences, a larger, solid structure where heavier weapons were stored, along with the communications gear, a second, larger generator powering the whole set-up. Nearby a garage contained a small flatbed truck, an expensive car that was so clearly out of place it could only belong to the Camp Commander and a Snowplough, a heavy truck with a huge blade mounted on the front end.
The lone road in and out, little more than a rutted worn dirt track leading off into the mountains which disappeared into trees not long after it got away from the camp, was in use now by two rattling old trucks, the engines of which were clearly in danger of seizing in the extreme low temperatures as flakes of snow fell despite the season. The area was always frozen and cold, hidden away high in the mountains as it was, just as it was always covered with at least three inches of snow. The road melted and refroze in dangerous shapes and patterns almost constantly, making the long journey from the Military base miles away an extreme hazard, especially when passing through high mountain roads, but the weekly supply runs had to be made.
Most of the goods carried were luxuries like good food and drink, warm clothes and even Mail, all for the guards since the prisoners had and were allowed nothing, including privacy and even the ability to speak-more than one inmate had had a tongue torn out with pliers to make a point-but very basic iron rations which would keep the inmates going for days and even weeks on starvation rations were always included. Tools were always available at the base, the inmates had to cover and warm themselves as best they could however they could.
Murder, Theft, Blackmail, Extortion, Torture and Rape were commonplace, even encouraged, while Cannibalism and the literal wearing of severed parts of dead bodies was not unknown. The camp was a place where humanity died kicking and screaming at the gate as it was stripped of everything valuable before being eaten alive for a few more days life, civilisation was a distorted misjudgement of the imagination. One did what one had to to survive, a fact which anyone who lived through a week learnt or finally died from.
What some of the inmates had never worked out, what some wished they didn't know, was that the truck drivers actually looked forwards to the trip, even drew lots to see who got to go, as well as the guards who rode alongside them in the trucks cab. The reason was very simple: the inmates of the camp would do anything at all for even the slightest favour, even kill, or worse. Things the guards and truck men had gotten the inmates to do for rotten scraps of food were nightmares of pain and ferocity, lost innocence and inferno-lit flashes of things that made strong men and women claw out their own eyes and cut their own throats to escape from them. Even just so they could do no more than avoid thinking about them as their life bled out, no more than a distraction.
The guards in the cordoned-off area of the camp formed up around the camp Commander, an overweight middle-aged man with thinning black hair and a moustache, all of them dressed in the uniform of the North Korean Army, then they marched out into the main area of the camp, the last guard securing the gate behind them as the trucks approached. The guards from the main barracks outside the fences formed up loosely and created a firing line generally pointed at the camp as all of the inmates, stirred from exhausted, terrified near slumber by the sound of a vehicles engines, staggered outside and looked towards the main gate even as the interior guards approached it.
Every one of the inmates was clad in rotting rags at best, some the tattered remnants of uniforms, most just the remnants of whatever inappropriate clothing they had had the misfortune to be wearing when brought to this place. From very young to very old, massively bearded vacant-eyed old men to children so young they didn't even understand what was going on, let alone why, every one had cuts, bruises and contusions everywhere.
The guards regularly took any attractive women to their barracks and took turns, sometimes they took men and practiced the best ways to cause pain without causing either death or insanity. Screams and animal howls had been known to last for days before the bloody, barely-alive remnants of a human being was finally tossed back into the inmates prison. The normal reaction was to strip it of anything valuable, leave it to freeze to death then toss it to the guards to get rid of. Everybody knew they simply stored the dead under a blanket until the nearby lake defrosted enough for the bodies to be dumped there, then just waited for the next batch. It wasn't the most efficient disposal method, but the bored guards couldn't be bothered to create a better way and had been known to attach severed frozen body parts to the fence to encourage the inmates to realise they'd end up the same way some day, so why not kill themselves now and get it over with?
The rule of the camp was that nobody struggled because everyone died, there was simply no arguing with this. The one person who had was in the metal room, locked away from everything and everyone because of it, for the past three weeks excepting food and water tossed through the slot in the side of the building. The room wasn't insulated or warmed at all and the temperature always fell to well below freezing at night.
To most people just being put into what amounted to a steel box under the conditions apparent would have been enough to kill them in a night, even without borderline starvation and threats to their physical being that would have killed strong men through sheer fright. The woman in the room had survived for weeks, exercising regularly, saying nothing, reacting to none of the taunts, threats and bribes tossed at her by the guards and even the camp Commander.
Unlike most, though, she wasn't a prisoner of conscience, an individual sent to the camp for daring to criticise the Great Leader or some decision of his, no matter how bizarre or mad. She had been sent to the camp for killing, with her bare hands, in public, a high-order Political functionary of the party who had stated his belief that Western women existed only to serve men, on their backs, after which he'd ordered his Bodyguard to restrain her. She'd knocked the bodyguard unconscious with a heavy paperweight, then beaten the functionaries head against the side of a desk until his skull had cracked and his brains had fallen out. Her Fate had been decided the moment the act had occurred.
Four soldiers marched over to the box at an order from the Commander, three of them standing back and away from the box with AK-47 automatic rifles off the shoulders, aimed and ready. After all, or so the reasoning went, there was no telling what any human being incarcerated in the box for as long as she had been would do once the door was opened, so they were taking no chances.
The fact that the woman inside had proved impossible to physically subdue in the week before she'd been placed in the box, the fact that she'd woken up to find a guard who had believed her drugged and insensible trying to Rape her and used her teeth on his throat like an animal, almost tearing out his windpipe, was the rest of the reasoning for the excessive force being employed. Whatever else the woman was, she was a killer who'd use any means, no matter how savage or awful, to survive. That the guards had learnt early on.
The box was opened by the guard, who held out a pair of handcuffs and a handgun. Without complaint, the woman inside let him shackle her wrists in front of her. Then the guard produced a small, woven brown sack, just big enough to cover the head, which he firmly placed over the woman's head, again without complaint. All of that done, she was dragged to her feet and pulled out of the box. It was the first time anybody had actually seen her since she had been put in the box.
An inch shy of six feet tall, she was unusually tall even for a Caucasian woman, or so all of the Korean prisoners thought. A tattered pale blue shirt and torn dark-blue jeans did little to conceal an Amazonian physique, hard muscle rippling across her body, up and down her arms and legs as she moved, while lush curves and silken skin were amply evident underneath the tattered remnants of her clothes.
Traces of smooth jet-black hair fell to her shoulders, rather than to her waist where it had reached when she had been brought to the camp, crudely hacked away with a knife. Her skin was a well-tanned tawny, light mahogany with traces of darker, a luxurious mixture of her North American Caucasian father and South American Indian mother. The hood concealed sapphire blue eyes so intense they could cut and a flawless, fine-featured face of such perfection it was almost an art.
To call her breathtaking was an understatement, from the moment she'd been delivered to the camp the guards and Commander had looked at none of the other women at all and ignored pleas, offers and bargains from everyone. The camp was theirs, so was everything in it-but her, as it turned out. Even the box hadn't broken her, so now she was to see, in the mornings dull light as it was obscured by white clouds threatening snow, the food and goods she was to be denied. She would be used and abused as the Commander saw fit until either her will, her mind or her body broke, the Commander didn't care which came first. Regardless, she would obey.
She was dragged over to the main gate, although she really walked herself with the exception of the occasional yank on her handcuffs by the guard leading her, stepping over snow-covered muddy ground frozen almost solid with a animals easy grace. The fact that she showed little sign of discomfort wasn't noticed by any of the guards, nor was the strange smile hidden by the sack over her head. Once the gate was opened, she was dragged over to where the Commander and his Bodyguard stood.
Immediately afterwards more soldiers dragged over a middle-aged Korean man with black hair showing traces of grey and dead brown eyes in a haggard, terribly lined face which let anyone know he had seen and experienced far too much a long, long time ago. Once a brilliant Scientist and Lecturer concerning History and Politics in the Universities of North Korea, he had made the mistake of joking that the Great Leader's attempt to emulate Stalin in his repression of free market economic growth rather than following the Chinese model had put the north twenty years behind where it should have been. The local Communist Party officials hadn't found it funny, so they had sent the Scientist, his Wife and child daughter to the camp to teach them that.
His Wife had been raped to death while he had been forced to watch, to teach him the truth of the camp. His daughter had been found dead one day, frozen solid, chopped up like so much firewood and tossed into a pit for later disposal. In five years at the camp he had suffered every indignity possible for the human mind and body. He had been used as a punching bag so often that the bones had healed crooked and he coughed up blood when he breathed as often as not, lost both thumbs after a bet between two guards and been tortured with such regularity that he'd almost come to accept the pain as a necessity. He had learnt that his entire family believed him dead and all of his friends had failed to ask any questions at all. All he had left was his will to survive and, ultimately, the fact the camp Commander still occasionally found uses for him so kept him alive. In time, he knew for certain in a place colder and darker than the worst of the camp at the worst of times, they would simply kill him and serve up his remains as fresh meat for the other inmates. He didn't care. If he could die with even one guard dead by his hands, he would laugh all the way to Hell, no matter when or where it was.
The camp Commander made a gesture and the sack was pulled off of the woman's head, tossing her hair up and around her face, displaying cracked lips and traces of blood around her mouth. None of it was hers, she'd never bothered to wash off the after-effects of nearly tearing the wounded guards throat out. She actually quite appreciated the flavour, it had a unique tang to it she'd decided.
Her name was Serena Baccarin and, despite everything, she was actually starting to enjoy herself. After the first week she'd been locked away from everyone and everything, which actually suited her since she'd never been a people person. She'd had time to fine-tune her plan, consider every contingency and even add an anticipated bonus into her strategy.
Wolf-sharp ears had told her of the approach of the trucks long before the others had seen them, even inside the box, the distraction was all she would need. Once she got out of the camp, this would count as a paid Vacation to her, with the chance to actually help some people thrown in. Not bad for a professional Assassin with only one purpose in coming to the camp to begin with.
"I am Lin Pu Ma. I am to translate for you, do you understand?" asked the middle-aged dead-looking Korean man, in good English with an accent which spoke of Britain to her educated ears.
"I understand, go on" she replied, nodding her head. Yes, she was definitely going to enjoy this.
"The Commander says that since you are a Western woman, you may not understand this. But I think you will. He says that, as a woman, your place is in the home, under your husband, doing a Wife's duty. Your place is in your own land, this fabled USA of yours, where there is no respect given to men by women and you are allowed to act for yourselves because your men have no will of their own" said Lin Pu Ma, before pausing for a moment, then continuing.
"He says that you are going to die here, it is important that you know this. You should know this because before you die, you will learn the true meaning of discipline and obedience. You will sate and satisfy him once he has taught you, a thing he has all the time he needs to teach. He says that you will go back in the box once you have seen what is coming here, because you will have no part of it and it is important you know that. He will come to see you later, to make sure you understand. Do you have anything to say?" continued Lin Pu Ma, stopping to look straight at her as he translated the torrent of Korean coming from the camp Commander. Serena's face was a mask as she looked straight back at him, then she turned and looked directly at the camp Commander.
"Ask him this for me. Does he know the name Barbara Hershey?" asked Serena, clearly and distinctly since she suspected the Commander would recognise the name even though he couldn't understand what she was saying.
The Commander threw back his head and burst out laughing, shaking his head like he was trying to throw all of his hair clear of his head. His answer was quick and loud, punctuated by guffaws and a grin that made Serena want to extract each of his teeth one after the other before he died as he looked at her in total scorn.
"He says...he says that you are an idiot. He says this Barbara Hershey was brought here three months ago and was even worse than you are for discipline. He says that she fought them until they broke her, after that she did what she was told. That was six weeks ago, she died soon after that. He says that if you are looking for a friend here, you are worse than a fool" translated Lin Pu Ma, his expression not changing at all. He'd lost more than any human could stand long ago, pain and suffering were no longer things which meant anything to him. He almost remembered that those not like him were hurt by such things, though, occasionally.
"I see. Tell him this: I came here to find her, but since I'm too late I've found him instead" said Serena, with a strange shrug that even the guards noticed. Her body seemed to settle strangely as she moved, as though she was preparing herself for something...
Before anyone could react, Serena leapt to her feet and charged the camp Commander. He froze in shock for too long to do anything about it, seconds later it was too late. Serena rammed her steel handcuffs chain into his throat as deep and hard as she could, meaning that she hit him hard enough to drive the chain through skin and flesh on into the muscle of his throat. The assault severed the Commanders windpipe as well as crushing his throat, blood almost instantly drenching the front of his uniform even as he gagged and choked, hands grasping futilely at the wound.
The fastest of the bodyguards got his AK-47 off of his shoulder and almost had time to aim, but Serena was even quicker and snatched the Commanders pistol from its holster, thumbing off the safety even as she turned. Four quick headshots dropped every bodyguard almost faster than the eye could follow before a roundhouse kick threw the choking Commander from his feet as a precaution.
Shocked camp guards went for their weapons even as they tried to take in the fact that five of theirs had been killed by one woman inside of a minute, ready to fire into the milling, stunned crowd of inmates as necessary, when Serena played her Trump card. She bit down hard on the cap of a false tooth-and the outside barracks exploded with a deafening roar of bright light and massive force that span people from their feet or drove them staggering away, the closest simply being picked up and tossed through the air like rag dolls. A second later the tower tops caught fire, men jumping from the nests screaming as they burned, only to land with the awful cracking, echoing sound of breaking bone...
Almost all of the outside barracks soldiers were killed or crippled in the explosion as the blast threw them to the ground, against the fence and even over the fence into the camp proper, where they lay smoking and in pain, helpless and better than half dead. Only scattered survivors slowly staggered to their feet, deaf and numb to everything in a state of utter shock.
Inside the camp things were little better, weak and disorientated inmates collapsing and being thrown left and right by the very edge of the blast, as surprised by it as the guards had been. The force was reduced enough that the strongest stayed on their feet, however, so the guards and Serena were among very few left upright. That suited her, since it gave her a pretty much free field of fire.
Popping her thumbs out of joint, she expertly slipped the cuffs before putting the digits back in place and grabbing an AK-47. Only a single shout of alarm reached her as she aimed, so she carefully shot the alert one first, then opened fire in controlled, precisely aimed three-round bursts. She'd have preferred the American M-18 or a Special Forces weapon, anything from an Uzi up would have been fine, but one worked with what one had.
She dropped the twelve standing guards with head and heart shots before anyone even realised what she was actually doing. All of ten seconds passed before the remaining guards finally registered what had happened, took in the burning towers, the destroyed outside barracks and the dead bodies everywhere, then quickly tossed away their weapons and raised their hands in surrender where able.
Serena placed the butt of her AK-47 on her hip and raised an eyebrow, surveying her handiwork. She was sure that it was good and necessary, she also saw that the guards learned fast. She turned to look at Lin Pu Ma again, the man still standing around doing nothing at all as though the carnage all about him was just something he saw every day, his face totally vacant of expression. He reminded her of herself.
"Lin, tell them this. I am not Military, their lives mean nothing at all to me, I can and will kill all of them should I see any reason to. I've done what I came here to do, though, so I'll be leaving now. Good luck, to you that is" said Serena, before handing him the AK-47 and striding past the inmates over towards the open gates, where the newly arrived trucks still sat idling.
"Wait...why did you do this? Who are you?" Lin called after her, causing her to pause a moment. She turned to face him, sighed, then ran a hand through her shorn hair.
"Barbara Hershey was a Diplomat, yes, but her father works for a different part of the Government. The man I killed to get here was the same man who got her sent here, for the same reasons. Nobody told him "No". As for the rest? You need better locks, all I needed after I got out of the box was access to the munitions in the outer barracks and a jury-rigged radio detonator" she replied, before a bitter smile twisted her lips.
"Who am I? Just call me Reaper, everyone else does at some point" Serena finished, before she turned again and walked out of the camp into the wilderness, never to return. She didn't need to say anything else, she knew Lin would never talk about what had happened, or who had done it, with anyone. There was only one thing left in him that mattered any longer.
Lin looked down at the guards who were starting to stir with Serena leaving, then he looked at the gun in his hands. He'd never used a gun before in his life, but he'd seen the woman use one and it hadn't looked hard. He pointed the gun at the nearest guard and pulled the trigger, a stream of lethal steel-jacketed lead punching a dozen holes in the guard's chest. The guard was dead before he slumped back to the floor, a pool of his blood slowly gathering around him.
Lin didn't care even when he noticed the other inmates pick up the dead guards weapons and start fumbling around with them, the guards who still had their wits about them turning to run in suicidal desperation as Lin shot a second guard who was trying to scramble to his feet in the back. His gun clicked on empty, he didn't know how to reload it, but he did know how to use a club. The third guard he killed, even as cracks of gunfire started to echo all around him, made an odd wet cough as he collapsed after Lin shattered his skull with a massive overhead strike...
/August 1st 1998, Racoon City, the USA/
RACOON CITY TIMES 01/08/98
The S.T.A.R.S. have gone mad!
"COLLECTIVE PSYCHOSIS"
-Dr. H. Hammond, PHD, Psychologist for Umbrella Corporation, Human Resources
"POST TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER"
-Chief of Police Brian Irons, RCPD
"DRUG ABUSE"
-Bill Duke, Racoon City Council worker
"PEOPLE CALL ME CRAZY?"
-Lonny Lopez, Vietnam Veteran, VA member and PTSD victim
By Jane Whirry, your RCT ReporterFor those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, where have you been? For those who do, is this verdict really any surprise?
This all began with the RCPD calling in the supposedly elite S.T.A.R.S. (Special Tactics And Rescue Squad) unit to assist them in dealing with the on-going "cannibal murders" investigation on 24/07/98 which, over approximately the past two months, had been the main focus of RCPD investigations and manpower. What actually happened once this occurred may well be in question for some time to come yet, but the outcome was a result nobody could have imagined rational, highly-regarded and experienced intelligent men and women such as the S.T.A.R.S. would deliver.
The reason for the involvement of the S.T.A.R.S. was obvious to any Racoon City citizen who watched the news or read the newspapers: the disappearance and Murder of several citizens and tourists over the time period in question. Nobody knew who was responsible for the increasing number of killings and apparent abductions, but the activities of the killer or killers were clearly escalating and the RCPD appeared unable to apprehend or stop the killer or killers in question. Despite the creation of roadblocks and checkpoints manned by heavily armed RCPD officers on the city limits, helicopter searches, the use of canine units and an intensive interrogation as well as investigation of all possible areas, possibilities and suspects, the only result the RCPD achieved was to have the Arklay Mountain area and forest declared an unofficial no-go area while parents kept their children indoors out of fear and nobody went anywhere alone.
Members of the public reported seeing unidentified individuals, apparently either drugged or injured, or both, roaming the forests and even the city limits more than once, on occasion the call reaching the RCPD quickly enough to allow them to deploy officers to the location in question. The same members of the public afterwards reported hearing shots fired, even screams, but nobody was ever apprehended and officers stated that the attackers escaped into the forests without fail the moment they became aware of Police approach, making pursuit impossible given the fact that numbers were a complete unknown and all attacks occurred in night time.
Despite Chief Iron's reluctance to involve the S.T.A.R.S. on the stated basis he believed that the RCPD could resolve the Case given time to work, the rising body count forced his hand. Captain Albert Wesker, Commanding Officer of the Racoon City Branch of the S.T.A.R.S., stated before the catastrophic mission that led to his own death, as well as many others, that he was of no doubt the S.T.A.R.S. could and would resolve the "cannibal murders" investigation quickly and efficiently while aiding the RCPD in its enquiries. One wonders, if the Captain had survived, what he would make of what has occurred since he made that statement.
The only concrete facts available are that the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo Team was sent on a reconnaissance mission on 24/08/98 over the Arklay Mountains. Its membership was as follows below:
Enrico Marini-Commanding Officer
Richard Aiken-Communications Specialist
Rebecca Chambers-Medical Student
Forest Speyer-Sniper
Kenneth J. Sullivan-Chemist
The team's aerial reconnaissance of the Arklay Mountains was cut short by an unknown catastrophic malfunction, which forced an emergency landing of their helicopter in the mountains. All contact with the team was lost, after which the S.T.A.R.S. Alpha Team was immediately scrambled to provide assistance and rescue if necessary. The Alpha Teams membership was as follows:
Captain Albert Wesker-Commanding Officer
Barry Burton-Second in Command
Chris Redfield-Pilot and Field Officer
Jill Valentine-Field Officer
Joseph Frost-Vehicle Expert
Brad Vickers-Pilot and Computer Expert.
The Alpha Team quickly located the crashed Bravo Teams helicopter and landed to inspect both scene and the status of Bravo Team. This is where rational, factual accounts of what happened end.
To give the briefest of recaps, the Alpha Team survivors state that they found the mutilated remains of a Bravo Team member near the abandoned Bravo helicopter before they were attacked by unidentified assailants. Brad Vickers, the Alpha pilot, immediately effected take-off and evacuated the area-without waiting for the Alpha Team to re-board the vehicle. The team were forced to seek sanctuary in the abandoned Spencer Mansion owned and maintained by the Umbrella Corporation, only to discover that the Bravo survivors had had the same idea first. What follows reads and sounds like the script for a horror movie that would have been laughed out of town in the time of the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre film.
Clearly deranged men and women made Psychotic by extensive drug use and isolation being present in the Spencer Mansion and the surrounding woods in considerable numbers is the only logical explanation offered, given by Chief Irons after consultation with RCPD and Umbrella Corporation Psychologists, to explain the statements given by the S.T.A.R.S. Worse, the S.T.A.R.S. survivors themselves have to have been exposed to the same drug combinations to be claiming to have experienced what they have, leading many to question the status of their long-term mental health.
To conclude this recap, the S.T.A.R.S survivors somehow succeeded in destroying the Spencer Mansion utterly and escaping from the area in the Alpha helicopter, which had returned to rescue them. This speaks of extreme paranoia and possible dementia on the part of the S.T.A.R.S. survivors, to say the least, since the total number of casualties caused by their actions cannot be calculated. At best, their perception of reality was so damaged by the drugs they were exposed to that they were not responsible for their actions. At worst, they are guilty of mass murder. These survivors are:
Chris Redfield
Jill Valentine
Barry Burton
Rebecca Chambers
As a result of their stated actions and the catastrophic consequences resulting, Internal Investigations into the surviving S.T.A.R.S. have resulted in their immediate Suspension from duty pending full Physical and Psychological Evaluation, which will be followed by job-related Evaluation this Reporter is informed by senior sources will end with the surviving S.T.A.R.S. being released from the organisation itself at the very least. Also extremely likely is an extended stay in Psychiatric Facilities, which have been offered to the city by the Umbrella Corporation free of charge due to the S.T.A.R.S. operatives clear and distinct Breakdowns, despite the financial loss suffered by the Corporation with the destruction of the Spencer Mansion, which it owned.
Umbrella Corporation is still in talks with the International S.T.A.R.S Headquarters in New York concerning the actions and accusations of the surviving Racoon City S.T.A.R.S., but it is believed that threatened Court action against the S.T.A.R.S. organisation by Umbrella Corp. will be avoided in return for the handing over of the surviving Racoon S.T.A.R.S. to the relevant authorities for Trial on whatever Charges are brought and treatment as deemed necessary. This newspapers view is that the sooner this awful, tragic situation is dealt with and the surviving S.T.A.R.S. officers given the help they so clearly need, the better.
In conclusion, this Reporter and others made attempts to Interview friends, associates and co-workers of the S.T.A.R.S. team to gain their views of what has occurred. Many spoke willingly and stated that, for all of their skill and experience dealing with unique situations of a criminal nature, whatever the truth of what had happened in the Arklay Mountains and Spencer Mansion, the result had been to leave all of the survivors of the mission extremely traumatised at best.
Only two individuals held opinions to the contrary. Martin Peyroux, senior S.T.A.R.S Agent in charge of the region of the USA Racoon City is contained in and, for personal reasons, an RCPD officer by the name of Amber Bernstein, believed to be the girlfriend of the deceased Joseph Frost.
Agent Peyroux stated that he had known Barry Burton since he enlisted with the S.T.A.R.S. at age 21, sixteen years ago now, and never once has he known the man to lie or exaggerate no matter how awful or unimaginable the situation. As for the remaining S.T.A.R.S. survivors, Agent Peyroux stated that "He would have taken Burton at his word if Burton said he would survive a swim in molten lava, then dived in". Therefore, if Burton said the S.T.A.R.S. survivors were telling the truth, that was the case.
Lieutenant Amber Bernstein, of the RCPD, stated that her relationship with the deceased Joseph Frost was completely irrelevant to the investigation of the "cannibal murders" case and, in any case, no concern of this Reporters. What mattered was the fact the many of the S.T.A.R.S. Agents, all of them friends of hers, died during the mission which only four returned from. She would leave no stone unturned in her investigation of the truth of the matter, including the possibility that some of their accusations at very least worthy of consideration. Attempts to draw the Lieutenant on whether or not her lovers death has made her more open to extreme and even absurd theories in an attempt to deal with and explain the loss she has suffered drew an unprintable response and a warning, to be careful of intruding on an RCPD officers private life.
Readers can, of course, draw their own conclusions from the information gathered during the investigation into the final S.T.A.R.S. mission, but this Reporter and this Newspaper can see the way the wind is blowing. It is our stated opinion that it would be best for them to be removed for treatment as soon as possible, so that the city can heal, move on and forget these awful incidents as soon as possible.
Serena Baccarin, stopped by the pavement outside the central offices of the Racoon City Times in her rental car, had to pause and re-read the article to be able to take it seriously. It was a dull and wet August day, rain pounding down on the concrete and stone pavements, hammering down on the roof of her car with increasing force even as the wind whipped the rain in all directions with gusts of gale-force winds.
The sun was hidden behind grey clouds being crowded out by bigger, thicker, more dangerous-looking black clouds which looked as though they'd escaped from a tropical hurricane and been waiting for precisely the moment they reached Racoon City before throwing down everything they had in them with enough force to hurt. People were scurrying past in raincoats held shut over their necks and even over their heads on their way home from work, some clutching inside-out umbrellas or screaming children even as they did their best to run through the awful conditions and escape to the warmth and comfort of their homes. Doors banged open in the wind as people went through them, then had to be forced shut as they were buffeted by the wind.
The scene suited her mood perfectly. At the moment, she was seriously considering striding into the building, tracking down the Reporter called Jane Whirry and breaking every bone in the woman's body until something very bad happened. Leaving her severed head on her desk for her colleagues to find had always worked when she'd wanted to frighten the media types before, as well, but she knew she was overreacting in this case. Umbrella Corp. owned Racoon City and, simple truth, they got what they paid for.
The article she'd just read was no objective analysis, it was part of a full-out PR assault on the surviving S.T.A.R.S. which amounted to a character assassination. That required an answer, even if she couldn't casually deal with a senior Umbrella executive as she would have preferred. Killing Umbrella security guards, as well as possibly UBCS Agents, even using her methods, would have set off every alert Umbrella HQ in Paris had, no matter what she did to her target. To do what she had in mind would have been taken as a Declaration of War and she did not need BOW Agents like Pierre Dupree being sent after her, not with the resources and influence Umbrella had. Not until there was no other choice at all, at any rate. No, she'd have to be more...subtle.
Her car was small, sturdy and she didn't care what else. All that did matter was that everything important worked, it had a good engine and functioned like a workhorse on steroids if necessary. It was small, grey-black and utterly nondescript, exactly what she'd gone looking for when she'd needed a car to get south from DC in a hurry. As a plus, it had proved easy to conceal weaponry on the inside by popping plastic frames and replacing them, with triggers just in case.
She was wearing tight black trousers that made sure her range of movement wasn't restricted, a cream shirt, solid hard-heeled black shoes which protected her feet as well as functioning as a form of weaponry, a grey waterproof jacket and black leather gloves that form-fitted her hands. Her hair fell loose to her shoulders, so short it didn't need to be bound back at all. A two-shot holdout Magnum pistol built of plastics was concealed between her breasts in a carefully placed holster, while a granite knife with a razors edge was sheathed at the base of her spine. Normally she wouldn't have been so careful, but Umbrella Corp. ruled here.
She stepped out of the car, retrieving the plain grey folder from the passenger seat first, locked it behind her with the electronic lock and stared up at the Racoon City Times building. Six storey's tall, broad and whitewashed with a set of black letters across the midpoint of the building spelling out RACOON CITY TIMES, walls made out of stone and lots of glass windows. There were steps leading up to the front entrance, which was made of two revolving doors and a central floor to ceiling window which allowed any visitor to see inside. All there was to see was a broad, flat lobby at the centre of which a bored Security guard sat behind a desk, in front of which were eight steel chairs for people to sit in and wait, beyond which were four elevators, two either side. As normal and standard a layout as she'd seen, how utterly boring.
She had no doubt at all she could walk in the front door, kill the guard without raising any alarms and leave him "asleep" on the desk before tracking down Jane Whirry, having words and leaving, all without being seen or heard by anyone except a woman who'd be left in such a state she possibly wouldn't remember even her own name when they were done. The Security System was a totally inadequate set-up of CCTV cameras surrounding the lobby, all of which she could tell were set on 24 hour record since they didn't move at all, or flicker as though the settings had changed at any point, not in the whole hour she'd waited to be sure. She'd automatically noted the tracks of the cameras and could determine six separate safe paths through the system where nobody would even catch a glimpse of her.
If all else failed, in this weather she could easily have faked a power outage for long enough to be done, but there was no need. She wasn't here to Ghost in and out, this was personal. That was what made her, rain dripping off of her hair and skin, draining off of her raincoat as she walked inside even as she felt the damp mould her clothes even closer to her body, simply walk through the front door and go up to the Security man at what was obviously the reception desk. She felt a slight chill as she walked in and recognised the effects of Air Conditioning, which was a waste in this weather.
It didn't stop the Security man almost falling over backwards out of his chair when he stood as she approached, eyes glued to her chest-no surprise there. Men were always, always predictable, but rarely interesting despite that. Chris Redfield was one of those exceptions, which was why she'd come. She was glad she'd checked whether or not Jane Whirry was in before she'd come, she had serious business to attend to and this was no more than a stopover after all.
"Hello, I'd like to see Jane Whirry, please" she began, seeing no reason why she shouldn't be polite. Fantasising about Castrating the worthless guard would just have to do her for now.
"...I'm sorry, who...OH. Sorry, I'll need to see some ID before I can allow you to see her or speak to her. Do you have an appointment?" asked the guard, blinking until his eyes shifted away from her chest to her face, pawing the desk absently until he found his phone even as he stared at her as though he was trying to memorise her face. She didn't grind her teeth, she could do this without punching him in the face with his own phone to get an answer...
"No appointment, but she'll want to see me" she responded, handing over her ID, a basic Forgery that would pass anything short of a detailed Police examination. It listed her name as Jane Domare, as close as she cared to come to "Jane Doe". Her "profession" was Freelance reporter, a basic background check would reveal a reputation for getting to the truth behind some of the most dangerous stories in the world no matter where, when or what, regardless of risk. She "lived" by selling her stories to newspapers and taking a significant cash payment every time, staying in hotel rooms, B and B's or any hole available to get the job done.
The kind of individual who had no last known address, no telephone and little mail, all of which would be held at a sorting office until she collected it. Basic but effective, people who didn't want to be found or even thought of often set up as drifters and vagrants since, even in today's information-mad society and culture, the most dedicated researcher would have trouble finding someone who didn't even officially exist beyond a Birth Certificate and patchy Employment records.
He looked her ID over, nodded, handed it back, tapped in a number and called upstairs. After about a minute of quiet talking, he held the phone out to her. "She wants to speak to you" he said, with a shrug.
Serena took the phone, a young woman's honey-sweet voice almost immediately sounding in her ear. "Is that Jane Domare?" was, understandably, Whirry's first question.
"Yes, so I can assume that he mentioned I'm a freelancer in-city looking for a story? That is, because I want to discuss something with you I can't mention over the phone" replied Serena, letting more than a trace of the smoky sexuality she could use when she wanted to creep into her voice for effect, which certainly got a reaction from the guard as he turned to look at her more directly.
"He did and, given your credentials, ah'm-I'm interested. Where should we meet? My office, or somewhere kinda more private?" asked Whirry.
"The floor below the roof by the elevator on the right corner of the building when you enter, I'll find you. Five minutes?" asked Serena. On receiving an affirmative, she hung up and started walking. She didn't miss the guards leer at what he thought was her back, or the soft snigger he thought was silent. He knew something she didn't know about Whirry, she presumed. Well, she knew the woman wasn't going to try to kill her, nor was she going to whistle up a squad of Hit men. Anything else she could handle.
Getting into the elevator, she pressed the button and waited to reach the right floor. The elevator was old and not the most sturdy when it was built so she wasn't overly happy about using it, but it got there in the end. Thankfully, Whirry was standing waiting for her in the corridor. The corridor was painted a dark blue, carpeted with a soft light brown covering and had various old newspaper articles relating to events covered by the Racoon City Times framed and hung on the walls, Serena automatically noted. Corridor exits led off in front of and behind them, obviously leading to offices.
Tall, long-legged with barely evident breasts and a natural athletes build, Jane Whirry had corn-blonde hair falling to the mid back held back in a ponytail and light-green eyes. Pretty but far from beautiful, a light blue shirt, brown skirt and shoes enhanced her profile but she still looked like exactly what she was, a small-town girl made good of some looks and a little talent. Serena Baccarin was good at reading people, she had to be, so she was sure of her analysis the moment she made it.
Whirry turned and looked at her as she strode over, stopped, had a second look, then made sure to look her up and down before doing everything short of wolf-whistling. She was Gay, no surprise there, the guards reaction to her impending meeting with Whirry when he thought she'd been distracted had been all the hint she'd needed. Whirry was only five and a half feet tall, though, so Serena towered over her by almost six inches. In a rare flash of humour, she couldn't help but think that she must seem some kind of Amazon to Whirry given their differences in height, weight and physique. People who tried to chat her up had used that ploy more than once, she well remembered.
"Well, hello there sis. Now, what you got that's so important you'd drive all the way out here to show me it, huh?" asked Whirry, raising an eyebrow while her eyes swept Serena again in a frank appraisal since she hadn't been warned off. Serena honestly didn't mind, she'd never slept with a woman but had kissed more than one since they tended to kiss better than men. They simply didn't attract her physically, though, she liked just how hard and firm men's bodies were, how rough they got, even how they smelled...
"Somewhere a bit more private, first? I have to start by saying that I know how Chris Redfield got kicked out of the Air Force, though, all the dirty details, including the mission. I read your article on line, so I thought..." said Serena, letting her voice trail off so that Whirry would drawn her own conclusions. Serena wasn't lying about the details, she'd been on the same mission Chris had, which had ended with his being Released from the Air Force. Not that she was ever going to actually discuss the details, with anyone. But that had been a good two months, what had come afterwards, when Chris had been temporarily Unemployed and she'd taken a Leave of Absence...
"Cool. This way, I know a place" replied Whirry, leading her into what was clearly a disused side office just down one of the corridors. After a quick glance both ways, she opened the door and led Serena into a clean but cramped office with a broad wooden desk in the centre, a chair seated behind it, empty steel filing cabinets on the left side and a set of empty wooden shelves on the right. A big light would have lit the whole room if switched on, but Whirry shut the door and made sure all of the window blinds were down before turning on a desk lamp, one which barely provided enough light to see by. "Well?" she asked, looking at Serena.
Serena just smiled, put the folder under the lamplight and tapped it. "Read this" she said, stepping backwards and away. Whirry sat down and opened the folder, clearly initially puzzled by the pictures, the numbers printed on the pictures. Then, as she understood, panic appeared in her eyes even as her face went so pale she almost seemed to have died of fright. She read right through the folders contents in ten minutes, then could do nothing more than sit and look at Serena for another minute before she found her voice again. "Why?" was all she could finally manage, a weak croak when her voice returned somewhat.
"You looked at the bottom line rather than going for the truth, you attacked someone I care about and, so were clear, because the medias job is to dress up the truth until nobody remembers what it is or was. Good men and women died in the Arklay mountains and at the Spencer Mansion, fighting to save the lives of you and your loved one's, yet you take the corporations line that they were all and are all crazy just-like-THAT? You disgust me, so I'll be direct. Do not speak" said Serena, leaning in close, so close her breath lifted the fine hair on Whirry's cheek.
"I've killed and nearly been killed more times than you could imagine in any waking or sleeping nightmares defending your right to life and liberty, to think and say and do what you want, but I stand here before you now and don't really know why. I've given everything to the cause, sold my Soul to protect a world I believe in, only I meet people like you and I think I'm shooting in the wrong direction. Do you understand me?" hissed Serena, to a desperately quick nod from Whirry.
"There is nothing you can say or do in apology that would make any difference to me, so you'll just have to do what I say instead and hope its enough, in the end. After this conversation is over you will forget we ever had it, you will forget me. Is that understood?" snarled Serena, to another quick, almost frantic nod.
"You are going to wait ten minutes before going back to your office once I leave you here. Once there, you are going to write an article refuting all of your accusations against the S.T.A.R.S. declaring that you were severely mislead and under informed. You will submit this to the Editor and get him to publish it. You will then Resign your position with the Racoon City Times with immediate effect, leave the city and never return. Do you understand me?" hissed Serena, to another quick nod.
"Good. So, finally, you have seen the photographs, you know who they are, what the places and numbers are for, what I'll do. You will show them to nobody, you will tell nobody of them, you will not hint at them or make a suggestion concerning even their possible existence. You will sleep with them under your bed for the rest of your life and think of me, or I'll know and I'll find you. Last. Am I clear?" snarled Serena, to a nod from Whirry.
Serena slapped her sharply, snapping Whirry's head to one side and drawing a trickle of blood which ran from her left nostril. Whirry barely reacted, but slowly turned back to stare at her, confusion and shock on her face and in her eyes. "That's so you remember it" Serena said, simply, then simply turned and left at that, knowing she'd gotten the message across. She had other things to do.
Why she was so sure was very simple. She'd never learnt the art of half measures and threats were only effective when backed up by real, awful reality.
The pictures were of every member of Jane Whirry's extended family, taken unaware asleep, relaxing, eating, drinking, somewhere that should have been safe and inviolate every time. Several were of the rooms of Whirry's apartment, more were of every room of her parents house. There were two sets of numbers on every photograph, one dictating the date and time taken, the other a future point, every one of the photos with such notes being one with a specific individual featured prominently. Whirry was a smart woman, a Reporter who'd dealt with more than enough nasty cases and Police officers to know what she was being warned of when it was thrust in her face. All Serena had needed to do was drive home the fact she was serious, which she'd done.
Since she couldn't do the same with an Umbrella Executive...well, she'd just have to hope that the Letter Bombs did the trick. Significant industrial accidents were rather more complicated to arrange than she had time to casually spare, after all.
She walked back out of the building and into the increasingly heavy downpour, winds gusting ever stronger all about even as thunder rolled nearby, approaching the city. She paused to look around, ignoring the weather and the occasional hurrying pedestrian, shaking her head slowly.
Racoon city, built in the late 60's by architects working with state of the art designs and technology. It was about thirty years old and, by far, one of the most modern cities in the USA. Constructed of twenty-floor apartment blocks, small skyscraper office buildings, warehouses, shops, large houses for the particularly wealthy and massive industrial parks, it was all gleaming steel, shining brick and stone, gleaming-clean mirrored windows and every modern technology one could conceive of.
It was, in fact, the equivalent of a Garden of Eden in the late twentieth century, complete with snake in the grass-the Umbrella Corporation. Umbrella Corp. headquarters in Racoon City was by far the largest office building in the city, six floors high, almost half a football pitch in width and length, equipped with bleeding edge tech and guarded by an army of elite security guards who would shoot to kill to prevent a security breach.
It had other, smaller facilities dotted across and throughout the city, owned a number of the rich-mans-land houses, which were given as gifts to high-ranking Umbrella staff like William Birkin and his family. It had a major financial interest in the local schools and University which made sure the Corporation got into every syllabus somehow, effectively supplied the local hospital with medical gear and medicines, had Contacts and Agents on their payroll in City Hall, every public body and in every political group.
Digging had revealed that they owned Chief of Police Brian Irons due to past sins that would have put him in jail many times over if not for the Corporations influence. The Mayor was in their pocket because he'd accepted Campaign money from them and knew he'd have lost without their support, while he was also a family man and wanted to remain one.
The list went on and on, but the simple fact was that the only way to move around, eat, drink and sleep in Racoon City without Umbrella Corp. knowing where you were going and what time you'd be there was to not be in Racoon City. Just because she was certain they weren't paranoid enough to bug every office in the local newspaper buildings didn't mean she was even close to safe, she'd have to watch her back the whole time she was here. Even perfect strangers who wouldn't remember her face a minute after seeing her couldn't be trusted here, there was no telling what they might be doing, really.
She got back in her car, started the engine and put on the wipers before waiting for a space in the thin traffic and pulling out. Her next stop was RCPD headquarters, there was someone else she had to meet on her way to Chris.
Y
The building winds and heavy rain, even without the approaching heavy storm, would have made flying in most aircraft of any description lethally dangerous at the very least. Gale-force winds accelerating quickly to storm force intensity snapped back and forth across the helipad atop Umbrella's Racoon City headquarters, blasting whipping hails of rain across the landing pad, drenching the pad itself as well as the concrete and steel surrounds leading up to it. Dense black clouds streamed across the sky, cutting back even more the dimming sunlight, gathering together in an increasing mass of solid potential danger. Thunder rumbled louder every moment, a flash of lightning just outside of the city proper lighting up the area beneath the clouds for a moment before it passed, letting everyone know that worse was coming.
Apparently, the pilot of the red-black transport helicopter making its way into a carefully aimed approach and landing were little troubled by any of this. Windscreen wipers swept back and forth while the down blast from the rotors blasted rain and people away from the landing pad. The three people watching were glad that the pilot wasn't visibly nervous and that the landing would soon be over, although none of them would admit it. Only one of them breathed a sigh of relief as the helicopter touched down, after which the pilot immediately shut down the engines even as crew ran up and secured the vehicle, prior to strapping it down and settling it properly before the storm hit, which they would as soon as the rotors stopped spinning.
Dressed in a heavy black raincoat with the collar turned up, the dark uniform of Umbrella's Security arm and all-terrain boots, the largest of the waiting figures was Major Timothy Cain, Umbrella Corps. Head of Security, six foot three tall and a big man who knew it. With light blonde hair soaked about his head, pale blue eyes and a bronze tanned skin atop a weightlifters physique the German-born ex-Military man could have passed for the Aryan elite people often said he thought he was behind his back, since people who insulted him to his face didn't survive the experience. Cain's own opinion was that he came from good stock, no more no less, a fact that people should respect-or else.
Dressed in a heavy black raincoat which was only done up because it would have flapped wildly everywhere in these conditions, the woman waiting wore a light cream blouse and ocean-blue skirt as well as a pair of dark red shoes. Oddly, given the conditions, she also wore a pair of circular-framed ruby-red sunglasses which completely concealed her eyes. Long red-gold hair fell down to her waist in a tight ponytail, while a compact, hard-muscled figure helped to define firm curves beneath her clothes, her slim five foot nine frame concealing considerable power. Seemingly a mixture of Caucasian and Arabic blood with smooth features and the lush, full-featured sensuality of form that came from such a mix, anyone who knew her background asked about it would have said the truth was...complicated.
Her name was Lianna Styx, she was the Regional Security Commander for Umbrella Corp. and she was far from happy about being overruled by Cain, her direct superior, in her own territory. However, Umbrella was Umbrella, so she'd made her point and then made other plans.
The last man there, in his early forties so about five years older than Cain and a little over ten years older than Lianna, was the one the other two both listened to. With dark brown hair greying slightly at the edges, penetrating sharp brown eyes so dark they were almost black and a hard, sharp face just beginning to show the lines drawn by advancing age, he was both the man everyone knew any nobody did, not really. Wearing a heavy raincoat and securely clutching an umbrella over his head a sharp grey suit, white shirt and tie were set about a trim, muscular body which stood six feet tall straight up. Faster and far smarter than anyone ever realised until the job was done, his name was Trent and he was Umbrella's top trouble-shooter.
Of late, he'd discovered that his talents were in exceptional demand in Racoon City, so he'd made the journey there in person to see and hear why for himself. He intended to leave again as soon as the storm passed, he could see what was coming and had no intention of standing around waiting to suffer the consequences. No, he had other plans, his own...
The woman who stepped out of the helicopter made all of them seem like the most normal people who could be conceived of. Why was easy, who was another matter.
Her given name was Jovana Kasica, but everyone called her Harvest. Five feet seven inches tall, she was all hard muscle and lean lines, her face and even her eyes being constantly sharp and angry. Physically twenty-five years old she was far older in reality, older than Trent, but the how was a matter for nightmares and insanity.
Dreadlocked white hair fell to just above her shoulders while violet eyes almost burnt two holes in an aristocratic face, not taking away from the bone-white chill of her colourless body that was only illuminated by impossibly coloured eyes. She was wearing heavy steel toe capped brown boots, a tight light blue shirt which the rain had already soaked through which finished above the torn black jeans held around her hips by a massive belt with a silver skull head for a buckle. At the base of her back a raven tattoo was visible, coloured a deep black with the words "Baron Samedi" inscribed through it in dark, bloody red. Bone shard earrings hung from both ears, while a necklace forged of platinum ended with a blood-red multi-faceted ruby itself surrounded by intertwined gold and silver lengths.
Just to look at her was disturbing, to know anything about her was to never relax around her. One of Umbrella's few elite BOW Agents, she had unique qualifications for the job in hand and had been Trent's personal choice to lead the operation, the only individual immediately available who he was sure was both capable and able. Unlike Cain, she was also almost supernaturally competent.
Cain bullied his way through problems, hired geniuses and threw Orders at them then rarely bothered to check the results, told his people what to do and expected the required results to fall out of the sky into his hands, or at least that had been Trent's experience of the man. If Cain had stayed in the Army rather than accepted Umbrella's job offer after the Allies repelled the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait, the man would have ended up in charge of a Special Forces unit but NEVER made it to a senior position, let alone the General Staff, that Trent was sure of.
Except for in the field he had the organisational and leadership skills of an eighteen year old incompetent, but nobody had dared ever tell him that because he was a savage in a fight and one of the most capable killers the US Military had ever had pass through its ranks. The man had just never realised only the layers of competent staff they had placed deliberately between him and his men were the ones who made his Orders make sense, which said little for his intelligence as well.
Lianna Styx was the opposite, organised, competent, effective and efficient, all as well as being a superb soldier in her own right. Trent had found the contrast so entertaining that it had actually made him laugh before now, which he'd had to make sure Cain didn't overhear or suspect. Cain just didn't get the fact that Umbrella had wanted a strong man to bang heads together and scare people into cooperation when they'd hired him, as well as someone actually capable in combat operations when necessary, which was exactly what they'd got. He made sure the smile that threatened to spread across his face didn't at the thought.
Jovana just looked at the three of them, her eyes pinning them one after the other, then her lip lifted and she almost snarled. That wasn't good. "Where is she?" asked Jovana...
/End of Part One. All Reviews appreciated/.