Internet Café,
Kijuju Demilitarized Region, Africa
Kenny blinked hard and shifted his eyes from the glaring computer screen to give them a rest. For the past few hours, they had been staring at a bland series of horizontal and vertical lines converging into what vaguely resembled a digital spreadsheet. And as such, naturally it wasn't anything pretty to look at but functioned at peak efficiency; in this case, recording the heartbeats, blood pressure, stamina, and strength among others of every member of the Npidaya tribe. Not even the children were spared the physical tests, but were much lighter in labor compared to what the adults went through.
Kenny took a swig of iced black coffee out of the paper cup. After a day in this dry heat drinking warm water for hydration, anything he consumed had to be straight out of the freezer or well iced in fear it would get distastefully warm before he could finish it. The café was a dirty old cubic building with old, stained paint peeling off the concrete walls. He could see some kind of tribal motif tiled into the floor beneath layers of years and years of grime, wear and tear. From a corner in the ceiling, an old rickety air conditioning unit ripped straight from the seventies filled the space with semi-cold air, generating more heat by functioning than it was the cold air it was producing. The other patrons, mostly foreign workers manning the local oil rigs, didn't seem to mind the questionable air conditioning unit either, as the little work It did made the temperature much more bearable.
He was just about to get back to the Ndipaya's spreadsheet after sufficiently resting his eyes when a conversation window popped onto screen.
Yo, are you there?
He went from slouching to leaning forward intensely, his face inches from the screen. Dorian Marquez. It had been awhile since Kenny had heard from him and he was starting to wonder about Dorian's progress.
Ya, I'm here. Kenny wrote back. Did you find Chris?
He hit enter and waited for a response. Kenny's fingers tapped the tabletop impatiently. The conversation window indicated that Dorian was typing … and then not … and then he was typing again. Seconds dragged on for hours. In his anticipation, Kenny began to feel unbearably warm again, and he took a deep breath to calm his nerves down.
Yeah. That was Dorian's only reply.
How fucking long does it take to type 'yeah' ?. Kenny was about to hit enter when he deleted the entire sentence, deciding to settle with, So what did he say?
Said he'd do something about the Kijuju situation, but it was probably just to shut me up. I don't actually think it's high on his priority list.
It's no surprise he was able to survive multiple zombie outbreaks, Kenny replied, the guy has the thickest skull, I swear.
Or maybe no brains for the zombies to get at, lol, Dorian added, which earned him an unconscious smirk from Kenny. But listen dude, I have a favor to ask of you.
You took a risk for me, I suppose I could repay it.
I need to find out why Chris is so reluctant to believe that his partner is still alive. I need to know what scares him into not wanting to step onto that continent at all.
To Kenny, it didn't sound like Chris at all to be scared, which was what confused him. Dorian didn't know Chris, but as an investigative journalist, Kenny was sure Dorian was good at reading people via their subtle facial expressions and mannerisms.
What do you need me to do?
Gather intel, Kenny. As much as you can find in Tricell's files about Redfield or the B.S.A.A. Anything will help.
Got it, Kenny replied, I'll be in touch with you in two or three days. Over and out. Upon closing the conversation window, Kenny deleted the conversation history in the event his laptop would be seized. He downed what was left of his ice coffee and sank into his own thoughts.
He was willing to give Dorian whatever he wanted as long as he could convince Chris to come to Kijuju and bust Officer Valentine out. Secretly however, Kenny also hoped that in doing so, Chris would take out Wesker and subsequently free him from Wesker's control. But the situation had grown even more complicated after Ricardo revealed the plan to lure the B.S.A.A. into Kijuju anyway, and unleash the new Plagas infected locals on them. Kenny was no longer sure that he wanted Chris here, in the face of this new threat. Of course, Chris would be insulted if he ever found out that Kenny was worried for his safety, and maybe that would be enough incentive for him to barge his way into Africa. Kenny doubted it, though. That was what Chris would have done ten years ago, and he had no doubt that he'd done a lot of maturing since then.
Kenny reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts and pulled out a trinket that he held close through all his years working under Wesker. It was a sew-on patch of the long defunct Raccoon City branch of the S.T.A.R.S. organization given to him by Chris Redfield himself, long ago during the days Kenny worked at the Raccoon Police Precinct as a work experience kid. It was a spare patch that the R.P.D. had lying around which Chris took upon himself to steal and present it to Kenny to celebrate his first birthday with the Raccoon Police Department. Underneath the S.T.A.R.S. logo was a blank banner where the recruit's name was supposed to be embroidered, Kenny's last name "FENG" was written with a permanent black marker, rendered closely as possible to the original font.
I'm still on your side, Kenny thought silently to himself as he stared at the patch in his palm. And I think I know what Dorian needs to get you here to rescue Jill.
Crankurt's Irish Pub
New York City, USA
Chris Redfield nurtured a large mug of dark lager, moving the glass between fingertips calloused from a lifetime of physical labor in between swigs. Though his eyes pierced the glass from beneath furrowed brows through the dark foaming amber liquid that refracted deep golden light onto the polished oak table where he sat alone, it was not what he saw at all. This was his fifth glass and now the vision of Jill Valentine's face swam before his eyes, drowning in his beer, the look of sheer terror etched onto her otherwise gentle features as she crashed into the foamy waves below. Chris squeezed his eyes shut but he was too buzzed to un-see the image his mind recollected. And the alcohol made it all the more real.
A pair of barely legal girls Chris noticed earlier ogling him from across the bar seemed to have mustered the courage to approach him. They walked towards him with exaggerated movements, thrusting their hips with every step, shoulders back, protruding their otherwise modest breasts forward. He didn't have to see the girls to notice their presence, if the volume of their giggling was any sign.
"Girlfriend stood you up?" one of them asked in a singsong voice. Chris got a strange waft of vanilla perfume mixed with vodka. He didn't say anything, just grunted in response, but the girls didn't seem satisfied with his reaction to them. The other one, raven-haired cut with long bangs and stick straight locks reaching down to her shoulders took a seat beside him at his table. This one smelled like strawberries.
"Whatever you're sad about," she said, "best leave it at the door. That's why you came here in the first place, right? Just forget about all your troubles and have a good time." She gave his elbow a light tug and cocked her heard to the back of the bar. "Come join us."
"I appreciate the thought ladies," Chris finally said, "But I don't think your boyfriends would be too fond of finding me at your table with the two of you hanging off me like this.
"I don't think you'll have much trouble handling them," Vanilla replied, caressing his arm.
"I'm not interested," Chris said politely, but sternly enough that they got the message.
"Can't say we didn't try," Strawberry shrugged and she and her companion left Chris well alone.
He downed what was left of his beer, threw some money on the table and rose to leave when someone moved in from his peripheral vision and took the seat that Strawberry had been occupying seconds before. The new comer gave Chris a questioning look with a face that he recognized but couldn't quite place.
"Dorian Marquez," the man said and motioned with his hand, inviting Chris to reclaim his seat at the table. Chris remained standing, refusing the gesture.
Of course, he was the self-proclaimed journalist who had practically broken into his office days before with an unscheduled appointment. He was lucky Chris had let him leave in one piece, though it was smart on the journalist's part to have mentioned Kenny and Jill in one sitting. Though he had entertained Dorian then, he was certainly in no mood to indulge him further. "I have no more information to give you."
"I'm not here to ask you questions, Mr. Redfield," Dorian interrupted. He tossed a stack of neatly stapled sheets onto the tabletop which Chris eyed, but did not handle.
"What is this?" he grunted.
"Tax information," Dorian replied, acknowledging that Chris wasn't going to read it, and that it didn't matter if he did. "Tricell's, to be more specific." Dorian paused to let the weight of his words sink in, but Chris was intent on playing dumb. It enraged him that this weasel of a reporter would go digging through private company information for the sake of exalted gossip to be printed in the local newspapers.
"This is none of your –"
"It actually is," Dorian interjected rather aggressively. "Tricell Inc. is government funded, a publicly traded company so it wasn't too hard to get a copy of their tax files."
"I find it hard to believe they would just hand it over to some journalist," Chris muttered.
"They wouldn't. I just have my sources."
"Did Kenny have anything to do with this?" He paused and looked at Dorian with and accusing glare, but he was quick to change the subject.
"It interests me to find out that Tricell's donations to other companies provided a huge tax write-off for them. Of course, they're not the only ones who do this. Shadawlaw does, and Umbrella Inc. most certainly did."
"Just what are you trying to get at, Marquez?" Chris hissed. He pulled up his chair at sat at the table with Dorian, leaned on his elbows towards the younger man, holding his nose inches away from Dorian's. Brows creased, eyes narrowed with near blinding rage at the journalist, the fucking BOY barely out of his teens insinuating that the B.S.A.A. was up to … up to something Chris hadn't quite yet figured out, but was just a tool for Tricell.
Confirming Chris's quick assumption at Dorian's youth, he suddenly went angel-eyed and with an unassuming tone said, "I'd just like to know, sir. I want to see if I can get any information that will help my friend." Chris wanted to laugh and yet, give Dorian a belting he would never forget all at the same time. Claire Redfield, Chris's younger sister had tried this on him for most of their childhood – hell, she'd probably even try it now – and it had been a long time since Chris was able to see through it like glass.
"Kid," Chris began, folding his hands, using the big-brother tone he had plenty of practice with, "I know you like showing up here thinking you've got the dirt on some international police organization and making yourself look like the big man. But you might wanna start with something smaller. I think you're way in over your head with this. Do some research, and …"
"I did a bit of reading," Dorian offered, cutting Chris off. He took the stack of paper and cleared his throat. "Like it says here from Tricell's database, in May of 2005, Tricell purchased five thousand, two hundred and seventy-odd B.S.A.A. shares at five American dollars each. That's over twenty five thousand dollars worth of shares. Not surprising since the fall of Umbrella, I could see governments pouring in funding out their mouths to prevent a disaster like Raccoon City occurring in their countries – especially the American government. But this is Tricell Inc. we're talking about, not a federal organization. Why would they spend so much money investing in a company that fights the viruses they create the vaccines for, and get rich off of?"
"Tricell is a pharmaceutical company," Chris countered, "who does nothing more than creates medicines for viruses. As an anti-bioterrorism organization, it would be in our best interest to have the medical community on our side. We fight for the same goal. What so suspicious about that?"
"So you confirm then, that the B.S.A.A. is being funded in part by Tricell Inc."
Chris threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "I really don't know what you are trying to get at. And if you are trying to build a case based on hunches and rumors from half a world away, then this might not be the best career choice for you, Mr. Marquez. Now if you'll excuse me, I've had it indulging you and your bullshit." Chris rose from his seat and stormed out of the bar, leaving turned heads and curious expressions in his wake. Strawberry and Vanilla stared after him as well, eyes wide, ruby lips pressed to stifle a giggle.
"I'm going to take that as a yes," Dorian said quietly, pressing the stop button on a small recorder he kept hidden under the lapels of his wrinkled shirt.
XXXXX
Tricell Underground Laboratory
Kijuju, Africa
The stack of notes, charts, slides and handouts that Kenny carried under an arm for a presentation of the Type 2 Plagas scheduled to begin in roughly 30 minutes fell from his grasp and crashed onto the cold tile flooring the moment he walked into the base. Unconscious bodies of scientists and guards alike littered the floor around him. His mind screamed for him to run but the fear and confusion that rooted his feet was stronger than concrete. Was it the woman's scream, the fact that she was being manhandled by three burly men in combat gear, or the fact that Kenny thought he recognized her? It was the pleading gaze from her crystal blue eyes brimming with tears that cut the proverbial ropes that held him to the spot. He ran towards the woman, screaming her name.
"Officer Valentine!"
But before he could get any closer, his passage was blocked off by two more soldiers who looked no different than the three dragging her away into another room. Kenny tried to charge past the two despite that the top of his head reached the chest of the shorter soldier. Instead of breaking through, he bounced off them and onto his rear.
"Get out of the way," he ordered the soldiers.
The tall one smirked. "We're under direct orders from Excella Gionne," he said. "Nobody interferes."
From beyond Kenny's human barricade, he heard Jill call out to him. "Kenny, please … don't let them do this …" He had never seen her so scared in the ten years he'd known her. She was not the lock picking survivalist with an iron will to live. Jill's normally gentle, loving face was bruised on one side. An eye was swelled shut. Fresh blood, sweat and saliva coated her skin. One soldier had an arm wrapped around her throat while his other hand grasped locks of her brown hair. Another held her legs, wheelbarrow-style, as the both of them marched her towards the exit. The third had his gun trained on her head, laser guide set directly between her eyes as she sobbed.
"I will deal with Excella myself," Kenny said, trying with all his might to suppress the desperation in his voice. "Now I will not repeat myself a third time. Get out of the way." He rose to his feet once again to stand up to the two soldiers preventing him from advancing any further. They didn't move, standing unmovable as giant walls of muscle. Kenny sighed and turned around, shoulders drooped as he bent down to pick up the files he dropped, then walked away.
It wasn't much of a confrontation up to that point – because it was only when he'd gained a few meters from the guards that he threw a miniature smoke grenade at their feet, about the size of a ping-pong ball. Thick white, choking smoke spewed from the grenade and that's when Kenny ran back at them. This time, their writhing forms were no match for the momentum he charged at them with. He tore through the soldiers while they coughed and wheezed, running head first into the first of Jill's captors; the one with his gun trained on her face. Fortunately they were unable to hear the commotion Kenny caused over the sounds of Jill's desperate cries for help. The gun went flying into the air while he focused on the shooter, both fists raining down on his face. The other two captives practically dropped Jill and rushed to their comrade's aid. One went to help their friend while the other parried a right hook from Kenny, threw a shoulder into his chest, and snatched him by the throat. Kenny grasped at the soldier's arm trying in vain to release the strong grasp that was now suffocating him. The next thing he felt was a sharp pain between two of his left ribs, and then darkness.
XXXXX
Unknown Underground
Kijuju, Africa
Kenny awoke to a throat made of sandpaper, blurry vision, and a hell of a pounding headache. It was a hangover on steroids which, he realized just then, that he must have been drugged. He groaned and tried to sit up, only to find that his hands were bound with handcuffs behind his back; as were his feet. Grunting with frustration, he attempted rocking himself into a sitting position until a voice stopped him.
"You're still under the influence," she said.
"Officer Valentine?" Through Kenny's blurry vision, he could still make out her familiar form. Her face had dried off since he last saw her. The blood trail that ran down from her hairline was now a brown crusty trail from what it used to be. Her brown hair, now kept longer than the chin length he remembered, was now neatly tucked behind her ears. Her right eye was still swollen shut, however. And her limbs, like his, were bound. Jill sat upright at the corner of their makeshift cell, which by the look of the shelf of cleaning chemicals and dirty mops and broomsticks, he guessed was a janitor's closet.
"Kenny, it's been a long time since I've been a police officer," she corrected. "I know you've known me forever as 'Officer Valentine' but from now on, it's Jill, okay? Try not to move around too much. Let the tranquilizer wear off."
He decided it was best to listen to her, and remained lying in the position he found himself in. "I'm sorry," he said.
Jill gave a soft gasp, appalled. "For what? If anything, I'm the one who is sorry for getting you dragged into this." She rubbed her cheek against her shoulder.
"Who knows what they were going to do to you?"
"It looks like they're going to kill me anyway. The only difference is now you're stuck in here with me, and we don't know what they're gonna do to you."
"I wouldn't worry about your life," Kenny assured her. "You're valuable to Wesker alive. Irving and I were able to find a naturally occurring resistance to the T-Virus in your body. I used that fact to convince Wesker to spare you."
She opened her mouth to say something but the words were caught in her throat. "A…are you sure about this?" Jill shook her head. "I don't understand how my body could have been made resistant. I was cured the moment I was infected."
"Maybe you weren't actually cured," Kenny offered. "Maybe the virus was suppressed long enough for your body to produce anti-bodies."
"I see …" Jill trailed off, then switched the subject. "So if I'm useful to him, what about you? Why did you have to put yourself in trouble for me?"
"Well I don't know if you've noticed, Jill," Kenny said, "but since you've got here, I've been trying to convince Wesker why he should hold off using you as a test subject. And trust me, it's not easy."
"And how long have you been loyal to him now?"
"Six years."
"Six … goddamn it, Kenny …"
"Chris told me ten years ago that it was all over," Kenny continued. "It was at Umbrella's Antarctic base. I'd been slashed across my back by one of those Hunter creatures. I was dying from blood loss. He patched me up with some herb powder and some makeshift bandages and told me he was going to destroy Wesker. But he didn't. Wesker came for me six years later."
"That was when the Ashley Graham was kidnapped," Jill finished. "Kenny, I'm so sorry. We thought Wesker was dead. Chris left him to perish in the explosion of the Antarctic base. No human could have survived that."
"No human could, no," Kenny agreed, "but Wesker's something else. And that reminds me …" Jill looked at him inquisitively. "Wesker has a weakness," he elaborated. "His superhuman strength comes from a variant of the Progenitor virus, one that preserves his intelligence and his physical abilities. Unfortunately the virus's natural tendency toward human biology is to essentially zombify them. Wesker takes regular injections of a chemical agent called PG67A/W to keep from zombifying and to maintain his superhuman strength."
"This is good to know but, how did you find this out?" Jill asked. "I worked under him too, once upon a time when he was still with the S.T.A.R.S. and if anything, Albert Wesker does not share personal information. You'd be lucky if he so much smiled at you for a job well done."
"I administer these injections sometimes," Kenny said.
"And he trusts you with this information?"
"He knows if he dies, I'd be on a one way trip to prison, maybe even an execution. I wouldn't be so quick to share his one weakness with anyone."
"Yet here you are telling me."
"That's because I don't want to have a hand in the death of anyone else. Officer … Jill, they're conducting Type 2 Plagas experiments on the local Ndipaya tribe members, and my job is to track how each villager is responding to their 'medicine.'"
Jill's jaw dropped.
"I am embedded with these people. They feed me, they house me. I smoke with the elders and play stupid games with their children. And they continue this hospitality in the face of their own …" He couldn't finish his sentence, so he started a new one. "I can't do this anymore. I need it to end."
"There is no end to his savagery," Jill whispered with horror.
"That's why we need to spread the information. Now four people know Wesker's weakness."
"Who are the others?"
"Wesker himself, and Excella Gionne – his commercial partner, CEO of Tricell Inc."
"She …"
"She is not on our side. Trust me on this. So please, if Chris gets to you before he does me, promise me you'll remember to tell him what I just told you."
"Yes, but I don't think Chris is coming," Jill said regretfully. "He thinks I'm dead. He saw me fall out of that castle. Whatever happens, it's up to us to get ourselves out of here."
"Maybe not. I've got a contact in the United States who I've been sending information to. He's a journalist. He's already managed to find Chris."
"Oh God, Chris hates journalists. But if he actually manages to get Chris over here, then yes, Kenny, I promise to share the information with him. We'll take Wesker down together – all three of us."
Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by the opening of the cleaning closet door, bathing the two captives in fluorescent light from the hallway. Three armed guards stood in the doorway dressed similar to the men who put them here. They were likely even the same men. Jill shrank back into the corner while Kenny remained lying still, looking at them fearfully from the corner of his eye. While one of them kept the prisoners at the nozzle of his handgun, the other two pulled Kenny and Jill to their feet by the elbows. Kenny was slow to regain his balance, still under the effects of the tranquilizer they shot him with earlier, and ended up being half-dragged out into the hallway.
"We are ready for you," the guard told him. "The both of you."
