11. Teamwork

It had been quite some time since Albert Wesker had felt the pulse of adrenaline in his veins, the sense of urgency that came with a vital mission, and a battle against potentially deadly foes. Since his transformation, he had become bored with the challenge posed by ordinary men, but this was a different situation entirely. He was not orchestrating the downfall of the established order now, nor was he engaged in a battle with his nemesis, one Christopher Redfield. This was an operation of supreme import, far more significant than his ambitions in Africa.

Drawing back his fist, he punched through the translucent pillar, claiming the time bonus and watching as the countdown on his wrist was extended by a further sixty seconds. All the better to ensure that his killing spree went uninterrupted by the arrival of Josh Stone.

He whipped free his Beretta, aiming it into the face of a Majini that charged towards him, cattle prod at the ready, and pulled the trigger, the bullet smashing through its right cheek and blowing apart its brain. Spinning on his heel, he executed a further mindless drone in a similar manner, watching as its corpse slumped to the metal beneath his feet.

Behind it, a third enemy hefted a rocket launcher onto its shoulder, sighting through the eyepiece and drawing a bead on him. He reacted with superhuman reflexes, adjusting his aim and squeezing off a round. The metal slug entered the weapon's scope and popped its wielder's eye. As the creature staggered back, clutching its bloodied face, he closed the distance with a burst of intense speed, thrusting his knee forward and compacting its ribcage. Its battered corpse was thrown limply across the platform, rolling to a stop half a dozen feet away.

"Poor performance indeed," he chastised, sneering to himself as the countdown was boosted by yet another five seconds, as he had anticipated.

The atmosphere of the experimental facility altered, however, when he heard the familiar rattling of claws on steel, heralding the arrival of one of Umbrella's foremost B.O.W archetypes, the Lickers. He turned, withdrawing his Hydra shotgun, a three-barrelled custom sawn-off, and aiming it almost nonchalantly with a single hand towards the approaching pack of skinless beasts. They scrabbled forward, almost eager, slick flesh glistening in the bright, sterile lighting, and he opened fire, a hail of buckshot tearing through bare muscle and exposed brain tissue. A great shrieking arose from them as they died in their droves.

The weapon ran empty, and yet more of the monsters approached. As quickly as the delicate operation would permit, he snapped his firearm open and removed the spent cartridges, replacing them with others from his equipment pouch. Before he could renew his bombardment of their ranks, however, something shunted into his back and knocked him to the floor. He struggled beneath its weight, easily twice that of an ordinary human being, and turned to find himself pinned by one of his genetically-engineered adversaries. He struggled to free the Hydra, but to no avail; it was pinned against his chest. As such, he resorted to the only course of action that remained.

"Your assistance is required!" he growled into his radio, even as the enemy seated upon his midriff reared back, elongated tongue whipping between razor-sharp teeth, claws flexing as they prepared to plunge into his flesh.

There was no response.

"Your assistance is required!" he repeated, this time more urgently, only this time there was a reply.

"I heard you the first time," Shakahnna said, her face appearing within his field of vision, leering down at him maliciously.

He let out a disbelieving snarl, moments before four talons plunged through his ribcage, piercing his heart and spraying blood across his features, and those of his partner. Gore streaked her rosy cheeks, spattering across her broad grin, and then the world faded to black around him. So much for teamwork.