"…at which point Ms. Dollard entered the elevator and rode, presumably, to ground level?"
"Yes."
"And after this, remind us what happened?"
Alyssa was sweaty, jittery, and feeling rather ill. She was giving her account of events in the quaternary research facility to the B.S.A.A. This wasn't like a criminal hearing or anything, she wasn't in trouble, and she hadn't done anything scarier than sign an affidavit (not that that was any small thing), but she was still a nervous wreck. She supposed that shouldn't have been surprising – not only was she accounting, in full, horrible, gory detail, the absolute hell she'd been through two weeks ago that day, but she was doing it to a roomful of dire-looking men and woman in suits. Statements she made occasionally called for repetition or more detail, most notably all of those involving B.O.W.s…which were, of course, the worst ones.
She'd gone through everything yesterday, start to finish. She'd been nearly sick by the time she'd reached the part about Theron, and Chris, who had been part of the audience, had called for a recess, which had been granted. He'd slipped in to talk to her near the end, telling her she was doing a great job and to just keep it up for a little longer. Someone else had popped in and yelled at Chris, who apparently wasn't supposed to be talking to her alone in the middle of a hearing, and he'd just rolled his eyes and patted her on the back. Today she was back to give more detailed accounts of whichever events interested them the most.
"After that, I noticed the corpse on the floor was Gem, the researcher we'd taken hostage the previous day, and I thought that the B.O.W. might be her brother."
"And why did you think this?"
That was a new question, and one she didn't think she'd covered yet. "Because there were scraps of grey security guard uniform scattered around her corpse," she answered.
A few of the people in the room took a note on this, some writing, some typing, and after a pause, the questioning continued. "And after this?"
She recounted everything that followed – finding the B.O.W. again, seeing that scrap of David's lab coat on it, continuing on to find an exit…and then what happened to Theron.
"…and it was going to rush my catwalk. That's when Theron yelled at it, to make it go after him instead of me."
"And remind us what he yelled again?" one of the side-administrators said offhandedly.
She paused, swallowing hard. "He yelled…uh…Hey, ugly, over here—"
At once, two different people look up sharply. One of them, an unpleasant-looking woman with dark hair and a high voice, said, "Yesterday you said he said, 'Oi, this way! Come and get me!' 'Hey, ugly, over here' was what David said to lure it away before that, yes?"
Nausea gripped her, and she felt herself start sweating harder. She hadn't remembered what she'd said last time because she'd made it up on the spot. Theron's death was the only thing she'd lied about. Now, evidently, she'd messed up her story.
"Um…" she swallowed again, searching her brain for a plausible reply. "I'm sorry, I guess I…I mixed them up."
"You mixed them up?" the woman said critically. There wasn't a lot of interest at her mistake in the room, but three of the dozen or so people were now looking at her closely. The rest were reviewing or scribbling notes, and one was watching the current questioner with mild intrigue. Chris was not present at the hearing today, probably because they hadn't wanted him influencing her. "These were your friend's dying words, and you mixed them up?"
Tears sprang into her eyes. She hated this. She hated lying about what happened, but she couldn't tell them the truth. The thought of that horrified her beyond anything else she'd recounted.
"I'm sorry," she choked out. "I just don't like talking about this."
The woman who was pressing her narrowed her eyes and started harshly on another question. "I would assume, then, that you—"
"Flores, Ms. Legend is clearly traumatized by this event. I don't blame her, I would be, too. That her story has been as lucid as it has been so far is frankly impressive, but we're putting her under a lot of strain. She doesn't need to be cross-examined. The dying words of her friend are not the salient point of the story. Let's move on."
The speaker was an older man with a fair amount of grey in his hair, whose podium nameplate identified him as L. Martin, O.E. (whatever O.E. meant). He sounded very mellow, almost bored, but a sharpness in his eyes suggested that this wasn't strictly the case. He was paying very close attention.
The woman, Flores, looked ready to protest, but there was a murmur of agreement from the room. So she fell silent, and another member asked a question pertaining more directly to the mode of Theron's death; this genuinely was fuzzy in her mind, as her brain seemed to be trying desperately to blank it out. The answer she gave satisfied them, however, and after this they moved along to her meeting with Reynard.
By the time she got out of there a few hours later, she felt like she'd just run several miles on a hot summer day with no water breaks – sick, tired, and shaky. She'd have maybe liked to go back to her room for a while, but one of the reasons they'd wrapped up when they had was because everyone was already late for dinner. So instead she was escorted right to the cafeteria, under the assumption that she was as hungry as everyone else. She supposed she would be, once she calmed down and got a drink.
She stepped into the B.S.A.A. cafeteria, which had a respectable setup. They hired cooks from around the world to provide a plethora of things to eat on any given day, and her favorite so far was the Pizzaiolo wood-fired pizzas. She could eat half of one all by herself and take the other half back to eat as a midnight snack. She'd had that last night, though, and today she spotted a section that had been serving Bahn-mi sandwiches yesterday, but seemed to have changed.
"Sushi?" she mused tiredly, trying to read the menu from where she stood.
"Yup," said an emphatic female voice behind her. "Sushi Sunday. I don't come here often, but when I do, I try to come on Sundays."
She turned around. A woman with long, reddish-brown hair tied back in a high ponytail, a heavy bandage on her head, stood behind her in a grey jacket with a logo on the right breast that Alyssa recognized.
"Oh, hey, you're with TerraSave," she noted, trying to pull herself together a little more. "That's cool. Do you guys work with the B.S.A.A. a lot?"
The woman shrugged, and started meandering over to the sushi line. Though some people would not consider raw fish soothing on the stomach, the idea sounded crazy appetizing to Alyssa, so she followed, and they got in line together. "Sometimes. I'm not here on business, though. I'm just here visiting someone. We do have a big team helping out in Kijuju right now – I was there initially, but I had to take off after I sustained an injury. You've heard about that new incident, right?"
Alyssa nodded uncomfortably, hoping she wouldn't have to end up talking about it. If she could escape the trauma for ten minutes or so, that would be nice. "Yeah. Sorry about your injury. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," the woman said, brushing a lock of hair back over part of the bandage. "Are you alright? You look a little pale."
The line was kinda long, but moving fast. There was a line of black-haired, snazzily-dressed men behind the counter slicing and wrapping things up with impressive speed. "I'm okay. I was just in a…" What had she been in? A hearing? A conference? She wasn't sure what the proper legal term for it was. "…I was just answering some questions. Cross-examinations and stuff. It was a little stressful."
"Oh, jeez, I know how that can be," the woman replied sympathetically. "Always rough, being bombarded with questions. Do you work for the B.S.A.A., or are you just here for some kind of testimony?"
"Just testimony. Then I'm heading home. I've been away for months, and I'm really looking forward to seeing my family again."
"Wow. What had you away so long?"
They'd gotten to the front of the line, which thankfully diverted the conversation. One of the chefs asked, "What can I get for you?" and Alyssa realized that she hadn't been reading the menu, and didn't know what to order.
"Uh," she stammered, and stepped back automatically to let the woman, who had been standing beside her, go first.
"Ah. What can I get for you?" he asked her instead.
"Uh…"
Well, that was a nice faux pas. Alyssa looked up at the menu, spotted something that looked great – the Full Sashimi Sampler – spotted the price, almost decided against it, then remembered that she'd been given a debit card on her first day here and told to charge all expenses to it and not to worry about it. The B.S.A.A. was footing her stay here. So she asked for the Full Sashimi Sampler.
The man nodded sharply, looked at the woman, and she said, "Yeah, I'll have that, too." Then they moved forward, getting the line moving again. Alyssa watched with interest as the chefs on the other side of the glass divider window began grabbing chunks of fish from below the counter, slicing them up, and depositing them two to a plate. Alyssa's brows rose higher and higher as the heap of fish on the plate did the same, and by the end of it, she glanced up and realized that she had asked for the most expensive thing on the menu. It was literally two pieces of every kind of fish they had, and they had like twenty different kinds of fish.
They got up to the front and the bill came up. The woman saw it, her jaw dropped, and she cringed. "Oh, jeez. I really messed up ordering that."
Alyssa waved her aside and pulled the debit card. Their conversation, though short, had done a lot to calm her down. The lady just had a really soothing presence. "No worries, I've got it covered. Or, uh, the B.S.A.A. does. Here ya go, for both of us," she said, handing the card to the cashier, who swiped it, smiled and nodded, and ushered them on. They grabbed their plates at the end of the line, along with some soy – Alyssa skipped the wasabi and ginger – and stepped out of line to look for a spot to eat.
"Thank you," the woman said, balancing her plate and soy so it wouldn't slop over and drench her fish. "I really appreciate that. I have a company card, but I try not to charge insane expenses to it. We have way more important things to be buying than giant plates of sushi for the execs. And my own budget is a little short this month."
"No problem," Alyssa said, and spotted a table with someone she knew – Chris. She walked over and caught his eye as he looked up from his meal. For some reason, he looked very surprised. "I'm Alyssa by the way."
"Alyssa? Nice to meet you. I'm—"
"Claire!"
Chris stood up from his giant pile of what looked like a dissected burrito, walked over, and wrapped an arm around the lady, careful not to make her spill her food.
The woman – Claire, apparently – smiled widely and hugged him back with one arm. "Hey, Chris. Heard you'd had a rough time of things, so I thought I'd drop by and see how you were doing. Everything good?"
"Great," he answered, and gestured for her to sit down at his table. He seemed really happy to see her, and Alyssa wondered if this woman wasn't his girlfriend. "I mean, yeah, that Kijuju incident was bad, but we got out alright. I've heard TerraSave is doing a lot to help the survivors."
"Yeah. I went down there myself as soon as we got clearance, but one of those leftover Majini threw an axe at my head after the first week. I was out for a couple days, and when I woke up, I'd found out that Gabriel had arrived and had me shipped out with a few other critically injured survivors. Not that I was critically injured," she said reassuringly as alarm shot across Chris's face.
"An axe to the head sounds like a pretty critical injury," he said seriously. "Are you sure—oh, hey, Alyssa!" He gestured for her to sit down, as she'd started backing away upon realizing that these two were obviously very close. She didn't want to intrude. It didn't seem like he minded, though. "Alyssa, this is my sister Claire," he introduced.
"Oh!" Alyssa exclaimed. "I didn't know you had a sister." He'd visited her several times, and she him, during their dozen-day stint in the hospital. She'd talked a fair bit about her personal life, but he hadn't gotten around to doing the same.
Claire reached over and punched his shoulder playfully. "Good to know you tell all your friends about me," she said.
Chris sighed heavily, and Claire laughed. "Yes, I have a sister. So you two've met?"
"Only just now," Alyssa explained.
"Gotcha. Claire, this is Alyssa. She's one of the survivors from Kijuju. She's a civilian Tricell was experimenting on. She and some of her friends managed to get out their containment before things went really bad. Or rather, just as things were getting really bad."
The laughter drained right out of Claire's face. "Oh, God," she said, one hand covering her mouth. "I am so sorry. Is that what you're here answering questions on?" Alyssa nodded, and Claire said, "No wonder you…ugh. So, you two met in Kijuju?"
"Yeah, your brother saved my life," she said at the exact same time as Chris said, "Yeah, she pretty much saved our lives."
Claire cocked her head at this. "Sounds like a lot happened."
They took turns explaining between bites. It was hard, because Alyssa was really enjoying trying out all the different kinds of fish. Still, by the end of their respective stories (which were a lot easier for her to tell, since they didn't involve anyone she knew dying horribly,) they were both clearly having a good time, each trying to talk the other one up more. She had an advantage in that Chris was simply the more impressive of them and had done a good deal more to laud, but Chris had an advantage in that she, being a civilian, should not have been there at all. A big, muscley guy covered in heavy equipment and armed to the teeth running in to fight monsters was one thing. A five-foot-zilch girl with no combat training or armor doing the same was quite another – especially if she actually survived.
By the end of it, Claire was enraptured. "Wow. You really have been through a lot. Thanks for saving my brother. He means a lot to me." At this, she looked at Chris, a knowing smile on her face. "And I'm glad you were able to get her out alive. It's nice when we're actually able to save someone, right?"
The words had a dry, heavy cadence, and as Chris's eyes flashed with memory and his face hardened a touch, she felt piercing sympathy for the pair. "Yeah," he said finally. "It really is."
They finished their lunches in peace, and as they stood to take their plates to the dish belt, Claire said, "So, Chris, everything wrapped up? Or do you have any loose ends to tie up?"
"Well, Wesker's dead, so that's great," he said, and Claire's eyes widened.
"Are you serious? Thank God that monster is gone. Did you—?"
"Me, Jill, and Sheva. With Alyssa's help, of course. But there are still some loose ends." His voice dropped. "The B.S.A.A. was trying hard to get me to withdraw after Irving was killed, and I found out why pretty fast. There's a mole."
Claire took a sharp, quiet breath. "Damn. Any way to flush it?"
"They're trying. But it looks like we aren't finding—"
A few seconds later, a few loud pops that Alyssa would have assumed were fireworks had she not by now become very familiar with the sound of gunfire went off somewhere in the distance. Then, a few seconds later, red lights started flashing overhead, and an emergency warning began to sound, telling everyone to get to cover until the threat was neutralized.
She panicked, shivering into lockdown. She wasn't on the battlefield anymore, and she didn't have a gun. Unarmed and unprepared for a fight, she felt the telltale signs of panic setting in.
Chris looked up at the alarms, then grabbed her and dragged her over to a desk, hoisting her up and depositing her behind it. "Stay down, I'll deal with this," he said sternly, putting a hand on her shoulder and gently pressing to get her to duck. Before she knew it, he and Claire were running away – not away from the gunfire, but towards it.
She sank down behind the desk only after they turned a corner and disappeared from sight. Three other people were hiding back here, too, all looking largely calm. One, a mousy-looking secretary, had a small handgun.
"Was that Redfield?" one of the crouchers asked.
"Yeah," Alyssa answered as a long stream of gunfire went off some way away.
"Oh, thank God. That guy can handle anything."
She thought back on everything he'd dealt with. Uroboros, Majini, Reapers, Wesker. The most rational thing in the world to assume was that he would, indeed, handle the problem just fine. Still, she worried about him, and as the red lights continued to flash and the alarm to blare, she wondered what danger had arisen now, when it was all supposed to be over.
Chris ran towards the sound of the slow-paced firefight. Going by the long gaps of silence between short bursts of gunfire, he was willing to put down money that there was a standoff of some sort going on. The only thing Chris was wondering now was why the security forces did not seem to be mobilizing.
He got to the scene to see his guess confirmed – one man lay against a tall white pillar, clutching his shoulder and watching a low cement barrier across the wide-open space. It was a courtyard, thankfully closed for renovation and so devoid of most personnel, and as he watched, a bald man behind the concrete barrier popped up, fired several times at the pillar, and ducked back down under return fire. Both men were nearly hit, and both ducked away. The man behind the pillar was Reynard.
Chris glared at the setup, weighing his options. He was behind cover now, but he'd have to go a good ten feet to reach the pillar. Before he could come to a conclusion, however, Claire burst out, sprinting for Reynard. He swore in his head and dashed out after her, overtaking her and running between her and the shooter.
They were almost there when gunfire erupted again, but only a few shots went off before Reynard covered. Still, Chris felt a burning pain in his right shoulder before reaching cover – he was hit. Thankfully, he only took one bullet, and he could tell at once that this was a small-caliber round. He'd be fine.
Once they were all safely situated – safe was relative in a firefight – Chris took a look at Reynard's shoulder and said, "Gun." Looked like he'd either been shot several times, or with a much higher caliber. The wound was bleeding massively, and he'd no doubt be having trouble aiming.
Reynard took one look at Chris and passed him the gun. Despite his mangled arm, he was grinning fiercely, and said, "Ey, Chris – I flushed out that mole."
Claire tugged him to the ground, dug in her purse, and pulled out a tiny emergency medical kit. She started treating the wound rightaway, saying, "Okay, hold that arm still, I'm going to do what I can. Chris, take care of the shooter?"
"On it," he replied, poking his head out to check the area and nearly getting shot again. He stepped over, popped out the other side, and fired, pinning the man. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to rush and finish this fast before anyone else got hurt, or just try and run this chrome-domed asshole low on ammunition while waiting for security to arrive. "Reynard, what happened?"
The bleeding man chuckled a bit, wincing as Claire got a tourniquet above the wound and pulled it tight. "Heh—ah. You remember that security head I gave all the data and information to before we got on the plane here? Well, I made a backup of the file and took it myself to be sure it would stay safe. The hard drive I gave him had a virus on it that would lock the data down, identify the user, and ping him the second he tried accessing the files. That guy is our mole."
"Wasn't the security guy supposed to be in charge of the data? What makes him the mole?"
Reynard growled, "He was supposed to hand off the file and original data to a specific team the second we touched down, and he was supposed to transport it all in our plane and have it all escorted in by an S.O.U. I pinged him as we lifted off and saw he was holed up in the back of one of the security planes, which were slated to be checked by his teams."
All this time, Chris was keeping the guy pinned without actually trying for a headshot. He wanted a bit more info before killing baldy over there. "I heard all the data arrived safely."
"Not the data I gave him. The hard drive Grant handed over to the B.S.A.A. was a copy. Trust me. I marked the original."
"Then shouldn't your virus have gone off while he was copying it?"
"Evidently he didn't look at the data, he only transferred the files without opening any of them. He only looked at the data about half an hour ago. The virus pinged him on a private computer in the basement of the security building. And the second he realized he'd been pinged, he locked down all the security in the building and sent a top-priority alarm out to the rest ordering them to covertly cover different parts of the compound."
That explained why there still wasn't any security over here. "How'd you find him? He didn't take the computer with him?"
"Nope. I Just ran in the directions I saw security running away from. Found him here, right before he got to the helipad. Oh, good, security is finally arriving."
They all looked around and saw three guards rushing towards them. Chris was initially relieved – with reinforcements they could take Grant into custody, hopefully, rather than kill him. Then he saw the expressions on their faces as they caught sight of Reynard, and realized that they were now in a very bad spot.
The guns came up, aiming at both Reynard and Claire. Reynard's eyes widened and he swore as he realized what had happened – Grant had set one of his security teams to hunt him down, and they probably had orders to shoot on sight.
There wasn't enough room behind the pillar for Chris to shield them, so he was forced to step out to impose himself. He aimed his own muzzle away from the team and towards Grant's cover, and prayed that his presence would be enough to diffuse this situation.
The team, thank God, at least paused when they saw him. Two raised their guns to shoot, but the other two recognized him, and one shouted, "Hold fire! That's Redfield!"
There was a very tense second as two guns remained leveled at him, unfiring, and the other two hung down, ready to aim behind him the instant he moved. Then, before he could even try to explain the situation, gunfire erupted, and Chris took yet another bullet to the arm.
He raised the arm to shield his head and returned fire. But the exchange resulting in all four guns being aimed at him, with another cry of, "HOLD YOUR FIRE!" and this time it was directed at him.
The instant silence hit, Chris barked, "Stand down! Grant is attempting to escape with the data retrieved from—"
He spotted Grant's bald head, hard to spot against the pale background, popping up again, and this time he fired preemptively. He took care to aim down first, hoping that the guards would realize he wasn't trying to kill anybody, and thankfully the sound was enough to cause Grant to shrink back behind the barrier. The security team's muzzles remained trained on him, but one guard was now looking in Grant's direction.
"Grant is a traitor and he needs to be taken into custody!" Reynard barked from behind him. "He's the mole! I bet he told you to come down here and shoot me on sight, eh? Wounded, unarmed? Use your damn brains, you idiots!"
The team hung in silence, uncertain, and Chris said, "If I lower my gun, the only person who will still be firing will be Grant. Mark my words."
He lowered his gun. The security team, finally, lowered their own. Then one, the leader, furrowed his brow and hit his radio. "Sir, Fisher is pinned and unarmed, and Chris Redfield is here. He's saying—"
But at that point the whole team ducked, and one of them went down clutching his chest as Grant opened fire again, this time aiming at his own security team. Chris swore and ducked back behind cover. The head of the team grabbed his wounded companion and dragged him back behind cover as the rest retreated. He began shouting into his radio, yelling that Grant had gone rogue and needed to be apprehended. "Get team B-six down here, now! What do you mean you're locked down? Shit, then—"
Chris looked out again and saw Grant was running for the building with the helipad. Chris, both arms now aching with bullet wounds, began sprinting after him.
Claire yelled, "Careful, Chris!"
"Always am!" he yelled back, and made for the building. He got there just in time to see Grant, holding his own bleeding arm – everyone was taking limb-shots today, which probably explained the universally shitty accuracy – repeatedly slamming his palm against a button in the elevator.
Chris raised his gun, but the doors were already closing, and Grant got behind them before Chris could fire. Stairs it was, then.
He found the stairwell and started sprinting up, and as he did, he heard a chopper starting up on the roof. Sounded like Grant had a getaway partner. That wasn't good. He wasn't sure he could make it to the roof before the chopper lifted off.
He got to the top just in time to see Grant climbing into the cockpit and grinning out at him through the window. The chopper was just lifting off. He was too late.
PING!
Chris started and looked around as the echoing clap of a rifle went off. Another PING! followed a second later, eliciting a burst of sparks from the slowly-rising chopper. Another followed promptly, then another. The shots were all aimed at the same spot – a very small niche just below the rotors.
Four shots later, this spot started smoking profusely, and just as the chopper tilted to begin wheeling away, a high, wretched sound that screamed MECHANICAL FAILURE rent the air…and the rotors gave out.
The helicopter dropped, skidding across the helipad before tipping over onto its side. The rotors, still spinning lazily, ripped up huge chunks of the roof before sparking and stalling completely, leaving the aerial escape vehicle totally grounded, but mostly unharmed.
Chris looked around, heart pounding with relief and extreme physical strain, trying to figure out what had happened. He couldn't see any shooter. Then his phone rang, and he grabbed it and looked at the ID.
It was Jill. He kept his muzzle trained on the chopper in case Grant decided this fight needed to continue, and picked it up. "Jill?"
"Hey, slowpoke. Since when can you not outrun an elevator? You're lucky you had some backup, otherwise our mole would be airborne by now."
He was still panting from his four-story sprint up the stairwell, and he kept scanning the building across from him, hand over his eye to shield from the sun. After a few seconds, he squinted against a flare as the sunlight caught some piece of glass in one of the windows.
"Over here."
"Gotcha," he said as he finally spotted her. "I—ow, yes, thanks, I see you!" he growled as the lens flare caught his eye again. "You want to avoid blinding me? I still need to keep an eye on Grant."
"Tell him the rifle's trained on him, and if he doesn't want to lose his family jewels he'd better drop that gun, get on the ground, and put his hands behind his head."
God, it's good to have a partner again, he thought as he shouted, "Oi, Grant! We have a sniper trained on you, so put the gun down, come out, and—"
Jill's rifle went off again, and Chris winced as a scream billowed up from the smoking chopper. He wasn't squeamish, but no man likes the idea of someone having their balls blown off. It just wasn't a pleasant thing to think about.
Another round went off, and with another high cry, Grant came stumbling out, wide-eyed, from behind the chopper. His crotch seemed intact, his hands were up, and he looked terrified. A moment later, someone else – presumably the getaway driver – came stumbling out from behind the chopper as well. His crotch was not intact, nor was his right hand.
His left hand was, though, and he reached into his jacket with it, pulling out a gun and aiming for Grant. Whoever this guy was working for, they were trying to silence him.
Chris and Jill both fired at once, Jill for the hand and Chris for the legs, and the would-be assassin crumpled. Chris ran forward and, just to keep things simple, punched Grant in the head hard enough to knock him out clean before leaping on the smaller, more badly wounded man and pinning him.
"Gotcha," he growled.
The guy struggled for a few seconds, then said, "Don't you wish, Redfield."
He heard a slight crunch, followed by the man swallowing. Chris swore. Cyanide tablet, or something similar. Lacking gloves, he wasn't about to put his hands in the guy's mouth, but it didn't matter anyway. Before he could do anything, the guy convulsed, gasped, the whites of his eyes went blood-red…and he died.
Whatever he'd taken, it had killed him in less than five seconds.
Chris spat in disgust and stood up, going over to Grant instead. He checked him – alive, unconscious – then sat back and picked up the phone again.
Jill was still on. "Damn. Good shots there, but the guy had an insurance policy tucked under his tongue."
"Dead?"
"Dead. But at least we got Grant."
"Well, there's something."
"Yup. Reynard will be happy enough. Hey, how'd you down that chopper?"
"I was having dinner with Doug in my room. When Reynard called and filled me in on what was happening, I grabbed my rifle and got my scope on the helipad just in time to see the guy boarding the chopper. I asked Doug if I could take it down without killing the pilot, and he said yes. He knew that make intimately, told me exactly what to shoot."
"Well," Chris said, setting the gun down and turning towards the elevator as he heard it coming up again. "Tell Doug thanks for me."
Doug's voice came on the phone. "Ey, no problem-o! Anyways, a lady like that asks me for help, I ain't gonna say no!"
"Amen to that," Chris replied. Then there was a shuffling, and Jill took the phone again.
"So, we've got our mole. Anything else need wrapping up?"
Another security team rushed out of the elevator, followed by Claire. Thankfully, the guns weren't aimed at him this time, and Grant was taken promptly into custody.
"Nope," he said as Claire rushed over to him. "Pretty sure that's everything. Now, if you'll excuse me…"
He hung up and let Claire slap a few bandages on his wounds, serenely accepting her chiding and insistence that he at least try not to let himself get shot. He didn't bother telling her that he'd gotten one of those wounds covering her – he was her brother. That was just part of the job.
The sun was starting to set as they stood up and got into the elevator. "Reynard okay?" he asked, punching the ground-level button.
She nodded. "Yeah. So am I. Thanks to you."
His arm was resting on her shoulder for support, but he wrapped it around her a little tighter before they stepped off the elevator. Then she handed him off to the on-duty medical personnel, and he grudgingly allowed them to put him on a gurney and start wheeling him back to the damn hospital.
All's well that ends well, I guess, he thought as they hooked him right up to a heart monitor.
Whether you wanted to save the world or destroy it, the process involved an extraordinary amount of paperwork. Reports needed to be filed, information sifted through, and nevermind all the proofreading and number checking. Hours upon days upon weeks of screen time. And of course, there were the formatting issues – there were no premade formats for most of the reports and assessments you tended to file in the field of eugenics; they often had to be made from scratch.
But now, nearly two weeks after the conclusion of the experiments, most of the documents were filed, and soon he would be able to get back to the fun part of his job – the research itself. Still, he had just a few more things to tie up, Project: Subject being the focus matter today.
Theron Moore, 84-A-1. Sarah Dollard, 84-A-2. Kyle Bander, 84-A-4. Ajay Ramani, 84-A-5. David Rancho, 84-B-1. Ruth Taylor, 84-B-2. Mallory Higgs, 84-C-1. And Alyssa Legend. 84-A-3. Each had been selected, not from any pool of subjects already acquired, but from experiences in their lives that made them ideal for his experiment. They had been collected specifically for this purpose – the purpose of identifying and studying superior human beings.
He had been taught in his upbringing that excellence was exceedingly rare, and could only be found in the top echelons of scientific society. Only the greatest scientific minds, the Einsteins and Hawkings and Newtons, could be fit for the new world. Uroboros had been designed around this premise.
And yet, recent experiences in his life led him to wonder if this was so. He still had no doubt that the vast majority of humanity was unfit for survival, but he had begun to wonder if evolutionary success was indeed determined solely by intelligence. He had, after all, met many people in his life who were geniuses of the sort that might have been selected by Uroboros, but not all of them were the types of people he'd deem evolutionary successes. Many were cowards, short-tempered, or simply detestable in personality. Almost all were narcissistic and arrogant in the extreme…not that he was one to judge. A very few were pleasant, classy, and easy to work with. In short, a very few were the kinds of people he'd like to see populating the world.
And then there was the issue of survivability. How many times had he watched entire facilities full of great, proven minds being slaughtered like sheep because they lacked any sense of self-preservation? The night he'd been pondering this, he'd begun thinking back on all of the most…exciting…events in his life. All the incidences, all the battles, and all the fools who had opposed him. Particularly, Chris.
While a part of him was maddened by the unrelenting opposition of his old 'comrade', still another part of him had been forced to grudgingly admit that two of the great hallmarks of a successful organism were self-preservation, and species-preservation – the ability to preserve one's own life, as well as the willingness to endanger it for the greater good. He'd observed these qualities in a number of organisms over the years, searching for the pinnacles of evolution across the globe, but such had his hatred of humanity been that he'd seldom paid heed to the successes of his own species. Original species, rather.
He'd initially loathed the idea of Chris being what might be considered an evolutionary paragon, but his experiences with the man suggested that this loathing may be misplaced. He'd long been obsessed with intelligence as the great hallmark of success in humanity. Perhaps there were other traits that ought to be taken into account as well?
So, he'd expanded his studies beyond the range of intelligence in genetics (not that he dismissed it, mind). He'd studied anthropology, ancient and modern civilizations, sorting out the most powerful, long-lasting, and successful ones and using those to hone his focus further, locating individuals and ideological groups throughout history that had contributed the most to their species' success. He'd narrowed down, also, those traits that were vital to the survival and propagation of any organism. Through his studies, he'd settled on the Cornerstones.
Reproduction, Mental Fitness, Physical Fitness, Sustainable Ethics, and at the foundation, Self-Preservation. These were what he would look for in his search for the ideal human.
Self-Preservation was self-explanatory. So was Reproduction. All organisms required the basic physical, hormonal, and psychological fundaments to live long enough to find a mate and pass along their genes. Physical Fitness, too, was fairly straightforward. Though the transformation would compensate for this to some degree, it would only do so much. Hawking was a brilliant man, but Wesker had no intention of creating a wheelchair-accessible world.
Mental Fitness was imperative. Insanity in any form was unacceptable. The ability to process any argument rationally, even those that 'lacked merit,' was imperative; disputes in his new world would not be decided based on who yelled the loudest, or who burned down the most buildings. A tendency towards cognitive dissonance was to be avoided. Hypocrisy, too, he regarded as something to be wary of. There was nothing he hated so much as a hypocrite.
Sustainable Ethics went hand-in-hand with Mental Fitness, but was somewhat more fickle in definition. Policy, justice, fairness, when to intervene and when to let nature take its course, how to raise one's children, and how to deal with enemies and criminals and threats. While this was the most far-stretching of the Cornerstones, and subsequently most difficult to decipher, it was also the one most necessary for the prospect of world-building. If he was to create a new civilization from the ground up, he would need a race of people whose ethics would lend themselves to creation, not destruction.
To be frank, he was still a bit foggy on what constituted sustainable ethics. Further study was required.
He wanted to study individuals who possessed these Cornerstones. Not only their phenotypes, mind, but also their genotypes. Phase 3 would be progressing for Project: Subject group 84 just as soon as his labs were up to snuff. In Phase 3, all subjects' genomes would be dissected and studied in-depth. He recognized that nurture played a vital role in the construction of a human being, but he was firmly convinced that genetics played a greater role in this than science had yet discovered. He wanted to discover and isolate those genes that he believed contributed to the traits that interested him – courage, patience, cunning, open-mindedness, ego, aggression. He wanted to find the genes that corresponded to a sense of justice, a sense of self-worth, a sense of self-sacrifice. Was there a gene for love? For hatred? For apathy? For passion? For obsession?
To think I once believed that humanity's salvation lay in a single, solitary genetic sequence. Oh, Spencer…I daresay the shortcut you would have had me take may well have doomed humanity to extinction.
Soon, he would comb the genes of his subjects for that which he had seen and that which he sought in them. He would compare them to other, similar subjects, as well as to polar opposites. He was nearly certain he had isolated at least a handful of intriguing genes, and he was eager to do more analyses.
His mouth twitched as he thought back on the project's original premise. Finding subjects had been very straightforward at first; he'd sought out people who showed promise in society. In his initial groups, he'd not strayed far from people whose upbringings resembled his own – high-society intellectuals. Race did not matter; nor, strictly, did wealth. What mattered were how they were contributing to their civilization…and how they fared in his trials.
This was the purpose of the quaternary research facility, to provide his subjects with challenges that would determine how they handled a variety of dangers; their ability to move quickly, to think and act methodically, to weigh their options and ensure not only their own survival but the survival of their unit as a whole. Of course, the first step was to free themselves from their captivity and take control of the situation. They needed initiative. If not one person in the group could provide it, then they were all consigned to the scrap heap. He had not yet found the gene for initiative.
As mentioned, only six groups had managed it in the time he'd been studying them, despite the number of opportunities he provided them with. He always put the bottom-ranked, slated-for-firing security guard on their detail, for instance. The first group to reach phase 2, group 54, had been the last of his purely intellectual groups. They hadn't fared nearly as well as he'd hoped. Though there had been the virus room, which always had one fewer dose of antidote than infected subjects. Group 54 had actually gotten past this by splitting the five doses six ways, rapidly calculating the precise amounts to dole out proportionate to their body weights. They were the only ones on record to have done this, and he'd been pleased. That lot had been promptly torn to pieces by the Gigantes.
An unfortunate loss, but as with most, an informative one. After the third-floor failure of his last intellectual group, he'd expanded his sights. One out of fifty-four, and with such dismal results? He was going to run humanity out of its geniuses with a success rate like that.
But what to look for, if not academic success? To point himself in the right direction, he'd looked into the backgrounds of many of those who had proven themselves to be of a higher caliber – Chris Redfield, Jill Valentine, Rebecca Chambers, Leon Kennedy, Jack Krauser, and several others – and saw that an astonishing number of them had actually had rather mundane backgrounds. Leon Scott Kennedy had once worked at an auto shop, which, from all accounts he'd read, was very surprising. Jill had briefly been a backup dancer in a little-known band. Most of them had worked at a restaurant at some point or another in their lives. He'd briefly imagined an acne-riddled Chris flipping burgers at an In-n-Out and shaken his head in disbelief.
Following this revelation, he'd expanded his search into the mid-level ranks of society, the entrepreneurs and humble workers, and had found a surprising number of people who fit his ideal mold. Hardworking, self-sacrificing individuals with initiative, intelligence, and focus.
Once he'd started taking individuals from these pools, he'd seen notable improvement in the results. Most of the groups that had impressed him had been what might normally be called 'working class', and what Spencer and his ilk had always referred to as, 'the slaving, undesirable dregs of society'. Rate of progression to phase two had gone from 1.85% to 16.7%.
Undesirable no more, it seemed. Oh, Spencer would be rolling in his grave.
So, he found suitable individuals, had them shipped to his facility, gave them their designations, and waited for them to begin the trials. The designations he gave to these individuals were simple enough. The first number referred to the study group, the latest being group 84. The letter, A, B, or C, referred to their role in the experiment: those in the A series were the true subjects, the ones whose qualities were being tested. The B series were what he called foil subjects, individuals who lacked the traits he looked for and were there for only one purpose – to allow the primary subjects to show their mettle. To risk oneself for another was foolish and weak – particularly if the subject of protection was weak themselves. Yet through the years he had seen seemingly impossible feats accomplished by men and women who would have been far better served by retreating. When such insurmountable odds were overcome, he'd found that nearly all of the conquerors in question had one thing in common: They were fighting to save the life of another. Whether it was a loved one, an innocent, or a group of helpless civilians, the presence of these otherwise meaningless members in the scenario brought out extraordinary strength and resolve in their protectors.
C was reserved for Mal, who always provided the in-group surveillance. Her job was to follow orders and to intervene as little as possible. He'd had to remind her of this when she'd reached out to prevent Miss Legend from falling into the electrified pool on the second subfloor. Such missteps were rare, but they did happen. And that one had turned out for the best, so he had no complaints.
The third digit in the A series was his way of studying his own expectations and biases. He ranked them based on how long he expected them to survive, and he compared his expectations to the ultimate outcomes. He'd been getting better, but he still got it wrong at least a fifth of the time. Theron, 84-A-1, had been his top pick, followed by Miss Dollard, 84-A-2, whose self-serving and cunning nature he surmised would lend itself to her preserving herself, even at cost to the group. He had not been entirely wrong, but all in all, this group had bucked many of his expectations. Particularly in the area of self- verses group-preservation.
He had long believed that preservation of the self was paramount. He would always believe that. He respected Jill Valentine for many things, but not for her willingness to die for her partner. But self-centeredness, as he'd learned, could only take one so far.
He pulled up Miss Dollard's Final Assessment Form. At least, he meant to open the assessment form. He'd been having minor technical problems all week, and his mouse hung up as he was clicking, causing him to instead accidentally open her termination footage. He was about to close it, but since it was already up, he decided to give it one more play.
He thought again on that last little ploy of hers in the research facility. He could have shut down the elevator if he'd wanted to, but he'd decided to go ahead and honor her great sacrifice – that of her friends – by allowing her to escape. At any rate, she had proven that she could survive in a group by putting herself before others. He'd wanted to see how she would fare alone. The answer to that question had made itself clear fairly quickly.
He'd recalled the dogs and lion from the yard and let her out into the surrounding swamp. He'd then set a low-profile drone to following her. She had done well enough at first, getting into the forest and finding a ruined old shack to hunker down in for the night. The problem had come the next morning, when she'd woken up thirsty and out of water.
She'd found herself a freshwater pool on the edge of the swamp, which was where this clip began. He watched the screen closely as she walked over the grassy clearing and right up to the short stripe of sandy bank beside the water. She looked around to make sure she wasn't being watched, but failed to look where it mattered most, and a small smile appeared on his face. She knelt beside the water for a drink.
When the alert had come through the first time, it had just so happened that he'd been absent from the screen on a short jaunt to the restroom. When he'd come back to an empty patch of grass beside a gently rippling pond, he'd been confused, and had rewound to see what had transpired.
The poor girl must have been terribly thirsty. She'd stuck her head nearly level with the water to scoop it up to her lips, and had been completely absorbed in the act. So much so that she hadn't noticed the two flat, greenish-brown eyes poking up just two feet in front of her face. In all fairness to her, he hadn't noticed them either.
He'd started slightly, then laughed uproariously as he'd watched the massive alligator's jaws emerge from the water and clamp down on her head like an industrial power tool. Her arms had flailed for only a moment before the alligator had rolled, and one revolution had been enough to finish the job. It had then spent a few seconds trying to swallow her whole before deciding to just drag her into the deep water and start tearing her into more manageable pieces.
He watched this process play out again now, chortling heartily, then closed the video and pulled up the Assessment Form.
PROJECT: SUBJECT
FINAL ASSESSMENT FORM: 84-A-2: SARAH DOLLARD:
Subject 84-A-2 was selected to test the efficiency of extreme self-centeredness on survival in the absence of extreme intelligence or other notable advantages. Subject's utter inability in any sphere to take responsibility for failures in life pointed to sought narcissism, which was confirmed through an in-depth assessment of social media history.
Academic history revealed above-average grades throughout most of high school, followed by entrance into a low-effort, subjective, and highly politicized major in college. Subject is intellectually manipulative, but largely incapable of processing, understanding, or even at times viewing, viewpoints that could be considered contradictory to their established worldview. Subject showed a tendency towards collectivism, and only displayed conversational confidence when in a group of like-minded individuals.
Had group 84 fit this profile, 84-A-2 may have taken on a leadership role; as it was, when faced with 84-A-1's authority, subject resisted only briefly before buckling into a position of unwilling subordination. This position proved untenable for the subject, who on several occasions acted against 84-A-1's will, though never flagrantly until their final interaction*. The first major instance of this, and first concrete proof of subject's well-established Self-Preservation Cornerstone, occurred on subfloor five, when subject injected self with a dose of antidote without conferring with the group. This caused a firm split in their alignment, and very nearly led to termination at the hands of 84-A-1.
Subject clung subtly to Foil Subject 84-B-2 following this, attempting to establish some emotional hold over the foil – perhaps to ensure some defense in the event of future altercations. This was a wasted investment, however, as the foil lacked the psychological makeup necessary to stand up to 84-A-1 in the altercations that followed*.
Subject always took up position near the center of the group, sheltering in the most protected position in instances of danger. Subject was highly alert in such circumstances, and showed at least minimal defensive and evasive capabilities, particularly during the trials on subfloor three. For these reasons, Physical Fitness Cornerstone should be regarded as passable. Mentally, subject showed cunning and near-reptilian practicality, as well as an ability to function at least to some degree under stress, as noted in the Geryonian Sheep trial. While previous life showed no indication of any deep intelligence, trials proved Mental Fitness Cornerstone to be, again, of passable quality for the purpose of the study.
This leaves two Cornerstones – Sustainable Ethics and Reproduction. The question of reproductive fitness is an interesting one; initially it could be surmised by subject's lack of sexual restrain that this Cornerstone was obviously satisfactory. However, subject's social media history makes very clear an extraordinary distaste for the concept of parenthood, to the point of referring to the unborn as 'parasites'. Subject has, furthermore, terminated two pregnancies and shown no negative emotional reaction to this, and actually gone so far as to declare an interest in tubal litigation. Reproductive Cornerstone shall therefore be regarded as having been 'in question' on psychological grounds.
The Sustainable Ethics Cornerstone is unsatisfactory. Subject made no contributions to group survival or success. Initiative was only taken when ensuring self-preservation. This held true in subject's previous life as well, as subject showed no history whatsoever of charitable donations, community service, or even commitment to helping friends, family, or acquaintances unless tangible reward was offered. The subject's nature is very clearly parasitic, and while this is optimal for self-preservation, it is clear that the parasitism is obligate and therefore unsustainable. In a populous society, this is livable, since new allies can always be found when old ones have been exhausted. In a smaller society (as is the ultimate goal) or close-knit group, this will ultimately result in an individual's excommunication – a lethal fate for an obligate parasite.
Wesker reviewed this, tweaked a few sentences, and added another timestamp to the list that pertained to trial altercations. Sustainable Ethics. Hm. Though he may not have been entirely confident on what sustainable ethics were, he could most assuredly recognize what they were not. Parasitism was not sustainable. He saved the changes, collapsed the file, and pulled up the next one on the list.
He licked his lips as he pulled up the Final Assessment Form for 84-A-3…Ms. Legend.
He hummed softly as his eyes slid over her profile picture and biological stats. Nearly six hundred subjects, and of them, only one survivor. At least, one noteworthy survivor. Mr. Rancho had survived, of course, but would not have on his own merit. As stated in his Final Assessment Form, he showed more initiative and psychological resilience than a typical foil, but not quite enough to put him on par with the primary subjects. And while several of his Cornerstones met at least minimum standards, his Reproductive Cornerstone most assuredly did not. Still, he had proven an extraordinarily high-quality foil; the reward of his life was well-deserved.
But Ms. Legend…Alyssa. His survivor. His anomaly.
He stared at the blank form in front of him. He had been mulling over it for days, going through the footage again and again, coalescing her achievements in his mind. He'd had many other subjects to think on, but he kept coming back to her. It was time he put his thoughts down, if only to stop them knocking about in his skull.
PROJECT: SUBJECT
FINAL ASSESSMENT FORM: 84-A-3: ALYSSA LEGEND:
Subject 84-A-3—
He frowned, staring hard at the designation, then erased it and started again. This assessment form stood out from all others in his mind. It ought to stand out from all others in its format.
Ms. Legend was selected as a balance for the group's composition. Among them all – the solider, the narcissist, the pacifist, and the outlier – she alone showed no particular leaning towards any trait of interest. In her previous, and perhaps future life, she was a server at a restaurant. Hardworking, positive, helpful, and honest, she possessed a certain integrity that made her stand out to the point of being considered for Primary Subject status. Besides that, she excelled in her early schooling with little effort, and later showed the vital ability to expand her intellect when faced with academic challenges in later education.
She stood out immediately in the trial by initiating the escape, taking control of the situation to ensure her and the others' survival*. Following this, she assumed command again only twice, once when striving to keep 84-A-1's aggression in check in the Comm Center incident* and once when 84-A-4's death resulting in extreme shock to the group leader. Besides that, Ms. Legend only ever assumed a support role, carrying out those most important tasks delegated to her by 84-A-1.
She was at the forefront of every trial, and excelled in nearly all, showing in each one precisely the traits desired and required for the obstacle. In the security team combat trial, she showed an ability to fight and kill to defend herself and her group. In the virus trial, she showed, if not an active willingness to put her life before others, at least a passive one. The second subfloor proved her Mental Fitness Cornerstone beyond a shadow of a doubt. The blind trial was among her finest, as she displayed not only immense courage in entering the labyrinth, but also patience, quick thinking, and level-headedness – traits both rare and extremely attractive in any subject.
That said, she faltered on subfloor three in two ways, first when she was stunned by the Gigante – but then, her physical fitness was more than adequate in all other circumstances, so this shall not count against her excessively – and more vitally, in the Geryonian Sheep room, when her desire to protect the group at risk of her own life called her Self-Preservation Cornerstone into question.
It was the first subfloor that redeemed the aforementioned doubt. When faced with a clearer choice than could possibly have been orchestrated outside of the viral trial – him, or me – Ms. Legend showed herself capable of sacrificing even one with whom she had forged a strong emotional connection in order to ensure her own survival. Though this may well not have happened had 84-A-1 not betrayed her, it at least proves her Self-Preservation Cornerstone to be of passable quality.
Physical Fitness, Mental Fitness, and Self-Preservation were all proven in the trials. Nothing seems amiss in terms of Reproductive Fitness, based on internet search history and dating history. Sustainable Ethics is all that remains to be assessed, and by all understood metrics, this Cornerstone seems to be satisfactory. Previous life shows a history of hard work, of contribution to society, of keen intellect and, of vital importance, self-discipline. This trait was shown from the first, but more importantly, to the last.
Though records past their departure from the quaternary facility are fragmented, it is easy enough to see that Ms. Legend did not consider her job finished when she and her remaining group member had reached safety. When faced with the prospect of her species' extinction, she did not shy from the problem, nor leave it solely to be solved by those more qualified than herself. When presented with a clear duty and ability to help* (see intercepted transmission from Valentine), Ms. Legend forged ahead to deliver vital information to Redfield and Alomar, and ultimately took to the fight herself in the final confrontation*.
Some would no doubt perceive these last actions as paramount to suicide. However, in this case, such a sacrifice could be justified in the light of what this project hopes to realize. Ms. Legend was willing to die to ensure the survival of her species. The only thing more important than the survival of an organism is the survival of its species as a whole. To that effect, her actions shall be regarded not as merely passable – in this scenario, they shall be regarded as ideal.
Physical Fitness, Mental Fitness, Self-Preservation, Reproductive Fitness, and Sustainable Ethics are all satisfactory. Subject 84-A-3 is hereby deemed Qualified for Phase 4 Testing.
He steepled his fingers as he read back over that last line. Yes, she would most certainly qualify for that fabled Phase 4, the stage he'd started to despair of ever reaching. But not just yet. She had fought hard to return to her old life, she ought to be given some time to enjoy it. At any rate, the B.S.A.A. would have its eyes on her for a while yet, and he didn't want to draw their attention by snatching the young lady up so soon after that little adventure. No, he would wait awhile. He had other things to work on for now.
He closed the remaining pages open on the screen – all except for the profile picture – and leaned back in his chair. With the destruction of the quaternary facility, Project: Subject would be suspended indefinitely. Of course, he would move on to another iteration of the project in time; for though Uroboros had failed, the spirit of it remained, and Project: Subject would be vital in seeing its next incarnation succeed.
Wesker stared at the profile, eyes lingering lazily on it as the myriad of plans and experiments he had brewing in his vast mind began organizing and resolving themselves into immediate courses of action.
He would have his perfect world, no matter what it took to attain it. And whatever it saw him as – king, god, dictator, benevolent or otherwise – he would be its master; and he would have his subjects.
He had yet to find them, but they would come to him in time. Such was the purpose of Project: Subject: his first true attempt at finding a people he could call his own.
By and large, this first iteration had been a failure. But, like most failures, it had been an informative one. And, unlike most failures, he had some success to show for it.
One success.
Alyssa Legend.
Rest now, dearheart. My new Primary Subject. Though you have not met me, you will know me well enough before I'm done with you.
He saved the remainder of the Project: Subject files and collapsed them into a unified file. He kept the profile up another moment, then stowed it away as well. He moved the file aside and turned his mind to other thoughts. He was dead to the world, and had many things to accomplish in the wake of its attention.
Time to get to work.
OoO
Heya Rel! Gonna be honest, didn't catch the reference! Sorry :(
Also sorry for the late upload. See you in a few days!