Gossip needn't be false to be evil - there's a lot of truth that shouldn't be passed around.

- Frank A. Clark

Two researchers stood in line, musing over the cafeteria menu. Young guys, both had started at Umbrella a month ago, hand-picked from a batch of graduates out of Raccoon City University, which, neither could still believe even a year later, no longer existed, just like the city it had once stood in.

"It's crazy how quick things change," one of the researchers said, a young guy who insisted everyone call him Richie, not Rich or Richard. He decided on a burger and a side of fries, the same thing he'd had for lunch yesterday. "We were the last class of R.C.U."

The other researcher was a quiet guy named Henry, or maybe it was Harry—Richie could never remember—and he looked like someone who belonged in a laundry detergent commercial: carefully manicured, innocuously suburbanite. Henry or Harry grunted, then said, "Last citizens, too. Only a hundred or so made it out, I heard."

"Were you in Raccoon?" asked Richie, genuinely interested. He'd been visiting his girlfriend in Colorado when that shit had gone down, and his mom and dad, thankfully, had been cruising around the Caribbean. He hadn't actually heard about it until he'd caught it on the news three days after the missiles had hit. Some speculated it had been a Russian job, others the Chinese or North Koreans. The usual suspects , his dad had said.

"No," said Henry or Harry, grabbing a foil-wrapped sandwich from the warmer and dropping it onto his plastic tray. The Umbrella logo was printed on the tray. The Umbrella logo was printed on everything. Richie speculated it was some kind of subliminal thing, so employees never forgot who decided whether or not they could pay their bills that month. And Richie really needed to pay bills; the country was in the middle of a recession. "I was visiting family in Texas. Guess you weren't there either?"

"Nope," confirmed Richie, collecting his burger and fries, and the can of soda he'd bought on impulse from the vending machine. "Heard it was pretty crazy."

They grabbed a table by the window, the one that looked out on the hallway. Senior staffers hurried past the window. NEST 3, Richie had found, was the kind of fast that, if you stopped too long, you'd break the careful surface tension, get sucked down into the undertow and find yourself washed up on the shore of the unemployment office.

Richie ate his burger. It wasn't bad, but he'd definitely had better.

"Heard we're getting a new boss," said Henry or Harry, unwrapping his hot roast-beef sandwich and picking off the onions, dropping the translucent skins onto his crumpled foil.

"Think I heard something about that," Richie lied, munching on a soggy, lukewarm fry.

"Her name's Alexia Ashford," said Henry or Harry, taking a tentative bite of his sandwich. "Some Englishwoman."

Richie's grandmother was from Dorset, and he mentioned this to Henry or Harry. Henry or Harry's expression told him he didn't care. Shrugging, Richie asked, "Shouldn't she be in Umbrella Europe?"

"Apparently Spencer wants her here," said Henry or Harry. "Supposed to be some kind of genius, or something."

Now that he was thinking about it, Richie vaguely recalled skimming an article about her on one of those newsfeed sites. But the picture that had been included in the article had been that of a little blonde girl with the frown of an adult. "Oh yeah. Her," he said. "Graduated from Oxford when she was ten. My grandma mentioned her once. Apparently she was, like, England's darling in the early 80s."

"That's crazy," said Henry or Harry, shaking his head.

"What's crazier is she's supposed to be dead," said Richie.

Henry or Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I dunno any details," said Richie, popping the tab on his soda and swigging.

"Wouldn't be the first time the news got something wrong," said Henry or Harry.

They finished lunch, and an announcement over the intercoms told all employees to proceed to the atrium for a meeting. The two researchers went. Alexia Ashford was waiting in the atrium: make-upped and coiffed, in a crisp black suit and heels, hair so blonde that it was pretty much white. A couple of USS guys were with her, all kitted out. Richie thought that was pretty weird, but maybe someone had made threats; that happened a lot in Umbrella, he'd heard one of the oldheads say, when there was a change in management.

Once everyone had arrived, Alexia spoke. She had a Bond-girl voice, real posh and manicured, with just the slightest touch of London. "My name is Dr. Alexia Ashford, your new Director of Laboratory Operations. Many of the senior staffers undoubtedly know me and have perhaps worked under me at the Antarctica Lab, while most of our younger employees have likely never heard of me." She smiled with white teeth, but it looked uncomfortable on her face. "But that hardly matters. Regretfully," she continued, making a vague gesture at the USS guys, "I must announce that there will be lay-offs due to necessary restructuring under my leadership."

Richie suddenly felt a chill down his spine, a weird shift in the air, like something bad was about to happen. And then the bad thing happened: a barrage of pops, people screaming and toppling. Richie supposed it no longer mattered whether his name was Henry or Harry. Dead people didn't need names. He picked his way over the corpses, slip-sliding on blood and brains. Of the staff, only a dozen of them were still breathing.

Alexia approached him. "Richard Henley?"

He stared into very pale blue eyes, nodding dumbly, throat tightening around a lump of nervous tension.

"Your resume was impressive," she said, as casually as someone congratulating the winner of a boardwalk game. She picked a shred of brain off the lapel of his lab-coat and flicked it aside as if it were just a piece of lint. "Be glad, we're in the middle of a recession. Keep up the good work."

Richie watched her walk away, stepping over the corpses of his former co-workers as if they were just inconvenient deadfalls. When Alexia was gone, he allowed himself to vomit.

Outside, Alexia Ashford made her way down a corridor of stainless steel and glass, feeling pleased with herself. Now that she'd tidied her house of Spencer's spies and loyalists, she could truly make NEST 3 her own.

But there was still so much work to do.