In the conservative region far from the chaotic edge, individual elements coalesce slowly, showing no clear pattern."

--Ian Malcom, "Lost World"

Umbrella Headquarters

The round, marble-top table with the Umbrella logo on a black background was the only clearly visible thing in the conference room, the exception being the single metal door activated only by a retinal scan, the electronic device to do just that to the left of the portal.

Nine there were around the darkened table. Silhouettes were all that could be seen, but voices were clearly heard. The echo that bounced throughout the room alluded to the true dimensions of the chamber. The gavel that knocked hard on the table was an explosion, with the assistance of the room's acoustics.

The Regent cleared his throat and spoke, a deep, slightly raspy voice that would cough a smoker's cough every now and then. "We have all been called in here for a specific purpose. I believe you all know what that is."

The general murmur told the Regent that yes, they did know. The Board of Directors were a difficult bunch to work with, all with varying opinions that very rarely agree with any other one, but that did not mean they were unintelligent.

The Regent stood from his chair, the silhouette showing him to be an aging man, but with a proud stance. However, his pride could do nothing to change the gravity of the inevitable statement: "Our corporation is dying."



University of San Francisco

Brian hated the traffic in San Francisco. With the sense of urgency pushing him onward to the campus, and the sounds of screaming over the channel clearly audible, he pushed his Santa Fe as fast as it would go, the surprisingly nimble SUV weaving through the traffic lanes and speeding through intersections like a car with twice as low a center of gravity. All that West didn't even notice - his foot was on the accelerator, and he was not letting it off.

He sped west on Geary Boulevard, finding an ambulance with its lights and sirens wailing. Jacking into the police channel with his scanner, he found the ambulance was heading to St. Mary's Medical Center, with a heart attack patient. Bingo.

West hit the gas, evading a diesel truck and a van full of teens from a church youth group to catch up to the ambulance, keeping within four feet of the emergency vehicle's bumper. He could hear over the channel the 'medics reporting a drafter, but as the city police moved alongside him, Brian showed his ID, and the squad cars backed off, reporting that he had clearance to do what he was doing. The good thing about the Agency was the fact that they could create perfect copies of any badge or ID necessary.

The ambulance swerved sharply left (turning south) on Stanyan Street. About nineteen hundred more feet with this beast. Come on, push it! Cars hit either side of the road to make way for the ambulance and the silver SUV speeding behind it, until the intersection of Stanyan and Fulton. As the ambulance sped right on through the stoplight to the Medical Center, which was just across the street, Brian turned left, power-sliding onto Fulton, and hitting a hundred miles per hour on the final three hundred foot straightaway, past the Negoesco Stadium and skidding to a stop in the parking lot just beside Phelan Hall, which at one time was a combination of a Bookstore, and a Disability Service Center, but had been renovated and remade into an out-and-out medical building.

The glass on the passenger window shattered as a pair of mangled and near-skinless hands attempted to reach for Brian. The Class-1's head came into view, a wide, balding one with a pair of spectacles and a full set of near-black teeth. Skin peeled off in folds, like a sunburn gone horribly wrong. Had there not be pure muscle and blood underneath the layer of skin, one might actually believe that.

West drew his .45s and triggered two shots into the forehead of the Number One. One bullet missed wide and broke through the glass of an adjacent BMW's driver window, while the other struck home in the dome of the One, sending blood flying in spurts on the window, dash, and upholstery of the SUV, getting more than a little on him, as well. Brian kicked the beast out of his Santa Fe, and it lay sprawled on the ground.

Screaming from the other side brought his attention to a young woman racing away from a pair of Class-Twos. The Cerberuses circled about her, and as West rushed to open the door and roll out to help, one of the mutated dogs latched on to her backpack and pulled, forcing her to tumble onto her back, and now only had time to scream as both canines feasted upon living flesh.

Brian looked away from the sight. His instincts kicked in as the need for stealth increased. These things are great at tracking you. Getting caught by a BOW because I was being too loud is something I don't want to have to answer to the Director for... if I make it out alive.

West took out a pair of silencers for the Match 45s.




"Lashing out in the manner that you propose is preposterous! We have a budding outbreak that we are doing nothing about, and you're saying that we should follow-up with more strikes!" The Media Director stood from her seat. She was a younger one, probably in her mid-thirties.

"We have no other option." The Director of Security was a stoic man. He had neither life nor death in his voice. Cold, emotionless logic was the order of the day.

"I disagree," the confident Director of Special Projects interjected. "I believe we do have a better option."

The Regent quirked an eyebrow. "And that is?"

The Special Projects Director smiled. "It's simple. We call up Alpha."





Getting out of the SUV completely, and closing it up, he decided that he didn't need to lock it. If anything got to it, it probably wouldn't know how to open doors, and he may need to make a quick exit.

Think fast, Brian. What're you going to do?
The only logical choice West could think of was a quick and quiet evacuation of everyone he could. He strained to hear - screaming and shots were audible. And close.

West sprinted for the source of the sound. Moving around Phelan Hall, he could see the mayhem before him. The bodies were few, but the violence was enough for a hundred deaths. A few students and faculty alike were visibly slashed, gouged, and ultimately chewed, to death, and slowly at that. Brian took in a deep breath to calm his nerves as he nimbly rushed past the graveyard and made his way for the library.

Watching his back for any sort of surprise, he slowly strode to the stairs that led up to the glass double-doors.

He was met by a muzzle flash from within the darknened entrance, and the glass shattering before him.




"And what about STARS? You know they're going to come after us in full force the second they catch wind of the San Francisco outbreak. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if they weren't already coming!"

"Chances are, they probably are packing up for an assault."

"So, what are we going to do about that?"

"The best defense is a good offense."




Holy shit! Brian rolled left, nearly hitting the bar that served as a way to steady those walking up the stairs. He brought up his pistols and fired at the figure in the shadowed library, the spits of air being the only indication that the bullets even left the chamber. It was only after missing twice and taking pieces out of the shelf next to her did he realize there were two figures there, both of whom moved behind the bookshelves for cover.

"Sh...!" Claire pushed Mike to the side and hit the pavement.

West recognized the voice immediately. "Claire!" he hissed.

Redfield slowly moved out from her cover. "Brian?"

Brian nodded. "You okay?"

She nodded her affirmation. "Damn, Brian, take the jacket off!" Claire pointed.

It was then when West remembered that he was still wearing the attire of Umbrella's security force. Infiltration seemed a mile away, now. It was time to rock and roll. He took off the cursed outer jacket with the Umbrella insignia all over it and left it on the floor. "Sherry with you?"

Claire pulled Mike from behind the bookcase. A mixture of worry, concern and motherly love was prominent in her expression. "No." It seemed that the simple statement pained her already.

Brian looked at the janitor. "Did you carry a broom?"

"Yeah..."

West handed him a Match 45 and a clip. "Now you carry a gun. Point and shoot. And shoot. And shoot. If you're not sure if it's dead, you shoot some more. Got it?"

Mike nodded.

Brian stretched his neck and popped it. He looked to Claire, who's worry did nothing to mar her loveliness. He smiled the confident smile of an established agent in the Central Intelligence Agency. "Now, let's see if we can't find Miss Birkin."




The meeting took thirty minutes. Years of conflict and power plays were less productive than half an hour of immediate preparation, and none of the bullsh*t that usually went with the job.

Soon after, a phone call was made. The conversation lasted five minutes.




University of San Francisco

A man moves silently across the stone path that crosses the garden. He looks around, and then his eyes scan the floor in front of him. A cell phone lay abandoned on the grass, a few inches away from the path.

The man crouches and carefully picks it up. The name "Sherry" is displayed on the small LCD. After examining it for a few seconds he presses the key that dials the last number called.




STARS San Franciso Office

The telephone rang, an unusual event at that time of the night. Jill frowned, reaching for the receiver.

"Valentine."

The voice that replied belonged to a man. He spoke quietly, trying to hide his voice. "Valentine? Is that the S.T.A.R.S. office?"

"Yes, it is... Who's speaking?"

"*Click*"

"Well... That was odd."




"It is safe to assume that the S.T.A.R.S. already know about the outbreak. They are probably already here..."

The man pocketed the phone and kept walking.