Author's Notes: Alas, I couldn't stave off my muse for long enough to create some genuine suspense before my second chapter. This probably won't please many people, unless, by some miracle, Outbreak's prologue was well- received. In any case, enjoy.

Disclaimer: Resident Evil is a copyright of Capcom, inc., and I assert no
ownership of it. If by their request, or the request of an authorized representative, I shall immediately remove this work from fanfiction.net.

Outbreak: Chapter One

Harmon Commercial Pharmaceutical Firm (HCF) Internal Security Division HQ

Two Hours Earlier

The slate-gray storm clouds hovering over the expansive complex were a steel harbinger of the catastrophe to come. Rushing from building to building, her black, gouged boots kicking bits of sand and gravel upwards from the crudely-leveled ground, Lieutenant Appolonia Clemenza furiously tried to balance her sprint to the command center with her effort to avoid the rain slamming brutally against the terrain around her. Her flowing mane of jet-black hair was already damp and matted to her back, adding to the already extreme discomfort of having the sopping-wet combat fatigues clinging to her body.

"Damn it. Can't be late again for the briefing, especially now." She grumbled to herself between harsh pants, scanning the courtyard for any fellow souls who may have also lost track of time. She knew just what her commander would have to say to her when she finally did arrive, and it wasn't exactly a pleasant prospect.

"Attention all personnel," an unfamiliar voice roared over the various loudspeakers dotting the thick metal and concrete buildings surrounding her. "Combat Unit Alpha is ordered to divert to assembly area Bravo. Prepare for type BLACK," she sensed the trepidation in his voice as he spoke the word, even with the distortion of the crackling speakers, "briefing. Repeat, all Alpha Personnel are to report to assembly area Bravo. That is all."

With a sigh, she stopped in her tracks, kicking up a virtual storm of sand beneath the eve under which she decided to rest; she was at, oddly enough, assembly area Bravo. Rolling her eyes, she just slouched against the cool metal of the modular structure, pleased to finally have an escape from the torrential downpour. But something was peculiar about the virtual silence, despite the persistent clatter of the rain against the wet sand and buildings.

"Hey, Appolonia!" A familiar voice snapped her out of her paranoid reverie. "How did you get here so soon?" The youthful outburst made her smile despite the discomfort of her damp clothing.

"Just a coincidence, Mikhail." She turned slowly, raising her head to make eye-contact with the jovial giant before her. He was Mikhail Svetskaya, a Russian immigrant that, much like her, had a sinister depth of character that was rarely apparent.

"Da, and I I'm going to trade clothes with you for the next mission. Late again, huh, comrade?" He grinned down at her, quirking an eyebrow up at the Soviet formality that he couldn't seem to discard.

"Yeah, comrade Bear," she sighed, feeling somewhat intimidated by the great man's size, despite his generally kind demeanor. "I know, I know. I'm the unit's Vice XO, and I should learn to act responsibly." She shuffled awkwardly in place, wondering just how someone so much younger than she could lecture her on matters of maturity. Trying to change the subject, she nodded toward the building behind her. "Why're we being deployed on a BLACK-level operation, anyway? It's not as though any other operations wouldn't be called 'black' by the military."

"I think it has something to do with that new officer. Creepy guy; he seems so much more powerful than he looks. You've seen him, right? Blonde, always wears those ridiculous sunglasses?"

"I may have met him once or twice. Major Albert, or something. I've never seen him smile, and he's always so aloof." She shrugged, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth. The driving rain had begun to cool the formerly sweltering summer air, and the fact that she was absolutely drenched wasn't helping matters.

"Attention, Children!" A booming, cold voice cut through the air like a frigid gunshot. "Appolonia, you were supposed to have been at Zone Charlie earlier. Where the hell were you, Lieutenant?" The voice of their Commander, Erwin Mueller, was harsh and demeaning, and she turned her head, coming face-to-face with his humorless visage.

"Sorry, sir!" She snapped, raising a hand to her forehead in a crisp salute. "My alarm clock is broken again." She groaned internally at the pathetic excuse.

"That's no reason for you to be late, Lieutenant! Maybe the Army wasn't so tough on you, but we're not the Army! You're on a salary now, and we can dump you as easily as we hired you. Get inside!" He waved demandingly toward the entrance to the assembly area; the interior of the dingy room was completely dark, no features discernable from the outside. Not waiting for her, Mueller entered.

"Sieg Heil!" She hissed, raising her hand up in a mock 'Heil Hitler' salute behind his back. This earned a chuckle from Mikhail, and she turned to find him mimicking her.

"When in Berlin." He trailed off, smirking at his own little joke. "Don't let Adolf get to you, Appolonia. The man's always had a titanium bar right up his rectum."

A small smile forming over her dark features, Appolonia murmured, "after you, Comrade."

"Sure. Is your arthritis acting up, mom?" Mikhail strode into the now-lit room with a chuckle, his infinite reserves of boisterous confidence not failing him.

"God, I hate my job." She grimaced, the barb about her age not putting her in the best of moods. It wasn't just that she was seven years the senior of the massive man, but that he was right; she had been feeling the effects of age, no matter how slight. At thirty-five, she was one of the oldest among the elite commando squad, and her fellow soldiers never passed up any opportunity to make a jab about it. Gathering up her characteristic obstreperous energy, she brushed a few wisps of damp hair out of her eyes and entered the dank staging room.

She was met with the expected sight of Mueller pacing back and forth, annoyed as usual at the tardiness of the team, and Mikhail lounging languidly back in a chair that was far to small for his massive stature. Sinking into a seat next to Mikhail, she just mumbled wryly, "if I didn't know better, I'd think I wasn't the only one sleeping late today." She glanced down at her watch, amused at how odd their schedules had become; it was six-fifteen in the afternoon, but the entire team had just returned from a job in France nine hours earlier.

"Is Adolf one of those Nazi supermen that can survive without sleep?" Mikhail whispered, his contempt for the German man, and the German society altogether, not lost on her. His grandparents had been massacred in the Great Patriotic War, his parents barely managing to escape the clutches of Hitler's death squads.

"Hey, not all Germans are that bad. Adolf is just one of those holdovers from the time when they thought they were the 'master race.'" She sighed, praying that he wouldn't launch off on a tirade about how much his people suffered.

"From a member of the Axis." He chuckled, his barb about her nationality earning a glare.

"That was long before my time, Stalin." She rubbed her eyes tiredly. "I wasn't even born in Italy, anyway."

"Bad joke, I know." He patted her shoulders as gently as he could, still almost managing to dislodge her from the creaking metal chair. He stood a full two feet taller than Appolonia, his hulking form enough to intimidate any opponent, no matter how confident. He truly exemplified the Russian 'bear,' inordinately muscled and with a ferocity in battle only matched by his compassion toward his relatives, friends, and his great love, Mother Russia.

"Gah, you could try to be a bit gentler." Appolonia squawked, regaining her balance after Mikhail's jarring 'pat.' She stood at a meager five feet and seven inches, relatively diminutive, especially by the standards of the army, but her expertise in battle had earned her a reputation as an absolutely lethal combatant. Born in a low-income Chicago district, it was no surprise.

Their debate about the nature of their commandant's people was cut short by the slow shuffling of combat boots into the cramped room, a diverse assortment of men and women in gray fatigues groaning as they walked the squat building. The pervasive stench of pungent air was indicative of that the building was ill-used, traces of dust settling on the inactive air-conditioner; the fresh air filtering in through the widely- opened windows and the doorway was a resplendent reprieve from the pervasive odor.

"Finally, ladies and gentlemen." The commander's voice was more icy and objective than usual, making even Mikhail stare straight ahead with rapt attention. "I'm sure that you've heard the rumors about our new officer. That he's a former Umbrella employee. Well, you're right. He's got an amazing assortment of knowledge about our rival corporation's various facilities, and a myriad of contacts. Well, we've just had an astounding break. You've undoubtedly heard of Neilson City, that new Umbrella-financed industrial town that popped up out of nowhere in the Midwest. Well, it seems that it's been doing more than manufacturing their wonderful pharmaceuticals. Our new officer, Major Albert, just made contact with an employee at the Neilson City Planning Commission, which is really just a façade for a large subterranean lab compound." Mueller turned around abruptly, and entered a series of commands into the computer behind him; a large screen descended in response, an electronic diagram of an opulent building displayed on it. "Well, we've had our lucky break. He's scheduled to shut down the power to the building and provide us with a route into the laboratories in two hours. This gives us an hour to prepare before we have to be in the air. Get ready, people! This is strictly a covert snatch-and-grab. Suppressed weapons, and no explosives, other than the demo team's thermite bombs. Once we've procured the target materials, we'll blow the labs, and be out of the city limits by the time anyone knows what's happened. You'll get your full briefing once we're airborne! Move, move, move!" Mueller emphatically exclaimed, waving his arms dramatically.

"Well," Appolonia began with a groan as she hoisted herself off the chair, "it's times like these that I don't regret joining this division." She slipped through the spaces between the other troops as they shuffled off, leaving Mikhail behind to wait for a clearing suitable for his body.

Firmly outside in the clean, rain-washed air, Appolonia stretched her lean, lithe body, delighting in the assortment of cracks and pops that resonated around the canyons between the tightly-packed buildings. She was off to her own personal apartment in the housing area of the ad hoc base constructed from an old airport, quite possibly the only aspect of the barren parcel of desert that appealed to her. She's always enjoyed flying, and the refurbished tower looming over the darkened horizon reminder her of the many times that she'd sat for hours in the fields outside of O'Hare, gazing longingly at the jets.

Shaking her head, she resumed her deliberate stride toward the housing block near the control tower, the glimmer off of her particular window somehow calling to her. The modern apartment block was a bit of an anomaly to all those housed at the facility, especially how it absolutely contrasted the grim, sterile rows upon rows of modular command buildings, and the various armories.

"Can't complain, though. This apartment here is better than the one I had in Chicago, and this one's free of charge." She mused to herself, glancing back to see the various other commandos sluggishly walking in the same direction. After hours of sleep-deprivation, even the most skilled men and women were bound to become lethargic.

"Hey, Appolonia!" Mikhail's deep, yet somehow very youthful and almost childish, voice roared over even the many claps of thunder. "Mind if I come up with you?" His comprehension of American customs a bit lacking, he always found himself in some type of embarrassing predicament; this was no exception.

Feeling mischievous, she shot back to him, "yeah, but I'm sure you'll only need to stay for five minutes or so."

"Huh? Why so short, Appolonia?" Mikhail grimaced as he caught on. "That's not funny! I just wanted to talk!" He rushed up to her, easily reaching her with his far longer limbs.

"Sorry about that, Mikhail; just couldn't resist it." She was less than apologetic. "Anyway, we have to prepare for this mission. Can't it wait?" She glanced at her watch. "We only have forty-five minutes left before we deploy."

"No, I don't think so..." He looked genuinely concerned, and grasped her arm lightly.

"What's the problem, Mikhail?" She turned back to him, shivering at the persistent chill of the sheets of water raining down on them.

"It's about this mission. I don't like it. Why is this new guy suddenly calling all of our missions? He strikes me as inhuman. More like a machine than a man."

"That's it? Granted, he's creepy, but so is most of the command staff." Appolonia quirked an eyebrow at her friend's uncharacteristic fear.

"Nyet. Not just that. When I was in town a few days ago, this strange man stopped me. He knew my name, even though I'd never met him; he told me that this mission wouldn't be what we thought it was." Mikhail rattled off, his bushy brows furrowed. "He never told me his name. Some man in a trench coat; he said he knew about Umbrella."

"That's weird, Mikhail, I'll admit that. Even so," she was still mulling over just what Mikhail had said, "I wouldn't trust some man in a trench coat just because he knows your name. It's not as though you're completely unknown. KGB records aren't that hard to acquire."

"This man was an American, and what about his knowing about this mission?" Mikhail was determined to press the issue, but he was only met with a pensive stare.

"Listen, Mikhail, it is weird. But I don't think you should tell anyone else about this. We can talk about this when we return from the mission; we need to prepare." Looking around, she saw that everyone else had entered the housing facility, and they were utterly alone, save for the spattering of rain and the staccato cracks of thunder.

"Da, I suppose we have no other option. But I still want to explore this afterward." Mikhail sighed, obviously not satisfied, but strode off toward the building.

"Sorry, Mikhail." Appolonia mumbled, and started off after him, feeling an intense apprehension flowing through her brain; she shared Mikhail's doubt about the nature of their operation.

The door having already shut behind her friend, Appolonia fished her ID card out of her pocket, inspecting it absently. She ran her fingers over the details, the letters 'HCF' prominently embroidered on the card, and her entire life being compressed into a series of numbers and letters; her name, her date of birth, her height, weight, and her serial number. It was dehumanizing, and she absolutely hated it; she had lived most of her life as an anonymous warrior, though, and she managed to control the irritation. Blinking, she slid the green-hued card through the reader, and entered at the high-pitched beep.

With a quick glance at the luminous numbers on her watch, she began to sprint intently toward her room on the first floor, but something was wrong. The door was ajar, and a dim light was emanating from within. Cautiously, she drew the weighty mass of the pistol that she always wore on her belt, and kicked the thick steel barrier open with a rough clang. Nothing was within, save for a small envelope with the word, 'listen.'

She walked cautiously toward the thin paper envelope, and held it up against the desk lamp that had been left on by whoever had intruded into her room. The only apparent contents a small digital tape, she sliced it open from the bottom with her letter opener, and let the small rectangle clatter unceremoniously onto the table. Agitated, she picked up the DAT, and slid it into the player that she kept near the small computer terminal.

Initially, there was nothing but static on the grainy, distorted recording, so she believed that it may have just been some sinister prank conducted by some of the more immature members of the unit, but then something truly horrific began to emerge from the garbled ambience. "Help me, please. Don't let it come any closer. Don't. No! No!" Suddenly, the petrified human voice, what sounded to be a man, descended into terrified shrieking; shouts of agony and then what sounded like shredding flesh followed. Then, silence reigned, the tape seeming to have become exhausted.

As she prepared to remove the recording, however, a crisp, clear voice rang through the room; it startled her, and she jolted, almost throwing the player from the desk. "Ms. Clemenza, I'm sure that you don't know me, but I certainly know you." It was a somber, low baritone, completely self-assured, yet somehow lacking any semblance of humanity. "I'm sure that, by this time, you're ready to leave on your mission to Neilson City. Just be wary of what you might find. Remember what you've heard." With that, the tape abruptly stopped with a low click.

Tentatively, she removed the short recording from the player, and slid it into the now-dried fatigues that hung comfortably from her body. She wondered just why anyone would conceivably go to such elaborate means to give such a small bit of information, and it was disheartening; could Neilson City possibly hold what the tape had documented? The tape further compounded the worries that had begun with Mikhail's cryptic statements about the mysterious man, and she mentally shrugged, making a determined effort to forget what had happened and concentrate on her mission. She would play the tape for Mikhail later, but, after taking a gander at the glimmering digits on her alarm clock, she decided that she'd need to prepare.

Tying her hair back into a taut, almost rigid ponytail, she slid on the various bits of combat paraphernalia that she would need before she could visit the armory and obtain her weapons. Her flak jacket and load bearing vests were first to be worn, followed by a flawless, polished pair of combat boots, and the tactical radio set that she crafted herself; she established a new standard of communications gear for the team, and she was given the first prototype. Every time she glimpsed the rugged, pockmarked frame of the equipment, she would swell with pride; but the dread that so pervaded her mind even overcame the usual glee of being able to use it.

With a sigh, she slid on the gloves and grasped the midnight black balaclava, readying herself for any contingency. Slowly extracting herself from the now-dark apartment room, she just left the door open, deciding that anyone that would want to enter would find some means of doing it, anyway. Determined to find Mikhail, she sprinted anxiously across the grounds to the armory; the massive, steel structure towered over most of the other structures, a quartet of massive ventilation fans producing a whirring that overpowered even the roaring downpour of the rain and the tenacious rumble of thunder in the distance.

Finding her way into the rows upon rows of various, ultra-advanced weapons, and joining the cadre of other soldiers perusing what was available to them, she selected her favored arms. She withdrew the comfortable, familiar frame of an MP5-SD6, the giant tubular suppressor surrounding the barrel conveying an even greater sense of menace than its smaller, louder cousin; a newly-sharpened combat knife and a compact, reliable SIG P229 followed. Outfitting herself with a variety of concussive grenades and enough ammunition to support a small squad, she made her final selection, hoping that she wouldn't regret the extra weight: her coveted pair of night vision goggles. The large, cumbersome visual instruments were her personal favorite, and, she decided, an imperative for such a dark, impenetrable night.

Leaving the armory, she waited at the exit for the remainder of her squad, having said very little to anyone before then. She was glad for the frigid deluge of water falling from the sky, every droplet seeming to soothe away a bit of her fear and anxiety. Finally managing to calm her frazzled nerves, she was yet again put on edge when the humongous hand of Mikhail clamped around her shoulder.

"Goddamn it, Mikhail! Don't do that!" She yelped, grasping his wrist in a death-grip. "I'm on edge enough as it is. You didn't need to do that."

"Sorry, Appolonia." His voice was utterly bewildered, wondering just what he had done to earn her ire. Drawing his hand from her shoulder, he looked directly into her narrowed brown eyes; he could barely discern a slight quiver in the liquid pools in the dark.

"It's fine, Mikhail. Sorry about that. I've just been ridiculously anxious since you told me about that man that spoke you in town." She moved closer to him, whispering, "I think that I might've gotten a tape by the same person. Some man screaming before he was torn to shreds. He told me to be wary of 'it' when we arrive for the operation." She drew back, slipping the DAT from the small pouch in her fatigues.

"Weird, very weird." He took the proffered cassette, sliding it into the folds of his own uniform. "I'll listen to it as soon as possible. If it's the same man, I'll be very worried." With that said, he fell into line with her, waiting for the other troops to join them.

"Ma'am," she turned to see one of the younger operatives behind her, adjusting the glimmering shell of his ballistic helmet. "We're ready."

"Thank you, Sergeant Richardson." With those words, she began the rapid procession through the blinding rainstorm toward the airfield. A pair of giant, roaring helicopters sat, their rotors shaving cleanly through the downpour; the pilots sat intently within the illuminated cockpits, checking instruments and glancing anxiously at their Dopplar radar displays.

Much to her surprise, Mueller emerged from the lead 'copter, fully equipped with a weapon slung over one arm. He shouted over the deafening drone of the blades, "Appolonia, I'll be leading this one directly! You're still vice-XO, so get your troops onboard! Prepare for the briefing!" With that, he hopped back into the cabin, motioning for the rest of the assembled soldiers.

"You heard him, team!" Appolonia yelled, "Get onboard! We need to be airborne right now!" She clambered up into the cabin after Mueller, the massive form of Mikhail squeezing onboard after her. Mere moments later, with a series of abrupt, jarring thumps, the helicopters were rising, and soaring over the control tower. Their lights extinguished, they hurtled at surprising speeds toward the glowing gem of Neilson City.

"Well, troops, this is it." Mueller's arctic voice was magnified by the speaker, allowing him to be heard clearly over the monotonous whump- whump-whump of the helicopter rotors. "When we arrive at the City Planning Commission, we'll hover until we hear from our contact from inside. After that, we land on the roof, deploy, and descend in the emergency elevators to the ground floor. After that, we penetrate the defenses in Utility Basement One, which you should have memorized on the map earlier, and then enter the main laboratory complex. When we've arrived, we terminate any and all personnel present, secure this," he withdrew a photograph of a small vial from his pocket, a sickly green-colored liquid contained within. "Finally, the demolition team plants their thermite plasma charges in their manufacturing and cultivation chambers, sets the timers for ten minutes, and we're extracted before anyone's the wiser. Any questions?"

"Yeah, I've got a question." Mikhail raised his hand in a mocking gesture. "What's in the vial?"

"You know that's classified, Sergeant-Major Svetskaya." Mueller snapped, stowing the photograph before resuming his diatribe. "Remember, this isn't a site-seeing mission. Don't look at anything you don't need to see, and don't touch what you don't need to touch. Get that vial in its secure canister, and get the hell out of the lab. Simple as that, children." He snarled, completely mirthless.

Before anyone could gripe or comment further, one of the pilots called back into the cabin, "sir, we've got a message. I'm patching it through."

"This is Eagle Four," the solemn whisper came across clearly. "The Umbrella Nest is open. Osprey is welcome. I repeat: the Umbrella Labs are open to Osprey."

"That's it, gentlemen." Mueller smirked sardonically. "Time to go."