2:41 PM
The cracks in the safety glass spread like skeletal fingers, reaching out
under the force of another blow. The dull thud, punctuated by the sound of
glass cracking reverberated in Dr. Steven Brightman's small office.
"Please, God, help me!", he screamed at the black sphere on his ceiling, housing a security camera, "Please! It's coming!"
Another thud at the glass. A small, glistening shard fell to the carpet below, shining faintly under the flickering florescent lights.
Dr. Brightman stepped back, stumbling over the garbage can next to his desk. Shredded documents and manila folders were now strewn across the floor. They crumpled as he stepped over them, reaching desperately with his left had for the polished nickel handle of his top desk drawer. He grasped it as-
A dull thud again filled the room. The rapidly failing composite glass shield had taken the form of a convex dome, rife with circular cracks. The sound of crackling glass was reminiscent of a child hastily unwrapping a present
The drawer slid open in his hand. Visible inside was a pad of stationary, some envelopes, pens and a small letter opener. All bore the monogram 'SB' in ornate black letters. Brightman hastily thrust his hand to the back of the drawer, searching. He was soon rewarded with the feeling of cold steel.
The eight-inch-thick observation window creaked under the force of an immense blow. More mirror-like fragments fell to the floor.
Dr. Brightman breathed heavily as he removed his hand from the drawer. In it he held a small Glock 9mm pistol. He gripped it tight as he reached again into the drawer, retrieving a monogrammed fountain pen and a sheet of paper. He collapsed to the floor, his head resting on the bookshelf full of scientific journals behind him. He shook the pen as much out of habit as out of fear before putting it to the paper. Tears welled up in his eyes as he quickly scrawled the words "Emily, I'm sorry." A tear fell onto the page, causing the wet ink to run.
Another thud resounded in the room as small fragments of glass flew in all directions. For a moment, Brightman was reminded of a winter snowfall. His wife had always loved the snow.
Letting the note fall to his chest, he pressed the muzzle of the gun to his temple. The trails of tears glistened on his face as his finger tightened around the trigger.
Click. Brightman opened his eyes and moved the pistol into his field of vision. He inverted it and found that where the magazine should have been, there was only a hollow pistol grip. He rose quickly, desperately searching the drawer with both hands as the glass shield exploded. Razor edged shards showered Brightman, tearing through his stained lab coat and into his skin. He cried out, feeling the searing pain of his wounds and the rivulets of blood already running down his torso. Gasping, he opened his eyes, just in time to see the blur of motion in his peripheral vision. He turned in the direction of the movement, but soon heard only the wet sound of his skull crushing. His body fell limp to the floor as the lights in his office flickered and died.
10:23 PM Shitty way to spend a Friday night, Kyle thought to himself. He sauntered down Main Street, working his way towards campus. Westville was nice this time of year; he'd miss it when he graduated in a few months. The weather was quite moderate for a January, but he still kept the hood of his sweatshirt up to guard against the wind. It was several minutes before he caught sight of his destination. The recently constructed Janet Young Life Sciences Centre was still impressive to view, even though this felt like the hundredth time. It sat roughly half way up the hill on which the campus of Crowell University was centered, four stories high and surrounded with trees and gardens. It was expensive looking without being ornate, built of old stone with four pillars flanking the main entrance. At its rear sat a massive enclosed greenhouse built to service the botany department. It appeared more as an estate than a research centre. Kyle walked up the stairs towards the entrance, each footstep echoing off the marble slabs that topped the stairs. Reaching the entrance, he pushed on the heavy oak doors and entered. The door creaked on its hinges as it gently closed behind him. The entryway to the building again gave the impression of an estate house, and conveyed the amount this building must have cost. Above the main doors hung a large chandelier that softly illuminated the main hall. A somewhat plain looking desk with the university crest carved on its front sat immediately facing the doors. Behind it usually sat a member of the campus security force in his sixties, but at 10:30 on a Friday night, Kyle wagered he was probably at home sleeping. To the left was what the university called the "campus meeting place", a great-hall complete with fire places and leather couches. During the daylight hours, hidden speakers played classical scores while students studied or slept on the overstuffed couches. Currently, it was silent and lit by only the pilot lights of the gas fire places and the ambient light bleeding in from the floor to ceiling windows. To his right was the functional component of the building, or more specifically, a part of it. A large door led to an L-shaped hall full of classrooms. At its end was another door, leading to a stairway and access to Kyle's destination, the labs. As Kyle rounded the turn in the hall, he took his keys out of his right pocket. Pausing to look through them, he selected the one labelled "JYLSC" and walked towards the metal framed oak door. One of the perks of being an honours student, he thought. Three years of work and they give you a key. The door opened with a familiar click, and Kyle removed his keys and slid them back into his pocket. Entering the staircase, he immediately noticed that the lights were out. Only the small safety lamps lit the narrow wooden staircase. As he reached the landing, he noticed something else. At the bottom of the second set of stairs was the entrance to the labs, or, at least where it should be. Behind the glass sliding door that read "B1- Biology Department" was a solid block of steel, completely sealing the entrance. It resembled a blast door: dull metal finish with yellow and black caution stripes along its lower edge. "What the hell?" Kyle remarked under his breath. He had hoped to get into the department to put in a few hours work on his thesis, but this now seemed out of the question. Security was always tight around the labs: there were literally several million dollars worth of equipment in there, but he wasn't aware that the labs were locked down to this extent after hours. It looked like the thesis would have to wait. I think I preferred the department prior to our sponsorship, Kyle thought to himself. Umbrella Pharmaceuticals, one of the universities largest contributors, funded construction of the building. It was great for the department, it meant they received equipment they'd never get to use otherwise, but there's always some cost. It meant now that all theses and research projects had to meet the "standard of scientific merit"; in other words, whatever was of benefit to Umbrella. Were that not bad enough, all of the researchers Umbrella had brought in were terrible professors. Kyle's advisor, Dr. Brightman, was the one notable exception. But even for all his good points, Dr. Brightman had Kyle studying the sleep cycle of rats on a new anti-depressant, part of his own research. Kyle found this immensely tedious, but also wanted a chance to get into a decent Graduate program. Though, Kyle thought, he was better off than his room- mate Trevor, stuck with monitoring the growth of genetically modified bean plants. Kyle had grown fond of asking Trevor how it felt to be a 22 year- old university student doing the work of a second grader. But truth be told, he was not much better off. As Kyle turned to make his way up the stairs, he decided he would e-mail Dr. Brightman when he got home. He was supposed to have his data collected by Monday, but with this development, it was unlikely that that would happen. Besides, he thought, Brightman seemed a keener; he could be in his office right now. Dr. Brightman's office was on the B-3 Floor, two down from the labs. Kyle had never been: Students weren't allowed below the B-1 level: "University policy".
3:58 PM Dr. Prescott's visits were not something that General Williams treasured. As he waited in the briefing room, it was all he could do not to cringe, envisioning Prescott's nasal voice and rat-like appearance. He was not able to dwell on this though for long, however, as the door to his left opened, producing Prescott and his aide. The General rose. "Dr. Prescott, pleased to see you again." He said as he shook the man's hand. Prescott had the grip of a 12-year-old girl; the General half- worried he would crush his hand in shaking it. "Glad to be here, as always" replied Prescott, "Please, take a seat. I've got something of great interest for both of us." Prescott walked somewhat uncomfortably towards the computer console at the front of the conference table. The eyes of Williams and his aide followed him there. "By all means, proceed Doctor. As you're well aware, your work always merits the interest of the Department of National Defence." Prescott responded with a smile that seemed more a nervous twitch than anything. "Thank you General. I'll begin then." Williams gestured to his aide, who promptly rose and left the room. Before closing the door behind him, he turned back. "Should you need anything sir, I'll be just outside." "Thank you lieutenant, dismissed." The General sharply responded. The door made a dull click as it closed. Prescott turned his attention from the door back to the general, before bringing up a slide show on the large plasma display behind him. The first slide read "BOW X5172A". "The X5172A is our latest attempt at a durable, functional, and very lethal Bio-organic weapon. It represents the experiences we've taken from our past BOWs, as well as incorporating some new innovations. We call it the Praetorian." "Praetorian?" interjected the General, "This is the first I've heard of this project." "Well, it is still..." Prescott paused, never meeting the General's stare, "Still, being developed, in some respects." Prescott clicked the mouse button, bringing up the next slide. It showed a technical diagram of something almost doubtless removed from a child's nightmare. The creature looked lean and wiry, its body composed wholly of exposed musculature and bony plates. The digits on its left and right hands were hugely exaggerated: they looked to be made entirely of bone, coming to sharp points with serrated edges. The creature's face was-
"As you can see, General", Prescott interrupted the General's train of thought, "It is at least structurally similar to some of our early efforts, but has been vastly improved." A twitchy smile pursed Prescott's lips. Prescott continued.
"The Praetorian stands just under three meters tall and weighs in at approximately 350 kilos. All of its major organs leave the brain are, at minimum, doubly redundant. The bone carapace that shields its vitals is comparable in strength to reinforced concrete, and will stop any round up to .50 calibre. Its regenerative capacities are comparable to the Tyrant series BOWs, with a 20 percent increase in healing time. Additionally, its dermal cells secrete a chemically inert gel, rendering it nearly invulnerable to chemical attack as well as extremes of temperature." Prescott flipped through a series of images as he spoke: The creature on an operating table, the creature in a stasis tube, the creature standing.
"This all sounds very impressive in theory Doctor, but you'll excuse me for being sceptical." The General again interrupted, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but some of your corporation's comparable efforts have been brought down by a small-town police force."
A twinge of anger creased Prescott's face, but quickly faded into a wry smile. He again clicked the mouse button.
"This is a demonstration of the Praetorian at 18 hours of age." Prescott gestured towards the screen, "On the left is a Kodiak bear. It's comparable in height and exceeds the Praetorian in weight. For six months prior to the trial, it had been injected with heavy doses of Anabolic steroids and other growth agents. For several days prior to the trial, it had been deprived of food." He again clicked the mouse, and the image began to move.
The Praetorian entered on the right of the screen, slightly obscured by the date/time display on the image. It seemed to gaze ponderously at the bear, studying it. Without warning, the bear reared onto its hind legs, letting out a resounding growl. The Praetorian was motionless, still studying the creature from sunken eyes. The bear lunged forward, exposing its massive teeth. It was only when the bear was less than a foot away that the Praetorian struck. Its right arm moved as a blur, meeting the bear in its midsection. The blow turned the bear's torso into a mist of blood and tissue that covered the wall behind it with a wet splash. What remained of the bear's upper and lower body fell to the floor with a muted splash. The video image stopped.
"The Praetorian's strength is unequalled by anything in the natural world. Our engineering division had to create new composite materials just to contain and observe it at five weeks." Prescott paused, "Five weeks is the period necessary for the Praetorian to fully mature." He digressed.
"Should you opt to provide us the contract, General, we can have 100 units ready in 4 months time. There are specifics as to cost and the X5172A's capabilities here." Prescott slid a plastic folder towards the General.
"Thank you Doctor". Shit, Williams thought to himself. What exactly was the Department getting itself into? He'd seen the way Prescott smiled during the video demonstration. It was like a child on Christmas morning. The idea of unleashing a monster like that on any enemy...The Joint Chiefs were really pushing this project none the less. What recommendation could he-
The General was interrupted by a ring. It was Prescott's cell phone.
"Um, excuse me for a moment General." Prescott chuckled awkwardly as he produced his cell phone from inside his jacket pocket. He brought it to his ear, turning to face a corner of the room.
"Prescott. This is not a good-When? Has anyone reported in? Send-" Prescott cut himself off, noticing the sudden attention he was receiving from General Williams. He mumbled something before hanging up his phone.
"If you'll excuse me General, I seem to be late for another engagement. I'll let you consider our progress, thank you for your time." Prescott did not look back as he strode quickly out the door.
9:19 PM Shawn Green ensured the magazine in his M4A1-SOPMOD was properly fitted before yanking and releasing the cocking handle. The rifle's bolt leapt forward, chambering a round with a satisfying clunk. Green turned the weapon's fire selector to safe before placing it on the metal table in front of him. The SOPMOD was an impressive looking weapon, though it was not a vast improvement over its M4 Carbine parentage. In addition to the standard features of the M4, including the shortened barrel and collapsible stock, this variant of the SOPMOD included an optical sight with polarized lenses, a barrel mounted flashlight, and an integral laser-sight. Black gun tape covered the weapon's sling mounts, a habit carried over from Green's previous line of work. Green was ambushed in his thoughts by the entrance of the team leader, Frank Carlson.
"Green, you get your shit wired yet?" Carlson's hoarse voice reverberated between the cheap metal shelves and concrete walls in the armoury. A former marine Captain and member of Force Recon, Carlson's six- foot-four 245 pound frame filled the doorway.
"Making a list, checking it twice. Ready shortly Sir." Dickhead, Green thought to himself. As the junior member of the team and the only Non-American, he was forever being hassled by the team's senior members.
"Well move your ass soldier, we ship out in 30." Carlson, still every bit a marine abruptly turned about and made his way down the hall. Green wondered how long it'd taken him to grow accustomed to not being saluted every 20 seconds. He turned back to his locker, removing the remainder of his kit.
He first examined and readied his secondary weapon, a Heckler and Koch SOCOM pistol. Not a cheap weapon, but, Green mused to himself, Umbrella seemed to have deep pockets. He'd only been hired on for seven months now and had already made enough to afford a new house, a new car, and a measure of luxury he'd never quite had as a military man.
Green had enlisted in the Canadian Forces at 18 years of age, for reasons he was still unsure of. As a private, he was almost immediately recognized for his soldiering potential. He quickly became a qualified paratrooper, also attending the advanced reconnaissance course, Canadian Sniper School and U.S. Army Ranger School. A corporal at 21, he had been selected for officer training. Following a few years of subsidized university, Green was commissioned as a second-lieutenant, and recruited shortly thereafter to the Canadian Special Forces team, Joint Task Force Two. During his time with JTF-2, he served as a troop commander, and eventually made the rank of Captain. Seeing himself now on the fast track to command, and more to the point, a desk, Green retired at 29, in search of something else.
It was not long before his current employer appeared on the scope. Umbrella had sought him out personally, offering him several times his former salary to work as a "civilian contractor" for their security branch. It was then he became a member of the U.M.C.S., the Umbrella Counter- measures Service. The team operated primarily on the basis of seniority, and there-in lay a few problems for Green. The fall from Captain to the lowest rung on a seven-member team was a bruise to Green's ego, though he would never outright admit it.
Green examined the last of his equipment before fully suiting up. The Canadian forces Tactical vest he had "borrowed" from his previous employer went on over his nomex coveralls. The pixilated green camouflage pattern was perhaps not the best compliment to his otherwise black uniform, but it certainly did its job. The Kevlar construction and ceramic plates protecting his torso were reassuring if nothing else. Something from days passed, Green thought to himself. The U.M.C.S patch attached on the vest's front, however, was a reminder of something else.
Throwing his respirator, helmet, canteen, and a few extra magazines into a warn black backpack, Green closed his locker and made his way out of the armoury. He turned left down the largely non-descript hallway, approaching the briefing room. As he rounded the doorway, he could see the rest of the team suited up and already gathered around the small table.
"Green! Nice of you to join us!" It was Dennis Casey, the second most junior member of the team and a former SEAL. He was built like a brick-shit-house, probably the reason no one commented on his ridiculous handle-bar moustache. Though he barely exceeded Green in simulated rank, he was always the first to jump on him when the chance arose.
"Yeah, sorry I'm late. There was some Navy circle-jerk competition on pay-per view, I got a little caught up in it." Green shot back quickly.
Casey rose to his feet, towering over Green.
"Listen you little shit, I'll-"
"Enough." Walter Harris, the team's second in command spoke over the two. Harris' background was Army, serving first as a Green Beret and then as a member of Delta Force. Though usually stoic and intellectual, he was none the less quick to keep the team in line. He looked at Casey with veiled contempt before turning his gaze to Green.
"Green, if your gear's in order, please take a seat." He gestured toward a metal folding chair on the table's left side. Green sat down, placing his rifle in his lap. He searched the faces staring back at him briefly.
Harris was to his left, on his right was Alex Wong, the team's primary demolitions expert and a veteran of the US Army Special Forces. Seated across the table were Nathan Myers, the team medic and former Ranger First-Sergeant, and Ross Hamilton, another ex-SEAL. Carlson sat at the head of the table, while Casey stood fuming in the room's corner. Carlson began.
"You've all been briefed at this point, I just wanted to take the time to review the details. Once again, our mission is this: Firstly, we are to search for any surviving researchers. Secondly, we are to ensure the site is secure and evac. Questions on these points?"
"One, sir", Myers responded, "We know the nature of the attack was chemical, but do we have any further information on the attackers? Numbers, training, anything of the sort?"
"Not as yet, no. That does raise an important point. I repeat that respirators are to be worn at all times during this mission. We assume the agent used in the attack has been mostly dealt with by the laboratory ventilation system, but I don't want to take any chances." He glanced at Green out the corner of his eye. Green was scowling slightly, looking down at the table.
"Mr. Green, you look as if you have something to say." Carlson caught his eye, trying to stare him down. Hesitantly, Green responded.
"Just something I've been mulling over since your first briefing, Sir", The 'sir' was not without a hint of disdain. "What would be the point of attacking a laboratory with chemical weapons and then not taking anything, either technology or hostages? We know that no one's left. There's been no attempt to contact anyone with demands. Further, how would these 'terrorists', whoever they are, know where this lab is? It's underground at some small town university, and frankly-"
"I didn't realize that was your concern Mr. Green" Carlson answered, visibly irritated, "We have our orders, straight from the company, and this is the real deal. I doubt the company would fake an explosion in a multimillion dollar lab to make us earn our paycheques. If you're uncomfortable with this mission, by all means, stay back here."
Green gritted his teeth.
"No Sir, it was just a question."
"Well I believe I've answered it. Now, I'll direct your attention again to these maps..."
Carlson's words faded off in Green's mind. He'd paid enough attention the first time they'd been briefed, he thought, and this weren't exactly NATO format orders. He had no doubt this wasn't just another exercise, but the explanation offered had seemed lacking. He knew he wasn't the only one of this opinion: he has noticed both Harris and Myers nodding during his question. Damn Carlson, he thought, crucify me for wanting to go in prepared. Green let his thoughts wander, collecting himself only when he half noticed that Carlson was nearing the end of his briefing session.
"Since there are no questions, we'll load the helo now. Dismissed."
Carlson rose from the table, leaving the room. The remainder of the team was quick to follow, emptying into the hallway. They crowded into the elevator, making their way to the ground floor. Exiting the building, the team broke into a brisk run, making their way to the Helipad. On the helipad was a UH-60 Blackhawk, rotors motionless but the flight crew already aboard. The Blackhawk was a military chopper, though Umbrella had managed to privately secure several for their U.M.C.S. teams. The 7.62mm mini-guns on either side of the helicopter reminded Green that his employer seemed to operate as much as an independent nation as a corporation. He and the others were aboard before the crew-chief secured the doors and the whir of the rotors commenced. They were soon airborne and on course to the small town of Westville.
"Please, God, help me!", he screamed at the black sphere on his ceiling, housing a security camera, "Please! It's coming!"
Another thud at the glass. A small, glistening shard fell to the carpet below, shining faintly under the flickering florescent lights.
Dr. Brightman stepped back, stumbling over the garbage can next to his desk. Shredded documents and manila folders were now strewn across the floor. They crumpled as he stepped over them, reaching desperately with his left had for the polished nickel handle of his top desk drawer. He grasped it as-
A dull thud again filled the room. The rapidly failing composite glass shield had taken the form of a convex dome, rife with circular cracks. The sound of crackling glass was reminiscent of a child hastily unwrapping a present
The drawer slid open in his hand. Visible inside was a pad of stationary, some envelopes, pens and a small letter opener. All bore the monogram 'SB' in ornate black letters. Brightman hastily thrust his hand to the back of the drawer, searching. He was soon rewarded with the feeling of cold steel.
The eight-inch-thick observation window creaked under the force of an immense blow. More mirror-like fragments fell to the floor.
Dr. Brightman breathed heavily as he removed his hand from the drawer. In it he held a small Glock 9mm pistol. He gripped it tight as he reached again into the drawer, retrieving a monogrammed fountain pen and a sheet of paper. He collapsed to the floor, his head resting on the bookshelf full of scientific journals behind him. He shook the pen as much out of habit as out of fear before putting it to the paper. Tears welled up in his eyes as he quickly scrawled the words "Emily, I'm sorry." A tear fell onto the page, causing the wet ink to run.
Another thud resounded in the room as small fragments of glass flew in all directions. For a moment, Brightman was reminded of a winter snowfall. His wife had always loved the snow.
Letting the note fall to his chest, he pressed the muzzle of the gun to his temple. The trails of tears glistened on his face as his finger tightened around the trigger.
Click. Brightman opened his eyes and moved the pistol into his field of vision. He inverted it and found that where the magazine should have been, there was only a hollow pistol grip. He rose quickly, desperately searching the drawer with both hands as the glass shield exploded. Razor edged shards showered Brightman, tearing through his stained lab coat and into his skin. He cried out, feeling the searing pain of his wounds and the rivulets of blood already running down his torso. Gasping, he opened his eyes, just in time to see the blur of motion in his peripheral vision. He turned in the direction of the movement, but soon heard only the wet sound of his skull crushing. His body fell limp to the floor as the lights in his office flickered and died.
10:23 PM Shitty way to spend a Friday night, Kyle thought to himself. He sauntered down Main Street, working his way towards campus. Westville was nice this time of year; he'd miss it when he graduated in a few months. The weather was quite moderate for a January, but he still kept the hood of his sweatshirt up to guard against the wind. It was several minutes before he caught sight of his destination. The recently constructed Janet Young Life Sciences Centre was still impressive to view, even though this felt like the hundredth time. It sat roughly half way up the hill on which the campus of Crowell University was centered, four stories high and surrounded with trees and gardens. It was expensive looking without being ornate, built of old stone with four pillars flanking the main entrance. At its rear sat a massive enclosed greenhouse built to service the botany department. It appeared more as an estate than a research centre. Kyle walked up the stairs towards the entrance, each footstep echoing off the marble slabs that topped the stairs. Reaching the entrance, he pushed on the heavy oak doors and entered. The door creaked on its hinges as it gently closed behind him. The entryway to the building again gave the impression of an estate house, and conveyed the amount this building must have cost. Above the main doors hung a large chandelier that softly illuminated the main hall. A somewhat plain looking desk with the university crest carved on its front sat immediately facing the doors. Behind it usually sat a member of the campus security force in his sixties, but at 10:30 on a Friday night, Kyle wagered he was probably at home sleeping. To the left was what the university called the "campus meeting place", a great-hall complete with fire places and leather couches. During the daylight hours, hidden speakers played classical scores while students studied or slept on the overstuffed couches. Currently, it was silent and lit by only the pilot lights of the gas fire places and the ambient light bleeding in from the floor to ceiling windows. To his right was the functional component of the building, or more specifically, a part of it. A large door led to an L-shaped hall full of classrooms. At its end was another door, leading to a stairway and access to Kyle's destination, the labs. As Kyle rounded the turn in the hall, he took his keys out of his right pocket. Pausing to look through them, he selected the one labelled "JYLSC" and walked towards the metal framed oak door. One of the perks of being an honours student, he thought. Three years of work and they give you a key. The door opened with a familiar click, and Kyle removed his keys and slid them back into his pocket. Entering the staircase, he immediately noticed that the lights were out. Only the small safety lamps lit the narrow wooden staircase. As he reached the landing, he noticed something else. At the bottom of the second set of stairs was the entrance to the labs, or, at least where it should be. Behind the glass sliding door that read "B1- Biology Department" was a solid block of steel, completely sealing the entrance. It resembled a blast door: dull metal finish with yellow and black caution stripes along its lower edge. "What the hell?" Kyle remarked under his breath. He had hoped to get into the department to put in a few hours work on his thesis, but this now seemed out of the question. Security was always tight around the labs: there were literally several million dollars worth of equipment in there, but he wasn't aware that the labs were locked down to this extent after hours. It looked like the thesis would have to wait. I think I preferred the department prior to our sponsorship, Kyle thought to himself. Umbrella Pharmaceuticals, one of the universities largest contributors, funded construction of the building. It was great for the department, it meant they received equipment they'd never get to use otherwise, but there's always some cost. It meant now that all theses and research projects had to meet the "standard of scientific merit"; in other words, whatever was of benefit to Umbrella. Were that not bad enough, all of the researchers Umbrella had brought in were terrible professors. Kyle's advisor, Dr. Brightman, was the one notable exception. But even for all his good points, Dr. Brightman had Kyle studying the sleep cycle of rats on a new anti-depressant, part of his own research. Kyle found this immensely tedious, but also wanted a chance to get into a decent Graduate program. Though, Kyle thought, he was better off than his room- mate Trevor, stuck with monitoring the growth of genetically modified bean plants. Kyle had grown fond of asking Trevor how it felt to be a 22 year- old university student doing the work of a second grader. But truth be told, he was not much better off. As Kyle turned to make his way up the stairs, he decided he would e-mail Dr. Brightman when he got home. He was supposed to have his data collected by Monday, but with this development, it was unlikely that that would happen. Besides, he thought, Brightman seemed a keener; he could be in his office right now. Dr. Brightman's office was on the B-3 Floor, two down from the labs. Kyle had never been: Students weren't allowed below the B-1 level: "University policy".
3:58 PM Dr. Prescott's visits were not something that General Williams treasured. As he waited in the briefing room, it was all he could do not to cringe, envisioning Prescott's nasal voice and rat-like appearance. He was not able to dwell on this though for long, however, as the door to his left opened, producing Prescott and his aide. The General rose. "Dr. Prescott, pleased to see you again." He said as he shook the man's hand. Prescott had the grip of a 12-year-old girl; the General half- worried he would crush his hand in shaking it. "Glad to be here, as always" replied Prescott, "Please, take a seat. I've got something of great interest for both of us." Prescott walked somewhat uncomfortably towards the computer console at the front of the conference table. The eyes of Williams and his aide followed him there. "By all means, proceed Doctor. As you're well aware, your work always merits the interest of the Department of National Defence." Prescott responded with a smile that seemed more a nervous twitch than anything. "Thank you General. I'll begin then." Williams gestured to his aide, who promptly rose and left the room. Before closing the door behind him, he turned back. "Should you need anything sir, I'll be just outside." "Thank you lieutenant, dismissed." The General sharply responded. The door made a dull click as it closed. Prescott turned his attention from the door back to the general, before bringing up a slide show on the large plasma display behind him. The first slide read "BOW X5172A". "The X5172A is our latest attempt at a durable, functional, and very lethal Bio-organic weapon. It represents the experiences we've taken from our past BOWs, as well as incorporating some new innovations. We call it the Praetorian." "Praetorian?" interjected the General, "This is the first I've heard of this project." "Well, it is still..." Prescott paused, never meeting the General's stare, "Still, being developed, in some respects." Prescott clicked the mouse button, bringing up the next slide. It showed a technical diagram of something almost doubtless removed from a child's nightmare. The creature looked lean and wiry, its body composed wholly of exposed musculature and bony plates. The digits on its left and right hands were hugely exaggerated: they looked to be made entirely of bone, coming to sharp points with serrated edges. The creature's face was-
"As you can see, General", Prescott interrupted the General's train of thought, "It is at least structurally similar to some of our early efforts, but has been vastly improved." A twitchy smile pursed Prescott's lips. Prescott continued.
"The Praetorian stands just under three meters tall and weighs in at approximately 350 kilos. All of its major organs leave the brain are, at minimum, doubly redundant. The bone carapace that shields its vitals is comparable in strength to reinforced concrete, and will stop any round up to .50 calibre. Its regenerative capacities are comparable to the Tyrant series BOWs, with a 20 percent increase in healing time. Additionally, its dermal cells secrete a chemically inert gel, rendering it nearly invulnerable to chemical attack as well as extremes of temperature." Prescott flipped through a series of images as he spoke: The creature on an operating table, the creature in a stasis tube, the creature standing.
"This all sounds very impressive in theory Doctor, but you'll excuse me for being sceptical." The General again interrupted, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but some of your corporation's comparable efforts have been brought down by a small-town police force."
A twinge of anger creased Prescott's face, but quickly faded into a wry smile. He again clicked the mouse button.
"This is a demonstration of the Praetorian at 18 hours of age." Prescott gestured towards the screen, "On the left is a Kodiak bear. It's comparable in height and exceeds the Praetorian in weight. For six months prior to the trial, it had been injected with heavy doses of Anabolic steroids and other growth agents. For several days prior to the trial, it had been deprived of food." He again clicked the mouse, and the image began to move.
The Praetorian entered on the right of the screen, slightly obscured by the date/time display on the image. It seemed to gaze ponderously at the bear, studying it. Without warning, the bear reared onto its hind legs, letting out a resounding growl. The Praetorian was motionless, still studying the creature from sunken eyes. The bear lunged forward, exposing its massive teeth. It was only when the bear was less than a foot away that the Praetorian struck. Its right arm moved as a blur, meeting the bear in its midsection. The blow turned the bear's torso into a mist of blood and tissue that covered the wall behind it with a wet splash. What remained of the bear's upper and lower body fell to the floor with a muted splash. The video image stopped.
"The Praetorian's strength is unequalled by anything in the natural world. Our engineering division had to create new composite materials just to contain and observe it at five weeks." Prescott paused, "Five weeks is the period necessary for the Praetorian to fully mature." He digressed.
"Should you opt to provide us the contract, General, we can have 100 units ready in 4 months time. There are specifics as to cost and the X5172A's capabilities here." Prescott slid a plastic folder towards the General.
"Thank you Doctor". Shit, Williams thought to himself. What exactly was the Department getting itself into? He'd seen the way Prescott smiled during the video demonstration. It was like a child on Christmas morning. The idea of unleashing a monster like that on any enemy...The Joint Chiefs were really pushing this project none the less. What recommendation could he-
The General was interrupted by a ring. It was Prescott's cell phone.
"Um, excuse me for a moment General." Prescott chuckled awkwardly as he produced his cell phone from inside his jacket pocket. He brought it to his ear, turning to face a corner of the room.
"Prescott. This is not a good-When? Has anyone reported in? Send-" Prescott cut himself off, noticing the sudden attention he was receiving from General Williams. He mumbled something before hanging up his phone.
"If you'll excuse me General, I seem to be late for another engagement. I'll let you consider our progress, thank you for your time." Prescott did not look back as he strode quickly out the door.
9:19 PM Shawn Green ensured the magazine in his M4A1-SOPMOD was properly fitted before yanking and releasing the cocking handle. The rifle's bolt leapt forward, chambering a round with a satisfying clunk. Green turned the weapon's fire selector to safe before placing it on the metal table in front of him. The SOPMOD was an impressive looking weapon, though it was not a vast improvement over its M4 Carbine parentage. In addition to the standard features of the M4, including the shortened barrel and collapsible stock, this variant of the SOPMOD included an optical sight with polarized lenses, a barrel mounted flashlight, and an integral laser-sight. Black gun tape covered the weapon's sling mounts, a habit carried over from Green's previous line of work. Green was ambushed in his thoughts by the entrance of the team leader, Frank Carlson.
"Green, you get your shit wired yet?" Carlson's hoarse voice reverberated between the cheap metal shelves and concrete walls in the armoury. A former marine Captain and member of Force Recon, Carlson's six- foot-four 245 pound frame filled the doorway.
"Making a list, checking it twice. Ready shortly Sir." Dickhead, Green thought to himself. As the junior member of the team and the only Non-American, he was forever being hassled by the team's senior members.
"Well move your ass soldier, we ship out in 30." Carlson, still every bit a marine abruptly turned about and made his way down the hall. Green wondered how long it'd taken him to grow accustomed to not being saluted every 20 seconds. He turned back to his locker, removing the remainder of his kit.
He first examined and readied his secondary weapon, a Heckler and Koch SOCOM pistol. Not a cheap weapon, but, Green mused to himself, Umbrella seemed to have deep pockets. He'd only been hired on for seven months now and had already made enough to afford a new house, a new car, and a measure of luxury he'd never quite had as a military man.
Green had enlisted in the Canadian Forces at 18 years of age, for reasons he was still unsure of. As a private, he was almost immediately recognized for his soldiering potential. He quickly became a qualified paratrooper, also attending the advanced reconnaissance course, Canadian Sniper School and U.S. Army Ranger School. A corporal at 21, he had been selected for officer training. Following a few years of subsidized university, Green was commissioned as a second-lieutenant, and recruited shortly thereafter to the Canadian Special Forces team, Joint Task Force Two. During his time with JTF-2, he served as a troop commander, and eventually made the rank of Captain. Seeing himself now on the fast track to command, and more to the point, a desk, Green retired at 29, in search of something else.
It was not long before his current employer appeared on the scope. Umbrella had sought him out personally, offering him several times his former salary to work as a "civilian contractor" for their security branch. It was then he became a member of the U.M.C.S., the Umbrella Counter- measures Service. The team operated primarily on the basis of seniority, and there-in lay a few problems for Green. The fall from Captain to the lowest rung on a seven-member team was a bruise to Green's ego, though he would never outright admit it.
Green examined the last of his equipment before fully suiting up. The Canadian forces Tactical vest he had "borrowed" from his previous employer went on over his nomex coveralls. The pixilated green camouflage pattern was perhaps not the best compliment to his otherwise black uniform, but it certainly did its job. The Kevlar construction and ceramic plates protecting his torso were reassuring if nothing else. Something from days passed, Green thought to himself. The U.M.C.S patch attached on the vest's front, however, was a reminder of something else.
Throwing his respirator, helmet, canteen, and a few extra magazines into a warn black backpack, Green closed his locker and made his way out of the armoury. He turned left down the largely non-descript hallway, approaching the briefing room. As he rounded the doorway, he could see the rest of the team suited up and already gathered around the small table.
"Green! Nice of you to join us!" It was Dennis Casey, the second most junior member of the team and a former SEAL. He was built like a brick-shit-house, probably the reason no one commented on his ridiculous handle-bar moustache. Though he barely exceeded Green in simulated rank, he was always the first to jump on him when the chance arose.
"Yeah, sorry I'm late. There was some Navy circle-jerk competition on pay-per view, I got a little caught up in it." Green shot back quickly.
Casey rose to his feet, towering over Green.
"Listen you little shit, I'll-"
"Enough." Walter Harris, the team's second in command spoke over the two. Harris' background was Army, serving first as a Green Beret and then as a member of Delta Force. Though usually stoic and intellectual, he was none the less quick to keep the team in line. He looked at Casey with veiled contempt before turning his gaze to Green.
"Green, if your gear's in order, please take a seat." He gestured toward a metal folding chair on the table's left side. Green sat down, placing his rifle in his lap. He searched the faces staring back at him briefly.
Harris was to his left, on his right was Alex Wong, the team's primary demolitions expert and a veteran of the US Army Special Forces. Seated across the table were Nathan Myers, the team medic and former Ranger First-Sergeant, and Ross Hamilton, another ex-SEAL. Carlson sat at the head of the table, while Casey stood fuming in the room's corner. Carlson began.
"You've all been briefed at this point, I just wanted to take the time to review the details. Once again, our mission is this: Firstly, we are to search for any surviving researchers. Secondly, we are to ensure the site is secure and evac. Questions on these points?"
"One, sir", Myers responded, "We know the nature of the attack was chemical, but do we have any further information on the attackers? Numbers, training, anything of the sort?"
"Not as yet, no. That does raise an important point. I repeat that respirators are to be worn at all times during this mission. We assume the agent used in the attack has been mostly dealt with by the laboratory ventilation system, but I don't want to take any chances." He glanced at Green out the corner of his eye. Green was scowling slightly, looking down at the table.
"Mr. Green, you look as if you have something to say." Carlson caught his eye, trying to stare him down. Hesitantly, Green responded.
"Just something I've been mulling over since your first briefing, Sir", The 'sir' was not without a hint of disdain. "What would be the point of attacking a laboratory with chemical weapons and then not taking anything, either technology or hostages? We know that no one's left. There's been no attempt to contact anyone with demands. Further, how would these 'terrorists', whoever they are, know where this lab is? It's underground at some small town university, and frankly-"
"I didn't realize that was your concern Mr. Green" Carlson answered, visibly irritated, "We have our orders, straight from the company, and this is the real deal. I doubt the company would fake an explosion in a multimillion dollar lab to make us earn our paycheques. If you're uncomfortable with this mission, by all means, stay back here."
Green gritted his teeth.
"No Sir, it was just a question."
"Well I believe I've answered it. Now, I'll direct your attention again to these maps..."
Carlson's words faded off in Green's mind. He'd paid enough attention the first time they'd been briefed, he thought, and this weren't exactly NATO format orders. He had no doubt this wasn't just another exercise, but the explanation offered had seemed lacking. He knew he wasn't the only one of this opinion: he has noticed both Harris and Myers nodding during his question. Damn Carlson, he thought, crucify me for wanting to go in prepared. Green let his thoughts wander, collecting himself only when he half noticed that Carlson was nearing the end of his briefing session.
"Since there are no questions, we'll load the helo now. Dismissed."
Carlson rose from the table, leaving the room. The remainder of the team was quick to follow, emptying into the hallway. They crowded into the elevator, making their way to the ground floor. Exiting the building, the team broke into a brisk run, making their way to the Helipad. On the helipad was a UH-60 Blackhawk, rotors motionless but the flight crew already aboard. The Blackhawk was a military chopper, though Umbrella had managed to privately secure several for their U.M.C.S. teams. The 7.62mm mini-guns on either side of the helicopter reminded Green that his employer seemed to operate as much as an independent nation as a corporation. He and the others were aboard before the crew-chief secured the doors and the whir of the rotors commenced. They were soon airborne and on course to the small town of Westville.