Legal disclaimers: See Part One.
Disclaimers: This is Part Two of my "What If?" selection of stories based on the possible futures of the on-going fic by Matt6 "Operation: Falling S.T.A.R.S.". Again, this is just my take and it can be considered alternate universe where it doesn't mesh with whatever Matt6 comes up with. Enjoy and Review, if you will.
DJINNDECEMBER 10th 2003-ONE YEAR LATER
Salt Lake City, the Red House (declared new US Capital 2003)
"My fellow Americans..." he began, but he stopped almost immediately. He sounded as though he was having a hysterical fit, his voice high, squeaky and pathetic. Hmm, he'd have to work on that-again. Still, practise made perfect...
President of the United States of America Franklin Evans adjusted his grey tie in the mirror, smiled to see if it looked good on him in his grey suit and cream shirt, then broke out in a beaming full smile when he decided it did. In his mid-fifties, with once-black hair now mainly grey, blue eyes and a face that could have made him appear so worn he could have been ten years older without the Plastic Surgery he'd had, a face that had never been handsome atop a slim, almost thin body, he was not and never had been physically imposing. He carried no natural authority in nature or manner, was totally lacking in the gift of public speaking that made some Politicians media darlings without even real effort and was, in fact, almost completely lacking in any form of distinction, including intelligence. Nine out of ten people couldn't have picked him out of a crowd if their lives had depended on it.
None of that mattered any more, no matter how much it had once. He was the President, that was what mattered now. Everyone else had to say "Yes, Sir" when he told them to do something, that made all the difference. He looked up from the mirror and glanced around his private office, set just off of the Oval Office in the Red House, Salt Lake City-his office. This mattered, nothing else any more.
Of course, it wasn't as though he didn't have a few problems to deal with. The east coast of the USA, for one, was a deserted wasteland excepting some few remaining town and city holdouts, which were strongholds stubbornly defended still against the Umbrella Corporations last act before he crushed them. Virus bombs, hidden up and down the coast, all over America in fact, which had turned millions into the living dead, ridiculous as that sounded.
The CIA, FBI, NSA and Military Intelligence had, working together, manage to find and make safe almost all of the bombs after breaching the last Umbrella Headquarters before its self-destruct could be activated, Hacking its files and records to get the Intel they needed. They hadn't managed to get to the one in New York harbour soon enough, though, a fact which panicking sailors had made worse by trying to escape the detonation by sailing their ships out to sea. They'd been washed ashore everywhere before the Navy and Air Force could track down and sink them all, spreading the T and G-Viruses like wildfire. Eventually even Martial Law and a shoot-to-kill on sight order hadn't worked, so the Mississippi Wall had been built to contain the threat. Everyone the wrong side of it was trapped there, early rescue missions had rarely come back. They made food and supply dumps only these days.
Ninety million living dead in total across the whole country, thirty east of the Mississippi, carnage in the streets, riots, fire and disaster, near Civil War as troops dealing with Umbrella's creations fought demented civilians driven to insane extremes by their loved one's turning into things from Hell and trying to kill them overnight. It was a miracle the country had survived, that he had after the Umbrella Assassin had broken into his private rooms during the night, getting past the Secret Service in the process-only Albert Wesker's intervention had saved his life. The awful sights and sounds of Wesker literally tearing the Assassin to pieces would stay with him for the rest of his life and follow him on down into Hell...
Several cities Nuked and uninhabitable, where only freaks and mutants of some kind survived. Abominations clawing at the Mississippi Wall every day, getting worse all the time. Mass graves and incinerators running night and day to cope with the dead and dying, remnants of the Umbrella attacks making it lethally dangerous to let a body with its head still attached simply lie still anywhere. Morgues had turned into Charnel Houses before now after Police and National Guard troops shot their way in and flattened the buildings with explosives following reports of walking dead men, seeing things which could never be described first. Sharpshooters were permanently stationed on Public Buildings in case of disaster.
The FBI had had to create special "Death Squads" to deal with the problem of the living dead coming from anywhere and everywhere at any time, just a man or woman dropping dead from a heart attack could start an Outbreak in a city if the victim wasn't decapitated or shot quickly enough. Local PD everywhere had orders to collect and store in secure Cells anyone even considered at risk of dying not under armed guard in Hospital, remains were to be Cremated unless decapitated at all times. Soldiers patrolled the streets in significant numbers to make sure these Presidential Orders were followed while the Media were censored and restricted to prevent panic and the spread of any rumours that might damage either National Security or public safety.
Martial Law, with Emergency Powers granted by the State of Emergency declared during the US Governments War with the rogue SOC Military unit, added to control of the media, made Evan's the most powerful President America had ever had. It also made him a Dictator, but no one discussed that. The one's who did were shot and sometimes found months later in shallow graves south of the Border.
Relations with other countries had been irreversibly damaged by the Alliances attempts to burn him and his administration in every way they could after their ground forces in the USA were wiped out, their bases Nuked, but that hadn't been the end of the matter. They might not be talking, but no country in the world could afford, literally, to ignore the still-massive financial and Diplomatic clout American money and troops supplied him with everywhere. Trade and commerce were things the Alliance couldn't touch, any more than they could touch him now. He'd found plenty at Area 51 to keep the Alliance permanently out of his hair and country-or else. They might well be able to wait until he died so they could restore the USA to what it was, but maybe they wouldn't get that chance.
It was utterly ridiculous to suggest any form of conflict with an interstellar Alliance of worlds and peoples the extent, nature and power of which he lacked the imagination, let alone the ability, to even attempt to comprehend, but he had his ways. He could think of plenty he could do to ensure that the USA as a country and its people would never be the same long before he died, which would happen before he left office no matter what. More importantly, with the research and work, including BOW's, seized from Umbrella and stored at Area 51 being studied and developed by people who answered only to him, who he could trust? He had a Doomsday Weapon like no other at his disposal to ensure good behaviour, with his finger permanently on the trigger thanks to an electronic trigger on his heart that would activate if his bodies electrical field failed or suffered significant disruption. If his heart should ever stop or if he ever suffered massive physical trauma, that was. No one could kill him...
The SOC survivors-bar that damned Assassin, who was reportedly in hiding in the Necropolis of New York for reasons that would get her killed in time, he was sure-were under lock and key and being tortured every day. His people had informed him that, on being forced to watch the Rape of his Fiancée Melissa Jones via video link, with Gang Rape, extremes of torture and the threat of drugs that would have driven her insane at best on offer, even Matthew Ryan had finally surrendered, after almost a year of formidable resistance. The S.T.A.R.S. survivors had cracked earlier, not being trained or able to stand the torture they were subjected too-although again, threats to family members had proven most effective. Yet again, though, a survivor had escaped and was still on the run somewhere in the USA-someone they called "Shade", no one knew her real name.
He had what he wanted, now he could have their confessions live on air before their execution-followed by their families, of course, which would not be publicised. These people had caused him so much trouble, it was only right he get rid of any family which might provide future trouble.
Then there was Umbrella-or rather, there were the three of them. Xenia Omerova, professional Mercenary, Pierre Dupree, Umbrella's top Assassin, and Jena Styx, Pierre's only real rival during his time at Umbrella-and his reputed lover. All of them were out there somewhere, the CIA's best Intel placing Xenia in Cuba for no one knew what reason.
Then there was Jianna Torres, the "Fallen Angel", quite possibly the most formidable Assassin the world had ever known. He knew she was out there somewhere, but he never thought about her, he never dared too. After her escape from the Umbrella South American headquarters during the final fall of Umbrella, she hadn't been seen or heard of by anyone for months-then he'd received a note with a bloody thumbprint as a signature, a thumbprint which belonged to Andrew Spencer, the missing President of Umbrella Corporation. It had been clear and precise about two things: the fact she was going to kill him, Franklin Evans, and how she was going to do it. The first time he'd read through it, he'd been physically ill for over an hour. It hadn't improved over time, but the CIA swore they had a lead on her, so it was only a matter of time-he hoped. Fortunately, of course, he had the best guards money could buy protecting him...
He decided it was time to run through his speech again. Enough with the worries, they'd still be there later.
"My fellow Americans" he began, trying to project his voice with some power and authority. "These have been hard times for us and our country, but, once more, we will persevere..."
The Mississippi Wall"To begin with, these steel and concrete walls were constructed for a very simple purpose, for which they were very quickly built of steel and concrete and raised to fifty feet high. That purpose was protection, from the monsters that lived in the east which were coming west. You've all seen or heard of them, some of you will even have encountered them. Try not to think about that now" said the grey-haired man leading the group of nervous young teenage children along the top of the huge grey wall.
There was a ten-foot wide step, so it was almost impossible to fall, but that wasn't what any of them were afraid of. The moans, growls and occasional, almost mournful, howl echoed all around at all times here, coming from the occasional Zombie, Cerberus undead hound and rare awful monstrosity which defied description nearby didn't do it either. Everyone knew those sounds these days. The vegetation had been blasted back from the walls forty feet and was kept there by Napalm bombings and flamethrowers, giving anyone on the wall a very good look at anything even remotely close to the wall despite the thick, ragged greenery beginning to erupt everywhere as time went on and no one went out there on foot. That wasn't it either, though. Everyone had heard of the one's who could fly, massive mutant bats which could lift two grown men off of their feet and be gone in death-quiet silence before anyone even guessed they were there. It was said they only came out at night, but no one they knew could say that for sure. Those were the things which made everyone sane nervous on open ground anywhere within ten miles of the Mississippi wall. You never, ever saw them coming...
Fully armed and armoured Special Forces soldiers, veterans of conflict with any number of the creatures all over the country, stood watch every single second of every single day. Motion-triggered fully automatic Sentry Guns were installed on and atop the walls, heavy Mortars and rapid-fire automatics with anti-BOW ammunition were easily available at a moments notice, high explosive charges were secured everywhere and Flamethrowers were supplied for every soldier, being considered one of the most effective weapons against the BOW creatures-not that the children knew they were called that. Only soldiers and those who dealt with them directly did. The truth of the matter, concerning true Monsters like the surgically developed Tyrant, was unknown outside of very small, very elite intelligence circles, the higher echelons of Government and very specific Military units. That was the way it had to be, no one could know some of these things had been literally built by human hands...
"President Evans won the War with Umbrella Corporation in 2002 after his overthrow of the corrupt Government of President Bush in 2001, at the beginning of his attempts to free the world from Umbrella's influence and grip. Despite the Defection of the SOC, who he had considered loyal supporters in the War with Umbrella, and the actions of the rogue S.T.A.R.S. who would not listen to reason and attempted to aid Umbrella in its War with the US despite their oft-stated hatred of Umbrella and everything it stood for, at great cost the War was finally won.
Umbrella Corporation was shattered and destroyed in all its forms and ways, the SOC and S.T.A.R.S. were destroyed, the survivors imprisoned despite the terrible nature of their crimes They were left to consider their actions in humane mercy by President Evan's, who hoped that they might finally see the madness of their actions and come to understand their Sins.
I do not doubt that you have heard the stories that scattered survivors still lurk freely in the ruins they helped create? Wishing to visit on the rest of us the horror they believe the whole world deserves? Don't doubt them, not ever, not even for a second. They are still out there, believe me. These people are worse than anyone you can ever imagine, anyone you might ever meet. You will read stories of torture, terror, pain and death of a kind no one can ever comprehend as you get older, see, know and even experience terrible things, but know this: They are the worst. Why?" asked the man, pausing for effect before continuing.
"Almost a hundred million dead in this country alone, Nuclear Weapons used against their own people as well as Biological and Chemical Weapons so awful they do not belong on this Earth. Thousands dead in battle against the things the very acts of these "people" created, doing what had to be done to stop them. Whole cities destroyed, families killing each other in the streets, flesh-eating monstrosities killing thousands and millions more, illness and insanity sweeping the entire country in a wave sent from Hell to break us all, to put the world on its knees like America was before the final stroke to finish it..." continued the man, pausing again before turning to face the children directly.
"If it hadn't been for President Evan's, this country would no longer exist. This wall would not stand, we would all be dead and, as likely, the whole world with us, bar those pitiful few who regarded themselves as "worthy" somehow. This is the land of the free, the home of the brave, truth, justice, freedom, liberty and equality...
We lived these things once, we aspired to achieve the spread of these goals across the whole world. They spat in our face, took that from us, forced us to only survive, committed acts of High Treason and Terrorism against this great country, which will be great once again-never, ever doubt that. They tried to break us for their own ends, but we broke them. We will go on as we always do, with strength, vigour, focus and power in the world, into a bright new future which waits just ahead, past the end of the dark tunnel we pass through now" said the man, before pausing one last time.
"With Gods help and President Evans leadership, they will atone and pay for their crimes just as America will repair, rebuild and, above all, survive. How could we ever do else?"
Salt Lake CityCloud grey eyes opened slowly with a sense of luxurious relaxation that only came with utter and complete satiation. Long fingers twitched, then slowly curled, folding into the silk sheets of the bed as she stretched her whole body with an easy grace, flexing every muscle one by one. Pale white skin gleamed in the sunlight coming through the half-closed curtains of the bedroom, only to illuminate long dark-black lines running down from her eyes following the path of tears, old tattoo's she didn't discuss. As she sat up with a delicious lack of urgency a barbed wire tattoo around her mid upper left arm became clear, even as her curving form took the attention away from mere cosmetics.
Rich, thick jet black hair fell loose in a luxurious wave down her back, loose and free and slightly sticky with sweat, the same being true on areas of her skin. Her sharp, elegant features spoke of Slavic blood and made her strikingly beautiful, while flawless musculature that rippled up and down her flawless body only enhanced long limbs, a slim physique and a firm, full body that some would say was ripe with promise. In her early thirties, still a young woman, she had plenty of promise to fulfil to her mind.
Her name was Giselle, she'd never known another, although she sometimes used another: "Delphi", like the Oracle of ancient Greece, the one who knew all of the secrets and all of the lies. She'd finally fallen asleep, after at least five hours of superb reasons not to, in the Penthouse apartment of the Hilton Hotel they were living in for the moment. It had its own bar, Jacuzzi, sun deck, King Size bed-most important, she could still feel the pull of the handcuffs on her wrists and ankles-and a variety of other luxuries that they'd sampled over the long night. Bottles of alcohol lay spent everywhere-a large amount had been licked off of her naked body, as she recalled-the Jacuzzi was still steaming hot-moving water really did add to the experience-and clothes, torn to pieces, were everywhere.
Here and there were remains of some of the...more interesting..."recreational" drugs they'd tried. She could recall thinking her companion was a pink Elephant with huge ears at one point, ears which had been massaging her breasts like they were made of dough while powered by pistons. Fortunately, she'd stopped short of accidentally pulling too hard when she'd realised in the nick of time that they were actually the other woman's arms, even as she tried to fold them into a more interesting shape... She could feel the other woman's firm lips pressing hungrily on hers now, their tongues darting and weaving as they duelled in passion...
If she didn't stop now, she was going to work herself up into such a state that she'd brutalise the other woman, who lacked her resilience and control. However, given the fact that the other woman had disappeared, left presumed dead in the Racoon City disaster of 98'? Given that she hadn't reappeared until mid 02'? Given the obvious burn injuries that marred her otherwise perfect form, caused by the edge of a too-near nuclear blast-not that they bothered her at all...
Why shouldn't they indulge themselves, in every way? Being President Evan's elite Bodyguards certainly paid better and held far greater interest than the old Mercenary days-which had, in reality, been becoming increasingly repetitive and boring. She needed a challenge just to go on living, that was almost her reason for existence...
She made up her mind, kicked the sheets off of herself and flowed to her feet. She could hear a shower running-her companion must have taken and drunk less than she did, much less, she never managed to be up first otherwise. She'd probably use up most of the hot water, too, a fact which there was only one remedy for.
She got into the bathroom without a sound, taking in the warm, damp heat and slight mist of condensation with a moments thought as she took in the lines and curves of her oblivious lover behind the transparent Plexiglas walls. She didn't even register the red burn marks and occasional scars except on the most basic of levels, it was all just cosmetics when you loved someone. That black hair was down, loose and soaking wet, dripping with warm water that embraced her skin and every part of her body with a lovers sultry abandon. She wanted to taste that skin again, feel that heat...
She pulled open the door, stepped inside and shut it hard. Her companion turned sharply, but barely had time for surprise to register in her light brown slanted eyes before Giselle pressed her up against the far wall, kissing her hard as nimble hands and fingers explored her body. Ada Wong's startled resistance was very brief indeed...
Mexico City, MexicoThe young man wearing torn light-blue jeans and a worn, badly stained white vest with black boots on his feet was a soldier of the Cartels, that everyone knew. In his mid-twenties, 6,2 tall, with long ice blonde hair held in a ponytail down the back of his neck and electric ice-blue eyes shining in a smooth, strangely handsome face, with his muscular build and whiplash reflexes added to a cold, hard stare that could make anyone stop and stare, he was considered quite the catch by many young women. Not one of them had ever gone anywhere near him, or ever would.
His name was Pierre Dupree and, although only one other person in the world knew it, he heard everything that was said about him by everyone-literally. A major benefit of the enhanced senses the Virus Umbrella had infected him with ten odd years ago now had delivered.
The woman he was with was the reason no one looked at him twice unless they knew him. In her mid thirties she was almost ten years older than her companion, but if anything looked younger. Dressed in a loose blue-black shirt that wasn't tucked into the ragged same-colour trousers she wore, the shirt was unbuttoned halfway up and halfway down, even though she wasn't wearing anything under it, the wrists being undone as well. She wore hard leather boots on her feet which resembled Cowboy boots, dark brown in colour and the only good clothing she seemed to have. Eyes went on to notice the heavy deaths-head skull silver belt with black leather strap holding up her trousers.
Hair almost white it was so pure pale blonde shimmered and shifted in the bright noonday sun as a slight wind whipped up, while impossible electric-blue eyes that lacked Iris and Pupil entirely were hidden behind a pair of jet-black sunglasses that revealed nothing. Caucasian features mixed with traces of Arabic blood gave her an almost disturbing sensuality in nature, with full lips, high cheeks and a physicality that was hard to explain. She stood 5,8 tall, her exposed body yielding nothing to age or gravity, hard as granite and solid with muscle despite her easy femininity. Slim and svelte, she carried little excess weight but what she did have easily took the eye when added to a strangely disturbing sharp beauty. Her eyes were never seen, but her manner was even cooler and more focused than Dupree's.
Despite that, every man there would have given her anything she wanted, but Pierre Dupree was the reason they wouldn't. Him, and what she'd done to the one man stupid enough to try something despite that warning. What had been left...
Her name was Jena Styx, although she was sometimes known as "Domino" for reasons that she didn't discuss, her unique skills and abilities being even harder to discern that Dupree's. Between the two of them they had once formed the core of Umbrella Corporations "Special Operations" Squad, the unusual people the Corporation sent to deal with problems and threats of any kind permanently and finally.
In 2002, on the run from the US Government after it sent CIA Hit Squads to kill them following the fall of Umbrella, added to their direct answer to the direct question of would they be willing to swap sides, they'd come up with the idea of selling their talents to the highest bidder who could protect them-in organised crime, since their talents would have been wasted in the private sector and the public sector wanted them dead. Just over the border the Cartels had beckoned, now they were always busy-and safe, until they outlived their usefulness.
Sitting on the porch of their Hacienda, Pierre leaned back into his chair as Jena did the same in hers, looking up at the sun high in the sky from beneath the shade of the broad roof. It hurt his eyes, so he looked at his lady, smiled and raised his drink in a salute, the long-stemmed crystal wineglass seeming almost weightless in his hand. She returned the gesture, with the faintest of smiles.
"Absent friends" she declared, raising the glass to her lips. She waited for his reply before drinking anything, he knew why.
"Absent friends!" he declared in reply, then they both threw back the expensive, strong wine like it was water. Neither of them even noticed the tang or the taste, most things were like ashes to the two of them these days.
President of the USA Franklin Evan's had had his brother killed, her sister killed. Both of them had never known their parents, both had only ever had the one family member, both had lost everything.
One day, maybe soon, both President Evan's and the USA itself would pay-in blood, in pounds and pounds of flesh. One day soon...
Jerusalem, IsraelLooking out over the close-packed streets and alleyways of the ancient city as night slowly fell, she took in the burning red sun in the distance as it fell out of the crystal-clear blue sky. She was always watching when the sun set, when it rose. Being awake when these things happened was...special, it made one feel at one with the world. At peace, if only for a little time.
Over the past two years, though, almost everything that had ever been special to her had been taken away from her, bit by bit, first by the Umbrella Corporation, then by the CIA on the "Presidents" direct orders, since all of them were too scared to come after her directly. Not a fantasy or fiction, a fact, the only woman she knew of on the planet more formidable and dangerous than her had never been truly human. That woman, of course, had lost even more than she had, or even could.
Her husband, "Ugly" John Barnes, an SAS soldier in the British Army, an almost insanely brave man who was almost incapable of leaving his far more capable wife to fight a War alone, had been the first to die in 2002. Umbrella Special Forces had tracked the SOC remnants, decimated after the catastrophic Manhattan conflict, down in their hidden backup Base in a place that had no name and a great many places to hide.
There to assist the SOC after learning of the death of Ian Williams, the SOC Commanding Officer and an old friend of hers, John had insisted on coming with her. It had killed him when he volunteered to fight in a suicidal rearguard action to give wounded survivors a chance to escape, stating flat out she had to live as the one person still capable of beating Umbrella at its own game the SOC had left. A Demolition Charge had scattered his burnt remains far and wide as the defenders took every Umbrella soldier they could with them, destroying the whole site utterly. There hadn't even been ashes left to bury.
Second to die in 2002 had been her long-time lover and confidant, Amayana Korrina, the lush Arabic beauty who could have been a Queen in ancient times, her phenomenal mind and impossible body making every breath she took worthwhile. Pierre Dupree, Umbrella's top Assassin, had dealt her that blow, Umbrella recognising just who and what was set against them and going for her weaknesses in return. One day, she was going to find him and pay him back in a way which would make the worst of Hell seen like the true bliss of Heaven after she was done.
Third had been her father, Yitzhak Ostreko, in 2002. A man of no weaknesses including humanity, a man of religious conviction and control that couldn't be imagined, the consummate Politician, a born and natural leader with access to immense resources and influence, he could have caused Umbrella serious problems single-handedly. She'd hated the old man for over twenty-five years by the time he died, since she'd been old enough to understand his hideous, coldly ruthless nature, the fact that even his own children were just tools, means and ways to him. It didn't change the fact that he'd brought her into this world, despite the fact that hadn't spoken since she was eighteen, that they'd long ago Disowned each other. Nobody, but nobody, nothing at all touched her family. Dupree again, more marks on the slate, more blood, more pain. If he had any mind at all for the truth, he'd committed suicide and had his body Cremated a year ago with the final fall of Umbrella.
Last to die, in 2003, had been her sister, Jahanara Ostreko. One of the most capable, brilliant, dedicated and gifted Doctors ever known to anyone, she'd never lost a patient, made a bad call or failed at a job set her. Then she'd been found dead of an Overdose in a Supply Closet in her own Hospital, lying in a pool of her own filth, wrists slit, blood on and all over her uniform clothes. Jahanara had no reason at all to commit Suicide, besides which her husband-who had been driven to near-insanity by the loss and was now strapped to a Hospital bed almost permanently, heavily sedated-would have told anyone and everyone if she had had a reason, he hated her failure to provide him with children that much and more easily.
Binyamin Ostreko, her older brother, had gone to the Hospital with a gun on hearing what had happened and, after between them utterly terrorising every Patient, Doctor, Nurse, Cleaner and Technician in the place to the point most required medical help, they had established that an unknown man was the last person ever seen with Jahanara alive. She'd made a call. The CIA, on orders direct from the White House. Another man she was going to visit the true, awful terror of the real, sublime, professional killer of darkest myth and mystery on. The rumour that there was a limit to how much pain anyone could stand before their heart stopped from the suffering was a myth, she knew. From practise.
There would have been one more, but the CIA had made the catastrophic mistake of going after her old friend Song Ma Han, alias "Dragonfly", in Japan. Song was like Isis herself, true Death, the finality of the Abyss and the ease of killing made real. An amused phone call had informed her of where to find the remains of the six-man Death Squad, she'd left a message next to Songs for the CIA to find. They'd never tried anything again.
Dark chestnut hair fell about her head, shoulders, back and chest, curling and silky soft. Oak brown eyes absorbed the sunset once more from beneath elegant long eyelashes, even as the suns dying rays of bloody-red tinged light lit up her olive, deeply tanned skin and sharp profile not even touched by age, since she was now in her late thirties. The light illuminated a breathtaking beauty and profile, shaped by sharp dark looks which were an indicator of her Jewish blood, all contained in a long, lean body an inch off of six feet tall. Preternatural elegance and an impossible grace manifested even as she did no more than step forwards and lean on the balcony rail of her Jerusalem home, her ease of movement and the mere sight of her making self-control description inadequate. All long limbs, full, firm curves and smooth hard muscle, she was desire personified-and she knew it.
Her name was Isis and, as a top Agent of the feared Israeli Mossad Intelligence service, a long-term Agent of the Kidon, those who dealt with what had to be done, rather than what needed to be done, she was both myth and monster in her own lifetime. She'd shaken the world, torn out and off parts and burnt them alive, killed to make sure her home, her people and what needs and wants she had were satisfied. That had all earned her the reputation of monstrosity and insanity, which she believed was just the truth. What she had earned from that were things like this luxury home in central Jerusalem, where even the local ultra-orthodox, the Palestinians, the Police and, sometimes, even people like the CIA knew not to go near. Everyone had a place of peace that was sacrosanct to them alone, this was hers. She came here to relax and think, she very rarely brought guests. Or allowed them.
She could feel the cooling air breathing on her skin beneath the bloody red robe that covered her, loosely tied at the waist as it was, large parts of her legs and chest being revealed by her stride and the set of her shoulders. A rising breeze was shifting her hair about her, making some sense of clarity return to her mind. She wasn't used to loosing or pain beyond the body, she didn't honestly know how to deal with such things. What she did know were things she was going to apply in force on her return to the USA, something which was going to happen very, very soon. She'd promised Franklin Evan's one thing and she was going to deliver: that she was going to make his death last a year for every person he'd ever killed, including everyone who'd died since he'd become President...
She sensed a presence behind her before she heard his bare feet on the metal balcony rail, hid a sad smile. She'd managed to save one at least.
Kenny Bailey, a twenty-six year old computer and electronics genius, a young man close to fifteen years younger than her. Flaming red hair and dark green eyes set around a softly handsome young face made him appealing, his unusual intelligence and skills made him useful. The fact he had real difficulty killing anyone? She actually found it...cute, there was no other way to describe it. In her line of work, in his, meeting someone who wasn't a true professional killer with ice on the Soul was almost unique. It had been one of the things that had first drawn her to him, back when they'd first met, when he'd been a rookie Cop, years ago.
He was wearing light blue jeans and nothing else, his hard-muscled, solid physique easily evident. The same was true of long, thin scars all over his body, the scars of a Whip. The cigarette burns on his chest, neck, back and shoulders. The long, thin lines that broadened in places and went deep in others, knife slashes and stab wounds. The terrible scar on his chest where it appeared that part of his left upper chest had simply melted, where acid had been poured straight onto his flesh. She knew that the soles of his feet had been beaten, flayed and cut so badly it was unlikely he'd ever regain full mobility, his fingers had been badly broken on Uziman1's orders as revenge for Kenny putting the Hacker in jail years ago-but with extensive medical care and physiotherapy he was slowly getting back to what he once was. The cloudy left eye that focused on nothing told its own story, he'd never given in to his jailers, never broken...
It made her glad of what she'd done to them, all of that blood... Uziman1 had been left to discover life with no arms and legs after she'd kidnapped him on discovery of just what had happened to Kenny. As a taster she'd pulled out his tongue first, literally, not easy but possible if you did it right. She'd promised him if she ever saw him again she'd work her way through the entire alphabet savaging every extremity and organ, that she'd make sure he didn't die until she was done. She was going to keep that promise, too.
Once, Kenny Bailey had been almost a reluctant soldier, nearly a pacifist, a computer genius who wanted to serve his country who just happened to serve in its Military. He'd been a little naïve-she should know-idealistic and dedicated to bringing about the "better world" he unwaveringly believed in, that he believed the USA was representative of. Now?
Now he was so scarred and damaged, inside and out, even she had trouble reading him. His was no longer remotely innocent, let alone naïve, he'd seen and experienced first-hand just what depths a human being could sink to in the act of harming another. Pain wasn't so different from pleasure if you knew what you were doing, she knew that long ago, now he did. His better world? Once upon a time there was a great and golden glowing map and city held in his mind that was the ideal everyone should aim for, a place that always kept him true, honest and alive. Now there was a dead black hole infested by nightmares and insanity set in the centre of his mind and left to fester by bastards. The man she'd known was dead, she just hoped that whoever he was becoming could help her with what she needed.
"Bastards..." he muttered, voice rough and low. He taken up smoking to help with his nerves after she'd rescued him from Camp Zero six months ago on her way out of the USA, badly wounded and on the run from every intelligence Agency and Agent in the country as well as every law enforcement officer. She was still the one person anyone knew who'd ever fought the "enhanced" Albert Wesker with her bare hands and survived, somehow. That fact he'd survived at least three fatal injuries for a human before she'd managed to throw him under a truck and escape, seconds before he recovered, had convinced her that she needed serious help-and that she had to get out of the country, fast. She didn't know where "Pandora" herself, Jianna Torres, was, or she'd have gone there and made a deal with the Devil in a heartbeat, at any price. It didn't change anything, there were ways. The USA and everyone in it had to pay for what Evan's had done-and it would, they would...
Manhattan, New YorkThe military helicopter with Cuban Air Force markings swept in low over the sea near the island, rose slightly into the air to fly fast between empty buildings, shops, arcades, skyscrapers, dark office blocks and empty houses, then rotated towards one particularly tall one. It climbed high, up and above the roof, before slowly settling down onto the rooftop landing pad.
The pilot could see darkness everywhere, moving humanoid shapes staggering around in the dark, shapes at shattered windows, blood-streaked city streets strewn with wreckage in the form of broken glass, crashed cars, trucks and even planes and, somehow more disturbing, no sign of light or life at all, anywhere. Small tendrils of smoke rose in places, buildings burnt the colour of dark ash by bloody red flames shivered in the breeze.
The growing darkness failed to conceal flocks of birds sweeping past in a way which, while not necessarily odd, was simply...wrong, somehow, to anyone who'd ever seen birds fly about naturally. Their shifts of direction were too smooth, their movement too quick, their responses insane as they instantly wheeled towards anything that caused the slightest disturbance, where any truly wild animals fled possible danger.
"Do exactly what your told, touch nothing without an order and, no matter what, do not get your blood drawn by anything or anyone here or I will shoot you and throw your body to the things down there. Most important: stay close to me" ordered Xenia Omerova, his Boss and leader.
Six feet of Russian steel-forged muscle and bone, with mahogany brown luscious deep eyes and dark auburn hair set round a truly striking face darkened by Gypsy blood at some point in her family line, an adamantine-hard body with firm curves that was simple fantasy being sat inside a grey-black urban camouflage uniform made Xenia Omerova hard to miss. She was heavily armed, with duel MP-60's, duel STEYR automatics, a 9MM pistol, a 36. Holdout pistol holstered at the base of her spine and an actual sword sheathed across her back added to grenades at her waist suggesting she was armed for bear. She needed to be, coming here. He was carrying an AK-47, a Magnum, two Glock heavy pistols and enough explosives to bring down a big building. Both of them had multiple reloads and all of the gear necessary to create ammunition on the spot in an emergency, as well a variety of more specialised gear. He just hoped it would be enough, given what he'd heard.
There was no such thing as a Vaccine any longer, something the US Government had found out the hard way. Umbrella's last Virus had a "Rogue" element to it, which mutated every single carrier differently and so required a different Vaccine for every single one. That was functionally and physically impossible with literally millions of the things wandering everywhere infested with who-knew-what and mutating into wore all the time. Unless and until they were all killed there was no safety, especially since the Virus could get airborne in sufficient concentration-such as here, in a city with millions of carriers concentrated close up. Here a scratch could kill you, literally, the possibility of your survival depended entirely on what you were capable of to survive.
This was his first trip. He had no idea at all what they could face or who they were going to meet, yet, he wasn't even completely sure where they were. But no one said no to Xenia any more...
The roof area was heavily secured, ventilation shafts were covered with two coats of punctured steel surrounded by barbed wire to keep out anything larger than a bullet casing, entrance and exit points were either sealed or secured with barriers and bars, the only visible exit from the roof not impassable was a steel and wood exit door. This cracked open as he shut down the engines and checked his weapons, a dark figure stepping out.
Five-eight tall, electric jet-black curling hair, brilliant amber eyes and a skin so dark black it drew in the night. Hard muscle and firm curves evident everywhere about a slender form that was, nonetheless, all muscle. The kind of beautiful in feature and form that had little to do with humanity it was so flawless. She was wearing a jet-black T-shirt, torn-up dark-blue jeans and what appeared to be brown leather cowboy boots. She was also carrying an M-60 machine gun one-handed like it was a pistol, ammunition trailing off to one side.
Jianna Torres, the "Fallen Angel", the nightmare fantasy. Built rather than born, a thing rather than a creature, discovering that far too late had ended almost everything. When you saw her, you didn't need an introduction. Looking her in the eyes made you remember that there were worse things and places than Hell, then there was her...
"MOVE!" snapped Jianna, her voice so sharp and strong he suspected that people heard it out at sea as it cut right through his head. Then he heard the flapping-that awful wet whipping noise of bone slapping feather against air, a hiss of lethal sound amidst the silent Hell of this dead place. He couldn't help it, he turned slowly-he almost wet himself. An entire flight of birds, hundreds at least, was wheeling towards them right now from all around...
"MOVE, IDIOT!" Xenia barked into his ear, nearly taking his head off as she wrenched at his ear hard to get his attention. It worked, he snapped out of it, jumped out of the helicopter and sprinted for the door, managing to stay on Xenia's heels-he dived through the door head-first as Jianna slammed it shut and barred it, that hideous hiss of movement that seemed right outside being shut off abruptly. He didn't doubt that Jianna would have shut him outside with them if he'd been a second too slow.
"Xenia, how many times? Bring one with some sense, in the name of mercy" said Jianna, even as she turned and began striding down the steps. He couldn't help but stare, her mere physical grace and body language were hypnotic. How could anyone do what she did?
"No one comes here out of choice, Fallen. I prefer to try and use one's who'll get me here in one piece" replied Xenia, following Jianna after cuffing him on the back of the head to get his attention. He scrambled to his feet and scurried after them, taking the hint.
He glimpsed rooms as the walked down corridors and stairwells, people living in them wearing ruined clothes, scraping food out of tins with fingernails as they clustered around small stoves lit with anything which would burn to generate heat. Windows were boarded up everywhere, there were no open ways to the outside world, doors were locked shut on every stairway and level. Haunted eyes tracked the three of them everywhere they went-the people he saw were starving, dying inside and utterly beyond even pretending to have any hope. It didn't change the fact that every single person, including the children, was armed and looked as though they could and would kill in a Psychotic frenzy in a second if they had to.
Men, women and children were everywhere, but not one of them even acknowledged his existence. He didn't doubt for a second, though, the fact that all of these people were still alive because they were among the most expert killers you could, or would, ever meet. They were experts in slaughter and mayhem, that skill had brought them here and kept them alive. He'd rather have gone out on the streets armed with only Knuckledusters against millions of walking Corpses in an attempt to escape the city than annoy any of the people in the building with him. He thought it quite possible they'd cut his legs off and cook them in front of him for dinner if he got them angry, only survival had a meaning to them any more.
"Your late" said the woman they were really here to see-Serena Baccarin, former Assassin for the US Government, now third on the "Most Wanted" list for the USA beneath Matthew Ryan and Jianna Torres after what had happened at the White House in 2002. From what he'd heard the White House had been turned red with blood as Serena and Jianna killed their way through, blasting their way in while wrecking everything in sight in an orgy of destruction and death. If Albert Wesker, having been thrown right through the building following a mad attempt to stop the demented Jianna single-handedly, hadn't simply picked up the literally scared-stiff President, slung him over his shoulder and run like Hell itself was after him until he found a helicopter and got clear, they would have succeeded. As it was, even they weren't about to try to fight jet fighters when they realised what had happened...
Sapphire blue eyes were framed by jet-black hair, her tawny skin deliciously highlighting her fine bone structure. An inch shorter than the six-foot Xenia, she was corded muscle and wired tension ready to uncoil and strike at a moments notice. Strikingly beautiful with the kind of curves only thirty-some years of good genes and extensive exercise granted, she was wearing a grey vest, torn light blue trousers and worn old grey trainers. Two 9MM pistols sat, one to each hip, holstered on a gun belt around her waist. He didn't dare look her in the eyes, he knew death itself when he saw it.
"Next thing you know you'll be blaming me for bad weather, the creation of bad luck and the possibility of having sex that you don't enjoy. Serena, until I can fly I'll always have to worry about winds, unusual routes to avoid directions and the possibility of a big detour to dodge patrols from the USAF. Please don't suggest you don't know that. Now, how go things?" asked Xenia.
"Evan's is still alive and has everything attached in Salt Lake City, which is a major problem. Thirty million odd Zombies and other creatures are laying siege to this building every day, that's bad too. On the up side, Jianna still hasn't finished with Spencer, I've heard interesting ideas from Isis and, if we go soon, we might just be in time to save the SOC and S.T.A.R.S. survivors being held in Guantanamo Bay. I'm ready and waiting and want to kill, how about you? Any more trouble with Castro?" replied Serena.
Xenia just smiled a slow, lazy smile. "Not since I assassinated him and took over, no..." she replied slowly.
Serena just grinned in return. "I like your style, girlfriend" she said, even as Jianna's face displayed something similar to a smile...
THE END?