Hello, everyone. Here is a series combining multiple elements of "Resident Evil" games together into what I hope will be an interesting story.
The Fanfiction user "RT86" is working with me on this story, providing a lot of ideas for this from the start.
DISCLAIMER: "Resident Evil", and all the characters or places mentioned in this story, is produced and published by Capcom. The author and the user "RT86" own the OC "David Wellington" mentioned in this story.
Onward!
[20:42 PM]
"You are certain of this?"
"Positive, Sir." Fingers clack across the keyboard, the sound coming through the cellular phone as the thin white coat-wearing scientist holding it cycles through pages of text. "The sequencing is nearly perfect Tyrant material. The numbers are showing 95% mutation potential."
"And this is the most recent genetic sample from this person?"
"It was taken four days ago, Sir. That was the most recent day we collected the genomes from the facility staff."
A thin tongue wets dried lips. The man on the other end of the phone call, one of the many "suits" who are the one of his corporation's faces, leans back in his chair. This prompts a creaking noise from the leather object that only he can hear. He digests the scientist's information with careful interest before asking, "How long has this employee been sampled?"
The scientist opens another file on the computer, a dossier with biographical information and an attached photo. Almost a minute goes by before an answer is given: "They registered the same day as everyone else three months ago."
Sunlight shines through the large window of the suit's office, but his gaze stays on his desk and the small piles of papers arranged on it. Appearing random to an outside viewer, to the man they are in the required symmetry. Each file has the icon of his corporation, a red and white umbrella, stamped or printed somewhere on it.
"If it's been three months since they registered," the suit asks the scientist, "why has it taken this long to judge compatibility? Have any other samples been as successful?"
The scientist flinches, tensing his shoulders and hoping to heaven the suit isn't too upset. "We've been delayed with testing the samples, Sir. The higher-ups are more focused on this facility's defense than its research right now."
The suit takes in a breath to argue, but then he remembers he is speaking to someone in a more isolated part of the world. Updating defenses when you feel threatened is a perfectly logical response by corporate rules. He mentally files away the task of reviewing this facility's purpose later, despite the possible hours of work it will pile onto his already-burdened plate. He knows it is on a tropical island in the South Pacific Ocean, but the reason why it's there, or which island among the possible thousands it could be, is beyond him.
The scientist clears his throat after pressing a few more keys. "The previous two samples from this person have been tested as well," he says. "They showed 30% and 33% compatibility, respectively. The difference between those samples and this latest one is three weeks."
The suit frowns. "You are supposed to be taking those samples on a weekly period. That is in your team's contract."
"As I said, Sir, the commanders are more focused on repairing facility damage and monitoring the perimeter right now. We've all asked Sir Ashford for more medical supplies, but all our requests have been rejected." The scientist pauses to catch his breath. "Sir Ashford doesn't know about this, actually. His priorities as of recently have shifted in strange ways."
The suit's hand holding the phone twitches, one finger tapping against the phone's casing. This accusation against a high-ranking executive like Alfred Ashford is normally grounds for disciplinary action, perhaps even forced labor. But even though the suit would never admit it to anyone, the fact this scientist took the time to call him personally is something worth bragging about. He's been shown some secret, a fact kept hidden from the rest of the island, perhaps even the rest of Umbrella! The bad parts seem to balance out with the good in the suit's mind.
This claim appears worth the risk.
The suit briefly considers jumping on board right now but holds back. The possibility of this all being random coincidence keeps him from instantly calling his immediate superior. He has the power to get more people interested in this – that's why the scientist called him in the first place – but he needs to use that power wisely.
"A Tyrant is a valuable asset," the suit says, both men understanding to some extent what that value means. "I cannot allow the spending of Umbrella's resources on a simple coincidence, which is what this is sounding like to me. The accusations against a corporate executive are another matter entirely."
"This could be another Sergei Vladimir, Sir." The scientist's curt remark knocks the suit off guard as he continues. "This man has 22% greater compatibility with the T-strain than the Colonel's DNA did. The DNA Vladimir provided to the R&D and science teams made the 1 to 10 million odds of successful Tyrant creation into a much more reasonable number."
The suit's stomach flutters. He also remembers the Colonel, the elite Captain of the Guard and leader of the "Monitors" security team. The Soviet executive had certainly been helpful before his untimely demise with the fall of the "Talos" project. "So," he asks the scientist, "you think that success might happen again?"
"Yes, Sir. With some extra equipment and medical supplies, we can find the exact code. There is a lot of potential here, or I wouldn't have called you about it."
The suit stares up at the white ceiling of his windowed office. The words "a lot of potential" ignites his imagination in what ways it can be used. These genes can help create a new Bio Organic Weapon once combined with computer programming. If a new Tyrant is created, that will show investors the corporation is growing with the times. It might even help wash away some of the fallback from the Raccoon City failure…
"Continue your research as you are able," he tells the scientist. "Keep an eye for any further high-compatibility samples among the staff. If you get enough evidence to warrant a test, do so immediately." A few files on the suit's desk are pulled out with one hand as he speaks, his brain already imagining how he will phrase this discovery in a report.
"You will get your supplies," the suit continues as he takes out a notepad and pen to write down a few specific points before he gets too excited. "If you have the chance before your testing begins, I recommend sending a personal report to a server in one of our main bases, away from the South Pacific. Have a good day."
The scientist holds his own cell phone up to his ear for a few moments after the call is cut. When he is sure he will get no further comments from the suit, he slowly puts the device into his coat pocket. His eyes skim the usual legal jargon of the opened dossier for anything else unusual. If he can find extra information to put into his report, it will certainly catapult this discovery into a prominent position. Maybe, if things aligned perfectly, a prominent member of the R&D team would personally visit the facility to review the findings.
The man cracks a smile at his own thought. This is Rockfort Island, dunderhead. No one comes here unless ordered, or if they want to get away from the world. He looks at the dossier's attached photo, showing a frontal and side view of a man with a small goatee, pale skin, and a thin stature. Someone who, for the most part, blends right in with so many other workers at the facility. Nothing special appears concerning their personal history or activities spent on-site.
"David Wellington," the scientist reads from the dossier as if sentencing this employee to the chopping block. "I almost feel sorry for you." He can feel a smile on his face as he imagines the possibilities of accelerating the grand plan of the Umbrella Corporation.
[2 DAYS LATER] [ROCKFORT ISLAND] [04:30 AM]
David Wellington grumbles as he turns his driver's key in his corporation-licensed pickup truck's ignition. The engine slowly starts up in the humid air, too slowly for David's taste. The engine seems to echo his anger and reluctance to get going again, rumbling slowly like a massive behemoth rising from a long slumber. Eventually David's continued insistence brings the engine to its full power, the truck ready for another period of work. With the engine running, David idles for a minute to think about the things he will do today.
"Let's see," he whispers into the cabin around him while counting the tasks on his fingers, "first I'll go to the main center, load up, take the load to the outpost, unload, come back to the center, load up again, go out again. Somewhere between deliveries I'll have my breakfast. Maybe I'll get back to the center in time for a hot lunch." He shakes his head at that last point. "God, I wish."
With the engine now ready to go, David puts his hands on the steering wheel and ease his foot down on the accelerator. He holds his employee keycard, hanging around his neck by a lanyard, to the automatic scanner to open the door of the garage his truck and his quarters are stationed in. The pre-dawn darkness outside is somewhat broken by the glare of lamps and marked lights along a path leading across solid ice and rock, the garage stationed near the main headquarters of the Umbrella Corporation's Rockfort Island facility. David slowly exhales as he guides his truck out into the open air, a bad taste in his mouth and a stiff sensation in his shoulders from a hard sleep the night before.
The truck's tires rumble and crunch against the ground, passing over broken branches and the occasional piece of fruit that had spilled onto the road in the night. David keeps the truck at a steady speed to stay between the lights as the path winds to in either direction. The screwy pathways the facility uses circumnavigate larger mountains or jungle too dense to break through. This makes traveling safer, but also slower. David keeps his mind occupied on his driving, trying to ignore his growling stomach and hunger for something other than the Umbrella-approved ready-to-eat meal the chefs are supposed to make.
Oh, shut up, David's subconscious tells his desires. Stop dreaming for what you can't get. Just do your job and you'll be fine here. Two years of telling himself that has not led David to any better things, something he blames on corporate management. Whoever assigned him to this place probably didn't know him by face, or care much about what lower-ranking workers wanted. So, like every other time when David makes this argument with his inner thoughts, he chooses to just stick to routine and deal with it later.
David gets his truck into the base's central garage without incident, giving a brief wave to the pair of guards doing the early-morning shift like himself. They don't wave back, or even speak to him, as per company policy for Umbrella troopers. Once inside the headquarters, David brings his truck onto a large platform that descends into the underground storage facility. Down there is where David gets loaded in both delivery goods and his daily food and drink supply. The platform moves quickly, driven by powerful motors and anchored firmly to the giant metal shaft that holds it in place. David turns off the truck's engine, hops out onto the solid metal platform, and quickly walks to the nearest set of stairs leading up from the platform to the small break room adjacent to the loading space.
David enters the room to see one of the nighttime truck drivers slumped in a chair with his head on the only wooden table in the room. The older man, who David does not know by name, has scraggly white hair and mocha-brown skin. He wears the same beige-green uniform David does, the back of an identical lanyard to David's own around his neck. David tries to walk across the room's metal floor quietly, the entire space shaped into something like a square by several metal plates being wedged together. The chairs and table are called "business essentials" by the higher-ups, and this other driver is hogging some of them to himself.
Good for him. David gets to his employee locker, standing like a stiff mannequin in between two other identical lockers and having his name stamped on a darker metal plaque. He probably needs a break. David smirks as he remembers he is due for a vacation starting tomorrow. Nine days of relaxation in a different tropical island, transport to and from paid for by the generous and caring Umbrella Corporation.
David opens the combination lock to find his trucker's uniform hung up and cleaned inside the locker, courtesy of some native Hispanic on the island employed by Umbrella as an indentured worker. On a small shelf inside the locker is a small Umbrella-approved calendar flipped to the current month. Alongside that is David's one allowed personal item; a single printed selfie showing himself smiling on a sun-covered beach as the tide comes in. David glances at the photo for just a moment before he pulls the uniform out and goes into the adjacent bathroom. The space, really just a rectangular box with a functioning toilet and plumbing, gives him the privacy to change from his bedclothes into his daily wear.
As David steps back out of the break room and towards the barracks to get his assigned meal, like all non-indentured employees are supposed to, he notes a few more Umbrella soldiers milling around his truck. By now the vehicle's back has been covered with a green camo tarp, combining with the vehicle's own green paint job to blend better into the surrounding environment. This doesn't concern him too much. So long as they don't try and hurt him, he can just look the other way and get on with his—
The soldiers start walking towards him. David's surprise gives the armed men and women, all covered in matching uniforms, black helmets and goggles, the chance to get close to him. Two gloved hands from two different soldiers grip his shoulders too hard to be a casual greeting, or even some kind of joke.
"David Wellington," one of them says through his helmet in a scraggly male voice, "you will come with us to the Research Division." The soldiers holding him push him away from the barracks and to a separate door at another end of the platform.
David's anxiety rapidly ramps up as he is moved against his will. "What's going on?" he eventually asks these people. "Is something wrong with my schedule today?" He doesn't dare ask about his vacation in fear he will be told the worst possible news for that.
"Your schedule is fine," the soldier at his left tells him as another soldier moves to open the door and lead the way into a narrow corridor connecting the facility's several primary locations underground. "Your latest genetic sampling has been analyzed and requires additional examination."
"Genetic sampling?" David tries to press his feet into the ground and push against the soldier's grip so he can think for a moment. "That's for safety protocol! What is going on here?!"
"Calm down," the same soldier orders as the soldier up front opens a door into another corridor towards an unknown destination. "You are not in danger. A scientist is going to take a second genetic sample and ask you some questions. You will then be allowed to continue your shift as normal."
David's gut does not feel any better from this answer. This is a very abrupt start to what is probably going to be a very long day. The day doesn't get any better when the guards bring him to an examination room he has never seen before. The reason for that is probably the room's basic nature, a hospital bed on wheels joined by a pair of smaller metal carts containing various test tubes and jars filled with various chemicals. The soldiers sit him down on the bed, and then one of them taps the side of their helmet and says something that doesn't go through their helmet. David looks to the door he was brought through as the soldiers start to file back out of it. They take all the test tubes and jars with them, too.
"Stay here, Mr. Wellington," David is told by the last soldier to leave. "The scientists will arrive shortly." The door slams shut after that, all the soldiers gone and David none the wiser to what is happening. Is he sick? He doesn't feel sick, but it might be some strain of disease local to this island. He doesn't remember being bitten or stung by any strange bugs or eating any undercooked food from the chefs. He has a momentary flash of something worse, the word "mutation" dancing in his stomach like a hot potato.
David looks back to the door. He wants to get up and open it but knows it won't be that easy. The Umbrella Corporation is very tight on security and protecting its resources, meaning they leave nothing unguarded. Those soldiers are probably right outside the door, listening in to his every word. That's probably why they took the chemicals out, to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid before the scientists get here.
David looks to the room's ceiling. He doesn't see any video cameras, but he is sure he's being watched. He doesn't put it past Umbrella to have eyes and ears just about everywhere in their facilities. What have they found that prompts them to summon a squad of soldiers and take him away from his job? Why is he, his very genetics, suddenly so important to these people? Why is he being allowed to talk to people he normally never interacts with?
Voices come into the room through the door, muffled to David's ears. The scientists must be coming. He'll get an answer soon.
Alright, that's all for now. Hopefully you have enjoyed this first part. Part 2 will be published soon; unfortunately, we don't have a set date at this time.
Any feedback/reviews given to this story will be great for both me and "RT86" to see.
Draconos is taking off!