Carlos dodged through the laser grid as it swept through the narrow hallway. The grid clipped the edge of his armor, dissolving it instantly.
"I thought this was supposed to be a test," he gritted through his teeth into his mic, inspecting how close it had come to slicing though his arm.
"It is a test," he heard Dr. Kents say over the earbud. "One that will prove whether it's worth sending you out into the field or whether this was a waste of time."
"Great," Carlos said, twisting his body to avoid the oncoming laser as it made another pass, this time blocking more of the hallway. The walls were thick and strong, making it impossible for him to shoot his way through but...
He looked up. The ceiling looked less shielded than the walls and floor and he could see the air shafts were located near the top of the wall meaning that the pipes had to be relatively close. He shot several blasts upward before the grid came slicing back towards him.
He dodged again, but just barely. The hole in the ceiling wasn't much, but it was a better chance than waiting for the laser grid to slice him into dog food. He jumped up and grabbed the edges of the shattered tile. The split edges bit into his hands but he pulled himself through pain and into the roof space.
The space was packed with electrical wiring and piping, making it nearly impossible for him to move. He could barely fit his body around the pipes and still out of reach of the laser grid below. In Die Hard, there would have been a shaft large enough for him to inch his way along, but he was going to have to be more creative.
He shifted, his muzzle tapping the top of the enclosure with a hollow thud. Surprised, he tapped again. The empty thud was encouraging—if there was a floor above this one, he might be able to punch through it.
The top of the crawlspace was connected in segments. He pulled out his machete with some effort—trying to draw it out of its holder when he couldn't lift his elbow up required some maneuvering—and placed it in the tiny crack separating two of the plates where it would hopefully be less sound.
He had to slide the machete in at an odd angle, also because of the space, but he was able to wiggle his way through the wood. He grunted as sawdust fell on his face and into his mouth but he could feel the wood beginning to give.
With one last shove he rammed the machete through the insulation and was rewarded with a faint glimpse of fluorescent lighting. Hopeful now, he began slicing a line perpendicular to the one he had just cut. This one seemed to go faster.
He was too impatient to try to slice through any more—he didn't know what exactly the "test" entailed, but he didn't want to be trapped between an Umbrella Corp monster and a laser grid when it did. He kicked at his partially-cut section, a childish part of him enjoying creating any mess he could for Umbrella Corp to clean up.
With on final kick, the piece above him cracked enough for him to squeeze through. He hauled himself into a crouch, sheathing his machete and switching to his gun a smooth, efficient motions.
He took stalk. The hallway was hospital white with only the light blue speckles on the linoleum floors to add even a small gradation in color.
He could hear shuffling in another hallway off to the left and the soft buzz of the fluorescent lighting, but that was all.
There was no way for him to know which way to go, so he just moved forward in a half-crouch. He peeked around the corner of the hallway: nothing. He slunk through the hallways, silent as a cat stalking its prey.
Two more corridors and three dead ends later, he still hadn't run into anything. He was on full alert, knowing that tension was as much the enemy as whatever Dr. Kents was sending him up against. Nerves could kill a man as sure as a bullet to the head if they distracted him at a crucial moment, but he was no green boy playing at being a soldier.
Instead, the adrenaline sang through his blood, feeding his senses. He'd seen others crack from living in a war zone every day, even before that fateful night in Raccoon City, but it felt like home to him now. He didn't get off on it like some soldiers he'd known.
To him, Death was an old friend who walked with him each time he stepped onto the battlefield. Friends left, retired, died, but Death was always constant.
He turned the next corner. He sensed rather than saw something fall from the ceiling behind him accompanied by the sound of boots hitting the cheap linoleum behind him. He whirled to face his opponent, but he was hit in the face before he could assess the danger.
He acted on reflex, rolling with the punch, then using the momentum to carry him around into a punch of his own. He fist connected with a cheekbone and his attacker stumbled back.
"This is how you treat me after all this time, Carlos?" Alice asked.
Alice.
He stared. It was and it wasn't Alice. The left side of her face drooped and was discolored with purples and blues unnatural to human skin. Her bones poked too sharply through her skin and she moved with an odd disconnect that was at odds with the deadly grace of the real Alice.
But she was close—so close—to the woman he loved.
He'd spent too long drinking her in, imperfect copy though she was. With a burst of speed every bit as lightning fast as the real thing, she slammed her foot into his midsection. When he doubled over, she grabbed his head and threw him into the wall.
The impact was enough to wake him from his daze. The pain sharpened his focus. Almost as if in slow motion, he watched as she lifted a gun to his head. His hand moved instinctively, one hand grabbing her wrist and pulling the gun away from him, the other wrapping around her neck.
He brought her face down to his knee and he heard the cartilidge of her nose breaking as it connected with the bone. He slammed her face into his knee twice more, then through her into the opposite wall. A distant part of his brain noted that his throw took her too far, too fast.
He threw a punch, which she ducked, and his knuckles left a deep dent in the wall—another new development—but he was too busy avoiding her swipe to analyze it.
She scored anther hit to his kidneys, but the armor blunted the hit. He wrapped his arm around her neck, pinning her arms against her body. With just a ouch more pressure, he could snap her neck.
"Do it," he head Dr. Kents whisper through the earbud.
But this was Alice—even though she was some Umbrella Corp construction and not the real thing. She was probably just like him—forced into whatever course of action they had nightmared up this time. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, waiting for him to kill her.
"No," he said. "You'll have to do it yourself."
"Very well," he heard Dr. Kents say. "Suit yourself."
Abruptly, he felt his muscles seize. And then he began to squeeze the girl who was not Alice.
No no no no no, he thought as she struggled helplessly. He fought against himself and for a few precious seconds his body obeyed him and loosened. He fought a different battle now, and for those few moments he held the line against the invasive force programmed into his very cells.
In the end, he snapped her neck.
He stared at her broken body, now a crumpled form on the linoleum floors, her graying skin matching the colorless scheme of the corridors.
"What...who was she?" Carlos asked.
"A failed experiment." Dr. Kents walked around the corner in front of him. He stepped over the dead girl with distaste. "We've been trying to clone Alice Abernathy rather unsuccessfully for the past few years. At first, it seemed there was hope, but now it's degenerated down to mere photocopies of her since Dr. Isaacs died." He smiled at Carlos.
"But you, I think we finally have a chance with you."
"I don't want to kill Alice," Carlos said.
"It doesn't matter," said Kents, shrugging. "When the time comes, you won't have a choice."