Rebecca Chambers grit her teeth as one of the cars in their convoy — a car that someone had strapped big, obnoxious speakers onto at some point years ago — began blasting Iron Butterfly's 'In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida' (which always made her remember the gag from The Simpsons where Bart tricked the church organist into playing it). She was trying to perform some spectroanalysis on the latest batch of T-antidote, and now she'd just have to wait for the stupid song to finish or else she'd just wind up with a massive headache. She'd argued the numerous logical reasons to ditch the speakers on numerous occasions (I mean, did people want every zombie for miles around to hone in on their location?), but got shot down every time, so she'd stopped doing it.
God, she wanted to shoot some hoops.
The CB radio next to her crackled to life. "Hey Carlos, this is Claire," spoke the voice of the convoy's leader. "You got any smokes?" Rebecca rolled her eyes, not this shit again.
"No," Carlos' voice responded flatly.
"Like I'm supposed to believe that," Claire bantered back.
"You know I've been trying to quit for my angel, Claire," Carlos countered, and Rebecca could just see in her mind's eye with perfect clarity the little look of affection he and Kaplan always gave each other, and for one moment she felt a massive spike of pain in her chest, but knew that it was purely psychological and clamped down hard on it.
"LJ?" Claire said, moving on down to the next person in the convoy most likely to have tobacco products on their person.
"Claire Redfield, how can I help you?" LJ's jovial voice responded.
"Got any smokes?" Claire asked. Big surprise there!
"No can do," LJ answered.
"How about alternate?" Claire asked. Rebecca rolled her eyes. Why not just say pot? It's not like marijuana was a Schedule I drug anymore, the DEA was DEA-D.
"Sorry to say, we're out of that too." LJ sounded like a kid whose dog had just died.
"You gotta be shitting me," Betty interjected, and Rebecca could understand her dismay, at least, because the convoy's resident nurse administered it therapeutically to her patients (in addition to her own personal recreational use, of course). "Otto?"
"Sorry campers," replied the driver of the school bus, the home of most of the convoy's kids (almost all of them foundlings). "Smoked the last of it back in Salt Lake." Rebecca shook her head. Fucking wasteful. Fucking stupid. Of course when she'd brought up to Claire that maybe people shouldn't be allowed to smoke pot willy nilly, she'd been shut down harder than when she wanted to ditch the loudspeakers. She was used to it, of course, been used to it even before the damn zombie plague. Didn't stop her from speaking her mind every so often.
She decided to exercise that option now. "I'd like to take this opportunity to remind all you lung cancer enthusiasts that just because you outlived the Surgeon General, it doesn't mean that you know better than him. Next time you get the urge to light up, think of me and Betty trying to operate on your cancer-ridden lungs using sterilized steak knives, and your only form of anesthesia is corn liquor."
The radio was silent for a few moments. Then, Claire responded, as she often did, with, "Fucking nerd." The channel was filled with laughter and agreements, and Rebecca just reached over and switched it off.
She knew, intellectually, that she was a valued member of the community. She was the one in charge of the 'still' that held their supply of T-antidote, being probably the last non-Umbrella person alive with degrees in biochemistry and virology. Anything she told Claire she needed, Claire got it for her without hesitation or second guessing. Claire respected her. Even calling her a 'fucking nerd' was a term of endearment — Rebecca had trained herself to identify the warmth and humor that Claire used when calling her that.
She just had to take a few moments to calm down and remind herself of all that.
"Mommy?" Rebecca pulled herself out of her introspective bullshit and smiled down at her son, who'd been sitting on the floor next to her and playing with old, beat-up action figures. "What's cancer?"
Ah. She ruefully chastised herself for forgetting that her son was in earshot. "Well, William, it's when some of the cells that make up your body start to malfunction and behave in a way they're not supposed to. Sometimes they grow out of control and begin negatively affecting your health. If not treated, it can be fatal."
"Okay," William nodded. He played for a few more minutes, then looked up at her again. "Is that what killed daddy?"
Again the dagger-in-the-heart feeling. Billy Coen had saved her life on that damned train, then after Raccoon City had been destroyed he'd somehow found her again and they'd gone on the run together. Then the world had started falling apart, and she found him dead in the garage of the house they'd been squatting in, ambushed by a single, pathetic zombie. She'd killed the zombie and put a bullet into Billy's head just as he began to sit up again, apologizing to him for not being able to return the favor and save his life.
She found out she was pregnant two days later, and a week after that Jill Valentine had somehow tracked her down and put her in charge of her and her little group's supply of T-antidote. Then Jill was taken by Umbrella mere days later, and that's when their convoy had started, more as a way to stay one step ahead of Umbrella than anything else at the time. (This was while the living still outnumbered the dead).
Rebecca didn't say all that, of course. Maybe when William was old enough, she'd explain it all. Instead, today, she just picked him up in her arms and gave him a good squeeze. "No, William, that's not what killed daddy."
XXX
Albert Wesker hated a lot of things, but he really, really fucking hated meetings. "Anyone else?" he asked, praying to the God he didn't believe in that the answer would be no.
"Paris facility," one of his underlings intoned. "Food supply is down to 50%. Six casualties. Biohazard numbers increasing."
He suppressed a yawn. Who fucking cared. "London facility," he asked, both knowing and hating that it was expected to ask.
"Food supply is down to 28%," the flunky said. "Seventeen casualties. Biohazard numbers increasing."
Wesker thought, for one brief, brilliant moment, how absolutely satisfying it would be to tell each and every one of these stupid assholes that their deaths, and the deaths of everyone in their pointless little regional Umbrella facilities, were preordained years ago. Umbrella High Command was going to inherit the Earth, and they weren't about to share it with a bunch of middle managers and office drones. But no, Wesker couldn't have nice things. Thank you very fucking much, Major Cain. Wesker had been forced to throw out all the carefully orchestrated plans he and Dr. Isaacs had worked on for so long and improvise; even now, years later, he was still nowhere close to finished scouring the undeserving remnants of the human race off the planet, and so the regional Umbrella branches limped on, purely for his convenience.
"Gentlemen!" Speak of the devil, and his clone will appear. Isaacs' holographic figure had no seat at the table, so he stood, his bearing suggesting he was lord of all he surveyed.
"Dr. Isaacs," Wesker greeted blandly. "How good of the science division to join us." He was looking forward to whatever pointless bullshit the idiot had to share today; maybe it would be stupid enough that Wesker would finally get to laugh in his face and tell him how useless he was. How would he react to finding out he was a clone? God, the look on his face would be a treasured memory for the rest of his life (so, forever).
"Chairman Wesker, I've been busy," Isaacs explained.
"On the subject of the biohazard, what does the science division have to report?" asked one of his flunkies. Oh cute, he still thought Umbrella was working on a cure.
"Well, we now know conclusively that they have no real need for sustenance," Isaacs began. Wesker suppressed a groan and the urge to scream 'No shit!' at him. "They hunger for flesh, but do not require it. My research indicates they could remain active for decades." Not that the zombies would be any threat to High Command when they came out of hibernation.
"We're to be trapped underground for decades?" the whiny-ass board member said, indignant.
Wesker again suppressed the urge to laugh at his subordinates' discomfort and changed the subject. "What news of Project Alice?" He hoped, hoped, hoped that Dr. Isaacs' little snuff show had something concrete to deliver, knowing it was a false hope.
"Using antibodies from her blood, I will develop a serum that will not just combat the effects of the T-virus, but potentially reverse it," he declared. "Giving back these creatures a measure of their intelligence, their memories, thus curbing their hunger for flesh."
"You're confident you can domesticate them?" Wesker asked, mildly intrigued. And then Isaacs gave him such a smug-ass condescending smile, and if he weren't over five thousand miles away Wesker would have throttled him right then and there, to hell with any other considerations.
"They're animals, essentially," Isaacs explained. "We can train them, if we can take away their baser instincts." He walked around behind Wesker, likely thinking he was pulling off some God-tier power move. "They'll never be human, but would provide the basis for a docile workforce." He faced the board and said, "We can return to the surface," as if it were a fait accompli.
Wesker wanted to point out that Isaacs had in his very own laboratory dozens of clones of Project Alice, and that Isaacs had full knowledge that memories could be easily implanted into the clones. This utter fucking imbecile thought the future lay in zombie slaves? If any jackass was stupid enough to approach Wesker and insist that clones were just as good as the original model, all Wesker would need to do would be introduce them to the cheap Isaacs imitation and all arguments would cease.
Another boardmember spoke up. "After months of experiments, you have nothing to show," he pointed out. "And we are left to rot underground!"
"Without access to the original Project Alice, progress has been difficult," Isaacs admitted. "I've been forced to replicate her using cloned genetic models. It's laborious. The results… unpredictable." He looked to Wesker. "If I were permitted access to the original —"
"Denied," Wesker shot him down, taking no small amount of pleasure in doing so. "The original Project Alice is far too valuable a resource to subject it to the rigors of a laboratory environment at this time." Translation: She is not to join that growing pile of corpses outside the Nevada facility, you stupid, wasteful fuckhead. "The derivatives of Project Alice and the subject of domestication are of the highest priority," he ordered. "You will concentrate on this to the exclusion of all other research." Translation: Go pointlessly murder some more clones and stop fucking bothering me. "We'll expect an updated report within a week." Translation: I have zero expectations regarding you achieving success, so I may as well give you an unreasonably small timeframe to give me an excuse to put you out of my misery once and for all.
"Simply demanding results will not guarantee them," Isaacs pointed out.
"Then perhaps we should place someone else in charge," Wesker threatened. "Someone who can give us the reassurances we require. Continue with your research doctor… while it still is your research. This meeting is adjourned." He ended the call, watching the holographic images of Isaacs and the board members flicker out of existence. God-he-didn't-believe-in, if only it were that easy to snuff out his annoyances in real life.
"You seem invested in preserving the life of Project Alice." Wesker turned around; standing at attention, on the other side of the empty meeting room, stood Ada Wong, a mercenary who'd long been under his employment. She wore a black choker around her neck, and a fancy red dress with intricate butterfly and flower patterns sewn into it. Wesker had to admit, he favored her services for her sense of style as much as for her skills.
Wesker smirked, allowing a small gleam of his teeth to beam through. "Project Alice possesses psychic ability unparalleled in anything else Umbrella has created. It's a realm of research we are still, sadly, very ignorant about." Almost all of Umbrella's psychic research think tank had perished in the Hive, something which still stung to this day. "Some of the clones do seem to exhibit some small ability with manipulation of the physical world, but Project Alice is on an entirely different playing field." He clenched and unclenched his hands into fists. "There's no reason for it. It's all the same DNA, the same strands of T-virus injected into each one… it's perplexing. Maddening."
"Perhaps it's fate," Ada suggested with a straight face.
Wesker now allowed himself to laugh. "You mean God? If there were a God in the heavens, Ada, would He really have stood back and allowed His creation to be destroyed?" He shook his head. "Within the week, I want you to go to the Nevada facility and extract Project Alice, preferably without pulling her out of suspended animation if you can manage it."
"You don't trust Dr. Isaacs to stay away from her," Ada said.
Wesker nodded. "He's getting desperate for results, and he's already deranged enough to believe that murdering dozens of clones will somehow answer any other question other than 'What does a mass grave look like?'" He massaged his temples. "I wouldn't be surprised if he goes to his quarters after every experiment and touches himself."
Ada made a disgusted face. "Anything else I should know for my assignment?"
Wesker shook his head. "There's a civilian convoy in the area presently. The leader is on our Persons of Interest list — Redfield's sister. I doubt they'll present any kind of a problem, but keep tabs on them nonetheless." A small, rueful smile crossed his face. "I don't make the same mistakes twice, and I already underestimated a Redfield once."
"Understood," Ada nodded, leaving to prepare for the assignment.
Wesker hoped that the mission would go off without a hitch, but just the proximity of the Redfield woman made him a little nervous. He didn't believe in fate, but the Redfields had well and truly dragged him kicking and screaming into believing in such a thing as bad luck. Even discarding that potential wrinkle, Project Alice itself was by far the biggest hazard of the mission. She was a very sensible, pragmatic woman, some of her more grating personality tics aside, and Wesker had gladly taken the deal she'd offered to bring her into custody with no fuss or hassle on his end.
She'd been in suspended animation for some time now, tucked away within the Nevada facility, but had almost awoken of her own volition earlier that year. According to the White Queen (clone Isaac's own partition of the Red Queen), an unusual psychic outburst had been the culprit, and couldn't produce any data of the event, citing an unknown error. Project Alice being able to affect the Red Queen itself was an existential threat to Umbrella's plans.
Alice waking up was also an existential threat in and of itself. Wesker knew that she'd inquire as to the condition of Angela Ashford upon waking up, and considering that Alice had thrown her own freedom away for the girl's safety, well… Wesker was glad she was half the world away. He made a mental note to send a message to Ada to make sure Project Alice was delivered to the Paris facility. Just in case.
XXXXXXXXXX
Rebecca Chambers, everyone! Rebecca is the only member of the OG cast to not show up in any of the movies. I figured, why don't we remedy that? And the perfect avenue for that was Alice handing Jill the antivirus at the end of Alice, it's Apocalypsing. What's Jill gonna do with the antivirus? Well, turns out Jill DOES know a biochemist who can whip up some more antivirus at the drop of a hat. BET YOU DIDN'T THINK THAT WAS FORESHADOWING, HUH? We're gonna have so much fun with Rebecca, hahaha.
Wesker is just FUN to write. He hates everyone. Civilians? Hates 'em. His former STARS coworkers? Hates 'em. (…Well, mostly hates 'em, hahaha). Current coworkers? Hates 'em. Anyone named Redfield? Fucking HATES 'em. (Wesker met Claire in Code Veronica, and even though it's never gonna come up, something like the events of that game occurred here as well).
Isaacs was desperate as hell to find Alice in Extinction. So, my decision to place her in Umbrella's Nevada facility where Isaacs can go look at her any old time he wants to but can't actually TOUCH her is something I find to be extremely funny. Oh, poor ol' Isaacs, wants to progress with his research on intelligent zombies, but he can't do anything with Alice. I wonder if he'll think of something else…
Ada Wong shows up in RE5, but she's cool and hell and deserved to show up more, so here she is! She'll have some fun stuff to do besides just talk to Wesker, haha.