LJ felt nervous as Carlos pushed him down the hall, towards room number seven. He'd forgotten about it for decades, but now, unbidden, a memory came rushing back, of his pop-pop (on mom's side) sitting him on his knee at a young, tender age and talking about how his own brother had suffered and died of syphilis as part of a decades-long scientific study headquartered at the Tuskegee Institute. "The goddamn white man won't hesitate to kill you, Lloyd, you remember that," the old man had said. His mom had cursed pop-pop out something fierce for telling LJ such a story, but some years later during his brief career as a high school student he'd looked it up and discovered everything pop-pop had said was true. He was never more grateful to the old man than he was at that moment, even for all he wanted to evacuate his guts onto the floor, and vowed to say a prayer to his angel the next time he was in church — and he'd actually try to go, too.

Carlos pushed LJ into the room and only paused a second when they saw a researcher was already in there. "Ah, another one?" he said in an imperious British accent. "I thought there were to be no more intakes today, what with the move to Nevada."

"Special order, straight from Dr. Ashford," Carlos said easily.

The man tut-tutted. "Oh Charles, can you not pull these stunts when you're actually able to process them yourself?" he said to himself. "I suppose we can skip the more insignificant steps today…" He opened a mini-fridge and removed a syringe filled with a blue liquid. "You two can leave now."

The helicopter had touched down on the roof of the hospital several minutes ago, and all too quickly a man who could only be Chairman Wesker strode out of the building and up to the outdoor staging area, launching right into his statement the second he reached the microphone. "Good evening. In a few hours, a secure convoy will be leaving Raccoon City, carrying sensitive biological waste samples to a secure disposal site out in the Nevada desert. This convoy will pose no health risks to the people of Raccoon City, and the security elements are necessary in the post-terror era we live in these days, unfortunately. If all goes according to plan, by 11 PM the convoy will be beyond Raccoon City's borders, and everyone will be able to rest easy. Questions?"

Murray raised a hand. "Murray Redd, Raccoon 3. What, uh, is the nature of this waste?" he asked.

"Classified," Wesker said. "But as I mentioned, in its current state it poses no hazard to the residents of Raccoon City."

Mary spoke up. "Chairman Wesker… are you single?" she asked with (what she thought was) an alluring look. A few of her fellow reporters snickered.

"I am in a happily committed relationship, Ms. Thorvald," Wesker answered. (With himself, the egotistical fuck).

Terri nervously gulped. It was her time to shine… or shit the bed. "Chairman Wesker… Terri Morales, Raccoon 7. Before you were Chairman of the Board of Umbrella, you were captain of the Raccoon City's STARS Alpha Team. What do you say about reports that you died in the Spencer Mansion incident?"

Wesker adjusted his sunglasses. "Well, those reports were obviously rather exaggerated, weren't they?" he quipped. A ripple of laughter spread throughout the crowd. "To be honest, the investigation into the Spencer mansion disaster is still ongoing, and it was felt that, for reasons of personal safety, I should remain discreet, even with my change in careers and move to Tokyo. However, my commitment to the safety of Raccoon City and its citizens was far more important, so here I am." There was applause, and Terri felt sick.

Still, she pressed on. "What about reports that you were in fact partly responsible for the Spencer mansion disaster, that you even personally murdered Enrico Marini, the Bravo captain?"

An ugly look flashed across Wesker's face. "Ah, I see you've been talking to some of the primary suspects in the Spencer mansion incident yourself, Miss Morales. Aren't you the meteorologist at that station? What are you even doing here?" He smirked. "Of course, the other survivors would play the blame game, point fingers at anyone but themselves, and even make up ludicrous stories about monsters and ghouls." He leaned forward, speaking in a faux whisper. "Did you know, Miss Morales, that by their own accounts, they claim to have repeatedly taken these mysterious 'green herbs' they found in and around the premises? They did this for 'medical reasons', of course, and much like former President Clinton, I'll just bet that they, ah, 'did not inhale'." He shook his head in disbelief and once more the crowd chuckled along with Wesker.

Terri glanced over to Mary, who had a bloodthirsty grin on her face as she stared Terri down. Mary could sense blood was in the water, and was practically salivating at moving in for the kill. Many of her so-called colleagues in the field were also looking at her with looks of pity and distaste. She did her best to swallow her anxiety and press on. "What… what about reports that you're not actually moving biological waste tonight? That you're transferring two individuals whom you've kidnapped against their will and subject to horrific medical experiments?"

Wesker glared at her through his sunglasses for a moment. "Miss Morales, I understand you're on some kind of medication," he finally said. "I'd recommend finding a new doctor and getting on something else, one that doesn't delude you with psychotic notions." He turned away from her. "Any other questions from real journalists?" he asked.

"Fuck you, Wesker!" All turned to see Jill Valentine, staring unfocused at Wesker as she staggered in his general direction. She held a six pack of beer in one hand, most of the bottles empty. Terri watched all this with numb horror, then gasped along with everyone else when she drew one of the empty bottles and pitched it directly at Wesker.

He easily ducked out of the way of the thrown projectile, at regular human speeds no less. He let out a rich chuckle. "Ladies and gentlemen, the star witness to my incredible laundry list of crimes, Jill Valentine," he said, gesturing to the clearly inebriated woman.

"Oh Jesus," Terri muttered. This wasn't part of the goddamn plan! What the fuck was Jill thinking? She hoped that that last unopened beer was for her, at least — a consolation prize for being tricked into career suicide.

Carlos thought quickly. "Actually, I'd like to stay and watch."

"Me too," Peyton said. "I like to watch."

The doctor (yeah, it's Isaacs, by the way, hahaha) scowled a little. "If you wish," he said. "I personally find the sociopathy endemic among you rank-and-file types a little distasteful, personally. We're trying to build a better future for the human race, and you're standing over there practically touching yourselves at the prospect of seeing someone writhe in pain."

"If you don't like causing pain, why do you do this stuff?" Carlos asked him.

"Regrettably, you cannot make omelets without cracking a few eggs," Isaacs shrugged. He approached LJ.

LJ's foot shot out and landed square in Isaac's crotch. "You said it, doc, not me," LJ said humorlessly. He leapt up from the chair and snagged the needle from Isaacs' now-loose grip, pressing it right up against his throat. "You like this, you son of a bitch?" he growled. "You looking forward to throwing your own body in the grave for your bullshit science?"

"Wh-what is the meaning of this?" Isaacs groaned, so far up his own ass the enormity of how fucked he was hadn't quite hit home.

"Where's Alice and Addison?" Peyton demanded, drawing his pistol, Carlos following suit.

"Ah, you're here for the experiments," Isaacs said, understanding now. "What, did Ashford finally crack and throw his lot in with the 'rebellion'?"

"We have his daughter, actually," Carlos said. "Easy to make a man cooperate with that kind of leverage."

Isaacs gave them a sardonic smile. "The white hats, getting their hands dirty? I am impressed."

"Fuck you!" LJ said, pressing the needle into Isaac's neck enough to dimple the flesh. "Do you know how many fucking families you and assholes like you have wrecked? You don't get one fuckin' ounce of moral high ground here, dickhead!"

"Do it, then!" Isaacs challenged. "Inject me with the T-virus! Hoist me by my own petard! I won't tell you where the experiments are stowed away at!"

LJ was sorely, sorely tempted. "Nah," he finally said. "I'm better than your ass." He withdrew the needle… then pistol-whipped him, hard, with one of his gold-plated Desert Eagles. He spat on his unconscious form as it slumped to the floor. "That's for my pop-pop's brother!" he declared.

"Tuskegee?" Peyton asked.

"Tuskegee," LJ nodded

Carlos looked confused. "Those black pilots from World War II?"

Peyton and LJ exchanged a look. "Man, we gotta get you an education…" Peyton said, as the three men slipped out of the room.

"This bastard got a lot of good men killed!" Jill shouted to all assembled.

"Really, Valentine, this is quite frankly embarrassing," Wesker said, shaking his head.

"Joseph Frost! Enrico Marini! Richard Aiken! Edward Dewey! Forest Speyer! Kenneth Sullivan!" Jill hurled another empty bottle at Wesker, who again dodged it. "All men killed directly or indirectly by you!"

"You know, Valentine, technically, you're trespassing on Umbrella property right now," Wesker pointed out. "Don't you have a court order preventing you from doing so currently? If you leave now, I'll be merciful and not have it enforced."

"Enforced, hell!" Jill snarled. "All those people at the mansion, dead, coming back to life, and the monsters they made! That you helped make!" She threw a third bottle.

Wesker caught this one. "I understand that your law enforcement career is more or less over, Jill," he said. "These are worth a whopping ten cents at any bottle return venue, so maybe you shouldn't waste them on me."

"I'll gladly throw away my last penny if it means bringing you to justice, you bastard!" For the first time, she turned to the gathered reporters. "Even now, there's a monster lurking beneath the streets of Raccoon City," she shouted to them. "At any moment, it could burst forth and start slaughtering people! And it's a creature of Umbrella's design!"

"Ah, here we go, more campfire stories," Wesker said scornfully. "Well, Miss Valentine, unfortunately there's no actual campfire and I'm fresh out of hot dogs or marshmallows to roast, so I suggest you stongly consider leaving. Now."

"NO!" Jill roared. She took bottles four and five in hand and threw them both. Wesker again handily caught them. "I've had my FILL of it!" she bellowed. "You and Umbrella are nothing but a bunch of CONNERS!"

Terri's eyes went wide. Was that…?

In the sewer, Jill had handed Terri a small radio. "You're going to get a signal," Jill told her. "'Phil Connors'. When you hear that, you speak into the radio and say the word 'Punxsutawney', okay?"

Terri frowned. "…Is this some stupid joke based off the fact that I'm the fucking weatherperson at Raccoon 7?"

Jill turned to the hulking mass that was, allegedly, Rain Ocampo, and smirked at it. "No, actually, it's… completely unrelated to that," Jill assured her. "Just make sure you do so, and we'll strike a blow that Umbrella will hopefully never recover from."

Terri raised the small radio to her lips, licked them nervously, then spoke. "Punxsutawney," she uttered. "I repeat, Punxsutawney."

On stage, Wesker pressed a hand to his ear, some unobtrusive earpiece apparently. "Security, please have Miss Valentine removed from —"

The ground between the press and the stage exploded, and the giant hulking form that was Rain Ocampo burst forth for her press debut.

The three men in the hospital walked past one ringing phone after another a whopping three times before they realized the ringing only started when they were right next to the things, and stopped when they'd walked past them. Carlos answered the next one. "It took you long enough," Ashford groused.

"Dr. Ashford, right?" Carlos asked.

"Yes, and you're going the wrong bloody way," Ashford complained. "Not one of you morons saw fit to bring a phone with you, you ignore my repeated attempts to call you, and you're utterly lost in a very simple area of the hospital to navigate. Pathetic, really."

"That's not a very nice way to talk to the people who have your daughter," Carlos pointed out, feeling uneasy even though the veiled threat was a bluff.

Ashford grunted. "Point of order, you don't have my daughter. According to the surveillance feed I've tapped into, my daughter is currently having some psychic fucking discussion with a licker in its second stage of evolution, something I had no fucking clue was possible until today, and I suspect that she's really no more of a prisoner than you are. Do you want the bloody fucking directions or not?"

"…Yeah, I'll take them," Carlos confirmed.

Ashford gave him the directions, and it was actually just a short way away. "Once you get there, I'll trigger the door unlocks and cycle down the sedative. The clone should be more cooperative than Addison; Valentine told you how to handle him?"

"Yeah," Carlos confirmed. "She has to touch him to help reestablish his human connection."

"What utter rot," Ashford snorted.

"So, is this Alice really a clone?" Carlos asked.

"Yes, one of the fifty basic models," Ashford confirmed. "Based off of one of Umbrella's higher ups — all of them are, so far as I've gathered. Same as your model."

"…Excuse me?" Carlos said, taken aback.

"Oh, yes, Carlos Olivera, right? Activated two years ago, according to your file. Given the background of a former Communist guerrilla captured by your home government and pressed into service to Umbrella."

Carlos nervously chuckled. "That's not… no, I have memories that go beyond —"

"Of course you do, and Umbrella put them there," Ashford said. "Basic ones, lacking any finer detail, but then, do we ever really scrutinize our memories for the details? Or any inconsistencies, for that matter? What's your mum's birthday?"

Carlos opened his mouth to answer, then froze. He couldn't remember. He had no memory of her ever celebrating a birthday. He struggled to remember the name of the town he grew up and drew a blank there too. He couldn't even name the goddamn country he was supposed to be a native of.

"What… why would you tell me this?" Carlos asked.

"Because you people are fucking assholes. If I have to work with you, I'll be as nasty and unpleasant as I can." Ashford cut the connection.

"Hey, you alright?" Peyton asked, seeing the haunted look on Carlos' face.

"He said… he said I was a clone," Carlos said. "…And I think he might be right."

"Oh hell, who fuckin' cares?" LJ said. "Boba fuckin' Fett's a clone, and he's cool as hell."

"Really?" Carlos asked, intrigued.

"Shit, you ain't seen the new one yet?" LJ said. "It'd be right up your alley — it's called Attack of the Clones." He grinned playfully.

Carlos felt a small smile tug at his lips. "Boba Fett, huh?" he said. "I'll have to try to see it soon." Buoyed by LJ's comparison, he took a deep breath and led them to where Alice and Matt Addison were imprisoned.

Green herbs have always been a staple healing item in the Resident Evil games, and I'm sure jokes about the exact nature of what those herbs are have been existent for almost as long as the franchise itself. (I even wrote a brief fanfic concerning this way back in the dim distant era of 2010, posted to Fanfiction dot net, hahaha. God, looking back at some of my old shit just fills me with such cringe).

Attack of the Clones came out in 2002, and LJ (whom I headcanon as a closeted supernerd) definitely would have seen it. (I remember before the movie came out there were rumors that Boba Fett was going to be a woman, haha).