We infiltrated the Ashford mansion and ran into a small problem. It was difficult to describe, largely due to the unexpectedness that caught us off guard. What I certainly did not expect was to see Alfred Ashford, a young blond man with a Napoleon complex, kneeling. He usually wears a regal red uniform, but today was an unusual day. Under the influence of his mental disorder, known to Umbrella management, he was dressed in a blue dress and wore a long-haired wig to resemble his twin sister.
The problem was not only his outfit.
The H.C.F. team had gotten ahead of us, burst into the mansion, captured the target, and forced Ashford to his knees in the main hall. His pale skin and blond hair contrasted with the five Third Organization operatives, who were predominantly black. The situation reminded me of a popular video… erm, a video for the whole family. Five black men there also wanted something from a blonde who was on a level below them. It was definitely a "family video."
But how could I warn the H.C.F. guys that this was not Alexia Ashford, but Alfred? In short, it was a trap!
— Did I interrupt? — I asked coldly, drawing the attention of not only the operatives but also their rifles. Claire and I were targeted by M4A1 carbines, ready to do something unpleasant. The operatives grew nervous, recognizing me, but before they could utter any compromising information, I removed my glasses and hurled them.
At that moment, the virus accelerated its effect, helping me instantly unsheathe the katana and move lightning-fast toward the first opponent. The blade flashed and sliced across the mercenary's head. The second target was within walking distance, and his finger was slowly squeezing the carbine's trigger. Slower than I could draw a line with the katana and cut off part of his head with a vertical swing. I had to reach the third with a jump, plunging the blade up to the hilt, aiming for the heart. And while pulling it out, I had already severed the fourth target. Only the last one remained, who, in fear, still pulled the trigger.
As if in slow motion, I watched the bullet slowly fly out of the carbine's muzzle. Snail speed. The next swing cut the bullet flying toward Claire, and the last one went across the operative's neck.
I hope there are no hidden cameras here.
A pale-faced blonde with a normal orientation, not yet an activist or a volunteer, slaughtered five black guys. A step left, a step right — and suspicious movements for black rights might begin in the world. They haven't started yet, but as the future suggests, it's not far off… And I just bought a mansion in the US. No, I simply won't let my house in Los Angeles be destroyed!
Hmm, swinging the katana and clearing it with a rush of air from the blood, I returned it to the sheath.
Time resumed its course the moment I caught and put on my glasses.
Simultaneously, I felt a sharp pain in my head, as if my brain was thoroughly cooked. No wonder, as an ordinary person is incapable of surviving the phenomenon of time acceleration. From the overload, neural connections collapse in our heads, leading to death. But not in my case. I just got hungry due to the depletion of the body's resources. I shouldn't overuse the acceleration; now I'll have to eat the ration that took up a couple of spaces for ammunition somewhere. Essentially, meat is my first aid kit.
— Ooooh, — Alfred recoiled in fear from the bodies falling near him.
Claire stood with her mouth open.
— You… you saved me! No, you, not that girl — Claire Redfield, — he snapped, casting a fleeting glance at Claire. — Wesker! Thank you, I owe you my life!
— Everything is fine, — I adapted to the circumstances, glancing furtively at Claire and winking. Damn it, sunglasses are useless for spy missions.
— But why? Weren't you betraying Umbrella? I heard… — the head of the U.S.S. soldier training island doubted.
— A Spencer order to weed out traitors, — I arrogantly lied, trying to wink harder with my left eye at Claire, who had fallen into disbelief. — My mission is to protect the descendant of Umbrella's founder. Second priority: protecting the Code Veronica project. I hope for your cooperation.
— The project? Ha… It doesn't exist, — he stated somewhat mockingly, rising to his feet and adjusting his dress; a disgusting little man. — I am a descendant of the famous Ashford line, never, even under the threat of death from malicious trespassers, will I give away Umbrella's property!
There was a misunderstanding…
Alfred thought I suspected him of colluding with the Organization.
— The entire island is swarming with operatives, — I frowned. — When the fighting on the other side of the island is over, an enemy army will show up here. And the fighters won't leave until they get information about the Ashford legacy.
— They won't get it, — a soft, almost feminine tone escaped him, causing me to step back two paces. Damn aristocrats with multiple personality disorder. — I, Alexia Ashford, am the sole keeper of the Ashford legacy. The rats will never get to me.
Claire looked at Alfred as if he were mentally ill. He truly was. Immediately after his sister's tragic death, he pretended to be her. He wore wigs, dresses, imitated her voice and mannerisms. Surprisingly, the U.S.S. mercenaries — who underwent combat trials on the island, were almost normal about it. Indeed, who cares if a psychopath in a wig and a dress runs the island.
But that's not the point now.
I tried to wink at Claire so that she wouldn't interfere with the interrogation. Negotiations were being conducted with an unstable person, and it was important to choose the right words so that he would reveal information about the virus. A direct interrogation was unlikely to help, as the H.C.F. squad had already threatened him with death, but Alfred did not seem broken.
— Why shouldn't the rats get to the legacy? Spencer will be displeased. He will kill you, me, and everything you love if the enemies get to the legacy before us! — I insisted, my gaze piercing Alfred.
— No one will reach the Antarctic base alive. Ha-ha-ha, — he declared hysterically, making me step back a couple more steps. — I have awakened the Tyrant. No one will leave here alive! Alexia will preserve the legacy!
— In Antarctica? Alexia Ashford is the sole keeper of the legacy; she is at the Antarctic base? — I tried to interpret his words, and by the tremor of his pupils, it was clear that I was right.
His further existence was meaningless, so I took out my pistol and shot him between the eyes. To stain the katana with this filth was beneath my dignity. I had no steel cleaning agent to wash away this disgrace.
— Wesker… — Claire, unaccustomed to the sight of corpses, slightly raised her hand, intending to ask an important question.
I preempted her.
— All family members of Umbrella's founders are psychopaths, scoundrels, and criminals responsible for mass deaths and human experimentation. Do not consider them rational beings. Do not show them sympathy or compassion. They cannot be sent to prison; they will buy their way out or escape, causing a mass T-virus infection. All that remains for us is to remove the trash. By any means, even if we have to pretend to be someone we are not.
— You're a good person? — she asked almost confidently.
— I feel a deep hatred for Umbrella and… — I faltered, barely stopping myself from blurting out that I hated Chris — her brother, no less. — All its supporters.
Telling the truth was not difficult. I am not an Umbrella supporter; I am its direct competitor. Everything is fine as long as I destroy a less perfect villain. Perfection will always find its place if the imperfect organisms are removed.
— I believe you, — she nodded sincerely, then frowned. — But you shouldn't be so cruel to people…
— For the greater good, it is worth it, — I disagreed. — I need to leave the island and go to Antarctica. I think I know where the base is. I will try to disrupt all the corporation's plans.
— Wait! — she looked resolutely to the side, as if looking for the answer to a dilemma. — We can ta—
— It's deadly dangerous there, — I tried to reason with the girl.
The idea of using Claire against Chris in a positive context is still appealing. But taking ballast on board the airplane is difficult. Not in terms of delivery, but in terms of getting her on board. A Tyrant is wandering around somewhere, and the girl is unlikely to be a strong card.
— Then we won't be able to take Steve, — she whispered sadly.
— Take whom? — I was surprised, contemplating if multiple personality disorder was contagious. If Claire now thinks she's Steve, it's time for me to leave…
— A guy. I met him on the island, but if you say it's dangerous there… Okay, I believe in him. He'll manage. We can go, — Redfield stepped forward confidently, determination shining in her eyes.
I turned away, took off my glasses, wiped them, and put them back on.
Turning back, I saw that confidence was still shining in her eyes. I hadn't imagined it, but then what is this? Is she feeble-minded or just a Redfield? What Steve… I'm not planning to take her specifically!
But, come to think of it, the flight to Antarctica is long. It can be cold in a cargo plane. Hmm… Her significance in some aspects has risen to a satisfactory level. A real man will never refuse an easily accessible way to warm up. And what if I don't feel the cold?
Bad…
My intellect does not find a single important advantage in Claire that would help me ascend. HUNK has potential, Ada has potential, Jan has potential, Sherry — has very great potential under my guidance. Claire is just Claire. The airplane hot water bottle has a small potential, but it still has one!
— Are you thinking about where to get transportation?
— There is an airport with cargo planes on the island. There are also a couple of fighters, but we will run out of fuel before we reach the Antarctic base, not to mention the way back, — I automatically blurted out, inventing a reason for my confusion. It was fictitious, but Claire probably won't figure it out.
After I learned all the necessary information, staying in the mysterious mansion lost its meaning. One could find many interesting things about the Umbrella corporation here, learn the history of the Ashford family, and perhaps even find a refrigerator with raw meat. However, it was not worth spending time on it.
We left the mansion, and I offered Claire to use the fast travel method. She agreed, but judging by her screams, she didn't like being in my arms. This was strange, but explainable. I used the virus to perform high and long jumps, maintaining a super-fast running pace. This was enough to cover most of the distance to the airport.
There was chaos on the runway: gunshots, grenade explosions, and the familiar sounds of human flesh tearing. To avoid getting caught in the conflict between armed mercenaries and the Tyrant, we decided to wait in the military camp.
It was completely empty.
The mercenaries had been withdrawn, and the regular security had been destroyed. Thus, we penetrated what was once the most guarded area, as if it were an abandoned complex.
Claire went to look for suitable weaponry, and I set about studying the deputy commander's computer. To my surprise, I managed to find not just valuable information, but a real jackpot.
The development of Bandersnatch — a Tyrant-type mutant — was actively underway on the island.
There is no need to fear it. People with DNA similar to the T-virus — the key criterion for creating a Tyrant, are extremely rare. The costs for the full creation cycle of a Tyrant are fabulous. However, as is known, there are no unsolvable problems.
From the records, it is clear that Bandersnatch was developed as an alternative: cheap, low-grade, and with many defects. Many parts of the experimental specimens' bodies lost effectiveness.
Side effects appear within an hour after the concentrated virus injection operation. The body's cells reject the virus, and to correct this, the faulty body parts are removed.
Most often, the virus is injected through the left arm, so almost all Bandersnatches lack a left arm, and the right one is significantly enlarged. A strange mutation… But the cost of their creation is lower than expected!
The mutants' effectiveness is half that of a Tyrant, if not a third.
Cheapness is not synonymous with effectiveness, but it ensures accessibility. There will be buyers for any product, and where there is supply and demand, there are manufacturers wandering about. Perhaps the methodology can be sold for tens of millions of dollars? If the formula is improved, then for even more. But I prefer to keep the improved formula for my own company.
— I found a grenade launcher!
— And I found money.
— What did you find? — Claire asked again, as if she hadn't heard.
— Compromising evidence on Umbrella, — I replied, quickly flipping through the tabs on the laptop.
— Oh, really? Can I see? — she approached and stared at the network of bioweapon transportation across European and South African countries.
— Not just the transportation channels. These are Umbrella's financial flows. If we deprive them of their funding source by destroying the logistics, we will move closer to victory, — I said with a sense of superiority.
Claire looked at me strangely; apparently, she heard about the "money." And now, she seems confused? She is tormented by shame for thinking that I might be a self-serving person pursuing my ambitions.
If she thinks that, then she has a brain.
— We should send this to the department for fighting… — she hinted.
I nodded and got down to business. She looked at me with even more suspicion, especially when I was transferring the files to a secret government server via a secure channel. I learned a lot from Jan, but Claire was surprised by something else — that I knew how to send everything directly to the boss of the bioterrorism fighting department.
An innocent soul. You can buy anything with money.
— Done.
— You are capable…
— Time waits for no one. The Tyrant must have been weakened by the mercenaries, but I don't think the H.C.F. squad is capable of finally destroying him. We should take the baton, clear the trash, and get out of here, — I stated my plan.
— With a grenade launcher, that's not a problem!
— A katana is better, — I refuted.