We illegally broke into a shack that exuded the spirit of the socialist system. I smiled to myself, looking at the carpet hanging on the wall, the nightstands that could barely fit a couple of socks, and the fireplace. But most of all, I was struck by the presence of a little girl in the house, left completely alone. She had light, carelessly cut hair; it seemed that she had never visited a hairdresser. And she was very small, about eight years old in appearance, but unusually cute for a child.
I boldly assumed that she was definitely not a vampire, not a deity, and not a demon. My conclusions were unfavorable: she was an illegal loli. Shaking my head, I resigned myself to this fact, retreating from the threat… eight times, like eight years.
Jill took charge, asking the girl if she was okay and why she was alone in the house when chaos reigned in the village streets. The girl turned out to be surprisingly intelligent and calmly explained that her father had ordered her not to leave the hut and to be silent, even if she saw something scary. And he himself had gone for bread. Or for cigarettes. In any case, judging by the girl's emaciated body, the father had gone for something that usually means an intention not to return. Jill had to try hard to find something edible in the house and feed the child.
And what was I doing? Like any decent guy, I was trying to crack a safe in someone else's house. If you ask why safe crackers became "good guys," I have a compelling explanation: the burglar tried not to make noise so as not to disturb the peace of the residents, currently Jill and the illegal loli. And this saved me from disaster. Transforming part of my body into suitable tools, I managed to neatly crack the safe, which was well protected by explosives. It was activated upon crude forced entry or the insertion of a special key that sent a pulse. So, not every key found near the cache fits. In the worst-case scenario, one could encounter a Twentieth-century Mimic.
But what's good is what doesn't explode. Inside the safe lay several important pieces of evidence incriminating Umbrella, as well as the access key to the entire factory. There, I believe, gruesome experiments were conducted on crossing technology and organic matter. Attempts to create living cyborgs are shrouded in mist, but it's clear that the successes are hidden for a reason. In all likelihood, the most incredible surprises await us, like an Iron Tyrant. A cyborg assassin.
— I'm done. We have proof against Umbrella and a keycard to the secret facility. It's time to settle the score, — I shared my plans with Jill.
— Where are we going?
— Jill, we are in Russia, and we don't have documents. Naturally, we should go to the factory, — I shrugged. — Or, if you prefer, to the bio-weapons factory. Call it whatever your heart desires.
— Will Daddy be there? — the little girl asked.
— Anything is possible. If he is alive, I will do everything in my power, — I promised, trying to sound like a part-time hero of justice, although, in reality, part-time heroes often prefer to finish off the wounded rather than save them. It's better to keep silent about that…
— I can't leave her alone, — Jill frowned. — I'll try to get her out of the village first, and then I'll help stop Umbrella.
— Time is relentless, Jill. We will meet at the location, unless the self-destruct system activates or the Alpha-D3 security protocol is triggered at the fourth level of infection, — I said goodbye, moving away from long conversations and preparing to leave, but an unexpected question stopped me.
— How do you know Umbrella's security protocols? — Jill narrowed her eyes even more.
— I did an internship, — I calmly replied over my shoulder, as if it were an ordinary conversation about the weather. — Somewhere I studied new things, somewhere I applied old ones. What else is there to do in secret complexes hidden in the Russian mountains?
— I see, — Jill hissed, slightly blushing, but not from embarrassment, but from indignation. — Experiments on people are being conducted somewhere. Right?
— I was thinking about that when I was looking for evidence against Spencer — one of Umbrella's founders. Unfortunately, Umbrella skillfully hides its secrets. But today, I will destroy their vault of secrets and seize the information about all research. This will end their Empire, — I decided, leaving the house and mentally erasing the traces of my involvement in the development of certain mind control parasites.
I went outside, where the icy wind was hitting my face.
The blizzard was intensifying, covering the tracks — heh-heh, though not the ones I wanted.
I had barely walked a few dozen meters when a gunshot rang out. Someone ruthlessly shot me in the back, thinking that the noise of the blizzard would muffle the creak of the snow. Naive. I decided to play along. With superhuman speed, I turned around and sliced the bullet in half with my katana. Finally, I managed to epically cut a bullet in flight, leaving witnesses to this miracle alive. They, the witnesses, usually became targets, and rumors about my skills in countering firearms… Alas, did not find a response.
— Wesker! You bastard, you won't get away from me now! What did you do to Jill?! — Chris was going through the difficult times of late adolescent maturation. How else to explain his impulsive behavior? An experienced operative should not shoot at someone who sees bullets in slow motion. For some reason, the number of idiots per square meter around me is unreasonably high, which saddens my sensitive heart. It beats, urging me to destroy the cause of its sensitivity to other people's stupidity.
— Chris, you disappoint me more and more. Your pistol is useless against me, even if you manage to hit me at least once, which is highly doubtful. You, like an animal, are guided by instinct, forgetting about reason.
— Believe me, I've dealt with worse disappointment. Africa taught me a lot, — he said menacingly, aiming better. — Guess what happened there? I can tell you: an outbreak of the G-Virus. And don't you dare claim you weren't involved. Who, if not you, could have taken it out of the Umbrella laboratory in Raccoon City? Speak!
— Dozens of spies, the platoon leader of U.B.C.S., the leader of the "Alpha" squad of the U.S.S. unit — as you can see, there are plenty of options, — I raised an eyebrow in surprise, causing Chris to hesitate. — If you don't believe me, ask your sister, Claire Redfield. Who caused the Raccoon City disaster and who had the G-Virus samples? If you don't have communication, I'll reveal this secret: the U.S.S. unit is responsible, having partially failed the mission to capture the G-Virus from Birkin. Partially, because, despite the incident, their leader was able to obtain a sample.
— Claire? Where is she? — he asked without hesitation, forgetting the previous conversation.
— Closer than you can imagine, — I revealed ace number one, looking around and not finding Jill Valentine nearby. That girl had better not know some details.
— That's not funny! She would never get involved with a person like you, — he said one thing, but his face was strained like never before in training. It seems the operative never gave his all, which earns my disapproval.
— Stop living in a world of illusions, or they will devour you, — I evasively looked away from the pistol, more intentionally than accidentally. — We met twice: in Raccoon City, where I helped her escape from the destroyed city, and at the Ashford family mansion, where I saved her from the Organization. The second meeting was fateful in a way. By the will of fate, we found ourselves in each other's nightly embrace on a cargo plane flying to Antarctica. But don't worry, everything that happened on the cargo plane stays… in the hangar? Be that as it may, you missed your chance to meet your sister. She is in safe hands now. Goodbye, Chris.
Dodging a bullet to the head, I tried to flee the scene with superhuman speed. Perhaps it was the blizzard, but I heard the howl of a wounded beast. And also… somehow my last name, Wesker, and not only that — there was also a threat to catch me and destroy me. It's probably just the wind making noise. No one in their right mind would try to catch up with a man who escaped from Umbrella, from S.T.A.R.S., from the Organization. Yes, my God, this man even escaped child support!
I am the elusive Wesker. You can't just up and catch me. If I were a superhero, I would call myself… Flashker? No, that sounds dubious. Apparently, it's not my destiny to be a superhero.
Just in case, hiding in the mountains to cross the terrain to the factory faster, I soon reached a snow-covered wasteland. Beyond it stretched the Umbrella factory. It was barely visible — the visibility had dropped to one percent, and only a vague silhouette, resembling a dark spot, could be seen.
To improve visibility, I took off my sunglasses, wiped off the snow clumps, and put them back on. And now, the target for the attack was clearly visible. All that remained was to do a minor thing: epically take off my black coat, throw it aside, and energetically rush forward straight toward the factory, as if I were a worker vying for the title of employee of the month, running ahead of the whole planet for a pay raise.
— Get out of the way, now! — I sternly ordered the monsters that met me. The entire factory was infected with the T-Virus: a multitude of mutants, Chimeras, zombies made of scientific staff and guards. The Chimeras were especially dangerous, short like dwarves but with the limbs of giant insects.
A real army stood before me — a powerful army that could only be overcome by a force surpassing it. I was no longer the person I was in the Spencer Mansion. Moving relentlessly fast and cutting down one after another with my katana, the snow soon turned the repulsive color of their rotting insides. Only I remained clean and composed, heading toward the main gates of the factory, where mutated bats, spider-like creatures, and many Hunters were already waiting for me. One of the Delta Hunters had undergone a double mutation and acquired incredibly durable scales. I was more surprised than angry when, after a strike with my katana… its blade broke. Breaking a titanium katana… Fate turned out to be cruel and merciless to my melee weapon.
— You insignificant pawn, how dare you! — Flaring up, I dodged a swipe of claws and counterattacked with my famous roundhouse kick. In the past, it would knock everyone down. And now… this blow accidentally broke my leg upon impact with the powerful creature.
My leg regenerated in a fraction of a second, but the residual feeling remained, forcing me to leap back and pull out my submachine gun. The most vulnerable part of the monsters is their eyes. With my reaction and speed, it was no trouble for me to unleash a burst of bullets into the Chimera's vulnerable area, damaging its brain and sending it for disposal by decomposition.
In a state of anger, I accelerated the process of biomass absorption, becoming even more lethal and faster, simultaneously destroying all locked doors, except for those I unlocked with the access card. The thickness of the metal reminded me that I was still far from the more overwhelming level of my abilities. But, one way or another, I reached the underground train leading to the bio-weapons production complex.
Starting the train was easy, but the monsters that poured out of the tunnel reminded me of a base defense in a game where a personal life is a pure myth. They say about it: "Killed a man naked, took his things, destroyed the base, and only after that returned home and launched Rust."
However, life is not a game, and I found no pleasure in beating up naked mutants whose appearances resembled skinless animals. The only thing that maintained my fighting spirit was the art of dodging blood splashes in the confined space of the moving train.
But before I could enjoy my skill, a lack of track was discovered ahead. Someone had lowered a part of the platform, setting a trap. There was no doubt who was behind this — Sergei Vladimir. My old acquaintance and simultaneously a disgusting type who had tried to kill me more than once. I recalled the incident in front of the Spencer Mansion when he sicked a Tyrant named "Ivan" on me.
With a sudden brake, I stopped the train at the edge of the chasm. And only after dealing with the last monsters, I got out and assessed the path down. Clinging to ledges and making long jumps, it was possible to descend to the next level. Excellent.
I decided to act, and on the way, I encountered spiders that had already mutated. I did not suffer from arachnophobia, but the spiders' webs caused rejection. It was easy to get caught in a cocoon, and difficult to get out without activating mutation throughout the body. I did not want to reveal my abilities to someone who might be preparing surprises for me. There is no doubt that the Colonel is watching me through cameras, looking for a weak spot.
Descending, I walked through several wide corridors and ran into an overly self-confident man. The Colonel personally came to greet me, holding a weapon in his hands.
— Comrade Wesker, welcome to my humble abode, — almost pressing the trigger of the Luger, the blond Colonel with an ugly scar on his eye smiled sinisterly.
— I am ready to repay in kind, — I aimed my pistol in his direction and lightly touched the trigger. — But first, answer: is he worthy of a welcome who refuses to sink with the ship?
— My ship will not sink. Umbrella is immortal. All the pain, all the punishments, all the difficulties — there is nothing that wouldn't help it become stronger. It's sad that you don't understand this, — he calmly parried.
— You've gone too far and are creating many problems, — I nodded. — But still, I will offer you a single chance, as a token of our friendship: put down your pistol and leave.
— I can't. Project T-A.L.O.S. is the only thing that can save Umbrella from collapse. This is a new word in Umbrella's product line, the pinnacle of biological developments, fully controlled by the Red Queen computer. The perfect weapon that will make soldiers tremble at every encounter with it on the battlefield.
— Your lack of creativity disappoints me. I expected more from you, — I chuckled. — T.A.L.O.S. is just a tin can with meat inside.
— We'll see, — he winced. — And I almost forgot. I am not alone here. I have a couple of friends I'd like to introduce you to.
I turned my head and frowned. Two Tyrants of the "Ivan" type were approaching me. Last time, one such creature gave me a lot of trouble, and now there were several, probably additionally modified. In half a year, one can achieve great heights if pushed. And Umbrella was pushed hard.
— Your friends are charming, but to me, they are just chaff.
— Ha-ha. Russia — now that is such a peaceful place. Perfect for finding rest. Goodbye, Wesker, — lowering his pistol, he left me alone with two formidable guys. They had white bulletproof cloaks and black leather. They made for a very "peculiar Ivan."
But Sergei Vladimir, apparently, knows better. This is fixable; soon, he will close his eyes forever. First, I will get rid of his aces, then destroy his hope — T.A.L.O.S., after which I will crush my old friend and seize all of Umbrella's data along with the Red Queen core. The order is changeable, but the goal is clearer than ever before.