There was a fight about to happen on one of the mon– itors in what was left of the control room, and Albert Wesker, frustrated by a day of fruitless searching and not looking forward to yet another long flight, pulled up a crate and sat down to watch. He'd already sent the boys back to the world, he was alone – except it ap– peared that he'd missed somebody, and said somebody was still wandering around the island…… but not for much longer, he thought happily, wish– ing the reception was better; thanks to that lonesome loser, Alfred Ashford, the self-destruct system had screwed everything up… and finally, something inter– esting was actually going to happen.
Christ, he's unarmed!
Crazy or stupid or totally ignorant of what the island was, no question. Wesker grinned. The unarmed man was walking through the training facility just one floor below, and he was about to meet up with one of Um– brella's newer bio-organics, one that had been trapped down in the sewers until Wesker had shown up and set it free. They were one hallway apart; when the dumbass turned the next corner, he was dead. Wesker adjusted his sunglasses, pleasantly diverted from his own troubles. Sweepers, Umbrella was calling the new monsters, but they were basically Hunters with poison claws – huge, primarily amphibious, violent as hell. In Wesker's opinion, the Hunters, the 121 series, were perfectly badass without the extra poison touch.
But isn't that just like Umbrella, always wasting re-sources, playing games when they could be winning wars.
Yes, it was, but there was about to be bloodshed. Wesker set aside his distaste for the company and leaned in to watch. The weaponless idiot – a tall guy with reddish-brown hair, that was about all the static would allow – was two steps from disaster, the Sweeper waiting just around the corner… when he stopped and backed up a step, press-ing himself against the damaged wall. Wesker frowned. The man started to back up, slowly and carefully, still hugging the wall. Okay, maybe not a complete idiot. He'd made it halfway back down the corridor he'd come through when the Sweeper finally got impatient, deciding to take action. There was no sound system left, but the creature had thrown back its head and was scream– ing, that weird, trilling screech floating up to Wesker through the ruined building just a split second later. "Get him," Wesker breathed eagerly, looking back at the poor, doomed dumbass… just in time to see him throwing something, something small and dark, the Sweeper leaping out from behind the corner, still screaming, the object landing at its feet…… and the building was shaking, the screens going white and then black, the deep thunder of explosives rumbling through the floor. Wesker was astounded. And then furious. That crea-ture had been a miracle of science, a warrior created for battle – who was this dick who'd just rambled in and blown it to shit? A dead dick, Wesker thought darkly, pushing the crate away and heading for the stairs. He took them two at a time, carefully bypassing a few still burning fires, aware that he was channeling all his frustrations and upsets to-ward the unknown soldier and not particularly caring. Alexia wasn't at Rockfort, which meant he had to get his ass to the Antarctic of all places, to the only other fa– cility she might be at; why else would Alfred have gone there? And if Wesker didn't get to her before she woke up, he might have to go home empty handed… all of which added up to failure, and if there was one thing Wesker hated, it was losing. He marched through the crumbling leftovers of the training facility, reaching the hall he wanted, silencing his steps as he edged farther along. There was still smoke in the air when he reached the corner where the conflict had taken place, but little left of the Sweeper. Most of it was stuck to the walls and ceiling. There, ahead and to the left; he could smell the in– truder, could smell sweat and anxiety emanating from the small working lab to which he'd retreated. This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me, he thought, his mood lifting somewhat at the thought of a little personal interaction. Not wanting to get blown up, Wesker didn't hesitate, didn't give the guy a chance to get paranoid. He strode into the room, saw the soon-to-be corpse standing with his back turned, and moved. Moved the way only he could move – one second, he was walking through the door, the next, he was spinning the intruder around, lift-ing him by his throat…… and then looking into the startled face of Chris Redfield.
Oh, my.
Chris, who'd been on the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S., who'd been led – under Wesker's command – to the Spencer es– tate, where he'd proceeded to thoroughly screw up Wesk– er's plans. Chris Redfield had cost him money, had almost cost him his life – but worst of all, he had been primarily responsible for the biggest failure in Wesker's career.
Wesker recovered himself quickly, a dark, wonderful joy spreading through his entire body. "Chris Redfield, as I live and breathe – what brings you to Rockfort, if you don't mind me…"
Wesker trailed off, still gazing up into Redfield's in– creasingly red face as he uselessly pried at Wesker's fin– gers. The girl, of course! He hadn't even known that Chris had a sister, but the deranged letter that Alfred Ashford had so thoughtfully left behind explained everything… including his plans for the young Claire Redfield. "She's not here," Wesker said, grinning. With his free hand, he straightened his sunglasses. "You… you're dead," Chris gasped, and Wesker grinned wider, not bothering to respond to such a stupid statement.
"Don't change the subject, Chris. Don't you want to know where Claire is, hmmm? Did you know that her plane took a little unplanned detour to the Antarctic?"
Chris was slowly choking to death, but Wesker could see that the news of his sister was hitting him harder than his own imminent demise. Wonderful! "There are experiments being performed there,"
Wesker mock-whispered, as if telling him a secret.
"I plan on going myself, see if I can get an experiment or two of my own going… tell me, is your sister good-looking? Do you think she might be interested in get-ting some action, because I've got a hard-on like you wouldn't believe…"
Chris flailed at Wesker, the helpless fury in his eyes absolutely gorgeous. He hit Wesker in the face, knock– ing his sunglasses to the ground… and Wesker laughed, blinking up at him slowly, letting him see. He still wasn't used to it himself, the gold-red cat's eyes oc– casionally surprising him when he looked in a mirror and they had exactly the effect he'd hoped for. "What… are you?" Chris rasped out. "I'm better, that's what," Wesker said. "New employ-ers, you know. After the Spencer estate, I needed a little help getting back on my feet, which they were perfectly willing to provide. You think Claire will like it?" "Monster," Chris spat. I'll show you monster, you shit.
Wesker started to close his hand, slowly, watching Chris's eyes bulging, a vein on his forehead popping out…… and was stopped by the sound of laughter. Cool, fe– male laughter, filling the room, surrounding them. "Don't you want to play with me?" a voice said, the same woman, low and sexy and dangerous, and then she began to laugh again, an unmerciful, beautiful sound that finally trailed away to nothing.
Alexia!
God, she was awake… and the kind of power it would take for her to look in on him here, to project her– self so far… Wesker threw Chris to one side, barely hearing the plaster wall crack beneath his useless skull, his thoughts full of Alexia. He had to go to her immediately. He had to have her, and not just for the sample… though he'd take what he could get. "I'm coming," he said, scooping up his sunglasses and then moving, speeding through the broken facility to where his private plane waited. Chris Redfield was his past; Alexia Ashford meant his future. Chris crawled to his feet soon after Wesker left, aching in about a dozen places, his throat horribly sore. He didn't know what had happened, exactly, didn't know who the woman was or why Wesker had seemed so eager to get to her – but he understood now who had attacked Rockfort, and suspected the reason. Albert Wesker should have died when the Spencer mansion had burned, but it seemed he'd sold his soul to someone new at the price of his life, someone obviously as nasty and amoral as Umbrella – someone who was perfectly willing to kill for whatever it was they wanted, for something that Umbrella had. Chris didn't care. At the moment, all he cared about was Claire, and getting himself to this Antarctica facil– ity. He knew that Umbrella had a legitimate base there… it had to be the same one, and if it wasn't, somebody there would know where the experiments were taking place. He had one grenade left. If he could find the under-ground airport, he'd have no trouble getting inside, and he could fly anything with wings. He'd radio on the way for a read on the Umbrella base, and if he couldn't find a weapon to get her out, he'd use his bare hands. All that mattered was Claire. And he was on his way.