The Devil You Know

When Wesker received notice of a double-dealing by one of his agents, he could not say he was surprised.

A short, anonymous email from a throwaway address, including undeniable proof to put any doubt to rest. It kindly informed him that the HCF was onto him, and that they'd repurposed Ada Wong for their own use. That they'd arranged her betrayal of him.

Naturally, he would not permit such insubordination. Miss Wong would need to learn this lesson the difficult way, it seemed. He knew that woman was motivated solely by money, but he thought she knew better than to cross him. He'd been mistaken, evidently. A prompt call to Excella was made, away from prying ears. He arranged transport to the coast of Valdeobos for later that evening.

—

"—on? Leon!"

Someone is calling his name, but it hardly registers with how loudly his ears are ringing. A short, wounded noise spills from his lips as another wave of agony pulses through his body. It's like nothing he's endured before; a throbbing sort of suffering that begins at the small of his back and radiates out into every inch of his being. Each wave of hurt leaves his consciousness reeling and his stomach lurching with overwhelming nausea. Despite this, Leon can distantly feel the soft brushing of fingers against his wrists, and then his ankles. The leather cuffs, which he hadn't even noticed were restraining him, are gently peeled away from his skin. All he can do with the newfound freedom is curl in on himself.

"—ously scaring me! Please don't die! Oh my God, I totally did something wrong, didn't I? Ugh, I don't understand how this stupid machine works! I pressed the same button that you did and everything, so why—"

The world around him fades away, completely eclipsed by the torment clustered in his vertebrae. Struggling to keep down what little's in his stomach, he isn't sure how much time passes. But eventually, the agony recedes to a more manageable level. Still, Leon feels like death, but he is at least able to open his eyes.

"...Ash—ley...?"

Were he more lucid, Leon would have cringed at the rawness of his voice. But the mangled word is enough for Ashley's head to snap up from where it'd been pillowed in her arms.

"Oh my God, Leon! Are you okay? I was so worried!"

When she stands, the rolling stool she'd been using to sit vigilantly at his side shoots across the room. It knocks into a wall with a clatter and topples over, but Ashley doesn't even flinch at the noise as she frantically looks him over.

Though his vision is still blurred and he feels like he's been put through a blender, Leon can make out the puffiness of her eyes and wetness staining her cheeks.

"I—I'm okay, just give me a second..."

As he collects himself, Ashley reaches down to sweep his sweaty bangs from where they are plastered to his forehead.

"I thought you were dying," she says softly, barely above a whisper, "I mean, you were screaming and shaking, and then you just went limp. I thought I killed you."

"I'm sorry," he mumbles dumbly, unsure about how to comfort her.

She laughs wetly, poking him gently on his forehead, "Why are you apologizing Leon?"

He looks away. He doesn't know, so he changes the subject, "How long was I out?"

"Um, I'm not really sure. I didn't think to check, but it's been awhile."

He tries to look at his watch, but his eyes seem incapable of focusing. Strained, he holds his wrist up to Ashley, who reads off the time.

Leon bites his tongue in frustration. A while is an understatement. They'd gotten to the lab around 1800, and it was now 1910. He's honestly shocked that Saddler's Ganados haven't found them yet.

He looks back to Ashley, who's hovering over him and fretting like a mother hen. If she's in any sort of pain, it's not evident from her face. When he hooked her up to the machine, she cried like a baby. Now, she looks right as rain, and Leon almost feels jealous.

"How do you feel?"

Ashley blinks, "The procedure itself hurt really badly, but now I'm perfectly fine. Do you think it worked?"

She doesn't have that black discoloration creeping up her veins anymore, which he tells her.

"So, all of this? Removing the parasites... This was Luis?"

"Yeah. We're alive. Thanks to him."

Ashley's expression is complicated, but a moment later her mouth opens as if she's remembered something.

"Oh! By the way," Ashley produces a thick roll of paper and unfurls it, flipping it around and showing it to him. "I found a map! I think it might be our way out of here," she peaks over it, looking at him expectantly. Leon tries to focus on the symbols and shapes drawn neatly on the paper, but doing so only serves to make him see double. 

They don't have many options. They can't go back the way they came, not with a mountain of rubble blocking the path. They also don't have the time to search around for some other hidden route, if one even exists. 

Leon decides to trust in whatever map this is that Ashley's found, "If you keep this up, you'll put me out of a job."

Ashley brightens at the praise, "What's the plan then, Leon?"

Originally, it'd been to kick Saddler's ass and get the hell out of dodge. But Leon isn't sure how much of an ass-kicking he can deliver whilst he's liable to blow chunks. He definitely cannot fight. Hell, he can hardly move. If they're going to escape, they'll need to stick to the shadows and completely avoid combat. Which leaves their previously scheduled ride out of the question. Extraction by helicopter would draw a great deal of attention. A small boat would be ideal, quiet and difficult to spot, but where would they even find one? Leon recalls where he and Ada landed on the island, and rules it out almost immediately. That much backtracking would be impossible for him in this state.

"Where does that map lead?" Leon's tone is carefully neutral, even as his insides squirm with potent discomfort.

"Ahh, hmm. It's in spanish? Moo-ell-a de car-gah?"

"Muella de carga," he echos, "means loading bay."

It's terribly risky, but at this point Leon can't bring himself to care. The place is probably swarming with Saddler's men, but he'll take his chances if it means he and Ashley can fly home free to America, far away from this island of freaks. Let the government clean this mess up themselves.

Ashley rolls up the map back up and tucks it into the cinch of her skirt, "So...?" 

"So..." Leon repeats, "We'll follow your map, steal a boat and—ah, Jesus Christ—" as Leon moves to sit up, his body aches dangerously in protest, "get the fuck out of here."

As if to punctuate his sentence, a deafening crash sounds somewhere above them. It's loud enough to be an explosion, and causes the laboratory to rumble threateningly.

Hanging lamps swing wildly overhead, and several specimen containers are knocked from their shelves. Ashley narrowly avoids tumbling into him by bracing herself up against the machine's control panel. Leon grips the edges of the table to keep himself from sliding off. The quaking subsides in a matter of seconds, but it leaves them uneasy regardless. 

"What the heck was that?"

"I don't know, and I don't want to find out."

Leon sucks in a breath and plants his feet on the ground. He tries to stand, but the effort forces him to bear weight on his spine. A white-hot pang of hurt pulses out from that same spot in his back. It feels like his organs are being twisted and turned inside-out. He collapses back onto the table. 

"Leon!"

Ashley's by his side in an instant, steadying him. Without being prompted, she places his arm over her shoulders and circles her own arm around his back.

"Here, I'll help you! Do you think you can walk like this?"

He's too preoccupied with trying not to vomit all over Ashley's pumps to reply with anything other than a stiff nod.

"Okay, I'll lift you on the count of three. Ready? One... two..."

On three, Ashley hoists him up, and he somehow keeps his balance even as the floor spins beneath him. Surprisingly, Ashley is supporting him very well. Her grip is firm and she doesn't look encumbered by his weight in the slightest. Leon's build is rather lean for his line of work, but he's still a grown man, and he can't imagine it would be easy for a girl like Ashley to carry him. Ashley, to her own credit, seems acutely aware of this as well. Her lips pull into a taut line and she furrows her brow.

"Have you been working out?" Leon quips feebly. 

"No!" she replies, almost indignant. 

They share a glance, and the fleeting exchange is enough for them to decide that this specific, worrying conversation will have to wait until later. 

"Alright," Ashley says, her voice steeled with a shaky sort of confidence, "we’re so getting out of here."

Ashley guides them towards the laboratory's heavy metal doors, using her free arm to push one open with disconcerting ease. They step back out into the spacious warehouse, and Ashley scans the room, her gaze zeroing in on a telescoping ladder attached to a catwalk overhead.

"That's the ladder marked on the map but... How are we going to get up there?"

Leon pauses, biting his lip, "I don't think I can boost you this time."

Ashley steers him over to a nearby shipping container. She carefully lowers him to the floor and sits him up against it.

"Sit here for a sec."

Not too difficult an ask, Leon thinks, observing Ashley through heavy eyelids as she wanders about the warehouse. She lifts lids on wooden crates and sifts through cardboard boxes. What she's looking for, Leon isn't entirely sure, but they can't waste too much time here. They're alone for now since Saddler's men are remaining elusive, however there's no telling when that will change.

Ashley walks back over to him only a few minutes later, holding something behind her back.

"...Any luck?" 

"Well, nothing to help us get to that ladder," she responds, choosing that moment to show off what she's pilfered, "but I've found a flash grenade and a green herb!"

She gives the herb to him readily.

"Nice going," he replies, picking the plant from where it's pinched between her thumb and index finger.

He's never ingested one of these, and isn't sure if he should. But he's applied it to open wounds before, so maybe it'll help with internal injury, too. Leon crushes the plant in his fist and grinds it into a rough powder. He downs the herbal dust, recoiling when the bitterness touches his tongue.

"...Are you sure it's safe to eat that?" Ashley stares at him like he's done something revolting.

Leon ignores her and rolls his shoulder. His mouth is dry and there's a nasty taste sticking to his teeth, but he feels better. The ache in his spine has dulled considerably, and the relief is enough for him to move on his own.

He stands, clenching his jaw. A twinge of pain pulses through his body again with the motion, but it's nothing compared to what it was before. He tunes it out and turns to Ashley with an expectant hand.

"Where's the grenade?" he questions dryly.

The concern on her face melts into a pout, "Why can't I keep it?"

Leon scoffs, "Because you have no firearms training, let alone explosives. Now hand it over."

Ashley huffs and pulls the grenade from wherever it was tucked into her clothes.

"Fine..."

Leon pockets the flash-bang, "I think I can lift y—"

He's cut off by another blast, reverberating as loudly and forcefully as the last. The building shudders violently, storage containers tumbling to the ground and spilling their contents onto the warehouse floor. Ashley falls to her knees, and Leon careens backwards into the shipping container. Above them, the ladder is jostled loose from its latch. Leon tries to suspend his disbelief as it smoothly extends to the floor. How lucky.

The shock wave lasts about the same length of time that the previous had. Ashley recovers quickly, but as she rises, she's distracted by a fresh tear in her stocking. 

Frustration flickers across her face, "Darn it..."

"Ashley, look," he points, lifting himself from the wall with a wince. He'd landed wrong, and it'd done no favors for his back. 

"Oh," she glances toward the catwalk, then back to Leon, hesitating, "you sure you're okay?"

"Never been better," he bites out, limping toward the ladder. He braces himself and ascends the rungs at a snail's pace, dismissing the way his spine feels like it's splitting clean in half. 

Eventually, he reaches the top, but not without great effort. Straightening himself, Leon unholsters his pistol. He isn't sure how well he can aim, still lightheaded and queasy, but the weight of his gun in his hand is a comfort nonetheless. Ashley climbs up shortly after him, and they make their way across the catwalk. She trails closely behind him, wringing her hands all the while, and Leon vaguely wonders if she thinks he's going to keel over and die.

Only a few moments later, they arrive a bulky, rusted door. Leon shoulders it open, the metal scraping against stone as though it were protesting the intrusion.

"Look at this place," Ashley breathes.

They step out onto a stone balcony, overlooking a gaping cavern. The air is stale, damp, and there lingers an underlying foul odor that's not unlike sulfur. The rocks under his boots are wet and slimy, and it makes maintaining his balance all the more difficult. There's nowhere to go but a narrow hallway, dimly lit by torches mounted in wall sconces. Leon motions for Ashley to shadow him as he proceeds through the corridor. 

"That woman who helped us... do you think she's all right?" Ashley's voice bounces off the cave's uneven ceiling, carrying a note of worry. 

"Oh, I'm sure she’s fine. She's not the type to roll over that easy," Leon replies evenly. If anyone should be scared for their life, it's Saddler. Ada is quite vicious when she wants to be.

"Sounds like you know her well..." there's an edge to Ashley's voice that he can't identify.

The conversation lulls as they slink down a set of ledges that lead into a lower section of the cavern. Leon's hands tighten around his pistol.

"Ashley, stay close," he commands in a hushed tone, crouching as low as he can without straining himself, "We're gonna sneak through."

She comes up on his flank, hunching down to match him, "Is there something down here with us?"

The cave is quiet, and he can't see anything, either, but he can never be too sure.

"Just stay close," he mutters.

They creep along a large outcropping of rocks, coming upon a fork in the path. Just as Leon is about to continue going left, under an overturned pillar, Ashley calls his name.

"Leon, look at that! One of those bug things!" she hisses, pointing animatedly at an unmoving Novistador.

Leon cocks an eyebrow, his gun trained on the creature. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but then again, they usually remain cloaked until he’s almost on top of them. This one, however, isn’t even attempting to disguise itself, and it's still as a corpse.

He shuffles toward it, unsheathing his knife. As soon as he's close enough, Leon launches himself at the monster and buries his blade between its eyes. He ignores the sharp flare of soreness that races up his spinal column as he yanks his knife free from the monster with a sickening, slick sound. It doesn't react in the slightest, and its insectoid body remains limp. Leon frowns.

"Is it already dead?" Ashley asks, arms crossed protectively over her chest.

"...I guess so."

He slips his knife back into its place on his belt. He nudges the bug with his shoe. It has no outward damage, no bullet holes or wounds besides the one Leon put there himself. It's as if the beast simply went to sleep and never woke up.

They find two more Novistadors lying deceased on a circular platform ahead. It's an altar of some sort, well illuminated by the chandelier which hangs high above their heads. Leon searches around very briefly, finding nothing of note. A dark obelisk towers over them, but its inscription is so faded he can hardly make out what it says. He leafs through a religious book—some nonsense cult writings—then looks to Ashley.

"This isn't the right way. I think I saw a platform back there, but it'll require some climbing."

Ashley nods, already turning to backtrack. As they come upon the series of stone shelves, Leon's body twinges in anticipation. He climbs unhurriedly, as he had on the ladder, but the extra care does not abate the pain.

Once he reaches the top, Leon feels thoroughly spent, but they can't stop now. Now while they're right there, so close to freedom. Ashley's right behind him as they press on through the next set of doors. It's another short tunnel. The monsters in this area are lifeless as well. It's convenient, but unnerving.

The tunnel opens up into a barren store room, and beyond that, Leon's greeted by the murky indigo of the evening sky. Gloomy looking clouds are tethered low on the horizon and shower the island with a light cascade of rain. As he and Ashley venture out onto a precipice that overlooks the bay, he brings out his binoculars to survey the area.

The loading zone is in a state of utter destruction. The main control tower is collapsed, a mess of bent steel beams and jagged edges. The industrial dock is broken off in several places, parts submerged in the brackish waters below. Clusters of flame burn brightly throughout the ruined structure. Leon would be stunned if he weren't so confused.

He takes in the wreckage with a strange sense of foreboding. Near the middle of the docks, he spots two figures standing opposite each other. Leon increases the magnification and blinks as the binoculars focus.

"Ada!" he can't stop the panicked tumble of her name from his lips. 

There stands Ada Wong, looking no worse for wear since the last time he'd seen her. Except, her face is scrunched up in a furious expression, and it's directed at whoever she's talking to.

Leon can't see who man is, since he's facing Ada. But what he can see, he doesn't recognize. One of Saddler's men, maybe? But where is Saddler? He can't think too deeply about any of it, though, since the stranger has his gun directly level with Ada's eyes.

"Leon! What's going on down there?" Ashley places a hand on his shoulder as she squints, trying to peer at what's happening on the docks.

"It's Ada. She's in trouble. We have to take this elevator down to the loading bay, but you need to hide until I save her."

"Leon..." Ashley seems like she's about to protest, but she still follows him as he gets onto the lift.

"You can't come out for any reason. I mean it."

"Alright," she agrees slowly, "I'll stay put. But Leon?"

"Yeah?"

"We're a team, right?"

A fondness bubbles up in his chest that reminds him distinctly of Sherry. He doesn't dwell on it, and instead ruffles Ashley's nest of hair. She swats at him playfully and giggles.

"Yeah, yeah. We're a team. A pretty good one at that."

That earns him a sly smile, which Leon returns with a small grin of his own. He's going to get Ashley—get both of them—out of here. Safe and sound.

The elevator lurches as it reaches the ground. He directs Ashley toward a stack of crates, and she takes cover behind them. She shoots him a thumbs up as he readies his pistol. Stepping around the corner, he approaches the standoff taking place in the center of the walkway.

—

The island, situated far from the Spanish mainland and well-fortified by Saddler's men, was on high alert thanks to Ada's pet special operative. Wesker had been dropped off near a refinery, a more remote area that would be subject to less scrutiny. He would need to make his way to the loading docks. That was where Ada was supposed to be extracting with their rogue scientist friend. He would confront her, kill her if necessary, and take the master Plaga sample for himself.

It was no trouble for Wesker to get past Osmund Saddler's feeble excuse of an army. The infected men were cut down easily and quite susceptible to bullets. Even the Las Plagas that sometimes emerged from their broken corpses posed no threat to him.

Once Saddler's nearby forces had been thoroughly dispatched, Wesker took a moment to orient himself. He had landed in the southern section of the plant, which meant he needed to head northeast. The view from the helicopter had allowed him to spot a service road, which would provide a route from the mineral refinery to the loading bay. A bit of a walk, but nothing he couldn't handle.

Wesker took off toward the direction of the road. His form blurred, inhuman speed achievable only by a Tyrant-class BOW enabled him to reach the gravel trail with considerable haste. He darted onto the road, sparing no time as he sprinted toward the docks. Under normal circumstances, he'd never be so hurried. But Wesker was aware of Ada's slipperiness, just as he'd heard legends of Leon S. Kennedy's unique penchant for ruining plans.

Though he'd never met the young man, he'd learned plenty about him through Ada. A pretty boy with a heroic streak, and a terrible sense of humor to boot. Wesker couldn't deny that his interest was piqued. That agent was the supposed object of Miss Wong’s affections—which was precisely why she had so defiantly ignored his earlier command to eliminate him. Though her insubordination was mildly irritating, Wesker could not deny that he was curious as to what exactly it was that Ada saw in him.

Soon, he arrived in an industrial zone. Trucks and construction vehicles sat dormant in an unmanned lot. Before him, a large supply depot overlooked the loading bay. Wesker approached an overhang which had been fenced off poorly with chicken wire. He removed his sunglasses, folding them and placing them in his chest pocket. He scanned the docks, eyes glinting.

Color him surprised—Miss Wong had managed to land herself in some trouble. Suspended by her arms with a rope from a beam far above the ground, she swayed in the heavy winds of the brewing storm. Below her, standing haughtily with a staff too ornate for his disgusting body, stood Osmund Saddler. Dressed in ridiculous robes, as if he thought himself a holy figure. Wesker felt ire building in the base of his skull. It seemed that he'd shown up a bit too early to the party, and Ada's dog was nowhere to be found, but no matter. He'd get down there and beat that gibbon's brains in himself for daring to be so arrogant.

In his peripheral vision, Wesker saw an elevator extending down the cliff's side. A work lift, its access point would be within the supply depot. It looked to be his only way down.

Wesker pushed open one of the massive cargo entrance doors, and was immediately welcomed by a barrage of gunfire. He slipped into the spacious storage area, dodging the hail of bullets with distorted movements. As soon as the soldiers moved to reload their weapons, Wesker pounced on the one nearest to him. He wrapped his hands fully around the man's neck and relished the feeling of delicate bones bending under his strength. With a twist and a pull, the man's head was removed from his shoulders. Wesker dropped the head with little care, and with a moist-sounding thud, it joined the body that it had been previously connected to on the floor. Blood pooled beneath the soles of his shoes as he darted for his next target.

He eliminated the rest of the squadron at a brutal leisure, then called the elevator. As he waited, Wesker took notice of a modestly sized weapons crate. Unopened, the text stamped onto the wood labeled it as a C90-CR. A rocket launcher. It would certainly prove useful against Mr. Saddler. Dominant Plaga parasites had a knack for forcefully evolving their host's DNA, not unlike the G-virus.

It was then that the lift arrived. Wesker slung the launcher's strap over his shoulder and pocketed a second missile. He stepped into the elevator. It chimed shut and descended to the loading bay.

A few moments later, he stepped onto the grated metal of the dock. The ocean churned savagely beneath his feet.

"Albert Wesker? To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Osmund Saddler's greasy voice carried over the crashing waves. It was unpleasant to Wesker's sensitive ears, and he wanted nothing more than to silence this buffoon forever. First things first, though—he needed to get his gloating in. He'd always been a petty creature at heart.

"Yes, yes," Wesker sneered as he approached the ghastly man with a slow, even gait. "The pleasure is all yours, I'm sure."

He savored the way Saddler's thin upper lip curled into an affronted snarl. If it was this easy to get under the man's skin, this would be a swift encounter.

"What are you doing here, sir? What business could you possibly have here?" Saddler barked, pudgy fingers flexing where they curled around his staff.

Wesker's eyes flit to the movement, somewhat unintentionally. But it wasn’t the subtle twitch of the man’s hand that captured his attention—it was the scepter. Inlaid within the staff's focus was a gleaming gemstone, its hue a rich, dusty orange. Opaque, but alive with a soft internal shimmer—the amber, unmistakably. The very sample he had sought now lay before him, tantalizingly within reach.

"I believe you have something that belongs to me," Wesker said, a dry lilt to his voice.

Saddler sputtered, "If you are referring to your agent, he was killed by that insufferable renegade. I had no hand in it."

Wesker paused. What helpful intel. He'd almost forgotten about Krauser. He'd need to send someone to fetch the corpse. Two Dominant Plaga samples would be better than one.

"No, that's not it, but a commendable guess."

Saddler stared disbelievingly, pupils white with infection, "Stop playing coy and tell me what it is you want, Doctor Wesker. If it's something I am capable of giving you, perhaps a partnersh—"

"Spare me your drivel and hand over the amber," Wesker interrupted, drawing his Samurai's Edge and capturing Saddler in its sights. "If you refuse, I will take it by force."

"By force?" Saddler scoffed. "You cannot hope to defeat me. But I am a gracious shepherd, so I will give you another opportunity to join my flock. I guarantee, if we were to join forces, we would be unstoppable!"

Wesker would laugh if the insinuation weren't so insulting. He refused to dignify such nonsense with a response, and instead unloaded his magazine into Saddler's head with superhuman accuracy. At the damage, tentacles erupted from Saddler's hands, and he roared as he cowered behind his sleeves. The grotesque appendages surged toward Wesker, intent to grab ahold of him. He dodged backwards smoothly and watched with thinly veiled intrigue as Saddler began to transform. 

"You foul man..." Saddler started, his voice distorting with a deep groan, "I was so graciously offering you the great gift... to become one of us... despite the filth cloying your blood... but you have forsaken the Holy Body..."

Flesh bulged from Saddler's form, molding into numerous sinewy appendages, hooked with bone. Mutated skin split open, giving way to bulbous eyes which swelled into place on Saddler's tainted body. Tentacles protruded from almost every orifice, and the creature's new head was armed with formidable pincers. This evolved form of Saddler was a vile beast of alien gore. 

"You require Absolution!" Saddler, now a monster, charged at him. 

He threw himself out of the way and Saddler narrowly missed him, colliding with the sheer side of the cliff. Wesker was knocked to the floor by the momentum, but he swiftly rolled back onto his feet. He ducked under a tentacle that shot toward his head and kept moving as Saddler recovered from the self-dealt blow.

Wesker jumped over another lashing tentacle. He reloaded his gun with a well-practiced motion, then twisted around to fire several rounds into the abomination's various slitted eyes. Saddler recoiled, his disfigured cry sounding more like a howl. Wesker leapt up onto a higher platform as the creature rushed him again.

"Such blasphemous desecration! Such unforgivable heresy!"

Wesker chuckled as he nailed Saddler with a few more critically aimed bullets. What moronic preaching. Still, the monster was not deterred. Saddler sprung up onto the upper deck and swiped at Wesker with a skeletal talon. 

"...Yet, is it not the sinner who is in most need of salvation?"

The hit connected. Wesker was pitched across the bridge and into a railing. The steel dented under his weight from the force of the impact, but Wesker healed from the injury almost immediately. With the T-virus thrumming through his veins, he ripped the banister from where it was bolted in place, and launched himself at Saddler.

"Kneel before the Father, and he shall bless you with the Holy Body!"

Behind him, the metal flooring crumpled into the rippling waters below. It seemed this railing was more structurally necessary than Wesker had previously considered. Well, not his island, not his insurance policy. He paid the destruction no mind as he thrust the warped steel posts into Saddler's meaty tissue.

The creature reeled back, a guttural scream erupting from his beak-like maw. An inky, rancid substance spewed from in between his mandibles. Wesker took the opportunity to create distance, vaulting over the collapsed portion of the dock and onto the other side of the lower walkway.

Wesker dashed to the far end of the platform. He hauled the rocket launcher from where it hung on his back and lifted it onto his shoulder. At that moment, Saddler's hulking form rounded the corner made by the elevated control tower. He flung himself over the same gap that Wesker had just cleared, uncaring of the metal that had been wedged into his viscera, and landed just below the upper trestle. It would be a straight shot.

"The sorrows of this world are without number... You know this well," Saddler crept closer as he delivered his deranged sermon. "Incessant war. Suffering. And man turns a blind eye to the atrocities created, to the blood on their hands. Even now. The people of this world must become one. With one will and one God. We shall witness the coming of a paradise free of misfortune!"

Wesker understood the evils of the world intimately. On this, at least, the bumbling fool had been correct. But where Osmund Saddler remained woefully blind was in his delusion of divine right. To seek to assimilate all of humanity into his congregation—without discretion, without discernment? To try and shuttle the unworthy into the future? Such putrid leniency was not just a flaw; it was Saddler’s innate inadequacy. How could he hope to shepherd in a new era when the very core of his ambition was riddled with rot?

No, Saddler could never be a God. He was nothing more than a pitiful old man, drunk on delusions of grandeur, devoid of true vision. His flimsy aspirations were meaningless, his grand designs laughable. The throne he so desperately coveted? It was already occupied. Wesker had claimed it long ago.

As Saddler finished his tirade, he tensed, rearing back onto his hind legs and preparing to strike. Wesker had let this go on for long enough. He narrowed his eyes, and with a pull of the weighty trigger, he fired the launcher. The rocket shot forward with a high-pitched whistle, cutting through the air towards its intended target.

The resulting explosion was immense, and its blinding light made Wesker wish he'd still been wearing his sunglasses. The rig quaked, and fire and smoke swelled, engulfing Saddler entirely. Though it was muted by the thundering blast, Wesker heard the creature which had been Osmund Saddler wailing in anguish. What a satisfying noise.

The stench of burnt flesh would never cease to be repugnant, but it was unable to detract from the pleasure he felt watching the metal beneath Saddler's gigantic form buckle. With a final, wretched cry, Saddler plummeted down into the ocean. Wesker shook his head, this man could not even die with dignity.

Wesker lifted his glasses from his breast pocket and slid them onto his face. He hadn't realized before, too caught up in the thrill of combat, but at some point it'd started raining. He glanced up to where he'd left Ada hanging, only to find her vanished. He sighed, how typical of her.

She was not his main concern, though, and Wesker decided he would see to her once he'd secured the amber. But before he could begin his search for the staff, the loading bay shuddered fiercely, vibrations tearing through the floor beneath his boots. Wesker hastened toward a railing, leaning over it to peer down into the sea. Below, beneath the  seething waves, there was a flicker of movement.

Then, he saw it. An undulating shadow in the depths, just as the water's surface broke open in a violent splash. Colossal tentacles—slick, mucus-coated, and pulsating—shot out from the sea. In seconds, the serpentine limbs surged forth, snaking around the tower. It rapidly enveloped almost the entirety of the dock, expanding until its slimy form reached skyward. At its core, nestled near the peak of the control tower, a single, massive eye opened. It glowed an ominous, molten copper, and bathed the bay in its murky light.

Wesker had always appreciated an encore.

"How fitting," he mused, drinking in the sight. "This form becomes you—hideous inside and out."

He stuck a fist in his pocket, intending to grab the second missile and reload the launcher, but he came up empty. Any earlier pleasure Wesker felt evaporated as he cursed, realizing that he must've dropped the rocket at some point during the earlier battle. This error did not bode well—he wouldn't have nearly enough ammo to fell this beast.

The monster screeched, an otherworldly noise. A tentacle swung wide, and swept Wesker's legs out from under him. He toppled, his back meeting the slippery dock, and was hardly given the opportunity to right himself before another angled to skewer him. He rolled under the probing tendril, and quickly back onto his feet.

Instinct propelled him as he raised his gun, squeezing off several rounds at the monster. Its flesh ate his bullets, barely fazed. Wesker quickly realized his firepower would not be sufficient, regardless of how many bullets he had remaining. The creature's relentless tentacles continued to lash at him with growing fury, but Wesker met each frenzied strike with a perfectly timed dodge. They danced like this for some time, until a smooth, sultry voice pierced through the chaos.

"Wesker! Catch!"

It was Ada.

Wesker spun around just in time to see the missile he'd carelessly lost flung in his direction. He caught it and expertly loaded it into the launcher's barrel.

He sidestepped the powerful swat of another barbed appendage, aimed at the monster's eye, then pulled the trigger.

The explosion was equally as enjoyable to watch the second time around, perhaps even more so now that he wasn't being blinded. The creature sobbed as it finally died for good, its jagged limbs lashing out in its agony. Wesker narrowly avoided yet another flailing tentacle as they receded from the pier. He observed Saddler's pitiful end for a while more before his attention locked onto a glint in the distance.

He caught the head of Saddler's staff poking out of a distant pile of debris. It'd been lost during the man's transformation, but now he had it in his grasp. The dominant Plaga sample.

Wesker turned away for a moment to toss the rocket launcher out of sight. As it clattered uselessly somewhere to his rear, he began to stalk toward the rubble—only to be promptly stopped in his tracks.

There stood Ada Wong, poised atop the wreckage with effortless grace, grappling hook dangling casually from her fingers.

"Long time no see, Wesker," she said, velvety and saccharine. 

"You of all people should know what I am capable of, Miss Wong," he growled in lieu of a greeting. "After all the trouble I've just gone through—and I know you watched the entire show—I deserve my spoils, hm?"

"Hold it, handsome," Ada cooed, reaching behind her back. She lifted her arm, and caught between her thin fingers was a silver vial. Inside it, the amber glinted mischievously. "If you come any closer, I'll have to destroy this. I don't know what's crawled up your ass, but you need to calm down."

Wesker paused. She somehow had already gotten the amber out of the staff. He'd taken his eyes off of the pile for a mere second, yet that span alone gave her ample time to move in for the steal. Wesker considered her threat, and then met her eyes. He knew her well, to where he could see very plainly that she was not bluffing. If he moved to seize the sample, she would destroy it. Of course, if she dared, he'd kill her, that much they were both aware of. So, the sole element of her threat that halted his approach was the potential loss of a precious specimen.

"I'm perfectly—"

"Why did you come, Wesker?" she interjected tenderly. "Didn't we agree that I could handle this mission myself? Don't tell me you were worried about me."

"I'm already well informed of your betrayal, so don't play dumb with me. You won't like what happens if you continue to do so," Wesker spat. "And the HCF? Really? If it were anyone else, perhaps I could have forgiven this little stunt. But this is a direct move against me, Ada, and you know I cannot abide by that."

Her eyes widened just a fraction, and in that brief moment of weakness, an opening became apparent. Wesker exploited her shock, raising his gun and shooting her hook-shot from her hand with acumen. The device was sent flying from her possession as she gasped, flinching; no doubt feeling the heat from the bullet. 

Her careful mask of controlled indifference slipped away as she glared at him heatedly, stepping down from the rubble.

"Who told you, Wesker?" Ada probed. Her gaze roamed over his face in search of tells that did not exist, "Who told you I was bought out?"

A question Wesker would have liked the answer to as well. Unfortunately, he knew as little as Ada about the leaker's identity—meaning, he knew nothing at all.

"I can't reveal my sources," he replied instead, "but perhaps I can allow you to walk away with your life intact. That is, if you hand me the amber."

"...You know I can't do that."

Wesker clicked his tongue, "Don't be stubborn. You're making this so much more difficult than it needs to be."

"My buyers will be very sad if they don't get this sample, as will my wallet if I don't get my paycheck. It's nothing personal, Wesker."

"Yes, it's never personal with you, Ada. That's your problem, isn't it? No sense of loyalty. Willing to throw anyone and everyone under the proverbial bus to pad your bank account."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"I wouldn't normally be so adverse to your proclivities. However, like I said, you've taken our game a step too far this time," Wesker retorted, shifting his pistol to be level with her gaze. Then he added, a carefully planned afterthought, "I do wonder, though, as you clearly can't be bothered to follow my orders—is your pet still on this island?"

A priceless expression appeared on her face, caught between rage and distress, "He has nothing to do with this, Wesker. This is between you and me."

"So be it," if it was an ultimatum she wanted, then he would give her one. He smirked, "I'll make this simple for you. You can give me either the sample or your life, but you cannot possibly keep both. The choice is yours, Ada."

—

"—is yours, Ada."

Leon approaches the pair with his gun drawn, arriving within earshot. He'd only caught the tail end of their conversation, and really wishes he'd gotten there earlier. Ada and this man seem familiar with each other, intimate. Leon isn't sure what to make of it.

"Drop the weapon, and put your hands where I can—" his voice breaks, cracking mid-sentence, still raw from all the screaming he'd been doing whilst hooked up to that machine. Leon clears his throat, willing down the embarrassed flush that fights to appear on his cheeks, "—see them," he finishes, a bit less intimidatingly than he'd hoped for.

Rather than be relieved that he's come to save her, Ada seems decidedly more upset. Her mystery man, on the other hand, whips his head around and looks at Leon with interest. Or, Leon thinks he's looking at him. The man's wearing a pair of sunglasses, even though it's dark as hell outside, so Leon can't exactly tell where his eyes are pointed. What a creep. Leon's eyes move on from his face, trailing along the powerful line of the man's arm, to the pistol in his hand, which is still trained on Ada. Has he seen that model before?

"Drop the weapon, now," he reiterates, and thankfully, this time he sounds like he means it.

Ada makes a cutting motion at her neck from behind the stranger's back. She shakes her head at him, as if begging him to shut his mouth.

The man wears an amicable, closed-lipped smile, but there is no inflection in his voice as he addresses Leon, "If it isn't the elusive Mr. Kennedy. So kind of you to finally join us."

"Yeah, well, I'm the kind of guy who likes to show up fashionably late." 

Leon derives satisfaction from the way the man's pale eyebrows lift above his shades. The bastard glances at Ada, whose face quickly blanks at his scrutiny, and she shrugs. He steps sideways, so he's positioned facing the both of them, but his gun never drifts from where it's pointed at Ada.

"I've certainly heard about your... comedy routine. Though I must admit, I never anticipated having the privilege of a front-row seat," the man says wryly. "But let’s not waste time on trivialities. Tell me, is the president's daughter still with you, or has she been made into one of Osmund Saddler's mindless drones?"

Shock creases Leon's brow. Who the hell is this guy? And how does he know about the mission? His fingers tighten around his pistol and he reins in his confusion with a sharp breath.

"Glad you could afford tickets, but that’s none of your goddamn business," Leon snaps as he edges closer, his weapon aimed at the stranger’s arrogant visage. "I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, and frankly? I don’t give a shit. But I'm gonna need you to drop that gun and let Ada go. Now."

The man doesn't spare Ada a glimpse, but is clearly speaking to her when he says, "Quite the mouth on this one, hm?"

Ada crosses her arms, posture suddenly relaxed and face meticulously devoid of emotion. Whatever she was worried about has fallen back behind her professional mask, "I've trained him well."

The man laughs, a cool sound, "I'm surprised you don't recognize me, Agent Kennedy. I'm sure you've heard of me. I'm quite infamous. In fact, I believe we run in many of the same circles. Maybe dear Chris Redfield has mentioned me before?"

Leon's eyes widen, the puzzle pieces in his mind slotting into place.

"Albert Wesker," he realizes, and the name feels filthy on his tongue. He isn't sure whether his fast uptake pleases the man—Wesker—or not, as he bares his teeth.

"I'm pleased to see that the American government's mutts aren't too slow. It's regrettable that I'm going to have to put you down so soon."

With a movement so fast, Leon would describe it as literally instant, Wesker's gun switches targets. 

He freezes, body locking in place as he stares down the barrel of the masterfully crafted pistol—a weapon as precise and merciless as the man wielding it. He is no match for someone like Albert Wesker. Knives and guns mean nothing to this sort of monster. Leon knows the moment he reaches for the grenade hanging on his belt, it'll already be too late. Wesker will put a bullet in his brain before his fingers can do so much as twitch. I'm going to die, he thinks, vaguely.

But before the gunshot is inevitably fired, Leon hears the clinking of something skittering across the dock. Wesker seems to notice it too, and both of their attentions are momentarily captured by the object rolling past Wesker's feet—a flash-bang? 

The realization comes too slowly, and not a beat after, a dazzling burst of light ignites Leon's vision. His ears ring with a shrill feedback that completely drowns out all other sounds. His eyes, which he'd shielded too late, feel as though they've been seared in a skillet. However, the blindness doesn't last long, and Leon's soon able to make out—albeit poorly—the suspiciously empty spot that Ada had just occupied, as well as the crumpled form of Wesker.

He's fallen down onto one knee, folding a hand over his eyes in a pose that's strikingly reminiscent of the Tyrants in Raccoon City. Leon's head swivels toward where the flash-bang had been tossed from. He manages to spot Ashley peeking out from her cover, and feels overwhelmingly grateful that he hadn't thought to check her for more.

Leon shoots a volley of bullets at Wesker, but can't tell if any of them connect as he sprints back toward Ashley. They need to get away, while Wesker's still incapacitated.

"Ashley, run! Now!" he hurries past her, grabbing hold of her arm and tugging her along with him.

An alarm begins to blare from afar, probably signaling some sort of self-destruct sequence. Leon laments his misfortune as he and Ashley burst through a swinging metal door and down a flight of stairs. They’ve barely made it halfway when the door above them slams open, followed by heavy, deliberate footsteps.

"Mr. Kennedy," Wesker tuts. "Running will do you no good."

Leon descends another flight with a bound, Ashley squealing as she's yanked into the air with him. He lands on his feet, but the electric agony that travels up his spine, as his legs wobble from the recoil of his landing, edges on the verge of unbearable.

Ashley falters when she hits the floor, but keeps upright. The bottom mezzanine leads to another reinforced door, and Leon hurries them through it. They enter into a dark hallway, lit only by an exit sign that flickers overhead. His pupils dilate as his eyes adapt to the low light. To his right, a steel cabinet stands against the wall.

Leon uses whatever strength remains in his muscles to push the heavy piece of furniture up against the door. Just as the entryway is completely covered, Wesker crashes into it with a brutal force. Miraculously, the makeshift barricade holds. Leon wastes no time, spinning on his heel and dragging Ashley down the hallway, his pulse racing.

As Leon's twisting the knob to move into the next room, the shelving unit topples over and the door flies off its hinges. Without hesitation, Leon ushers Ashley past him. He slams the door shut behind her, positioning himself between her and their pursuer. When he turns around, pistol raised, he's met with Wesker's broad figure filling the ruined threshold. Backlit by the harsh fluorescent glow of the stairwell, the man looks positively menacing, and every bit the predator Leon knows him to be.

"Your paltry distraction allowed Ada to escape with my sample," Wesker hisses, prowling toward him. "So I suppose it's only fair that you take her punishment in her place."

Wesker gives Leon no opportunity to process his words as he rushes him. Before Leon can think to react, his gun is ripped away, and a gloved hand clamps around his throat like a vice. Wesker lifts him effortlessly and slams him against the door. Leon chokes, his windpipe flexing under Wesker's thumb, his feet dangling helplessly above the ground. His fingers dart for flash grenade at his hip, but the crack of splitting leather is the only warning he receives before his utility belt is torn from his body.

Leon’s vision darkens at the edges as Wesker casually flicks the belt aside—like discarding trash. His lungs burn, each gasp sucking in nothing but suffocating emptiness. Panic floods his insides as he reaches up, fingers scrabbling at the grip around his throat. His nails dig into reinforced leather with animal desperation.

Wesker doesn't react. Not to the tearing at his gloves, not to the weakening kicks. His grip tightens methodically—not in rage, but with the clinical interest of a man adjusting a microscope's focus.

"I've so enjoyed our little game of cat and mouse," Wesker purrs, just as Leon brushes against the border of unconsciousness. "But all good things must come to an end."

He throws Leon back through the corridor with a forceful swing of his arm, as if Leon were an oddly shaped baseball and not a human being. His side makes brutal contact with the corner of the prone cabinet. Leon's body lurches as he gags, metallic wetness filling his mouth. It spills through his grit teeth and down his chin.

He's coughing blood up onto the concrete, hunched over on all fours, when a pair of polished boots step into his view. Two long fingers dip down to tilt his chin up, forcing his neck to crane at an awkward angle. Leon winces at the motion, the bruises already forming on his throat screaming in protest. His ribs ache with every inhale, and his lower back throbs with a deep, tender soreness. Wesker drops into a crouch, and Leon glares up at him, noting with irritation that the man is still wearing those ridiculous fucking sunglasses.

"Hm,” Wesker murmurs, his low intonation tinged with amusement. His gloved hand shifts, fingers denting into Leon’s cheeks as he cups Leon's chin in his palm. He tilts Leon's face to the right, then to the left, and a faint smirk twists at the corner of Wesker's lips. "I think I’m beginning to understand the appeal.”

Leon’s scowl deepens, his pride wounded despite Wesker's exact meaning eluding him. He isn't sure what comes over him when he spits a glob of bloodied saliva directly at Wesker's face, but the satisfaction is immediate as it splatters across the bastard's sunglasses. 

Wesker grunts and yanks the dirtied shades from his face. He rubs the lenses briskly against his sleeve, then wipes the smear of blood and saliva from his cheek with a sharp, irritated motion. The grip on Leon’s jaw tightens dangerously as Wesker pockets the glasses.

“Disgusting,” Wesker sneers, his face now free from any barriers. Leon feels his breath catch in his throat. Wesker’s eyes seem to pierce straight through him, glowing a wrathful, utterly unsettling crimson, "Are you begging to die?”

Leon wheezes, but still manages a glare, "I think it brings out your eyes."

Wesker stares intently at him for a long moment, his expression going unreadable. He doesn't dignify the snide comment with any response. Instead, he swabs some of the blood from Leon's chin, and then releases him with a shove. Leon collapses back onto the floor, unable to right himself as Wesker rises to his full height, examining his bloodied fingers.

"I couldn't tell before, because the sunglasses tend to tint colors—but this is not red," Wesker says, glancing back down at Leon. "You're infected, aren't you? But you didn't perish when Saddler died... very intriguing."

Leon feels his stomach flipping, as if the ground beneath him has given way, "That’s impossible. We used that machine. Luis—he promised it would cure us."

"Is that so?" Wesker muses, his smirk returning, "Curious."

"...What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well, I am aware of the device you are referring to. Our mutual acquaintance mentioned it in many of his... correspondences. It was a prototype, if I recall correctly."

Leon doesn't want to think about how Luis was penpals with Wesker. Doesn't want to soil his memory. He sequesters that information away to be agonized over later. He has bigger betrayals to be worrying about, "A prototype? That can't—it was supposed to work!"

Wesker's grin turns sinister, like a cat that's caught the canary, "Prototypes, by definition, are untested. Unproven. Did you truly believe a single session with an experimental device would eradicate something as complex as the Plaga? How naive. Or... Perhaps it is the fault of Doctor Sera, for neglecting to inform you of the risks."

"I..."

"You must still have Plaga within you," Wesker continues, steamrolling over his bafflement. He's talking more to himself than Leon now, his tone almost gleeful, "How fortunate for me. I lose one specimen, and another falls straight into my lap."

"Go f-fuck yourself, Wesker," Leon bites out, so furious he thinks he could cry.

Wesker completely dismisses him, straightening his coat with a flick of his wrist, "Allow me to make a quick call, and then we can be on our way."

As the weight of the words settle in his chest, Leon catches hints of movement in the shadows behind Wesker. There's a figure creeping up on them, but Wesker's too preoccupied with tuning his hand radio to notice, or maybe he doesn't care.

He blinks, and then Ashley appears, brandishing a fire extinguisher. She propels herself at Wesker with a speed that Leon hadn't thought her capable of. Wesker turns a second too late, and white foam bursts from where the makeshift weapon connects with his skull.

"Leon! Run!" Ashley shouts, from somewhere within the mess of chemicals.

Leon efforts to get onto his feet, but a swift kick to his temple by Wesker puts all his endeavors to rest. He's knocked out cold.

—

This special agent is certainly feisty, Wesker thinks, as he adjusts the dial on his receiver. They have roughly eight more minutes to extract from this island before it goes up in flames.

Wesker spares a quick look down at Leon Kennedy, who's squirming pathetically on the ground like a worm, trying to stand. It's very amusing. He's about to call their transport when the light patter of women's heels clicking on concrete reaches his ears. He had anticipated that Miss Graham would make her escape while he was occupied with her protector. She has subverted his expectations.

Wesker pivots, readying himself to deflect whatever attack she plans to throw at him, but it comes a moment too fast. He doesn't expect the sheer speed at which the girl rockets herself at him. No regular human being could contest him like that. She must still be carrying the parasite as well. 

He feels the pressurized metal of the fire extinguisher crack against the back of his skull. A powerful blow, but not enough to stun him. Frothy fire retardant spews from a dent made by the impact, coating every nearby surface. Wesker wipes the foam from his eyes, it burns, and frustration boils beneath his skin.

"Leon! Run!"

Wesker picks up on the agent stirring behind him, and issues a brisk punt to his head. He's careful to measure the strength he uses—doesn't want to put a hole through Mr. Kennedy's very pretty face.

Leon goes limp, but Wesker hears his heart beating feebly in his chest. One down, he gives the young woman his full focus. Though it's difficult to make out where exactly she is in the mess she's made, the anxious pulse thundering through her veins reveals her. Wesker extends an arm out, capturing Miss Graham's skinny wrist. She yelps, and bucks away from him.

"Now, now, Miss Graham, please calm yourself. I don't have time to play with you right now. If you do not stop thrashing, I will knock you unconscious. It'd be inconvenient for me to have to carry two bodies at once, so do us both a favor and cooperate."

Ashley freezes, akin to a deer caught in headlights. She looks past him, to the agent, and her voice is small when she asks him, "...What are you going to do to us?"

"Research," he replies succinctly. Then, he presses a button on his radio, "I've retrieved two live specimens. Land the helicopter in the lot above the loading bay, there's plenty of space. Be quick about it, we have one more sample to retrieve before this wretched island implodes."

Wesker shifts his grip to her bicep, and leans down to snatch Agent Kennedy's drooping form by his vest. He flips Leon over his shoulder, and drags Ashley out the mangled door and up the stairs.

"Come now, we don't have much time to waste.”