Chapter Text
When Wesker received notice of a double-dealing by one of his agents, he could not say he was surprised.
The message arrived unceremoniously: an anonymous email from a throwaway address. Naturally, he did not trust it. But the evidence attached was irrefutable—a meticulous chronicle of how the HCF was onto him, how they'd repurposed Ada Wong for their own ends. How they'd arranged her betrayal of him.
He could not tolerate such insubordination. Miss Wong would have to learn that lesson the hard way. He was well acquainted with her proclivities—money was her only true allegiance—but he'd assumed she had enough sense not to cross him.
Clearly, he'd overestimated her.
A prompt call to Excella was made, away from prying ears. Wesker arranged for alternate transport to the coast of Valdeobos.
His plans required recalibration.
—
"—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. He drifts aimlessly, suspended in a limbo of pain and half-awareness. Slowly, the torment recedes to something more manageable. Consciousness seeps back in, and though Leon still feels wretched, 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. Ashley doesn't even flinch at the noise as she frantically looks him over.
Though his vision is still blurred, Leon can make out the puffiness of her eyes and wetness staining her cheeks.
"I—" He bites the inside of his cheek. Was she crying because of him? "I'm alright," he mutters weakly. "Don't worry."
Ashley frowns, then reaches down to sweep his sweaty bangs from where they are plastered to his skin.
"How could I not worry? I thought you were dying," she starts softly, barely above a whisper. "I mean, when I woke up, you were lying unconscious on the floor. I had to drag you up onto the table... and when I started that machine, you started screaming and thrashing and... and then you just went limp." She lets out a wet, shaky exhale. "I thought I killed you."
"...Sorry," he mumbles, unsure of how to comfort her.
Ashley sniffles, 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 a while."
Leon tries to glance at his watch, but his eyes seem incapable of focusing. Strained, he wordlessly holds his wrist up to Ashley, who obediently reads off the time.
At her reply, he barely suppresses a grimace. A while is an understatement. They'd gotten to the lab around 0400, and it's now past five. They've spent over an hour here, and he's shocked that Saddler's men haven't found them yet.
He looks back up at Ashley, who's still 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 wailed like a newborn. Now, she appears entirely unaffected. Leon almost feels jealous.
"What about you? How do you feel?"
Ashley blinks. "Me? Well, the procedure itself hurt really badly, but now I feel perfectly fine..." she trails off, then asks, "...do you think it worked?"
He thinks so. The black discoloration creeping up her veins has faded, and he tells her as much. In truth, it hasn't vanished completely—but he keeps that to himself. There's no reason to alarm her; he figures the remaining color will dissipate with time, like a bruise.
"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—" She produces a thick roll of paper and unfurls it, flipping it around and showing it to him. "—I found a map! There's a path drawn on it. I think it might be our way out of here." She peeks over it, staring 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.
"...Where does it lead?"
"Ahh, hmm." Ashley turns the map back around and squints at it. "It's in Spanish? Moo-ell-a de car-gah?"
"Muella de carga," he echos, "means loading bay."
It's terribly risky. A place like that will be crawling with Saddler's men. But what choice do they have? He can't radio Hunnigan—not with his comms flickering in and out like a dying bulb. Going back the way they came is also out of the question with that mountain of rubble blocking the path. And they don't have time to hunt for some other hidden route, if one even exists.
So, he decides to put his faith in Ashley's map.
He musters a small, strained smile. "If you keep this up, you'll put me out of a job."
Ashley visibly brightens at the praise. She rolls the map into a neat cylinder and tucks it into the cinch of her skirt. "What's the plan then, Leon?"
Originally, it'd been to kick Saddler's ass and get the hell out of dodge. But right now, 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 get off this island alive, they'll need to stick to the shadows and avoid combat—which completely rules out their original exit plan. A helicopter extraction would broadcast their location and might as well be a dinner bell for every parasite on the island.
A small boat would be ideal, low-profile, difficult to spot—and really, what better place to find one than an island loading bay?
Luckily, he's no stranger to stealth missions.
"We'll follow your map, steal a boat and—ah Jesus Christ—" Leon's body pulses as he levers himself upright, muscles trembling. He barely manages to grit out the rest of his words. "...And get the hell out of here."
As if to punctuate his sentence, a deafening boom sounds from somewhere above them, loud enough to be an explosion—and powerful enough to be an earthquake. The laboratory rumbles threateningly; hanging lamps swing wildly overhead and several specimen containers are tossed 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 him feeling uneasy regardless.
"What the heck was that, Leon?" Ashley asks, still hunched over the controls.
"...I don't know, and I don't want to find out."
With that, Leon sucks in a breath and plants his feet on the ground. He moves to stand, but the effort forces him to bear weight on his spine. A white-hot pang of hurt bursts 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 on the lean side 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. "Let's get going."
She 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 that was marked on the map... but how are we going to get up there?"
Leon gnaws his bottom lip. "I don't think I can boost you this time."
Ashley nods and steers him over to a nearby shipping container. She carefully lowers him to the floor and props him up against it.
"Wait here for a sec."
Not too difficult an ask, Leon thinks, observing Ashley through heavy eyelids as she begins wandering 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 afford to 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 returns 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 fingers.
He has never ingested one of these, and isn't sure if he should. But he's applied them to open wounds before, so maybe they'll help with internal injury, too.
Leon crushes the plant in his fist and grinds it into a rough powder. He lifts his cupped palm to his lips and 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 almost immediately. The ache in his spine has dulled considerably; the relief is enough for him to move on his own.
He stands, clenching his jaw. A twinge of pain sparks through his body again with the motion, but it's nothing compared to what it was before. He's suffered through worse, so 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, but pulls the grenade out from wherever it was tucked into her clothes. "Fine..."
She passes the flash-bang into his hand with a mildly petulant expression.
Leon attaches it to his utility belt. Then, he eyes the ladder. "I think I can try and lift y—"
He's interrupted by another blast, reverberating as forcefully as the last. The building shudders violently, various storage vessels 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. It looks like his luck is finally turning for the better.
The shock-wave lasts about the same length of time 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," Leon points, lifting himself from the wall.
"Oh," she glances toward the catwalk, then back to him, hesitating, "you sure you're okay?"
"Never been better," he grits out, already moving toward the ladder.
His fingers lock around the rungs, knuckles bleaching white as he hauls his body upward with a ragged grunt. The herb has blunted the pain enough to let him move, but it hasn't silenced it—the raw exertion of lifting himself still feels like a hot seam tearing down his spine. He forces himself to disregard it, climbing until he reaches the top. Not without great effort, but he makes it.
Straightening himself, Leon unholsters his pistol. He isn't sure how well he can aim, still lightheaded and queasy, but the weight of the gun in his hand is a comfort nonetheless.
Ashley climbs up shortly after, 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's waiting for him to simply keel over.
Only a few moments later, they arrive at 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 follow him as he proceeds through the corridor.
For some time, there is only the patter of footsteps and the crackle of flame. Then, Ashley's voice bounces off the cave's uneven ceiling, carrying a note of worry:
"That woman who helped us... do you think she's all right?"
"Oh, I'm sure she’s fine. She's not the type to roll over that easy." 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 the grip of his pistol.
"Ashley, stay close," he orders in a whisper, crouching as low as he can without straining himself. "We're gonna sneak through."
She comes up on his flank, bending down to match him. "Is there something down here with us?"
The cave is quiet, and he doesn't sense anything, but he can never be too sure.
"Just stay close."
They creep along a large outcropping of rock, 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's eyes widen, his gun snapping up to aim at the creature. There it is—completely exposed and eerily still, not even trying to hide.
He hadn't seen it at all. Unlike the others, this one isn't shimmering with camouflage or skittering into the shadows. It doesn't move, doesn't so much as breathe. It looks like part of the environment. Like a rock.
Still, he curses himself under his breath.
What if it had gone for Ashley?
He lowers his pistol in favor of unsheathing his knife and shuffles toward it. As soon as he's close enough, Leon launches himself at the monster and buries his blade between its eyes. He ignores the flare of discomfort in his back as he yanks his knife free with a sickening, slick sound. The Novistador 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. He pushes through the exhaustion, and Ashley is right behind him as they press on through the next set of doors.
They enter into a short, curved 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 early morning 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.
"...What the hell?"
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 massive 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. She looks no worse for wear since he last saw her, except her face is now scrunched into a furious expression, 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 drawn, and it's aimed directly at Ada—has he seen that model before?
"Leon! What's happening?" Ashley places a hand on his shoulder as she squints, trying to peer below at the docks.
He glances at her, tucking the binoculars away and already moving toward the lift at the end of the ledge. "There's something going on down there. I have to help."
"Leon..." Ashley seems like she's about to protest.
"You can follow me, but you'll need to hide. You can't come out for any reason. I mean it."
She nods slowly, trailing after him onto the lift. As Leon turns to activate the controls, she speaks:
"Leon?"
He doesn't look at her. The lift shudders slightly as it begins its descent. "Yeah?"
"We're a team, right?"
Leon pauses. A fondness bubbles up in his chest that reminds him distinctly of Sherry. He doesn't dwell on it, and instead swivels around to ruffle Ashley's nest of hair. She swats at him playfully and giggles.
"Yeah," he agrees. "We're a team. A damn 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.
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. He would confront her, kill her if necessary, and take the amber for himself.
It was no trouble for him 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 often emerged from their broken corpses posed no threat to him.
Once the nearby forces had been dispatched, Wesker took a moment to orient himself. He had landed in the plant's southern section. His destination lay to the northeast. An aerial survey from the helicopter had revealed a service road connecting the mineral refinery to the loading bay. It would be a walk, but a straightforward one. Nothing he couldn't handle.
Wesker started toward the road. His form became a blur, a streak of black against the landscape as his biology unleashed its full, impossible velocity. In moments, the gravel trail was beneath his feet, and he was already sprinting for the docks.
Under normal circumstances, such haste would be beneath him. But Wesker was intimately aware of Ada Wong's particular brand of elusiveness. More critically, his intelligence had confirmed the presence of a significant and previously unknown variable: Leon S. Kennedy.
Though he had never encountered the young man directly, Wesker had learned scraps about him through Ada. A pretty-boy with a tiresome hero complex and, from what he understood, a truly dreadful sense of humor. The agent had also apparently killed Jack Krauser—a feat that shifted him from a mere nuisance to a notable pain in the ass, albeit one that piqued Wesker's curiosity. Kennedy was, after all, the purported object of Miss Wong’s... affections—not to mention one of the few living survivors of the Raccoon City outbreak. Wesker wondered what exactly it was that she saw in him.
Perhaps he'd find out soon enough. He'd have to retrieve Krauser's corpse at some point—it was possible they'd run into each other. It promised to be entertaining, if nothing else.
Wesker soon 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, was 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, but no matter. He'd rectify it personally; the gibbon would learn the cost of such arrogance soon enough.
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.
He 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, easily dodging the hail of bullets. 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 ripped 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 with brutal efficiency, 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. An anti-aircraft launcher. It would certainly prove useful against Mr. Saddler, if not slightly overkill. Plaga parasites had a knack for forcefully evolving their host's DNA, much like 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.
"Another heretic?"
Osmund Saddler's voice cut through the crash of waves, oily and dissonant to Wesker's sensitive hearing. An irritation he looked forward to silencing permanently.
"I have been called worse things," Wesker responded dryly, approaching with a slow, even gait.
"...No, you're no lost lamb." Saddler stared, pupils white with infection. "You are... a wolf. What does a predator seek when it wanders into sacred pastures?" Pudgy fingers flexed where they were curled around the staff. "Salvation... or blood?"
Wesker's eyes flicked to the movement. However, it was not the subtle twitch of the man's hand that captured his attention—it was the scepter. Inlaid within the staff's focus was a 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'm certainly not here for salvation," Wesker drawled. "I believe you have something that belongs to me... I've come to retrieve it." In a languid movement, he drew his Samurai's Edge from its holster and captured Saddler in its sights. "Give me the amber, or I will take it by force."
"The amber? By force?" Saddler's thin upper lip curled into an affronted snarl. "You deign to threaten me, filthy apostate? How dare you—"
Wesker cut him off by unloading his magazine into his head.
The sudden gunfire caught Saddler off-guard. Several rounds tore into his flesh before he could throw up his arms in a desperate shield, and at the damage, something within him erupted. Tentacles, slick and seething, burst from his hands. With a guttural roar, he sent them lashing toward Wesker, their barbed lengths straining to seize their target.
Wesker dodged backwards smoothly and watched with thinly veiled intrigue as Osmund Saddler began to transform.
"You foul man..." Saddler started, his voice distorting with a deep groan. "You infringe upon my domain... demand that which you could never hope to possess... you have forsaken the Lord!"
Saddler's back arched and bulged with mutation. His body swelled like a virulent tumor, his staff swallowed by the burgeoning Plaga mass. Flesh split and reformed; bulbous eyes pushed through ripping skin, tentacles tipped with hooked claws thrashed from every torn orifice. With a final, sickening crack, a new head—crowned with formidable pincers—wrested itself into being. The man was gone. What remained was an engine of alien gore.
"You require absolution!" Saddler, now a monster, charged at him.
Wesker 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.
He 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.
The hit connected.
Wesker was sent hurtling backwards, his side slamming into the bridge's railing with enough force to shriek and deform the steel. Somehow, he managed to hold onto his gun, but the impact drove the air from his chest in a sharp grunt—a sensation of hurt that was immediately smothered by the familiar, potent thrum of the prototype virus. The pain became a fleeting memory.
As he pushed upright, his fury crystallizing, he holstered his weapon and seized the twisted banister in both hands, tearing it from its moorings with a snarl.
Behind him, a large part of the dock crumpled into the rippling waters below. It seemed this railing was more structurally necessary than he had previously considered. Well, not his island, not his insurance policy. Wesker paid the destruction no mind as he launched himself at Saddler, thrusting the warped steel posts into his meaty tissue.
The creature reeled back, a guttural scream erupting from his 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
He 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..." Saddler crept closer as he began delivering 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's upper lip curled in disgust. Osmund Saddler sought to assimilate all of humanity into his congregation—without discretion, without discernment. To 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, 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 shook, 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.
He retrieved his glasses from his breast pocket and slid them onto his face. Rain needled the lenses instantly, smearing his vision with wet streaks. It seemed the thrill of combat had been enough to drown out even the weather.
He glanced up to where he'd left Ada hanging, only to find her vanished. A sharp exhale escaped him. How typical.
She was not his main concern, however, and Wesker decided he would see to her once he'd secured the amber. Retrieving it meant diving into the water—a minor inconvenience, and one he hardly minded. Not when the reward was finally within reach.
But before he could move, the loading bay shuddered again, vibrations tearing through the floor beneath his boots—weaker than the explosion but wrong in a way that snagged his attention. He hastened toward a railing, leaning over it to peer down into the sea. 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 below. In seconds, the serpentine limbs surged forth, rapidly enveloping almost the entirety of the dock. They slithered up the control tower and coalesced at its peak, forming a single, massive eye. It peeled open slowly, glowing an ominous, molten copper, bathing the bay in its murky light.
This was Saddler's final form, and Wesker drank it in with relish. He had always appreciated a good encore. And the rare abomination.
"How fitting," he mused, "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 almost instantly. He cursed internally. He must've dropped the rocket at some point during the earlier battle. This error did not bode well—he would not 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 forward. He shouldered the launcher and drew his gun, squeezing off several rounds at the monster. Its flesh ate the bullets, barely fazed. Wesker soon realized his firepower would not be sufficient. 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. Ada stood on the uppermost bridge looking down at him—and hurling the missile he'd carelessly lost directly toward him. He caught it effortlessly with one hand and holstered his gun with the other. In a single, fluid motion, he swung the launcher onto his shoulder once more and loaded the rocket into its chamber.
He sidestepped the powerful swat of another barbed appendage, aimed at the monster's eye, then pulled the trigger.
The explosion was as enjoyable to watch the second time around, perhaps even more so now that he wasn't being blinded. The loading bay quaked yet again as the creature sobbed, its jagged limbs lashing out in its agony. Wesker narrowly avoided a final flailing tentacle as they receded from the pier.
He observed Saddler's pitiful end for a moment longer before his attention locked onto a glint in the distance. The head of the staff was protruding from a distant pile of debris. It'd been lost during the man's transformation, but now he had it in his grasp. The amber.
Wesker turned away for a moment, discarding the rocket launcher with a contemptuous toss. As it clattered uselessly somewhere to his rear, its purpose spent, he began to stalk toward the rubble—only to promptly stop in his tracks.
Ada Wong was poised atop the wreckage, a dark silhouette against the stormy sky. Her grappling hook dangled casually from her fingers.
"Long time no see, Wesker," she said, velvety and saccharine.
He dispensed with any greeting, a low growl rumbling in his throat. "Step away from the staff. You, of all people, should know what I am capable of, Miss Wong. After all the spectacle I just endured, I will have my spoils."
"Your spoils?" Ada batted her eyelashes and reached behind her back. She lifted her arm, and caught between her thin fingers was a silver vial. Inside it, the amber gleamed mischievously. "You mean this?"
Wesker's jaw tightened. His eyes darted to the broken head of the staff jutting out from the rubble. The setting where the amber had gleamed was now just an empty socket. Ada somehow had already extracted it. 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.
He took one deliberate step forward.
"Ah-ah. Hold it, handsome," Ada cooed. In an instant, the vial was concealed within her fist. "Come any closer, and this sample is toast. Whatever has you so agitated, I suggest you take a breath."
Wesker froze. He considered her threat, then met her eyes. He knew her well enough to plainly see 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.
"You—"
"Why did you come, Wesker?" she interjected tenderly. "Don't tell me you were worried about me."
"Don't flatter yourself. I came to audit a failing asset," Wesker hissed. "Really, did you think your liaison with the HCF would go unnoticed? You couldn't have chosen a more direct insult. Had it been any other syndicate, I might have overlooked your ambition. 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, drawing his gun and shooting her hook shot from her hand. The device was sent flying from her possession as she gasped and flinched, no doubt feeling the heat from the bullet.
Her controlled mask 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 upset 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'm typically quite tolerant of your... propensities. However, as I've made clear, you've overplayed your hand." Before she could process the movement, his handgun found its mark between her eyes. He allowed a beat of silence before adding, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "I do wonder, though—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 gladly 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 cracks 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 gaze drifts from the man's face, tracing the formidable line of his arm down to the pistol held in his steady grip. The barrel remains unwaveringly trained on Ada. He's definitely seen that model before. But where?
"Drop the weapon, now," he reiterates, and thankfully, this time he sounds like he means it.
Behind the stranger’s back, Ada makes a swift, slashing motion across her throat. Her eyes lock with his, and she gives a sharp, almost imperceptible shake of her head. Stop talking.
The man, conversely, wears an amicable, closed-lipped smile—but there is no inflection in his voice when 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 immense satisfaction from the way the man's pale eyebrows lift above his shades. He glances at Ada, whose face quickly blanks at his scrutiny, then steps sideways so he's positioned facing the both of them—but his gun never drifts from where it's pointed.
"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?"
A flicker of surprise jolts through him. Who the hell is this guy? And how does he know about the mission?
The questions are a distraction he can’t afford.
"Glad you could afford tickets, but that’s none of your goddamn business," he growls, edging closer, his weapon aimed squarely 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 fuck. 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 expression meticulously devoid of emotion. Whatever she was worried about has fallen back behind her professional veil. "I've trained him well."
The man laughs, a cool sound. "I'm surprised you don't recognize me, Agent Kennedy. I'm quite infamous. In fact, I believe we run in many of the same circles. Maybe dear Chris Redfield has mentioned me before?"
Chris Redfield? He knows Chris—met him through Claire, talked with him a couple of times, heard more than enough about the man’s past with STARS and his present with the BSAA through secondary sources. But why the hell would this guy mention him?
Leon scans the man again, feeling a sense of something slipping through his fingers. He’s striking, no doubt about it—but there’s something else. An unsettling calm, a certain confidence in his posture, as if he’s untouchable.
Where have I seen this before?
Then, it hits him. The puzzle pieces slot into place at last. The sunglasses. That cocky, insufferable smirk. He’s seen this man’s face before—in reports, in old files, in newspaper clippings. He's seen that gun before, in the RPD. On the worst day of his life. A Samurai's Edge. Of course. He feels stupid for not having made the connection sooner.
"Albert Wesker," he mutters, and the name feels filthy on his tongue.
Leon isn't sure whether his fast uptake pleases the man—Wesker—or not, as he bares his teeth. "It's good 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 snaps toward where the flash 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 jolt of pain 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 he'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 dematerializes, only to reappear inches from Leon's face. His gun is ripped away quicker than he can even register the loss. The next instant, a gloved hand clamps around his throat like a vise. Wesker lifts him effortlessly, then drives him against the door with a force that splinters the frame and rattles his bones. Agony lances through his vertebrae and his skull rebounds against metal. He chokes, windpipe flexing under Wesker's thumb, legs flailing wildly.
Instinct drives his hand toward the flash grenade at his hip, but the crack of splitting leather is the sole 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, 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. He tightens his hold methodically—not in rage, but with the scientific interest of a man adjusting a microscope's focus.
"I've enjoyed this brief 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 ribs no sooner meet the jagged corner of the fallen cabinet with a sickening crunch. Pain detonates through his side as copper floods 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 swimming vision. Two long fingers dip down to tilt his chin up, forcing his neck to crane at an awkward angle. He winces at the motion, the bruises already forming on his throat screaming in protest. Wesker drops into a crouch, and Leon glares up at him. He's still wearing those ridiculous fucking sunglasses.
Wesker hums, the low intonation tinged with amusement. His gloved hand shifts, fingers denting into Leon's cheeks as he cups Leon's jaw in his palm. He tilts Leon's face to the right, then to the left, and a faint smirk twists at the corner of his 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 spatters 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. The sight momentarily steals Leon’s breath—the man's eyes are glowing a wrathful, utterly unsettling crimson. They seem to pierce straight through him. "Are you begging to die?"
He blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, voice sounding like he's been swallowing glass, "I like you better without the glasses."
Wesker stares intently at him for a long moment, expression going unreadable. He doesn't dignify the comment with any response. Instead, he swabs some of the blood from Leon's chin, 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 observes, glancing back down at him. "You're infected, aren't you? But you didn't perish when Saddler died... very intriguing."
Not red? Leon's eyes dart from the smug bastard above him to the fresh pool of blood on the ground. In the hallway's dim, flickering light, it looks almost black, like spilled ink, or motor oil. Not red. How had he not noticed?
He feels his stomach flipping, as if the ground beneath him has given way. A fresh wave of nausea washes over him. "That's impossible. We used that machine. Luis, he—the scientist promised it would cure us!"
"Is that so?" Wesker says, his smirk returning. "How curious."
"...What the hell are you talking about?"
"Well, I'm 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 knows that Luis once worked for Umbrella, but that the man was once in contact with Albert Wesker, of all people? That stings more than the association with the corporation that ruined his life—that feels like the true betrayal. For now, though, all he can do is bury that knowledge deep, saving the anger for another time. After all, there are far worse betrayals demanding his attention right now.
"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 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 will be on our way."
The finality in his words lands like a boot-heel on Leon's chest. He can't let this happen. He won't. His ribs ache with every inhale and his lower back throbs with a profound soreness, but the denial burns in his veins, scorching through weakness. His jaw locks, tendons standing rigid in his neck as he wills his body to respond. His muscles strain and his arms tremble—but the effort proves futile. His strength betrays him completely. The impact back onto the floor drives the last of the air from his lungs. There is nothing he can do.
Then—the sound of footsteps. Someone is approaching, and Leon immediately recognizes the click-clack of chunky heels on cement. Dread fills him.
His head jerks up just as Ashley appears, brandishing a fire extinguisher.
She rushes down the hallway, propelling herself at Wesker with a speed that Leon hadn't thought her capable of. Wesker turns a second too late, and foam bursts from where the makeshift weapon connects with his skull.
"Leon! Run!" Ashley shouts, from somewhere within the mess of chemicals.
Adrenaline surges through him, a tidal wave of protective instinct that compels him to move. He can't let Wesker hurt Ashley.
Leon labors desperately to get onto his feet again—but a swift kick to his temple by Wesker puts all his endeavors to rest. He's knocked out cold.
—
Wesker glances down briefly at Leon Kennedy, still attempting to rise—a wounded animal refusing to accept its fate. Persistent little thing, he muses, fingers never ceasing their fine-tuning of the receiver’s dial.
He returns his attention to the device in his hand. They have roughly fifteen minutes until this island is rendered a smoldering crater. An adequate amount of time. He's executed far more complex extractions with half this window.
A burst of static crackles through the receiver as the transport frequency stabilizes—then another sound cuts through the white noise. The light patter of women's heels approaching at a run.
He'd anticipated that Ashley Graham would make her escape while he dealt with her protector. Instead, she has chosen to charge straight toward danger like some dime-store heroine. What an interesting subversion of 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 realizes.
He feels the pressurized metal of a fire extinguisher crack against the side 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 asset 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."