Location: Secure Underground Laboratory (The Hive), San Antonio, Texas
Date: July 25, 2017
Time: 03:00 Hours
The laboratory was a cathedral of silence buried beneath the Texas hardpan. While the world above baked in the summer heat, the air down here was scrubbed by industrial filtration systems, leaving only the scent of ozone, sterile cold, and the faint, metallic tang of secrets.
The facility, originally built by Albert Wesker as a contingency cache, had been repurposed by his son into a nerve center for a war no one else knew was happening. The only sounds were the rhythmic, low-frequency thrum of the server banks and the soft whir of liquid cooling fans keeping the supercomputer from melting down.
Alen Wesker—still legally Nicolas Lemanissier to the outside world—was slumped over a stainless steel workstation. He was stripped to the waist, his upper body a map of faint scars from the Edonia explosion. He wore heavy hazmat trousers and protective gloves, his head resting on his folded arms near a high-powered electron microscope.
He had been here for ninety-six hours. He hadn't returned to the ranch house. He hadn't seen Isabella or Master Shi. He had told them it was a quarantine precaution—a lie to protect them from the thing pulsating in the vacuum chamber three feet away.
The Mold.
To Alen, a prodigy in virology who had memorized RNA strings before he could ride a bike, viruses were elegant. They were mathematical. They were protein shells with a singular purpose. But the black, viscous sludge he had cut from the heart of the Eveline bioweapon was something else entirely. It was chaotic. It was fungal. It didn't just infect; it communicated.
<< Good morning, Master Alen. >>
The voice that broke the silence wasn't the cold, imperious child of the original Red Queen. It was soft, imbued with a seductive, velvety warmth—attentive and intimately caring.
Alen groaned, peeling his face off the cool metal of the desk. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim amber emergency lighting.
"Trinity," he rasped, his voice thick with sleep. "What time is it?"
<< You have been asleep for six hours and twelve minutes. It is 03:00, >> Trinity replied. Her avatar materialized on the main holographic table—not as a pixelated girl, but as a woman. She appeared elegant, comprised of soft golden light, leaning against a virtual railing with a look of concern that felt disarmingly human. << Your cortisol levels were reaching critical thresholds. I dimmed the lights to encourage your circadian rhythm to reset. I have also finished scanning the samples you retrieved from the Dulvey site. >>
Alen sat up, rolling his neck. His joints popped—the Progenitor virus in his blood making sure he didn't stiffen up, but doing nothing for the mental exhaustion. He looked at the black sludge in the vial.
"Tell me you found a pattern," Alen said, reaching for a bottle of water. "Tell me it follows rules."
<< Displaying analysis now. >>
Trinity waved a hand, and the air filled with data. A hologram of a twisted, black double-helix structure rotated slowly.
<< Subject: E-001. Codenamed 'Eveline'. A genetically modified human embryo created by the syndicate known as 'The Connections' in the early 2000s. >> Trinity's voice was smooth, like a narrator recounting a dark fairytale. << They combined the Mutamycete fungus with human DNA to create a living biological weapon. Her purpose was infiltration. She was designed to eliminate enemies not through combat, but by integrating them into a family. >>
"By rewriting their minds," Alen muttered, reading the scrolling data streams. "Turning them into puppets."
<< Precisely, >> Trinity continued, moving closer to him in the digital space. << By excreting a psychotropic mold, she could induce hallucinations and exert total control over the host's nervous system. A hive mind. She was the E-Type apex. But the source material is older. My databases indicate the Mutamycete was discovered in Eastern Europe, possibly connected to the H.C.F. paramilitary unit. >>
Alen stood up, pacing the small, sealed room. The reflection in the glass showed a man who looked too much like Albert Wesker for his own comfort—the blonde hair, the sharp features.
"H.C.F.," Alen said. "My father's old unit. The Connections. It's a ghost network. They're using fungus to do what Umbrella tried to do with viruses."
He stopped in front of the containment glass, staring at the black mass. It twitched, reacting to his bio-electric field.
"I am getting sick of this," Alen growled, slamming his gloved fist onto the desk. The glass vibrated. "I am a virologist, Trinity! I deal in logic. This? This is mycology from hell. It's unstable. It's messy."
<< Calm down, Master, >> Trinity soothed. Her avatar reached out as if to touch his shoulder, her expression full of empathy. << Desperation clouds judgment. You are exhausted. You are trying to solve a puzzle that has no edges. >>
"I am desperate!" Alen snapped. "Because if I can't synthesize a cure fast enough, the next Eveline won't be stuck in a swamp. She'll be in a city." He paused, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the sample. "But if I can't cure it… I can kill it."
He grabbed a stylus and began sketching rapidly on the tablet.
"I'm thinking of a delivery system. Not a gas—too hard to control outdoors. A ballistic payload. A fragile-shell, hollow-point round filled with a synthesized necrotoxin."
He drew the schematic: a 9mm round with a glass-polymer core.
"You shoot a Molded or an infected host. The bullet shatters on impact. The serum hits the bloodstream instantly. Rapid cellular calcification. They turn to ash. No fire needed. No wasted ammo. Clean kills."
<< A serum-infused ballistic round, >> Trinity processed the data, her eyes lighting up with admiration. << Similar to the E-Necrotoxin the civilian Ethan Winters used, but stabilized for kinetic impact. Elegant. Efficient. Very… you. >>
"Exactly," Alen said. "Start the fabrication protocols."
<< Master, >> Trinity's voice turned hesitant, losing its playful edge. << I must ask. The Mold induces potent hallucinations in those exposed to it. You have been working with active samples for ninety-six hours. My sensors indicate the fungal spores are present in the airlock filter. Yet, your neural scans show no sign of intrusion. You see no ghosts. How are you immune? >>
Alen stopped sketching. He set the stylus down. A dark, humorless laugh escaped him.
"You think I'm immune because I'm a Wesker? Because of the Progenitor blood?" He shook his head. "No. I'm immune to the Mold's hallucinations because my head is already full."
He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest.
"The Mold tries to show me fears? It tries to break me with memories? It's too late. I'm already haunted, Trinity. I see her every night—Alex Wesker. My biological mother. That six months of twisted 'love' she gave me in the white room. The smell of the antiseptic cream she used. The Russian lullaby she hummed while she ran tests on me. Her face hunts me."
He tapped his temple. "But the immunity… that goes deeper. It's the T-Phobos virus."
<< T-Phobos? >> Trinity queried, her avatar tilting her head. << My databases—the ones you recovered from Seien Island—show that virus responds to fear. It kills the fearful. >>
"I was infected with it years ago," Alen revealed, his voice dropping to a whisper. "During Project GRAYWEATHER. It was a joint MI6/CIA black ops program. Tier Zero. It didn't exist."
<< Searching… >> Trinity paused. << I find no records. The White Web, the Dark Web… it is blank. >>
"You won't find it," Alen smiled grimly. "It was erased. It happened around 2003. The facility was called 'The Nursery'. A grim joke. There were seven candidates. They infected us with micro-doses of T-Phobos to test fear responses."
He looked at his hands, remembering the cold water of the deprivation tank.
"Advanced CQB against B.O.W. simulations. We operated in biohazard zones for 72 hours straight. Sensory deprivation tanks playing recorded screams. They used hallucinogens to replicate the terror of a bio-attack. The virus was designed to trigger mutation if our heart rates spiked from panic."
He looked up at the digital woman.
"The other six died. Some killed themselves because the psychological horror broke their minds. Some triggered the virus and mutated. I was the sole survivor. I learned to suppress fear so deep that the virus went dormant. That's why the Mold can't touch me, Trinity. My mind is a fortress built on trauma."
<< That is… intense, >> Trinity said quietly, her digital face softening with sorrow. << It explains your skillset. The Blue Umbrella records said you were 'John Kane', a mercenary. But you were a weapon long before that. >>
"I was a weapon. Now I'm the hand that wields it."
He pushed off the counter, his energy returning. The confession had lightened the load.
"We move on. I'm going to destroy The Connections. I'm going to find their main lab, kill the founders, and find out why Alex Wesker and Natalia Korda were interested in this fungus. They are trying to make Eveline again."
<< It is a dangerous path, Master. Your face… you look exactly like Albert Wesker. If you step into the light, the world will panic. >>
Alen walked to a mirror in the corner of the lab. He looked at the blonde hair, the sharp features. It was the face of a dead god.
"I know," Alen said. "I'm done with this. I'm done being the ghost of my father. If I'm going to hunt monsters, I need to become a legend. Something that doesn't exist."
He turned to the AI. "Trinity, search for the urban legend… The Hat Man."
<< Searching… >> Trinity projected images onto the screen. Shadowy sketches of a tall figure in a brimmed hat. << The Hat Man. A phenomenon where sleep paralysis victims report a shadow-like entity. He has no face. He feeds on terror. He observes, judges, and vanishes. >>
"A shadow in the dark," Alen mused. "A void with no identity. That's what I need to be."
<< For you, Master, >> Trinity suggested, pulling up a schematic of his gear. << I suggest a modification. Your father's trench coat is iconic. But add a wide-brimmed fedora. Keep to the shadows. Beneath the brim… only faint, glowing blue eyes. >>
"I like it," Alen grinned, a flash of his old, dangerous self returning. "Order the materials. And Trinity?"
<< Yes, Master? >>
"We're dying the hair back to black. I'm done with the blonde. I'm going back to the dark."
He began to pack his notes into a secure case.
"Initiate search protocols for The Connections' main hub. Scour the black market. Listen for rumors. Tell them The Hat Man is coming."
<< Protocol initiated. >>
"I'm going back to the ranch," Alen said, grabbing his gear. "Isabella will be worried, and I need to explain the new look. I'm going in, Trinity. We're going to dismantle them piece by piece."