Resident Evil Series Fan Fiction ❯ A Deadly Mistake ❯ The Mission ( Chapter 2 )

Disclaimer: Alright. As you all may very well know already, I do not own the Resident Evil/Biohazard franchise or any of its characters. Those rights belong to Capcom. Also, I have only been able to play Resident Evil 0 and 4, but have done rather thorough research on all the characters' backgrounds and history to make sure I didn't screw up somewhere, but if I do have something that conflicts with the canon of the series, please email me and let me know and I'll have it fixed. Just please don't flame me over it; it's not that big of a deal.

 

So, without further ado, I bring you...

 

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Resident Evil: A Deadly Mistake

 

Chapter 2 - The Mission

 

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I wasn't going to say goodbye. Goodbyes were just too hard- not for me, but for her. I tried not too imagine the way she would look at me as I gave her one last hug, the way she would stare straight into me, begging for the same kind of stare in return, only to never receive it. I didn't want to leave her with the realization that I was not in love with her and never was; she was better off thinking her father messed up her chance and eventually pursuing some other fish in the sea.

 

It was a beautiful summer day, with only the scantest amount of clouds blurring a perfectly blue sky. How ironic, to see a day like this on my way to my deathbed. I chuckled a bit to myself as I carried my suitcase towards the limousine awaiting me. It was the shorter model, not spanning too much longer than a normal sedan. Taking my last steps on the sidewalks of D.C., I made my way to the side door of the car, opened it, and let myself in.

 

“Good to see you again, Mr. Kennedy.” There she was, Ingrid Hunnigan, as usual looking way too stunning to be in this kind of work. She wore business attire: black dress pants, high heels and a button up light purple shirt. Her hair was pulled back to make sure she didn't look as attractive as she could, probably just a precaution against me. But each time I saw her, I couldn't help but notice that she lacked a ring on her finger...

 

“I see you ditched the glasses today,” I openly observed; she merely rolled her eyes.

 

“Let's try to keep this professional, Mr. Kennedy, hm?” She took her eyes off of me and opened a file sitting on her lap. The vehicle began to move, bringing my attention to the front seat. The driver was an older black man with a bushy white mustache and a caddy's cap atop his head. There was also a man in the passenger's seat, though all I could see of him was the back of his old ball cap and hints of some long black hair coming out on the sides; the rest was blocked by the seat's headrest. I assumed he was a pilot, after all there was no way we were going to drive all the way to Alaska in a limo.

 

“Here is your memo and background info for your mission.” She brought my attention back to her as she handed me two normal filing folders, each filled with papers bunched up in paperclips.

 

“You know reading isn't my forte,” I said as I opened the file titled `History'. The very first image had a picture of Albert Wesker, the man behind the Raccoon City incident. Immediately my thoughts shifted to Ada and Krauser... Could this be the Las Plagas...?

 

“Well then I'll give you the briefing myself,” she began. “As you've already been told, you're being sent to Wreeka, Alaska. It's an abandoned town some twenty miles away from Tenderfoot Creek. The area around the ghost town on all other sides is virtually nothing but snow and tundra, though the amount of wildlife isn't too high.”

 

As she continued talking I was still flipping through the pages of the first folder, scanning the paragraphs briefly, taking notice of the highlighted sections Miss Ingrid was so polite to make for me. At the bottom of the fifteenth page was something that caught my eye: a picture of a young brunette girl... Name: Rebecca Chambers. It said she was a former S.T.A.R.S. medical assistant for the premiere group Bravo Team before Raccoon City was destroyed. She was the only survivor of a mass murder involving the rest of her squad in 1998 in the Arklay Mountains, just along the outskirts of the city. The report said that she had gone missing just less than a month ago.

 

“Cute girl,” I interrupted, “but what does she have to do with Alaska? Says she lived in... Montana.”

 

Hunnigan's features sobered instantly at my comment. “Leon...” She looked like she was just itching to tell me off, probably using something along the lines of `Stop thinking with your dick and start thinking with your head,' but she restrained herself; didn't want to look unprofessional with others in the car. “As I recall, that kind of behavior is what got you into this situation in the first place, so let's try to stick to the facts, alright?” There, I knew it was coming. I guess that was about as professional as the chiding could sound.

 

“I am,” I remarked, still analyzing the rest of her biography. “Anyway, it says she's been in residence with an escaped convict... named Billy Coen.” His picture was on the very next page, as well as his bio. He looked tough, alright, especially with that tattoo on his left arm.

 

Hunnigan nodded. “He has gone by different aliases, but that was his enlistment name, yes. He was an ex-Marine, discharged and sentenced to death for the massacre of a South American village. Chambers had pronounced him officially dead in her report following the incident at the Umbrella training facility, though a body was never found. Investigators looked into the situation, but she refused to answer questioning and eventually moved to a farmhouse in southern Montana. When FBI investigators got a warrant and searched her house two months ago, evidence of a male resident was shown but he was long gone by then. The fact that she had been living with a convict condemned to death, along with her former affiliation with S.T.A.R.S., has led us to believe that her disappearance has a high possibility of being affiliated with the operations in Alaska.”

 

“So then, the operations in Alaska, are they the actions of Umbrella?” The name still sent chills down my spine when I thought about it...

 

“No, Umbrella has long since dissipated into nothing. This is a new, nameless organization, one we know almost nothing about. It's very likely it is consisted of former Umbrella researchers, though most of them have passed away or are being held in captivity. The only high authority of Umbrella left unchecked is Albert Wesker. He is neither confirmed dead nor alive.”

 

“He's alive.” I switched back to the front page, glancing over his bio once more, remembering Ada and Krauser's actions from before... Krauser had been working for him all along, trying to get him the sample of Las Plagas from Saddler. I assumed Ada was after the same thing, but when she made off with the sample, she said she was giving it to someone else... I wished I could just stay out of this whole entire mess for once, but it always seemed to find me. Just my luck. “So enough about the history of this whole thing... I need details on the incidents in Alaska.”

 

“Right, of course.” Hunnigan flipped through a couple of her files then handed me two of them, one labeled `AKI #1', the other, `AKI #2'. I opened the first, finding pictures of the two CIA agents who went missing two months ago. The file didn't have much meat to it; little information was known about their disappearance. The second file was much of the same: pictures of the fifteen SWAT members lost and a transcript of their final transmission describing a warehouse storage room filled with corpses, followed by gunshots and screams of terror. Great...

 

“So wait a second... two CIA agents and an entire SWAT team goes missing and you send one guy in to fix the problem? Heh, I feel honored.”

 

“Don't let it go to your head, Leon,” she brashly reminded me. “You're the only one in the President's service that has experience with this sort of thing, and one or two reconnaissance men could infiltrate and find information better than another large group. Once we have more information from you, we can determine exactly what means of force should be used and how. If this operation is underdeveloped, we can stomp it out like a cigarette butt. But if it is already well-established...”

 

“...You'll nuke it like you did Raccoon City. I got it.”

 

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The rest of the car ride was a long one, with Hunnigan regurgitating more than enough information for me hold before we came to a small clearing in the middle of a heavily wooded area. It seemed rather unfashionable for a limousine to be roughing it along these small dirt paths, but obviously this was to be held as far away from the media's grasp as possible. As we approached the clearing, I could see a small, old fashioned airplane, complete with a propeller at the nose and retro-style painting; it looked like the Astros' old throwback jerseys. I knew from one of the files that it was a Cessna 170, the conventional model that eventually became the Bird Dog reconnaissance plane for the U.S. Air Force. Of course, that was back in the 50's; I just hoped to God this thing would actually get me to Alaska.

 

“Here we are,” Hunnigan said, sounding like she had a hint of remorse, as if she was going to miss our times of debriefing; I'm sure it was just my `ego' again. “Mr. Marino here will be your pilot and accomplice on your mission. You two will fly to Alaska, landing in a safe zone approximately seventy miles away from Wreeka. You will then take the snowmobiles provided there until you come within spotting range of the warehouse. You'll want to go by foot from there. Oh, and Leon, you may want to ditch the black,” she taunted. “There will be white camouflage apparel in one of the plane's compartments. I suggest you use it.”

 

“Thanks for the tip.” I handed her the spare files I didn't need and kept what I did, taking only the first three folders she handed me: `History' and `AKI' numbers one and two. Marino opened his door and made his way out, taking only his faded leather bag, and I was soon to follow.

 

As I opened the door and stepped out, Hunnigan got one last word in. “As usual, you will be able to contact me using your video communicator if you need anything at all.”

 

“Heh, don't worry, I'll call you plenty. I'm sure I'll get lonely up there.” I ducked my head back in and gave her one last quick flirt, “So, when I get back, you wanna have dinner sometime?”

 

“Right... when you get back.” She paused for a moment, which visibly confused me. “Sure.” What was the pause for?

 

“Okay... See ya.” I pulled away from the doorway and shut the door, watching the limo pull away back into the forest, leaving only a trail of fading dust behind. I held my bag of first aid supplies, nourishment and ammo in one hand, my files in the other, and slowly turned towards the plane Mr. Marino was already boarding. Now was my time to focus, to, I guess, psyche myself out. Having been in these situations before, I knew how to desensitize myself to the point that killing another individual did nothing to me; even if they happened to be zombies, mind-controlled aficionados, or whatever the hell else was out there, they were still human beings at one point. If I couldn't suppress my conscience, I was a dead man. And if I wanted to live on to see that honorable discharge, I had to survive. Within the next 24 hours, I would be fighting for my life once again... Splendid.

 

“Alright, where do I put my stuff?” I asked from a distance as I came closer to the plane. Marino was standing below the open door of the plane, checking a few things before he pulled himself into the driver's seat. He merely grunted and nodded towards the rear of the plane in response to my question before muttering something to himself. Nice guy... I went around to the other side of the plane and hopped in, tossing my bag and the three folders into the back behind my seat. Marino sat beside me, wearing aviator sunglasses and a weathered Marines ball cap, the bill of it curled and shading his features. He didn't look like he had shaved this morning, or even a few mornings prior, with what was beginning to shape into a black beard growing along his jaw line. He wore a long-sleeved denim shirt with his sleeves rolled up once at the end, revealing an old-fashioned wristwatch on his left hand. He had dark denim jeans to match with a pistol hooked to his side and black boots. I could tell he was a moderately sized man underneath, most likely better physically equipped than myself.

 

As he started the engine, he still hadn't spoken so much as one word to me. I figured I'd go ahead and start the conversation. “So, Mr... Marino? Any relation to a guy named Dan?”

 

“None,” he answered, “Just a fan.” He was so cold and reserved, definitely not the type of guy I was used to working with. I guess his indifference made me a little akward, `cause as I tried to continue the conversation, I looked away from him, observing the scenery outside as I waited for the vehicle to start moving.

 

“Well then, should I call you Marino or do you have a first name?”

 

“The name's Billy.”

 

The conversation ended there. One good blow to the back of the head and I blacked out. Damn, I should've seen it coming...

 

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