September 26, 1998, 4:00 PM, Eddie's Private Laboratory
The USB stick was cold in his hand, a small sarcophagus of data that held a potential salvation. Back in his glass-and-steel sanctuary, Eddie slid the drive into the terminal. Mueller's files spilled across the screen, a torrent of chemical formulas, test reports, and hastily scrawled notes.
The anti-virus. Its composition was almost disappointingly simple. A cocktail of herbal extracts bound together by an inert sample of the T-Virus acting as a molecular carrier. It wasn't a cure. It was a suppressant. An emergency switch that could halt the zombification process, but only if administered before cerebral decay was complete. It didn't destroy the virus; it put it into dormancy, leaving behind an indelible trace in the host's DNA. An imperfect weapon for an imperfect weapon.
"Planning to use it on yourself?"
Annette's voice made him flinch. She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. Her hair, usually loose, was pulled into a tight, severe ponytail. She looked more soldier than scientist. Her gaze was grave.
"You're thinking about suppressing the side effects," she continued, more a statement than a question. "Don't. Your body has fused with the serum. Introducing a foreign agent—especially one designed to counter the T-Virus—would ignite a civil war in your system. Your body would attack itself. The likeliest result is complete paralysis."
Eddie didn't deny it. He leaned back in his chair, massaging his temples. A dull headache pounded behind his eyes. "You have an alternative?"
"No," she admitted, her voice cold and pragmatic. "But you can try a new type of serum. A different approach. Instead of fighting the effects, stabilize them from within."
Eddie let out a heavy sigh. Why is it so damn hard to be strong? Frustration tasted bitter in his throat. He would never accept a defective product, a compromise like the one Wesker had used. He wanted perfection.
Seeing the despair on his face, Annette's tone softened almost imperceptibly. "Serum research is complicated. It takes time. You can't solve everything in a single night. You're young, you have all the time you want."
"No," Eddie growled, springing to his feet. The rage, that black dog he kept on a leash, stirred. "I have to fix this. Now. I already mapped the problem of impotence. There's only one defect left to correct!"
He strode toward the door, brushing past her without a glance. "I'm going to see Sergei. I need progenitor virus samples."
Annette remained still, her eyes narrowing. He mapped the problem of impotence? A faint blush touched her cheeks. She understood that obsession all too well. It was the same one consuming her husband. And at that moment, a wave of nostalgia and sadness struck her. Sherry. She had neglected her little girl. She needed to see her. Soon.
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September 26, 1998, 10:00 PM, Jack's Bar
Jack's Bar was a refuge, a purgatory of stale beer and forced laughter. Most of the S.T.A.R.S. were there, scattered among the tables, trying to drown exhaustion in alcohol. Wesker's training had become brutal, an escalation of combat simulations and endurance tests that left them drained, aching. The official reason was Chief Irons's request to investigate the Arklay mountain incidents. The real reason, hidden behind Wesker's sunglasses, was far darker. He was sharpening his sacrificial lambs.
Mark and Kevin were there too, off duty. Kevin, with his usual loud cheer, leaned toward Chris Redfield. "Hey, Chris! Heard you've been busting your ass lately. Something big going down?" He handed him a beer.
"Better not talk about it," Chris sighed, taking the bottle. "I'm training day and night like a dog. Unlike you guys, who can relax. Lucky bastards."
"Yeah… Still a ton of missing persons this month," Mark said, skimming through a newspaper. "At this rate, this place will turn into a ghost town."
"Seems like it," added Bob, one of Mark's friends. "My neighbor went for a picnic near the Arklays. Only he came back. And they sent him straight to an asylum. I'm sure he's not crazy, but they dragged him off anyway."
Kevin fell silent at that. He wasn't surprised. Things like this were completely out of his control. He could only hope his family was safe.
The S.T.A.R.S. members nodded in grim agreement. They got a bad feeling every time the Arklay Mountains were mentioned.
"Hmm… Looks like I'll have to investigate this story."
A female voice, dry and decisive, cut in. A short-haired woman was scribbling in a notebook.
"Uh, who's the pretty lady?" Joseph Frost asked Kevin, curious.
Kevin looked at her. "Alyssa Ashcroft. Journalist for the Raccoon Press." He raised a brow. "She's tough. No small talk. You sure you want to start a conversation with her?"
Joseph nodded and walked over. "Hello, miss. Care to talk?"
"No," Alyssa replied without even looking up.
"…Okay." Joseph slumped back to his seat, head down.
The other S.T.A.R.S. burst out laughing. Apparently, the pretty journalist was cold as ice.