Location: The Lemanissier Ranch, Underground Lab (The Hive), Outside Amarillo, Texas
Date: July 27, 2017
Time: 23:45 Hours (CST)
The air in the subterranean laboratory was cool, recycled, and smelled faintly of ozone and gun oil—a sharp contrast to the humid, suffocating heat of the Texas night pressing down on the earth three hundred feet above them.
Alen Wesker sat at his stainless steel workbench, the harsh white light of an articulated lamp illuminating the disassembled components of his custom sidearm. His hands moved with muscle memory, fingers stained with carbon and solvent. He wasn't just cleaning the weapon; he was surgically altering it. He polished the feed ramp to a mirror shine, replaced the recoil spring with a heavy-tungsten variant to mitigate muzzle rise, and calibrated the tritium sights for low-light engagement.
Across the room, the rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum of an industrial sewing machine broke the silence.
Isabella Gionne sat hunched over a heavy-duty table, her eyes narrowed in concentration behind a pair of magnifying spectacles. Under the needle flowed a fabric that looked like liquid shadow—a matte black material that absorbed the light rather than reflecting it. It was a duster coat, cut long and severe, accompanied by a black tactical turtleneck, combat trousers, and a wide-brimmed hat.
Alen slid the barrel back into the slide with a satisfying metallic click. He looked up, watching the needle dance.
"I have to ask," Alen said, wiping his hands on a rag. "How does a world-class hacker know her way around a needle and thread like that? I never took you for a professional tailor."
Isabella didn't look up, her hands guiding the thick fabric expertly. "Survival isn't just about coding, dear husband. My grandfather taught me that if you want something done right, you build it yourself. Whether it's a firewall or a suit of armor."
She stopped the machine and ran her hand over the coat. The texture was strange—smooth yet incredibly dense. "Besides," she added, a hint of pride in her voice, "this isn't just cloth. I managed to synthesize the weave based on the recovered data from the Uroboros project. It's a carbon-nanotube composite. It's the same ballistic-resistant polymer weave Albert Wesker wore. It's light, stab-resistant, and can take a small caliber round without breaking your ribs."
"Wesker's weave," Alen mused, holstering his weapon. "Fitting. Fighting monsters with a monster's skin."
"So," Isabella said, turning her chair to face him. The playfulness vanished from her face, replaced by a sharp, analytical look. "Did you find the entry point?"
Alen's expression darkened. He stood up, walking over to the main terminal where his AI, Trinity, was idling. Her avatar, glowing softly in red, floated above the console. "I did. But it's worse than we thought."
Isabella walked over, her eyes scanning his face. She saw the tension in his jaw, the cold resolve in his eyes. She reached out, placing a hand on his arm. "What happened? What did you find?"
"You asked if I was sure about this," Alen said quietly. "You know this isn't a small splinter cell. This is The Connections. They aren't just bio-terrorists; they're an institution. They made the E-Series. The Baker incident in Louisiana… that was just a field test gone wrong."
"I know who they are, Alen," Isabella whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "That's why I'm worried. They have resources that rival the old Umbrella. If you go there…"
"If I don't go there," Alen interrupted, his voice hard but not unkind, "they will just make another Eveline. Or something worse. The BSAA is tied up in bureaucracy. The DSO is too slow. Someone has to cut the head off the snake before it sees another sunrise."
Isabella looked at him, tears welling in her eyes. She saw the soldier, the protector. She wiped her eyes quickly, steeling herself. She was a Gionne; she wouldn't break now.
"Okay," she exhaled. "If you're going to hell, I'm giving you the map."
She pulled a ruggedized laptop from her bag and plugged it into the central console. The room darkened as the main projector hummed to life. A massive holographic map materialized in the center of the lab.
THE CONNECTIONS — MAIN MOLD LAB (MOLDOVA) 📍 PRIMARY LOCATION: Orheiul Vechi Cave–Monastery Complex
Orhei District, Central Moldova
Coordinates: ≈ 47.305° N, 28.980° E
"Moldova," Alen muttered, studying the jagged terrain on the map. "Eastern Europe. Isolated. The poorest nation in Europe. Perfect for bribes."
"It's an ancient place," Isabella explained, typing rapidly. "Limestone cliffs, cave monasteries, forgotten tunnels. Perfect for hiding something that shouldn't exist. I used… an old contact. She gave me the coordinates."
"Trinity," Alen commanded. "Give us the full dossier. Who built this?"
The AI's voice, smooth, seductive, and warm, filled the room.
<< Affirmative, Master Alen. >> Trinity replied, her avatar shifting to display a dossier. << Target Profile: The Connections. Founded by Brandon Bailey. >>
On the screen, grainy black-and-white photos appeared—a young man in a lab coat standing next to James Marcus and Oswell E. Spencer.
<< Bailey was a protégé of Dr. James Marcus and a founding member of Umbrella Pharmaceuticals, >> Trinity narrated. << However, he was erased from corporate history by Spencer. Bailey was part of the original Africa expedition in 1966 that discovered the Progenitor Virus. While Marcus and Spencer focused on viral weaponization, Bailey became obsessed with the environmental triggers of the 'Stairway to the Sun' flowers. >>
Images of African caverns and the Ndipaya ruins flashed on the screen.
<< Bailey spent twenty years in the African facility, effectively exiled by Spencer. When the facility closed in 1998, Bailey didn't retire. He founded The Connections—a crime syndicate designed to break Umbrella's monopoly. Unlike Wesker, who sought godhood, Bailey sought profit. He is the architect of the fungal bio-weapons program. >>
"He's a ghost," Alen said, reading the scrolling text. "The BSAA thinks he might be dead."
"He's not dead," Isabella said grimly. "He's just very good at hiding. Look at the facility details."
The hologram shifted, zooming in on a nondescript building nestled in a valley.
SURFACE COVER (THE LIE) Name: Orhei Agricultural & Mycology Research Institute
Official Purpose: Crop blight resistance & Soil fungus behavior.
Appearance: Small concrete building. No fences. No guards. No night lights.
"It looks… boring," Alen noted.
"That's the point," Trinity interjected. << My analysis suggests a 99% probability of subterranean infrastructure. The lack of security is the security. It relies on obscurity. However, thermal scans indicate massive heat venting masked as agricultural irrigation. >>
The hologram shifted again, peeling back the layers of the earth to reveal the nightmare beneath.
⛓️ TRUE FACILITY — SITE–KÓLIS Depth: ~300 meters underground
Access: Soviet-era bio-bunker shafts & monastery ruins.
🧪 UNDERGROUND STRUCTURE: * Levels 1-2: Logistics & Decontamination.
* Levels 3-4: Mold Cultivation & Human Testing.
* Level 5: Cryogenic Archive (E-Series Prototypes).
* Level 7: The Heart (Nutrient Core & Mold Hive Mind).
"Level 7," Alen pointed to the pulsating red node at the bottom of the holographic shaft. "The Heart. That's where the primary sample is. The Mega-Mycere."
"And look at the environment notes," Isabella said, shivering slightly. "Prayer alcoves converted to observation rooms. Mold growing over religious carvings. The locals avoid the valley because it 'feels wrong.' There are no animals within three miles. The fungus has likely consumed the local ecosystem."
Alen nodded slowly. This was a tomb waiting to be opened.
"Trinity," Alen said. "Find me the blueprints for the emergency ventilation tunnels. If I'm going in, I'm not walking through the front door."
<< Processing, Master. Decrypting Soviet architectural archives now. >>
Alen turned back to Isabella. He noticed her hands were shaking slightly as she unplugged the laptop.
"Isabella," he asked, his voice low. "Who gave you this intel? This is Level 10 clearance stuff. The only people who know this much about The Connections are either running it… or hunting it."
Isabella froze. She bit her lip, avoiding his gaze. "I told you, Alen. An old friend. I… I don't remember her name. It's fuzzy."
Alen stared at her. He knew she was lying. He knew that look—she was protecting him, or perhaps protecting the source. Deep down, Alen suspected the truth. The methodology, the encrypted channels, the sheer danger of the intel… it screamed of only one person. A woman in a red dress. A mercenary spy whose name rhymed with 'shadow.' A woman Alen despised for her manipulative games with his father and Leon Kennedy.
"We have trust issues," Alen said finally, deciding not to press her. Not tonight. "But the intel is solid. That's what matters."
"Yes," Isabella breathed a sigh of relief. "It is."
She walked back to the sewing table and picked up the black tactical mask she had finished. She held it out to him.
"You need to become a ghost, Alen. Bailey thinks he is untouchable in his hole in the ground. Show him that even ghosts can bleed."
Alen took the mask. The fabric was cool to the touch.
"He won't just bleed," Alen promised, looking at the holographic map of the Moldovan complex. "He's going to burn."
One Hour Later – Secure Communications Channel
Isabella sat alone in the corner of the lab, her laptop glowing in the dark. Alen had gone topside to check the ranch perimeter. She opened a secure, heavily encrypted chat window. The interface was minimalist—crimson text on a black background.
Blackheart: Intel delivered. He took the bait. He's going to Moldova.
A pause. Then, a response appeared.
AdaWong: Good. Bailey is a liability. He knows too much about the old days. If your… husband… destroys the lab, it saves me a trip.
Blackheart: Why help him? You worked for Wesker. You played both sides.
AdaWong: Let's just say I have a soft spot for survivors. And The Connections have outlived their usefulness. Besides… I owe you for the decrypt on the Los Iluminados files back in '04.
Blackheart: Be careful, Ada. If he finds out you're the source…
AdaWong: He won't. He's too busy fighting his father's ghosts. Take care of him, Isabella. He's the only one of his kind left.
Blackheart: Thank you. For everything.
AdaWong: Don't thank me yet. The hardest part is surviving the peace. End transmission.
Isabella closed the laptop. She looked up at the ceiling, toward the Texas stars she couldn't see.
"I hope you're right," she whispered.