Location: Secure Underground Laboratory (The Hive), San Antonio, Texas
Date: July 29, 2017
Time: 10:38 Hours
The stealth jet kissed the tarmac of the subterranean airstrip with a heavy, hydraulic thud, the landing gear groaning under the strain of a descent that was too fast and too steep. The engines whined down, spinning into silence, but the pilot did not move.
Inside the cockpit, Alen Wesker gripped the controls, his knuckles white.
He wasn't just exhausted; he was unraveling.
The A-Virus (Animality Virus)—the stolen masterpiece of Glenn Arias—was waging a thermonuclear war inside his veins. It was a pathogen designed to rewrite DNA instantly, unlocking dormant predatory genes to create a berserker. But it had met an immovable object: the Progenitor Virus inherent in the Wesker bloodline.
Two god-complex viruses were fighting for dominance over his cellular structure.
Alen stumbled out of the cockpit, his boots hitting the hangar floor with a heavy, uncoordinated slap. He ripped the oxygen mask from his face, gasping for air that tasted of ozone and jet fuel.
He looked at his hands.
They were terrifying. Thick, black necrotic veins pulsed rhythmically beneath his pale skin, branching up his forearms like the roots of a poisoned tree. They throbbed in time with a heartbeat that was far too fast—200 beats per minute. The infection was creeping up his neck, turning the skin gray and feverish.
It's killing me, Alen realized with clinical detachment. The A-Virus is aggressive. It wants to mutate me. My immune system is burning it out, but the heat... the heat is going to cook my brain.
A spasm hit him—a violent, electric jolt that locked his muscles. He dropped to one knee, a guttural growl tearing from his throat. It wasn't a scream of pain; it was the sound of a predator fighting a cage.
He ignored it. He had cargo.
He forced himself to stand, his legs trembling like a newborn foal's. He moved to the cargo hold and released the locks on the mobile cryo-container. He didn't head for the high-tech medical bay or the containment lab. He dragged the pod toward the living quarters attached to the facility.
The room was spartan—a soldier's cell. A bed, a desk, a closet.
Alen popped the seal. Cold vapor hissed out. He lifted the sleeping girl, E-017, into his arms. She was light, fragile as a bird, smelling of preservation gas and innocence.
He laid her on his bed, tucking the heavy duvet up to her chin. She stirred slightly but didn't wake. The sedative was still strong.
Alen staggered back, gripping the doorframe to keep the room from spinning. His vision swam with red static. The black veins on his neck were pulsing harder now, visibly writhing under the skin.
"Trinity," he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together.
<< I am here, Master. >> The AI's voice was filled with genuine alarm, her avatar flickering into existence on the wall monitor. << Warning. Systemic failure imminent. Your body temperature is 106 degrees. The viral load is critical. You need immediate cryo-stasis or antiviral intervention. >>
"No time," Alen managed, clutching his chest. "If I go into stasis, who watches her? Activate full perimeter security. Lockdown mode. Watch the girl. If she wakes up... keep her calm. Do not let her see me... like this."
<< Understood. But Alen... if you do not stabilize, the A-Virus will consume you. >>
"My blood..." Alen wheezed, stumbling toward the adjacent room. "My blood... doesn't lose."
He collapsed onto the spare cot in the guest quarters. Darkness didn't fall; it crashed down on him.
The Fever Dream
He was back in the white room. Alex Wesker was there, holding a scalpel. She was smiling.
"Evolution requires sacrifice, little lion," she whispered.
Then the room changed. It was the volcano. Chris Redfield was holding a rocket launcher. Albert Wesker was screaming as the magma consumed him.
Then it was nothing but fire. A wolf made of black mold was tearing at his chest, trying to get in. Alen fought it. He didn't fight with guns. He fought it with his will. He grabbed the wolf's jaws and tore them apart.
I am not a weapon. I am a man.
Time: 08:00 Hours (The Next Morning)
Alen woke up.
He didn't wake up groggy; he woke up instantly, his eyes snapping open with the sharpness of a camera shutter.
He lay still for a moment, waiting for the pain. Waiting for the fire.
It was gone.
He sat up. He looked at his arms.
The black, necrotic roots had vanished. His skin was pale, unblemished, and cool to the touch. He flexed his hand. The stiffness was gone, replaced by a low, vibrating hum of energy that felt endless.
The war was over. The Progenitor virus had devoured the A-Virus, stripped it for parts, and integrated the useful genetic coding. He felt... lighter. Denser. The latent predatory speed of the A-Virus was now his own, tempered by Wesker control.
"Trinity," he whispered. "Status."
<< Good morning, Master, >> Trinity's voice was relieved. << Bio-scan complete. Viral integration successful. You have metabolized the pathogen. Your physical baseline has increased by 15%. It is... miraculous. >>
"It's heritage," Alen muttered.
He stood up and checked the monitor. The girl in the next room was still asleep, curled into a ball.
"Good."
He looked down at himself. He was a wreck. He wore the tattered remains of his tactical turtleneck and combat trousers, stained with the dust of a collapsed Moldovan mountain and the black ichor of Brandon Bailey. He smelled of sweat, blood, and jet fuel.
"I can't let her see me like this," he muttered. "I look like a monster."
He stripped off the gear, took a scalding hot shower to scrub the mission from his skin, and dressed in civilian clothes—faded jeans and a plain black t-shirt.
He needed supplies. This was a black ops bunker, not a home.
Alen grabbed the keys to his Ducati. He rode out of the hidden exit tunnel, merging onto the San Antonio highway.
He walked into a local department store. He moved through the aisles with the same tactical efficiency he used to clear kill houses. He didn't look like a shopper; he looked like a man on a retrieval op.
Objective: Nutrition. Milk. Bread. Eggs. Fresh fruit. Chocolate.
Objective: Camouflage. Girls' clothing. Size... small. Pink hoodie. Jeans. Sneakers. Socks.
He bought things a normal person needed. Things a father would buy.
He returned to the lab an hour later, slipping back in unnoticed, carrying plastic bags instead of ammo crates.
Time: 10:38 Hours
E-017 opened her eyes.
Her first instinct was to scream. Her body tensed, preparing for the cold steel of the cryogenic pod, the stark white lights of the Connections' lab, the needles, the testing.
Instead, she felt... soft.
She sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest. The room was warm. It smelled of brewing coffee and cedar wood. There were no cameras on the ceiling. There was no hum of bio-reactors.
She crept out of bed, her bare feet silent on the floor. She peeked through the open door.
A man was sitting at a desk, surrounded by a wall of computer monitors glowing with code. He was typing quickly, his back to her.
It was him. The man from the cave. The one who dropped from the ceiling. But he wasn't wearing the terrifying black coat or the mask. He looked young, with sharp, aristocratic features and messy black hair.
He stopped typing. He didn't turn around, but he spoke.
"Good morning, kid. Welcome back from La La Land."
Alen turned his chair around. He took off his wire-rimmed reading glasses. His blue eyes were gentle, lacking the predatory glint from the night before.
"How are you feeling?"
E-017 stared at him, her lower lip trembling. She pinched her arm, checking if it was a simulation. "You... you came back. You kept your promise."
"I don't break promises," Alen said simply.
A sob broke from her throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. She ran across the room—not away from him, but to him.
She collided with his chest, wrapping her thin arms around him, burying her face in his shirt. She held on with a desperate strength, shaking uncontrollably.
Alen froze.
His hands hovered in the air for a moment. He was a weapon. A ghost. A killer who had snapped Brandon Bailey's neck. He knew how to dismantle organizations and synthesize toxins. He did not know how to do this.
It reminded him of Isabella, the way she would hold him when the nightmares got too intense. But this was different. This wasn't a partner. This was a child. A creation, just like him, seeking a protector.
What would Jessica do? He thought, the memory of his adoptive mother flashing in his mind. What did she do for me when I was broken?
Alen slowly lowered his hands. He patted the girl's back, awkward at first, then firmer.
"Hey," Alen murmured, rubbing her back in circles. "It's okay. You're safe. The bad men are gone. I turned them into dust. They can't find you. No one can find you."
E-017 pulled back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes. "You saved me. Why? I'm... I'm a mistake."
Alen felt a pang of anger in his chest—not at her, but at the world that made her feel that way.
"You aren't a mistake," Alen said firmly. He reached out to wipe a smudge of dirt from her cheek. "You're safe here. And you're normal, you know? Not like your 'sister', Eveline. You don't have the madness. You're just... you."
"Thank you," she sniffled.
Alen stood up, clearing his throat to shake off the heavy emotion in the room. "Right. First things first. Do you know how to use a shower?"
"I... I think so," she nodded.
"Good," Alen gestured to the bags on the couch. "I bought you some things. Real clothes. Not that hospital gown. Go get cleaned up. I'll be right outside the door if you need anything."
Twenty Minutes Later
She stepped out. The dirt and grime of the Moldovan lab were gone. Her hair was damp and combed back. She wore the oversized pink hoodie and jeans he had bought. She looked small, but for the first time, she looked human.
"Looking sharp, kid," Alen smiled. "Come on. Sit down."
He led her to the small kitchenette area. On the table sat a plate of toast, scrambled eggs, and a glass of milk.
"Eat," Alen said.
She devoured the food, eating as if she expected it to be taken away.
"Slow down," Alen chuckled softly, pouring her more milk. "The food isn't going anywhere. Neither am I."
She slowed down. After a few minutes of silence, Alen leaned forward, his expression serious.
"I need to ask you something," Alen said. "Why were you hiding behind that desk? Why did the scientists want to terminate you?"
E-017 lowered her fork. The fear flickered back.
"Because I was useless," she whispered, staring at the table. "They wanted to make another Eveline. A weapon to control people. But I... I didn't have the connection. I couldn't control the Mold. I couldn't hear the voices in the dark."
She looked up at Alen, tears welling again. "They said I was 'stable but defective'. They were going to kill me and harvest my organs to create E-018 and E-019. They just wanted parts."
Alen's jaw tightened. The air in the room grew heavy.
Just parts.
He recognized that feeling. He knew what it was like to be viewed as nothing more than a source of potential, a vessel for someone else's legacy. He looked at this girl—made in a lab, discarded because she had the courage to be normal.
He reached out and placed his large, scarred hand on her small one.
"You aren't parts," Alen said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And you aren't useless."
He saw his own childhood reflected in her. He had been a monster's son. She was a monster's clone. But neither of them chose to be born.
"Listen to me," Alen said. "E-017 is a serial number. It's a barcode. It's not a name. And you need a name."
She blinked. "A name?"
Alen thought for a moment. He looked at the red LED light of the server bank, thinking of the violence he had committed to get her here. He wanted something that sounded precious. Something rare. Something that couldn't be broken, no matter how much pressure you applied.
"Ruby," Alen said.
"Ruby?" she tested the word. It felt round and warm in her mouth.
"It suits you," Alen nodded. "It means you're valuable. Just as you are."
A smile broke across her face—genuine and bright, cracking the trauma mask she had worn since birth. "Ruby. I like it."
She hopped off the chair. She hesitated for a second, then walked around the table and stood in front of him.
"Alen?" she asked softly.
"Yeah?"
"If I'm Ruby... and I live here now..." She looked down at her sneakers. "Does that mean... do I have a family?"
Alen looked at her. He thought of Isabella at the ranch. He thought of Master Shi. And he thought of the empty space in his own soul where a father should have been—a space filled only by Albert Wesker's shadow.
He slid off his chair and knelt on one knee, looking her in the eye.
"Yeah, Ruby," Alen choked out, his throat tight. "You have a family."
"Can I..." She took a breath, terrified of the question. "Can I call you Dad?"
The word hung in the air. Dad.
It was a heavier title than Commander. Heavier than Agent. Heavier even than Wesker. It was a title that required a different kind of strength.
Alen didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. He reached out and pulled her into a hug, burying his face in her hair to hide the moisture in his own eyes.
"Yeah, kid," Alen whispered into the quiet lab, making the most important contract of his life. "You can call me Dad."
He held her tight, feeling the small, steady beat of her heart against his own enhanced chest.
He had spent his life trying to destroy his father's legacy. He finally realized that the best way to do that wasn't just b
y killing monsters.
It was by being the father Albert Wesker never was.
"You're safe, Ruby," he whispered. "I've got you."