The Plains of Memory
Location: Outside Amarillo, Texas
Date: June 15, 2013, 03:00 Hours
The Texas night felt like a dense velvet blanket, the day's heat rising from the dry ground even in the dark. Silence enveloped the area, interrupted only by the distant cry of a coyote and the slow tick-tock of an old clock in the hallway.
Inside the simple ranch house, Alen slept, but he wasn't resting.
His body coiled beneath the thin sheets, muscles twitching, ready for action. His dreams weren't mere fantasies; they were sharp memories, enough to cut.
The light. It always started with the light, a harsh, glaring white.
The air buzzed with the low hum of server banks, carrying the faint scent of formaldehyde. He was small, no older than five. Wrapped in a thermal blanket, he looked up at a face that the world would later know as a monster.
Alex Wesker.
Her hair, typically pulled back in a tight bun, fell loose like a dark curtain framing her face. Her features, known for their cruel nature, appeared strangely soft. Her voice, usually chilling, became a gentle murmur.
"Shhh, my little lion," she whispered. Her thick accent rolled the vowels. Her cool, manicured finger traced his jawline. "Do not fret. Mother is here. The world is loud, and you are so very small. But you will be strong. Stronger than Albert ever dreamed."
She began to hum, an old Russian lullaby, a tune from a life she had left behind. It was slightly off-key and uncertain—a crack in the porcelain mask of the brilliant researcher. For a brief moment, she wasn't the woman who would torture subjects on Seien Island; she was simply a mother, looking at her creation with a fractured, terrifying love.
"Sleep now," she said softly. "Before the world wakes up."
Then the lab's hum changed. It deepened into the heavy thump of helicopter blades.
The lullaby shattered.
Alen was now fully grown. The antiseptic smell gave way to the tang of blood and the sulfur of C4. He was back in Edonia, in a nightmarish underground. Muzzle flashes lit the corridor in strobe-like bursts, exposing the twisted faces of the J'avo.
"Mission compromised! I am compromised!" he shouted into his comms, his voice sounding distant and tinny.
He moved like a ghost, his silenced pistol firing at soldiers before they could lift their rifles. But they were endless. A blast door hissed open, revealing a horrific sight of flesh and teeth—
Then the world turned white.
The explosion hit him like a divine blow. Weightlessness followed. The crushing impact of debris came next. He felt his own bones snapping and knitting back together in the dark.
BZZZZZT! BZZZZZT!
The alarm on the nightstand shrieked, yanking him from the past.
Alen shot upright, gasping, his skin soaked in cold sweat. His right hand instinctively dove under the pillow, grabbing the SIG Sauer P226 and scanning the empty room before his mind fully processed it. His heart pounded against his ribs like a trapped bird, adrenaline flooding his system with a toxic rush.
"Clear," he whispered to the empty room, his voice raspy. "Clear."
He lowered the weapon. Gradually, the familiar shapes of his sanctuary pushed the ghosts away: the rough wooden beams of the ceiling, the scent of dust and sagebrush wafting through the open window. Outside, the cicadas started their morning chorus.
But the memory clung to him like a second skin. He could still feel Alex Wesker's phantom touch on his cheek—a touch that brought both comfort and a curse.
"Mother is here…"
Alen pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to shove the image back into his mind's dark corners. He took a breath—in for four, hold for four, out for four. Grounding.
He rose stiffly, old injuries from the explosion ghosting across his nerves. He walked to the bathroom, splashing ice-cold water onto his face. Looking in the mirror, he saw Nicolas Lemanissier—a quiet man who fixed fences and kept to himself. But his eyes were Alen's. They were ancient.
He dried his face and stepped onto the porch.
The first streaks of dawn smeared violet and burnt orange across the vast Texas horizon. He had bought this rundown ranch months after the "death" of John Michael Kane, using funds taken from dormant CIA slush funds. It was off the grid. Boring. Perfect.
His nearest neighbor lived a mile down the dirt road, a small farm with a converted barn that served as a dojo.
As if on cue, a figure emerged from the distant barn. Even at this distance, Alen's enhanced vision picked him out clearly. Shi Yan Xing. Late sixties, compact, wearing simple cotton robes. He stood still, watching the sunrise.
Alen grabbed a bottle of water and walked down the dirt path to meet him.
As he approached the dojo, the old man didn't turn.
"The nightmare came again, Nicolas," Shi Yan Xing said softly, his voice carrying easily on the morning breeze.
Alen leaned against the wooden post at the dojo entrance. "Loudly."
Shi Yan Xing turned to him. His face was a map of wrinkles, but his eyes were calm and clear. "The body remembers what the mind tries to bury. You carry the weight not only in your thoughts but in your blood and muscles. You stand like a man expecting an attack from the sky."
"Old habits," Alen muttered.
"Bad habits," Shi corrected gently. "Come. Dawn is the time to set them down."
The Dojo – 06:00 Hours
The air inside the barn smelled of cedar and sweat. Training here was relentless, but it was a different kind of violence than Alen was used to. It wasn't about efficient killing; it was about deliberate living.
Shi Yan Xing moved through the forms of Luohan Quan (Arhat Fist) with an ease that defied physics. Alen stripped off his shirt, revealing faint scars that his regeneration hadn't completely healed.
"Begin," Shi commanded.
Alen moved with speed—enhanced speed. He threw a jab that could have shattered a normal man's sternum.
Shi didn't block it. He simply wasn't there when the punch arrived. He pivoted, stepping inside Alen's guard, and tapped Alen's solar plexus with two fingers. It wasn't a hard blow, but it disrupted Alen's breathing, sending a shockwave through his diaphragm.
Alen stumbled back, wheezing.
"You fight like a Western soldier," Shi observed, circling him. "All force. All vector. Like a bullet. A bullet is effective, yes. But once it is fired, it cannot change course. It is blind."
Alen gritted his teeth, shaking off the paralysis. "It gets the job done."
"Does it?" Shi countered. "Or does it just leave a mess? A storm has power, Nicolas, but it destroys everything, including itself. You must learn to be the lightning bolt—precise—or the mountain—unshaken."
They engaged again. This time, Alen attempted to use Qin Na, the art of joint locking. He caught Shi's wrist, applying pressure that could break bone.
"Your strength is immense," Shi said calmly, wincing slightly but not pulling away. "But you rely on it like a crutch. You trust your muscle, but you do not trust your senses."
With a subtle shift of his hips and a twist of his forearm, Shi reversed the leverage. He used Alen's own momentum to flip him. Alen hit the mat heavily, dust motes rising in the air.
Alen lay there for a moment, staring at the rafters. "How?" he grunted. "I saw the shift. My eyes… they're faster than yours. I saw it coming."
Shi offered a hand. Alen took it and pulled himself up.
"You see the branch swaying, so you prepare for the branch," Shi explained. "But you do not feel the wind that moves it. You react to the effect, not the cause."
Shi placed a rough hand over Alen's heart and tapped his chest. "Your heart beats too fast. You are running an engine at redline while the car is in park. This energy, this heat inside you…"
Alen stiffened. He knew Shi sensed something different about him—the C-Virus antibodies, the Wesker blood—even if the old man didn't have the scientific terms for it.
"It's dangerous," Alen warned quietly.
"Only if it controls you," Shi said firmly. "This isn't magic, Nicolas. It is biology. Qi is breath. Breath is oxygen. Oxygen is fuel. You let the fuel burn the house down. You must build a furnace to contain it."
Shi guided him into a meditative stance. "Close your eyes. Listen with your skin. Do not look for the attack. Feel the intent."
For the next hour, they practiced breathing techniques. Qi Gong. Shi taught him to visualize the volatile energy in his blood not as a raging fire, but as a river. A river can be dammed, diverted, or controlled.
For the first time in months, the low-level buzzing in Alen's head—the predator instinct always scanning for threats—began to quiet.
08:30 Hours – The Porch
They sat on the steps of the dojo, drinking herbal tea. The sun was fully up now, baking the Texas plains.
"You are improving," Shi said, sipping his tea. "The darkness in your eyes is… retreating. Slowly."
Alen looked at his hands. "I've spent my whole life being a weapon. First for her, then for the government, then for the highest bidder. It's hard to be anything else."
"A sword in its sheath is still a sword, Nicolas. But it does not cut until it is drawn. That is the choice. That is what it means to be human."
Alen nodded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, blue passport, turning it over in his hands.
"Going somewhere?" Shi asked.
"Not yet," Alen said. "This is just… insurance. Paul Kay. Canadian citizen. If 'Nicolas' ever needs to disappear."
"You have many names for a man with one face," Shi noted with a small smile.
"It's a complicated world, Master."
"It is," Shi agreed, his expression darkening slightly. "I watch the news. The world feels… feverish. There is a sickness in the air, not just here, but everywhere. Tension."
Alen looked east, toward the hidden threats gathering in Tall Oaks and China. He knew Simmons was making his move. He knew Carla Radames was preparing for her endgame. The peace of the Texas plains felt fragile, a temporary ceasefire in a long-standing war.
"The storm is coming," Alen said softly, slipping the passport back into his pocket. "But not today."
Shi Yan Xing stood up and dusted off his robes. "No. Not today. Today, you fix my fence. The cattle broke through the north pasture again."
Alen chuckled, a rare, genuine sound. "Yes, Master."
For now, he was Nicolas Lemanissier. He had a home, he had a friend, and for the first time since he was a child in a white room, he had something to lose.