Location: The Richard Estate, Scottish Highlands
Date: August 11, 2017
Time: 08:30 GMT
The dream was always the same.
It wasn't a nightmare filled with gnashing teeth or gunfire. It was worse. It was a memory of love that felt suffocating.
Alen gasped, his eyes snapping open as he sat up in the antique bed. His heart raced against his ribs like a trapped bird, frantic and uneven. He was drenched in cold sweat, the damp Egyptian cotton sheets clinging to him like a shroud.
Flashback.
The room wasn't the dark oak of Scotland; it was sterile, blinding white. The air smelled of ozone and ambition. A woman with golden hair and a face that was stunning yet coldly analytical looked down at him.
Alex Wesker.
She appeared younger in the memory, her smile sincere yet possessive, like a collector admiring a rare object.
"You are my masterpiece," she whispered, her hand brushing his infant cheek with a touch that burned. "The vessel of the new world. The transcendence of the Wesker line."
The image shattered.
Alen gripped the edges of the mattress, his knuckles turning white. It had been exactly six months since the hallucinations began, and since Shaolin Master Shi Yan Xing died, the mental walls he had built were crumbling. Grief had weakened the levees, and the genetic memories were flooding back in.
He threw off the heavy wool covers and stumbled toward the en-suite bathroom.
He turned the shower on, twisting the handle until the water ran scalding hot. He stripped off his t-shirt and looked in the mirror above the sink.
The A-Virus was angry today.
Thick, black veins pulsed rhythmically from his left pectoral, branching out across his heart and creeping up his neck like the roots of a poisonous tree. They throbbed in time with his racing heart. He ignored the burning sensation—a fire that felt like it was consuming him from the inside out.
He stepped into the steam, letting the heat sear his skin.
Suddenly, a spasm hit him. Alen doubled over, bracing his hands against the shower tiles. He coughed violently, a wet, tearing sound deep in his chest. Blood—dark, thick, and smelling faintly of chemicals—splattered against the pristine white tiles.
His body shook with the force of an internal quake, the viral agents of the A-Virus battling with his Progenitor-enhanced immune system.
"Not... today," Alen hissed through gritted teeth, spitting the blood away. "I am in control."
He forced his breathing to slow. Inhale for four. Hold for four. Exhale for four.
Slowly, the regeneration factor kicked in. The shaking subsided. The black veins receded, sinking back beneath the skin, leaving only pale, scarred flesh.
He washed the blood away, watching it swirl down the drain—a daily ritual of purging the monster. He brushed his teeth until his gums bled to eliminate the metallic taste, then dressed. Black tactical pants. Heavy boots. A black hoodie pulled up to shield his face, hiding the eyes that reminded him too much of his mother's.
He walked out of the room, moving like a ghost through the stone corridors of the estate.
"Mr. Alen?"
He stopped. It was Margaret, the nurse from the night before, holding a tray of linens.
"Madam Amalia is asking for you," she said, her Scottish accent thick and nervous. "She's in her private reading room. Your wife is with her."
Alen nodded once, saying nothing. "I'm going."
He continued down the hallway. The house was old, smelling of beeswax, peat smoke, and centuries of rain. But as he approached the East Wing, a new scent hit him.
It stopped him in his tracks.
It wasn't the scent of old books or antiseptic. It was a perfume—expensive, subtle, with top notes of jasmine and a base note of gunpowder.
His pupils dilated. He recognized that smell. He had smelled it on the letter Ruby handed him at the funeral. He had smelled it in reports from the Siberia operation years ago.
The Contact.
Alen narrowed his eyes. The predator inside him awoke. He approached the heavy oak door of the reading room and pushed it open without knocking.
The Reading Room
The room was a sanctuary of knowledge, lined from floor to ceiling with medical texts, history books, and virology journals. A peat fire crackled in the hearth, fighting off the damp of the Highlands.
Amalia R. Richard sat in a high-backed leather armchair, a cane resting against her knee. Isabella Gionne sat on the velvet sofa in the corner, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She looked pale.
"You came, my dear," Amalia said, closing her book. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were alert. "Lock the door behind you. Sit down. We have serious matters to discuss."
Alen locked the door. Click.
He didn't sit. He stood near the entrance, his back to the wall, scanning the room for exits, for threats. His instincts were screaming.
"Good job destroying The Connections," Amalia said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And for killing Brandon Bailey. That man was evil incarnate. The world is safer without him."
Alen froze. His gaze snapped to Isabella, cold and accusatory.
"How do you know that?" Alen asked, his voice low and dangerous. "That was a black operation. No witnesses. Only Isabella knew the target. Did you tell her?"
Isabella flinched. "Alen, I—"
"Stop looking at her like she's an enemy, you foolish boy," Amalia scolded sharply, tapping her cane on the floor. "Isabella told me nothing. I have my own networks. I have my own eyes in the dark."
"How?" Alen pressed, stepping forward.
"I have my ways," Amalia said cryptically.
"And she has help."
The voice came from the shadows—sweet, smooth, and filled with a deadly, seductive confidence.
Alen spun around.
Leaning against a bookshelf in the far corner, emerging from the dark like she was woven from it, was a woman.
She was dressed in tactical black—fitted, functional, lethal. Her hair was different from the intelligence files Alen had memorized. The sleek bob was gone; instead, her hair was short and textured, with a deep side part—rugged and layered, with "shattered" ends that lent her a survivalist look. Long bangs swept across her forehead, obscuring one eye.
Ada Wong.
"Nice to meet you, Alen R. Richard," Ada said, stepping into the firelight. "I've never seen you in person, but I've heard a lot from your grandmother. And Isabella."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Alen didn't just recognize Ada Wong, the legendary spy. He saw a ghost of his own trauma.
He saw Carla Radames.
The woman who wore Ada's face. The woman who had created the C-Virus. The woman who had destroyed his team in Siberia during Operation Frozen Core. The betrayal. The ice. The death.
Logic told him this was Ada. But trauma didn't care about logic.
"You," Alen growled.
His body temperature spiked. The A-Virus reacted to the sudden rush of adrenaline and rage, flooding his system with power.
Before Ada could take another breath, Alen moved.
[ABILITY ACTIVATED: SPATIAL-PHANTOM]
It wasn't running. It was instantaneous displacement. To Isabella and Amalia, he simply vanished from the door and materialized across the room.
SLAM.
Alen pinned Ada against the mahogany bookshelf, gripping her throat. Books fell to the floor with a heavy thud.
Ada's eyes widened. She hadn't seen him move. The speed was unreal. It was Wesker's speed.
"Let... me... go..." Ada choked out, clawing at his wrist. His skin felt like steel. She tried to kick his knee, but he didn't even budge.
"You bastard!" Ada gasped, her face flushing.
"Why are you here?" Alen roared, leaning in close. His hood had fallen back, revealing eyes that glowed with a faint blue light. "What do you want, you treacherous witch? Did you come to finish what your double started?"
"Alen! Stop!" Amalia shouted, rising with an authority she rarely showed.
"Stop hurting her, please!" Isabella screamed, rushing forward to grab Alen's arm with her good hand. "She's not the enemy, Alen! Look at me!"
Alen held her for a second longer, letting fear grow in Ada's eyes. He wanted her to understand that he could snap her neck like a twig. Then, with a disgusted snarl, he released her.
Ada slumped to the floor, coughing and rubbing her bruised neck. She looked up at him, shaken. She had faced Leon Kennedy, Jack Krauser, and even Saddler. But this was raw power. This was a monster in human form.
"Why is she here, Grandmother?" Alen demanded, stepping back but keeping his fists clenched. "I don't trust her. She's a mercenary. She betrays everyone. She plays both sides."
"Shut your mouth, boy," Amalia snapped, catching her breath. "She works for me now. She is one of my allies. Show some respect in my house."
Isabella stepped between them, tears filling her eyes, acting as a shield.
"Alen, listen to me," Isabella pleaded, her voice shaking. "She is the 'old friend' I told you about. She gave me the location of The Connections' lab. She gave me the map. She fought off the Black Tusk mercenaries and saved me."
Isabella's voice broke into a sob. "If she had arrived two minutes earlier... she might have saved Master Shi. I've worked with her since 2009. She helped me when I had no one. Trust me, Alen. She isn't Carla."
Alen looked at Ada, who was slowly getting to her feet and dusting off her tactical gear. She fixed her hair, trying to regain her composure despite the bruising on her neck.
"I don't care what you two think," Alen said, his voice cold. "I don't trust her. Spies don't have friends. They have assets."
Ada straightened her jacket, giving him a calculating stare. She wasn't angry; she was analyzing.
"What are you?" Ada asked softly. "Tell me, Alen. Are you a clone of Albert Wesker? You look like him, you move like him. But your eyes are different."
The room fell silent. The crackle of the fire sounded like gunfire.
Alen's jaw tightened. He had never revealed the full truth to Isabella. To her, he was just a man with a genetic resemblance, maybe a doppelganger. He would die before admitting to Ada Wong, the woman who flirted with biological disasters, that he was the true child of the Wesker line. That he was Alex's masterpiece.
"No," Alen lied, his voice steady as he held her gaze. "I am not a clone. I am the son of Jessica R. Richard. Nothing else."
He stepped closer to Ada, sneering.
"Think of me as a ghost," Alen spat. "Just like your double, Carla Radames. A mistake of nature."
Ada flinched. The name felt like a slap. Carla was her greatest shame, a monster made in her image that nearly destroyed the world.
"Never speak that woman's name in front of me," Ada warned, her voice dropping to a hiss. "She made me a criminal."
"And you made me an orphan of war," Alen retorted. "So, Isabella, you betrayed my trust just like she would. Keeping secrets and bringing spies into our sanctuary."
He looked at the three women—his grandmother, his wife, and the spy. He felt cornered and alone.
"I'm done."
Alen turned and stormed out of the reading room. The heavy door slammed shut behind him, echoing through the stone house like thunder.
The Aftermath
Isabella sank onto the sofa, burying her face in her hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Ada. Mrs. Amalia, he's gone through so much. Losing his mentor broke him. He isn't himself."
Amalia sighed and sat back down heavily. She looked a decade older. "He is hurting, child. Grief turns us into monsters, especially those with his blood."
Ada walked to the window, rubbing her neck. She watched Alen's hooded figure fade into the mist of the Scottish moors.
"Don't cry, Isabella," Ada said, her voice now clinical and emotionless. "He saved you. That counts for something."
She turned back to the room, her expression grave.
"But we have a bigger problem than his temper. I saw him in the lab on the surveillance feeds. I saw him fight Brandon Bailey."
Ada paused to let her words sink in.
"He injected the A-Virus. Raw and unfiltered. It should have turned him into a mindless zombie or a mass of tentacles within minutes. Instead, he fought it. He suppressed it. But I saw his eyes today. Baggy and bloodshot. And the black veins on his neck."
"He's dying?" Isabella whispered, horror spreading across her face.
"He's suffering from extreme toxicity and trauma," Ada clarified. "He looks more worn out than Leon ever did in China. And that's saying something."
"It's the same as 2011," Amalia said sadly. "When he first came here, he was a wreck. He told me Jessica died of cancer and her husband in an accident. He carried the weight of the world back then. But this... this is worse. His biology is rewriting itself."
Ada crossed her arms.
"I don't know exactly what he is," Ada admitted. "But he's walking through hell. I can't help him with the biology—that's not my area of expertise. I break things; I don't fix genes."
She pulled out a secure, encrypted satellite phone.
"But I know someone who can. Rebecca Chambers."
Isabella looked up. "The professor?"
"She developed the vaccine for the A-Virus during the New York outbreak," Ada explained. "She survived the infection herself. If anyone can understand what's happening to Alen's body without killing him, it's her. I'm going to contact her."
Ada adjusted her gloves and checked her equipment.
"Take care of him, Isabella. He's dangerous, but he's loyal. I'm going on a mission to retrieve something that might help. Then I'll find Rebecca."
"Good luck, dear friend," Isabella said softly.
"Goodbye to you too," Ada nodded to Amalia. "Ma'am, I'll send the data."
"Godspeed, Ada," Amalia replied.
Ada Wong slipped out of the room as quietly as she had entered, leaving the grandmother and the wife alone in silence, wondering if the man walking in the mist could ever be saved or if the machine had finally taken over the man.