Chapter Text
Kijuju Beach. It was early evening, and a light drizzle was falling. The humid air began to cool after sunset. Glimmers of distant lights danced on the dark water. The silence of the deserted beach is broken by the lapping of the waves against the shore. The figure of a naked woman with long, braided hair crawled out of the water onto the beach. Her movements were weary and exhausted. The figure flopped down onto the sand, crawling far enough away from the water. The woman was breathing heavily, as if she were learning to do so all over again.
At that moment, a lone computer glowed dimly in the dark room. A notification icon lit up on the monitor screen. A leather glove with a cross-stitched pattern tapped the keyboard, opening a message window that glowed in the reflection of dark sunglasses. Eyes hidden behind tinted lenses scanned the letters on the screen. In less than a minute, a hand snapped the device shut and pushed back the chair. A tall male figure slammed the door behind him as he left the room.
On the beach, the woman managed to open her eyes, the first thing she saw was a dark sky full of stars… Too many stars… So there were no streetlights… Not in the city… The outskirts? She barely managed to get down on all fours, realizing she wasn’t wearing any clothes. Her head was pounding, her vision blurry… She needed to at least cover herself. She backed away toward what looked like a dwelling, and in her blurry vision, a milky-white nightgown hanging on a rack outside stood out in the darkness. The woman snatched up the garment and barely managed to run toward
A black car drives along the industrial outskirts. A man stares at a screen displaying a map of the area and text. On the screen, a photo stands out of a woman with model-like features and dark hair pulled back into a bun. Excella Gionne. Former head of Tricell’s African division. After collaborating with former Umbrella's scientist Albert Wesker, she received a promotion within the company. However, she later died following a failed injection of the Ouroboros virus. Then, after a long lull, information emerged about the possible detection of signs of her vital activity. The man brought up an old photo of the woman and recent images from local surveillance cameras. He tapped his finger on the edge of the keyboard and then propped his chin on his hand, deep in thought. A Connections mercenary named Zeno was sitting in the car. He turned to the passenger seat, opening a case containing syringes and equipment. After making sure everything was ready, he snapped the case shut and told the driver up front to hurry up, adding:
— We need her alive and unharmed. We’ll have to do this quietly.
The car drives down a dark road along beaches and forests. Exella wanders around, hugging herself and trying to sober up, as if from a week-long hangover mixed with a concussion. She approaches an iron barrel, leans against it, and stares at the surface of the puddle. Her face emerges from the blurry spots, with something dark on her right temple. The woman brushes her hair away from her face; the spot won’t go away. She shifts her focus and rubs the surface of the barrel with her fist… No change. Her hand feels her right temple and senses the roughness of the skin, filling her with horror. Her breathing quickens, her face contorts into a grimace of fear and revulsion; whimpering softly, she pounds the metal. After the dull thud of the barrel, she is interrupted by the click of a Zippo lighter. She flinches and turns toward the source of the sound. The flame from the metal case singes the tip of the paper roll held between her thin lips:
— Excella Gionne… I’ve been waiting for you.
A man wearing a three-piece suit and a raincoat draped over his shoulders waved to her in a welcoming gesture.
“Who the hell are you ? ... Where am I?” the girl croaked, stumbling and clinging to a barrel.
He tilted his head slightly to one side:
“My name is Zeno, but what matters to you isn’t who I am, but what I have to offer you…”
The second hand clearly points to the iron-colored case.
The woman looked at him from under her eyelashes, shifting her gaze from the briefcase to him.
Those stupid glasses were getting in the way of her noticing the details of his facial expressions.
“I think we should move over and talk this through in the car… After all, it’ll be drier and warmer for you there,” the man said, gesturing toward the vehicle.
***
The car drove up the hill, passing the lights of nearby buildings. Two people sat behind the tinted windows. By this time, Zeno had finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. The woman, exhausted, sat in the passenger seat, trying to sit up straight and not slump into the seat. The man was tapping away at the keyboard when he was interrupted by the stranger.
“Did my family send you, or was it the company?” the woman asked, brushing her damp hair aside. He adjusted his glasses and pressed the key one last time:
— No, neither one nor the other. I am speaking on behalf of my organization.
“I remember. Just tell me when we’ll get to the building and they’ll finally give me my medicine. My head is splitting.” She rested her elbow on the car door and clutched her forehead.
He let the silence linger and replied:
— I'm afraid you won't be able to return to the company.
“What do you mean?” Exella took her hand off her forehead.
“After you disappeared, your assistant quickly took your place,” the man replied.
“...That bastard ambushed me,” she hissed, cursing in Italian.
“You could put it that way. In any case, Trisel—and certainly its local branch—isn’t exactly eager to see you, given that you’d pose a threat to his position in the company. Your family hasn’t made any comments, but they’ve apparently given up hope of finding you,” Zeno said calmly, adjusting his cuffs.
Exella froze; she leaned on her left arm and turned to the stranger:
“...Wait... How am I alive?... Uroboros rejected me, didn’t he?”
Her mind slowly cleared, tossing up fragments of memories before the agony set in and then darkness. The man opened a window on the screen and began his explanation:
“It seems that in your case, the virus evolved into a new strain in the middle of the infection.” Ouroboros has, in principle, already been studied, but your case is very complicated. The infection led to rejection and, consequently, to bodily deformation, but in the process it mutated, triggering a regeneration process. There could be many hypotheses, but what is certain is that it is very unstable and you will need to be administered an antidote.
The woman felt a spot on the right side of her temple. Zeno opened a case filled with syringes. The girl recoiled, cowering in the corner. The man noticed her reaction and, gesturing slightly with his hands, said:
“Of course, I won’t inject you with anything without your consent, and certainly not without knowing the results.” “Would you mind if I take a blood sample for now?”
He pulled out an empty syringe with a spring mechanism and, opening it in front of her, reached for her arm. The woman hesitated to tempt fate again and stared intently at the instrument and the case for a long time.
“No... first tell me, why did your company fish me out of the water? ... Do you really need a new guinea pig? I can disappoint you right away—Ouroboros is shit, not a virus,” Excella snapped, continuing her tirade.
The man tactfully interrupted her:
“Luckily for you, we don’t need Ouroboros or a test subject for it either; I’m afraid it’s already obsolete. We need a genetic engineering specialist who also has experience working with Dr. Vesker and who currently has nowhere to return to his position.”
He kept the syringe at the ready. Exella listened intently to his words, trying to ignore the pain in her body. After a few moments, she held out her arm, spreading the skin on the inside of her elbow to expose the hollow where the vein lay.
“That’s a wise decision; in your case, it’s best to act quickly,” Zeno replied. He carefully inserted the needle into the blue band on her skin, filling the vial with crimson fluid and noticing the tension in the woman’s face. Once the sample had been collected, the vial was sent to the analysis machine. Exella recognized the device and examined the new model.
“Is this a new model?” she asked.
“Yes, the organization couldn’t take any chances with a case like this; we need to calculate and select the right antidote,” the man confirmed, continuing to calibrate the device.
The girl watched the machine at work and looked up at the man, staring at his titanium-white three-piece suit, black shirt, and the raincoat draped over it. At that moment, she was able to look more closely and notice spots on the man’s face and neck in the darkness. She squinted to make sure she was seeing correctly and that her eyes weren’t deceiving her. For a split second, the car’s interior was illuminated by the high beams of the headlights, and the stranger’s profile flashed into view. Pale skin, black glasses, and dark spots on his face and neck. Like a pattern of cancer-ridden tissue, etched in negative onto her retina and pulsing in the returning darkness. Exella had never seen anything like this in her practice; he was clearly infected and sick. Maybe that’s why he was wrapped in several layers? He didn’t want to freeze or show even an inch of skin. And anyway, why the hell had her office sent a leper after her? Wasn’t there anyone else?
The man sensed someone watching him and hurried to answer the question that was on everyone’s mind:
— Don't worry... it's not contagious.
The girl snorted, turning away toward her window as she tried to get comfortable and get some sleep. However, her plans to sleep were interrupted by a car pulling up and a man’s voice:
— We're here.