Umbrella Europe Research Division – Zurich Branch, November 1997
The lights dimmed in the conference hall, the projector humming to life. A dozen white coats filled the room—men and women whose research would one day stain Raccoon City in blood.
At the head of the table stood Director Marcus Trent, immaculate in a dark suit, his smile a razor's edge.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, voice carrying easily over the low hum of machines, "by Chairman Spencer's directive, allow me to present the Aegis Virus."
On the screen, a vial of green fluid rotated slowly under sterile light.
A ripple moved through the room. Even among Umbrella's elite, novelty was rare.
"This sample," Trent continued, "was secured by one of our freelance operatives. At great risk, I might add. Our competitors know nothing of it. Not yet."
He tapped the remote. Footage flickered onto the screen—grainy camera recordings from the Congo facility. A lone Marine tore through Umbrella guards in the Hive. His movements were ragged but faster than they should have been, pushing his body longer than any normal human. He absorbed wounds that should have crippled him, only to rise again.
He ran through airborne virus chambers as if they were nothing.
The caption stamped across the feed: Subject #199 – PFC Hale, Jack.
The room stirred.
Dr. William Birkin leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Stable adaptation? No obvious mutation?"
"Correct," Trent said. "Minimal degradation. He bled, yes, but recovered faster than any normal subject. He resisted exposure where others became hosts. He fought bioweapon after bioweapon—and lived."
Dr. Annette Birkin scribbled furiously in her notes. "If we had his body, we could chart compatibility. Map immune response. Cross-reference against the G-Virus Project. It would accelerate our work by years."
From the far side of the table, a man cleared his throat. His voice was soft, precise.
Dr. Alexander Isaacs.
Unlike the lab-coated masses, Isaacs wore a tailored gray suit. His hair was slicked back with meticulous care, streaked prematurely with silver at the temples. Thin-framed glasses rested on a sharp nose, and his smile was polite, but cold—like a scalpel laid out on a tray.
"I know this host," Isaacs said evenly. "Not the man himself, but the type. He is the product of discipline, training, loyalty. And yet the virus has made him something more."
Several scientists turned toward him with a mix of recognition and unease.
"Still clinging to Marcus's theories, Isaacs?" one muttered.
Isaacs's eyes narrowed slightly. "Dr. James Marcus was my teacher. He believed viruses should remake the world by force. He was wrong. They can control it. Shape it. That soldier—Jack Hale—is proof. Evolution without chaos. Strength without collapse."
Trent smiled thinly, pleased by the tension in the room.
Birkin sneered. "Control? You're playing with Marcus's ghost, dressing it up as progress."
Isaacs adjusted his glasses, unruffled. "Progress is measured in results, Dr. Birkin. The Aegis Virus produced one man who survived the impossible. Marcus only produced monsters."
The words hung heavy in the sterile air.
Trent stepped in, his tone smooth. "Jack Hale is alive. But inaccessible. Military custody. For now, politics keep him out of reach. The U.S. government clings to him as property, as leverage. But we have this." He gestured at the green vial glowing under the projector light. "A sample. A start."
Isaacs's thin smile returned. "And when Umbrella tires of politics… when they finally give us Hale's body… my work will prove Marcus obsolete."
The projector snapped off. For a moment, the last image of Jack lingered—blue eyes, bloodied face, unbroken—before fading into black.
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(A/N: Quick clarification for readers unfamiliar with this AU.)
Dr. Alexander Isaacs in this story closely resembles his Resident Evil movie counterpart in appearance and demeanor.
However, in this AU he is not a founder of Umbrella. Instead, he operates at the same level as Dr. William Birkin, one of Umbrella's top scientists.
Isaacs was once a student of Dr. James Marcus, the original architect of the T-Virus.
Unlike Birkin, Isaacs sees viruses not as a tool of chaos but as a way to control and shape evolution.
Isaacs was also one of the conspirators responsible for Marcus's death, making him both a product of Marcus's teachings and a betrayer of them
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Fort Drummond – July 21, 1998
Jack's wrists still bore the metallic cuff marks when they marched him back into the interrogation room.
The folder sat waiting on the table. His name in block letters across the cover. His life, rewritten in ink.
Agent Collins slid it toward him. "Read it."
Jack flipped the first page. Black type on white paper.
Charges under the Uniform Code of Military Justice:
Article 99 – Misbehavior Before the Enemy
Article 85 – Desertion
Article 118 – Murder
He read the words again. They didn't change.
Jack's voice was flat. "Took you long enough. Been shuffling me from one cell to another for months, and now you finally bring me paperwork? What changed?"
"Nothing changed, Hale. We just decided how best to classify you." Winters answered.
Winters leaned against the wall, arms folded, voice soft like velvet over a blade. "You're not being court-martialed, Hale. That would require witnesses. Testimony. Evidence. We both know how messy that would be."
Jack looked up, blue eyes sharp beneath tired lids. "Messy meaning the truth might get out."
"Messy," Winters repeated, "meaning people might believe you."
Collins tapped the file. "This version is clean. You're unstable. A danger to your squad. You panicked, abandoned them, executed the survivors."
Jack barked a hollow laugh. "Hell of a bedtime story."
"It's the only story that matters," Winters said.
The whispers crackled back at the edge of his mind like static.
…Let them bind you. Paper chains break easier than steel…
Jack closed the folder, pushing it back across the table. "Neat handwriting. Too bad none of it's true."
Collins slid another folder across the table. Thinner. Cleaner. A different kind of bullet.
"Your evaluation," he said flatly.
Jack opened it. The words blurred at first. Then they cut deep:
Patient: Hale, Jack.
Exhibits acute symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.
Displays paranoid ideation and delusional thinking.
Reports of auditory hallucinations consistent with psychosis.
Shows inappropriate humor and hostility toward authority.
Assessed as mentally unstable. Unfit for combat duty.
Recommendation: Indefinite transfer to controlled care under advisement.
Jack let out a laugh with no warmth. "So that's it. Not just a traitor now—crazy too. Convenient."
Winters' smile was patient, almost gentle. "The evaluation matches the charges, PFC Hale. A consistent picture. No jury will believe your monsters. No officer will read past this report."
Jack looked between them, then back at the report. "You wrote this before I walked in here."
Collins didn't deny it. He just gathered his pen.
Winters pulled out one final folder and sat across from Jack for the first time. He laid the document carefully on top of the others.
"Orders," he said simply.
Jack didn't reach for it. His cuffs clinked against the table. "What now? Execution without a trial?"
Winters smiled faintly. "No, PFC Hale. You're far too valuable for that. The U.S. military has… agreed to release you into corporate advisement. Umbrella has generously offered the resources to continue your rehabilitation."
Jack's jaw clenched. "Rehabilitation. That's what you're calling it."
"Consider it… care," Winters said, his tone smooth as silk over broken glass.
Collins added, "You'll be transferred to a secure facility near Raccoon City. Umbrella will handle your evaluation and long-term management. Effective immediately."
Jack laughed once, bitterly. "So that's it. Paper chains and a bus ticket straight to hell."
Winters slid the signed transfer orders across the table, the ink still fresh.
Jack stared at it, then at the men on the other side of the table. His chains rattled softly as he leaned back.
Winters stood, gathering the folders with surgical precision. "Convoy leaves at 0400. Rest while you can. You'll need it."
The lock clicked behind them as the door shut, leaving Jack alone with the camera's red dot watching him.