Location: The Dragos Ridge, Overlooking the Village
Date: December 8, 2019 (Two weeks after arrival)
Time: 23:45 Local Time
A brutal winter snowstorm tore through the remote Eastern European mountain forest. The wind howled violently, bending ancient pine trees until they groaned like dying men. Visibility was near zero; a wall of white static that swallowed the world.
Through the chaos, a tall, silent figure walked.
The snow was thigh-deep, a death sentence for any normal traveler. But Alen Wesker moved through it with unnatural, hydraulic ease, leaving clean, deliberate footprints that were instantly erased by the storm. He wore the uniform of a ghost: a long, black ballistic-weave duster coat that trailed behind him, heavy and impervious to the gale. A wide-brimmed black fedora crowned his silhouette, the brim pulled low.
There was no music. Only the screaming wind.
Beneath the open coat, the tactical gear was visible—a fitted black turtleneck, combat trousers, and the glint of a silver, customized handgun housed in a shoulder holster. Precise. Professional. Final.
The Reveal
The figure stopped at the edge of the precipice.
The camera of the mind's eye circled him slowly. His face was lost in the deep shadow of the hat's brim. He was a void in the white landscape, a smudge of ink on a pristine canvas.
Then, through the darkness of the brim...
Two faint, vibrant blue eyes ignited.
They glowed calmly, unnervingly, cutting through the blizzard like lasers. They were not angry. They were focused. The bioluminescent glow reflected off the falling snowflakes, turning them into diamonds before they melted against his skin.
Below him, nestled in the valley bowl, lay the Village. Faint, sickly yellow lights flickered between the dark, slanted rooftops. Castle Dimitrescu loomed in the distance, a jagged silhouette against the grey sky, its spires clawing at the clouds. The place felt wrong—ancient, watchful, and alive with a fungal pulse.
Alen Wesker stood motionless, a statue of judgment. He did not shiver. He did not brace himself. He simply existed, superior to the elements.
"I have arrived," he spoke, his voice low, steady, and colder than the wind. It was the voice of a man who viewed the world as a spreadsheet of assets and liabilities.
He adjusted his gloves, the leather creaking softly.
"It is time to hunt."
The Infrastructure: The Trevor Legacy
Location: Forward Operating Base Alpha (Trevor Manor Sub-Basement)
Time: Earlier that day
For two weeks, Alen had not been idle. He had been integrating.
George Trevor had been a paranoid genius, and Alen Wesker was his beneficiary. The Manor was not just a house; it was a machine. Alen had spent the first week bringing the "Seven Veins" tunnel system back online, confirming that Trevor had built this place using stolen Umbrella resources and off-book funds.
Alen stood in the sub-basement, watching the Shadow Elevator hum to life. It was an industrial rail-lift hidden within the mountain's crust. Unlike a standard elevator, this system moved horizontally, traversing two kilometers through the bedrock to a hidden extraction point near the Village Fallow Plot.
"Trinity," Alen commanded, his arms crossed, his posture rigid. "Status on the acoustic array."
<< The 'Whisper Tubes' are active, Master. Copper resonance is at 98%. I am filtering the wind noise now. >>
Alen walked to the console. Trevor had installed hollow acoustic piping throughout the tunnels, originally to spy on potential assassins. Alen had repurposed them into a sonar network.
Through the speakers, a low, guttural growling filled the lab. It was the sound of a Lycan patrol, three miles away, amplified by the earth.
"Biometric signatures detected," Alen noted, his eyes scanning the waveform on the screen with clinical boredom. "Three standards. One Large. A Vârcolac."
<< Precise. The tunnels act as a natural amplifier. We can map their movements without ever deploying a drone. >>
"And the Mold signal?"
<< Negative. The mineral density of the mountain acts as a Faraday Cage. Mother Miranda's psychic network—the 'Megamycete consciousness'—cannot penetrate these walls. To her 'all-seeing eye,' we do not exist. >>
Alen smirked—a faint, cruel uplift of the corner of his mouth. It was the ultimate stealth. He was a ghost living in the walls of God's house.
He walked past the containment cells. Six Lycans sat in reinforced glass cages, sedated. They were the result of the Specimen Traps—trapdoors Alen had reactivated beneath the village outskirts. He didn't hunt them; he let them fall into his lap.
"Inefficient creatures," Alen muttered, stopping to look at a sleeping Lycan. Its muscle mass was impressive, but its brain activity was primitive. "Parasitic redundancy. They are strong, but they lack elegance. Useful only as test subjects."
The Science: Necrotoxin Trials
Alen moved to the central lab table. A dissected Lycan lay open, its chest cavity exposing the Cadou parasite wrapped around the heart like a tumorous vine.
"Report on the E-Necrotoxin efficacy, Trial 4," Alen ordered, his voice devoid of emotion.
<< Mixed results, Master. The toxin successfully necroticized the fungal tissue in Subjects 1 through 3. However, Subject 4—the Vârcolac—showed high resistance. The Cadou mutated rapidly to purge the poison. Death took 45 seconds. >>
Alen frowned. "Disappointing."
He picked up a scalpel, examining the necrotic tissue. "Forty-five seconds is an eternity in combat. This implies the parasite has a defensive reflex we haven't accounted for. The mixture needs to be more aggressive. It needs to attack the cellular bond, not just the tissue."
Suddenly, a slight tremor ran through his left hand. The scalpel rattled against the tray.
The Aftershock.
The grief of losing his mentor, his mother, and Isabella crashed against his psyche, manifesting as physical rejection. The A-Virus surged, demanding dominion.
Without hesitation, Alen reached for a silver canister—The Fraser Supplement. A high-dose stabilizer cocktail developed by Julian Fraser. He didn't flinch. He injected it directly into his neck.
Hiss.
The tremor stopped instantly. He rolled his neck, feeling the chemical cold wash over his brain.
"My biology is stabilizing," Alen whispered to himself, flexing his gloved hand. "But I require perfection. Weakness is a luxury I cannot afford."
He looked at the map on the wall. He needed a different sample. The Lycans were common infantry. He needed something with a higher metabolic rate to test the toxin's speed.
"The Samca," Alen said, pointing to the flying creatures circling the castle towers on the monitor. "I need a flyer. Their circulatory system pumps faster. If I can kill one of them in under ten seconds, the formula is ready."
The Predator: Cognitive Dominion
Location: The Dragos Ridge (Present Time)
Back on the cliff, Alen deployed the asset.
From the pocket of his duster, he released a Micro-Drone. It was smaller than a hummingbird, silent and matte black. It zipped into the storm, guided by Alen's neural interface.
This was the application of Cognitive Dominion.
While Albert Wesker had given Alen the body of a god, Alex Wesker had given him the mind of a ruler. Alen could treat the world as a digital-biological interface. He didn't just see the enemy; he saw their code.
"Link established," Alen murmured. His blue eyes glowed brighter, the data stream overlaying his vision.
Through the drone's camera, he saw the target. A Samca—a flying monstrosity with a human torso and bat wings—was screeching near the cliff edge, searching for stray livestock or lost travelers.
Alen didn't reach for his gun. He reached for its mind.
< EXECUTE: PHOBOS FREQUENCY >
The drone emitted a focused, low-frequency pulse combined with a synthesized pheromone burst. It struck the Samca's amygdala instantly.
To the creature, the world didn't just change; it broke.
The Hallucination Loop:
In the Samca's mind, the snow turned into fire. The air became solid iron. It screeched in terror, flapping wildly against a threat that didn't exist. It saw its own pack turning against it, tearing at its wings. It saw the face of Mother Miranda, screaming in rejection.
Alen watched from the ridge, his face impassive. He was the architect of its nightmare.
"Panic," Alen whispered, observing the creature's erratic flight pattern. "Your logic is failing. Your heart rate is critical. Submit."
This was the power Alen despised. It was the echo of Alex Wesker—cruel, manipulative, sadistic. It stripped the dignity from death. But the "Alen" who cared about dignity died in Texas. The man standing on the cliff buried his moral hesitation under layers of cold logic.
It is a variable. I am the control.
The Samca, overwhelmed by the phantom terror, forgot how to fly. Its nervous system seized up in a somatic shutdown. It crashed into the deep snow, paralyzed by fear.
Alen walked toward it. He didn't rush. The snow crunched beneath his boots.
The creature lay twitching, its eyes wide with horrors only it could see. Alen stood over it, the wind whipping his coat around his legs like a shroud.
He deactivated the Dominion. The blue glow in his eyes dimmed slightly.
"Trinity. Deploy the extraction claw."
<< Affirmative. >>
From the snow beneath them, a mechanical clamp shot up—part of the hidden tunnel infrastructure Alen had repaired—and dragged the paralyzed beast down into the earth. It vanished without a sound.
Alen turned his back on the empty spot.
"Sample secured," he said, tapping his earpiece. "Prepare the centrifuge. Tonight, we refine the toxin. I want the kill-time reduced to single digits."
He walked back to the edge of the cliff, looking out at the village one last time. Somewhere down there, in a damp cave, Mother Miranda sat with her Megamycete, thinking she was the only one pulling the strings.
Alen adjusted his hat, tilting the brim down. His face was a mask of supreme, aristocratic confidence.
"Enjoy your throne while you can, Miranda," he whispered into the storm. "The landlord is coming to collect."