Luke's sick. Not doing so hot. You should probably bring Vivi up with you.

Izzy didn't know what she expected when Raul called, but it wasn't news that her father was possibly on his deathbed. Like most people, she had this impression of the man as being virtually unstoppable, even though she knew that her father- despite everything to do with Umbrella, and the monsters he fought- was still human. The Unit Never Killed.

Funny how things could shift perspective. Izzy didn't waste any time to book a flight, and drive down from the Arklay Mountain Reservation to Stoneville Middle School and retrieve her daughter.

"Family emergency," was the reason given to the front-desk secretary to withdraw Vivian from her classes before the Fall Break, but with the full permission to assign virtual lessons to keep up with the courses and workload. This wasn't a vacation, but there wasn't a prospective end that she could provide, either.

And of course, everyone was nosy. It was one of the drawbacks of living in and around small towns. Everyone was aware that she was an Army Brat that followed her father's example, and had odd periods of being away, and seemed to end up around outbreaks. Most assumed it was work with the BSAA.

Izzy wasn't correcting them, but she did steer Vivi away from far-too-prying eyes.

"Grandpa's sick," was Izzy's explanation when they packed up the Jeep.

"Zombie sick? Or regular sick?" Vivi asked, tossing her braids over her shoulder.

"Don't know," Izzy confided, "Whatever it was, Raul couldn't say it over the phone."

--- "Welcome back, Lady Death," the gate guard nodded to her after confirming her credentials, and handing back her ID.

The Lodge was imbalanced, Izzy could tell that much. More traffic coming in than leaving, and the Quarantine Zone much more active than usual. Was there an outbreak? It didn't seem like it- none of the protocols for an outbreak were in effect.

Eventually, she was led to where her father was resting, and briefed on what they knew: Raccoon City Syndrome- and a lot of the older members of the Guild were showing the same symptoms. Black splotches around old wounds and spreading, fatigue, coughing... Izzy nodded along, brow furrowing when she had gotten the news that one of them had already died of it. There wasn't any doubt how serious it was- even if it wasn't contagious.

She rapped her knuckles on the frame of the door to announce her presence, walking in to place herself in front of Hunk, looking at the older man's sickly markings and noting the orange Mouser General, Brick the Cat, resting on Hunk's lap; pawing, kneading, and purring against the old man.

Chill fog drifted over the worn streets of the sleepy French village of Loire. Ada rested her cheek on her knuckle, looking out to where asphalt met pavement, and the cracks that parted to reveal the century-old cobble and brick underneath.

The warmth of her breath obscured the glass, and revealed scratches along the surface, along with stubborn smudges that refused to go away with cleanings. The spy watched the silhouettes of people walking in the distance, going about daily lives. Paying for newspapers, idly chatting, or purchasing fresh flowers or fruits. Occasionally, an armored vehicle bearing the Umbrella logo would cross by- a firm reminder that this was, despite the placid nature of the locals, a stronghold for Umbrella Europe.

Her task today was personal. There wasn't any need to stir up conflict, meeting Umbrella's top agent, and comparing notes.

When the door opens to the bistro, she looks to her guest, sliding back her wooden chair across the cream-colored tile to stand, and greet him.

"Bonjour, mon ami," she smiles, taking his hands in hers and rising to her toes to give polite kisses on either cheek, in accordance with local customs.

"I'm glad to see you could make it. Thank you for joining me."

The white numbers on the digital clock projected themselves against the back spackled wall of Eric's family ranch house. He was a stocky guy, and muscled. From the new land deal the Arklays struck with the government, Eric just so happened to grab twenty more workable acres.

All and all, he was the kind of guy The Big Boss himself got along with. Quiet fellow, a specialist on a few really intricate topics, and always remembered his friends. He sat drinking a beer on the front porch with Hunk and Hawk while she and Vector pretended to be reasonable people in his living room and wait for them to finish talking about "the escapee".

The escapee was a horse nicknamed by avid racing fans "Sleipnir". It was a huge breeding stud whose racing days made Eric the money he had today in Kentucky. The animal been retired for years, but he still made them money passing his genes down to the highest bidders.

Sleipnir had gotten loose, and before Carla could even ask why this was something they were dealing with, Eric showed them a few of the buck racks they'd found this season. Attached to malformed skulls, they weren't mounted in the barn as much as they were collected. Bone tumors and horns grew out of the sockets and between the cancerous looking horns.

"It's been happening for years," she heard from the porch. Crickets and cicadas were trilling.

"It's the T-Virus. It must have found a vector locally," she murmured in the low light to Vector. Their television was re-running old public broadcast programs.

The world revolves around him in sounds. His eyesight had been declining for months now (an interesting prospect, said Dr. Matthews, it was a possible side-effect, but not one I have seen so clearly) and it meant the lab had turned into a haze like a thick fog had descended on the world, punctuated by the wet splash of blood and the groaning of the living dead.

What else could you call those infected by the T-Virus, shambling around and looking for things to tear apart? He's almost sad that the doctor had been spared these horrors when he had tried to feed the last standing survivor to them to escape and wound up with a medical grade blade in the side of his throat.

The doctor had been swarmed by the dead and dying while he had escaped to wander in search for an exit to this facility. Half-blind and alive by a miracle, he can't even begin to guess how long he's been walking or if he's made any progress before he's backed into a corner to avoid the sounds of approaching danger.

His heart is racing like a hummingbird's under his ribs, the punch of adrenaline and stress hormones making him feel more like an animal than a person. It only spikes higher when he can hear approaching footsteps that are too coordinated to be the infected shuffling around, and a pair of circles like wide, round and red eyes cut through the fog of his vision like a bad omen, punctuated further by the rattle of someone breathing through a mask of some kind.

Someone was here. Someone dangerous. All he had were his wits and a knife jammed in clammy hands.

Raccoon City was the biggest shitshow of the universe and Vector still firmly holds that belief even now. Delta Team had served Umbrella faithfully for years and as soon as something goes wrong, they get dumped to the side?

oh yeah. Vector was angry. angrier than most people had ever seen him get, honestly, because Vector is a man of few words and fewer outward emotions. his immediate reactions were disbelief, then anger. how could they? how could they abandon them just like that?

of course, Wolfpack is too damn stubborn to die, so they survived RC. and Vector was suddenly in a situation he’d never been in before: he had no idea what to do next.

what did you do next when your entire life, including your name and purpose, were tied to an organization? he had no home. no name. no family outside of the operatives he worked next to. he couldn’t assimilate back into civilian life because he’d never had a civilian life. all records of who he was before he was Vector burned up with Umbrella. 

so. he was lost for a while. exceptionally lost when the Wolfpack started to drift onto their own paths. and eventually he fell into the same path a lot of former Umbrella employees did: he started doing private contractor work for whoever could pay him the most.