Steve sighed, pushing his wet bangs off his fore-head. 'Might as well keep looking; going back out isn't exactly safe. It's not the way I would've liked, but getting dirt on Umbrella was the original plan… yeah, I want to nail these bastards.'
David smiled, feeling properly embarrassed at him– self. He hadn't just underestimated the situation, he'dsorely underestimated his team. 'What do you want?' Rebecca asked suddenly.'Really?'
The question surprised him anew – not because she'd asked, but because suddenly, he didn't have an answer. He thought about the S.T.A.R.S., about his obsession with his career and what it had already cost them. All he'd wanted for days was to feel as though his life's work had been meaningful, that it hadn't been wasted and he'd convinced himself that un– covering the treachery within the job would lay his mind at rest, as if rooting out the corruption would somehow prove that he wasn't worthless.
I've worshipped at the altar of the organization for so long… but isn't this the reason why, the real purpose? Here, in this room, on these faces?
He studied her curious, sharp gaze, felt the rest of them watching him, waiting. 'I want for us to survive,' he said finally, truth– fully. 'I want for us to make it out of here.' 'Amen to that,' John muttered. David remembered what he'd told the Raccoon team, about each of them doing what they did best if they meant to succeed against Umbrella. He'd said it to get Chris's approval of his operation, but it was a truth that applied to all of them.
Get to it, Captain… 'John, you and Karen take a look around the building, check the doors, be back in ten. Steve, boot up one of those computers, see if you can find a detailed layout of the grounds. Rebecca, we'll go through the desks. We want maps, data on Trisquads, T-Virus, anything personal about the researchers that might tell us who's behind all this.'
David nodded at them, realizing that he felt clearer and more balanced than he had in a long, long time. 'Let's do it,' he said. To hell with the S.T.A.R.S. They were going to take Umbrella down.
Dr. Griffith might not have even noticed the securi– ty breach if it hadn't been for the Ma7s; it seemed that they were useful after all, though not in the way they'd been intended. He'd spent most of the day in the lab, dreamily pondering the pressurized canisters standing by the entrance, the shining steel glittering seductively in the soft light. Once he'd made the decision to let the virus go, he'd realized that there was really nothing else he needed to do. The hours had flown by; each glance at the clock had been a surprise, though not an unpleas-ant one. He'd be the first, after all, the first convert to the new way of the world. With that in front of him, the only task with which he needed to concern himself was getting the canisters up to the lighthouse and with the doctors waiting silently, patiently by, even that was taken care of. Just before dawn, he'd give them their final instructions and then proudly lead the human species into the light, into the miracle of peace. It had been the thought of the Ma7s that had finally drawn him out into the caves, the only concern he hadn't already dismissed as trivial. He'd already made a mistake with the Leviathans; once he'd taken over the facility, he'd lowered the cove gates on impulse, wanting them to be as free as he'd felt. It wasn't until the next day that he'd realized Umbrella might find out and come looking, effectively putting an end to his plans. He'd continued to send in weekly reports to keep up appearances, but there was no good explanation for the 'escape' of the four creatures. It had been sheer luck that the Leviathans had returned on their own. The Ma7s were a different matter entirely, of course. They were too violent, too unpredictable to be let out. But letting them starve to death in their cage didn't seem right, particularly not when they, too, would enjoy the effects of his gift; it wasn't their choice to exist as creatures of destruction, even to exist at all. And since he'd played a small role in their creation, he felt a responsibility to do something for them… He'd stood in front of the outer gate for quite some time, considering the problem as all five of the ani– mals hurled themselves repeatedly at the heavy steel mesh, their strange, mournful howls echoing through the damp and winding caves. There was a manual lock release near the enclosure, another in the lab, but there was no way to loose them from the light– house, and he certainly couldn't let them out before he got to safety. He could send one of the doctors to do it, but the 7s had a much slower metabolism than a human's, and there was a risk that they would get to him before they made the change. A month before his takeover of the compound, Dr. Chin and two of her vet techs had made the mistake of trying to tend to one of the sick ones; it was a bad way to die, and although he'd be oblivious to the pain once he'd made the transition, he meant to stay with the new world for as long as possible. Griffith had finally decided that euthanasia was the only reasonable choice. It was a reluctant decision, but he could see no alternative. Although the lab was well stocked, poisons weren't his forte, so he'd de– cided to look up the information on the mainframe and there, in the cold comfort of the sealed laborato– ry, he'd discovered that his sanctuary had been in– vaded. He sat in front of the computer in a kind of shock, staring at the blinking cursor that indicated system use in one of the bunkers. There was no chance that it was a mistake. Except for the lab terminals, the rest of the compound had been powered down weeks ago.
Umbrella had come.
The first emotion to break through his stunned astonishment was rage, a sweeping, red-hot fury that tore away all reason, descending over him like a blinding fire. For a few moments, he was lost, his body taken over by the primal force, grasping and rending, tearing at the useless, meaningless things that fell beneath his burning fingers.
–they will NOT will NOT stop me will NOT–
When his hands touched the cool metal of the canisters, the fire turned to ash. The smooth, silver tanks were like a splash of reason, bringing him back to himself. His control returned as abruptly as it had gone, leaving him breathless and sweating.
My creation. My work.
Blinking, gasping, he found himself standing in a sea of ripped papers, broken glass, and torn circuitry. He'd managed to destroy the computer, the bearer of bad news, in pieces on the cold floor. On another day, he might have been ashamed at the hysterical tan– trum, but on this, his eve of greatness, he allowed that the rage had been justified.
Justified, perhaps, but pointless. How will you keep them from stopping you? You can't release the strain here, and you can't risk taking it outside, not now… what are their plans? How much do they know?
He could find out easily enough. There were still two other terminals in the lab and he walked quickly to one of them, glancing at the mute doctors, sitting quietly by the airlock. If they'd even noticed his rampage, they gave no sign. He felt a small rush of hatred for them, for creating the useless Trisquads; the 'unstoppable' guards had failed him now that he needed them most. He sat down and turned on the monitor, impa– tiently waiting for the spinning umbrella of the com-pany logo to disappear. The security network for the compound's system was based in the lab; he'd be able to see what the intruders were seeking without alert-ing them to his presence, if he could remember how to access the information… He tapped several keys, waited, then typed in his clearance number. After the briefest of pauses, lines of glowing green data spilled across the screen. He'd done it.
Seek, find, locate…
He frowned at the information, wondering why the hell anyone from Umbrella would be searching for the laboratory and for that matter, why they'd try look– ing for that information in the mainframe at all. The system designers weren't idiots, there was nothing about the layout of the facility in the files…
… and Umbrella would know it. Which means…
Relief coursed through him, cool and pure relief so great that he laughed out loud. He suddenly felt quite silly at his childish reaction to the breach. The search– er wasn't from Umbrella, and that changed every– thing. Even if they managed to find the lab, an unlikely proposition at best, considering its location they wouldn't be able to gain entry without a key card.
And Griffith had destroyed all of them…… except for Amman's. His was never found. Griffith froze, then shook his head, a nervous smile on his face. No, he'd searched practically everywhere for the missing card, what were the chances that the interloper would stumble across it?
And what were the chances that they'd make it past the Trisquads, hmm? And what was Lyle up to during those hours when you couldn't find him? What if he did get a message out? You only checked for transmissions to Umbrella, but what if he contacted someone else?
Even as the dreadful, impossible thought occurred to him, the computer began to spit out information on the logic skills tests. The socio-psychological series tests that Ammon had designed. Griffith felt his control slipping again. He clenched his hands into fists, refusing to give in; there was too much at stake, he couldn't afford to let his emotions take over, not now, he had to think.
I'm a scientist, not a soldier, I don't even know how to shoot, to fight! I'd be useless in combat, totally… Unpredictable. Uncontrollable.
