Armageddon

A - V.I: Log 002

West Blood
Thursday, September 17, 1998

Doctor Henry West of Umbrella looked down at the body of his fellow colleague. The blonde man laid in a pool of his own blood, his lab coat stained and his body riddled with bullet holes.

Some would’ve called them friends, but the doctor didn’t have any friends. William Birkin was nothing more than some fly that buzzed around him, just like the rest of them.

To the doctor, they were all nothing more than pests he’d had to share the same workspace with.

And there was only so long he could tolerate that.

The man before the doctor was somehow still alive, after getting shot at least twenty times at point-blank range by those armed rats that were crawling through the vents of the NEST, getting their paws on things that didn’t belong to them, getting into places they had no right to be in.

West wasn’t impressed by Birkin’s failure. Or Wesker’s fuck-up for that matter up in those damned mountains by that crappy old house.

Now those pests knew of what they were up to—the actions of the two men put West’s entire empire at risk.

The doctor had spent far too long on his work. His virus was going to be the reigning supreme. Nothing would ever compare to it. He was going to make sure of it—and, sure, if his test subject hadn’t escaped all those years ago during that lab fire, he probably would’ve been able to bring his work to the magnificent goal he envisioned for it.

Even so, the seed was still planted. The subject’s veins flowed with the power of the oblivion. All that was left to do now, was wait patiently for the seed to activate. A few pokes in the memory ought to do it.

West had already laid out the trap—multiple ones at that.

All the rat had to do was step into it.
He had heard that the little rat was on his way back to Raccoon City.

Knowing the brat’s insatiable curiosity, it would only be a matter of time.

“William!” The voice of his colleague’s wife called out. West heard her heels clicking against the metallic flooring as she rushed into the room.

West looked over his shoulder, watching as the woman came to a halt a few paces behind him, startled by the sight of the carnage that was her husband. A man just barely clinging to life like a goddamn cockroach that just would not perish.

“William…! Henry, what the hell happened?!” Annette demanded to know.

All West did was shrug, shoving his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. His hand brushed up against the two vials hiding within his pocket, making him grip them tightly out of reflex. He would die before he let anyone take them away from him.

A sample of the T-Virus, and his last sample of the OBV-Virus. The only two things that were important in his life.

“What does it look like, Annette?” West said sternly, glaring at the wife of the pathetic excuse for an Umbrella scientist with those deep, emerald orbs of his. “Your husband was nothing more than cannon fodder.”