James Marcus had never really had any problems with murder.

Of course, he hadn't truly considered it murder, not homicide, just experimentation, necessary sacrifices for the sake of his research, and for the sake of science itself. There were so many discoveries he wouldn't have been able to make without the use of human test subjects, and if they happened to scream and beg for their lives just before the end—well, that hadn't disturbed him. His leeches had soon put an end to it, and it never haunted him, not the sounds they made or even the looks on their faces, the desperate pleading in their eyes.

Marcus was a scientific man, and much like his profession, he was cold and precise, not prone to feeling large amounts of emotion.

But that didn't mean he couldn't feel, couldn't be pained or afraid or devastated as he lay there on the floor in a growing pool of his own blood, his vision blurry and his body in agony and his protégés standing above him, the glaring florescent light of the room giving their blond heads halos.

"Time to die, Doctor," said Wesker, briefly struggling and ultimately failing to keep the smirk off of his face. Marcus could see his own reflection in the man's sunglasses, see the blood leaking out of his mouth, the shattered glass glinting darkly around his head.

"Don't worry," said Birkin, an excited, almost childish lilt to his voice, "I will take over your research."

Then, he laughed. It was subtle at first, a slight shaking of his chest that eventually grew until the sound was loud and lively and deliriously happy and had spread over to Wesker, who had his head thrown back and his mouth open.

Laughing.

He was dying, the life slowly seeping out of him onto the sterilized floor of his laboratory, and Wesker and Birkin, his protégés, his favorites, his assistants, the only two people he had actually trusted, were laughing at him like they found it funny.

He almost couldn't understand it, couldn't get that rapidly fading mind of his to fully process the extent of the betrayal. That was why he called for them one last time, using the last of his strength to raise his hand towards them in a desperate plea.

help me help me help me something anything I don't want to die

But Wesker and Birkin were now looking at each other, their smug expressions perfectly mirroring one another's. His hand remained for only a moment, trembling faintly, before he lost all feeling and it fell back to his chest to soak in his own blood.

Things faded quickly after that, darkness encroaching into his vision as his heart slowed and finally stopped beating, his lungs ceasing to draw in air, his body failing to function any longer.

He died to the piercing, wild sound of their laughter.

And ten long, long years later, as he crawled out of a filthy pool of water past half-rotted corpses and up onto a cold metal grating, shivering and confused, it would still be ringing his ears, clawing its way into the deepest part of his soul and sowing the seeds of spectacular, bloody retribution in his mind.

.

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Author's Note: Why can I NEVER make a prologue that's over five hundred or so words? I can ramble for five thousand later on but the first chapter is ALWAYS short.

Anyway, the basic premise of the story is that Marcus triggers the Raccoon City Outbreak months before anyone has a chance to go in and shoot up Birkin, and even before Wesker leads the S.T.A.R.S. into the Mansion, which should put him in a bit of a tricky situation when he's holed up in the police station with the real cops when the zombies start beating on the windows.

I have no real idea where I'm going with it, though there will definitely be appearances from all the Resident Evil 0/1/2/3/Umbrella Chronicles characters, like Billy, Leon, Claire, Sherry, Sergei etc. Though, as with most of my Resident Evil stuff, it's probably going to focus a lot on Wesker and Chris (in a yaoi way).

Anna