Step One

[Albert Wesker]

The night, as Wesker had been informed that it was, passed without further incident or interruption. The acidic downpour outside lasted for several long, damp hours, adding the noxious, sulfuric tang of melting stone to the already unpleasant haze of mingling volcanic aroma permeating the air. Eventually it slackened off, leaving just a smattering of puddles of vile liquid and dissolved earth in its wake.

In his gratefully accepted shelter, he had been hard at work. Compiling his gathered information into more manageable notes and resources for later use in his research. Taking the time to summon proper supplies and materials for the journey ahead. They thought him but a mere scientist and doctor, and so he must act the part. In truth he only had knowledge of basic field medicine and treatment to prevent injuries from worsening, rather than actually treating or tending to them for proper healing or long-term care, but he suspected it might be more than many of these rock-creatures had. Even supposing they had the training, it wasn't likely they would have the dextrous touch needed, with their huge and clumsy-looking hands. Two fingers on most of them had the same bulk as Wesker's entire hand, and while that didn't necessarily mean they were less capable of delicate manipulation or fine work, it did mean they would be limited in what they could handle properly. Not even to mention their...robust, bulky physiques. They were far from flexible creatures, and there would be gaps in what they could handle based on just that.

Among the various medical supplies and more conventional items he summoned, he took time to conjure up a new wardrobe for himself. One more suited to the sweltering climate of the Ashen Steppes. His sunglasses remained, and an overlying garment that would hide the extent of his supplies -- and his sidearm -- from easy view. But far more bearable in this wretched hellscape.

And of course, among it all, were more proper arms and equipment for Mister Death. He had been armed only with a basic rifle until now, definitely serviceable but not offering much of the utility and versatility the security officer was known for. Having seen the man's files and reports, though...Wesker knew exactly what sort of armaments he employed and utilized. Dredging through his memories, the executive took great care to summon exact replicas of the Grim Reaper's preferred and personalized arms and armor. And of course...an ample amount of sustenance. Food and drink both. While Wesker had already grown to suspect he no longer required either of them, the knowledge did little to stop his body from sending out aching pangs of hunger and thirst. Nor, for that matter, did it stop his mind from growing sluggish from lack of sleep, even if he knew he could go on without it. Some lingering trace of his former world hanging on with a deathgrip.

With his new equipment and possessions successfully summoned, the would-be god allowed himself to finally drift into sleep. Not the dull ghost of sleep, as he had been choked into by that bitch in the red dress. Deep, genuine, restful sleep. He was thankful, this time, that his mind did not wander and find itself in another maddeningly twisted dream of impending death, and only slumbered quietly through the night...