Trent. Goddamn. The mysterious Mr. Trent.

The same Mr. Trent who had given maps and clues to Jill Valentine, just before the Raccoon

S.T.A.R.S. had discovered Umbrella's initial T-Virus spill at the Spencer estate. The Trent who had given a similar package to David one rainy August night, information about Umbrella's Caliban Cove facility, where Steve and Karen had been murdered. The Trent who'd been playing games with the

S.T.A.R.S. – with people's lives – all along. Trent was still smiling, still holding his hands up. John noticed a black ring made out of stone on one slender finger, the only affectation that Mr. Trent seemed to have; it looked heavy and expensive.

"So what the hell do you want?" John growled. He didn't like secrets or surprises, and he didn't like the fact that Trent seemed totally unimpressed by his formidable size. Most people backed down when he got in their face; Trent seemed amused.

"Mr. Andrews, if you please…?"

John didn't move, glaring into Trent's dark, intelli– gent eyes. Trent gazed back impassively, and John could see cool self-assurance in that bright gaze, a look that was almost but not quite patronizing. As big and buff as John was, he wasn't a violent man, but that confident, mirthful look made John think that Mr. Trent could use a good beating. Not by him, necessarily, but by someone.

How many people have died, just because he decided to stir things up a little? "It's alright, John," David said quietly. "I'm sure that if Mr. Trent meant us harm, he wouldn't be standing here introducing himself."

David was right, whether John liked it or not. He sighed inwardly and stepped aside, but decided that he definitely didn't like it; from what little he knew about the man, he didn't like it at all. Gonna be watching you, "friend"… Trent nodded as though there had never been any question and walked past John, smiling at all of them. He motioned for them to sit in the seats on one side of the cabin; he took off his trench coat and put it aside, moving slowly and carefully, obviously aware that any sudden moves could be detrimental to his health. Beneath the coat he wore a black suit, black tie, and shoes; John didn't know clothes but the shoes were Asante. Trent had taste, anyway, and a shitload of money if he could afford to blow a couple thou on footwear. "This may take a few moments," he said. "Please, get comfortable." He pushed himself up to sit atop one of the chairs opposite their group, moving with a smooth grace that made John feel even less comfort– able. He moved like someone with training, martial arts maybe… The others sat or leaned against the chairs, each of them studying the uninvited guest, each looking as unhappy about his appearance as John felt. Trent studied them in turn.

"Mr. Andrews, Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Trapp, and I have already met…" Trent looked back and forth between Rebecca and Claire, his sparkling gaze finally settling on Claire. "Claire Redfield, yes?" He seemed a little more hesitant, which wasn't a surprise. Rebecca and Claire

could have been sisters, both brunettes, same height, only a few months difference in age. "Yes," Claire said. "Does the pilot know you're on board?"

John frowned, irritated with himself for not having asked first. It was a fairly important question, and it hadn't occurred to him. If the pilot had let Mr. Trent aboard… Trent nodded, running one pale hand through his tousled black hair. "Yes, he does. In fact, Captain Evans is an acquaintance of mine, so when I realized that you were going… traveling, I arranged for him to be in the right place at the right time. Much easier than it sounds, really." "Why?" David asked, an edge coming into his voice that John had only ever heard in combat situations. The captain was right on the verge of being seriously upset. "Why would you do that, Mr. Trent?" Trent seemed to ignore him. "I realize that you're concerned about your friends on the continent, but let me assure you that they're in the best of health. Really, there's no reason for you to worry your– selves…" "Why?" David's voice was steel. Trent stared at him, then sighed. "Because I don't want you to go to Europe, and making it so that Captain Evans is your pilot means that you won't. You can't. In fact, we should be turning back any moment now."

Claire stared at him, feeling her stomach knot, feeling that knot transforming into a burning, leaden anger. Chris, I won't see Chris… John pushed away from the seat he'd been leaning on and grabbed Trent's arm before Claire could even open her mouth, before anyone had time to respond to his statement.

"Tell your 'acquaintance' to keep right on goin' the way we're goin'," John spat, glowering at Trent. From the way John's hands were shaking, Claire thought there was a good chance that he would break Trent's arm – and found that she didn't think that was such a bad idea. Trent wore an expression of mild discomfort, noth– ing more. "I'm sorry to interrupt your plans," he said, "but if you'll hear me out, I think you'll agree that it's for the best – if you really want to stop Umbrella, that is." For the best? Chris, we have to help Chris and the others, what is this shit?

She waited for the others to explode into action, to storm the cockpit, to tie Mr. Trent to a chair and force him to explain himself – but they were all silent, looking at one another and at Trent with shock, anger – and interest, guarded but interest nonethe-less. John loosened his grip, glancing at David for direction. "This had better be a good story, Mr. Trent," David said coolly. "I'm aware that you've – helped us in the past, but this kind of interference isn't the kind of help we want or need."

He tipped his head at John, who reluctantly let go of Trent and stepped back. Not very far back, Claire noticed. If Trent had been worried at all, there was no sign of it. He nodded at David, and in his low, musical voice, started to speak.

"As I'm sure you're all aware, Umbrella, Inc., has facilities in locations all around the world, factories and plants that employ thousands of people and generate hundreds of millions of dollars each year. Most of them are legitimate pharmaceutical or chemi-cal companies, and have no relevance to this discus-sion, except that they're quite profitable; the money generated by Umbrella's legal enterprises allows them to finance their lesser-known operations – operations that you and yours have recently had the misfortune to come across." "These operations fall into a division known as White Umbrella, and mostly have to do with bioweap– ons research. There are very few who know all of the ins and outs of White Umbrella's business, but the ones who do are extremely powerful. Powerful, and committed to creating all sorts of unpleasantness. Chemical weapons, fatal diseases… the T and G series viruses that have been so troublesome as of late." That's an understatement, Claire thought nastily, but was intrigued in spite of herself. To finally know something about what they were up against… "Why?" Leon asked. "Chemical warfare isn't all that profitable, anyone with a centrifuge and some gardening supplies can come up with a bioweapon." Rebecca was nodding. "And the kind of work they're doing, applying rapid fuse virions to genetic redistribution – it's incredibly expensive, and as haz-ardous to work with as nuclear waste. Worse." Trent shook his head. "They're doing it because they can. Because they want to." He smiled faintly. "Because when you're richer and more powerful than anyone else on the planet, you get bored." "Who gets bored?" David asked.

Trent gazed at him for a moment, then started talking again, blatantly ignoring David's question.

"White Umbrella's current focus is on bio-organic soldiers, if you will – individual specimens, most genetically altered, all injected with some variation of virus intended to make them violent and strong and oblivious to pain. The manner in which these viruses amplify in humans, the 'zombie' reaction, is nothing more than an unexpected side effect; the viruses Umbrella creates are designed for nonhuman use, at least at this point."