🦠 WESKER’S ASSISTANT CHRONICLES – PART 6 🦠
OPERATION: SABOTAGE THE SABOTEUR
[Resident Evil | Comedy Crackfic | RE4 Remake Timeline | Chaos | Dialogue-heavy | Secret Sabotage]
Featured Characters: Wesker’s Assistant (OC), Albert Wesker, Leon S. Kennedy, Ada Wong, Jack Krauser, Luis Serra, Ashley Graham, HUNK, Ramon Salazar (mention), various Ganados
💥 Wesker’s “logistics expert” drops into rural Spain—directly onto a breakfast table. Her mission? “Assist” Krauser and Ada. Her real goal? Pure chaos. Featuring: accidental heroics, elevator sabotage, glitter bats, and a USB drive Ada should NOT open in public. Operation status: Maximum mess, minimum oversight. And Wesker? Still has no idea what just hit him.
Read the previous parts here:
Wesker’s Assistant Chronicles – Masterlist
🎯 ARRIVAL IN SPAIN
It’s a quiet, star-strewn night in rural Spain. Cows doze, villagers snore, and the most excitement anyone expects is someone burning toast. Then—
WHUMP.
A helicopter roars overhead with all the subtlety of a rave. From its belly, a human blur is launched—parachute tangled, limbs flailing. The Assistant careens into a haystack, bounces off a disgruntled cow, skids across a chicken yard (sending hens squawking), and finally smashes through a rotting barn roof. She lands upside down in the middle of a farmer’s kitchen table, upending plates, scattering breakfast, and rolling to a stop beside the coffee pot.
The farmer and his wife freeze. The old man sets down his bread, staring at the human-shaped dent in his meal.
“Early delivery for Señor Salazar!” the Assistant declares, producing a fork from her sleeve. She tips her imaginary hat, swipes a piece of toast, and does a somersault through the window. The wife screams. The husband pours another drink.
Outside, the Assistant shakes out her boots, flicks hay from her hair, and finds her missing shoe in the chicken coop. She ducks behind a tractor, whips open her duffel, and slaps on a battered Umbrella badge. A Ganado rounds the corner, pitchfork up. The Assistant beams.
“Corporate logistics! Urgent spreadsheet audit. Don’t make me escalate to middle management.”
The Ganado, confused, lowers his pitchfork. By the time he thinks to ask questions, she’s already gone.
Her real job? Shadow Leon S. Kennedy—the man who never blinks, never panics, and whose hair survives every explosion. She skulks around the plaza, humming the Pink Panther theme, and “accidentally” bumps into Leon just as he’s in full action-hero mode. Leon grabs her shoulders.
“Easy. You lost?”
She looks up, eyes wide with mock innocence. “I’m looking for the annual goat beauty pageant. You haven’t seen a particularly glamorous goat, have you?”
Leon just stares. “This is no place for tourists. Seriously, it’s dangerous.”
She sighs, shrugs, and leans in. “Would you believe I’m actually a secret agent on a critical mission to sample every flavor of Spanish cheese?”
Leon, frowning, checks his radio. “Just… stay off the main roads.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me. I know how to blend in.” She gives him finger guns, slyly slips a tracker into the lining of his jacket, and pats his arm. “Stay sharp, cowboy.”
He watches her vanish into the crowd, looking half-convinced he imagined the whole thing. She grins, checks her phone (already pinging with his location), and disappears behind a stack of firewood, whistling Mission Impossible.
At her “Airbnb”—a one-room hut with a haunted mirror and an inexplicably sticky floor—she unpacks snacks, throws a glitter bomb for ambiance, and munches gummy worms. HUNK’s voice crackles over her radio.
“You are not authorized for field improvisation—”
She interrupts with the loudest slurp of her life. “Sorry, static. I think a gummy worm’s stuck in the antenna.”
HUNK: “If you do anything unsanctioned—”
She blows a raspberry into the mic, grinning as HUNK sighs so hard it nearly short-circuits the frequency.
Meanwhile, halfway across the globe, Wesker, reviewing satellite footage, rewinds the moment she crashes into a haystack, pinches his brow, and mutters, “This cannot possibly get worse.”
😈 CASTLE CHAOS
The castle is a fever dream: stone walls, echoing footsteps, chanting monks, and the smell of burnt incense. The Assistant, moving with the subtlety of a caffeinated raccoon, darts through corridors, triggers hidden doors, and nearly collides with Luis Serra—who’s crouched behind a wine barrel, clutching a bottle and cigarettes.
She flashes a peace sign. “Trade you a fistful of gummies for that lighter?”
Luis: “You’re not one of them, are you?”
“Only on Mondays.” She tosses him the candy. He flips her the lighter, which she pockets with a flourish.
Luis grins. “If we survive, let’s start a business. Candy, maybe.”
“First product: trauma-flavored gummies,” she deadpans. “With extra vitamin D—‘D’ for ‘Despair.’”
They bump elbows, sharing a moment of solidarity before vanishing in opposite directions, leaving the monks clueless.
She dodges zealots and stumbles—literally—into Ashley Graham. Both yelp.
“Whoa, are you—” Ashley starts.
“Hide-and-seek champion, 2004. Never lost a game. You didn’t see me,” the Assistant grins, pulling Ashley behind a tapestry. Ashley clutches her arm, breathless and bewildered. “Are you with them?” she stammers.
“Relax,” the Assistant whispers, eyes twinkling. “I’m strictly freelance. If anyone asks, you escaped using an elaborate system of ducks and pulleys.” Cultists thunder past, one slipping on a banana peel (origin unknown).
Ashley, wide-eyed: “Who are you?”
“Just a friend with terrible timing. If anyone asks, you escaped using ducks and pulleys.”
Ashley, out of breath, gives a nervous thumbs-up and bolts as the Assistant lobs a grape-scented smoke bomb, filling the hall with confusion and fake fruit.
Later, the Assistant finds Ashley locked in a cell. She crouches, chews on a hairpin, and mutters, “Lefty-loosey, righty-chaosy, don’t explode, don’t explode…”
The lock pops. Ashley blinks, astonished.
Ashley: “How did you—”
Assistant: “Skill. Luck. YouTube tutorials. Don’t think too hard. Run!”
She leaves a Post-it: “Lock security review: urgent. —A”
Elsewhere, in a cramped elevator, Krauser is practicing his best villain monologue, flexing and scowling at his reflection. The Assistant slips in, whistling.
Assistant: “Hey, does this go to the rooftop garden? I need some fresh basil.”
Krauser: “What—how did you get in here?”
She shrugs, presses every single button. The elevator lurches, beeps, and stalls halfway between floors. Krauser growls.
Assistant: “Oops. Butterfingers. Also—hot tip: exfoliate. Dead skin traps evil energy.”
Before he can reply, she climbs out the hatch with surprising agility, leaving Krauser to muzak hell and existential dread.
Rumors swirl about a candy-munching ghost haunting the castle—leaving wrappers, glitter, and a grape scent behind. Salazar, unraveling, finds a glitter bomb under his throne and openly weeps.
🧪 ISLAND FACILITY ARC
On the island, the Assistant puts on her “lost intern” act, complete with a stolen lab coat, clipboard, and badge: “C. Redfield, Intern of the Month.” She waltzes through security, winks at a camera, and stops at a desk.
“Lost intern, reporting for duty! Is there a gluten-free lunch menu? Also, who handles zombie bite insurance?”
A guard blinks, scanning her badge. “Madrid office?”
She nods. “Miss Wong sent me. Also, I have a dentist at four.”
He nods, as if that explains anything. She breezes past, grabs a donut, and finds Ada fiddling with a vent.
Assistant (whispering): “Want to cause a lunchroom riot?”
Ada, arch: “You have sixty seconds.”
The Assistant tosses a yogurt into the bin.
Scientist #1: “HEY! That was my probiotic blend!” Scientist #2: “No one cares, Brian!”
Chaos erupts, and the Assistant and Ada slip out. Down the hall, the Assistant swaps Plagas commands for karaoke files, humming “Bye Bye Bye.” She slaps a “Best Intern” sticker on the server rack.
A tech runs in, wild-eyed. “Why is NSYNC playing?”
Assistant: “Motivational morale protocol. You want zombies with rhythm, don’t you?”
She tosses a glitter bomb overhead. “Sparkle season, baby.”
She wanders into a corridor where Krauser’s battered body lies by the chute. She nudges him with her glitter bat.
“Still alive? No? Well, let’s speed things up.”
Krauser, weakly: “You… menace.”
“Guilty as charged!” She rolls him into the chute and waves. “Say hi to the rats!”
She spends the next hour changing every admin password to “GLITTERBAT123,” drawing villain mustaches and fangs on paused security footage, and labeling folders with absurd names—“NOT PORN—TOTALLY SAFE,” “Definitely Not Krauser’s Diary,” and “Ada’s Secret Cookie Recipes.”
🚁 GLITTER, CHAOS, AND GOODBYES
As alarms wail and chaos peaks, the Assistant corners Ada and presses a USB into her palm.
Assistant: “For when Wesker tries to take over the world or start a boy band. Or both.”
Ada raises a brow. “What’s actually on this?”
“His search history, his fanfic drafts, and the only known video of him doing the Macarena. Use with caution.”
Ada: “You’re dangerous.”
“Don’t tell HR.”
Before extraction, the Assistant skips to the reactor core, radio buzzing.
Ada (comms): “You’re not planning anything dramatic, are you?”
Assistant: “Dramatic is so limiting.”
She twirls her glitter bat, salutes the camera, and shouts, “For poetic closure!” as she hurls it into the core. The facility shudders, “Oops!... I Did It Again” blares, and every monitor flashes an ASCII glitter bat captioned: “Better luck next time.”
The next morning, Ada listens to Wesker’s embarrassing Eurobeat playlist as the chopper lifts off. HUNK, reading his resignation letter, mutters, “Why me?”
On the other hand, the Assistant—sporting stolen sunglasses, covered in glitter, wheeling an office chair loaded with loot—waves at the last security camera and mouths, “Miss me?”
BONUS: WESKER’S REACTION
In his lair, Wesker reviews the operation. NSYNC blares from the speakers. Glitter falls from ceiling vents. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
“HUNK, whose idea was it to send her?”
HUNK (comms): “Yours, sir. Technically.”
Wesker: “Remind me to fire myself.”
A pop-up appears: ‘GLITTERBAT123’ password reset required.
Wesker glares at the screen, thoroughly annoyed, but as far as he knows, it’s just another round of her unpredictable chaos—no real threat, just embarrassment. He sighs in irritation as the speakers switch to “Never Gonna Give You Up.”
Somewhere, the Assistant is already jotting her next grocery list:
Gummy worms.
Glitter bombs.
New Fake ID (if Wesker finds out about her sabotage).
Karaoke machine.
Operation: Sabotage the Saboteur—complete. (Her sabotage? Still her secret—for now.)
Read the next part >>> HERE <<<
