As the ever decreasing edges of the arena closed around them, there was still one viable source of sustenance. Most of the outlying trees had already been picked clean, and a number beyond had been destroyed in the firework bombardment, but there, deep in the center, a small cluster still stood.

Wesker knew this, and as the days stretched and the numbers dwindled - three now, perhaps four, including himself - he patrolled the borders. Waited. Endlessly patient.

They would come, sooner or later, by their own design or the Gamemakers, and here, where he was all but unstoppable, he would claim his victory.