A. WONG.

WHO ARE YOU, REALLY?

[opherative]

Don't think about the past, An independent, private, and low-activity portrayal of Ada Wong from the Resident Evil / Biohazard franchise. 21+ and mutuals only. Written by Jules. It's always there, anyway.

i. carrd. ii. prompts. iii. pinterest.

[opherative]

i’m still not here but figured i’d share my re8 ada commission i got

this is based off of the re8 concept art she’s featured on, but i stole the wolf mask idea from a scrapped villain:

her re8 verse has her reestablishing the link between the connections and miranda, so she’s no stranger to the village by the events of the game. while the town is subconsciously indebted to the lords, the lycans have no problem attacking regular people. ada was crafted a mask by the syndicate as a means of “blending in” when she’d check in with miranda/the lords while they were actively experimenting on the villagers. it comes in handy when all hell breaks loose, making them less likely to attack her.

the rest of her concept art outfit is still the same, meaning she takes on a more mysterious and androgynous appearance until she makes whatever piece of her identity known. the top of the mask detaches to make it a standard respirator.

the commission was done by @gatoilustrado_ on instagram!

[opherative]

hiatus notice. june and july contain some heavy anniversaries for me, and it’s been tougher to handle than i thought. i’m going to log off the dash until at least the 20th, but it might be until august depending on how i’m feeling. i’ll still be active on discord, though, so dm me if you would like my handle! i love ada dearly and would love chats and plots, i just need to focus less on actual writing and more on irl stuff for now. adore you all as always, and be back soon! ♥️

[ctae]

ADA WONG 🦋 RESIDENT EVIL 4 REMAKE - SEPARATE WAYS

[stars-bean]

Murder at the Gallop (1963) dir. George Pollock

[opherative]

She’s getting worse.     The admittance thrashes in Ada's mouth once, then twice, before she finally clamps down on it, drawing blood. It'd stain the backs of her teeth if they weren't red already.

It's not as if The Connections aren't doing their job; the past five years have been proof of that enough, extending a prognosis that’d overcome far better people than her. Even the loss ( and loss and loss— ) of ARK has done little to slow their work, and between the labs, physicals, and treatments she's since stopped asking the purpose of, they never fail to remind her who's in charge– whose hand sits between the sharpening bird-bone of her shoulder blades, leading the waltz.

But Death is a jealous lover, and he’s growing more and more tired of waiting. Every inflamed nerve he traces, every blood-soaked laugh they share, every dark pockmark left in the wake of his kiss is a reminder that for all their flirting over the years, Ada’s still utterly, infallibly human. When her time comes, she will lay her stiff, blackened hand in his perfectly preserved one, letting him guide her to the dance floor. He’ll smell of whiskey, leather, and a cologne she can’t remember the notes of anymore. His voice will be warm and familiar when he mumbles her name, dipping her low, lower, into a grave that won’t be a grave, but a body drawer in a basement in Munich. Her obituary will be scribbled in the footnotes of some scientist’s preprint as they prep her for dissection. Here lies Ada Wong: A liar, hypocrite, and one hell of a shot. She is survived by Death, who survives all. She’s getting worse.

But she isn't the only one writing eulogies.

Grace has said her name already, but it isn't until the second time that Ada looks up. In a tone that's half tired, half petulant, @synithis states, “You wanted to talk.”

“Right to the point.”   She chuckles from where she leans in the blonde's doorway, ignoring the wheeze in her voice.

Not for the first time, she wonders if Grace was always this serious– if the pale fire of her eyes lit the wick of sleepless nights the same way they do now. Ada’s did, at her age. Grief cupped its hand around her while Regret struck the match, and they both stayed just to watch her burn. She's never stopped, not really; hers is an eternal flame, one she tends to with waxen fingers. She doesn't want that life for Grace ( Neither did Leon, Ada thinks before snuffing his name out on her heart ), but saying as much won't stop her from clinging to her lighter, anyways. It's all they can do to congregate in these dark places across the country, one part planning, two parts vigil. 

Ada pushes herself up off the doorframe, elbows aching when they fall to her sides.   “Alright,”   she cants her head as she meanders in, the hotel door slamming behind her,  “Do you want the good news, or bad news first?”

[unpr0mpted]

blood, blood, gallons of the stuff ! a collection of icky, bloody prompts for those who like to choose violence. actions are reversible. general warning for blood, violence, murder, death.

𝚂𝙿𝙾𝙺𝙴𝙽 :

" that's a lot of blood. "

" it isn't mine. "

" what did you do ? "

[ sigh ] " what did you do ? "

" come on. have a taste. "

" holy shit, are you okay ? "

" it looks worse than it feels. "

" you should see the other guy. "

" it's a good look on you. you should get covered in blood more often. "

" lean on me. "

" oh my god. oh my god, oh my god, what the fuck ? is that what i fucking think it is ? "

" . . . gross. "

[ standing over a body ] " oops. "

" is that a fucking body ? "

" look, i'm sorry, okay ? "

" what the hell happened ? "

" before you say anything, it wasn't me. "

" at least it wasn't me this time. "

" look at me. this is who i am, no matter how much you pretend it isn't. "

" look at me. this is who i am, no matter how much you wish it wasn't. "

" i'm not scared of you. "

" you don't scare me. "

" shut up and let me help you. "

" i got your shirt all bloody. "

" let's get you cleaned up. "

" that looks like it hurts. "

" i'm fine, just. . . give me a minute. "

" we are so fucked. "

" what the fuck is wrong with you ? "

" are you gonna help me clean it up or not ? "

" the fucker deserved it. "

" red looks good on you. "

" what the hell did you do ; tap - dance all over the body with ice - skates ? "

" what, did you run over the body with your car a couple times after ? "

" i. . . i didn't mean to. . . "

" sorry. fuck, i'm sorry. "

" this isn't what it looks like. "

" it was an accident. "

" motherfucker ran right into my knife, i swear. "

" people need to look both ways before crossing. . . bullets. "

" would you believe me if i said wrong place, wrong time ? "

" hey, look at me. i don't care. are you okay ? "

" they deserved it, right ? please tell me they deserved it. "

" you're bleeding. "

" what the fuck happened to you ? "

" you're getting blood on the carpet. "

" sit down before you fall down. "

" that looks like a you problem. "

𝚄𝙽𝚂𝙿𝙾𝙺𝙴𝙽 :

sender spits out a mouthful of blood at receiver's feet

sender spits out a mouthful of blood on receiver

receiver finds sender covered in blood

sender tries desperately to stop receiver's bleeding

sender helps receiver clean up after a kill

sender wipes blood from receiver's face with a washcloth

sender wipes blood from receiver's face with their thumb

sender licks receiver's blood off a knife

sender licks receiver's blood off their thumb

sender lights up a cigarette a foot away from someone they killed before offering one to receiver

receiver finds sender stood over a body

sender stitches up receiver's wound [ optional wound placement ]

sender digs their finger into receiver's wound [ optional wound placement ]

sender frantically checks receiver for injuries under all the blood

sender guides receiver's bloody hands under a faucet / water source and begins washing them clean

sender bites receiver hard enough to draw blood

sender tilts receiver's head back to staunch a nosebleed

sender draws a smiley face out of the blood they spilled :)

receiver finds sender cleaning up a kill in a daze

sender looks receiver in the eye as they shoot / stab / kill someone

sender ruffles receiver's hair, getting blood all over their hand

sender gets some of receiver's blood on them and makes a face

sender flicks blood at receiver to annoy them

sender stomps in a pool of blood to splash it on receiver

sender slips in their victim's blood but receiver steadies them before they can fall

sender steadies receiver when they slip in the blood sender spilled

receiver comes home to sender covered in blood and waiting for them with all the lights off

sender spits out a tooth and it hits receiver

sender tries to wipe blood off receiver but the blood on their hands just makes it worse

sender takes an injury meant for receiver

sender shows up on receiver's doorstep covered in blood

sender sits down quietly next to receiver after receiver kills someone

sender punches receiver in the mouth

receiver watches sender lick the blood off their fingers like its cheeto dust

sender helps receiver bury a body

sender hugs receiver just to get their victim's blood all over them <3

sender hugs receiver just to get their blood all over them <3

sender leans on receiver for support

sender kills someone to protect receiver

receiver finds sender in a frenzy maiming a body after they've already killed it

sender kills someone and the blood spatters on receiver

receiver finds sender desperately trying to wash the blood off of themself

sender kisses receiver to taste the blood on their busted lip

sender shoots / stabs receiver non - fatally as a warning

[thruteeth]

boots on the ground, they'd parted the initial sea of snapped jaws in one calculated wave. set an example for the rare few of raccoon city's civilians who'd taken up arms. and the tides should have stayed on their side. they should've waded the worst of it and come out the other end barely worse for wear. one more reminder that plans were better made as after thoughts and the only good ones were on the fly.

he's glad it isn't a bite. keeps stretching his fingers and forming a fist that begs that leak in his glove to stop. ease the flow so he'd not feel its trickle every time he pulled the trigger. starts a new itch that spikes upward and lands in a strong jaw, five-o'clock-shadow long since striking midnight. so close to a tickle, it's easy to grin with her input. glance upward and take in more than just the toes of @opherative 's pumps. over stocking-clad knees, carlos stops at the hem of ada's dress before flicking upwards to find her face. remembers some far-off manners that, in retrospect, had more to do with that wound on his hand than any life lesson taught by an absent mother. man made shield, it'd been a matter of time.

" yeah.. it'll be fine though. " the hole would mend itself. a nice, patchy scar to tell his future grandkids about some day. make up a story that doesn't leave their skin crawling with the same sinking feeling his does, there. with another groan on a skyline, the night doesn't care if they're tired. " 'm a big boy, i can handle it. "

elbows to knees, he's put sore spots towards the back of his mind. returns to the now. pins a somewhat familiar face with the scrutiny it's warranted. her being here, in the thick of it, didn't make sense. umbrella had protocols. they had a system and it started and ended with the ubcs. bold, certain, the line in the sand no one was supposed to cross. and up till now, they hadn't. submission from the living, he understood that. could make it make sense. gunfire, trenches.. it'd been an enduring stent since he'd say he missed the jungle.

" i know you didn't come all this way just to make sure ol carlos stayed in one piece. " curls whisp at peripherals, his head cocked and a shallow groan slips past teeth that peek briefly, " won't tell you not to if you wanted to kiss my boo boos though. " he wouldn't stop her if she wanted to fill him in on what he was missing, either.

[opherative]

If there's anyone in this story Sī Yǔ should be worried about, it's the U.B.C.S.     The last of the living she’s crossed paths with have been bit players throughout each grisly scene, something distant enough from her mission to ditch her previous role for the next. She’d been a tourist to a man she’d hauled out of the way of a horde, a grieving girlfriend to a storeowner gracious enough to let her in. Each step, each off-script conversation that veered center stage, has been with the extrinsic motivation of obtaining the g-virus, and if it's taken a few costume changes, then so be it. But @vilifyme is closer to the blood and guts of Umbrella in a way very few else have been thus far, and here Sī Yǔ stands, hands as red as her dress, knowing she has no other choice but to play a tired part. Ada Wong is a mask she must maintain, then. It wears a wry smile, not quite reaching the eyes.   "That’ll have to wait."

She can’t even remember how long the two of them have been together now. At some point the curtains opened on a dismal morning, the sun highlighting chunks of fat and gnawed-on bone scattered about the streets. Unlike the cheesy B movies the Arklay scientists used to crack jokes about, the day doesn’t stop zombies in their tracks— it just makes them easier to spot, which really only does so much against their relentless, inhuman slog. Now that night has fallen again, they're back to sidestepping the shambling crowd, guns at the ready as they peer around each corner. This iteration of Ada— the researcher seeking redemption— had earned Carlos' trust when she'd shoved a family he was guiding into safety. He'd returned the favor some odd hours later, firing off at what once might've been a woman, but whose skin had long since sloughed off to make any details out. She'd reeled back from the corpse so fast she’d tripped over her own feet, eyes wide, breath heaving, and truth— the luxury she can so rarely afford— broke clear through her facade: She was scared.

It was gone by the time she stood. 

So here they’ve landed: intermission, a meager fifteen minutes before the next act. Ada’s eyes fall to the hand Carlos tentatively flexes; blood runs between the valleys of his knuckles, stark against his gloves. She’s not so much worried about an infection— Umbrella’s soldiers weren’t spared from their experimentation, after all, even if the antibodies worked in the end— but he’s got a quick shot that rivals her own. The corporation was lucky to find him wherever the hell they did. She’s just lucky he’s fallen for her ruse.

Ada swallows thickly, abandoning her guilt backstage. She digs around her hip pouch, eventually coming up with a salve, the tube crinkled from use. Her nail polish– chipped as it is, now– briefly follows the lines of the same logo emblazoned on his uniform, red and white and damned all over. Her chuckle rumbles rawly as she passes it down, glancing out to the piles of cars to avoid her own kindness.

"The road's blocked. I need to get to NEST if we have any hope of stopping this mess, but it’s going to be harder than I thought."   Her gaze meets his again; any understanding it might have held has been glazed over with indifference. ( The show must go on. ) Nodding at the wound, she asks,   "Think you can keep up?"

[veilkyrja]

@opherative

the  storm  had  exhausted  itself  against  the  ancient  bones  of  the  castle,  leaving  the  night  washed  clean  and  gleaming  beneath  a  pallid,  watchful  moon.  water  clung  to  stone,  dripping  from  gargoyles  and  crumbling  balustrades  in  slow rhythms  as  though  the  fortress  itself  were  bleeding  out  the  last  remnants  of  the  tempest.  the  air  was  heavy  with  petrichor  and  decay,  mixed  with  the  faint,  coppery  residue  of  sacrifice  that  did  not  belong  solely  to  the  dead.  yue  idly wove  her  way  through  the  colonnade,  dark  hair  trailing  against  the  pale  gleam  of  skin  that  almost  fevered  in  the  gloom  of  moonlight.  the  castle  loomed  around  her,  opulent  and  obscene,  its  grandeur  rotting  from  within,  much  like  the  minds  tethered  to  the  parasite  she  felt  crawling  through  the  land  like  a  nervous  system  laid  bare.

las  plagas  did  not  feel  like  any  bioweapon  she  had  come  to  know.  it  was  not  the  feral  chaotic  hunger  of  the  t-virus  nor  the  calculated  brutality  of  its  engineered  successors.  this  was  something  older  in  temperament,  if  not  in  origin.  a  communion  masquerading  as  divinity.  it  pressed  against  her  senses  like  a  vast,  biological  network,  a  lattice  of  minds  threaded  together  by  something  that  was  neither  wholly  animal  nor  wholly  human.  she  felt  it  in  the  villagers  scattered  across  the  valley,  in  the  zealots  pacing  candlelit  corridors  below,  in  the  distant  hum  of  the  industry  on  the  island  where  its  dominion  was  strongest.  each  mind  was  a  node,  each  thought  a  ripple  carried  along  invisible  filaments  of  flesh  and  will,  all  converging  toward  a  singular,  towering  presence  that  loomed  at  the  centre  of  it  all  like  a  dark  star:  saddler.  the  sensation  was  …  not  so  much  unsettling  as  it  was  tantalising.  not because  it  rivalled  her  own  power,  but  because  it  mimicked  it.  in  a  grotesque  parody,  it  was  the  very  transcendence  her  creators  had  sought.  where  she  was  singular  and  overwhelming,  this  was  communal  and  invasive,  a  congregation  of  stolen  wills  kneeling  within  the  skull.

she  paused  along  a  moonlit  terrace  overlooking  the  abyssal  ravine,  the  wind  stirring  the  damp  strands  of  her  hair  as  her  awareness  stretched  outward,  brushing  against  the  hive-like  consciousness  that  suffused  valdelobos.  the  minds  she  touched  recoiled  and  reformed  their  perfect  compliance,  their  individuality  worn  thin  like  names  spoken  too  often  to  retain  any  meaning.  beneath  that  suffocating  unity  lingered  faint,  fractured  remnants  of  people  they  had  once  been.  she  would  kill  them  with  a  thought;  they  were, after all,  nothing  more  than  obedient  circuitry  of  meat  and  faith.  it  would  be  of  no  consequence  to  her. her  purpose  here  was  clear:  find  saddler,  sever  the  network  at  its  heart,  and  let  the  web  collapse  into  silence.  but  the  presence  of  another  and  his  damsel  had  introduced  complications,  their  movements  cutting  erratic  paths  through  psychic  mesh  and  drawing  attention.  yet  they  were  merely  variables—disturbances  in  the  pattern  rather  than  its  design.  she  would  account  for  them  when  necessary. however,  through  the  damp  hush  of  the  terrace  and  the  distant  murmur  of  the  parasite's  chorus,  she  felt  something  that  did  not  belong.  it  did  not  echo  with  saddler's  authority.  it  was  distinct  and  self-contained  and  …  familiar.  recognition  settled  into  place  without  surprise;  everyone  possessed  a  signature,  a  particular  cadence  of  thought.  while  most  blurred  into  obscurity  over  time,  this  one  had  not.

❛ ada. ❜

yue's  gaze  shifted  toward  the  far  end  of  the  terrace,  where  silver  washed  over  shadow  to  reveal  a  slash  of  red.  for  a  moment,  the  years  between  now  and  raccoon  city  collapsed  into  irrelevance.  yue  had  long  consigned  ada  to  the  dead,  filed  along  the  countless  others  erased  by  fire,  infection  or  corporate  expediency.  ❛ you  are  here. ❜

[opherative]

Night stretches over Valdelobos like a thinly woven veil, masking the mourning. The village attends her little funerals not in silence, but with the cacophonous call for more, and the mountains, her cheekbone, press against the fabric until it tears, dappling the village in moonlight. It's in one pearlescent patch that Ada's just risen from a dry heave; her fingertips scale the castle's stony walls as she braces herself against them, pushing past the visions that peek in and out from the corners of her eyes.

She doesn’t know how long it’s been since her and Luis separated. Long enough for her to have swung across a building or two, threading between the throngs of cultists whose minds had been led to slaughter the same way hers is now. The air had only been broken by a less-than-welcome call from Wesker, chiding her and her dog as a hurdle to the amber. Never mind that the scraggly rock helped shove a parasite down her throat— even with The Connections having signed his paycheck the last however many years, he was only ever out for himself. It's a pretense Ada's more than familiar with, after all, even when she pretended she wasn't. In the end, she is as she’s always been as she always will be: alone.

… Or she was, rather, given the figure at the end of the corridor she rounds. The spy's gun raises on instinct, finger flicking off the safety, only to still in rare shock at its target.

Yue’s stark-white hair frames her face like that of wings, gannet-like in the fluttered collapse and rebuild of her aura. All of the memories Ada'd drowned in waters murkier than her conscience reemerge with Olympian speed, breaking the surface to drag her under. Would you look at that, she scolds herself— six years since that night, since that damned mansion, and yet sentimentality still collects like stones in her pockets, bogging her down. Her heart pounds thunderously, all the more vulnerable knowing Yue can sense it— can let it flow through her, reflect back the miasmic waves of the parasite lodged deep in her chest.

The grip on her gun tightens. “Surprise, surprise.” She quips in their native tongue, arching a brow sheening with fevered sweat.

The moment yawns between them, a flash of darkness before the teeth grit. There’s plenty more she could hiss here ( Bet you didn’t think I’d make it out. I didn't, either. Do you miss it like I do? ) but she swallows the thoughts down instead, finally dropping her arm to her side. Musing never did her any good before; no use starting now. “It looks like you beat me to the punch,” Ada fixes that familiar smirk back onto her face, the one Claire would call bullshit on if she were here, “have you run into any of our friends yet?”

They both know it's as much a tactic as it is a jest. Saddler, Salazar, Wesker… She needles Yue just as she always did. What do you know?

[opherative]

"THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION IS CLASSIFIED UNDER THE JURISDICTION OF  ████  █████ AND REQUIRES CLEARANCE LEVEL 4 OR ABOVE.     The delayed onset illness hereby known as Raccoon City Syndrome (RCS) is a direct progression from the modified strain of the t-virus responsible for the outbreak in September of 1998. Research into the condition is still under development, though little headway has been made thus far owing to the expiry of subjects. Due to the sensitive nature following the Raccoon City Destruction Incident, it is imperative the public remains unaware of its presence until more data is obtained. Further inquiries to this information should be submitted by individual request to the administrative office of  ███   ████." - Dr. ███ ██, Chief Research Officer.

Topics in this meta include mentions of multiple illnesses (HIV/AIDS, cancer, general chronic illness), treatment plans (including hospice), and death. Please keep yourself safe before reading!

I won't cite sources in the traditional sense, but links throughout the post will lead you to pages with more information. Special shoutout to Project Umbrella for the bulk of my t-virus research, and all of the people who beta read this (very long) post for me!

I’ll be using examples from both original and remake canon alongside my own hypotheses.

While it was written with the intention to keep track of details while building my own lore, feel free to reblog and/or steal as you please! RCS is genuinely so fascinating to me, so any opportunity to share it with others makes me happy. All I ask is that if you borrow anything, please credit me! 

Finally, I am not a scientist. While I’ve done a ton of research, work in healthcare, and have experience dealing with my own chronic illnesses, this post is certainly not indicative of any massive knowledge about the subject (or even the series' lore) on my part. I am completely open to learning and updating this as I do so, but for now think of it as an expansion on the games' more introductory explanations of virology and pharmacology.

Without further adieu, let's get into it!

(Note: this is a brief recap of the variant primarily spread in the Raccoon City Incident and does not include in-depth details on its progenitor or later strains.)

"Like the virus that gave it life, this undead force will continue to grow… Where would you go? What would you do?” - Max Brooks.

Before diving in too deep, it's important to give a very rudimentary breakdown on how this type of virus works. No matter the method the pathogen enters the body, it hacks its way into a healthy host cell. The t-virus is a retrovirus. Retroviruses rewrite their own “code” from RNA to DNA to punch into your system. Your body reads this DNA as your own, duplicating it to hack into more and more of your healthy cells; this is further amplified by another factor built into the t-virus known as mutagenesis, which rewrites your DNA as it goes. Notably, probably the most well-known retrovirus is HIV/AIDS. Given the original Resident Evil began development in the early '90s– and Japan's own layered history with the illness– I'm not surprised there are numerous similarities between HIV/AIDS and the t-virus/RCS, which we'll touch upon in the next section. 

The t-virus is a neurotropic retrovirus, which targets the central and peripheral nervous systems (CNS and PNS, respectively). They can cause a whole host of issues, anywhere from flu-like symptoms to seizure, coma, and even death. This pathogen specifically worms its way into the CNS– the spinal cord and brain– to necrotize the neocortex. This is what leads to the cognitive decay and aggression in the infected population, and I'm inclined to believe they could also experience other facets of neurotropic viruses as the illness worsened, including (but not limited to) other uncharacteristic behavioral changes (anxiety, giddiness, crying),  sensorimotor dysfunction, hormone fluctuation, increasing insomnia, hallucinations and delirium, etc. Additionally, the t-virus causes skin sloughing, and severely affects the body's metabolic rate, the latter of which drives the innate hunger seen in "zombies".

While there are clearly many downsides to the infection, Umbrella wasn't engineering it for nothing. The t-virus bolsters unprecedented strength, increases the muscle mass of its victims to massive heights, and possesses insane levels of cellular regeneration that made it very desirable as a bioweapon if controllable. It's these "positives" that became the company's downfall.

The virus spread four* ways:

Bodily fluids:   Zombies passed on the infection through saliva and blood.

Water:   Infected rats invaded the raccoon city dam, which contaminated the drinking water. This was the primary method of transmission.

Plants:    While the rarest of the group, plants that were experimented on by umbrella had the potential to mutate and infect others.

Zoonotic/vector-borne:   Whether they consumed contaminated flesh, blood, plants, or water, animals and bugs were far from spared, and more or less presented similarly to humans. They were capable of passing on the infection via biting, scratching, and by their own bodily fluids.

Everyone who survived Raccoon City was exposed to the t-virus one way or another. It was just a matter of who had strong enough immune systems to counteract an active infection before receiving treatment. 

*It could also be injected directly and was even airborne, though the latter was only achieved in-laboratory.

"An inefficient virus kills its host. A clever virus stays with it." - James Lovelock.

RCS is not its own virus, but the result of viral latency. While a person's immune system combatted the original replication of the virus, it did not fully eradicate it from the host cells; this leaves room for reactivation of an often more advanced form later on in a person's life, either intermittently or at the end of a great period of time. Other examples of latent viruses include the Herpes Simplex Virus (HSV 1 and 2), Herpes Zoster (shingles), and as mentioned previously, AIDS.

Over time, HIV destroys your t-cells, which lowers your immune system's defense against illness. Eventually your body will get to a point where it can no longer fight off infections at all due to your white blood cell count dropping too low, at which point the standard diagnosis of HIV has shifted into AIDS. Latent viruses can remain dormant for a number of years, and HIV itself can do so for well over a decade. Given its long hibernation, it's possible RCS might not surface in everyone– external triggers like a person's environment, illnesses, genetic predisposition, or emotional/physical stressors can awaken it, but it may very well be that there are people with strong enough immune systems to never encounter the t-virus again. 

There are four stages of RCS:

Stage 0:   Dormancy. Raccoon City survivors not wholly immune to the t-virus begin at this baseline.

Stage 1:   Activation.   Flu-like symptoms (coughing, fatigue, etc.) occur. Simultaneously, darkened marks begin forming across the skin.

Stage 2:   Development.   The above symptoms worsen, with the marks appearing internally.

Stage 3:   Terminal.   The condition progresses to the point of no return, resulting in severe pain, hematemesis, and fatigue before death.

We are given very little on the timeline of the disease as a whole. Further drawing the comparison to HIV, when untreated, AIDS has a typical life expectancy of around three years. However, the final stage of RCS is only purported to be around two hours. Thus, it makes sense to condense Stages 1 and 2 to an average of 1-2 years. As of 2026, only six people were reported to have died as a result of the condition. It wouldn't have been a rat race of everyone dropping around the same time; each person would have begun developing symptoms in their own time based on their circumstances, and the duration of each stage would've been driven by the same factors that might've triggered it in the first place.

Herein lies the RCS problem. Over 40 million people across the world are living with AIDS, and it took researchers years to first discover that HIV causes it. While we have far more knowledge on retroviruses than we did before, they are still extremely unpredictable. It is not fathomable for six people alone to be enough to determine specific criteria like stages and symptoms, even if you increased the life expectancy. Granted, there’s probably some sort of federal registry for RC survivors (similar to the World Trade Center Health Program) that may provide access to genomic testing and additional monitoring, and while we know that six people have died, we know that at least two others are living with it, suggesting there may be more. Additionally, The Connections has their hands in both the government and pharmaceuticals/healthcare; it's possible that once they're aware of RCS–either through Zeno (whose exposure goes woefully unexplained), or other means– that they are doing their own research using clones. However, it's mentioned that The Connections, BSAA, and U.S. government seem to have some tension between each other following the events of RE6-9, so I'm less inclined to believe the syndicate would be forthcoming with the majority of their information, rather using it as leverage.

Of course, this information only accounts for those who were documented to have died because of RCS. Since it doesn't seem to have been a technical diagnosis for very long, it's likely others have succumbed to it under different names and vastly varying circumstances.

SYMPTOMS.

RCS presents very differently from the original iteration of the infection, and strangely enough, seems to have less to do with the CNS than its predecessor, and more to do with the peripheral nervous system. The PNS accounts for your somatic and autonomic nervous subsystems, the former of which is responsible for your "voluntary" sensorimotor functions, and the latter for your involuntary bodily functions (breathing, digesting, heart rate, etc.). As we see with Leon and Sherry, those in the later stages of the condition experience hematemesis (vomiting blood), severe pain, syncope (fainting), muscle weakness, slouching, and dermatological* changes. 

But PNS dysfunction can also look like:

General nerve damage (neuropathy)

Muscle cramps, tremors, jerks, or spasms

Inability to feel textures or temperatures

Numbness/tingling ("pins and needles") in the face and body

Disproportionate nerve pain (too much, none at all)

Difficulties speaking and swallowing

Weakness/clumsiness when walking or using your hands/feet

Postural/balance instability**

Gastrointestinal, urinary, and sexual dysfunction

Dizziness

Blurred vision

Joint pain

A heartbeat that's too fast or slow

Blood pressure that drops upon standing (orthostatic hypotension)

Temperature disregulation

Similar to the activation and longevity of the illness, the development and progression of any of these symptoms would vary from person to person. Despite his own shortcomings, we saw Leon carve his way through Rhodes Hill and Raccoon City; this suggests RCS retained some of the t-virus' upsides. Notably, however, his condition began rapidly deteriorating once he set foot in the ruins, where he not only confronted zombies that had been "living" there for years, but also inhaled the stagnant air of an abandoned city that had been bombed in the midst of its mass sickness. This lends credibility to the environment affecting the illness, but raises an additional question: can it be transmitted?

*While there are PNS disorders that cause skin changes, the marks are also reminiscent of Kaposi's sarcoma, a rare cancer caused by the herpesvirus that is often seen in AIDS patients because of their weakened immune systems, causing lesions across both the skin and organs (which could also cause hematemesis).

**Interestingly enough, AIDS patients in particular are extremely susceptible to balance issues pertaining to peripheral neuropathy.

TRANSMISSION.

The survivors' exposure to the t-virus was thought to be relatively well-handled in the wake of Raccoon City due to the treatment options available, including the Arklay herbs, Daylight, AT1521 and the much later t-Vaccine. I don't think anyone was kidding themselves in thinking they got out unscathed, but with multiple remedies* and the development of more, there was hope they had enough to combat the worst of it. Clearly, that wasn't the case.

There are a myriad of tools– labs (white blood cell count, genetic testing, etc.), imaging (MRIs, CTs, EMGs, etc.), biopsies (dermatological, potential opportunistic infections)– that would rule out other causes before considering Raccoon City Syndrome, but concluding it's the result of a virus through a viral load test would've likely started the long slog to a diagnosis. No matter the means, though, it would be reported as a notifiable disease to local health departments, where a concern of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC)– and potentially the World Health Organization (WHO)– would be whether or not RCS can spread.

We've seen in recent outbreaks (Hantavirus, Ebola, and largely, COVID-19**) that the minute something is even hinting towards a potential pandemic, it's all over the news. We only ever hear Leon and Sherry talk about how six people have died thus far, which means that the government hasn't deemed it outbreak-worthy (determining it's only affecting survivors), they're trying to keep it on the down-low (especially prevalent given they kept the details of the Raccoon City Incident hidden for so long), or the likely combination of the two. 

If it's not something worth alerting the public of, then we can turn to another neurotropic disease that the t-virus has been compared to: rabies. The behavioral changes (hyperactivity vs. lethargy), physical symptoms (jerking, twitching, etc.), and methods of transmission (bites and scratches) found in patients with rabies mimics the worst of the t-virus. After a potential rabies exposure, you follow a post-exposure prophylaxis plan (PEP) where you take a number of vaccines to mitigate the risk of fully developing it. Unfortunately, this is only applicable if you haven't started showing symptoms yet, which is not unlike the information found in AT1521's reagent refinement file. The sample of Daylight used during the outbreak is different than the one that was mass-produced following Raccoon City; it's possible that in combination with AT1251, they thought they'd developed a well-enough PEP for the everyday survivor. RCS threw a wrench in that.

To compare neurotropic retroviruses, HSV, HIV, and rabies share viral latency as a trait, but their methods of transmission couldn't be more different. HSV is spread through infected skin-to-skin or genital secretion contact; AIDS is spread by entering the bloodstream or mucous membranes; and rabies is the outlier by saliva entering exposed wounds, usually by means of tissue trauma (hence the zombie comparison). The t-virus and RCS share many facets with all three of these, yes, but when it comes to methods of transmission, it is closest to rabies. Likewise, it is also made completely unique in that it's the only retrovirus ever to transmit by water, and if we take the mutagenic aspect into mind and compare it to HPV, most people's genetic makeup "refreshes" itself after a couple of years after exposure. Therefore, it's probable that RCS is not transmissible, or if it is it would only be between those previously exposed to the t-virus*** when viral loads are high enough, and even then it'd be extremely rare, potentially through the tissue shed from RCS' marks, or infected blood and saliva getting into an open wound.

*I left out the rare Umbrella/UCBS employees who were given the prototype antibodies and antiretrovirals prior to the outbreak as they are not the general audience, though based on the other means produced, I doubt they'd fare any differently. 

**Given the timeline, the widespread scale of COVID could've been a contributing factor to the more recent onsets of RCS.

***This would not be singular to those infected with the Raccoon City strain, as they all come from the same progenitor. Additionally, children of the survivors would probably come away with side effects or immunal weaknesses that'd open them up to developing it.

TREATMENT.

Those suffering with RCS would see a combination of providers depending on the severity of their symptoms. At the very least, they would be established with immunology and infectious diseases alongside neurology, with room to also see otolaryngology (ear, nose and throat), gastroenterology, pain management, physical/occupational therapy, and eventually palliative care.

Prior to the discovery of Elpis, RCS was classified a terminal condition; that means any standard treatment option would be about studying (and delaying) a patient's progression in the hopes that science will catch up before death does. As mentioned before, the factions that could provide aid to one another probably aren't, and depending on the person's party and importance to them, they may or may not get certain treatments. As such, I'll list classifications of medications, their side effects, and potential care plans that could be applicable across the board, but remember that none of them worked until Elpis was brought into the picture.

Antiretroviral therapy (ART):   There are dozens of medications within this category, but in short they prevent the virus from reproducing. Side effects include nausea, vomiting, fatigue, mood changes, headaches and dizziness, etc.

Intravenous Immunoglobin (IVIG):   Often a supplemental infusion to ART used to boost your immune system. Side effects include chest/muscle/back pain, fever, headache, nausea and vomiting.

Corticosteroids:   Taken for general nerve pain and inflammation. Side effects include difficulty sleeping, weight gain, mood changes.

Opioids:   We see Sherry taking Oxycotin to manage her pain. Side effects include brain fog, drowsiness, constipation, nausea.

Physical and Occupational Therapy:   Used to safely introduce exercises and accommodations to continue a patient's lifestyle.

Palliative care and hospice:   While patients will have likely established with palliative care at the onset of the illness, once it progresses to the final stages, they will be made comfortable until they pass.

The treatment of RCS within The Connections will be further expanded upon in part two.

"My god this post got so fucking long. Thanks for reading!" - Jules.

When I first brought up writing this post, I promised a personal example in relation to one of my own illnesses. I have dysautonomia, a disorder of the autonomic system that impacts all of the involuntary functions tied to my vagus nerve, like my heart rate, gastric motility, thermoregulation, pain recognition, etc. The source of dysautonomia and most of its subsets are difficult to pin down; there are genetic aspects in both the primary and secondary forms, but for the latter, the causes are semi-speculative as dysautonomia is tricky to diagnose in general. In my case, it’s theorized my environment growing up greatly contributed to me developing it. Lead researchers believe that toxins such as mold can aid in its development, which I was heavily exposed to throughout my childhood. Had you known me back then, you wouldn’t have guessed it was something I was dealing with; by all accounts, I was healthy. It wasn’t until I got a random bout of the flu in 2023 that I started exhibiting symptoms, and late 2025 that I finally got my diagnosis and treatment plan. While not a virus, the development of my illness was latent— my body had been holding out until it was vulnerable enough for the right conditions to trigger it. My life will never be the same again.

For all I've written about loving RCS, it's reasons like these that I don't particularly like the "magic cure" of Elpis. While I understand the need to wrap up the story with a bow, erasing the damage done to the characters audiences relate to takes away the representation and impact they have on their disabled fans. This (incredibly lengthy) post is, in a way, a love letter to my community. We are here even when the world doesn't want us to be. If you're wanting to include RCS in your character's arc, I fully welcome you to recognize and explore what chronic illness could mean for them in the long run!

[usergambit]

ADA WONG Resident Evil 4 Remake (2023) dev. Capcom

[brokenmagxc]

@opherative liked for a shorty.

the safehouse door opens without a sound, which tells arthur more than a knock ever would. his hand stills over the open field report, pen hovering above a half-finished note about cold-chain routes and missing tissue samples. the room smells like old dust, rainwater, and the cheap coffee he forgot to drink. he does not reach for his gun immediately, though his eyes flick once to the reflection in the dark window and catch the shape of red where no red should be. ada wong moves like a rumor deciding to become real. arthur exhales through his nose, tired and almost amused, though the faint gold at the edge of his eyes betrays the part of him already measuring distance, intent, and exits.

“ you know, most people use doors because they want to be invited in. ”

his gaze drops briefly to the folder tucked under her arm, then returns to her face. the corner of his mouth lifts, small and wary.

“ but i’m guessing you’re not here for my coffee. ”

[opherative]

Arthur is a powder-keg in waiting,    a firecracker seconds before the boom. Ada always has the instinct to shield her eyes around him, as if the sparks he’ll inevitably spit will shimmer between her fingers, lighting up all their little capillaries. Even now, she smells it– the familiar smoke of his self-flagellation as it marks the air, casting him in shadow. She offers her own smirk back, smart and red and something to cut through the smog. “I think we’re a little past that.”

She waltzes past him, tossing the scant folder on the table. “Here,” she sighs, “it’s not much. Another day, another senator.” It’s phrased dull on purpose; in truth, it’d taken a fair amount of sidestepping around Simmons’ omnipresent influence, but there’s only ever so much Ada’s willing to let on.

She turns over her shoulder, gaze following the horizon of the safe room. It’s cluttered, but not messy— a blanket is tossed over the back of a worn leather couch, the leather softened in his shape; cups and plates are scattered across the coffee table and counter, discarded haphazardly on his way out the door; books she can barely make out the title of sit snug on distant shelves, each and every piece tucked away in her file of Arthur Branham. It’s a perfectly fine, safe room.

And it’s not his.

The recognition— or rather, the fact that she’s recognizing it— catches her off-guard. This place isn’t Arthur, it’s a dollhouse built just for him, a place where hands far larger than either of them can come and toy with him at their will, twisting his limbs with the clumsiness of a cruel child. It’s all play-pretend— these folders, the furniture, her, especially her, a doll from the wrong set shoved into the scene. The fingers that dig into her own plastic make careful work of poising her just right to keep up the character, but there is a truth here only one of them knows: her dollhouse isn't that much bigger than his.

None of this touches her features. Any operative worth their salt can school their expression at the drop of a pin, and Ada is one of the best. Instead, she leans back against the counter, elbows perched behind her. “Two sugars, by the way. A splash of cream.” A shoulder is shrugged playfully, hair cradling her cheek. “Since you’re offering.”

[ivynightshade]

fatima aamer bilal, excerpt from moony moonless sky’s ‘the exhaustion in existing and the hunger for heed’

[opherative]

ooc. one of the fun (and frustrating) things about writing ada is dealing with her voice changing across the franchise. frustrating because it can lead to dialogue taking a bit longer while i try to hear it in my head, fun because i get to justify the differences.

re2? she's distant, a little snappy. why? well... she's young (just turned 24, actually). she's been in the business for 10 years at this point, was entrenched in arklay for one of them, but not even she could've accounted for an outbreak on that scale. she's scared, whether or not she wants to admit it. not to mention ada has always been able to read someone off the bat to know what they need in order to get what she needs. in the crowd, she's rapidly changing personas from researcher, to woman looking for her boyfriend (john), to fbi agent-- whatever will get her closer to the g-virus.

re4? her realest her, if there's anything she can call that anymore. she's cracking bad jokes to herself, tossing quips back and forth with leon/luis/wesker. everyone she meets (save for the 5-second meeting with ashley) is meeting her knowing exactly what she is, so there's no need to put up a front. we still see some of that unease-- particularly when she pulls the gun on luis when she's infected-- but this is an ada who knows by now that you survive simply because there's no other choice.

re6? a healthy blend of the two prior, though things get messy when "derek" comes back into the picture, and even messier when she sees carla reign hell on lanshiang, which i've talked about extensively here. ada remembers exactly who she is and her role in the story, which accounts for the distance between her voice and words-- she's drawing it herself. she doesn't get the luxury she had in re2 with nobody knowing who she is; she's performing for an audience who's seen the show before.

when i have a tough time solidifying her dialogue, i dig deeper into her emotion and motivation in the scene. ada in 2026 might sound a lot like ada in 1998 if she's scared enough, or her voice may carry the tone she has in re4 with the inflection of either of her other games depending on who she's with or what she needs. and while it is frustrating, it's also exactly what ada wants. the harder of a time you have remembering her, the better-- for both your sakes.

[opherative]

Where in the world is Ada Wong? An independent, private, and low-activity portrayal of Ada Wong from the Resident Evil / Biohazard franchise. 21+ and mutuals only. Written by Jules.

[opherative]

ooc. hi, friends!! i know i’ve been absent for a hot minute, but now that i'm off the meds that were making me miserable, i have the brain space to finally explain where my head’s been at.

to make a long story short (and at the risk of sounding pretentious), i feel like being back on tumblr has made me a worse writer. prior to making ada, i hadn’t been in the rpc for a good couple of years; my time was spent either writing fanfic, or rping on discord. it was low-pressure and private enough where i could play with my style, word count, momentum, etc. without worrying about how long a draft would sit. coming back has felt a little like i took everything i learned and condensed it into bite-sized chunks that i’m just not proud of, which made me realize i don’t necessarily feel anxious about my writing as a whole— i feel anxious about my writing on tumblr specifically, just like i had when i was here before. moreover, i feel like the sense of community the rpc used to have has been slowly dying for years now. not only are we much smaller, but we also feel much more… isolated, i think? a bit more judgmental? admittedly, i don’t think the resi rpc was the best one to come back to, given it’s been a bit, erm… dicey, to say the least. but it feels like we’re having less fun as a whole.

that doesn’t mean i want to leave. i love the relationships i’ve built here, i have SO much to say about ada, and despite me ragging on it so much, there are parts of writing on tumblr that can’t be recreated anywhere else. i think it just means i have to restructure how i’m writing, what i’m writing, and making sure i’m sticking to what i want to do (growing as a writer and building up her character) instead of trying to cater to what i think the dash would like. this is probably going to look like:

less pressure. to be clear, nobody is putting this on me except me. but the fear of not writing fast/well/long enough has put me in a loop of opening my drafts with dread only to close them out again. i need to remember that this is a hobby versus something i’m responsible for alongside work and school. this might mean i’ll take longer, but i hope that even just recognizing this will take some of the weight off and lessen my insecurity.

more plotting. building long-term dynamics with people makes me more excited to write! let's have text threads on discord, or ramble to each other about our threads, or discuss forty million ideas and aus. i want us both to look forward to where our muses take us.

clearing out my drafts/inbox. i’m not deleting all of my threads, but there are some that my brain just won’t cling to no matter how hard i try. if i end up deleting one, i’ll come to you to establish something else.

exploring aus more. canon is fun, but i don’t want it to be the end all, be all for me. i'd like to stick ada in situations and genres i haven't explored yet to see how she'd tick.

less formatting. i need to lean back into plain ol’ grammar again. it helps trick my adhd brain into my drafts feeling more "official". (only when i write, though. you’ll have to pry my lowercase ooc from my cold, dead hands.)

less flowery prose. granted, i’m guilty of this even when writing stuff on my own, but i’ve definitely lost the ability to drive a story forward. i'm going to aim for more action, slightly less poetic waxing.

better communication. experiences here have made me a bit of a recluse, too. jesse may have dragged me back to tumblr, but making friends is what’s allowed me to stick around this long. i want to chat with and follow more people to fill out my dash again.

wowie, this became a lot longer than i expected. i want to reiterate that this is not a knock on anybody at all, rather that i haven't been happy with my own work, which makes me not happy to be here in general. i truly cherish every single one of you, and you are all so talented and kind, even with my sporadic absences. i hope i can help make this a fun space for the both of us. i adore you!!

[opherative]

you know something you shouldn’t.     this is not news to you. being on umbrella's payroll this long has made you a bit of an expert on the difference between patient and science experiment, and the answer? it’s not fucking much. but corruption is a business as old as the mountains you deliver to, and it's one that pays the bills– even if spencer and his merry band of bigwigs could stand to fork over a couple million more to the little guys. it only struck you recently that maybe you've got information worth selling. you're the only person who knows how many people you're bringing out to that lab, after all, and you know exactly how many you're bringing back. it’s as we’ve said— corruption is a business, and by the way those researchers talk when they think you're not listening, they've got plenty of competitors who'd be willing to buy. understandably, this idea has made you something of a paranoiac. when a man's gaze lingers on you a little too long from across the bar, you can't stop yourself from dipping back into the crowd, the heavy scent of sweat and alcohol bogging you down. you don't look over your shoulder, or bother excusing yourself as you push around bodies– you barely even breathe until you're safely out the door, gulping back mouthfuls of air. thankfully, the cool spring breeze offers the welcome reprieve your heart needed to steady itself. the sun has just about sunk underneath the horizon, washing the last of the day in warm, nebulous hues. you start feeling a little silly in all this light. it's one thing to go to pieces in the recesses of the local dive, but it's another to face the burgeoning evening with what is most certainly delusion. your fear shrinks to the back of your mind, tucking itself behind greed and her many pockets. you've got information worth selling. what can you say? money is money, and you don't even have enough of it to buy a goddamn pack of smokes. that's when you see her. the woman looks very much like she doesn't mind you not noticing her until now, which is funny, considering she's without a doubt worth noticing. she's leaned back against the brick, a leather heel crossed over the other, hands tucked in the pockets of her blue jeans. what you first mistake for an unassuming frame underneath her red blazer is quickly revealed to be pure muscle when she rolls the sleeves up– so she's a gymnast, maybe, or a dancer. whatever it is is undeniably cool, which means she's not from around here; you've met just about everyone this corner of the state, and she's miles away from the roster. her dark hair falls past her chin to her neck, blocking the sun enough so that her face is only lit by the amber end of a cigarette. your mouth starts watering. for what, you can't tell. she glances over. if eyes truly are windows to the soul, then hers are curtained and slammed shut, revealing nothing of their tenant. sly and alluring, her ruby mouth refracts so brightly you can’t tell whether she's smiling, grimacing, or something else entirely. there's something unnerving about the way she looks at you, though– like she's reading you. like she's got you cracked open and is flipping through the pages of your ribs, finding all your dirty little footnotes. to her credit, she's got you figured out. she pulls a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, tugging one past the lip before holding it between you two. parliament. big money. she's definitely not from around here. you hesitantly take it from her, as if breaching the distance will shatter the illusion. instead, you get the heady mix of premium tobacco and what must be her perfume, elusively floral. it's as frustrating as it is fascinating– everything about her fades through your fingers like the smoke curling around them. you meet the woman's gaze again. her expression is different than before– it's understanding, plain and simple in a way it shouldn't be. she knows something she shouldn't, and it'll be exactly what you're looking for.   “need a light?”

sī yǔ took up smoking a couple months before her twentieth birthday. there wasn't a defining moment that kickstarted the habit– one day an associate from one of the connections' subsidiaries offered her one just as they always did, and she realized she didn't care enough to keep saying no. it ended up being a good cover story to loiter where you normally wouldn't, and a surprisingly easy way to get people to talk. whether it was on a balcony, at a restaurant, or even outside a dingy bar, both marks and future clientele alike were more than happy to spill their guts to a pretty stranger.

the habit persisted even when her name didn't. ada wong, umbrella research coordinator, took her smoke breaks either alone, or with john and the rest of the team when he cajoled her enough. the research facility was even more guarded than the nest, making trips back to the city rare; the scientists began rolling their own cigarettes to make up for it, though the blend of the mountains’ herbs only curbed the craving for so long. 

the vice tapered off after the raccoon city incident. she never considered it an addiction in the conventional sense, anyways, and she wasn't looking to make it one in the aftermath. she had plenty of favorite brands depending on where she was, but she smokes so rarely nowadays she'll take whatever's offered to her.