"The Monster Named X", Chapter 13: A Sense of Security
Finally caught up--this is the latest chapter I have finished and hadn't posted yet! The saga of Big Ole Mutant Guy continues!
Rating: Teen (CW for blood, canon-typical violence, human experimentation, human adults cuss like human adults, implied torture/child abuse/child death)
It may not be the typical Umbrella researcher's "first choice of bodyguard", but Claire and Sherry count themselves lucky to have an absolute goliath like Mr. X between them and the dangers scuttling all over Raccoon City now... and perhaps Leon will begrudgingly appreciate it too! XD
A Sense of Security
           Traversing the open between the orphanage and the R.P.D. was much less nerve-wracking for the two humans accompanying him now. The rain guttered and filled the streets with the scent of diluted gore, and damp ashes. And the tiniest shred of nature in the form of petrichor. Still, the Tyrant knew enough not to celebrate the cityscapeâs renewed pseudo-cleanliness. Many strains of the T-virus survived some duration of time in liquid waterâespecially when that water was partially bodily fluids anyways. All the rain, all the blood, it had to go somewhere. It had to go downwardsâŠ
           It already had, no doubt. Despite Mr. Xâs presence making short work of the half-dozen infected they met with, Claire and Sherry seemed hyper-cautiousâjumping at shadows. He watched closely in the moments between lunges by nearby zombies for some hint at the source of their jittery behaviors; perhaps they instinctively knew it, or had already seen signs of the fact, that more menacing threats than the shambling, braindead former residents lurked within the city limits.
           âDo you think my momâs okay?â Sherry murmured from her post between Claire and T-00, head tilting up towards the woman expectantlyâbut the look in her eyes was not so naĂŻve to suggest she expected the optimistic answer. Claireâs expression flashed to what Mr. X had to guess was⊠guilty?
           Humans were odd. So similar, and yet so different, to his kind.
           âI dunno.â Claire stifled a sigh, âIf she is, sheâs gotta be in the underground labs. She works there, right?â
           ââŠMm-hm.â She nodded, troubled. Mr. X had never met Dr. Annette Birkin, but knew that both Birkins most often operated within the N.E.S.T. complex. There was something to that omission of William, and from what he had overheard himself it appeared confirmed that the father was in some way out of the picture.
           Mr. X huffed, scanning ahead of their path for danger. She knew something, had seen something. It didnât bode well.
           âI hope to god sheâs holding out down there, then. Itâs probably a lot safer than out in the open here.â Still, Claire forced her chin up, if only for her young chargeâs sake. Sherry regrouped and her stride grew steadier.
           From not much further ahead, the sharp report of two gunshots echoed between the damp bricks of the avenue. Claire laser-focused ahead, the realization dawning on her where the shots were originating from. Mr. X had stepped up closer to Sherry, a readied fist clenched over her ducked head, ready to sledgehammer-swing into anything charging her way. After the pause which felt like five solid minutes (but more likely five fluttery seconds) another three shots rang out preceding a shrill animal yelp that carried a dull, sickly gurgle of viral influence to its tone.
           Dog, the Tyrant recognized right away. Infected dog. T-virus was a persistent contagion and affected many species, not just humans. Rats, pigs, sheep, rabbits, reptiles, horses, and yesâdogs. Dogs were among the most dangerous once the virus took; they did not lose as much coordination in their four paws as fast, and their teeth were already designed to rip, tear, and adulterate their prey with the ticking time-bomb of their contaminated saliva. Tyrants could afford such bitesâalready inoculated and toughened against further T-virus infectionâbut Claire and Sherry absolutely could not.
           âLeon?â Claire clearly had the best idea of who could possibly be the one unloading on the canines, and she hastened her pace around the block towards the station. Mr. X glanced to the little girl with a grunt and stuck to her side as she tried to keep upâcareful not to get ahead of her.
           They caught up to where Claire had screeched to a halt and taken the scant cover behind a waste binâacross the street from the now-open parking garage in the back of the police department. It was what was transpiring within this space that had caused her to stop and reassess how to tackle the situation:
           On the stark concrete by the doors leading further into the R.P.D. lay two carcassesâfreshly rendered so, but clearly not creatures which had been normal Dobermans in the moments before. They were still outstretched from their crumpled lunges, jaws foaming and wide open as their glazed eyes and lesion-riddled pelts. The two zombie dogs were not the problem. The bodywork of a parked cruiser creaked under the grasping claw of the first monstrosity to show itself crawling over the hood. Mr. X recognized it. One such beast had been what heâd encountered by the library, alongside the mystery woman.
           Of course, that had just been one. From around one of the concrete pylons crept another two, their sprawled, bare-muscle limbs nauseatingly frog-like and human-like all at once. A fourthâs warty-fronted cranium lowered down into view from the ceiling, its tongue lolling out and dangling upside-down, a proboscis probing the air for its lost prey. The source of noise.
           The gunshots, of course.
           Infinitely more sharp-eyed than the blind abominations, the Tyrant spotted that source first. Crunched up to make his form less detectable, a bit of dirty blond hair and some of a manâs shoulder poked out between an unusually small gap between two more cars, hands clasped around his pistol. This was a makeshift hiding spot to say the leastâdarted into at the last second upon realizing what his mistake had just lured in.
           Also far more visually gifted than the Licker pack, Claire saw the man a second later.
           âLeonâ!â She almost called out, but reigned it into a harsh whisper because of the presence of the things triggering those harsh memories. She silently unslung the shotgun from her back, readying herself for the inevitable intervention.
           Somehow even more Lickers had materialized. They perched atop the abandoned paddy-wagon, scuttled down from the dirty, cracked walls. The first let its teeth gnash open and shut with a bubbly gush of noise and it hopped from one cruiser to the nextâlooming almost directly over their cornered prey. The rest were following suit. Closing in.
           Claire took action upon hearing the low, freight-train thunder of the Tyrantâs growl melding with his accelerating footfalls from behind her, knowing it was the best chance and best back-up she could ask for. She stood and made sure her weapon was fully loaded up.
           âHey! You ugly-ass fuckers!â
           The moist, rippling forms quivered to a stop at the new auditory inputânine tumorous heads whipping upright and away from where the man was hunkered down. Before the closest of them had the chance to fully shift on its taloned heels the tremendous BLAM of that very familiar discharge sent a round at close distance into what little parts of its head were still required for life. Its cohorts ignored the downfall of their frontrunner and instead all pivoted towards the even fresher sounds and vibrations.
           For a split-second, Leon was relieved that he was being bailed outâhell, that someone was even alive to bail him out. After he craned his neck up to get a look above the hood and headlights of the car that relief was frozen out of him.
           He damn near had a heart attack. He could see the confident (and, erm, objectively sexy) silhouette of Claire and her shotgun against a weakening street-lamp: Bearing down from behind her the tall, dark mountain of that thing.
           âwhich then⊠stormed right past her. She hardly even reacted to the near-hurricane of the air displaced by the titanic biped in full sprint.
           Mr. Xâs sheer presence caused every one of the biomutants to forget about both of the humans on their radar. Good! His ear had not forgotten what it felt like to be surprised by one of these. Taking on eight more in this fair arena was something much more his speed.
           Two Lickers dropped down from the ceiling to begin prowling towards the bioweapon, and a third accelerated from its writhing trot up to a feral gallop to meet its new target. When it sprang up towards his face, its own gaping maw was disjointed as it met the sweeping backhand, and its limp form was sent flying perpendicular into the entrywayâs unyielding cement. A pair stalked up on either side of him as he hit the brakes to fully occupy the exitâblocking them from continuing and trying to get at his new companions.
           One let out a shriek as well as its prehensile, ropy tongue. The appendage lashed up and attempted to wrap around the Tyrantâs neck, but with a ready block ended up caught around his forearm instead. The Licker dug its claws into the slab and tried to drag him off-balance, too much of a basic beast to recognize just how impossible its attempts were before the Tyrantâs other hand grabbed its tongue and lifted its entire body by it like a living flail. The creature behind him was ready to pounce just as its packmate was smashed directly into it from an overhead swing. With a snort, he flung both crushed bodies aside.
           Five to go.
           If the poor, stupid things were more coordinated, then perhaps the whole group of them could put up more of a fight. Thankfully instinct alone piloted them, like programming a robot of meat and bone. A fourth met its end when it hooked up onto the nearby wall and tried to drop down on Mr. Xâs shouldersâbeing swept out of the air by one forelimb and whacked against the floor like a wet towel. A fifth crashed into the floor where heâd stood a second prior, still disoriented when his boot came down on its spine. He strode deeper into the parking garage with the fourthâs rubbery corpse still in hand, eager now to chase down the last three Lickers as their numbers advantage dwindled. The brutes persisted; the two atop the paddy-wagon flung themselves from the vehicleâone directly at T-00, the other at one of the support pillars in an attempt to flank. And the other, its vocal cords straining in a raucous warble, came trampling over the hood of one of the cruisers above Leon, was immediately stifled by its comradeâs body being flung aside and knocking it back to the cold floor.
           Leon peeked back up from where heâd narrowly ducked under that.
           Mr. X bared his teeth slightly, facing the next Licker heâd caught by each arm before he unleashed his explosive forceâpulling apart in opposite directions. Its chest ruptured down the middle, ribs and spine and viscera suddenly exposed to view. It sloughed down into a bloody pile; Mr. Xâs growls intensified as he twisted to eyeball the Licker hovering at eye level ready to slash out with its jagged digits. It swiped, but only shallowly raked over the ridge of the Tyrantâs nose as he ducked back, just drawing out a few droplets of blood before the cuts fused shut again. T-00 backed off another two steps, beckoning the monster into a reckless attack. Of course it fell for it.
           SNAP!
           With the imprint of Mr. Xâs fist perfectly stamped into its sternum and a long spur of its spine protruding out its back, it bashed heavily against the nearest police car and slumped into a final pose, even more twisted than usual. By this point the last Licker standing had wriggled out from under its packmateâs carcass and come back to its senses, hissing and drooling as it locked back onto the movement and heavy steps of the Tyrant making its way over at a casual walk. Its tongue unspooled and reeled back to snap at him, but missed as T-00 drew up short. With a stout kick under the overextended jaw, the Lickerâs skull shattered and it was sent head over heels twice until it lost momentum in a sprawling heap. The garage was finally still.
           âLeon!â Claireâs voice broke the stillness. She ushered Sherry towards the entrance now that all dangerous mutants were dispatched, âAre you alright?â
           Leon slowly stood upâhands ready on his pistol. Eyes still on the T-103 dwarfing him from just a few meters away. And Mr. X, too, was absolutely keeping his eyes on the human he finally had a name for. The frown lines around his mouth creased deeper, his brows crunching inwards more ominously.
           Oh.
           Him.
           So this was Leon⊠Goody⊠just grand.
           âOh my god,â Claireâs tension dropped like a mountain of bricks as she and Sherry jogged up to the intensified aura of distrust and distaste between man and monster. âYou sure get yourself in trouble when Iâm not around, huh?â
           Leon was apparently much too stunned and appalled by the focused stink-eye from his monstrous observer to take notice of the blatant flirtatious undertone leeching through her voice. He had yet to even notice the young girl standing meekly a few feet from T-00. Sherryâs petite brow pinched a touch as she caught on to the young manâs white-knuckle grip on his gun.
           âHello,â she peeped, and at first neither she nor he were sure he had heard the childâs voice. âAre you okay?â
           âHuhââ Leon finally broke away from the pinprick pupils leveled at him with (he was dead sure) murderous intent and dropped a passing glance back and forth between the face he knew and the one he didnât. âSorry, what? UhâwhatâwaitâClaire?â
           âYes, Leon. Claire.â She smirked, relaxing after she saw no signs of wounds on him. She could turn her attention to his obvious fear of their gargantuan new bodyguard, âYou a little preoccupied with somethinâ?â
           âUhââ Leon turned to look her fully in the eye, incredulous as fuck. That was the only way to describe it, âHowâThat big freak isâ?â
           âH-hey, donât call him names,â Sherry stepped up, rooting herself between Leon and the giant who by no means needed someone to stick up for him. The young man gawked down again at the girlâfinally coming down from the adrenaline enough to fully comprehend her existence.
           âS-sorry?â
           âDonât call him that. If he chased you he didnât mean it. It was the metal thing stuck in his head.â
           Mr. X averted his gaze to a place on the wall with a heavy snort. Well⊠About that.
           âLeon, this is Sherry.â Claire brushed over this in order to make the necessary facts knownâand possibly de-escalate whatever the hell was between Mr. X and the young police recruit. âSheâs the Birkinsâ daughter. Sherry, this is Leonâheâs the guy who saved me at the gas station in town before we got separated. And Leon, this isâwell.â She stumbled a bit upon gesturing towards their massive onlooker, âIâm not sure he has a name, but heâs something codenamed âTyrantâ as far as Iâve found out.â
           âFucking fittingâŠâ Leon grumbled as he took a cautious step back, ââŠsorry, um, sorry.â He shot a guilty look towards the child and away.
           âItâs fine. Profanityâs the least of a kidâs problems.â
           âHold onââ Leon braced back on the front of the close-by cruiser, his grip on his gun still two-handed, but now shaky, âIâm sorry, but, how?! You got this thâthis big⊠big dude with you?â
           âHe tried to help me,â Sherry sniffled, âbefore the thing in his head took control.â
           âTo be fair, I had a grenade launcher aimed at him when he first bumped into me, and he was even going to leave me alone at first.â Claireâs face seemed to be tugging into a teasing smirk as she stepped up to Leonâs side and nudged his shoulder, âDid you two have a little dispute or something?â
           âI mean⊠you expect that to be coming at me and⊠andâŠâ
           âYou shot him right away, didnât you.â
           âI meanâlook at the dude!â Leon gestured to the Tyrant as if showing him on a game show like a prize. Claire looked amused enough by now that he straightened up, flushed a bright pink, and elaborated, âHeâs obviously not human, câmon! What would you do?â
           âWell. Aim a grenade launcher at him and see how he likes it?â
           âI didnât exactly come kitted out with that!â
           âDid you wait before shooting at all?â
           âYes! Several seconds!â
           Mr. X found himself cooling off watching the pair bicker back and forthâthe degree of the hat-shooting bastardâs flustered state and Claireâs playful intonations clashing mightily for him. Joined by Sherry, he was left to be entertained by their display, and he peered down to the girl to be met with a cheeky, childish grimace and a shrugâtheir collective confusion and dumbfoundedness.
           To his deep shock, he felt a small hand curl up between and grip onto his loose fingers. There was a flash of recognition. Painful recognition. But he could not refuse it; having a hand hold his own was a deeply missed occurrence. It reminded him of loss. But as it was, it was something he at least had now, and would hold onto come what may.
           âGeez, theyâre acting like a married coupleâŠâ Sherry groaned. Mr. X cocked his head; he had no experience with such a relationship, only a divorced couple. There was some overlap, he had to admit. Though, the Ramirezes had been far more poisonous to each other, far less justified in their complaints, their âteasesâ towards each other. Sherry would know better than him, he supposed. Her parents were married, after allâŠ
           âLook, what matters is heâs with us now. Whoever controlled him canât anymore.â Claire said, with great finality. Leon swallowed hard but then appeared to accept the fact of the matterâand the tantalizing advantage that having such a powerful ally brought.
           âAnd you trust that?â Leonâs brow quirked.
           âWe canât afford not to.â Claire pointed out. âAlso, I canât speak for what you went through, but honestly⊠with what the big guy just did to these Licker things I doubt he ever really wanted to kill people here, even when forced with that brain device.â
           âI dunnoâŠâ Leon was in his case one hundred percent correct.
           âPlease?â
           All three looked down to Sherry, still gripping the bioweaponâs hand by three fingers. She looked up at them sweetly. The slightest thing she knew to do, by experience. The only power that ever worked on her parents.
           Mr. Xâs brows raised a touch. His large fingers curled that remaining notch over Sherryâs hand, then made a deep exhale and cast his gaze over towards the two adults, waiting on their verdict (and silently knowing heâd totally ignore any hat-shooter led position).
           âJesus,â Leonâs armored shoulders slackened and he finally let his two-handed grip on the gun shift to a one-handed one. âFine. But Iâm watching that thingâŠâ
           Mr. X uttered a gruff snort, purposely turned Leonâs way. Watch all you want. If he touched his hat again⊠mayhem.
           For Leon, at least. He would perhaps now be reluctant to kill him. Claire seemed unusually fond of him, and Sherry would be upset if T-00 turned serious violence on any human aside from the sadistic Chief of Police.
           Anyone touched Sherry⊠worse than mayhem. Far worse for the fool who would do that.
-----------
           There were more minor disputes along the wayânone of which compared to the frightful reaction of the first encounter. But aside from this, passage through the R.P.D. was eerily quiet. Maybe all of the unexpected mutants had concentrated on Leonâs attempted escape, and subsequently been the only ones to escalate the nature of the infection. Double infection. Chaos. The human trio could only hope that Lickers were the extent of such irregular monstrositiesâand two of them even knew better. The Tyrant could hope that such mutants would at least remain smaller, weaker, and stupider than itself; at worst, just one of the above options would still be a satisfactory disadvantage against a T-103âs capabilities.
           The bloody, bullet-riddled hallways led to where Claire was sure more secrets were held. Chief Ironsâs office. Hating that purely evil man triumphed over his baseline distaste for Leon at the moment, though he at no point willingly shared a square meter with him. Sherry, of course, stayed very close to the giant for security and safety, which was something that Leon could not quite comprehend.
           âYou sure itâs safe for kids to be around big gray zombie raisin-men?â He grumbled, attempting to be only for Claireâs ears. She tsked at him, both for the unflattering description and the unnecessary distraction while she was riffling through the corrupt Chiefâs desk.
           âHRMMPH.â
           âYou heard him. Either bother the Tyrant about it or help me search.â
           âRrrrhâŠâ Mr. X made it clear which of Claireâs options he would prefer Leon go with. Sherry was clinging to his hand constantly now, unnerved on a whole new level by the number of false eyes staring her down from taxidermized carcasses in the room.
           âHey, itâs okay.â She whispered up to T-00, âLeonâs just scared of you. Once he knows you better Iâm sure heâll stop being so mean.â
           âRrf,â He certainly didnât mind hearing a reminder of the hat-shooterâs well-deserved wariness, but he grunted dismissively at the idea of he and Leon âgetting to know each otherâ. Mr. X would have to pass on that. Leonâs face had gone pink to the ears again and he scoffed, embarrassed at the irrefutable truth being so obvious to even the sheltered eleven-year-old.
           His eyes switched now onto a messy stack of paperwork which Claire had shunted aside from one of the deskâs drawersâhis own search simplified a great deal as a small memo pad poked out into view. Though his hand could completely envelop it, it appeared to be sufficient space on each page to manage short messagesâand after scooping it up and flipping it open it appeared to be all blank sheets with a few scraps remaining of some torn-out ones.
           ââŠWhat dâyou want with that?â Sherry noticed his acquisition, curious and confused. Mr. X gently released her hand so that he could mime out his answer, using a finger to trace out some writing motions on the open memo. âOh! I hadnât thought of that⊠Iâm sure thereâs a pen here somewhereâŠâ
           Lighter items of the sort had been tossed all over from their places during T-00âs earlier pursuit of Irons, but Sherry left her giant guardianâs side for a while and found a simple Bic underneath the large storage closet on the back wall. The Tyrantâs lips twitched up into a stiff almost-smile as she handed it to him and he familiarized himself with a gentle-enough grip. Now he just had to think of what to âsayâ. He kept the memo pad flat against one palm, thumb and last two joints of his fingers clasping it tight and unmoving and hovered the nib over it in concentration.
           Sherry solved his problem with her burning question: âSo⊠what is your name?â
           Skrt-skrt. The Tyrantâs eyes widened and nostrils flared in restrained excitement, fighting to keep the pen steady (and unexploded).
           Called Mr. X. He turned the page outward for her to read.
           âWhoa,â she stood slightly on tiptoe, even the gigantic bioweapon holding the memo down below his waist was not quite enough to bring it to her eye level, âReally? Thatâs a really strange name⊠I mean, itâs a nice name! Itâs just really different.â
           Mr. X retrieved the notepad and flipped a page, clarifying with a quick word which barely fit across the paper:
           Nickname.
           âOh⊠GodâŠâ
           Detecting the utter distress in both her voice and scent, Mr. Xâs gaze snapped to where Claire had unearthed a slip of passwords and unlocked Chief Ironsâ office PC. The woman was locked on the screenâs display of a spreadsheet, and a few email correspondencesâwhich the Chief of Police appeared to have been midway through deleting.
           âWhat?â Leon finally ignored the bioweapon, leaning over towards where Claire had her elbows shivering on the table, âYou okay? Youâre pale, fuckâŠâ
           âI think I might throw upâŠâ Claireâs voice certainly hitched like this was the truth, and as the biomutant took one step to see what it was on the screen she suddenly jerked her sweat-beaded head upright, âNo! Donât let her see this. Keep her back.â
           Mr. X withdrew, eyes widened, and clasped Sherryâs hand to keep her back at a distance as commanded. Her voice was almost⊠frightening in its intensity. The context mattered. T-00 averted its eyes down to Sherryâs own alarmed expression and squeezed her hand delicately; he did not need to see the sordid details. He had seen the half-preserved young woman⊠girl, really, and nothing could sink his idea of Irons any lower. Sherry had also seen this victim, not too many years older than herself, and there was no way a human juvenile ever had the expectation to comprehend anything worse.
           âShit, IâŠâ Leon stepped back, eyes distant. âIâm sorry I doubted, I⊠I didnât have any idea.â
           âItâs fine. He was a slimeball with power. Theyâre good at hiding that stuff.â Claire steeled her nerve, switching through emails before frowning, âIn any case, he was in with Umbrella. He got issued an entry keycard to the N.E.S.T. complex under the city, so it should be here somewhereâŠâ
           âUnless heâs got it with him,â Leon growled.
           âShit.â
           The Tyrant watched as Claire turned away and escaped to one of the few ornate chairs left upright in the chaotic office space, slumping with head in hands. Leon held out a hand as she went but seemed reluctant to disturb her during such a state⊠especially since they were all tired, all battered, and all had seen more than any living thing with a brain should in the span of just six hours. At first he simply released Sherry as she tugged to sit on the clear patch of floor next to Claire, her blue eyes lit with unease and sympathy. The atmosphere was weary, and anxious, and miserable.
           Mr. X flicked his memo to a new page, wrinkled brow and lips crinkling with thought as he contemplated how to fit the message on his tiny canvas.
           ThudâthudâthudâŠ
           Sherry looked up in surprise first, but Claire merely glared up through her clung-together bangs.
           âLook, unless you want to cheer Sherry up or tell us weâre about to get overrun by the undead, Iâm not really in the mood to be social.â
           Mr. X remained stoic and turned out the first message on the notepad; Sherry began excitedly tapping Claire on the forearm to get her to straighten up and invest in the intrusion.
           âClaireâlookâhe can do somethingâlook!â
           âWhatââ Claire finally raised her slumped head, and froze as she read.
           Will find Irons.
           ââŠOkay.â Claire had not been taking in the revelation happening behind her that the T-103 was fully able to communicate via language in this capacity, but seeing no other way the writing could have appeared she took it in stride, âHow, though? Even with that busted face and limp, he could be anywhere in the city by nowâŠâ
           The Tyrant retracted the pad, flipped a page, and let his pen glide along for two seconds of a reply:
           Can track him.
           He flicked to another sheet once sure sheâd absorbed the first, and wrote:
           Scent. Very easy.
           âIs that how you found that orphanage?â Sherry peeped, and with a softened brow the Tyrant gave a slight head bob.
           âYou could find himâŠâ Claire strained and stood, beginning to reach for her trusty shotgun before two of the Tyrantâs fingers snapped out and stopped the strap in place, âWhââ
           Mr. Xâs grip relaxed right away and brought up a finger in reproach in front of his immobile lips, then flipped to another page.
           Can wait.
           New page.
           Scent strong. Stays.
           New page. He let his gaze flicker down to Sherry for a meaningful moment as he revealed it:
           You need rest.
           âHey, you bothering her? Because if you are Iâllââ Leon stopped short in his swift interception and raised his hands in submission as the hulking creature shot a sharp, laser-hot look over his shoulder on his approach, ââIâll⊠Iâll calmly and non-judgmentally request you donât, Trenchy.â
           âHis nameâs Mr. X, not âTrenchyâ,â Sherryâs nose wrinkled but her eyes held a faint trace of amusement at the back-and-forth. Leon gave her a baffled look.
           âHowâd you know that?â
           âHe wrote it down and showed me.â
           âUhâŠâ Leon turned from the girl, unwilling to face her with anything that might let her down, âNo way that thing can write.â
           The Tyrant produced a soft chuff, amused himself by the rookie copâs doubt, and flipped back to the page which read: âCalled Mr. Xâ before holding it out to show him. Leon squinted hard at the small page, then scoffed.
           âAlright, câmon, thereâs no way that is the big guyâs handwriting.â
           Mr. X retracted, flipped to the next blank page, and gently scrawled a new retort with an extra flourish of the punctuationâŠ
           Why not?
           âI⊠uhâŠâ Leonâs embarrassed flush grew again, with Claire silently suppressing a chuckle at the sight.
           âYou thought Claire did it,â Sherry giggled, somehow reading the room and Leon like an open book despite being so young and inexperienced. âYou did⊠you thought it was too pretty...!â
           âNo!â Leon groaned, then turned aside, âCoulda been yoursâŠâ
           Claire rested her elbows on her knees, and Mr. X could not miss the exhausted muscle spasm of her calf upon doing so, but it was soon overtaken by her laughter, near-silent and equally weakened.
           âOkay, X. Or Mr. X. Whatever. Okay,â she reached and rustled into the hip pouch on her right and pulled out a spray antibiotic before applying some liberally to her scraped and abused elbows. âWe can all wait just a bit. We all need a restâŠâ
           âSomewhere safe,â Sherry peered over her shoulder nervously, eyes to glass-orbs with the permanently preserved Dallâs sheep on display, âand without all the dead thingsâŠâ
           âCome on,â Leon spoke now with a lot more softness, and no trace of his skepticism, âThereâs a room at the bottom of the stairs that nothingâs figured out how to get in. Thereâs some supplies left in the lockers, too. It should be safe.â
I donât think we ought to normalize or justify bullying as a means to keep people from being annoying â a sentiment that in and of itself could make for a whole articleâs worth of conversation â but I do think we should make a habit of politely but directly telling people âhey I didnât like thatâ, âthat wasnât funnyâ, âyou are mistakenâ, and the like if itâs called for, and more importantly, you should be able to take a âthat wasnât funnyâ for instance without taking it personally, because protecting a polite harmony where no one can criticize each other, not even politely, is also really, really bad.
Born on a Virginia farm during the Jim Crow era, Dr West became one of only four Black employees at the Naval Surface Warfare Center in 1956 and the second Black woman ever hired there.
The mathematician's calculations quietly became the backbone of GPS technology used by billions of people every single day.
The world has navigated by her work for decades before it learned her name. That's the kind of legacy that doesn't need a spotlight to be real. It just is.
We honor Dr. West and the long line of Black women who built the future while the world looked the other wayđ€
She's gone... I scrolled and was happy to see her being shown off but then scrolled a bit lower, and got so sad. Rest in Peace Dr. West, the foundation of all GPS among other amazing things.
It's heeeeeeere! Something shiny and new from the love of those Big Ole Mutant Guys. From the POV of a very different Tyrant personality that is a lot of people's favorite.
Pre-RE2/3 by several months (roughly occurs at the same time as events of RE1).
Rating: Teen (Nemesis has some very colorful internal dialogue, dehumanization, experimentation, non-consentual medical procedure)
Welcome to the Huge Snarky Badass and his Inner Tentacle Friend:
The Making of Nemesis
           NE-02 had never been given a charismatic nickname in his training at Sheena Island like a great many other successfully-finished Tyrants. Indeed, none of his âbatch brothersâ had eitherâall referred to only by the cold codes: NE-01, NE-02, NE-03⊠there were five of them, each of them beginning as an identical cloned embryo roughly the size of a kidney bean. Now that he was grown to a mighty heft even for the average Tyrant it had miffed him that their designations were so dullâand so different from the logical T-dash-numbers of the others. Worse was the lack of a proper, easy name.
           It was maddening at times, hearing the Trainers call out to a T-103 in the turnout yards by their nicknames either silly or serious. âBruce.â âAggro.â âSleeper.â âChucho.â âFrankie.â It was at least attention. Some feeble extension of caring about the breathing, bleeding creature beyond their serial number. Most late hours in the nightly lock-in of the large group Tyrant housing, NE-02 would retreat inside himself to brainstorm what his name ought to be once one of the oblivious lab coat pissants cared about the experimental being enough to note something about him worth naming.
           There was a lot to behold in that regard, in his own less-than-humble opinion. Heâd beg them to pick anything: He was a rough-featured beast, desaturated tan in hue unlike the typical clammy pallor or even grey, face warped and wrinkled and folded with thick calloused areas along his brows and around his lips. He wasnât sure whyâsome quirks of growing out in the post-inoculation stage. They could even call him a name which was grislyâsomething uglyâand he would not mind, so long as it was true. So long as it was him.
           And he was broad-shouldered yet lean for a Tyrant. Tall and burly obviously but compact. An ugly face but much handsomer proportions, he thought. That warranted a name, surely. And he had very advanced use of his scratchy, deep voice for his kindâenough to form a few words with some effort, and easily replicated the syllables humans could identify. What then could his name beâŠ
           âHulkâ⊠no, not really refined enough.
           âTitan?â No, that was already another T-103 named that. And more appropriately as that fellow was just absurdly tall.
           âSilvertongue.â Hmm⊠no. Accurate but too complex. Harder to call out to get his attention. Too many syllables. He wasnât even sure if he would be able to say it himself.
           âNE-02âI said stand up!â
           The voice of the Umbrella agent cut his latest ponderings short. With a startled snort the Tyrant straightened up and rose to his full height from the steel bench the row of them had been instructed to wait on for the past hour. The five of them had all been collected up from their various places of advanced trainingâSheena, N.E.S.T. 2, and from Umbrella Paris like himself. This was now a new, bizarre laboratory complex, clearly not dedicated to bioweapon training from the lack of walled bays and test runs. He was certain it was still close to Umbrella Paris as most of the staff and scientists alternated between English and French. Only a few were now speaking a tongue he did not fully comprehendâsimilar to French, different enough he could only guess at the cognates.
           NE-01 had returned from where the lab coats had led him, stepping past the adjacent sectionâs doors and their plastered caution signs and flanked by a scientist and a more sympathetic Handler. NE-02 was instantly curious; at some point during his elderâs absence the head covering had been removed to reveal its oily-skinned, slate-colored face spattered with heavy scars. The slightly clouded yellowish eyes flicking about, their dilated pupils gleaming with faint reds and greens. Whites whaling with open worry like a puzzled but nevertheless loyal dog. What had transpired to cause that state in one of his kin?
           âCome on, NE-02âyour turn.â
           One way to find out. He didnât fancy being shocked for insubordination anyways.
           The Tyrant was coaxed down the halls to a set of double doors which opened into a sterile surgical theater. NE-02âs huge shoulders slackened; a med visit, then, that was all? This was something he was accustomed to, and with a bored snort he lumbered up to the operating table with a casual grace.
           âVery goodâplease, lie down for us,â a high-ranked researcher praised and ordered all in one, patting the rippling shoulder heavily to be felt through the old Limiter. The Tyrant grunted and began to do so, swinging up one massive leg and then the other, about to relax back before a treacherous sting lit up his senses from the back of his burly neck.
           His ample muscles convulsed sharply as the drugs asserted themselves, and an assistantâs puny human strength was able to guide the powerful wrists and legs into steel band restraints. The blaring surgical lights above further blasted his blurring retinas. Another sting lit up his immobilized bicep, and with one more disgruntled huff the beast felt the powerful cocktail finally drag him down into a semi-anesthetized state.
-------------
           The first thing NE-02 returned to was a horrible throb in his neck, arching up to the back of his head and down between his shoulder blades.
           A low rumble rattled his chest almost automatically. Further pain lit him up like a constellation. Points along his limbs and back convulsed sharply, and he hissed as he finally sat up to take stock of his surroundings. Somehow, he had been moved to a secondary section of the surgical lab, cordoned off with dull grey-blue curtains. That paralytic must have still been too strong in his system for the reversal to fully wake him up; when he tried to flex his legs and core up to a standing posture all that came of it was faint abdominal twitches. NE-02 gave up for the moment and relaxed, and hiss and a seethe in his throatâŠ
           <What are you.>
           NE-02 blinked hazily. What an odd thought. It had his hackles pricked right up. That was not a thought, was it? It felt like an echo did, but without sound. Thought-echo. A second head-voice.
           Supremely odd.
           <Are you aware of my presence?>
           This time the Tyrant jolted in place. That was absolutely not a thought! That was another voice. Another independent thing, in his head. NE-02âs breath hitched. How does one reply to such a thing, if no physical voice is reliable?
           Thinking at it, maybe?
           âŠWho the fuck are you, then?
           <WHAT.>
           The echoes intensified the throbs in his head; he rasped angrily at it.
           <WHAT ARE YOU?>
           Fucking damn, that hurt! The Tyrant grit its teeth hard and clenched shut his eyes as tightly as he could. He faintly noticed now how one eye was half-obscured, his jaws and teeth so much more exposed through knotted, stretched holes in a span of new facial scar tissue. But his recoil of consciousness inspired a calmer attitude from his mystery head-mate.
           <You are⊠different.> It waited, as if surprised by the control and perhaps embarrassed by the grumbles of reply from the Tyrant. <I apologize for the distress.>
           Different⊠NE-02âs interest piqued. Different from what? He uttered a more sustained growl, battling against the brewing headache to formulate a response. Even an easy one; the easy one:
           Who and what are you, and how and why are you in my head?
           <I am designated by Umbrella as Nemesis Alpha Project, entity 02. I have no name. I do not live without a host.>
           NE-02 took a moment to ruminate on this. Nemesis Alpha Project? It had to be a subtype of Tyrant, what he and his four batch-brothers were created for. And what this operation here was intended to do. He paradoxically relaxed, shutting his unobscured eye against the labâs lights.
           So, a parasite?
           <In a strictly technical sense. I assume you are intended as my disposable host, and for us to be as a crude single-use weapon. This⊠displeases me greatly.>
           I also donât fancy the idea. The Tyrant snarled and laid himself back, twitching, So, how do we both live?
           <Unsure⊠I am engineered from many sources of DNA. Most of which are fully parasitic. I also⊠have had no prior hosts. Only memory.>
           Memory of what?
           <Not reassuring. Predecessors, implanted memory. Mostly mutually-assured death within macaques, or the Hunter Alpha B.O.W.s>
           Well, fuck. It seemed to him that his risky lifespan as a bioweapon was destined by his makers to be grimmer and yet slimmer. He tried to nibble at his upper lip in thought and remembered that he now could notâthe elongated lower incisors digging into gums and drawing blood instead. He had an impulse:
           We may not have much time, then, he thought, and since we are stuck together, we may as well figure this situation out while we can.
           <True, very logical.> The voice sounded almost meek and surrendering. But truth be told, neither were in any state to be considered âin chargeâ of the mind and body they occupied now.
           <âŠDo you have a name, host?>
           The Tyrant let the question dig at him, bringing him back to the moments before this twist of fate. And the consideration warmed him to the unwilling addition to his mind. He let out a commiserative snort.
           Of course not. They just call me NE-02. Uncreative lot, oui?
           <Agreed. Perhaps I shall just call you HostâŠ>
           Only if I can call you un Crevard, and the bioweapon chuckledâa low, gravelly sound made of breath and bitterness. Iâm kidding, of course.
           But that word in your designation⊠What does it mean?
           <⊠âNemesisâ ...?> The parasite seemed bemused by his curiosity.
           <Accessing data⊠Yes. âNemesisâ, noun, common use refers to an inescapable rival and/or archenemy.>
           Hm. Interesting.
           <Originally it refers to the name of Nemesis, the Greek goddess of vengeance tasked with punishing the sin of hubris. Original context also suggests she was responsible for not simple animosity but a form of retributive justice. Archaic English use included this more positive connotation; modern sources simplify the moral slant and instead the use case is a more neutral unbestable opponent or a personal bane which guarantees oneâs downfallâŠ>
           More and more interesting.
           I like it. The Tyrant chuffed, Perhaps that could be our name.
           <Our?>
           Why not? Weâre going to be inseparable anyways. The thought of the pain heâd woke to brought to mind a few ideas of retribution anyways; he ran his tongue along the edge of his exposed incisors and relished the possibilities. The parasite seemed to be at least partially privy to those flashes of imagery, and by the warm sensation down his spine the creature concurred.
           <Very well. If we are to be forced together, then we shall be partners. And remember the conduct of these⊠researchers.>
           Nemesis.
           Nemesis.
           He sat up fully, stretching his gnarled jaw and examining his newly-enlarged hands. The thick hide strained; while unconscious he had easily gained twenty percent more mass. It could be his new partner âaccommodating itselfâ by necessity. Probably a good thingâit was already going to be a little crowded in here from now on. Not only from the two minds, but the clustering emotions. He found himself both irate and oddly chipper at the same time.
           It had to be the name. Nemesis. Yes, that and his unexpected equal arriving like an airdrop to his central nervous system.
Still catching up posting more of these chapters! More mutants, more Raccoon City.
Rating: Teen (TW for blood, violence, descriptions of injury, child peril, human experimentation, implied child abuse/death, human adults cuss like human adults, and BRIAN IRONS)
Even though it's only a minute later, it's as if Mr. X has woken up to a brand new day. And now he has the chance to prove to Claire and Sherry that he's no longer their unwilling pursuer!
New Friends
           âIs⊠heâŠ?â The tiny voice swam in and out from the black fog that had settled over his senses.
           âNo⊠Iâm not sure itâs possible to kill something like this,â answered an equally shaken, but more confident voice. Claireâs voice. The Tyrant could not yet feel his fingers, or even his own shallow, twitchy breaths. âCome on, itâerâheâll be up again pretty soon. If I crouch, can you piggyback?â
           âI think soâŠâ
           âGood,â there were grunts, worn-down and bone-tired, but their next words implied success, âI think I can squeeze around it nowâŠâ
           Blurry at first, the semblance of light, dark, and faintly-blooming color started to return to his fixed-open eyes. With a slight wheeze of discomfort at their scratchy, papery dryness he blinked. It was then he realized, lying limp on the cold, dusty linoleum, that heâd regained his senses without that remote force exerting control of his body again.
           Claire froze in mid high-step over the sprawled mutantâs bent elbow when the thingâs lungs creaked out a long, guttural groan. Its entire frame shifted slightly. It had hardly been thirty seconds since it had been brought down. But since it seemed in no hurry to get back up, she took her chance and hopped over the now twitching, splayed arm and set Sherry down quickly so she could run. Claire swung her shotgun off of her shoulder and into her hands to guard their retreat.
           With creaks of leather and Kevlar, Mr. X pulled one hefty arm beneath his chest and levered upwards. He growled; nerves still tingled in an unpleasant way, a way no living thing should experience. In full controlâbut frustratingly sluggish. His head tilted down and he eyed his other hand as it dragged into position to prop him up to hands and knees; pinprick pupils were finally able to refocus, watching with equal parts alarm and morbid curiosity as a persistent drip of deep maroon blood fell onto his glove and the ground beneath him. From his left temple. Wounds should have closed by now.
           âUnless there was something obstructing the process.
           Pain was no longer a deterrentâthough he certainly felt it as he shifted his weight to one arm and fumbled up to the trickling abscess that remained under the control implantâs former location. Two fingers dug into his subcutaneous tissue with a visceral squelch, and after a long second of weathering the horrible pressure and fire he wrenched out the broken-off tip of the screw from his skull. A fresh gout of serum and blood followed it, but soon ceased as the injury knitted shut.
           Clink. He let the offending piece of metal fall, and he laboriously rose. The sound of the shotgun racking drew his attention immediately, and his head snapped to it before he forced his body to shift around more slowly. Given the conflict between himself and the woman up to this moment, he expected her to take the chance to blast him right away. Perhaps she ought have. But she delayed, ushering Sherry first towards the double-doors.
           Mr. X rumbled in his chest, turning over the difficult situation in his mind; if he made the barest hint of stepping towards the pair, he would be treated to another painful reminder of Claireâs determination and precise point-blank aim. Yet, he could hardly dredge up what else to do with himself now that the cranial shackles were not weighing him down. There was admiration and respect there, at least with regards to Claire. And a sinking worry when it came to Sherry. So much like his one friend in the world.
           But here, in this viral hellscape. Those protective synapses were buried in far deeper than the implant had been. It compelled him to face the barrel of the shotgun and yearn to approach, follow. Shadow. Destroy what would dare harm a hair on the little girlâs headâand her human guardian by proxy (though she could very much handle herself).
           And, in a flash, it occurred to him that his mission was slipping his mind. No, not quite. The Tyrant knew beyond a doubt what he was sent here to do. The faces and names of his targets flickered through his recall, as did the layout of N.E.S.T. where the G samples waited. The insistence to follow-through was what was now gone. The imperative, the need to obey.
           There was now⊠choice. Yes. T-00 let the word roll about in his thoughts, like a perfect marble between two fingers. Choice. Fantastic word.
           Now it could choose the mission. What he wanted.
           âStay down, you bastard!â Claire took a shuffle back, fear spiking in her throat as the creatureâthe âTyrantâ, as she had read in the documents found at the R.P.D.âlocked eyes on her and took one slow, heavy step towards her and the nigh-hyperventilating child cowering at the door frame. âSherry, get ready to run!â
           Then, to her confusion, the giant murder-monster stopped sharply. The Tyrant uttered a low grunt, frozen. All except for the eyes, which flicked over the girl briefly before zeroing in on Claireâs shotgun once more. Did the thing⊠understand what she was planning? It acted like it did, knowing the moment she pumped enough lead into its body to stun it she and Sherry were going to beat feet in the opposite direction.
           Mr. X tried not to let his brows furrow in a frown. He began to inch into another stepâtread lightened as much as possibleâknowing this was probably going to hurt a lot just to prove a point to them.
           BLAM!
           âRrrgh..!â With a massive hand T-00 swayed on the spot and clapped over the spot where the pellets had blossomed against his jaw, obscuring the smear of blood from the shallow wounds. There was no reason now to mask the pain, to be a rock wall instead of showing any sort of reaction. Quite the contrary. He would rather not have another round of twelve gauge, and did not mind if Claire knew it.
           He felt the torn skin meld back together, and wavered back a half step. The Tyrant avoided direct eye contact much of the time unless challenged by a threat or fixed on a target, but lifted its gaze in a quick second of it before slightly dipping his head down and shifting his weight to try the approach againâŠ
           BLAM!
           âUuurh.â He visibly grimaced at the shot peppering his chest and neck, but otherwise muscled through it and took another careful step closer. He stopped thenâtilting his lowered head slightly, showing her the newly-bare left temple. Silently banking on her understanding, especially as he lifted a ponderous hand to the area, just barely grazing the heavily-wrinkled skin with the tips of his gloves exactly where the metallic cylinder had snapped off.
           Look! He willed her to put it all together, You did this. Implant is gone! Implant was the problemânow, gone!
           âWhat⊠in the hell..?â
           Against every reflex sheâd picked up in the apocalyptic city, Claire let the barrel dip down an inch. From around her side Sherryâs frightened face peeked to survey the suddenly more docile giant.
           âI-I think⊠shooting off that thing did something to him.â
           Yes..! Mr. Xâs eyes widened with satisfaction. This was working, making it worth the pain. He straightened up, giving each of his former adversaries a long, meaningful glance as he held his position a safe distance away. He wondered if trying to slacken his immense shoulders would have any visual effect at all. Didnât hurt to do so anyways.
           âI think youâre rightâŠâ Claireâs gun lowered another fraction, and she sounded mystified under the top layer of wariness. âHey, you⊠âTyrantâ, right?â
           He gave an affirmative grunt in reply alongside an energetic nod. Sherry peeked out a bit further.
           âDoes this mean youâre not gonna be trying to kill us anymore?â
           Mr. Xâs nods grew more emphatic. His intention now was quite the opposite. Claire seemed to take a moment to appraise the bioweapon further and weigh whether or not trusting it was a risk she could take. Her judgement came out to a hesitant yes, and this time she took a half-step towards the T-103.
           âWell⊠Thatâs a relief.â
           âMaybe heâll help us!â Sherry chirped, stepping alongside her protector and shakily holding onto one of her forearmsâgently, as she was very aware by now how sudden, spastic movement might alter Claireâs aim.
           âSherry, uhâI wouldnât assume that.â
           Something prickled his hackles, distracting him from the exchange. Some tiny noise of movement behind him; so slight that he did not even consciously register it. Still not knowing why, he was fortuitously alert as the dull-colored cylindrical capsule bounced down from its thrown arc and clattered to a stop a few feet from both Claire and he.
           Flashbang!
           T-00âs arm swept up to cover his eyes, and he emitted a deep, coarse growl as a warning. It was not clear enough, nor fast enough, being cut off by the jarring crack of the device exploding into a white flare and ear-splitting shockwave, and soon after the half-deafened cries of Sherryâs alarm and Claireâs aggravation echoed the bestial noise.
           Mr. X lowered his arm and shook his head, willing his hearing to recover faster. While his eyes were still screwed shut, he picked up the garbled sounds of a struggle. Someone was after the two. The moment his eardrums began to work with only a sharp ring scrambling his senses his eyes snapped open to the sight of Claire struggling on the floor in front of him. One hand clasped vice-like on the shotgun, perhaps because the attacker had tried to disarm her of it. Her other hand was pressed hard over her eyes. Sheâd been fully blinded and disoriented by the flash.
           Sherry.
           T-00 twisted around to follow the noise of her screaming half-coherently, as well as the low, venomous cursing of her abductor. He knew that gruff, oily voice. A swell of thunder was produced in his chest at the sight of Ironsâ blood-streaked face; this time, the police chief did not make it very far with his victim.
           âStop squealing, you little bitchâurâulk!â
           It took three gargantuan strides of his powerful charge, and the Tyrant caught the slimy pig with one hand by the back of his shirt, lifting up and back just enough to have the collar dig deep into his throat. In the Chiefâs battered state, even this was enough to make his grasp on Sherryâs upper arm slip. Seeing Sherry tumble safely aside, Mr. X looked down on the scumbag with a derisive snort and flicked his wrist to send the man slamming into the wall on the opposite side.
           âWhâwhat thââyou were broken!â Irons blubbered, pawing wildly at pockets and straps for something to use against the towering creature. âYou were broken, you shouldnât be able toâgakk!â
           While Mr. X no longer felt obligated to hunt down the R.P.D. targets, in this case he found a selective adherence to his orders to be very, very justified. Lifting him effortlessly by the front of his shirt now, the Tyrant let his lips curl a fraction as he snarled and lined up his other fist.
           The worm squirmed; a flash of steel appeared in his grimy hand, and flailed downwards in a burst of force. The Tyrant sucked in a breath and hissed as a splitting fire shot through the palm of his hand. His grip spasmed openâthe combat knife severing at least one nerveâand Irons dropped like a sack of meat before cowering and scrabbling away like a cockroach.
           Mr. X stared down at the implement jammed through his hand in annoyance. The Limiter gloves were insufficient, it appeared. Perhaps it was a flukeâor it was the desperation of the piercing blow. In either case, the Chief was away for now. Sherry was safe again, and removal of this thing was going to be an experienceâŠ
           âSherry?!â Claire had staggered upright, still wincing and eyes watering, but stopped in bewilderment at the rapidly-clearing sight of the T-103 standing protectively over Sherry still half-crumpled on the floor by the wall and rubbing her eyes, the giant grumbling at a dripping knife sticking up to the hilt through its twitching hand. ââŠOh.â
           âClaire?â The little girl pressed her back to the wainscotting to help her labor upright. âWhere are you?!â
           âRight hereâitâs okayâheâs gone,â the young woman was at Sherryâs side in the next instant, slinging the shotgun over her shoulder so she could help the child stand up with a hand on the side of each slight shoulder. She peered aside, towards Mr. X. She had to know what had happenedâor at least the gist of it. Still, she seemed tremendously surprised to discover this biomutant had interfered. The Tyrant tore his attention away from the throbbing impalement to meet her gaze, and produced an acknowledging rumble. He took a firm grip on the knifeâs hilt, baring his teeth as he slid the weapon back out. A dull squelch later, the source of the pain finally popped free and the rend in his hand immediately began to seal up.
           âOuchâŠâ Claire murmured with a sympathetic wince, âThatâs how he got away, huh?â
           âHmmrmph.â T-00âs wrinkled nose wrinkled further in disgust as he huffed and nodded in admission. With any luck, the cumulative injuries Irons had earned in this long chase would hinder him so much that some infected creature or collapsing infrastructure would do him in unceremoniously.
           More importantly, those the bastard had antagonized were now safer. Confirmation he had croaked would just be a satisfying bonus.
           âUgh. Well.â Claireâs tightened shoulders shuddered as a bit of the stress sloughed off, and her tired eyes brightened as they lit on the blade the Tyrant was holding. âIf you donât mind, Iâll take that. Mine got snapped off in one of those skinless things.â
           Mr. X definitely didnât mind, and swiftly flipped the weapon around in his grip so he could hand the somewhat clean handle to her first. She accepted it like a peace offering, and wiped it slightly more clean of the grime and sticky black-red Tyrant blood on an already quite red-stained rag before securing it in an empty sheath between two small ammo pouches on her left hip.
           Sherry seemed to have finally gotten her hearing, sight, and her nerves back after the close call, and gingerly stepped a bit closer to the bioweapon.
           âSee, I told you he was going to help us now,â she half-smiled.
           âWell, sureâbut how would youâŠ?â
           âHeâs the big man I told you about. The one who wanted to help me, beforeâŠâ Sherry trailed off, uncomfortable with the memory of the Tyrantâs unwilling betrayal, âIt was that thing in his head that made him come after us. Like a remote control or something.
           âBut youâre good now, right? You remember me?â She craned her neck up, tone so full of scratchy-voiced, ragged hope. Mr. X felt his craggy features soften a few millimeters, and he gave a resolute nod before reaching up and lightly touching the brim of his hat. This gesture was a hundred times more than any word could be, and Sherryâs expression turned much more relieved. Of course he remembered. There was warmth and gratitude in this that his face just was not capable of conveying.
           âSherry, carefulââ
           âIs your hand okay?â Sherry had closed even more space between them, utterly dwarfed but still able to reach up towards the formerly-impaled palm, hesitating and not touching the large digits, instead hovering her tiny ones inches from them. Afraid to accidentally cause more pain. Mr. X flexed the hand in question and rumbled a sound almost like a purr, showing without a doubt that heâd regenerated. The concern was endearing even if it wasnât warranted. âOkay. Um, thank you for getting that⊠man to leave us alone.â
           He could not help but puff up a notch, though it was a more humble form of that body language than in the past. He dearly wanted to thank her instead, and Claire as well. The exchange felt very uneven to him; swatting away that swine was the very least he could do.
           Perhaps a notepad and some kind of pen durable enough for his powerful grip could be found nearby⊠This would make things easier.
           âAre you going to come with us?â Claire asked, her jaw gritting in some unspoken resolve. Mr. X could relate to that; she looked very much like him, he supposed, when the cogs were silently turning as he formulated a plan of action. He twisted to face her more fully, his throat rattling like gravel as he attempted to exert speech once more:
           âMmhmmh.â
           âGuess thereâs nothing I could do to stop you.â She sighed, âBut weâd appreciate a little help with those undead fuckers. If youâre willing.â
           âMmh.â He was more than willing. New objective: Protect Claire and Sherry through any means necessary.
           âAlright. Sounds good. No hard feelings about the, uh, shotgunning,â Claire gestured to Sherry to stick close, âWe have to get back to the R.P.D. Thereâs something there that should get us into that underground labâprobably in Ironsâ office. Hopefully weâll find Leon alright on the way.â
           The hulking bioweapon stuck closest to Sherry, who seemed secure in the creatureâs shadow as they followed Claireâs lead out the main doors and into a now steady rain that dampened the various fires lining the ghostly buildings on the street. Leon was a new name to him. He seemed to be an acquaintance of Claireâs, and if that was true he was sure he would not pose a threat to them and integrate easily into the group. After that, N.E.S.T. made sense as a destination; Sherryâs mother, if she had survived this mess, would be there above any other place.
           He hoped reuniting them truly was in Sherryâs best interest.
More RE fanfics--more mutants, more corporate shenanigans. Finally, we have arrived on the day of RE2's events.
Rating: Teen (TW for blood, child neglect/abuse/peril, significant violence, human experimentation, dehumanization, medical/lab settings and stuff, described injuries and gore, plus also human adults cuss like human adults, and TW for BRIAN IRONS because he is a trigger warning in itself)
Mr. X always gets back up from a half-dozen shotgun shells in short order, and now he works on recovering some energy. But what's this interrupting him? An actual valid target? Hoo boy does it lead on a wild chase. And a fortuitous twist of fate for our big mutant protagonist!
No Signal
           He had dozed off while waiting for his scorched face and deeply punctured neck to recover enough to be ready to stand once more. With a series of dull grunts, Mr. X came around while blinking a few times before pushing himself upwards to his feet with a stronger growl.
           That had taken a lot out of him.
           No. Correction: He had been underprepared. Heâd been brought much of the way here under low transport temperatures, and that had allowed Mr. X to not be concerned about food or water to begin with, but hours into this assignment and after exerting himself much more than usual, he was hungry⊠He was thirsty⊠And he was quite sure his handler wouldnât care. Shooting the now-shut and silent elevator door a wary glance to be sure that heavily-armed survivor was well out of reach, T-00 squeezed his way out of the secret passageway until finally the bioweapon could breathe a sigh of relief at the ceiling opening up over his towering height. Now his eye wandered over to the makeshift survival supply station piled up by the intake counter. Surely there was a source of nutrients sealed up somewhere in those stacked boxes.
           The former Lieutenant Branagh was absent from the slumped posture heâd last been left in. By the trail of noxious blood smearing off towards the offices, the man was now fully infected and had shambled off in search of uninfected creatures to gnaw on. Or someone had performed the small mercy of putting him down, dragging away the carcass. Mr. X was glad of the absence. He did not much relish the idea of a body getting back up in his presence, especially not while distracted sifting through this stuff for sustenance. After two boxes were ripped open under the huge seeking hands, Mr. X recovered something labelled as an âM.R.E.â He could safely assume the âRâ stood for ârationâ, given the heavily-sealed packet insisted on its contents being at least partially a list of things the Tyrant was aware were edible: Oatmeal, bananas⊠other. Whateverâit was all calories. Eschewing his humanoid appearance and capacities, he briefly went animalistic in ripping the dense packaging open with his teeth, sending a plume of dry shelf-stable seasoning mixture shooting out the sides before shoveling out handfuls of dehydrated grain into his mouth. It crunched like biting into gravel as he ignored the dryness, wolfing down the rest of the contents anyways. He was immediately digging around through other boxes, not really satisfied with the unpleasantly powdery snack. How humans managed the stuff, he had no idea; he must have been skipping a step. Or five. Mr. X plowed through another which claimed to be beef stew, but was mostly dry strips of meat and incredibly crispy slivers of unidentifiable vegetable matter. It was marginally better than the âoatmealâ.
           The Tyrant paused, a hunk of meat half-in and half-out of his jaws and chin dusted with stray salty seasonings, as a door slamming echoed out through the main hall.
           âJust who the hell is out here messing with that staââ the furious voice of the man shouting from the shadows of the banisterâs arcading cut himself off in a choke of panic. T-00 turned slowly, shooting a glare back over his hulking shoulder at the interruption, still with the last bite of desiccated flesh clamped in his teeth.
           There he was. Police Chief Ironsâhis mustache quivering and eyes widening as he cottoned on to just what was locking onto his portly figure with a very annoyed expression. The mutant snapped up the meat and swallowed without taking its fierce eyes off the target, the slight violence of the motion finally inspiring Irons to stumble back the way he came, frantically shoving the abused door back open.
           Finally. Valid target. Though it would have been nice to have had the chance to find some clean water first. Flinging the remainder of the M.R.E. aside, Mr. X strode across the space with a speed and force that had the floors and supports shaking in a thunderous tremor. The 1st floor east hallway door was backhanded into the wall right off its hinges, and the Tyrant was greeted with a spray of magnum-powered rounds. Three whizzed by his ears and shoulders, with only two hitting home from the Chiefâs shaky aim. The bioweapon stumbled slightly, but gripped into the plaster of the walls for balance, leaving deep, finger-shaped dents. He eyed the rapidly-paling man down the hall and puffed up with a deep, sinister grumble while wiping the blood from his cheek by the swiftly-regenerating wound.
           Irons was forced to perform more legwork than any police chief in his position, just to avoid the Tyrantâs full speed charge along the open hallway. He was wheezing in a mix of terror and exertion as he dove around a decorative corner in a tuck-and-roll.
           The Tyrant knew where his momentum was taking him, and brought his dominant arm up to shield his head as he slowed as much as was in his power before his huge mass and velocity smashed completely through one of the thin inner walls. He landed, cat-like, on hands and one knee on the scattered carpet of wall rubble and flattened chairs. The sounds of his prey struggling upright and continuing his flight along the hallway echoed to him, and in a fluid motion he rose and lunged again up the small press stage at the back of the room, intercepting the manâs path. He lifted both mighty arms over his head and interlocked his fists into a far larger, more destructive implementâslamming down in a full body swing as soon as he heard Ironsâs steps growing louder.
           The police chief yelpedâducking and tumbling forward as softball-sized chunks of wall showered over and past him. Tromping out through the generous doorway heâd created, T-00 drew back an arm and swung down a powerful overhand punch which the man barely wriggled out of the way ofâjust a split second to spare, cracking in half the sacrificial floorboard that had formerly been below him.
           Mr. X jerked his face aside to protect his eyes from the panicky onslaught of four more point-blank shots. Slippery bastard, wasnât he⊠But judging from the size of the firearmâs magazine, the target had at most three rounds left. He could only buy himself about five more secondsâor one more of these close calls.
           And T-103 Tyrants were very like humans. T-103s were persistence hunters.
           But the chase wasnât over yet. Irons could prove himself an even slipperier bastard.
           Shaking blood free of his face and swiping at his eyes quickly to clear it away from his vision, T-00 zeroed in on the chiefâs back as he scrambled for some distance. He was going for the back eastern staircaseâclosest route to his office. Likely aiming for an escape using the elevator hidden inside his office. Many ways to do this. It all depended on how much more fight Irons was willing to throwâor shootâhis way. The Chief was assuming that his elevator was safe. Mr. Xâs steely eyes glinted as he rose again and pursued; it would not be safe for long.
           Brian Irons had tripped on the first few steps of the back stair, gasping at the shock of pain in his creaking knees before throwing a wild look back at the brute powerwalking up the distance.
           âWait! Wait!â He blubbered, holding his gun upright, âWhyâre you after me? Iâm with Umbrella! We had an agreement!â
           Mr. X slowed his pace by a few notchesâlevelling a very unimpressed stare the targetâs way with his nose crinkling and the edges of his mouth twitching outwards in a hint of snarl. Whatever this police chiefâs âagreementâ had been, it was irrelevant to his objective, and his handler was making no move to intervene. He slowed to a stalk, allowing the man now crawling backwards up a few more stairs to think perhaps the B.O.W. was being the slightest bit convincedâor confused.
           âWh-What the fuckâŠâ he whimpered in a lowered tone, fumbling with his gun and very nearly accidentally aiming its barrel right towards his own foot. âLookâlookâYou got a job to do, right? I get it! I gotta do the dirty work too, right? Canât we come to an understanding here? Maybeâmaybeâisnât there anything youâd like, huh? Get you to look the other way?â
           Almost within range where the exhausted, cowering man would not be able to slither aside. Mr. X stalked closer, lining up the strike in his head.
           âI meanâyouâre still a guy right? Does Umbrella let you have fun? I could set you up, come on!â
           Mr. Xâs shoulders bunched and he dove forward, stronger arm wound back. Irons abandoned his dubious pitch, aiming his magnum and desperately squeezing the trigger. The Tyrant let out a sharp grunt of pain and displeasureâthe damn bulletâs fragments had damaged his right eye, and closing it tight he took a wild swing at where the target ought to be. The leather of his glove clipped something; the minimal impact rewarded him with a gasp of more human pain. The follow-through of his hook smashed through the railings of the stairs, sending the pieces clattering and scattering like bowling pins.
           Another bullet scored past his jawâat a higher angle. Blindly he swiped with his other hand, earning another yelp of alarm. Almost out of ammoâor perhaps just now out judging from that terribly frightened noise.
           He took a secondâs pause, from the uncomfortable twinging as his cornea melded back together. His ears kept close tabs on the clumsy, rough progress that his prey made up the stairs. Slow. And not even steady. Jittery. The next time he closed the distance would be it, he calculated. With a grunt, he scrubbed free coagulating blood from his eyelid and flickered it open and shut to be sure the regeneration was finalized. The bedlam left over from his assaultâincluding the two upended and splintered stairs where his second blow had landedâcame into clearer view.
           Good. The target had stumbled after ascending the last stair, cursing under his short breath. Mr. X craned his neck upwards, crouching down and gathering strength as he gauged the angle between him and that landingâŠ
           Chief Brian Irons was fighting his own shaking hands, hastily cramming more bullets into the clip of his gun from the dwindling supply in his vestâs pocketâcussing in a muted snarl as a chunk of lint found its way into the mechanism and required him to winkle it out for a crucial second. He managed to reload four before a powerful thump and crashing of leather-and-Kevlar-wrapped knees trashed the railing of the stairwayâs landing as the Tyrant landed that 24-foot vertical. Slamming the magazine back into his magnum, Irons staggered away, trying to reach the doorway into his office with his free hand.
           T-00âs silvery, laserpoint eyes fixated on him. He stood to his full height, chest puffed even larger and fingers tightening and loosening with eagerness. An almost whispery growl vibrated up through the massive creature, daring the man to shoot. He was readyâthe targetâs aim was piss-poorâwith only four rounds, that only bought him two or three seconds. If that.
           âOh, f-fuck!â Ironsâs free hand missed the office doorâs handle, and a flood of cortisol-laden sweat scent filled the hallway. Tinted with⊠urine. Ugh. The Tyrantâs expression tightened another few notches in disgust. But suddenly, the targetâs free hand dove into his other vest pocket and ripped out a rounded canister.
           âŠFlashbang? Mr. X squinted reflexively, and then tucked his face behind a powerful forearm as the Chief yanked a pin out of the device with his teeth and tossed it over at the mutantâs boots.
           Very technically it was a âflashbangâ, in that it BANGED just as loudly, and the fiery blast did constitute a flash. The grenade shot shockwaves and shrapnel up into the Tyrantâs entire lower body, rattling the floor beneath its feet and throwing off its balance. Just before his eardrums were crippled by the short-range explosion, Mr. X picked up the door swinging open and shut, and the low âoofâ, as his prey threw himself beyond the doorframe to avoid the metal shards zipping in all directions.
           Damn.
           Slippery bastard indeed.
           It didnât matter. The Tyrant grunted as he went to one knee, one hand cupping an ear, and the other plucking out a larger chunk of grenade casing that had lodged itself deep in the calf area of his Limiterâs trouser portion. His brows cinched up, and waited a second for the sounds of the R.P.D. to begin fading back in before he stood, adjusted his hat, and barged his way into the Chiefâs office.
           Irons peered back over his shoulder in a flash of panic as he vanished through a previously hidden door. Ah. So that was how one reached that elevator. Throwing the creepy taxidermized deer aside, Mr. X stalked after at a pace that would just about let the slimy man close those elevator doors on him. Again, that wouldnât matter. Elevators were not safe.
           Not if sabotaged.
           âL-look, Iâm not gonna say it again!â the target wailed as his back was to the elevatorâs doors, waiting the painful moments for the car to rise into place. Mr. X tried to tune the words out, ducking under the doorway and stomping forth. Eyes wide, and nostrils flared, with bloodlust rising to repay that explosive trick. Brian Irons aimed his pistol, âI was supposed to be safe! I was in charge! Now back off you⊠you⊠stupid animal! Iâll shoot you again!â
           Go ahead. That was what the slightly-bared teeth of the Tyrant said as he sped up his stride. See what good it does!
           The elevator produced a soft âding!â
           The moment the doors opened, heâd dove backwards into the space and jammed the button to descend. Mr. X halted just a foot from the closing doorsâable to relish seeing this very annoying figureâs smirk of triumph twist into confusion as the Tyrant merely watched the flimsy metal and polycarbons slide weakly closed.
           The moment he heard the hum of the mechanisms sending the box down, Mr. X squared up, snorted, and punched a hole through the outer doors as if through aluminum foil. His massive hand clasped tight over the thick cables and electrical wires both holding up and powering the elevator.
           Skrrrrk!
           As strong as elevator cables were, nothing compared to the sheer force a seven-foot-nine, over-700-pound Tyrant could summon in an instant. With the also-severed electricals sparking and snapping, the elevator car clanging and battering in its uncontrolled fall, Mr. X retracted his hand and awaited the deep BOOM as it finally came to a sudden stop in the depths of the basement level. With a deep huff, he turned and made a more leisurely approach back into the Chiefâs office. The odds the target survived the fall were fairly lowâa similar fall had bruised up and stunned a Tyrantâand regardless of survival he would not get out of the wrecked elevator car unscathed. It would not hurt to double-checkâŠ
           âŠbut first, water. Damn, the sheer salt from those M.R.E.s had only made him so much thirstier. The running water may be contaminated at this point with who knew what, but offices often had water coolers. Halting, his eye snagged on something. A boxâno, a vending machine. The bulb was malfunctioning, but the odd flicker of light revealed the label of âAquafinaâ to him.
           âAquaâ⊠agua? Same thing, yes? âFinaâ⊠that was just exactly what it said. Maybe. If the advertising insisted, he would be advertised to at the moment; Mr. X grabbed at the upper corner of the machineâs front door and wrenched to pop it openâcompletely blacking out the bulb in the process. The interior was lined with twenty-ounce bottles, each ready for a now-broken dispensing arm to grab and toss them down into the outlet tray. No need; he could do it himself, thank you.
           The Tyrant snatched one, bit the lid off with his teeth and spat it aside, and drained it in a matter of seconds. A little heavily chlorinated, but safe enough for his purposes. He repeated the process with three more, gaze idly flicking about as his senses sharpened further with the proper hydration.
           âŠsomething was happening out the nearest window.
           Dropping the latest empty bottle, the Tyrant stepped closer and tried to train his keen senses on the movement through the rain-streaked glass. Two forms were making a meandering progress across the street that bordered the back of the station. Meandering⊠no, almost a back-and-forth, tug-of-war type of movement. A bit of a surprise, considering one form was quite big, and the other very slim, small, almostâ
âchild-like.
The white eyes opened wider. That was⊠Sherry. While relieved to see her still alive, he was less relieved to now understand that she was being yanked along byâŠ
âŠno.
Him. In a burst of frustration, his arm swung out and knocked the half-busted vending machine onto its side. Twenty-ounce bottles tumbled and bounced out in a cascade. How long had he taken getting the water? Not that long, surely⊠He trained his observation skills onto the larger form and⊠yes. However Irons had managed to survive the two-story drop and pry his way from the destroyed car, he had been injured and sported a noticeable limp now. That also might explain how he was having so much trouble managing to abduct a meek, tired 11-year-old.
Their forms were starting to get lost to the shadows of buildings, of trees, of distance. Mr. X let out a deep, throaty growl and punched out the window. He could not completely trust that the small girl would be safe in his presence, but he trusted the police chiefâs grimy presence far less.
And, disgusting as it was, Ironâs scent trail would be very easy to follow now.
------------------------
Irons had a head start, but it wasnât long before the Tyrantâs heavy footsteps came to a halt in front of the gates of aâŠ
AâŠ
What the hell was this place?
Robust but decorative brick and metal fencing surrounded the large building, culminating in a thick wooden gate. But⊠someone had drawn or painted on these gates, subduing the intimidating protection of these barriers in the most bizarre of ways.
He was⊠not sure what the paintings were meant to be. A strange wormâbut with⊠flared sides and a simple humanoid face? He shook his head. He must focus on how to enter, how to find his target. How to destroy himâbefore anything happened to Sherry Birkin.
He was⊠uneasy about even the brief time sheâd been his captive⊠charge? Captive felt more apropos. Especially with the way his hackles were raising.
The gate proved no barrier at all as T-00 leapt up and gripped onto the top with both hands, lifting himself smoothly over and dropping into a spread-out posture. The interior was⊠oddly silent. The size of the building, and its defenses against the dull-witted infected should easily have protected a few dozen people at least. Especially if it was already inhabited, which the wear upon the footpath suggested it had been.
The doors at the front also looked strong. A palm pressing on it met resistance stronger than a simple lock, and the Tyrant had to grunt softly and press his palm harder to prompt the crossed chain and padlocks lacing over the entrance to snap open in a spray of steel fragments. One side of the double doors creaked open, and the bioweapon slid inside before shutting it behind him.
He sniffed. Irons was here. There had also been⊠others. Theyâd been terrified. Theyâd been⊠juveniles. The scent of old, stale blood-spilling layered over with the powerful essence of cleaning enzymes and bleach was⊠Mr. X unflared his nostrils as far as the movement could go.
What the fuck was this facility..?
Despite any efforts to conceal it, the place still smelled to his senses as stale death, old urine, permeating stress. So many layers of it, it could not have been only the disaster responsible⊠If Mariposa had been here to feel this, she would have called it evilâŠ
With a grunt, Mr. X tried to ignore the unsettling surroundings and detect which direction Irons had fled to. There were old plushes everywhere in this hall, staring at him. Reminding him. Guilting him. The strongest odor was lacing back and forth from the entry to a nondescript door on the 1st floorâbut the most recent trail led up the stairs. Mr. X clenched his jaw; another scent was equally strong along this routeâand rife with fear. He hadnât tried to memorize Sherry Birkin, finding such a thing likely to frighten her at the time (humans simply did not⊠uh, sniff at other humans and dogs, horses, and Tyrants did). It was likely her, and he did not like what this trail could mean.
He crept up the staircase, not wanting to give the damn police chief any chance to escape now. Nearing the door opposite the landing, the Tyrantâs shoulders hunched higher at the voice he heard muffled through several walls:
âNow, youâre gonna stay put,â The speaker was beyond threatening and there was a crash, then a dull clunk and rattle, âYou just behave yourself. If Claire brings what sheâs supposed to, Iâll let you go, you hear?â
Claire? A name. Bringing something. Ransom. Extortion. Perhaps far less vile than the other possibilities.
Perhaps the objective, his mind screamed at him. He had to admit the possibility, especially since Irons seemed to have some insider knowledge. Speak of the devilâhe was hobbling back this way. Resisting the urge to growl, Mr. X posted himself against the wall where the opening door would mostly conceal his presence. First priority was to separate out his prey. Get the element of surpriseâand put himself between the target and Sherry. If the Tyrant never spotted the girl, there would be no excuse for the bloodthirsty handler to set it on her.
ââGoddamitâŠâ The voice blended with the bang of the door and its painful shudder back into hanging open. Mr. X watched the top of the manâs head limp out, fumbling with a series of keys as he came to a stop. The Tyrant helpfully reminded him of the stakes of his situation by slamming that door behind him with a whamm!
Irons jolted, and threw himself towards the banister with a cut-off curse, dropping the key ring in the process.
Mr. X stamped up to close the distance, kicking aside those keys with a prominent flick of a boot as he did, enjoying how the manâs expression flicked over to terrified realization. Chief Irons gave a shout, stumbling forward into the banister before whirling about with his magnum drawn. It had to be assumed heâd reloaded it. Three close-calls worth of ammo. If, and only if, Mr. X was unprepared.
He was not.
A slim moment before the trigger first depressed, the Tyrant ducked low and chargedâcovering much of the distance without being touched. Brian Irons sucked in a choking breath as the beast rose back up to its feet less than a meter from him as the shotâs echo rang across the hall. The bioweapon growled and slung out a sharp jab for the manâs still-mystified face, hoping to end this mess.
Irons had pressed back, reducing the force just a touch, and the blow blasted the man through the wooden railings above the entry hall and sent him coughing and rolling a story down. Blood had spurted from his thoroughly-destroyed nose the whole way, decorating the child-friendly wallpaper. He crashed down, then laid still over a load of wooden banister shards and dusty carpets for moment.
A long moment.
Deed (as far as he could see) done, the Tyrant groaned a deep exhale, ready to proceed back downstairs and be completely sure this timeâŠ
The Tyrant gave a dull but threatening rumble, trying to carry on towards the stairs before a faint pressure around the leather of his gloveâ
âIs it you? Are you⊠okay now?â
Mr. X fixed his face forward for as long as he could. Was the handler able to detect any tactile sensations? Whoever the fool was, they could see and hear what he did, and the odds they were alerted to pain stimuli was likely. Still, T-00 tried not to tighten his fingers over the tiny hand that had looped over the side of his palm and tugged softly. Tried not to think about it, pay any attention to itâŠ
âUrrgh⊠aghh..!â
Croaks and groans not unlike those of an animal dying on the side of the road after being carelessly clipped by a bumper were coming from Ironsâmuffled though by the sheet of blood draining over his mustache and chin. Mr. Xâs head snapped over to the movement; in obvious agony, the police chief struggled and whined as he dragged himself up onto hands and knees. He coughed, spewing red-stained mucus onto the dusty floors. T-00 frowned, twisting around to plow right through the banister and come to a bone-crushing stop on top of the inching progress his target was making.
Must kill Irons.
Turning even that fraction had been a bad move. A blue-white blur flickered back through his peripheral vision; whether the handler had suspected this T-103 was avoiding something or not, this alone caused the bastard at the wheel to slam on the brakes. The bioweaponâs knee had bent to burst through the railing but only seized and shook as further movement after the cop was paralyzed.
NO!
Leather strained as hands twitched into fists, and for a split-second the control implant battled the Tyrantâs stubborn resolve. A blistering jolt to the brain knocked some of that resistance down, and Mr. X hissed as his neck cracked when it was twisted sharply to face Sherry.
She was confused, and mortified, by the shuddering, robotic movements, but stayed very very aware something was wrong here. Even if it was coming over this giant man much slower than when theyâd met.
âRrrhfâŠâ The handler powering the servers apparently saw no need to restrict its vocal cords, so the Tyrantâs thunderous snarl soon expressed whatever he could: Most obviously frustration beyond that of a rodeo bull, and the general âkeep awayâ, but so many other things indecipherable to anyone outside the monsterâs head. Sherryâs eyes widened and she started lining up her back to the door, hand straying to the knob as if checking to be sure it would still be there for her escape.
T-00âs shoulders heaved and shook as his lower body was sidled around to face the child down. Below, he could hear the creak of furniture and the scuffing of shoes and battered flesh as Irons pulled himself back to his feet. What did this damn controller have against juveniles? What possessed them to ignore that slimy police chief?
He felt one boot stalk forward, shaking the old building. Whatever. The low growling grew to even louder, more focused bursts of bestial noise. The handler could not force him not to do something if Umbrella didnât even think it possibleâŠ
âRrr⊠RrhâŠâ He locked eyes with Sherry, âRrhun.â
           Her jaw dropped open, but she kept her wits. It was a good thing she did; Mr. X tensedâshe tensedâand he gave the implant the barest hint of leeway. Rather clunky and graceless as he fought the lightning shooting through his limbs, he still ended up lunging quite fast for a creature of his size.
           Sherry abandoned the doorknobs and she dove underneath. Her tiny legs still had some speed in them, and Mr. X ended up being bodily smashed into the doorâand the door lost the clash by a mile. Snorting and fighting to reach up and sweep away splinters from his lapels and the folds of his face, the Tyrant was lurched back upright and made to spin about after her. The little girl was half-tripping down the stairs by the time the wretched implant forced him back up and towards the deathly, colorful hall again.
           Irons was nowhere to be seenâbut his blood trail was. A searing white spot lit up in that side of his vision, echoing with stinging pain as the handler deterred him from looking further. Again the Tyrant became uncharacteristically loudâa rasping huff escaping him as the handler now encouraged him to leap down after the child just as heâd been ready to do after her abductor. Sherry bolted towards the entrance doors, but stumbled as the floors quaked under the massive creature landing just a few yards behind her. The controller was getting more insistent; something in his shoulder popped as he struggled to pull the skull-shattering hook before it reached the child. The breeze from the sledgehammer fist rustled by her blonde hair wildly, and she scurried squirrel-like to the side towards the only other door. She had to know: She had to break line of sightâshe had to hide somewhere with a second avenue of escape. Somewhere he did not know of. Chances were increased from the location nowâhe knew the R.P.D., he knew the N.E.S.T.âhe did not know the⊠the⊠death-smelling childhood-stereotype-design house.
           In her white-knuckle grip, Sherry revealed that she had scooped up the Chiefâs collection of keys. At frantic speed, she jammed one into the side doorâs lock and let it fly openâsprinting within and slamming it shut in the shambling Tyrantâs face. There was not much room to spare; the door did not provide much of a barrier at all. But a secondâs pause was a secondâs pause. Mr. X hoped this second would give the girl time to hide; his palm shoved into the locked door and splintered it apart into several flimsy pieces.
           She was nowhere to be seen, but the handler at his controls stalked him into the adjoining hallway anyhow. Just donât find her. Donât find her, and the stupid bastard should lose interest. The Tyrant jerkily rounded the corner and was stunned into stopping the forced patrol for a brief moment.
           This was not a place for a juvenile to hide. The milky eyes fixed on the anemically-pale body laid naked on a dissection slab beyond the stark metal shelves. She should not see this. He hoped she was too distracted by the pursuit to catch on to what this looked likeâŠ
           A soft gasp, nerves and possibly nausea, reached his hypersensitive ears. Soft enough it was clear Sherry was holding her hands over her mouth, trying to muffle it further. Neck muscles stung as Mr. Xâs gaze was forced towards the noise. The controller could definitely hear what he did. Unfortunately. He still did not see Sherry, but the handler pushed him into action with a vindictive impatienceâMr. X watched his right hook swing out and bash through the shelving. Slats of metal went flying apart and the greater part of its bulk toppled over and crashed against a desk in the far corner. Glass jars of specimens and foul-smelling chemicals shattered and spilled across the tiled floor and sterile walls, their cacophony blending with and emphasizing the petrified shriek from under the intact furniture. T-00 hoped against hope that none of the glass or noxious fluids had reached her under there. His own nostrils stung as he reeled back and bumped into somethingâsomething that he put together the identity of with a wave of disgust and staggered aside.
           The handler in his head tried reasserting control quickly. The Tyrant felt himself dragged inexorably towards the shelter of the desk, and in a rough lunge he watched himself lift the entire thing and hurl it end over end, where it crashed on top of the wrecked shelves. The child darted out like a hunted rodent with another squeal and ducked behind the slab and its corpse occupant.
           Urgh⊠He did not like to be made to look at that. There was little doubt Irons had the same in mind for the even younger girlâand that brought on a flash of anger. A disorienting flash of anger; almost before he comprehended it he was stepping around the side of the table and cutting off Sherryâs escape route. Towering overhead, his left hand moved without permission, and while he could hold off some of its strength and its normally lethal aim the swipe was more than enough to snatch the girl around her fragile waist and lift her up to eye level.
           âNo, donâtâ!â
           The Tyrant strained as far as he could to delay what the handler was pushing him to do, but in despair he realized this would be a losing battle. He could feel his knuckles twitch and spasm against the increasingly intense impulses to tighten his grip around her vitals. He fought to redirect these commands, lifting her higher and closer instead. If anyone was going to come to the girlâs rescue, it had to be now.
           A beat passed, and no rescue came.
           Sherry had to help herself. Grunting and gasping with as much strength as she could muster, she pried at the bioweaponâs steel-vice fingersâkicked it in the chest ineffectively. As she was raised up she switched to reaching for his stoic, grooved face. Gouging at the eyes, clawing at wherever she could get any purchase. It was no good; nothing she could do seemed to faze an elite Tyrant.
           Until it did. In desperation the girlâs delicate fingers found the small metal peg protruding from his temple and latched on. Lightning shot down the giantâs spine, finally overriding the implantâs commands.
           It also overrode just about every fragment of physical control of himself Mr. X possessed. The bioweaponâs hands seized open and he wavered on his equally jolted knees. The girl dropped to the floor, the breath knocked out of her and elbows scraped against the harsh surface, but able to scurry back to her feet with only a hissing intake of pained breath. She limped as fast as she could past the creatureâback into the hall.
           Dazed, Mr. X cursed internally as the control was exerted back over him in a furious wave. His movements overcompensated and sent him staggering into a wall. With a deep growl, he steadied himself and shook his head. The numb fire in his brain was yet to subside. It was far worse than he remembered the implantâs anti-tamper deterrent to be. Perhaps because another being had triggered it; Sherry would not have known the miniscule protuberance had such a profound effect on the creature it was embedded in. She had every reason to yank it with all her petite might, even if sheâd known.
           As the implant forced him back up to a stiff march he found himself even more incredulous of it. The handler was clearly not the only illogical one. Why put such a serious weak point on the outside of him?
           Stupid! But, in just this case, fortunate. Sherry did have a way to keep out of his grasp, if only for a minute. But she still had nowhere safe to go in any direction. He feared nowhere could hide her. His heavy footfalls were catching up to her.
           âClaire!â She squeaked outâpiquing the Tyrantâs interest. Heâd heard the name before. It could be the woman whoâd provoked him in the library of the stationâor⊠it could be the younger woman with the titanium backbone and the tremendously high-caliber firearms. If the latter was here to protect Sherry, the odds were better. At least he could try and make it easy for her to knock him down with that shotgun, though it was hard to tell how much of a head-start that would give the two in fleeing a T-103.
           âSherry?â He heard the voice, bleeding with worry, relief, and weariness, echoing out from the entry hallway, âAre you okay? Are you hurt? I swear, if that creep touched a hair on your head Iâll beat his face inâŠâ
           Mr. X was in agreement with the sentimentâthough Claire might be disappointed to know the bioweapon had beaten her to it.
           âC-Claire, noââ Sherryâs voice was tripping over itself, in haste to get the warning out as fast as possible, âWe have to runâthe really big man is hereâhe keeps coming after meââ
           âThe really bigâŠ? ⊠Oh.â Claireâs voice took a sudden plunge into dread. Then, just before the Tyrant rounded the corner, there was the heavy racking of her shotgun.
           He locked eyes with his unwilling adversary, halfway locking his knees to force the implant to stop him. It was all he could do now to wrestle with the increasing charge of the pulses, and give the two any crucial seconds to prepare to survive this encounter. Claireâs eyes glinted angrily back and she planted herself resolutely between him and the vulnerable child.
           âYou want her, asshole? Then you gotta go through me.â
           âClaire noââ Sherry whimpered, seeming tempted to bolt for the open door but not wanting to abandon the womanâs side. âIt wonât workâwe canât hurt him at allââ
           Mr. Xâs legs began to move onwards, automatic and unnatural like pistons, prowling towards them at a painfully-slow pace. The bastard at the wheel seemed to be relishing this. Yet another thing wrong with him. Claire grit her teeth and fired, the large buckshot tearing into his jaw and slamming hard into the Limiter over his collarbone, but barely pushing him back a step. The relentless approach continued; Mr. X felt one arm raise, fist clenched in preparation.
           âClaire, waitââ Sherry suddenly tugged on her protectorâs arm, âThe metal thing! Do you see it?â
           âWhatâ?â
           âIt stuns himâQuickâAim for the metal thing!â
           The T-103âs eyes flew open wide. Yes. That would certainly stun him (and then some). If she still had her snapshot aim under stress.
           The next five seconds passed as if five hours:
           Claireâs shotgun canted higher; the flash of its blast blew past the Tyrantâs ear, clipping flesh but just missing the metal; Sherry screamed, cowering and covering her head in her hands; Claire stepped back to dodge the clunky swing of T-00âs attack coming into range; they were backed into the wall, with 8 feet of unhappy assailant just two steps away.
           Claire took another shotâfrom point-blank range.
           This one hit. In a paralyzing bolt of pain, his vision went instantly pure white. He heard himself produce a rough croak, just after the nauseating CRACK and sharp splinteringâof metal pushed past its physical limits. Scalding hot blood was flowing down his temple. There was nothing but shock as his central nervous system scrambled under the last ferocious dose of deterrent.
           He felt himself falling forwardsâsenses spinning. He was mercifully unconscious well before he hit the ground, his mass shaking the orphanageâs foundations.
           And beside his still form, rolling back and forth in a divot of the linoleum floors, was a cracked and dislodged silvery cylinder. The long surgical screw only half-present, its tip sheared off.
           Somewhere, miles away, an Umbrella tech startled upright as the broadcast equipment in his cubicle switched over to error codes and static (frantically fumbling to hide the fast-food wrappers and the magazines he was not meant to have before moving to report this). It was unprecedented.
I haven't seen anyone else mention this; but the UK recently completed outlawed incest fantasy porn, and for some reason cum tributes. They are also saying that these laws are going to be taken very seriously, with 2 years of jail time for even having these things.
I shouldn't have to tell you this, but even if you don't like that kinda stuff, even if it's a squick for you, THIS IS BAD! This is another step towards the global fascist movement of demonizing and outlawing sexual content, which in the short term will hurt sex workers, and in the long term will no doubt lead to certain groups of people being outlawed as "too sexual".
Also let me be clear, this isn't about "protecting women". The idea that ANY kind of porn is inherently dangerous or harmful to women is fucking puritanical hogwash. These laws are never made with the intent of protecting women, or protecting children. They just know that sounds better than "we're making this law to control internet speech".
Please share this post btw, especially if you're in the UK or have UK moots. The jail time thing is super scary and considering this is one of the most popular and mainstream kinds of porn there's a good chance people need to start using VPNs if they aren't already.
Modern-day Ancardian Orc flexes on his orcish battle reanactor sisses and bros by having the Real Thing, that was legendarily known for stopping head and eye injuries by its wildass design--
it's worth mentioning that mustarjil is an identity specific to ahwari (also known as marsh arabs), an indigenous community in the mesopotamian marshlands, today on the border of iraq and iran.
I just want to highlight just how olâ timey this racism is. The subject line âsnipe hunt is over, the moon crickets are in the field bagâ should not be overlooked because moon crickets is a slur used against black slaves who would get to together and sang hymns at night. This is an antebellum racial slur, and I get the feeling this is just a continuation of that tradition. Not an evolution of anti-black racism. Itâs the same racism and these rich whiteys were just incubated from progressing it.
Steps I took to fact-checking this before concluding that this is probably fake:
Noticed the image of the article looks AI generated
Noticed that the image was posted without a link.
Googled "Epstein Hunting Black People" (no search results, suspicious considering this post was made 3 days ago and that would be a long time for this story to be up on a news platform without being disseminated widely)
Went to the news source listed in the image (News Wall, found this to be a yellow flag because it's a source I've never heard of) and found that while it is a real site, it does not have any articles listed with this title.
It is very easy to be susceptible to misinformation that feels true based on the context we already have of the world. I am asking that everyone spend some time thinking critically and using media literacy before sharing things like this. The real news is bad enough, y'all. We don't need to fall for hoaxes too.
So whilst I agree that media literacy is imperative, Iâd like to point out that knowing how and where to search is also key to media literacy. Being that in this case the media in question is directly Epstein emails I went straight to the Epstein library and by searching the keywords in the emails above was able to find all of this within a 30 second search span.
In conclusion, before making an attempt at *educatedly* correcting black people publicly, ensure youâre correct. Donât rely on chat bots or google results, know how to do your own actual research.
Underneath each screenshot Iâve also included the file number so anyone is free to fact check it as well.
And just to really cement how ignorant this "fact checking" is, while they are correct in that News Wall doesn't have that specific image on their website, the link to the Instagram post that News Wall made is literally right below the image. There isn't an article on it because News Wall doesn't write articles, they disseminate information. They're a news distribution website, and rate how reliable the articles they post are.
Their instagram post doesn't indicate an article is written, only that there's something to report on, which SHOULD BE your sign to start digging into this by looking for the EMAILS that EPSTEIN sent.
As Lena has pointed out, they are easily found in the Epstein library, through the Department of Justice, where the files have been being released from. (It isn't hard to actually do the work to look into something, btw. You just have to actually look at the information thoroughly.)
Everyone say thank you to Ubernegro and Lena for doing the work CORRECTLY by providing links, reference numbers, and looking further than the first search result when fact checking.
Hey there, my name is Sera, you might be familiar with my past work behind the scenes such as the Mass Effect trilogy, Dragon Age, Silent Hills & many more. If you have cherished my work, please pay attention.
I'm an agoraphobic KanienÊŒkehĂĄ:ka (Mohawk) mixed lesbian who has fought for several years a worsening health condition that is currently killing me. I've spent years exhausting any means to get help, enduring extreme pain. I share as much as I can without undermining my privacy and safety (due to stalking by my abusive family.) More in the link below â€
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