C o m p r o m i s e
A Resident Evil 2 Story.
Jeremy Urbano Rosete (Bad Ronald)
1. Monster to Monster.
The mesh gratings were a terrible place to stray near in a damp sewer, especially in this sort of situation. It seemed that the rest of the team didn't happen take this into account, because if they did, the promising upstart operative named Robertson wouldn't have been screaming in agony and pain right about now. The other Umbrella Special Forces Unit operatives stepped back in surprise as their teammate was lifted- almost gently- into the air. Then surprise changed into horror as their eyes stared at the thing lifting Robertson up… a pulsing, meaty, impossibly muscular arm jutting out from the broken wall grating. The arm was as thick as an oak tree trunk and was rife with a slithery mass of quivering blue veins.
It didn't take the operatives very long to see that their standard, scientifically-engineered Umbrella Corporations Tactical Kevlar and Steel-Mesh Mixture Body Armor would be just as efficient as a flyswatter against this new arrival.
Aside from the obvious, there was something very wrong with the situation.
The great white twitching sharp bones protruding from Robertson's back turned out to be much larger than the usual human ribs. Actually, they weren't bones at all. They were immense ivory claws of the-
A rattling sound, gurgling frantically from the dying operative's throat, shocked the rest into action.
Three of them snapped up their assault rifles, Umbrella standard MP5A2s, and drummed out an orchestra of 9 x 19 mm Luger/Parabellum rounds. The guns burst in the night, briefly illuminating the murky darkness in staccato flashes of machine-gun fire, trailed by the stinging stench of cordite and blood.
The filters of their gas masks blocked out the smell.
The three operatives stumbled backwards as the rest of the arm crashed through the wall, obliterating Robertson into a stringy mess. For a moment, the darkness encompassed everything.
One glowing red eye fixed upon them with a malevolent gaze. Heavy breathing came from it, the sort that didn't belong in the world. The Umbrella operatives stared back with their own variant of red, through the lenses of their gas masks. A guttural sound hissed out from the giant creature in the dark.
They switched to desperate measures as the monster stood to full height, over 10 feet tall, looming over the operatives. One operative snatched out a flash-bang grenade. Another yanked back at the shotgun shell attachment under his assault rifle, cocking it ready. The third snapped on the night vision scope on his rifle, seeing the monster clearly in all its ugly glory.
The agents were extremely well-trained. But they weren't as trained as the last of them- the fourth agent- who stood behind, watching calmly. His breathing, sifting through the filter in his gas mask, was calm and controlled; though his heart was beating like a hummingbird's wings. He was aiming his rifle at the monster like the rest, with a small divergence. While the rest were anxiously clutching their rifles and shaking in involuntary fear, the fourth operative was regarding the monster with indifference.
The men had been trained very well, yes, but that was never enough. In the experiences of the fourth agent, it never would be. He knew what would happen next: It was in the tactical offense manual which he so despised: Frontal offense B- A flash, the rush-ambush, and the mess to clean up afterwards. However, it would be a different kind of mess this time.
Sure enough, the first one threw the flash-bang and turned away, switching his rifle to shotgun shell attachment. He was mimicked by the other two, shielding their eyes with their arms, each of them poised to rush the monster as soon as the white flash faded. Still aiming steadily, the last of them merely closed his eyes. The monster's furious roar drowned out the clapping sound of the blast.
When the fourth operative opened his eyes, he saw to no surprise that the grenade thrower was already pasted on the wall. His head – or what was left of it- was smeared against the ceiling like a chunk of vertical road kill. Seeing this, the other two turned tail and ran towards him.
And then there were three.
"Mr. Death!" One of them screamed.
They reached him.
The fourth- now the third- Agent Hunk, also named "Mr. Death", steeled his grip around his rifle to steady his aim. He took deep breaths, puckering his mouth against the rubber mask. His heartbeat needed to be brought down to control or it would wreck havoc on his aiming. The two took position besides him pointed their guns at the creature, copying Hunk just as they copied the deceased grenade thrower. The monster made a threatening advance towards them.
Hunk didn't fire.
Nervous glances were shared between the two agents, past Hunk's shoulder. The monster made a bellowing, screeching roar again, and the two other operatives started to back away.
Hunk scrutinized the monster slowly making its way towards him. William Birkin, formerly a brilliant scientist who was advancing Umbrella's research development ranks at blinding speed. It was no longer William Birkin the scientist anymore, instead, it was William Birkin, a hulking, grotesque, hideous curiosity of Umbrella's brand of science. The right side of its face was shifting backwards into its neck, leaving only one glowing-red eye. Its right arm was a huge, pulsating thing that resembled a large broken elongated tree trunk with blood-stained claws. It flexed, twitched with giddy anticipation.
The G-Virus. Birkin's greatest lifetime-to-death achievement.
Hunk had been given the basic briefing before being sent to this mission: William Birkin had constructed a virus was more powerful than the one currently residing in each zombie. From the looks for it, the scientist had injected himself with his own project.
"Agent Hunk!"
How positively irritating.
Hunk could tell that the two were behind him now, showcasing the very reason why he hated working with teams. Trust for each man was lacking, rendering the entire probability of team structure useless. Teamwork was just something Hunk didn't believe in. Anyone who had to depend on others for success was just a weak person climbing shoulders and browning his nose on his way to success. As the monster started to close the gap between them, Hunk could only think, 'Where?'
'The face?'
'The chest?'
Everything had a weakness. Hunk knew this. Everything in the world except Hunk himself had some sort of weakness which he could always exploit. He just had to find it before it was too late.
'Where?'
Hearing the rapid footsteps recede behind him, he knew the two operatives had run off and left him behind. It was just him and the monster, who was within running distance. The Birkin monster's arm pumped violently again. The flap of skin covering its shoulder gently parted to reveal a great big disgusting eyeball that swiveled towards Hunk, glaring at him.
'There.'
Then the giant eyeball stopped glaring and shrank back in its socket, leaking blood to the floor as it was suddenly punctured with a bullet courtesy of Hunk's rifle. Howling terrifically in fury and pain, the monster slammed to the wall to its right, attempting to rub out the pain. Hunk shot again and the monster, distracted as it was, made a weak swipe, which Hunk easily avoided. The Umbrella operative took out a flash-bang grenade and threw it at the eyeball.
The blast was immediate, faster than he expected, and he was blinded momentarily. Shaking his head quickly to dissipate the white haze, he looked.
Dazed, the freak of nature swaggered, moving silently among the sewer waters. It didn't seem to see him. The fourth operative started to advance carefully when a scream distracted him. It sounded like a young girl, from somewhere above the sewers. He looked back, but it was too late, he was knocked off his feet and sailed through the air, making a less-than-graceful landing into a barred pipe entrance. The monster hesitantly sniffed and looked away from him, having lost interest in its opponent. Looking up at the ceiling, it opened its mouth and made one more shriek, one that sounded ridiculously like someone's name, before lumbering away, leaving Hunk to struggle with his slipping consciousness.
"SSSSHHHEEE-RRRRAAA-HHEEEEEE!"
Hunk had only a second to recognize the monster's cry as a mangled version of Birkin's daughter's name, Sherry.
Sherry Birkin.
So the little Birkin daughter was its target.
Hunk slumped to the ground, losing his internal battle. He slipped into a deep sleep, into unconsciousness.
Into the dark.
Notes: It's been a while since I've written an RE story, much less posted in All I have to say is the usual, I played through RE2, Last Survivor Mode, and wondered what Hunk would've done if he ran into one of the main characters. I know about the time-line, I know he was rushing through the Racoon City sewers a day before Leon and Claire arrived, but this idea was already drilled in my head and I just wanted to write something- ANYTHING.
So any of you time-line purists... bugger off. Besides, Hunk is pretty fun to write about, and hopefully, to read about, too.