Hello, everyone! Here is Chapter 3 of this story. Here, the new Tyrant is being tested by the Umbrella Corporation in a few different ways. There's not much else to say before we begin.
DISCLAIMER: The "Resident Evil" video game series is owned and published by Capcom. The author, in collaboration with the user "RT86", owns the original character "David Wellington" and any other unique elements in this story.
Onward!
[9 DAYS LATER] [ROCKFORT CONCENTRATION CAMP] [14:32]
"Alright, form up!" An Umbrella Security trooper directs a group of orange-uniformed men and women all sporting the same discomforted expressions and rough exteriors out into an open space. "Come on, get your asses out here!"
The uniformed humans, prisoners in the world's eyes, step out into the sunlight and shield their eyes from the glare. After days in darker bunkhouses with covered windows, or underground corridors made of cold stone and colder wardens, the open air is a strange thing to experience. It isn't entirely open space, though; guardhouses stand tall on the four sides of a chain link fence several meters tall with barbed wire around the top. This place is still a prison to its inmate's eyes.
"Follow me," the trooper orders the group as two other troopers come up from behind the prisoners, leading them forward with necessary force. The prisoners grumble and mutter as they fully enter the sunlight, the sky being the only roof over their heads and not protecting them from the heat. They all walk by another group of prisoners, some shirtless and covered in sweat, doing pushups and jumping jacks by the fence under a guardhouse's gaze. They don't get close to them, and a few of the exercising inmates glare back at their stares as if daring them to come closer. These dares are all the walking group needs to stay in their place.
The troopers lead the prisoners around one corner of the camp and towards the main gate, currently closed. A four-wheel truck painted green and black rests by the gate, its back covered by a beige tarp. A Willys MB jeep painted the same colors is by the gate, a machine gun turret mounted on its back. Two troopers are in the seats and a third one mans the gun. The gun is not turned towards the prisoners, but the trooper is looking their way. The desire to test these soldier's reflexes is not strong enough to do.
"Stand here." The troopers direct the prisoners with their guns and their faceless visages. They shuffle slowly along, forced into a line without care for who stands next to who. A row of orange stands out against the brown dirt and green trees. The Sun beats down on their exposed faces as they stand there waiting for something else to happen. Before anyone can collapse from heat exhaustion, a pair of heavily armored troopers escort a man wearing a flak vest over his fatigue and a black helmet without a visor. He sports a stubble on his chin, a series of badges on his left shoulder below the Umbrella logo, and a glare as strong as any of the prisoners looking at him.
The prisoners know this man as "The Warden". He has another name, but here in the camp, he is the top-ranking officer, with the strength and merciless attitude to prove it. He starts to pace in front of the line, like these prisoners are grunts in the military. Almost all eyes are on him.
"I know you don't like me," the Warden says, a grim beginning to some sort of speech. "The feeling's mutual. But I am willing to at least respect you for your services. You are just some of the people here that keep the Umbrella Corporation alive. Someone, somewhere, is thankful for that. From the recent insurrections and malingering from you all, you don't understand that fact."
"You all say you're tough. Well, I'll believe it when I see it. And I'll see it," he exclaims as he points to the outer jungle, "out there, living in the rough. No guards, no guns, just your brains and your wits. That's what makes people tough, and you all are going to show me it. Do well enough in this exercise and you will be enlisted into Umbrella's Security Division as a trooper."
The prisoner's eyes light up with excitement or widen in surprise. They quickly glance at any nearby troopers, each imagining the chance of wearing that armor and wielding those guns. A few of the prisoners sporting gang tattoos from former days outside the camp share dark smiles with each other. The commander watches this discourse and growing distrust without breaking his character.
"Once you are brought out into the jungle, you will stay out there until sunrise. Any one of you that tries to slip back in earlier, or do some bullshit scheme, will be shot. No favorites, no remorse." The warden reaches into his vest and pulls out a small rectangular box from beneath his vest. He opens it and reveals its contents to the prisoners; several metal collars arranged like small rings.
"Each of you will wear one of these collars during this test," the warden tells his orange-shirted audience. "They will track your location throughout this test. We will know if you try to tamper with them, so don't try it." He pulls one out and holds it carefully in his hand, showing the device's simple structure and metallic design. "If you come back to the base at sunrise with the collar on and activated, you will begin basic training into the Umbrella Corporation's military branch. I'd say good luck, but your skill and abilities are much more important here. Show everyone here how strong you are."
The escort troopers join the first three that led the prisoners out here in putting a collar onto each prisoner's neck. They all click on, some of the prisoners scratching their necks once the troopers appear to be looking the other way. No amount of fiddling can get them off, and they feel constricting around the wearer's throats.
"Alright, you all get on the truck!" The troopers force the prisoners into the truck's covered rear with harsh words. "No bullshit, move it!" The prisoners comply, none of them making eye contact with the Warden. A trooper gives the back of the truck a few hard slaps once everyone is on, flashing a thumbs-up sign to the driver's rear-view mirror. The truck's engine starts up with a chugging roar as the vehicle drives out of the opening gate with its cargo.
The MB Jeep follows closely behind the truck, turret aimed at the larger vehicle's back. The Warden watches them go until he hears a buzzing in his helmet's commlink. He gruffly says, "Report," to whoever is speaking.
"The tracking chips are activated, Commander," a deep Irish male voice states to the Warden. "Subject T-H90 is ready for deployment."
"Send it out. Move the cleanup crew in after every target is confirmed dead."
"Yes, Sir."
The Warden straightens his back as he weighs the balance of several human lives towards the greater corporation he serves. He turns away from the gate and back to his quarters without looking at any of the other lives he may have to snuff out one day.
[ROCKFORT ISLAND FACILITY] [23:35]
"We've gone over your reports, Subject T-H90. You did quite well."
Subject T-H90 listens to the voice of Dr. Millicent Shrovol from outside a windowless metal room. The walls, floor, and ceiling are all the same shade of grey, the light shielded by extra-thick glass. The Tyrant cannot see Millicent, her voice coming from somewhere near the ceiling. It does not look for where she is speaking from, staying still near the room's center with shoulders slightly forward and chest rising and falling with each breath. It stares at a reflection of itself on a window that, in fact, separates Millicent and her grey-haired elder scientist colleague from their creation.
"You must certainly remember the hunt, don't you?" Millicent asks, talking into a speaker on her side of the window. "How it felt to track your prey, hunting them down and killing them. Did it feel good?" The Tyrant shows no visible answer, not looking away from the window. Both scientists hear barely any sound from their own speakers, so they watch it carefully as Millicent continues to ask loaded questions.
"Are you looking at the window now? Can you see yourself?" She waits a few seconds before continuing. "Look at yourself now. See your body in this state, this relaxed state. This is how we want you to be with us, with people you trust. You trust us because we made you. You trust the Umbrella Corporation because we work for it."
No response from inside the chamber. The observing man crosses his arms in front of his chest as Millicent wets her lips in the observation room's dry air.
"Feel the air in your lungs, T-H90. Breathe it in, and then out. That's right, good. Try breathing a bit deeper now." The Tyrant obeys, raising its shoulders up and back as it continues to look at its reflection. "Good, that's good. Just keep listening to me."
"You are certainly taking your time with this test," the man tells Millicent off-handedly. She looks back at him for a moment, uncertain about the real meaning of those words. "I want to make sure things are going right," she tells him.
"I understand your reasoning better than the suits will. The combat tests will matter more to them than this emotional one." The man stares at the subject with growing distaste. "We should prepare another test for tomorrow."
Sarah turns away from the speaker to face the man. "I'll get to that when I'm ready, Simeon. We've been grinding for nine days to get what the suits want. Why can't we get something we want as well?"
The man, "Simeon", says nothing back. Millicent turns back to the speaker and sees the Tyrant has walked a bit closer to the window. Why did Simeon say nothing about it when he was looking that way?
"Stay there, T-H90," Millicent tells the Tyrant. "Keep breathing, but now I want you to flex your arms and loosen the muscles. Get them relaxed for the next time we need you." It raises and lowers one arm at a time, making its muscles bulge and pop out like a bodybuilder's when lifting weights. The rest of its body remains thin by comparison, producing an especially strong contrast when it moves its enlarged left hand.
"Great, that's great." Millicent feels a happy flutter in her stomach as she commands this biological weapon like a pet. "Now, get down on your hands and use your arms to push your body up and down from the floor." Simeon lowers his arms to his sides as T-H90 begins doing pushups, its hands positioned wide from its chest. It starts slowly before sliding into a pattern, but it leans towards its right side because its larger left hand prevents proper balance. Millicent watches it exercise for a few moments, noting the lack of sweat from its mutated skin. She amplifies the volume on the observation room's speakers and hears heavier, deeper breathing from the Tyrant.
"It's been going for so long without a break," Millicent comments as she slides her glasses up the bridge of her nose with a well-practiced finger movement. "Look at it, Simeon," she directs the man beside her. "It killed several people just hours ago, and here it is now doing pushups like one of the troopers. All without question or hesitation."
"All the Tyrants have been like that," Simeon reminds her, "especially the T-103's. They understood and followed our orders. This one doesn't have to be any different to fit Umbrella's wishes."
"That's just the bare minimum, right?" Millicent asks with a wild glint in her eyes. "The T-103's are the closest Umbrella has gotten to efficient BOW's, yes, but they still have their flaws. If we could overcome those flaws with T-H90, it would the biggest leap forward in years. To think we almost let that delivery driver go on vacation before we double-checked the genetic samples. We could have missed this opportunity!"
A few moments of silence follow Millicent's comment. The Tyrant continues to do pushups, Millicent continues to watch it, but now Simeon switches between watching T-H90 and Millicent. That wild light in her eyes has grown brighter, as has the sound of her breathing. "You always get too attached with your work, doctor," he dryly comments.
Millicent glares at Simeon, her cheeks a light shade of red at her little secret being found out. "Who says I can't be attached? I spoke with David Wellington before he was made into this, I have the right to comment on what he has become. He is a much better person now; you agree on that much!"
Simeon closes his eyes in the way thousands of old men have done when listening to irritating children. "T-H90 isn't a person, Millicent, no matter how human it looks. You should know that much." He looks at T-109 again and widens his eyes. "Look," he exclaims while pointing at the window, "it's adapted again!"
Millicent looks and sees T-H90's body is now properly upright over the ground. Its hands are now equally positioned to each other, the smaller right larger and the left shrunken down without changing its shape. It now moves up and down like a piston, pumping its body and breathing heavily. It looks at the window as it exercises, viewing itself with the same neutral expression since it was first brought into the room.
"Incredible," Simeon comments before Millicent can say it. "Something this simple can cause a change in its form. This is the most precise level of adaptation I've ever seen!"
"It's a sign of progress," Millicent agrees. "We are onto something great here. We just have to keep pushing forward."
Simeon gives Millicent a questioning look. "We need to put some limits in place–"
"No limits, not now." Millicent gives Simeon a serious look that shows she has thought about this for some time already. "Limiting T-H90's testing will make it weaker in the end. That's what happened with the T-103's." Her certainty prompts Simeon to not voice his objection, because what she says is at least somewhat true. "It has so much capability, too much to try and limit now. We'll need to test it as much as we can, however we can, before we give it away."
Simeon sighs and shakes his head. "Don't forget who you work for, Millicent," he tells her, implying both the Ashford family that officially owns Rockfort Island and the elite in Umbrella's corporate division. One of them will be here soon, he's certain of that. He feels the same urge to test and learn that Millicent does, but his is more balanced by rational fact and the reality of his job. Things that have helped him survive for so long in the Umbrella Corporation. Heaven willing, T-H90 will be worth all the blood, sweat and tears that have been put into it.
His body moves up and down, hands pushing against the floor with his new strength. He watches himself exercise with red eyes, working his muscles, feeling his arms and chest burn with tension and stress and some pain. These feelings provide purpose to his acts, satisfaction to his baser instincts. He feels stronger, much stronger, a good strong that he wants to keep.
His mind is also strong, enough that he can remember who he used to be. A weaker man once had this mind, but this body is all his own. Going back to the old body is something he hates thinking about, not that he has had much chance to think since he first woke up from that nightmare. The scientists and doctors here have been pushing him as hard as they can, each new test showing something new about him to both them and him.
Still, he cannot stop certain flashes of his old self from sliding into his current thoughts and disrupting his focus. The intrusive faces take the forms of his parents, a worker at Umbrella named "Matt", and a woman that once made him kneel for the chance of a kiss. He does not feel upset about not remembering them more: he is disappointed that he cannot expunge them entirely and focus on right now.
He knows a lot of things now. His body is made of mutagenic particles; he can change those particles with a concentrated effort into different shapes; he can make his body stronger, faster, tougher with a focused thought; this mutation wants to grow stronger with him, feeding off his old human thoughts of self-empowerment; these people fear what he is and do not fully know that he can think for himself. Most importantly, these scientists do not appear to understand that he is able to think for himself.
Doctor Schrovol's voice comes through the speakers, telling him to stop his pushups and stand on his feet. He does so with his abdominal and pectoral muscles burning from the exertion, looking at his body and waiting for another order. Doing what others want is something he is used to, a "gift" from his old life's memories. The amazement to his new body is still there, his old mind still not fully accepting reality. The mutagenic properties of his flesh, bones and blood feel alien even as the virus fuels his heartbeat and helps him draw and expel each breath of air.
Doctor Schrovol orders him to return his hands to their original state. He raises his hands closer to his face and looks at each finger. He sees the engorged purple veins within the grey skin, his hands not damaged by pressing against the metal floor for so long. The virus whispers this is correct, this rapid recovery is good for him. It will help him do what he needs and what others want from him. It will help him survive.
He focuses on his hands and the shifting flesh that makes them up. He pictures how he first remembers his new hands, a smaller right one to an enlarged left. The virus moves at his direction, working with him instead of obeying his command. He is not strong enough to command his body; that is far too strong a challenge. An equal challenge is understanding that the shifting of his bones and muscles is not a bad thing. The virus's constant comments groom his senses into a different state of mind, new elements being brought forward as older, more hateful memories are gently slid back.
His momentary daydreaming stops when he feels the thrill of completion race through him. The satisfied tone in Doctor Schrovol's voice is the extra bit of encouragement he needs to keep going, keep learning, keep testing himself so he can do what these people want. He looks back at the window, feeling he is watched from some space beyond these four walls. This makes him feel uncertain. His reflection briefly changes to match his uncertainty, showing the grinning, blood-soaked visage of a musclebound brute that can end the lives of his testers and laugh in triumph. He blinks, clearing his thoughts as the doctor addresses him again, and his reflection returns to normal again, the image still in his head and ready to strike.
He hears the doctor's order of being escorted to a "presentation", that a "Lord Ashford" will be observing him. His past interjects that "Lord Ashford" is not a good man, using the colorful adjectives "crazy", "insane", and "bat-shit jerk" instead. He notes this without much care, keeping the past where it belongs as a part of the wall opens to reveal three soldiers with drawn grenade launchers. David can smell a chemical inside them, something the virus rejects getting near. Something to keep him in line, his memories reason.
They look at him with varying emotions, and he looks at them with a practiced neutrality. The human's scents betray their inner thoughts where silence and proper posture might deceive other humans. He breathes the varying aromas in with the processed air of this room, and then he realizes they fear him. All the humans here, prisoners and soldiers and scientists, are afraid of him.
A shard of what might be a consciousness, placed somewhere in his evolving brain, gleefully giggles at this truth. Maybe "Lord Ashford" will show the same fear when he presents himself? He wants to find out as the soldiers lead him out of the metal room and down one of the many identically designed corridors to his next test.
Alright, that's all for now.
How will Alfred Ashford deal with this new Tyrant? What will T-H90 have to do to appease this Umbrella elitist? Stay tuned to find out!
As always, any feedback/reviews you can provide will be great for me and "RT86" to see.
Draconos is taking off!