Note: I do not own VALVe or any of its affiliates. Consider this a disclaimer to the characters/themes/what have you presented in this story.
*I've never actually been to Ripken Stadium; the set description of the stadium is based off of building plans I found on the internet, but which still leave a lot to the imagination. Specifically, my imagination!
Eight
Bill was wandering down the small corridor, wondering on Zoey. Francis said he tried going down the hall that Zoey claimed to be staying, but it was empty. They'd moved her, probably because they knew the four of them were plotting some sort of escape, or because they were practising more bullshit experiments on her and her psycho roommate. He was a little but pissed off that their plans were thrown to shit, but he was more concerned of what sort of lunacy they were putting her through.
There were a few people sitting at the cafeteria near the concession that was open. Most people had their civilian clothes back, but some had been torn up so much that they wore clothes donated from the "Recovery Team". It was more like what was left over from years of the lost and found Ripken stadium never bothered to throw out. Most people ended up wearing tattered team T-shirts and hospital pants. Bill thought they looked like faggots.
"Hey, it's Vet!" one of the men behind the counter cried playfully to his coworker, his face glowing behind his mask. "Hey, Vet, you want a Sloppy Joe?"
"No," Bill growled.
"Okay," the guy called back, then muttered: "Fuckin' old balls."
The others chuckled a bit, and Bill grumbled to himself. Kids didn't change, not even after the world was over and done with. The only one of them who actually seemed to give a shit—no, who was matured beyond her years—was Zoey.
He passed the concession and started towards the next set of stairs he came across. Instead of heading up the stairs to go to the stands, he headed down. He never heard anyone mention that they couldn't go down there, and he figured there'd be no more good-for-nothing asshole kids around like Concession Stand Billy-Bob to annoy him.
It was cool and dark down in the basement. Electricity was limited to generators in the stadium—that was why some rooms were dark when others had light or medical equipment—so the hallways were dimly lit. It was a sad, grey cement slab down there, like a goddamn prison.
He hadn't had a cigarette in what felt like years, and he was starting to get pretty pissy over it. He was shorter than usual with all the dick-wad pansies running around the place, acting like they were... well, actually, he was pretty sure they were part of the army. But they weren't vets. None of them had seen duty like he had. Yeah, he was old, but he hadn't felt as alive as he had during the first couple weeks of infection since his discharge. Even the ache in his knee didn't exist when he was out in the open, firing a trusty SMG. It was invigorating.
"...bout the test subject?"
Voices floated up from down the hall, and Bill slowed in his step out of caution. He looked over his shoulder, just to make sure no-one else was coming, then he started to creep closer towards the door where the conversation came from. He had a gut feeling that this was one transaction he wasn't supposed to be eavesdropping in, which convinced him it was all the more important to listen.
"Yes... I was wondering: why did you pair the two together?"
"You're not authorized for that information."
"Cut the crap, James. You know as well as I that authorization means shit now."
"Just because there's no contact with headquarters and neighbouring facilities does not mean rank is irrelevant."
"So all those things you told me about Miss Connor was out of good humour and confidence, I suppose?"
Bill's brow knit tightly together, and he suppressed a growl as he shifted himself closer to the door. Don't you be talking shit about her.
"Stop it, Peters."
"So what's your reason for not telling me this time?"
It was quiet for a moment. "The experiment is..."
"What?"
"Unethical."
It was quiet again, and Bill could feel his heart rate pick up. He was getting angrier the more he heard, and part of him didn't want to hear the rest. He was afraid of what he might find out. But at the same time, he was afraid of what he might not.
"What do you mean?"
"If I tell you this, Lyson, you keep it to yourself, do you understand?"
"Would it be my balls or yours?"
"Do you want to hear this or not?"
A pause. There was a scratch across the floor inside the room as one of them shifted their chairs.
"Let me start from the beginning," the man named James said hoarsely. "When Miss Connor was attacked by the RM1-C, we swabbed samples off of her, but we neglected her quarantine process—that much you already know."
"Yes."
"So, the day before yesterday, we took another swab..."
"...And?"
"We expect mutations to occur in a virus all the time; when the body is exposed to one, the immune system attacks it, and the virus changes in order to bypass the security, but eventually the body defeats it. In the case of the RMV, it mutates according to the victim's immune system, and either kills the specimen, or mutates its physical composure, depending on the individual's genetic makeup."
"Yes, thank you, James, I knew all that."
"Patience," James warned, then continued. "In the case of an immune individual, the virus enters the system, but cannot go any further. It dies the moment it enters the system. We haven't figured out yet if that's because of a specific enzyme the body holds, or because of a crucial protein the virus needs to feed off of to live."
"I thought we already determined it was an enzyme."
"And then we met Miss Connor and Mr. Mulner."
"What about Miss Connor?"
"She has a different type of immunity," James said. "The virus lives within her system, but it lays dormant. It does not seem to affect her cell regeneration, but we have seen that it has mutated within her."
"Are you serious?"
"Yes. The interesting part is, we haven't seen this kind of mutation before."
They were quiet again, and Lyson finally asked: "So what does Mr. Mulner have to do with this?"
"He's not entirely immune."
"No."
"The virus is also in his system, but minor effects have occurred. His cell regeneration, unlike Miss Connor's, has been affected; his wounds cannot properly heal. We've been attending to them to keep them from becoming gangrenous, but our supplies are limited and the effects are only temporary. He has also become more delusional since we found him on the outskirts of the stadium. We have seen the virus mutating in his system, as well, and it keeps affecting him further. Ultimately, we... how do I put this?"
"What?"
"Since both of these subjects are only 'half-immune' in a sense—" James paused to clear his throat, "we want to see the results of close contact, and hopefully... and hopefully the development of a possibly infected embryo."
Bill's frown got deeper. It was silent in the room for a second, and it gave him time to think. He'd heard that word before—embryo—but where?
"You're not serious."
"We were hoping it would happen on its own, but it hasn't. We're increasing the amount of aphrodisiac each is consuming by tomorrow. No-one here has an extensive knowledge on what dosages to use, and we believe we have grossly underestimated the amount needed.
"That's why both of their files are under testing, and that's why the two of them are to be kept in closed quarters for the time being."
It was silent again, and Bill got the distinct impression that the guy asking for the story, Lyson, just had his socks shocked off. Bill's heart rate picked up again in anger, but he felt a lingering sense of panic start to build, too.
"I can't believe you're doing this."
"I'm not," James said flatly, "it is under our code of conduct that we take any options necessary to study the effects of the virus—"
"These are healthy human beings!" Lyson suddenly shouted. Bill heard his chair scrape back suddenly and fall to the floor. "Survivors! Isn't it our top priority to protect these people?"
"Not ours. That's the defence department's responsibility."
"You—fucking bastard," Lyson spat, and Bill's face lit up in surprise at the sudden outburst. "You're talking about rape, goddammit! You can't do that!"
Bill's face fell as the pieces suddenly came together. He remembered where he'd heard the word: it was from the doctor, forty years ago, when he told him and his wife that the embryo was just too weak to make it, and that's why she'd had the miscarriage—
He clenched his fists and he began to shake as he realized he'd been wrong about these people.
His rational mind told him that falling back and regrouping was the best strategy: gather the boys, find Zoey, and get the fuck out of Dodge. But the furious part of his mind urged him to bust through that goddamn door and wrap his hands around that motherfucker's neck and squeeze every inch of life out of him: the doomed frontal attack.
Before Bill could even reason with himself, he'd already knocked the door wide and was rampaging towards the asshole in the chair closest to him.
Bill's fist came back as an ugly grimace set on his face before he punched James in the face, cracking the pane of plastic on his mask. James stumbled back out of his chair with a muffled cry, landing on the ground, while Lyson, on other side of the table, let out a startled yell. Bill paid him no attention, and landed on top of James, who was now writhing on the ground under him, trying to escape, and started pummelling his face mask some more. It began to crack and splinter. Bill's fist was covered in his own blood; James's hands flew up to try and stop him. The mask broke, and he began to scream.
Bill had been so caught up in his own rage that he hadn't heard Lyson call for help, and the last thing he heard were soldiers' footsteps coming up behind him before the butt end of a rifle swiped him across the back of the head.
He lost control over his balance, and he fell towards the ground in what felt like slow motion. His vision dimmed in a flurry of sparks, and his consciousness was shrouded in a blanket of black.
Zoey...!