8: Wading Through Disaster

Though it hadn't been unconscious for more than thirty seconds after the impact, another minute or two was required for the Tyrant to recover fully from the experience—at least from the lingering motion-sickness and blatant awareness that Umbrella Corp. was not particularly keen on comfort, or lack of concussive force, in its transportation methods. Its low growl of displeasure echoed in the increasingly unwelcome confines of the pod. Something in the bioweapon's genome was so incredibly averse to enclosed spaces—and once Mr. X's senses were back up to snuff this inbuilt claustrophobia reared and inspired a savage burst of strength unlike any it had used before. The Kevlar straps, despite each being an inch thick and anchored deep in the steel of the pod walls, snapped apart.

From outside the crashed drop-pod a huge hand thrust out through the weak spot of the door's hinges, rending through the layered metal and support circuits and ripping it almost in half before the structure gave way and tumbled down in a twisted heap. The Tyrant's other hand grabbed desperately at the opening, heaving its form up and gasping into the fresh air.

…Well, "fresh". Open, at least. As the creature swung its legs out of the totaled device and thudded to a standing posture its eyes watered and narrowed. Something nearby was on fire. It studied the wreckage of the building that its deployment had dropped it through; smoke was billowing through the jammed-open automatic doors, wreathing a collection of narrow aisles. The lights were off. Another odor reached Mr. X's flaring nostrils, almost familiar. Metallic, alarming—blood. But not just blood… something was not quite right about it. It made the Tyrant's eyes water further, crinkling its nose and snorting to try its best to adjust. It was… sickly, old, fouled blood. Blood with something wrong with it. Aged but still sticky and flowing. Not right.

T-00 decided it needed to move faster. Fragments of the broken store windows crunched underfoot as it found the street outside. Here was the source of the smoke—a large truck was turned onto its side, piled and smashed amongst at least ten other vehicles, engine still guttering as the fuel and oil remaining were eaten up. But there was yet more smoke; looking down the length of the street it spotted even more smoldering wrecks, as well as a tall brick structure that had half-crumbled into itself from the flames that had consumed it some time ago. It must find the R.P.D. building. Scanning what it could find of the skyline, the Tyrant made a few assumptions of what might have been before most of the damage and picked a direction around the block.

This was where it also discovered what the source of the disgusting, blood-like odor that still hadn't faded away.

A group of figures were standing together, half-in and half-out of the street at the intersection ahead of the Tyrant, who slowed to wonder why these humans(?) were neither turning to look at the heavy footsteps, seeking shelter amid the destruction, or taking a single action to douse the fires dotting the city. The closest of them let out a groan, or a gurgle, which Mr. X could only recognize as a wounded noise from a non-specific creature. It then turned its neck at an abnormal angle. The eyes had once been brown but were now glassed-over, crazed—but more odd was that the man's jaw was completely gone, as if ripped clean off.

This did not appear to bother the thing. The human-like form gave a more aggressive snarl, its hands raising up and reaching towards the Tyrant as it stumbled towards it like a sick animal. Mr. X took a precautionary step back and stood puffed up even larger, as if this deluded man simply hadn't noticed the sheer size of the bioweapon he was charging and needed a reminder. The thing still didn't stop, baring the teeth in the remains of its upper mouth as it tripped closer.

It did not take much to put a stop to this; when it lunged, the Tyrant slammed the side of its half-face with a backhand that left it collapsed in the road like a wet noodle. The rest of the gang of strange humans, five in all, turned at the commotion and began shuffling over making more guttural noises. T-00 concluded that these… were probably not humans anymore, not officially. They, and any others that behaved like them, likely did not count as "survivors".

Their presence also either explained the chaos of these surroundings or was a very prominent symptom of it. Some sort of rogue infection. It was vaguely aware of T and G—though its knowledge didn't go beyond knowing these shortened names, and that most humans succumbed to their effects. A Tyrant simply didn't need to know about viruses that had no effect on B.O.W.s. As a second infected shambled up to the Tyrant it gave a hard shove and threw its body backwards into two of the others. It was many times quicker and more agile than these semi-rabid people, and so took the opportunity to stride past and continue to where it hoped its destination was. On the way, more fires. More blown-out windows and disemboweled businesses, hints at struggles and a whiff or two of actual fresh blood with no trace of the foulness. More infected humans—and these did not even react to the Tyrant's passage, occupied entirely with the carcass of something which they were gathered around and tearing at with bloody and inflamed mouths. Several buildings it passed now were either undamaged, or had the busted windows boarded over or barricaded with large pieces of furniture. T-00 studied the glass of an intact storefront, gaze hovering over the vinyl lettering for some idea of how close it was to the station. Its eyes wandered down the names, hooking onto the "R"s but finding no connections—

—then its eyes lowered to the clear glint on the glass just below the words, and it gave a reflexive jerk into combat readiness.

There was a big, big figure just on the other side. Maybe its own size. The stranger was in a stance, about to throw a punch, and their icy-white, unnaturally sharp eyes glared back at the Tyrant in a confrontational expression.

CRSH—!

Mr. X's defensive swing obliterated the window glass, and to its bewilderment and shock the huge attacker had vanished from the other side of the partition.

Wait.

Wait..?

…Wait!

T-00 slowly stood back up into passive posture, though his shoulders were still bunched in lingering suspicion; one of its hands traced up and grazed across its own chin, sheepishly realizing what exactly the "stranger" was. Of course it knew what reflections were in theory, but there was never any need for a Tyrant to be shown a mirror, or to know what it looked like. Dr. Ramirez had only had one in the house's bathroom, but it was neither necessary or particularly possible for it to fit into the tiny room.

So… this was what it looked like? Leaning over, Mr. X huffed in frustration as it tried to find a broken fragment still attached to the windowframe that had enough size and the correct angle to show it another glimpse of its frightening face.

Around the corner there was a sudden sharp report, followed by a rush of air overhead and the whining of a rotor straining against wind resistance. The sidewalk shuddered as a loud BOOM echoed from not very far away, and the Tyrant went instantly alert to its surroundings once more. Cutting around the corner, Mr. X was met with the sight of the R.P.D., though from the side; the clock tower was unmistakable.

The gout of flame and thick, oily smoke issuing from a hole in the uppermost story's outer wall was also unmistakable. The bioweapon sped up as it got closer to the sheer wall, just able to make out the tail rotor of a small kind of commercial helicopter sticking out between the charred bricks and fizzling heat. It batted aside another infected, barely even noticing it as he gripped his gigantic fingers into the chipping brick and excitedly pulled itself hand over hand up to this higher level. Many of the windows on this building were much larger than the ones T-00 had seen on the way here—and one in particular appeared to have had most of the glass and frames blown out by the force of the aircraft plowing through the hallway. That one would do.

As it swung its way into the R.P.D.'s upper roof-access passages one leg at a time, it was forced to balk for a moment at the hotter, more acrid smoke flooding down the hall from the flaming engine. It tucked one arm protectively over its stinging eyes and nose, feeling an automatic spasm under its lungs that it had never experienced. With a grumble, it fought through several more of these spasms and turned away; with the fire so recently blazing through the chopper's burst fuel tank, there was no way for it to safely investigate the area beyond the wreck. Not without more of these—were they sneezes? No, it had observed human sneezes before, it knew what that was. This was… like retching. Its lungs were retching? What was that called?

The refuge of an adjoining hallway saw the smoke lessen enough that the Tyrant could lower its arm and blink away the irritation. It stepped more slowly down the length of the hall, feeling the vibration and ominous creaking of the flooring and trying to tread more carefully. The place had just been crashed into by a helicopter, and judging by the odd strings of bullet holes decorating the drywall like open sores, there had been fighting on the ground in here as well. Its memory paged over all of the names and faces it had on its hit-list: Chief Brian Irons, Lieutenant Marvin Branagh, Deputy Elliot—

—something shifted right at his eye level while approaching a doorway and interrupted that line of thought. A small security camera; Mr. X thought he had picked up the swivel neck of the device moving slightly, and stopped to watch. If it had moved, someone was controlling it, and currently looking at the bioweapon. Possibly a target.

A small red light inside the lens flashed on and off. Someone was looking at it. It was not advantageous for a target to know it was here—much less to know where it was; with a hook that was relatively gentle, the Tyrant popped the monitoring device from its anchor and into the nearby wall. Cheap plastic and aluminum components broke up like confetti.

It brushed a loose bit of the camera casing from its glove and was reaching for the doorknob when a jarring hiss sounded from behind him, followed by a wave of hot air that was scented like the contaminated cousin of normal petrichor. Curious, Mr. X turned and made his way back to the helicopter husk with much stealthier steps. There was no surveillance room past this point, only a fire escape and a roof access for the boiler room; at least two humans were still alive and unchanged in this complex. Whether they were its targets it could not say. Not until it got a good look for itself.

The scorched, dented metal was still somewhat hot to the touch, but not enough to be a bother through the Limiter's gloves. Bending a knee down, T-00 braced one hand against the tipping point of the steaming tail section and pressed up and inwards with a mighty push. The helicopter's landing struts came unstuck from the floor and the weight of it slid forward into the gap it had broken in the inner wall, finally out of the way.

"Jesus Christ!"

Its attention flicked up to the source of the surprisingly close voice. There was, not ten feet further down the hall, a young man standing rooted in place. The Tyrant stared down at him, craning its neck at a steep angle despite this human not being at all short for his species. Its gaze hooked first on the drawn pistol that was being pointed at its chest, and its back twitched in defensive instinct. Next it stopped on the acronym that the man was wearing on a body armor vest—"R.P.D." A target. A target?

But… who was this?

T-00 let its arm fall back to its side, examining for longer, as if just pinpointing the features harder might click something together with the memorized faces of those it was sent to hunt. At the same time the creature leaned forward, giving a few exploratory sniffs to try and learn this unexpected individual over the pervading stench of hot metal and burnt plaster. This human matched… none of the targets it had been shown. While he wore the police department's gear, there was no match at all to any of the faces it had learned, target or not. Nothing about the human's scent told it much either—except that his cortisol levels were far higher than any other it had met, making him particularly odiferous. Did Umbrella miss someone? Or was this a survivor who had managed to break in and scavenge the weapons and supplies here—completely unrelated to T-00's mission?

T-00 shifted in place, prepared to either step forward if beckoned or provoked by this new, perplexing human, or to step backward if the man did not factor into its next goal. What exactly was a Tyrant supposed to do, if met with someone it was not meant to attack, and also not meant to protect?

And a pulse began to run down Mr. X's spine before it could wonder much further. In a horrible recollection all of his plentiful back muscles seized.

No... No... NO..! It was useless of course, and though stiff at first the Tyrant's legs began to drag it mechanically forward. NO—let me—Must confirm! The Tyrant willed these thoughts to be sent back along the command servers' connection… though it was doubtful such a capacity existed, or was even thought of by Umbrella.

Stupid! Stupid! The only thing these forced movements were allowing it was the low, bass growl of aggravation with being forced about like a rodeo bull on a nose-ring. The young man, understandably, hustled back a few steps in the face of the 700-pound living weapon stomping closer. But whoever this was, he held his ground fairly well, still brandishing the pistol. His aim had canted upwards, as if knowing in a split second that the brute's torso was so thick and covered up in protective layers that any shot there would have no stopping power whatsoever.

T-00 was so busy inside its own head, cursing and flailing at the mind-burning nonsense of it, the idiocy, of whatever handler was pushing it towards killing this survivor while still name unknown that it barely registered when the pistol flashed twice—small bullets splattering across the spot right between its eyes and very temporarily sending a mist of Tyrant blood from its leathery brows. Something about the faint sting jarred Mr. X enough to pause mid-step.

…Something missing.

Its fingers explored up to the regenerating scrapes. No, not that. Up higher. It gave a sharp twitch as it missed the snug fit of the felted brim over its head that by now it was so used to.

Hat.

Mine. Gone.

A hot coal of rage flared up from deep in its guts, inflaming far more strongly than any other slight it had experienced before. Suddenly it found no issue at all with the command server's insistence that it chase this… this… flimsy little thing. He was going to hurt the small human. It was going to catch him. And it would not. Let. Him. Shoot. My Hat.

Three more rounds peppered against Mr.X's face, none of them giving it the pause like those first ones had, and with his face betraying a flash of terror the human turned and sprinted back for the roof access.

There was nowhere to go that way, and the Tyrant knew it. Its eyes widened in smug satisfaction. It slammed the door to the roof open almost as soon as it had swung shut behind its prey. The steady pattering of rain on the rooftop area—or arena—was drowned out as Mr. X lunged out after his enemy and swung wide.

"Shi—tahh..!" The human had tried to tuck and roll, but half-slipped on the slick surface. Still, it had brought him low enough that the sledgehammer-like swipe had breezed narrowly overhead. Disregarding pain almost as well as a bioweapon, the man scrambled on his bruised limbs to get out of the way of the crushing force of the Tyrant's boot as it came down, trying to catch and disable one of his arms.

T-00 let the man drag himself upright for a second, leveling a glare at him that perhaps could have outright killed lesser humans as he backed his enemy towards the staircase down to the boiler room. It waited, fingers tightening in their fists and the joints crackling, and it let the man come to the realization that there was no escape route here. Only behind the Tyrant.

"What th—?" The human grabbed the railing as one foot slipped down a step, "What the fuck are you?"

Mr. X did not appreciate the man's tone here; with a huff it came at him at a determined power-walk. The human stifled another curse and fought to not fall feet-over-face down the stairs to keep up the distance between them. There was a hideous burbling as he hopped down the last stair—an infected form rose back up to its feet, face all but destroyed by bullets but its brainstem still intact enough to move and bite. The man whipped around and pumped another two shots into the shambling thing as it made to grab at him, and it snarled as it folded down again—likely still not dead.

From behind, a rasp of furious breath blasting over the man was his only warning of what was coming—and this was not even remotely enough to avoid the Tyrant's palm closing over the back of his skull.

"Ack—urgh!"

Mr. X felt its lip curl up slightly, unbidden, and let a sliver of its upper row of teeth bare. Rather than instantly crush the man's skull or sling him in a sharp motion to snap his neck, the Tyrant lifted him up in triumph, hoping in the time that the frail being wriggled in his grip he understood what he'd taken from the angry bioweapon.

The human still had a lot of nerve, which was admirable in a way—still struggling, his free hand had pawed over one of the pouches at his hip and grabbed something small and cylindrical in size. The Tyrant's brows cinched and ears had pricked up, but relaxed slightly as its prey fumbled the small canister. It clinked harmlessly against the patio tiles, rolling up against one of T-00's boots.

And then fucking chaos aagh—

Light! Sound! More than it had ever known at once—stabbed it in the hyper-strong senses. Its hand loosened automatically, and a faint wet scuffling was the last sign he had of his enemy fleeing at top speed.

At that moment, he was more worried about the splashes of phantom light in his retinas, even with its eyes closed and a large arm shielding its face… Its ears were ringing, and it felt itself growl without fully hearing the rumbling noise produced.

It was going to throw this human. Off this roof. Or off a roof at least. Or into a wall. Any wall would do. If only the painful stars would get out of its eyes…

Author's Notes: Due to the nature of how RE2 is structured, I'm taking some liberties with the encounters that happen in the game-things should be familiar for any who's played the original, and especially the Remake, but since it's literally impossible to have a story where both Claire and Leon experience all the same stuff, I'm picking and choosing who meets Mr. X when-and adding in some more encounters with people who are not newbie officer Hat-Defiler and badass Ms. Redfield.

Obviously, Leon is the one who gets to meet Big Big Fella across the wreck of a helicopter! And makes a biiiiiiiiig mistake.