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. He'd 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 wouldn't 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 he'd 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 "M.R.E." He could safely assume the "R" stood for "ration", 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. Whatever—it 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 "oatmeal".

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.

"Just who the hell is out here messing with that sta—" the furious voice of the man shouting from the shadows of the banister's 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 Irons—his 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 Chief's 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 Tyrant's 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 man's path. He lifted both mighty arms over his head and interlocked his fists into a far larger, more destructive implement—slamming down in a full body swing as soon as he heard Irons's steps growing louder.

The police chief yelped—ducking and tumbling forward as softball-sized chunks of wall showered over and past him. Tromping out through the generous doorway he'd created, T-00 drew back an arm and swung down a powerful overhand punch which the man barely wriggled out of the way of—just 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, wasn't he… But judging from the size of the firearm's magazine, the target had at most three rounds left. He could only buy himself about five more seconds—or one more of these close calls.

And T-103 Tyrants were very like humans. T-103s were persistence hunters.

But the chase wasn't 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 chief's back as he scrambled for some distance. He was going for the back eastern staircase—closest 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 throw—or shoot—his way. The Chief was assuming that his elevator was safe. Mr. X's 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.

"Wait! Wait!" He blubbered, holding his gun upright, "Why're you after me? I'm with Umbrella! We had an agreement!"

Mr. X slowed his pace by a few notches—levelling a very unimpressed stare the target's way with his nose crinkling and the edges of his mouth twitching outwards in a hint of snarl. Whatever this police chief's "agreement" 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 convinced—or confused.

"Wh-What the fuck…" he whimpered in a lowered tone, fumbling with his gun and very nearly accidentally aiming its barrel right towards his own foot. "Look—look—You got a job to do, right? I get it! I gotta do the dirty work too, right? Can't we come to an understanding here? Maybe—maybe—isn't there anything you'd like, huh? Get you to look the other way?"

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.

"I mean—you're still a guy right? Does Umbrella let you have fun? I could set you up, come on!"

Mr. X's 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 displeasure—the damn bullet's 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 jaw—at a higher angle. Blindly he swiped with his other hand, earning another yelp of alarm. Almost out of ammo—or perhaps just now out judging from that terribly frightened noise.

He took a second's 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 assault—including the two upended and splintered stairs where his second blow had landed—came 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 landing…

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 vest's pocket—cussing 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 stairway's 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-00's 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 ready—the target's aim was piss-poor—with only four rounds, that only bought him two or three seconds. If that.

"Oh, f-fuck!" Irons's free hand missed the office door's handle, and a flood of cortisol-laden sweat scent filled the hallway. Tinted with… urine. Ugh. The Tyrant's expression tightened another few notches in disgust. But suddenly, the target's free hand dove into his other vest pocket and ripped out a rounded canister.

…Flashbang? 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 mutant's boots.

Very technically it was a "flashbang", in that it BANGED just as loudly, and the fiery blast did constitute a flash. The grenade shot shockwaves and shrapnel up into the Tyrant's 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 "oof", as his prey threw himself beyond the doorframe to avoid the metal shards zipping in all directions.

Damn.

Slippery bastard indeed.

It didn't 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 Limiter's 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 Chief's 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 wouldn't matter. Elevators were not safe.

Not if sabotaged.

"L-look, I'm not gonna say it again!" the target wailed as his back was to the elevator's 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, "I was supposed to be safe! I was in charge! Now back off you… you… stupid animal! I'll shoot you again!"

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 "ding!"

The moment the doors opened, he'd dove backwards into the space and jammed the button to descend. Mr. X halted just a foot from the closing doors—able to relish seeing this very annoying figure's 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 Chief's office. The odds the target survived the fall were fairly low—a similar fall had bruised up and stunned a Tyrant—and regardless of survival he would not get out of the wrecked elevator car unscathed. It would not hurt to double-check…

…but 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 box—no, a vending machine. The bulb was malfunctioning, but the odd flicker of light revealed the label of "Aquafina" to him.

"Aqua"… agua? Same thing, yes? "Fina"… 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 machine's front door and wrenched to pop it open—completely 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.

…something 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, almost—

—child-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 by…

…no.

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 chief's grimy presence far less.

And, disgusting as it was, Iron's scent trail would be very easy to follow now.

Irons had a head start, but it wasn't long before the Tyrant's heavy footsteps came to a halt in front of the gates of a…

A…

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 worm—but 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 him—before anything happened to Sherry Birkin.

He was… uneasy about even the brief time she'd 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. They'd been terrified. They'd 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 evil…

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 floor—but the most recent trail led up the stairs. Mr. X clenched his jaw; another scent was equally strong along this route—and rife with fear. He hadn't 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 Tyrant's shoulders hunched higher at the voice he heard muffled through several walls:

"Now, you're gonna stay put," The speaker was beyond threatening and there was a crash, then a dull clunk and rattle, "You just behave yourself. If Claire brings what she's supposed to, I'll let you go, you hear?"

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 devil—he 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 surprise—and 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.

"—Goddamit…" The voice blended with the bang of the door and its painful shudder back into hanging open. Mr. X watched the top of the man's 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 man's 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 he'd 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 charged—covering 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 shot's echo rang across the hall. The bioweapon growled and slung out a sharp jab for the man's 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 time…

"…M-Mister?"

Every muscle in his vast form froze solid.

Don't look. Don't turn around. Kill Irons. Don't look. Don't turn around. Must. Kill. Irons!

The Tyrant gave a dull but threatening rumble, trying to carry on towards the stairs before a faint pressure around the leather of his glove—

"Is it you? Are you… okay now?"

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 it…

"Urrgh… aghh..!"

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 Irons—muffled though by the sheet of blood draining over his mustache and chin. Mr. X's 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 bioweapon's 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 Tyrant's 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 they'd met.

"Rrrhf…" The handler powering the servers apparently saw no need to restrict its vocal cords, so the Tyrant's thunderous snarl soon expressed whatever he could: Most obviously frustration beyond that of a rodeo bull, and the general "keep away", but so many other things indecipherable to anyone outside the monster's head. Sherry's 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-00's 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 didn't even think it possible…

"Rrr… Rrh…" He locked eyes with Sherry, "Rrhun."

Her jaw dropped open, but she kept her wits. It was a good thing she did; Mr. X tensed—she tensed—and 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 door—and 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 seen—but 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 loud—a rasping huff escaping him as the handler now encouraged him to leap down after the child just as he'd 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 sight—she had to hide somewhere with a second avenue of escape. Somewhere he did not know of. Chances were increased from the location now—he knew the R.P.D., he knew the N.E.S.T.—he did not know the… the… death-smelling childhood-stereotype-design house.

In her white-knuckle grip, Sherry revealed that she had scooped up the Chief's collection of keys. At frantic speed, she jammed one into the side door's lock and let it fly open—sprinting within and slamming it shut in the shambling Tyrant's face. There was not much room to spare; the door did not provide much of a barrier at all. But a second's pause was a second's 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 don't find her. Don't 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 like…

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. X's 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 impatience—Mr. 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 something—something 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 girl—and 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 Sherry's 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.

"No, don't—!"

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 girl's 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 bioweapon's steel-vice fingers—kicked 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 girl's delicate fingers found the small metal peg protruding from his temple and latched on. Lightning shot down the giant's spine, finally overriding the implant's commands.

It also overrode just about every fragment of physical control of himself Mr. X possessed. The bioweapon's 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 creature—back 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 implant's 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 she'd 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.

"Claire!" She squeaked out—piquing the Tyrant's interest. He'd heard the name before. It could be the woman who'd provoked him in the library of the station—or… 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.

"Sherry?" He heard the voice, bleeding with worry, relief, and weariness, echoing out from the entry hallway, "Are you okay? Are you hurt? I swear, if that creep touched a hair on your head I'll beat his face in…"

Mr. X was in agreement with the sentiment—though Claire might be disappointed to know the bioweapon had beaten her to it.

"C-Claire, no—" Sherry's voice was tripping over itself, in haste to get the warning out as fast as possible, "We have to run—the really big man is here—he keeps coming after me—"

"The really big…? … Oh." Claire's 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. Claire's eyes glinted angrily back and she planted herself resolutely between him and the vulnerable child.

"You want her, asshole? Then you gotta go through me."

"Claire no—" Sherry whimpered, seeming tempted to bolt for the open door but not wanting to abandon the woman's side. "It won't work—we can't hurt him at all—"

Mr. X's 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.

"Claire, wait—" Sherry suddenly tugged on her protector's arm, "The metal thing! Do you see it?"

"What—?"

"It stuns him—Quick—Aim for the metal thing!"

The T-103's 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:

Claire's shotgun canted higher; the flash of its blast blew past the Tyrant's 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-00's attack coming into range; they were backed into the wall, with 8 feet of unhappy assailant just two steps away.

Claire took another shot—from 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 splintering—of 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 forwards—senses spinning. He was mercifully unconscious well before he hit the ground, his mass shaking the orphanage's 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.

There was no signal.