Jack sat slumped against the cold wall, his chest rising and falling like a bellows. Sweat clung to his skin, mixing with the dried blood crusting his uniform. His Beretta M9 shook faintly in his hands.
"Hopefully Ada didn't forget about me… where the hell am I supposed to be going?" Jack muttered.
The VSS flickered into his vision:
[VIRAL SURVIVAL SYSTEM]
Environmental Scan: Air Quality – Clean.
Biohazard Threat: Negligible.
Viral Resistance (Tier 1) – Deactivated.
Jack exhaled in relief, sliding further down the wall until his shoulders sagged.
"Well… at least the air's not trying to kill me anymore."
He pulled up his full stats, scanning through his infection rate and recent adaptations:
[VIRAL SURVIVAL SYSTEM]
Subject: Jack Hale
Strain: Aegis Virus
Health Status: Fair
Sync Rate: 43%
Viral Infection: 0.13% → 1.10%
Adaptation Skills
Branch 1 – Soldier's Path
Enhanced Recovery (Tier 1): Heals faster from minor wounds (cuts, bites, bruises). Reflex Response (Tier 1): Slightly improved reaction time, allowing better accuracy with pistols. Stamina Boost (Tier 1): Minor stamina boost. Slightly reduces recovery time when fatigued.
Branch 3 – Shield's Path
Viral Resistance (Tier 1): Passive. Slows infection rate after bites/scratches. (Also works against viral pathogens in the air.)
Hidden Branch 2 – Bonds Path
Ada Wong: Dangerous Alliance
Cautious Instincts: Passive awareness buff. Jack Hale gains a heightened sense of danger when partnered with Ada (+5% chance to detect ambushes or traps).
(Deactivated: Ada not present.)
(A/N: Reflex Response has been limited to pistols only for consistency. Plus, I didn't know the definition of small arms.)
"Not that bad… but I'm glad viral resistance came in handy this time," Jack muttered.
He checked his gear. His pistol was still warm, the slide locked back after his last shot. He ejected the mag—empty. Only one magazine left in his pocket.
Jack swore under his breath. "One mag left in this hellhole? Yeah, sure, that'll go real far." His laugh came out hollow, the kind that barely masked the knot of dread twisting in his gut.
Forcing himself upright, he pushed forward. The corridor beyond was quieter now, the hum of hidden machinery replacing the shrieks and pounding footsteps of the chase. His boots echoed too loudly in the silence.
At the junction ahead, a body slumped against the wall—an Umbrella officer, neck snapped clean. Jack crouched, grimacing as he searched the corpse. The man's sidearm was missing, but his belt still carried three pistol magazines.
"Well, hallelujah. God really does work in mysterious ways—just wish He'd work a little harder on the timing." The joke was bitter, muttered to no one but himself.
Before moving on, a crackle of static caught his attention. A functioning radio dangled loosely from the officer's vest. Jack picked it up, holding it close to his ear as faint voices cut through the interference.
"—repeat, Subject #199 was last seen on Sublevel C, disposal room three. We will rendezvous at the armory."
Jack's lips twisted into something halfway between a grin and a grimace.
"An armory. Finally. Don't mind if I borrow a few toys, boys. You'll get them back eventually… maybe."
The words rang empty, but they kept his mind from spiraling into despair. Joking, even hollowly, was better than silence.
He scanned the hallway, searching for direction. That's when he spotted it—a mounted map of the floor, edges cracked but still legible.
Jack traced the cracked surface with his eyes. The armory was marked three corridors down, near the east junction. Sublevel C's maze-like design made his gut twist, but at least now he had a destination.
"Three halls over," he muttered, squaring his shoulders. "How hard could it be?" His low chuckle died in his throat.
Pistol in one hand, Jack moved on. The hallways seemed quieter here, but not cleaner. Cracked glass revealed more abandoned cells—each a nightmare frozen mid-story.
One held a Marine's boot, still laced, with the leg still inside. Another contained nothing but bloody tally marks scratched into the steel walls—hundreds of them, stopping abruptly.
Jack's chest tightened, but he forced himself to keep walking.
"Goddamn Umbrella… this isn't research. This is butchery."
Every corner felt wrong. Too quiet. Too staged. His boots crunched on broken glass, each sound echoing like a gunshot. Sweat trickled down his spine.
Halfway to the armory, he passed through what looked like a decontamination chamber. Warning signs were plastered across the walls: BIOHAZARD LEVEL 4 – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. The air reeked of chemicals, sharp and stinging. He coughed, pulling the collar of his uniform over his mouth.
The VSS flickered into view briefly:
[Environmental Scan]
Biohazard: Trace airborne residue detected.
Resistance Active: Viral Resistance (Tier 1).
Jack let out a shaky laugh. "Good to know you're earning your keep, virus."
But the moment of levity faded when he reached the far end of the chamber.
Blood smeared across the floor in long streaks, as if something had been dragged—a body, or worse. The trail led toward the armory junction.
Jack crouched, brushing his fingers across the dried trail. Still tacky. Recent.
His chest clenched. "Please don't let this be one of the team…"
He pushed forward. The lighting dimmed further, red strobes pulsing lazily overhead. The hum of machinery deepened into something heavier, like breathing, echoing off the steel walls.
Every nerve screamed at him to turn back, but he forced his legs to keep moving.
At the final junction, the map's indicator for the armory glowed faintly on a flickering sign. Jack's relief froze in his throat.
The armory door was ajar. Its reinforced steel frame bent outward, like something had forced its way inside.
Jack raised his M9, pulse hammering. "Of course… couldn't just be easy, could it?"
From inside came a sound. A wet, rasping breath. Then—words. Low. Broken. Almost human.
"...Please… kill me…"
Jack's stomach dropped. His grip tightened on the pistol. He knew that voice.
Private First Class Henry Okafor.
Jack's knuckles whitened around the Beretta. He slipped through the bent steel door, every nerve screaming.
The stench hit him like a wall. Blood. Rot. Gunpowder.
Inside, the armory looked like a warzone. Weapon racks had been torn from the walls. Crates smashed open, ammo scattered like confetti across the floor. Drag marks and clawed gouges scored the concrete.
And at the center of it all, slumped against a broken rack, was Henry Okafor.
Jack's chest locked.
"...Okafor?"
Okafor's body was bare, grotesquely swollen and twisted. His skin was mottled with black veins, muscles bulging in unnatural places. His jaw sagged open, breath rattling wetly, eyes clouded milk-white.
But for a second—just a second—Jack saw him. The man who had once kept their squad grounded. The one who prayed before every mission, promising his brothers they'd make it back alive.
Then Okafor spoke, voice broken and distorted, but painfully familiar.
"...Please… kill me…"
Jack's stomach churned. "Jesus Christ… Okafor, what did they do to you?"
The answer never changed. The words repeated like a broken prayer.
"Please… anyone… please… kill me…"
Then the roar came—raw, human agony twisted into monstrous rage. Okafor surged upward, towering over Jack. His claws slashed down, rending a trench in the concrete where Jack had just stood.