Nemesis was the embodiment of reliability. He inspired much more confidence than the latest Tyrant models. The Tyrant, probably numbered T-103 or T-104, was dressed like an English spy from a seventies action movie: a black hat on its head and a bulletproof coat down to its knees. And its humanoid face caused more amusement than fear. There was no sense of that unstoppable threat in its appearance, capable of sweeping everything in its path like a hurricane. What am I talking about? The Tyrant has no rocket launcher, no flamethrower, not even tentacles! It's like an elf to a dwarf: useless in every tiny detail.
Adjusting my sunglasses and elegantly dodging the clumsy enemy lunge, I remarked condescendingly:
— Mediocre.
Its primitive attack was so obvious that even the shyest boxer could have easily avoided it. But I must admit the Tyrant's merit — it tried to introduce variety into its tactics, delivering a series of blows. Its next lunge was aimed directly at my head, with the clear goal of severing it from my body in one fell swoop.
The ridiculous attempts only hastened my retreat, allowing me to dart across half of the police station's main hall. Essentially, the Tyrant was pushing me to explore the area in search of better weapons hidden under the police chief's orders.
"It looks like it lacks tentacles to suddenly grab its victim," I thought sarcastically, dodging another strike with a back somersault.
Although, who knows, maybe I'm in a more difficult situation. It has great strength, almost infinite stamina, and good armor. I only have pistols and magazines for them. Or… Should I try to find the desire for an epic battle?
Nemesis, my deceased friend, was a bad sparring partner. He could kill me at any second. The Tyrant is an easier level, crudely speaking, a mass-produced product.
— And what about this? — I asked, pushing off the floor to the second story, and grabbing the railing in the process.
Now it will have to learn to jump high, which is impossible due to its weight and restrictive clothing. The Tyrant was forced to return to the stairs, starting to climb them to the second level of the hall. When it was almost there, I jumped down to the first floor, walked a little, and, jumping up, ended up on the other side. Because the Tyrant jumped down after me, it had to go to the stairs again. I, on the other hand, had the opportunity to think about the battle strategy, carefully standing in front of the railing so that I could jump down, walk, and jump up in time.
I repeated the same action, hoping that the Tyrant would come to its senses and change tactics. But it got stuck in its development; the Tyrant didn't expect to see a different result, falling into the trap of madness.
— Stupid creature, — I snorted, shaking my head from side to side, repeating the strategic maneuver again.
At one point, I got tired of it, so I decided to have a little fun. Closing one eye, I prepared to fire on target at the enemy: I shot straight at the creature's head. Hitting the hat — twenty points; hitting the eyes — thirty points; everywhere else only ten. The fun shooting range continued for several good minutes until, after another magazine, the creature stopped, swayed, and collapsed onto the floor. Two hundred and twenty points total. Ugh, I should practice more.
Jumping down, I slowly approached the Tyrant, elegantly holstering the pistol along the way.
— You have no friends, so the eulogy will have to be given without witnesses, — I gloomily shook my head, trying to find the words to kill time until its regeneration process ended. In the future, I will have to face new, improved versions more than once. Consequently, beating the fallen will give me nothing.
Conclusion: I need to brighten up the waiting time with a worthy speech that could be delivered at the Tyrant's grave. But, just in case, I carefully looked around. Deciding that my eulogies were not for everyone.
— I have come, essentially, not to grieve. To celebrate the life… or, rather, the non-life. Of the Tyrant T-103. The Tyrant of Salvation. He was a monster, yes, but a monster with a gorgeous hat. Unlike the other zombies, he did not wander the streets, sowing chaos. He didn't manage to get out of the police station. On which he was dropped by a corporation greedy for world influence with a red-and-white umbrella logo. It was this corporation that created the tool, the weapon, thrown onto the city with one single purpose: to test the limits of human resilience. And I endured. I fought him and won a great, undoubtedly, a great battle. I showed that even in the face of such a terrifying force as the Tyrant, I did not lose in spirit or resilience. In a sense, the Tyrant was a teacher, a mentor, teaching us to love life. A mentor, not with words, but with deeds, explaining the meaning of being human, being strong, being alive. So there is no point in grieving for the Tyrant. The biological weapon of the Umbrella Corporation. We need to thank him for what he was and what he meant to everyone, and to me, in particular. Farewell, another clone of Sergei Vladimir. And remember: no one…
I got a little carried away with my speech and almost missed the moment his fingers moved. My eulogies would raise even the dead to their feet. Not bad; I'm good at that.
But, being cool and being beaten — you need to know the line.
Suddenly jumping back, I protected myself from the insidious attempt to grab my leg. I wouldn't be surprised if the Tyrant wanted to thoroughly wipe the floors with my face, destroying them in the process. Not a chance; that's too much honor.
Using the strength from the virus, I instantly made a leap towards it and delivered a powerful low-palm strike to its head. The Tyrant, unable to get back on its feet, flew several meters, its hand catching the bottom of the stairs. It crumbled half the step and damaged the neighboring ones.
Earlier, I stated that I don't hit the fallen. Well, I lied; all sparring partners can be beaten if they try to get back on their feet after a mortal knockout. Moving to it again, I lifted my right leg, straightened it so that my toe was above its head, and brought it down with acceleration onto the creature's head. Essentially, I was relieving it of the role of Umbrella's lapdog. Unfortunately, even when its entire face turned into a shapeless mush, the regeneration process still worked.
I am critically lacking in striking power to kill Tyrants.
— It is certainly regrettable, — casting a final glance at the opponent's recovering head, I shook my head with a sigh. I have a plan of action: how to become strong by absorbing viruses.
"I urgently need to get Golgotha — a unique strain that allows one to become stronger," with these thoughts, I quickly headed towards the reception desk, went through it, and found myself in the corridor.
Taking a sniff, I turned in the opposite direction and wandered around the police station a bit. Even without a developed sense of smell, it is possible to quickly find living people. They leave behind unique traces, a trail of recently dead zombies. Some are still twitching; if you look closely, you can see the tissue regeneration process. It's weak, but even it is capable of raising some zombies back to their feet, sending them into battle again.
I had to finish one such zombie off.
The lying zombie twitched its hand and tried to grab my leg. This is the second time today; seriously, why are they clinging to my legs? Lifting my foot with lightning speed, I brought it down with the same speed onto its hand, breaking the bones. Then I pulled my upper body back, as the zombie tried to lunge, but it was met with a strike to the chin. So strong that its head tore off its body.
Zombies lose their heads because of me; they are so delighted with my dazzling smile. However, it faded when I entered the police department office. First, I was greeted by a sign saying "Welcome Leon." Then a shot to the head. I barely managed to duck so that the bullet flew past, choosing a piece of the door as its target.
— I did it by accident, — Claire grimaced guiltily, lowering her revolver, a basic model for local police officers. — It's… Oh, we barely escaped. What happened in this station?
Claire almost shot a person because of adrenaline and stress, probably caused by protecting Sherry — the little girl. This can, by stretching everything that can and should be stretched, somehow explain the outburst. But if I weren't a god, I could have been killed; only my survival instincts saved me. I have dodged bullets more than once, but each time I had to play roulette.
— T-virus infection, — I nodded in a conciliatory manner, trying not to think about murder for even a second. There's no need, and I need Chris's sister. If the S.T.A.R.S. member had been a good subordinate, he would have died in the Spencer Mansion, and life would have been easier for me.
Unfortunately, he survived and will now cause me a lot of problems if I kill his sister. I could, of course, kill Chris. Such a gesture of goodwill would rid him of honesty along with his life. However, he is a good asset against a much more annoying enemy — the Umbrella board of directors. I prefer to cut from the head, not the feet.
— I didn't think you would get this far, — I continued. — I hope nothing terrible happened along the way?
— Not a chance, — she angrily refuted, lowering the pistol. — Sherry was almost bitten.
— I'm fine, — William's daughter nodded meekly, looking at her protector, then at me.
— I suggest leaving the police station; we'll take a small detour straight to the underground parking lot. There are a few good comrades there, — I explained, trying to conceal as many details as possible. — We will decide what to do next there.
— The child needs to be taken out of the city, for her own good, — Claire noted. — But that's easier said than done.
— Mmm, Mom said something about an underground train, — Sherry frowned, giving a quite decent idea.
— An underground train? — Claire repeated. — Do you know where it is? If it's still there, we can all get out.
The underground train that Sherry mentioned is located in NEST-1. However, I am more than sure that the laboratory management with high access rights left on it. It is unlikely that any of them decided to return to help others get out. That is, of course, if the evacuation was successful.
— At work, — Sherry chose a difficult and tedious game.
Claire had to talk to her for a very long time to find out the location of this work. Surprisingly, the girl managed to dig through her parents' records or overhear their conversations. She is more informed than she should be. In five minutes, Sherry told almost everything she knew, and could have told even more. However, time was against us; we needed to speed up.
I offered my two tails to follow me, straight to the door leading to the courtyard. It was securely locked with an electronic lock; I had to use the police chief's key card. Once in the courtyard, we wandered a bit, killing a few zombies along the way. I tried not to demonstrate too much, so I resorted to using a firearm. I only used my legs a couple of times to push away particularly insolent zombies. Otherwise, they helped me.
Claire showed excellent shooting skills, as if she had the unique gene of ancient archers. Otherwise, it is difficult to explain the family talents of the Redfield family. They are surprisingly tenacious, impulsive, adhere to moralistic ideas, and shoot well. Descendants of Robin Hood.
— And what's in the parking lot? Are we taking a car? — Claire bombarded me with questions as we descended. I remained silent, anticipating the appearance of new shocks from my companion. — What?! Locked…
She was frustrated to find the locked grate blocking our path. The gate is automatic, a complex mechanism that a simple person cannot lift. But I am not simple. Approaching closer and crouching down, I grabbed the bottom and began to lift the structure with great effort. It yielded with great reluctance; at times it seemed as if I was lifting a small mountain. My lifting strength is so-so, much less than the Tyrant's. Fortunately, the strength I had was enough to finish what I started.
— Ladies first, — I suggested, trying to hide the tremor in my voice from the overexertion.
Claire was not surprised that I lifted the barrier, which intended to drop with force and crush the brave one. The girl, apparently, thought it was easy and simple, like raising an eyebrow. Therefore, with reluctance and eagerness, she and Sherry passed into the parking lot, causing me to slightly break a sweat. Only by a miracle did I wait for the moment to elegantly step forward, releasing the grate. It fell with a crash, showing how heavy it was.
— I thought it was lighter, — Claire said, instinctively taking the girl by the shoulder.
— Me too, — I grimaced at this, trying to remember if I had a handkerchief to wipe my face. I didn't have such a luxury; I had to wipe my forehead in a barbaric way with my sleeve when everyone turned away to the far corner. A dog was whining there, a mutated one.
The police dog was infected and, apparently, tried to bite someone. And that someone filled it with lead from an automatic burst, judging by the numerous holes on the floor. Hmm, interesting; I know where my girls went. Opening the unlocked door to the prison cells, I silently walked forward. Just in time; after a few corridors, we met Jan and Ada.
The hacker was trying to do something with the fuse box to open the cell and release the reporter. Ada Wong was actively discussing the information he had obtained with the reporter. Her face, barely noticeably, betrayed irritation. It seems her source of information did a poor job.
— … yes, I'm telling you, Annette is too careful. But don't worry, what I know is already enough to press charges against them. Just free me, and I'll show you everything, — Bertolucci poured out promises in exchange for freedom, hanging spaghetti on their ears, as befits an Italian.
Ugh, Jan, you kind soul. In her place, I would not demonstrate the eagerness to free an "unfortunate man" locked in a cage when she herself is locked in an infected city. But, perhaps, the sympathy reflex developed in NEST-2 worked on her. She was also kidnapped and held, so she is trying to help a person who is in a similar situation. She is trying her hardest, frantically working on the fuse box.
— And… shit… — Ben recoiled when he saw me. I don't know what on my face could have scared him, but horror was written on his grimace. As if the reporter, as funny as it sounds, saw a ghost. A sensation! Albert Wesker is alive and well.
— I see you're doing great without me, — I smirked, tossing the cell key card to Ada. She skillfully caught it, looking at it with a thoughtful expression. Just like she looked at my companions.
— Who's with you? — the spy asked.
— My name is Claire, — Chris's sister quickly introduced herself. — And this is Sherry. She's… Well, let him tell you himself.
— Wesker, — Ben whispered, moving closer to the wall. — I was sure you had rotted underground a long time ago. Is this disinformation?!
— Tonight is the night when the dead rise from their graves, — I replied mockingly, but the smile immediately turned into a frowning squint.
Behind the journalist, a loud thud of footsteps and a cracking sound from the wall echoed.
The Tyrant's huge hand broke through the wall, having managed to recover from its mortal wound. It continued its hunt, breaking through obstacles. Apparently, it received orders to destroy all living creatures in the police station, where the entire city had fled.
"Like in some horror movie — we're locked in with a monster inside a large and mysterious building," I ironically thought to myself, almost missing the moment the Tyrant grabbed the reporter by the face, lifted him into the air, and crushed his skull. Then the nasty Tyrant completely destroyed the wall and burst into the prison cell.
Well, in our time, killers put themselves in prison. That's convenient, isn't it?
It was only inconvenient for us. The Tyrant approached the metal bars of the grate and grabbed them, starting to bend and tear the metal. It could get out of there at any second. Fortunately, my companions were not simple; they had already prepared their weapons and were planning to unleash a fire storm on it.
This turned out to be inconvenient. Who is the victim here, and who is the hunter?
It is also stressful that my entire squad consists of nothing but women… and children.