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Взаимное уважение (Vzaimnoye Uvazheniye) 1:

More RE fanfiction, of a different kind and a different time--post Raccoon City Incident, and very far away from all that. But we do get some further insight into the modus operandi and the nature/nurture of a particular scary Colonel and his personal Ivan Tyrant bodyguards.

Content Warnings: Mentions of Corporate Bullshit, Cursing (mostly in Russian), anxiety and mentions of trauma, otherwise tame.

Взаимное уважение (Vzaimnoye Uvazheniye), 1:

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The security had been about what Collin had expected; two checkpoints had the rather understated Umbrella agent stop his car for pairs of beefy men brandishing Kalashnikovs… or something like Kalashnikovs, anyways. Collin didn’t know guns, except to not say anything stupid and simply hand off his identification to the ones aiming the guns at him. The armed guards grunted, waved him through to the next set of gates, and willfully ignored this weedy annoyance. Ahead, he spied the actual complex itself, though it was beyond the reach of the dirt one-lane road he’d been on for the past half mile, and stopped the slightly dented, rented vehicle to step out and investigate his route further—the complex was, technically, a residence though not a typical one.

The man who lived there was also not a typical one. Colonel Sergei Vladimir was considered “retired” from Umbrella’s board, but as with most people involved with the company it was impossible to cut all ties, even when the break was legitimate and not just legal smokescreen. Though the Colonel could put a safe distance from the business of genetically-engineered super-virals and the cutthroat bioweaponry environment—sitting comfortably on the stacks of money gained from quite literally selling off bits of himself—he seemed to have prepared well for someone to have found out his involvement anyhow, and be ready to withdraw like a tortoise and fight to the death. He seemed the type, just from what Collin knew. At least a dozen experimental Tyrants had been cloned directly from this bizarre old Soviet, and a dozen more at least had large chunks of his genome spliced into them in the embryonic stages.

Collin did not like Tyrants… not the individual creatures and definitely not the concept of them. Despite still being on Umbrella business and very much out of his element, Collin was at least relieved that he was isolated in a private piece of the Ukrainian countryside, and not stuck in some laboratory or test range with the hulking monsters’ cloudy, vacant eyes following his every move. Not nearly as vacant as they looked…

There was a third checkpoint area at the end of the small footpath some fifty yards down the hill from where he’d left the car, though no guards appeared to be standing at their normal places. There was only a smaller, ordinary metal fence with a very much not-security oriented latch between himself and a small patio leading up to a Brutalist-styled house’s front entrance, and after waiting a few seconds Collin timidly lifted the latch and let himself onto the brick pavers. Still there was no sign of a final checkpoint guard, so he called out once in English, then kicked himself mentally and tried again in a wavery Russian. No voice replied. There wasn’t even the bark of a sentry dog. Steeling his fragile spine, Collin took the next few paces over to the heavy oak door and thought about knocking. There was obviously no doorbell…

Behind him and to his left came a swift stamping of heavy boots, and Collin spun around in terror as their trajectory stopped less than a yard from him. A tremor rattled the paver he was standing on. He’d already craned his neck up expecting to be glared down by the standard six-foot meathead soldier and cursed out in a mix of tongues for crossing the threshold without clearance. He instead came eye-to-chest with a wall of heavy white fabric. His neck had to creak up another few notches—and Collin shuddered at what was looming very much into his personal space.

A Tyrant. Of course there would be a goddamn Tyrant, even out here. It wasn’t even a very big one as the trained killer biomutants went—but it was still well in the range of what Collin considered way too damn big for anything that superficially resembled a bald, mute, and jacked humanoid.

There was… something else weird here too, which Collin didn’t place until the seven-foot-plus monstrosity had stopped and stared the little man down for several seconds, and then leaned its deep grey, leathery face closer. Collin flinched, bringing his hands up into a default position of surrender as he silently prayed the thing was not under any kind of kill orders. With a delayed startle he realized the Tyrant had been… wearing something extra with its bright white Limiter coat.

Were those… sunglasses?

Well, maybe “blinders” was also appropriate. They were an iridescent orange, wrap-around type which almost completely obscured the creature’s eyes and brows. The need was obvious: Tyrants of all production phases, all models, and all model variants had long been known to have extremely sensitive eyesight—and prolonged damage from bright sun or frequent flashbangs was the reason behind the eerie, pupilless appearance that many of them developed. Why this one was given a piece of eye protection that was so goofy-looking, like it was off to escort its master to a rave, Collin couldn’t quite understand.

The goofiness of the glasses did not do much to lessen the very real possibility that Collin was going to piss himself and cry before falling down. The Tyrant had cocked its head slightly, and let out a confused grunt before lowering its head even closer. Its face was almost brushing up on Collin’s messy mop of hair; it sucked in a few heavy sniffs, straightened up, and repeated the process on each of the man’s upraised hands. Collin’s bladder nearly gave up the fight as a second set of thundering footsteps came around the house and loomed in from the right: Another Tyrant. This one was near-identical, except for the goofy sunglasses it wore being blue. This mutant also began sniffing heavily over the elevated portions of the intruder, letting out a low warning growl as Collin tried to duck out of its easy reach.

…What the hell were they doing? Were they under orders at all? Or was he screwed—simply happening to catch these things’ interest while they were freely roaming, and about to get out-of-control mauled by the two of them?

A large hand stretched out and pawed at the breast pocket of Collin’s shirt, and he stifled a yelp. He held still as a statue as the other’s hands began investigating his open coat pockets, growling a bit more emphatically as its gloved fingers closed over his tube of Chapstick. It snatched the tube, studied it for a second, then gave it an exploratory sniff before baring its upper teeth in disgust and flinging it away. The orange-visored monster was now digging into his slack’s pockets—still with a casual scent-check over Collin’s jacket shoulder as the man couldn’t suppress his squeak in alarm.

Maybe he wasn’t dead. The Tyrants seemed to be searching him—and a fair bit more politely than a TSA agent at that—and once the two monsters had seemingly determined that this intruder had no weapons, poisons, or other dangerous things they’d been ordered to watch for, they let up on the rough grabbing, the menacing growls, and stood back. It wasn’t easy to tell thanks to the ridiculous wrap-around headgear, but the Tyrants now seemed to be calmly watching him. The blue-visored one tilted its head sharply as Collin started lowering his hands to curl up around chest level, and grunted sharply at him.

What the hell did that mean? Were they… waiting for orders from him now? He wished his voice wasn’t cracking like his balls hadn’t dropped and also that he’d thought to bring some water for his dry mouth:

“U-umm… English? You understand?”

To Collin’s shock, the two began nodding eagerly, tensed on their feet like pointer dogs focused on a hidden, quivering rabbit.

“Right, um, I’ve come to meet with Sergei Vladimir. Is he here?”

Both started to move, stopping as their broad shoulders bumped into each other and each issued a deep rumble of dissatisfaction as they glared at each other, noses only inches apart. The snarls raised in pitch until finally the slightly bigger one in the orange visor relented, shifting its weight in place, leaving the blue-visored one to tromp off around the side of the house presumably to fetch the ex-Spetsnaz Colonel. Collin tried to just get some oxygen without hyperventilating as he got left with the even less ideal situation. Being small, and being guarded by a seven-foot-plus mutant born and bred to crack heads open and punch through walls.

“H-he’s, uh, gone to find the Colonel?” He must have snapped if he was chatting with a lethal bioweapon. But anything to help him forget the monstrous nature of the thing still standing less than a yard away, right?

To Collin’s surprise, the Tyrant peered back down at him and gave a curt bob of its head. He began to nervously chuckle, uncontrollably.

“Aheh… heh… good… that’s good…”

The thing grunted again, sounding… interested, confused, annoyed? Collin couldn’t tell, and backed up to the door as the Tyrant suddenly shifted its weight towards him, leaning its entire head, shoulders, and massive chest down as if ready to headbutt him or crush him bodily against the closest wall. Collin flinched, hands wrapping up to futilely protect his eggshell-flimsy skull. He didn’t think he’d done anything provoking, but then the Colonel was known to be a bit on the crazy side. His personal Tyrants might also be trained to be a bit crazy to match.

But nothing hit him… Cracking an eye open, Collin was startled by the sight of a wrinkly, grey ear hovering less than a foot from his face. The Tyrant was just holding the bent-over posture, waiting. Was it… looking at something by his shoes? There was nothing there but the cracks in the pavers and a light-colored moss. After a second the creature gave a soft groan—now definitely confused and shifting from foot to foot in impatience.

“W-Uh-Wh-What do you w-want?” Collin prayed to whatever power existed that the Tyrant could parse his stammers. The thing blew a heavy snort through its nostrils, then answered very, very clearly, though the man still half-squealed at the reply he got: It groaned again, it pressed its shoulder sideways against Collin’s, and dipped its head further to bump softly against his forehead.

…Was this… normal for Tyrants? Was it… asking him to, what, pet it, like a dog or something?

“Well—go on!” A deep, jovial voice chuckled from where its owner was stepping out around the side-yard. “Don’t leave him like that too long! Reward the poor Vanya before he gets let down!”

Collin’s attention snapped to the tall, white-haired older man who was standing (and trying not the laugh) with the blue-visored Tyrant faithfully shadowing him. His right eye was closed permanently and still marked with a long scar, and he was wearing heavy outdoor boots, trousers, and a half-open coat even in the faint chill of the spring air. He was imposing indeed—barely looking small compared to these Tyrants, and also wore an insufferably amused smirk.

“Ah, uh—” Collin was still afraid of whatever it meant to “let down” the insistent monster mashing itself into his side, and reached up while trying his best to keep his hand from shaking. Since the thing kept pushing its head further into his personal bubble, Collin gave the creature a quick scratch over the scalp as he might an overtly-friendly dog. The Tyrant let out a rumble that seemed contented, twisting its neck so that the fumbling hand was over the desired spot.

“Seems Podushka likes you, ahaha!” the man, who could only be the Colonel, guffawed as he watched his visitor’s terrified expression turn fully confused under the barrage of the Tyrant still snuggling heavily onto him. “Come on, get some nerve! The big beast isn’t going to hurt you, сука. Ugh, what kind of hiring is Umbrella resorting to these days?”

Colonel Sergei said something short and level in… Russian possibly, though he didn’t understand it. The Tyrant—or “Podushka”—swiftly retreated from Collin’s armsreach and grunted in an acknowledgement. The Colonel then stepped over towards his guest with the other Tyrant not far behind and squinted downwards.

“Hmmm… You’re the one here about the settlement, yes? What do I call you?”

“C-Collin Davies, sir. Yes, you’re quite right,” he straightened up, trying not to reveal just how chilly he was now that fear-sweat had soaked right through to his lapels, “I’m from Umbrella’s U.K. branch… Just here to confirm with you some things that will, ah, assure your immunity.”

“Hmph… Might as well get cozy, with all this legal pizdets…” Sergei appeared to chew at the inside of his cheek a moment. “We should do this inside. Laska! Podushka! Follow.”

Okay, this big Soviet bastard definitely found his phobia of Tyrants hilarious; there was a smirk on his face as he opened the door and let the agent in—making sure the still-rumbling Podushka was right behind the tiny man the whole way.

Well… at least Colonel Vladimir’s hospitality was as big as whatever offshore bank account his work at Umbrella had bloated. The older man bade him make himself comfortable in one of the armchairs of what was either a living room or a particularly lush study, the dim coals of the last night’s warming fire still glowing in the nearby hearth. Collin politely accepted the glass of ice-water but had to turn down the shot of fiery spirits that his host also offered. Sergei downed his own in a split-second, barely reacting, and passed the unclaimed shot over to the blue-visored Tyrant, who gave it a tentative sniff and drank it almost as swiftly.

“Nnr!”

It half-choked, gray nose and lips wrinkling up as it shook its head. Sergei cackled as he took the empty shot glass back from its twitching hands.

“Ohh, poor Laska. I’m cruel to you, yes? So cruel I give you the thirty-euro vodka… come on, hush, you’re fine. My fantastic Ivan, eh? There you are,” The Colonel plucked something from his pocket and pushed it into the Tyrant’s palm, which upon being studied lit the creature’s face up and earned a higher-pitched grunt.

While the creature tore open the wrapper and devoured whatever it was that the Colonel had given it, Sergei kicked up his feet onto the small stool close by and sighed.

“Now, business…”

Collin knew more gory details than he liked to, but such was required working in the position he did. Many Umbrella executives were now either M.I.A.—presumably either dead, the traitors responsible for the recent disastrous outbreak, or part of the response now running as far from association with the company as possible—or they were part of the ring of board members which the United States Government was now putting under the microscope. Except for the Colonel. There was no official record of his current or recent work under Umbrella, despite his role in salvaging what could be found out of the Raccoon City Incident before the place was “sterilized” in the flash of the USA’s nuclear judgment. Judging from the fact that Colonel Vladimir had helicoptered in, recovered at least one archive and a supercomputer alongside several Monitors and other personnel, and lived to escape was a testament to the fact that Sergei had perhaps been the only competent person involved in that little fiasco that Collin’s boss had dared to call “damage control”.

The lack of paper or digital trail was very beneficial to Colonel Vladimir’s case—as was the strong evidence which still existed of mismanagement and sabotage from a certain Albert Wesker and Dr. William Birkin, the latter of which was definitely dead and the former disappeared to parts unknown. There would still be sanctions, reparation settlements that would be ordered, and at least a few of the artificially-high-ranked useless toadies on Umbrella’s executive branch would have as much culpability redirected onto their records as possible to give the courts a few sacrificial targets to lay down prison sentences. Umbrella would survive—in what state it couldn’t be said yet, but it would survive this. And by virtue of not being provably anywhere near the States at the time and comfortably at home in a former Soviet country where extradition was rare even for the less powerful… Sergei Vladimir would likely not be seeing the inside of a courtroom.

Sergei grumbled as he scanned the statements he was to sign and initial, one hand wandering to a small switchblade which he slipped from a pocket and fidgeting with it. Collin tried not to watch the flash of light as the blade flicked out, in, out again—and tried even harder not to stare in alarm as the behemoth of a man then turned the tip of the exposed knife up to his mouth, teeth clicking against metal as he chewed on it. He only stopped as a tiny dribble of blood ran down his gums and beaded at the corner of his mouth, but apparently, he did not stop from pain; the Tyrant left standing by Collin’s chair (Podushka) began to make a soft groaning that almost sounded like a whine, head locked in the direction of its master’s visible bleeding.

“Hm.” Sergei sheathed and put away the weapon, then wiped away the blood on the back of his sleeve, “Very well, I should sign. I am losing track of time, you see… good, my Ivan! You keep me on task.”

Podushka’s plaintive noise turned immediately to the more satisfied rumble at the sound of praise. The other—what had he called it again? Laksha? Lasya?—leaned closer to its master’s large armchair and its nostrils flared in a few sniffs, detecting the presence of its master’s blood and tensing up visibly. Sergei chuckled and reached around to pat this Tyrant on the shoulder.

“Laska, shh.” Vladimir smiled, and not with the schadenfreude as he had at the plight of his guest. Collin watched, completely dumbfounded. He had never seen anyone handle one of these killer mutants this way before; half of the Tyrant training staff he’d ever asked would have said anyone with their guard this low around a T-103 model was asking for at least an accidental fracture, if not far, far worse.

While Sergei quickly got to work signing and initialing, Collin could not help but notice that the Colonel’s one functioning eye was scrutinizing the far less physically impressive man with a troubling glint in it. As the Colonel flipped to the last place that needed his distinctive scrawl, another almost playful grin was pointed over his way.

“I see you have been surprised by these two. So, what you make of my Ivans?”

“Ah… ‘Ivans’, sir?” Collin tried not to let the increase in the sweat beading over his brow be obvious, “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the Tyrant model… Er, they’re T-103s?”

“Derivative model. By you there is designated T-IVAN-012, and here we have T-IVAN-013. Split embryo. Twin brothers, you could say. But yes, very like the T-103s.” Sergei smirked, “You do not work around such fantastic beasts, do you?”

“Well, er, actually… a-around them, not exactly with…”

The Colonel raised up a brow, “Really? Your fear suggests you have no experience whatsoever.”

“On the contrary,” Collin’s lips split in an anxious, uncontrolled grimace which he quickly warped into a smile, “I’ve had some, uh, not necessarily pleasant experiences. F-frequently.” At this Collin’s heart dropped as the daunting man’s face soured into a somewhat suspicious frown. He said something snappily to the Ivan named Laska, who turned and retrieved a few small objects from one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves before coming back to its master and holding them out. Vladimir grabbed up the cigar first, chomped it a bit more roughly than necessary, and then took the matchbook.

“Mr. Davies,” he growled around the cigar as he lit it, pausing to take a few strong puffs, “By chance do you recall the facilities where these… not pleasant and frequent experiences occurred to you?”

“Oh, not to me,” Collin tittered, wiping the back of his neck, “I don’t think I’d be alive now if that stuff was towards me. No no, I just, ah… saw a lot of things in my different placements.”

“Hm-mm. Saw a lot of Tyrants, eh?”

“Y-yes. And their handlers.”

“Come, tell me about some. The training and news of such beasts is a great interest of mine. As you maybe could tell,” he lightened up once more, though there was still a glare aimed his way even while Sergei rewarded Laska once more with a sturdy series of pats on the shoulder which it not-so-subtly leaned into.

“Er… well, I’m Umbrella U.K. primarily, so I do a lot of assignments at the U.C.T. complex up in Orkney,” his mouth started running, and Collin wasn’t sure what he could do to stop it. Maybe he’d look a bit less of a cowardly bastard if he did go into detail; probably not—this Russian bear was a Soviet-Afghanistan veteran and anything human versus human was likely so much more disturbing than what Collin had to offer. But then it seemed a bit of a relief of pressure to spill the beans to this crazy Colonel. He seemed to have certain… opinions of Collin’s superiors that these violent spectacles he’d witnessed would no doubt prop up a bit higher.

“We had Tyrant groups transferred there. For uh, specialized training I think. I’m not good with what the purpose of it all was. I was mostly just filing the paperwork. There was this one time a few years ago that a group of three were coming through for training before they got passed along to the buyer in… Sweden, I think.

“They had a bunch of handlers, of course. They’re 300 kilo monsters, and sometimes they just won’t move the way you want them to.”

“That they are,” Sergei chuckled. “Go on!”

“But those three Tyrants had one trainer for whatever it was they were supposed to do in Sweden. This guy named Anton. Didn’t talk to him much. I got the feeling he thought poorly of anyone behind a desk.

“Anyway, Anton kept putting in notes I had to file up the chain that one of the Tyrants was acting, uh, defective.”

Sergei snorted.

“Well, that’s what Anton said. I wouldn’t know.” Collin licked at his dry lips, doing little good since the memory had dried his whole mouth out anyways. “I’m in my work space and I get called to the observation deck there to watch this guy. I guess, ah, that intern knew better what was going to happen.”

If the dark chuckle the Colonel responded with was any indication, he had a good idea what was next as well—as well as about ten things the suspiciously-past-tense-only Anton should not have done…

“That Tyrant didn’t look off at all, except that it wasn’t listening to Anton. A handler went in to redirect it, started it going through the basic stuff—moving obstacles, testing reflexes with the tennis ball gun, holding still and turning so its Limiter could get adjusted. You know… And this one was, uh… a big one. A head or more over, um…”

“—Podushka,” the Colonel reminded him of the larger Ivan’s nickname, then nodded for him to carry on.

“Yes, so, very big. And when the handler went out, this one did fine. More than fine—it was perfect. In fact it acted kinda… um… well—”

“—Relieved?” Sergei’s expression wasn’t quite a smirk, but it bled both confidence and foreknowledge. Collin had to stare at him, amazed he’d found the exact word.

�� “Yes, that’s it! There was no sign at all it would snap, at least at that point. That Tyrant looked positively cool-headed as it worked, so did the handler.”

“Mm-hm,” Another low cloud of cigar smoke drifted up towards the ornate vent in the ceiling, “And that tells you—just by logic now, no need to know Tyrant training—exactly who was defective?”

Not the Tyrant,” Collin did not bother to suppress the shiver, “Its fists worked just fine…”

“And before fists came out? Details, сука!”

“Well, er, Anton looked pretty annoyed that this newbie handler wasn’t getting the same treatment as him. So he pushed the guy back to the door and said he’d take over the drills.” Collin shrugged. “Next thing anyone knew, that thing was on top of Anton, and then he was not so much Anton as, ah… several pieces.”

“It sounds to me,” Vladimir again patted Laska, which then evolved into stroking the creature’s entire shoulder and arm, prompting the Ivan to tilt its head heavily down towards the contact, “like this anonymous handler had the Tyrant’s respect. Perhaps enough it considered the handler its master it had to protect. You see now why Anton did not make it, yes?”

“It… thought Anton was attacking its master?”

“As surely as anyone going to shove me would feel my Vanyas’ wrath, absolutely. It is one of the finer qualities of any Tyrant—loyalty, and a willingness to put themselves between a threat and the ones they must protect. Even if it brings pain to them—they want to fight—to protect, more than they want to avoid pain.”

Collin’s voice caught in his throat; he decided he would not mention that the higher-ups had opted to put down the “faulty/insubordinate” Tyrant.

“Ugh, idiot trainer,” the ex-Soviet grumbled, sucking on the cigar with a more desperate force. “This was not the only such debil you saw at work, eh.”

“Err… no sir, I would say not, sir.”

“Serves them right then. Tyrants are truly too good for them.”

“Um… Sir?”

“Hm, you know how some say ‘mankind does not deserve dogs’?” Sergei mused, “It is much the same with any beast that has grown to live alongside humans. Such creatures,” Vladimir’s voice went low, “are innocent. They ask for nothing—especially not to be born to serve. There are… situations in our world that let us know that there are Masters, and there are Slaves. Leaders and Followers. It would be the duty of the leader to ensure the needs of the followers, though…” the older man’s brow cinched up, darkening his expression, “This is often not the case. Thus there are Masters and Slaves. While any well-trained guard dog would be fully within its right to attack the Master who beats or starves it, a dog… well, any normal animal doesn’t have the power to remind mankind what we owe it.

“But a Tyrant,” Sergei’s deep, intimidating voice became full of awe, full of softness where you wouldn’t expect, “A Tyrant had the power. So close to human in form and build and makeup, they wake automatically understanding our words and reading our faces, our voices. And whenever mankind does not deserve a Tyrant, the Tyrant can and will make it known.

“So when a Tyrant obeys you, it is humbling. This beast could so easily destroy every bone in your body, take whatever it needed or wanted, and treat you as nothing… but it does not. It is the ultimate example of serving another, or absolute willingness, and to earn such an unconditional devotion is…” the huge man sighed, “… almost spiritual.”

“…You… care about these two quite a lot, don’t you?”

“Oh, certainly,” the man’s hand had wandered up to the area just behind the Ivan’s ear, and the creature’s fingers curled up involuntarily as it began to grumble with a tone that was as pleased as Collin had ever heard from one of the monsters. Another Tyrant vocalization—a dull groan, almost yearning—sounded from right behind the Colonel’s visitor, and he jumped slightly before remembering Podushka was still looming over his chair. “I have… given up much. Some things I should not have—It was a failure of mine that haunts me, yet it had to be done. But for these two, I can earn back that worth. So long as I am not dead, then I have the trust of my dear Ivans!”

Sergei then squinted at the flinching man, entertained still by his reflexive fright, “Mr. Davies—you have an urgent request waiting, hahah!”

The small man reached a tentative hand up, hoping the Ivan would guide him a bit in exactly where to place it. Podushka growled loudly, but not with any kind of aggression, and soon enough expressed that the thought did count even if the reaching hand was nowhere near it: There was a gentle clonk of the brute’s cranium resting down on the top of Collin’s shaggy mop.

“Um.”

Oh god. He must have looked especially pathetic now, because the ex-Spetsnaz was visibly cracking up at this. Sucking up the two atoms’ worth of courage in his whole body, Collin tucked his upraised hand around and scratched vigorously at the first spot of Tyrant he came in contact with—which ended up being the side of its meaty neck. Podushka pressed into it, blissful grumble vibrating itself, Collin, and the chair he sat in like a revving engine.

“Good, my Vanya, ha! You are lucky, Mr. Davies. These two do not warm up to outsiders like this so easy. Especially not Podushka. He is fiercely protective whenever strangers call.”

“Uh. I… sort of doubt I’m all that dangerous.” The Ivan seemed to concur—if it was even paying much attention, that is. It was currently occupied with nuzzling the side of its broad jaw down into the top of the captive guest’s hair, squeezing the man lower just hard enough that Collins squeaked and gasped sharply, but not hard enough to compress him into an accordion shape, “U-um! Easy—you’re heavy, oof.”

“Podushka, do not break him, eh?” Sergei snickered, and with a low huff through its nostrils the Tyrant released the agent’s head, though still lingered overhead low enough to continue extorting affection from him. “Well, it appears all of the legal nonsense is done. But it is late, yes? You will not be making it back to civilization before dark…”

“Is… that a particular concern around here, Colonel?”

“Hmph, you don’t fear driving forty kilometers in the night on these old backroads, alone? If some debil didn’t want your car, or your money, it would be your kidneys at least.”

“Ah,” Collin’s hand froze mid-scratch, and a puzzled grunt issued from the Tyrant, “I, uh, had a room paid for back in Zinkiv, but I’m not sure getting there sounds appealing.” Reminded of the biomutant’s presence as it bumped itself against him again, Collin startled and gave Podushka three final pats before retrieving his hand, “A-are you sure these, uh, your Ivans would be safe to be around for that long? As an outsider?”

“Merely overnight,” Sergei chuckled and shook his head, “If their master gives the word, they will leave you be. Even without my orders, you’d be fine. Don’t do anything foolish, and you are better off taking your chances with the Tyrants than the… locals,” he sniffed.

“Well, I… thank you for the, ah, hospitality. It’s quite unexpected in my line of work.”

“Not a problem,” Vladimir shook his head more forcefully, “We are in this work together, hm? Come, I will show you the guest room. Soon is dinner—that is, if you do not mind local commoner fare.” He chuckled darkly, “And sharing it with Tyrants.”

“Eheh… So long as no one bites my hand off I should manage.”

#resident evil #re #fanfic #fanfiction #resident evil outbreak #resident evil umbrella files #Ivan Tyrants #tyrant #b.o.w.#Sergei Vladimir #Ivan twins #Umbrella corp #as narsty as Col. Vladimir can be he knows Tyrants #a lovely ole super-flawed dude of a character who you at least know is competent

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spidermilkshake · 3 days

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Wild Hunt

More RE fanfics--more mutants, more corporate shenanigans. Finally, we have arrived on the day of RE2's events.

Rating: Teen (TW for suggestive language, human experimentation, dehumanization, medical/lab settings and stuff, described injuries and gore, plus also human adults cuss like human adults)

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.

Poor Ben. No chance--all because Leon spoke directly in line from you. Poor Mr. X too. He's just... gettin' surprised and bonked at all turns.

9: Wild Hunt

Mr. X staggered through the hallway entering the R.P.D., eyes still smarting and watering from its first encounter with the detestable “flashbang grenade”, its mood still no less hostile. The dimness of the interior soothed it after a few moments, and with a heavy snort it began to scan around the floor close to the helicopter’s wreckage. It had to have landed somewhere in this radius after being knocked off, and the Tyrant began huffing louder and in desperation as it became clear that his trilby—his gift—was nowhere to be seen. T-00’s mood rapidly became much worse—snarling like rolling thunder under his breath as his measured, reserved tread became more of an aggressive march. The building itself seemed to tremble in fear of being the next thing to anger the bioweapon.

It was going to find the unidentified man—if it couldn’t find the hat, then it could at least find him. And make him pay.

Mr. X had zoned in on his mission now, and the implant’s forcing pulses had thankfully died down now that it detected the Tyrant prowling the hallways on its own. At the next door in this upper eastern quadrant of the building T-00 paused for a moment, listened. There was a cacophony of distant noises: Mr. X could filter most out right away as the mind-rotted groans of the infected drifting in through the damaged windows, and some as the low whirrs of air systems kicking on in still-functioning parts of the station. Something squeaked—a loud hinge of some door or locker—and Mr. X focused on that direction. He crouched through the door with some difficulty, and then gave the new air inside what seemed to be the waiting room a few sniffs. He’d been here—the smell of that particularly stressed human was flooding the area, lingering most strongly on where he had shouldered open the doors. The Tyrant dipped his own shoulder and barged through into a massive hall, captivated for a moment by the sheer height and depth of the place, and its ornate decoration. It was looking over a lower section where some makeshift infirmary screens and cots were scattered next to an intake counter of sorts, and spotted the large storage chest and numerous other survival goods piled up next to it. Its attention was hooked onto the slumped figure at the bench opposite. He recognized the man. Marvin Branagh—a target—though the bloody wound on the man’s abdomen sopping through the R.P.D. uniform was new.

Cautious, Mr. X made his way down one of the grand staircases and approached the still body; he did not need to get very close for an inquisitive sniff to tell him that no killing was required—Marvin’s blood was recently shed, but it was starting to reek with a virulent infection. The Tyrant did not want to linger too close, and crept around the large intake counter instead, head raised away from the disturbing odor and trying to detect any others.

Its brows furrowed and it grunted in annoyance at the results: There was one scent it was prioritizing, but unfortunately that one was everywhere—and its mere presence was prompting him to rumble with stifled rage. With no clear trail it could follow, Mr. X instead pricked up its hypersensitive ears.

Someone was very much alive and moving on the second floor—training on the source near the far back corner of the building, it also picked up something like… flowing water? Flowing water—the Tyrant growled under his breath and picked up speed through one of the closest doors into a disheveled office, intent to climb the stairwell near the back west side of the building, the one closest to whoever had just reminded it of the nasty encounter at the doused helicopter. Bursting into another hall, it began to creep a bit more softly over the floors leading to this area. Though with a slight wince, the boards underneath it still creaked in protest and each stairstep vibrated in warning that something strong and heavy was using them. It froze on the small landing halfway up, recognizing a fresher human scent coming from the third story.

… This one was not the scent he wanted to follow, but it was something at least. With all his possible stealth, Mr. X inched up the rest of the way while double-checking his nose’s work. Not only was this presence new and unfamiliar, but up here the man’s had almost completely faded into the background of dust, crust, and viral-laden bloodstains. Whoever it was, they too were overloaded with stress hormones and carried an additional whiff of gunpowder and leather. Tilting its head in contemplation, the bioweapon realized that engaging with anyone new would only give his preferred prey advance warning of where he was—worse, it may allow the defiler of his hat a chance to escape the much easier-to-stalk confines of the indoors. Stomping with its full mass once again, T-00 turned around and made its way back to the main hall.

The damn stink of that hat-shooting bastard was still all over this open room—and Mr. X still could not pinpoint any origin to the trail. The man had been here so often, and so recently, that it pervaded every corner.

Well. If he had not cut through the office to the west, then maybe he had backtracked up to the second level somewhere. As the bioweapon ascended the grand staircase, pace increased and eager to trap his quarry, he continued to pick up the sounds of human activity. It was closing in on the source, though still echoing around corners, muffled through doors and walls; somewhere slightly above it a latch closed behind someone’s passage with a soft clunk, and somewhere else further into that upper west section of the building there was a dull electronic tone—similar to the types of noises that Sheena Island’s failsafe locks made as they disengaged. Two in motion. One could be him. Inhaling deeply, the Tyrant pushed open the closest door that took it in the right direction and ended up in a high-ceilinged library that looked more like it belonged in a university than in a police station. At the base of one of the towering shelves (so tall that an entire upper level of catwalks was build into their tops) was a pair of infected humans, clawing and gnawing clumsily on what was left of a ribcage and spine. One wobbled upright and lunged towards the new source of movement and flesh—and was promptly batted to the floor before having its neck crunched underfoot.

At a better time, Mr. X may have liked to explore the smaller details of this room—but with a shake of his head, he knew he had greater need to focus on the purely strategic ones. Sidestepping the other vastly-overconfident zombie, it peered around and took stock of all escape routes. There were the main doors, of course, which it was blocking, but there was also another door on the opposite side—high on the catwalk level making this one room fully stretch across two stories. Close to where it had entered the staircase wrapped around one corner, and it frowned once it turned away from pulping the other infected man against the hard base of this stair, having spotted the ladder. Against the opposite wall and giving anyone he pursued two ways to get out of its immediate range—the recipe for a literal run-around. T-00 growled to itself; this library was no good, too large. If that man ever fled into here, it would take tactical—and risky—decision-making to herd him somewhere he could be more easily cornered.

There was also a smaller door in the wall just by the bottom of the stairs. As far as it remembered from the blueprints it was given, this led to a lounge, then from there into the winding hallway of the west side’s 2nd floor that meandered into and out of more functional spaces until it met up with that narrow backmost stairwell. Many places to hide—and higher odds the fleeing human might have chosen one of these. If caught there, there was no getting out. And he’d remember those horrible little blasting canisters—he would not be fooled by that trick a second time.

Perfect. The Tyrant plodded towards this door, scenting near the handle and finding a muddle of both fresh and old there. One of them made its eyes flare; yes, he was here. Somewhere.

The simmering anger was interrupted by an explosion—and not of the emotional kind. Mr. X hadn’t been ready for anything like it, and staggered into the door ahead of him, his sheer weight ripping it off its hinges and landing on the lounge’s rattling floor with a thunk! as the Tyrant caught himself on the doorframe. Though not before banging his forehead squarely into the top of it. T-00 sucked in an annoyed hiss and surveyed the splintered dent his cranium had left in the wood before shaking off the disorientation:

What the hell was that.

The whole building (or at least this wing of it) was still faintly shaking, dust trickling down from neglected beams and corners. Not the most powerful explosion it had experienced, but enough to do more than give the likes of him pause. Wary now, Mr. X took a few shuffling paces into the lounge, around the wrecked door, back muscles twitching at every faint noise. There were… quite a lot of those. Some grew less and less faint. Many were definitely on the floor above the Tyrant. Scratching, gouging… shrill, inhuman shrieking? Not even animal-like. Something else. There was a muffled BLAM that seemed most like a long-gun discharging, and this drew its eye upward for a crucial moment as it was just in front of the door into the winding hallway—

—as that door slammed open, narrowly whiffing past its torso, and a series of rapid, clicking steps screeched to a half a meager distance from also slamming into it. Mr. X’s neck snapped back downwards, startled but ready to repel another charging infected… but this wasn’t a zombie. Certainly not a police officer, dressed as she was. Her long coat was more like a Tyrant’s own Limiter than any other uniform he had encountered.

“Fuck..!” The woman sounded as if this was not the first time that evening that she had wanted to let profanity slip, but that this was the moment that one had leaked out. In a flash she’d dragged the alarm on her face back behind a cool, confident mask, sidestepping neatly to gain a bit more distance from the hulking creature at the same time. Mr. X shifted to follow her position, locked-on now and more curious than anything now.

Her right hand had slid to her waist, clearly ready to draw a hidden weapon, and for a few beats the only move either made was each swiftly appraising the other—calculating risk, trying to gauge motives, identifying who and what. She, too, was of no comparison to the faces T-00 knew—but she was too unafraid to be unarmed—or unaware of his true nature. His first thought was that she may be with Umbrella, something they called “Monitors”—but that made little sense with how tense and alert she stood while watching for the Tyrant’s next move.

“What’s the matter, big guy?” She took another step backwards, almost pinning herself to the wall. A glint of dark metal drew T-00’s attention down for a split-second, shoulders tightening at the appearance of the pistol in her hands, “Don’t know how to act around a woman?”

Mr. X’s brows twitched, and his head tilted. What… did that have to do with anything? What the Tyrant needed to know how to act around was a woman he didn’t know being especially cagey around him with a gun in hand. Annoyingly, this time the pulses of the implant hijacking his movements never kicked in, and with a deep huff he tested if she was friend or foe for himself, floorboards creaking as his massive weight shifted forward to take a short step to the side which would open up her path past him, should she choose it.

Two things happened in quick succession—unexpected enough the giant had trouble reacting to the one-two punch of the woman choosing violence. The gun’s barrel swiveled up towards his head, and he froze to brace for the sharp sting of bullet casings shredding against a steely skull and bullet-proof hide. Her firearm must not have been at all powerful because the impacts hardly scuffed up the spot on his cheek where its projectiles connected, but the sharp pop-pop! of the gunfire in the close quarters made him flinch and swat upwards to cup his ringing ear.

That pop-pop! had echoed down the twisty, strangely-designed hallway, reaching something else and leading it on a beeline towards the room. Mr. X’s aching ears were bombarded in the front and behind with the sounds of scrambling feet—the woman darting across the room towards the permanently-open library—and something rounding the hall corner, approaching on all fours—

The Tyrant’s senses scrambled, it was truly taken off-guard the moment it turned to retaliate against the woman’s attack, and something thudded onto its back and latched on with four clawed limbs. Futher injury came in the form of a stinking, slavering jaw full of needle-like teeth digging into the back of his head. He bellowed—a noise somewhere between ape and ox—and panicked at just what exactly was biting him? Its combative intuition and training combined in an instant, and it reached up with both hands and clutched at something gnarled, fleshy, and disturbingly wet. His assailant was thankfully nowhere near the strength of even the most anemic Tyrant, and Mr. X tore the creature off and slung it down in front of it, the thing squealing as it was thrown completely around in one sharp jerk.

It wasn’t a human—not even an infected on—but the way it was shaped under the glistening, overlayed skinless muscles implied it probably had been, days ago. Fingers had lengthened, thickened, sharpened into talon-like spurs (as had toes), and its head… well, to say it was destroyed did not suffice. The gnashing jaw, filled with shard-like teeth still drenched in Tyrant blood, was a human mandible, but above the eroded nostrils everything was compacted, caved-in, replaced by a bunching, brain-like series of growths. Frontal lobe, eyes—everything was now a wrinkled, oozing teratoma. Yes. Mr. X knew that word. Many strains of the t-Virus did that to humans. It would do it to Tyrants as well—if the inoculation was not undertaken at the end of the growth cycle. It had never expected something to this degree. It looked like a brain on the outside of its head—as if to replace the grey matter that had deteriorated to nothing within its warped skull.

What it was, beyond a threat, was irrelevant. T-00 growled deep in its chest as it glared at the monstrosity flailing and flopping back upright.

It hissed, then with a full-body ripple of twitches it appeared to forget the Tyrant existed. Launching through the library’s doorway in a cat-like lunge—following the sounds of the woman fleeing up the library’s stairs.

Oh no you don’t… Mr. X wiped the profuse blood that had streaked down the side of his head from a punctured ear and lacerations at the base of his neck—still running down his large jaw to drip from his chin despite the rips it spilled from already stitching themselves together. Artificial implant or animal impulse, it knew what to do when something attacked.

She’d bolted to the top of the stairwell, taking a breath to turn on her heel and cut across the center catwalk when the erratic, blind mutant leapt to the top of the railing directly in front of her. Reeling back to avoid the swipe of a claw, she took a snap shot at it which caused only a burst of translucent yellow fluid from its false brain and a yowl, and then grunted in largely-restrained disgust as the thing’s tongue whipped out and extended—wrapping in a vice-grip around her waist and yanking her off-balance. Her second shot sent a gout of strangely-viscous blood from the side of its mouth, slowing its attempt to pull her into range of its uneven fangs.

T-00’s rush took the stairs three at a time with ease, and in the time it took for the woman to turn and see him charging towards her he had made the decision to target the long-tongued mutant first. It made a noise like a rusted hinge being forced open as his fist gripped onto the middle of its extended tongue—the rest of its length instantly spasming and going limp. The woman had ducked down to the floor, though she was no longer much concern of his, narrowly avoiding being bowled over by its other arm—and then ducking again under the frantic mutant’s body being swung into the wall behind them. The mostly-brainless creature regrouped itself fast from being brained, but not fast enough to avoid the Tyrant’s free hand shooting out and pulverizing its neck against the wainscotting. Limp and giving only leftover twitches from its rapid brainstem death, the thing slumped into a pile of flesh and bones and disgust as Mr. X retracted both hands. His finger joints crackled and he gave a rumble—good riddance.

Its sense of triumph was snubbed in a moment; a jolt of unexpected impact shot through the bones of the Tyrant’s pelvis, and with a puzzled grunt it look down between its boots and discovered the woman again, still pressed flat to avoid the combat overhead. She’d… kicked it. While perfectly aimed and with full humanly-possible force braced with the floor’s leverage, the strike had not exactly conjured anything approaching pain. Mr. X frowned slightly; she definitely was not an Umbrella agent. If she had been, and had known enough to recognize a T-103 when she saw one, she would have known that he did not possess the particular weak spots she’d aimed for.

The Tyrant decided to play “an eye for an eye”, or rather a boot for a boot, regardless. The woman rolled, narrowly dodging Mr. X’s half-hearted stomp and folding upwards to her feet in a fluid motion. Her pistol pop!-pop!-ed once more, but he felt no impacts and whipped around to see that she had been aiming for the fastenings securing the ventilation grate in place in the corner of the library. The metal fell to the halfway-point landing with a clang, and she heaved herself up and began to army-crawl into one of the large vents pumping the climate-controlled air into the library.

Mr. X’s nose crinkled up as he made for the last sight of her legs vanishing into the darkness of the ducts; she was assuming he couldn’t follow into such a narrow space, though by his measure the space was not so narrow at all… once the ducting was peeled out. In a dive, one massive hand plunged into the hole in the wall—fingers scraping on the corrugated metal as he came up just shy of her heel. His other hand braced on the opening and with a hitch in its breath began forcefully ripping the entrance larger. Larger. There was a quick flash from within the vent, and T-00 jerked his head aside as another bullet blew apart very close to its eyes.

Once sure his vision wasn’t compromised, it bared a sliver of teeth and pressed forward, knees plowing through the wood paneling and underlying brick while pushing the framework of the vent shaft further out. It could now fit its entire enormous width into the darkened inner-wall space, and even as slow as this progress was made, it was still managing to keep up with this provoking character…

Something creaked—deep, ominous. Not surface-level, as with the floorboards. The Tyrant stiffened up, spreading its weight in a spasm of reflex the second it registered the sound. The inner-wall’s frames didn’t… feel that weak. After a second more of trying to find any further subtle warnings of a structural nature over the echoing clamor of the woman hustling towards another series of dim vent grate slits, the Tyrant snorted and moved again.

Another groan, softer. He grew confident. This framework was part of the architecture designed to prop the entire level up, surely it wouldn’t—

—ting!

… ting—tingting!

…Oh.

It appeared the place was not up to code.

—KLINK! Tink! T-KING!

The Tyrant, eyes as wide as they went, made a desperate attempt to back out of the improvised widened passage he’d made, but the mangled metal and the dusty inner braces had already buckled under its tremendous mass, and the damage that mass had done. With a final series of snaps and cracks, the weak section within the walls dropped open like a trap door—Mr. X tumbling into the black unknown, trying to spread himself out to lessen the impact or—he hoped—to catch onto something sturdy and prevent any inconvenient injuries from this error at all. Luck was not with the bioweapon, and as it crashed into another series of much sparser pieces of framework it grunted as it felt itself tilting uncontrollably onto its back mid-air—

—seconds before velocity and weight combined and it burst through another set, then landed with a meaty thwwakk! onto a concrete block.

A true testament to the fortitude of this particular living weapon, Mr. X was not knocked unconscious by being dropped more than two stories. He did, however, spend some time grumbling unhappily and rubbing at the shoulder that had mostly taken the brunt of it until the heavy bruises on the heavier muscles had faded—which was only fair.

Sitting up, his contemplative grunt echoed in the actually quite large and convoluted chamber that made up the utility inner-walls of the basement level. It must be a basement area—nowhere else was so full of damp rust and mildew odor, so much that even the ever-present scent of the building’s brick, wood, lacquer and other basic matters were overpowered.

Coming slowly to its feet, the Tyrant tried to shut out the now-useless olfactory information in favor of its other enhanced senses. Noise was also not going to do much good—not unless it was from close by. Pipes in the ceiling were bubbling, some popping and sizzling, and somewhere off in the darkness an electrical transformer was hammering. Vision was also limited—not as much as a human’s would be. Mr. X’s pupils, usually tightened into tiny pinpricks, had dilated to be even larger than the usual human’s, and this afforded him some level of clarity in the dungeon-like setting. Even so, he was only seeing detail in greyscale and the distance at which he could make those details out was much shorter—perhaps only out to twenty meters or so. He craned his neck up, studying the chaotic pit in the R.P.D.’s inner workings that he’d created; it did not look like there was going to be a way to get back out by going up—there was no stable way to climb unobstructed, and nothing jutting out after the architectural trauma would at all take his weight if he tried to jump up.

The bioweapon turned back to the deep shadows, boots crunching over pieces of broken plaster and splintered braces.

This was… not ideal.

There was not much clearance over the Tyrant’s head, which put it on edge as it picked and squeezed its way through the awkward forest of load-bearing pillars and piping. At every turn, he scanned for signs of some way out of the damp hole: A maintenance door, a drainage gate, even a bricked-over old window that would not be too difficult to unblock. It got the distinct feeling it was wandering in circles, and with a frustrated rumble instead felt along one of the less grime-coated brick walls. Perhaps the only way out was going to be through.

Not here though. For several meters, his inspection revealed these were tough, thick walls—not just from bearing the weight of floors and street above though that certainly was not a helpful factor. He had to find a more expendable section; too much damage to these, and it risked bringing much of the entire station down on itself. While it was difficult to do, it was possible to asphyxiate a T-103—and over forty tones of earth, brick, and roofing collapsing atop it was probably one way to do it.

Continuing his search, Mr. X paused to probe at a new section of wall and held his breath a moment. Muffled voice? Or voices? The walls were still thick here, making distinguishing anything about them next to impossible. Must get closer. Must hear.

“…Look, we’re… s station… nd help each oth…”

T-00 felt its way along, closer to the source, the leather of its creased-up Limiter creaking and straining as it had to duck under a tangle of electrical conduits. The voices stopped at the noise it made, and Mr. X felt the inner urge to curse and went absolutely frozen-still. Listening.

…Listening.

Come on. Speak. Listening!

“Shit. It’s coming.”

There. It was quiet through the half-meter of stone and mortar, but he was definitely much closer to whoever was speaking. The Tyrant pressed his ear flush to the brickwork, straining his auditory processing powers to their limit.

“What—what’s coming?”

At the sound of the second voice, the Tyrant’s heavily wrinkled face twitched in recognition—his blood going white-hot with rage. HIM. Beyond this wall. The voice was distinctly coming from directly perpendicular to him—speaking hushed, but it couldn’t be more clear. There was someone else there too, shouting at his prey in a panicked tone, but T-00 did not care about any bystanders. Everyone else could walk away—he wanted that man—and the short-sightedness of a bull being whipped had come over him.

Wall be damned, too. Mr. X bared his teeth and wound back his dominant arm. With a straight punch, the force of a car wreck was concentrated onto a spot only a few bricks wide, and the thick barricade between interior and nebulous wall-space burst apart in a shower of powder and fragments to allow the Kevlar-wrapped forearm to dive through. There was a sharp shriek of terror, which Mr. X would have found understandable if he had been in any kind of mood to pay the noise any mind.

Reaching as far as his bicep would allow, Mr. X’s fingers found something and reflexively wrapped around it. Through his glove, he could feel the shifts and tangles of hair under his palm, and there was no mistaking the frantic movement of struggle from whatever he had in his grip. Hands much smaller than his own were now clawing at the buckled straps over his wrist and the clenched tops of his knucles; the game struggling, though useless, reminded him of something. Further inflamed, the Tyrant uttered a low snarl and wrenched his arm higher in defiance of the robust brickwork in the way. As expected, the bricks lost, and the wriggling form he held captive was lifted off his feet in an arc. Sputtering, the man began thrashing harder. He had him. Yes.

In a surge of strength, the Tyrant tightened his grip; in spite of the hard human skull in the way, T-00’s fist close regardless. With a deep, spinal twitch the body stopped fighting back, and no longer caring to be in contact with the blood and gore of the task, Mr. X released him to slump into a tilted seated posture. As he retracted the arm, the comparatively-bright light streaming in from the interior of a jail cell half-blinded him, and with care to only raise his unsullied left hand to guard his sensitive eyes he pulled back and huffed.

His next inhale cut short as he heard that voice. Again…

Joined shortly by that of the woman who had instigated their fight upstairs. Mr. X was numb to the exchange of his two enemies, instead focusing on lifting his right hand and squinting down at the glistening residue caking it.

…Whose blood was this?

With much less vigor than before, the Tyrant took a few less-than-graceful steps back into the full darkness. It felt like… lying down for a moment. After it felt like… cleaning itself up somehow.

It was detesting being stuck in this narrow, unpleasantly-scented hole more by the second. Shoving another rat’s nest of cables aside with a shoulder, it tromped off into the unexplored lengths of the foundations.

There had to be a weakspot somewhere.

If it had to search for too much longer, well… the Tyrant was going to be in the mood to make a weakspot.

#Mr. X #Mr X #resident evil #Tyrant #T-00 #T-103 #re2 #resident evil 2 #fanfiction #fanfic #Umbrella #B.O.W.#Leon S. Kennedy #Ada Wong #Ben Bertolucci #Licker #Lickers #Resident Evil Lickers #Lots of chaos goin on here

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