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spidermilkshake · 2 months

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It's Alive

Here we go, Resident Evil fanfic. Guess who loves mutants and monsters and hates corporations.

Rating: Teen (TW for blood, human experimentation, dehumanization, medical/lab settings and stuff, plus also human adults cuss like human adults).

First in a series: The T-00 Tyrant, later known as "Mr. X", done gets born and has a bit of a time during its first few minutes of aliving.

1: It’s Alive

When the newly-created bioweapon first gained consciousness it took several moments to adjust itself to the barrage of sensations. There was something wrong… dizzying about the way its weight was distributed; when its fingers twitched, it felt the movement of cold fluid flowing between them, explaining right away the strange thickness that surrounded its form. Somewhat distorted, slightly muffled, it began to hear a conversation from close by, which it found it could understand:

“Eugh. Ugly fucker, isn’t he?”

“Ugly is as ugly does, Carson. By the way, it can hear you.”

“Shut up. You’re not gonna scare me that way. Now, where’s that Limiter?”

“It’s all in that box over there. I’ll start the drain.”

There was a heavy clunk, then a pull from below as the liquid it was suspended in began being siphoned away. As its feet met the grate at the base of the chamber housing it, the bioweapon wavered in place as it finally felt its full weight settle with the force of gravity. There was a burble as the last of the fluid sucked through the drain-holes followed by relative silence, broken only by dripping from its fingertips, back, and down its chin. The chill of air beginning to dry its bare skin elicited another twitch, and it finally was motivated to open its eyes.

Through the curved warp of the glass tube its piercing vision first perceived the face of a researcher, brows scrunched up in concentration as he examined it right back. The man was young with scruffy stubble, and clad in a long white lab coat (though with many small stains of indeterminate color). The bioweapon’s gaze slowly slid to the side, watching as the second researcher bent over a bank of controls attached to the cylinder containing it. There was another clunk, a hiss of pneumatics and a hum of electricity as the tube raised up into a housing in the dark ceiling. A new sensory capacity—scent—washed over the newly-awoken being as the stark, sterilized air of the laboratory was introduced to it. The creature blinked out of the unfamiliarity, metal grate floor creaking underneath it as it shifted its weight.

“Tyrant T-103, designated T-00,” the second researcher said as she straightened up and took a pace over towards it, snapping its attention back to the humans over the environment. It focused on her, examining the much cleaner lab coat, the tight bun of hair, the red and white insignia over the breast pocket; humans were very small, very frail-looking, far smaller than itself and upon that nonplussed realization it had the first thought of what it was. The researcher’s voice stalled that thought with a sharp order, “Step out T-00.”

The Tyrant designated T-00—absorbing what the woman had called it—obeyed with its first two heavy steps. Internally it was intrigued and alarmed as it felt the tiled floor shake beneath it. It must be several magnitudes larger than it had first supposed; the creature stole a moment to crane its neck further down, trying to look at itself as best it could. Its own massive chest blocked much of its view, though it could also see its own huge, stout forearms. Thick, leathery gray skin permanently marred with tightly-packed, curving striations covered every visible inch, though it was much thinner and less wrinkled towards the center of its chest—as if strained and bulging outwards from sheer mass contained within. Pulsating movement on each side of the sternum caused it to look closer. The skin there was bulging outwards; lacing through gaps in the underlying bone and muscle were twin oversized aortas, presumably issuing from twin oversized hearts, shifting visibly just under the surface as thick blood was rapidly shunted through its gigantic frame. This was… not something typical to humans, and it knew that instinctively.

“Here. Put these on yourself.” As a bulky armful of heavy black Kevlar and leather was pushed towards it, the Tyrant’s eye snapped back to the man, who struggled to manage the whole bundle of immense boots and trousers and buckled straps until the bioweapon grasped them with the tiniest fraction of its strength. After a curious pause, it very gingerly tested its movements to crouch and set down the boots, sliding into the lower half of the sleek black covering one leg at a time. Then, into the boots one foot at a time—fumbling with the straps and buckles but then learning quickly how to make finessed motions with its new fingers.

“This too,” And a matching trenchcoat of similar scale and material was pushed into its hands as it stood back upright. The Tyrant obeyed, carefully tightening each of the straps until the tough inner lining conformed snugly around its torso, wrists and neck. Something felt immediately correct about this. Not exactly pleasant but the presence of this outer covering was reassuring, and the bioweapon squared itself up in a more at-ease posture as it made a final few adjustments to its gloves.

“That went well,” the male researcher muttered over to his cohort, who was piecing together notations in a sheaf of files on her clipboard. The bioweapon overheard it all with a stoic stare out over the darkened lab, aware it was being ignored. “So, this one’s finished and ready to roll out?”

“Not quite. It still needs an implant. After that it needs to go to QA for a few days to be sure it isn’t faulty.”

“I—I thought they came out with the implant?” He was quite suddenly doing anything but ignore the casually waiting Tyrant, stepping back and locking eyes with it before whispering over to the woman, “Um. Um… How well do these things follow orders without the controller again?”

“Stop pissing yourself, Carson. The 103s are perfectly loyal to Umbrella staff. They’ll take any commands in-person, but to have a mission they deploy for they need the implant to keep them in contact with command servers.” She scoffed at his ugly expression towards her and stepped up a mere foot from the T-103, “Without a mission, this thing should be pretty docile. Proto-Tyrants were like wild beasts—these guys are domesticated,” She had reached up with a balled-up fist, thumping solidly against its shoulder as high as she could reach. The Tyrant could barely feel it through the Limiter, “Well, I wouldn’t try to attack it or insult it, but otherwise this big boy is currently harmless. To us, at least.”

The bioweapon eyed the woman quizzically as she continued past it and to a flat, sterilized slab on the other side of the row of growth tubes. The creature did not understand the purpose of the gesture, though it had concluded it was neither intended as aggression, nor was this pencil-thin figure at all capable of doing any damage to it.

“Here it is,” she returned, hands now sheathed in latex, one index finger and thumb pinched around a tiny silvery cylinder. In her other hand was a surgical drill, which piqued the creature’s interest. The male researcher’s skin turned a shade paler.

“Jesus, you’re just gonna—?”

“Yes, it’s fine. Just pass me the screw when I need it.”

“…Alright. It’s your funeral…” The creature broke eye contact with the point of the drill to meet her expression—a reserved, customer-service-type smile—as she spoke its designation again:

“T-00, please bend down this way and hold still for a moment.”

It did so, making a pointed glance again to the drill. She didn’t miss the wary observation it was making of the tool even while it was putting its head within easy reach of it, and the false smile half-faded.

“Yes, this is going to involve some pain and minor tissue damage. It will be brief. Stay completely still.”

The creature did nothing to acknowledge that it had understood the researcher’s explanation, aside from fixing its attentions to the floor between them and going rigidly still as instructed. The male researcher drew back further as the drill turned on with a high-pitched whine.

Only seconds later, the new Tyrant learned in practice what “pain” even was as the tip of the drill bit into its temple. A fiery searing lit up across its entire scalp and travelled in a shock down through its body, but aside from a startled blink it obeyed. Even as a sickening grinding slowed the drill’s progress, sinking a deep pinhole into its skull. Its hearts pounded harder, faster, in an automatic process to kickstart its healing factor. Its gigantic lungs huffed in and out without any conscious decision. …Ow.

Before the flesh could close over the portal into its brain cavity, the researcher jammed the open circuit side of the metal cylinder inside, giving a pronounced twist to ensure the active component was fully inside the entity’s cranium. With an urgent gesture, she summoned the cowering researcher back over to pass off a long, thin screw to her, which she wasted no time in inserting into its place and drilling again to push its point deep in until the top was flush with the protruding receiver. Firmly anchoring the device into the already-regenerating bone.

“There. Done.” She stepped back, discarding the soiled drill onto a tray and peeling off her gloves before similarly ditching them. The bioweapon stood back up to its full height, letting go a deep exhale from its cavernous chest as the throbbing echoes of that new, awful sensation faded. One of its hands wandered up to the scene of the split-second surgery, trying to explore the wet trickle starting to run down through the deep grooves of its face. The tip of one finger had just made contact with its temple—and the sticky, deep-red blood—when a far worse jolt ripped through it, as if its spine had caught fire while being simultaneously frozen solid. The creature wasn’t ready for anything like this—caught off-guard, it jerked its hand away and visibly staggered, surprising itself further as something unknown happened in its throat by reflex. A strange tightening as air rushed out, and its own breathing made a noise, a sort of deep croak, vocal cords coarse and clunky and unused. This alone triggered another stiff flinch.

“T-00, don’t attempt to touch the implant, or the deterrent will activate.” The researcher said, crossly striding away and beginning to make further notes on her clipboard. The Tyrant turned and gazed at her despite her now completely paying no attention to the nearly eight-foot bioweapon standing stunned after its brain had been cattle-prodded. “Carson, I’ve got to finish up here. You’ll be sure to take that to the holding area so QA can get to work, alright?”

“Ugh. Fine.” The Tyrant was presently aware of the other researcher taking a few timid steps towards it, snapping it out of the brain fog that the jolt had punished it with, “Come on, you heard the lady. Follow me.”

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mirbisduschoen · 3 months

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Resident Evil AU/original location

What if the Metamycete in Romania and its spinoff in Dulvey wasn't the only humungous fungus around? What if there was another one, in, say, Eastern Oregon? Sort of like a bioweapon version of this:

The major difference in my AU from "just another RE game" is that Metamycetes as a whole tend to amplify and echo the prevalent emotions of the people attuned to it, while granting them immortality. The Romanian fungus is attuned to a sociopath driven mad by grief who's been packing the fungus to bursting with terror, pain, suffering, and anguish for 100 years straight, and the Dulvey spinoff of that fungus is attuned to a mentally unstable and incredibly traumatized child who has never known kindness in her entire life and is so desperate for human contact that she'll brainwash people into being her new family. It's like programming: Garbage In, Garbage Out.

The other fungus, located in and around the fictional town of Devil's Butte, Oregon, isn't like that. Mayor Malder has been very careful to do the exact opposite and ensure the townspeople are doing well emotionally and financially. The town is prospering in a way that small, non-tourist-trappy towns in the United States in the early 21st century generally aren't. As a result, the Mold is healthy (it's colored white instead of black), and Devil's Butte is a pocket of the sort of Norman Rockwell small-town Americana that doesn't exist anymore, with some modern Oregon tweaks like liberalism, racial diversity (to the best of their ability, it's still rural Oregon), legalized weed, and gay marriage.

Mayor Malder, although perpetually the incumbent, has made it his mission to improve on his previous term, every term he serves. How long has he been doing this? He first ran in 1896, went through a stress-induced breakdown, ran off into the woods, encountered the Pale God (the good opposite of the Black God from RE: Village) who gave him immortality and a pep talk, and proceeded to turn the town around. He's got three forms: normal old man (his default form for all public appearances), "Mother Miranda but male and with doves instead of crows" (very rarely used), and "OH MY GOD A BIBLICALLY ACCURATE ANGEL" (never used before, God willing it never will be, because that's the "We're Being Invaded" body).

He also has a Cabinet of people he's given abilities to via the Mold, something that healthy Mold can do naturally and on command but that The Connections crudely modified Eveline's mold to do via disease-like infection and that Mother Miranda had to brute-force via cadou.

His Cabinet includes, but isn't limited to:

Sunshine Daniels, an ex-hippie lady turned weed grower. Producer of the highly-sought-after, Mold-altered strain "The Goodest Shit", which isn't moldy itself per se, but has been modified via the Mold's gene-altering properties to give a longer and stronger high than anything else on the market. Ms. Daniels met the Mayor in the mid to late 70s as the hippie movement was starting to run out of steam, and started her weed-growing career running a small drug empire peddling The Goodest Shit to college students prior to the legalization of weed.

2. Jane Malheur, proprietor of "Jane's Antiques & Curios", an antique store that is rumored to be haunted, and draws tourists in for the creep factor. Jane claims to be the third-generation proprietor of the business, which has been there since the 1890s, but she is Jane I, not Jane III. She has been hiding her immortality from tourists by pretending to be her own granddaughter, who doesn't actually exist. The reason the store is rumored to be haunted is that she used her Mold powers to bring some antique porcelain dolls, other toys, and a vintage department store mannequin to life to help her with the business in her old age. (She was already old when she joined the Cabinet in the 1930s.)

Imagine being a meth addict and breaking into the place at night for cash, and you think there's a person there, counting cash, but you get a good look and there's just a static mannequin. You could have sworn you saw movement though. You look away, and when you look back it isn't there. You whirl around, wondering where the mannequin went, but there's this 50s women's face painted onto a plastic mannequin, with unsettlingly lifelike eyes that you realize aren't painted on at all, leaning in just inches from your face. As you run to get the fuck out of there, antique dolls track your movements with their heads. (Don't worry, they don't hurt anyone, they just like to troll people.)

3. The OG member of the Cabinet and an old fly-fishing buddy of Mayor Malder, an old Southern gentleman named Samuel Clemens. Yes, that Samuel Clemens, the one who's better known by his pen name, Mark Twain. His mold powers allow him to heal any wound instantly, on him or on another Mold-touched individual. Heck, maybe if Ethan Winters swings around town he could get his fingers back! His healing powers are like a more potent and versatile version of Ethan Winters' ability to pour hydrogen peroxide on a severed limb and reattach it, fully functional, in 30 seconds by pressing the stump and the limb together like he's trying to glue something at the arts-and-crafts table. Both Samuel and Ethan's toolkit have one important thing in common, though: G U N

"Pecker, I just might!"

4. Wally Wyman, owner of the local (small) amusement park, Wally's Wonderland. Wally's Wonderland has a sort of "Babes In Toyland" vibe, lots of nutcracker-type antique toy soldiers and other copyright-friendly symbols of childhood joy. He's also the local mechanic who runs Wally's Garage, and his Mold powers include the ability to imbue Mold consciousness into mechanical items. His car, a 1932 Cord 812, is alive and named Henrietta after Wally's mother. The last time someone tried to steal Henrietta's parts, Wally had to convince her to spit the thief out, as she's got flesh and blood under the upholstery and metal and took offense to a meth addict trying to pull her grille off for the scrap metal value. (She's not like Christine. Although she IS pretty attached to Wally, there's more of a platonic "exasperated middle-aged dad/chaos gremlin nine-year-old girl" kind of relationship between them)

The old animatronics at Wally's Wonderland are also alive, and although locals know they are, they act like cheap, unrealistic animatronics for the tourists who stop for chili dogs, go-kart racing, octopus rides, teacup rides, cotton candy, an arcade so old all its games are now nostalgic and retro (Anyone for a game of Street Fighters I? What about Pong?), and the pride and joy of the park, "Devil's Twister", the only British-style helter-skelter amusement park ride in the United States! (It's a slide. That's what a Helter Skelter is. It's a spiraling slide you go down on a little mat. Also the name of a banger Beatles song!)

There's also the Order Of The Pale God, an honest-to-God 19th century secret society a la the Odd Fellows, which is a syncretic mixture of the normal 19th century secret society occultism and very heavy influences (and membership) from the Northern Paiute tribe of Native Americans, who have lived in the area (and known about the Mold) for millennia. As you can probably expect, they worship the Pale God. They also do soup kitchens, run several nonprofits, and generally do their level best to ensure the vibes in town are as immaculate as possible. It is their duty, and their calling. The Pale God demands His supplicants and denizens be happy and content, for only then can He be happy and content as well. The Head Of The Order is a certain William Pamahas, a half-Northern-Paiute-half-white person who founded the Order all the way back in the 19th century, and has been rewarded by the Pale God with long life.)

I'd imagine this place would send Chris Redfield into conniptions because there is CLEARLY bioweapon activity going on but everyone's OK with it??? And there aren't any mysterious disappearances or confirmed kills???? At all????????

I'd imagine he first gets alerted that orbital bioweapon detector scan things have detected a large accumulation of Metamycete in Oregon, so he investigates the town closest to the center. One of the BSAA interns is actually from Devil's Butte but never figured out anything was amiss when they lived there, and is just like "Damn, Jack Malder is still mayor? Man, he's been mayor for as long as anyone can remember!"

And Chris decides to go investigate in person, gets treated with hostility by everyone in town who's in on the secret and quite a few people who aren't (because ACAB here in Oregon), and gets gaslit by Wally's boys when he pokes around to investigate. Imagine Chris going there and asking questions, and The Boys (as the townsfolk know the animatronics) are trolling him by using their internal Mold reservoirs to make their proportions just slightly off every time Chris looks away: he turns away and as he turns he realizes that the Tin Soldier animatronic is looking right at him with an unsettlingly realistic grin with actual teeth that are too long and too numerous, and then when he double-takes the Soldier's face is normal.

EDIT: Sunshine Daniels has to wear very thick gloves at all times, because her Mold power is that she can give a contact high to anyone she makes skin-to-skin contact with, like through a handshake.

ANOTHER EDIT: The Devil's Twister in Wally's Wonderland has a somewhat tinny PA system which plays "Helter-Skelter" by the Beatles on loop. At the exit of the ride, behind theft-proof bulletproof glass with an honestly comedic amount of locks (most of which are just there for show, it's a couple of expensive German locks that do most of the security), lies Wally's greatest achievement: a binding legal document from Columbia Records giving him rights to use the song on his ride in perpetuity, made possible by writing John Lennon and Paul McCartney a letter back in the 60s, asking if he could use it, and the Beatles thought it was cool that there was a helter-skelter in America so they persuaded the execs to allow it, but only for this one tiny little ride in the middle of nowhere (the execs thought they were so clever)

It's theft-proof because meth heads + out-of-the-way area + signed document bearing the signatures of two of the four Beatles = someone not in their right mind looking at this marvel of achievement of the common man's victory over suits in boardrooms, hands trembling from withdrawal, and seeing nothing but dollar signs.

YET ANOTHER EDIT: The hobo who tried to strip Henrietta for parts was fine, just slightly bruised around the midriff where the hood got him and in desperate need of new pants. The local police are vaguely aware of the whole mold thing, but the general consensus among them

STILL ANOTHER EDIT: The local police are considered A-OK by townsfolk, because they're Good Old Town Boys (And Girls And Nonbinary) and the town's adoption of improved screening has done wonders in ensuring that corrupt psychos never get a badge in HIS town. Devil's Butte PD still do foot patrols, an extreme rarity among post-1950s US police forces, are given (informal) training in de-escalation, and are equipped similarly to 1950s police forces: no tanks and assault rifles to be found, only revolvers and spiffy Norman Rockwell uniforms! (They do have bulletproof vests, though, but they're the subtle kind for under the shirt to decrease intimidation factor without compromising protection.) Furthermore, since the foot patrol beat cops most often have stations and patrols in the neighborhood(s) they live in, this incentivizes good behavior as it would be rather awkward as an off-duty cop talking to your next door neighbor over the fence like a pair of 1950s dads and suddenly having to explain why he saw you taking bribes.

The townsfolk don't like authority figures from outside town, though, as they are keenly aware they've got the singular, only-of-its-kind American police department that actually serves and protects instead of shooting people because acorns fall on the shiny cop cars. The town's general feeling in regards to the feds in general and the BSAA in particular is "Fuck off, we're doing just fine on our own. Glory to the Pale God and contentment be upon us."

#resident evil #chris refield #resident evil au #humongous fungus #oregon #re7 #re8 #bioweapon #mark twain #samuel clemens #Mark Twain says ACAB

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