23 September 1998, 05:15 AM, Raccoon City
Kevin shook his head and stamped out the cigarette on the sidewalk with the tip of his boot. "No thanks, Doc. I'd rather drink than eat. If you insist on buying me something, we'll meet at the bar, someday."
"If I have time," Eddie replied with a curt nod. Strength was coming back into his limbs, a strange vibrant heat that chased away the chill of weakness. "Take me back to the lab." It was not a request.
Kevin raised an eyebrow at the tone, but smiled. "Sure. Hop in."
As the car pulled away, Eddie's gaze landed on the university's imposing building. It was no longer just a mass of brick and glass. He perceived it differently now. He could see invisible cracks in the façade, hear the subterranean hum of emergency generators, almost feel the weight of secrets buried in its foundations. He shook his head to dispel the sensation. There were already enough monsters in his world.
23 September 1998, 05:40 AM, Eddie's Private Laboratory
Annette was gone. Better that way. He needed to be alone. He needed to understand what he had become.
The lab air was cold and familiar. He stopped in the center of the room and closed his eyes to focus. He felt blood pounding in his veins, not merely flowing but a powerful current. He felt every muscle fiber, taut and ready.
He started with something simple. A push-up. But it was not simple. The floor did not give beneath his weight; it felt as if he were pushing the world away from himself. The movement was fluid and effortless. He did ten, then twenty, then fifty. No fatigue. No burn. Only pure, efficient power.
His eyes fell on a heavy steel workbench bolted to the floor. It must have weighed at least two hundred kilos. He bent, grabbed an edge with one hand and pulled.
SCREEECH!
The sound of metal tearing from concrete was deafening. The bolts snapped, flinging fragments of concrete across the floor. He hoisted the workbench over his head with one hand, the weight almost negligible. He stayed there for a moment, cold metal looming above him, his breathing calm and steady. He was not just strong. He was something else.
He let the bench drop. The thud echoed through the room. He looked at his hands. Not a scratch.
He took a surgical scalpel from the tray. The sharpest blade he had. He pressed it to his forearm and dragged it hard.
ZIIING.
The sound was metal scraping on a hard, almost ceramic surface. The blade left only a thin white line on his skin. It vanished within seconds. No cut. No blood. His skin had hardened. His cellular structure had strengthened to a level that defied biology.
A slow, almost terrifying smile spread across his face. Strength, endurance, defense. All amplified. And the price? A ravenous hunger. A price he could accept. He performed a quick internal check, almost instinctive. Everything worked. Every organ was not only intact but enhanced. Including the one he cared about most. Unlike Wesker, whose pursuit of immortality had become an evolutionary dead end, he was still a man. A better man.
BAM!
He clenched his fist. The sharp sound like a gunshot. The power was intoxicating, a drug that sang through his blood. He understood, in that moment, why men damned themselves for even a taste.
But then he felt something else.
An irritation. A low buzzing under the skin. A leaking tap down the corridor. Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound, once insignificant, became a hammer pounding in his skull. Each drop was a provocation. A fingernail on a chalkboard. Rage rose, sudden and irrational. A wave of heat surged from his chest to his throat, choking him.
"Shit," he hissed through his teeth. "It's not perfect."
The virus's primal leftover instinct to fight was taking over. He wanted to destroy. He wanted to hit something. Anything. He clenched his fists until his knuckles went white. With a strangled snarl he lunged at the concrete wall.
CRACK!
His fist sank into the wall, spidering cracks across the surface. The pain was sharp and blinding, a white flash behind his eyes. But it faded almost immediately, replaced by a healing tingle. The impact had vented some of the pressure.
He struck again. And again.
CRACK! CRACK!
Each blow was an attempt to regain control, to beat the beast back into submission. He was so focused on his internal struggle that he did not hear the door hiss.
"Eddie, what happened to you?"
Annette's voice was high and alarmed. He spun around. She stood in the doorway, her face a mask of panic. She took a step toward him.
"No!" His warning came out as a growl, more animal than human. "Stay back, Annette. Don't come near."
The anger flared anew, fed by her presence, her concern, his weakness. "I want to hit someone, damn it. Go away, before that someone is you."
"No, I'll help you," she said, voice trembling but steady. "Wait, I have a sedative…"
"It's too late," he snarled, backing away. He felt the muscles along his back bunching, his body preparing to attack. Control was slipping through his fingers like sand. "Annette, go! Now!"
I can't control myself anymore.