10 More reviews and 30 more Power Stone donors are needed before the bonus chapter.
So after yesterday's votes I see many readers want to keep the character of Rebecca in so here I am giving a choice to all my readers.
Keep Rebecca
Or
Replace her with Jill
So get those voting going.
Get those stones going boys and tomboys, we need to get those numbers up!
If you want to discuss the story or just meme about join my discord server:
*****
"They are expendable," Wesker corrected. "They will collect combat data on the Cerberus units in the forest, and likely die in the process. It keeps the R.P.D. busy while we mobilize the extraction teams."
White rubbed his temples. "I don't care about the police. I care about my assets. The Hive is offline. The Spencer Mansion lab is operating at minimum capacity due to the quarantine. We are blind, Albert."
He tapped a key on his laptop, sending a file to Wesker's secure server.
"I need the Old Sector back online."
Wesker paused. Even behind the sunglasses, his surprise was evident.
" The Management Training Facility?" Wesker asked. "That place has been rotting since 1988. It's a tomb, Alexander. James Marcus died there."
"It has power," White countered. "It has a connection to the main grid. And crucially, it has the Level 4 Bio-Safety Labs deep underground. If the Hive falls completely, I need a fallback point to store the T and G-Virus samples and the Tyrant data."
"It's risky," Wesker mused. "That facility was sealed for a reason. Marcus was... possessive."
"I don't believe in ghosts," White snapped. "I believe in infrastructure. I have already reactivated the Ecliptic Express."
Wesker raised an eyebrow. "The luxury train?"
"It's the only secure transport link we have left," White explained. "The roads are watched by the military. The airspace is restricted. But the old private rail line runs from the Umbrella Airfield directly to the Training Facility. It's invisible to the public."
"I have a team flying in from Siberia," White continued. "Specifically, the Tiger Force Bio-Hazard Unit. Thirty elite researchers and a platoon of U.S.S. heavy infantry. They are landing at the airfield tomorrow. They will take the train to the Training Facility, secure the labs, and establish a new command center."
Wesker leaned back in his chair. "You are sending lambs to a slaughterhouse you haven't inspected in ten years."
"They are the best," White said defensively. "They can handle a few rats and spiders. Once they secure the Old Sector, we can move the assets from the Mansion before the city goes critical."
"Very well," Wesker nodded. "I will ensure Bravo Team stays clear of the rail lines. We wouldn't want them stumbling upon your secret train."
"Make sure they don't," White warned. "If S.T.A.R.S. finds the Training Facility, the cover-up is over."
"Don't worry, Dr.," Wesker smiled, a predatory expression that chilled the room. "I have my own plans for S.T.A.R.S. tomorrow."
The connection cut.
Dr. White sat in the silence. He felt a knot of anxiety in his stomach. He told himself it was just the stress of the day.
He didn't know that deep in the Arklay Mountains, in the damp darkness of the Training Facility, something was listening.
Something wet. Something ancient. Something that sang opera in the dark.
---
Location: The Arklay Forest – Deep Woods (Off-Road Trail).
Time: 10:10 PM.
The moon hung high above the Arklay Mountains, a cold, unblinking eye staring down at the world. It was a full moon, its pale light filtering through the dense canopy of ancient pines, casting long, skeletal shadows across the hard-packed dirt road. The air was crisp, smelling of damp earth, pine needles, and the subtle, metallic tang of ozone that precedes a storm.
A black, rundown Ford Expedition crunched over the gravel, its headlights cutting twin cones of yellow through the darkness. The suspension squeaked in protest as the heavy SUV rolled over a tree root before coming to a halt in a secluded clearing.
The engine died. Silence rushed back into the forest, heavy and oppressive.
The driver's side door opened.
Atlas stepped out. His heavy combat boots hit the ground with a thud.
He had acquired the vehicle less than an hour ago from a used car dealership on the outskirts of the city. The sticker price was $7,000. Atlas hadn't bothered with haggling or paperwork. He had simply handed the dealer a stack of cash for the car and an extra two hundred dollars to "forget" the registration. Being handsome, well-dressed, and carrying the aura of a man who could snap a neck with a sneeze had its perks. The dealer had tossed him the keys and looked the other way.
It was a slow, gas-guzzling beast compared to Atlas's own Agility, but it provided something his legs couldn't: cargo space and privacy.
Atlas leaned against the hood, looking up at the night sky. The stars were twinkling with an indifference that felt almost cruel.
"Infinite," Atlas whispered, tracing the constellations.
His mind, usually locked on survival and combat, drifted to the absurdity of his situation.
"Who knows if life exists outside of this planet?" he mused. "In a world with the Black God, ancient viruses, and mold hive-minds... who is to say Capcom won't eventually create a Resident Evil game with aliens?"
He imagined a Necromorph dropping out of the sky to infect humans, or some cosmic horror waiting in the dark between the stars.
"Maybe it's here already," he chuckled darkly. "Living among us. If the franchise survives until 2050, they'll have to go to space. They can only mutate a zombie so many times before they need Martians."
He shook his head, physically dispelling the wild thoughts.
"Focus, Atlas. Leave the existential dread for the future self."
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cold mountain air. It was a useless gesture—his heart didn't beat, and his cells didn't crave oxygen—but the habit was grounding. It reminded him of the man he used to be.
He walked to the back of the SUV and popped the trunk.
The interior lights flickered on, revealing a makeshift Noah's Ark of test subjects.
The back seats were folded down, and the space was packed with wire cages of various sizes. Inside them, a menagerie of small animals shifted nervously, sensing the predator standing over them.
There were white lab mice, brown sewer rats, hamsters, guinea pigs, two large white rabbits, a ferret, a terrarium containing a common garden lizard and a small snake, a jar with a frog, and a bowl with a goldfish.
And in the corner, in larger carriers, were a stray cat and a mongrel dog he had picked up near the shelter.
Atlas even had a crate containing live chickens he had bought from a bewildered butcher shop owner.
"Dinner time," he whispered, but there was no hunger in his voice. Only guilt.
He grabbed the bags of feed—seeds for the rodents, meat for the carnivores—and set them down.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, meeting the eyes of the dog, a scruffy terrier mix that wagged its tail tentatively.
These were his experimental materials.
He didn't want to do this. He wasn't a sadist.
But he was a pragmatist.
"Better to confirm the theories on you than to convert a human by mistake," Atlas justified, lifting the cages out one by one and placing them on the flat, grassy ground of the clearing. "If my blood is a weapon, I need to know how the safety works."
He walked back to the driver's seat and retrieved a heavy plastic medical box. He opened it on the hood of the car.
It looked like the kit of a field medic or a very high-end junkie. Syringes of various gauges, scalpels, forceps, surgical scissors, disinfectant alcohol, sterile gowns, eye shields, nitrile gloves, test tubes, thermometers, and empty vials.
He had spent nearly $6,000 at the pharmacy and medical supply store.
"American healthcare prices," Atlas scoffed, snapping a pair of blue nitrile gloves over his pale hands. "Even in the apocalypse, the markup is criminal."
He turned on a heavy-duty camping lantern, bathing the clearing in a stark, white light.
He donned the surgical gown and the plastic eye shield. He didn't want blood splatter on his new tactical clothes, and he certainly didn't want to walk back into the Apple Inn looking like he had butchered a hog.
He turned to the animals. They were quiet now, freezing under the bright light. The dog whined.
Atlas's hands shook.
It wasn't just guilt. It was a sudden, crushing wave of imposter syndrome.
"I'm not a vet," he whispered, looking at the scalpel. "I'm not a doctor. I'm a grunt."
He knew jack shit about animal anatomy. He didn't know the Latin names for veins or the metabolic rates of a ferret.
What he knew was failure.
The military didn't teach you how to heal; they taught you how to delay death. They taught you that bright red blood was arterial and bad. Dark red was venous and manageable. They taught you that if a man stopped screaming, you were in trouble.
"Stop the bleeding. Keep it breathing. Make sure the heart has something to push."
That was soldier anatomy. It was the mechanics of breakage, not the art of biology.
Everything else he knew came from reading light novels, watching animes and reading through manhua, and skimming Wikipedia and PowerWiki articles in his past life.
"And the little research I did on the 2002 internet this morning didn't help at all," he muttered. "Ask Jeeves doesn't know how to perform a blood transfusion on a rabbit."
He clenched his fists, forcing the tremors to stop.
"Let's get this over with. I don't need to be a surgeon. I just need to be a vector."
He grabbed a 5ml syringe and attached a thick, 16-gauge needle.
He rolled up the sleeve of his surgical gown, exposing his left arm. The skin was pale, marble-white, and tough. He traced the vein in the crook of his elbow. It was visible—a dark, grey-blue line under the skin.
He pushed the needle in.
Resistance.
His skin was tougher than normal humans. It felt like pushing a needle through cured leather. He had to apply actual force to puncture his own epidermis.
"Note to self: I am resistant to needles. Good for combat, bad for heroin addicts."
He found the vein. He pulled the plunger back.
The blood that filled the barrel wasn't normal.
It was thick. Viscous. Dark crimson with swirling, shimmering streaks of metallic silver. It didn't rush into the syringe; it oozed, heavy and rich, like mercury mixed with syrup.
"Beautiful," Atlas whispered, holding the syringe up to the lantern light.
The silver flecks caught the light—the T-Virus bonded with his unique physiology, creating something entirely new.
He pulled the needle out.
There was no bleeding. The moment the steel left his skin, the hole sealed itself. Constant Regeneration knit the tissue together in a nanosecond.
"Convenient."
He injected the blood into a sterile glass vial, sealing it with a rubber stopper. He drew a second syringe, keeping 0.5ml of the silver-red fluid inside.
He turned to the cages.
"Eeny, meeny, miny... moe."
His gaze landed on the white rabbit. It was twitching its nose, innocent and unaware.
Atlas opened the cage. He grabbed the rabbit by the scruff of its neck and its belly, lifting it out. It kicked its legs, soft and warm.
"I am sorry, buddy," Atlas said genuinely.
"You're taking one for the team."
He didn't bother finding a vein. He went for an intramuscular injection in the rabbit's thigh. He pushed the needle in and depressed the plunger.
0.5ml of Apex Blood entered the system.
He put the rabbit back in the cage and locked it.
He grabbed his pocket watch.
"Start."
******
So after yesterday's votes I see many readers want to keep the character of Rebecca in so here I am giving a choice to all my readers.
Keep Rebecca
Or
Replace her with Jill
So get those voting going.
Get those stones going boys and tomboys, we need to get those numbers up!
If you want to discuss the story or just meme about join my discord server: