The cold Atlantic storm wind shrieked against the steel hull of a massive Umbrella Corporation transport vessel. The ship, cutting heavily through black waves, moved relentlessly toward the secret base on Rockfort Island. In the hold, among heaps of bioweapon containers and crates of medical supplies, a dim half-darkness reigned, broken only by the blinking of emergency lights.
It was here, comfortably settled atop a crate marked "Caution: Explosives," that a stowaway sat. Sim lazily tossed a heavy bolt into the air, listening to the monotonous hum of the engines. After the scorching farewell to Raccoon City and his miraculous rescue in the cryo-capsule, the former office clerk had decided that vacation was cancelled. Since fate had handed him an interface with unlimited potential, it would have been stupid to hide in the woods.
"Attention, User! — the familiar neon screen flared before his eyes, illuminating the mutant's pale face. — Transition to new location successfully completed. Welcome to Chapter One: 'The Sea Wolf and Biological Complications'. Your current status: 'Stowaway with Ambitions'."
— Could've come up with something cooler, tin can, — Sim smirked, catching the bolt cleanly between two fingers. — Like "Terror of the Seas" or "The Scourge of Test Tubes." We're sailing straight for the Ashfords' den. There's clearly something worth looting there.
"The System evaluates your chances of success as intriguingly low, which automatically raises the excitement multiplier! — the scrolling text cheerfully produced. — In honor of the new story arc's beginning, an exclusive temporary banner has been activated: 'Sea Devil'. Increased chance of obtaining nautical-themed items, humidity buffs, and pirate charisma. Shall we spin?"
The interface owner licked his lips hungrily. His account still held a respectable number of Style Points saved from the clash with Birkin.
— Go all in. I want to crash this base so hard the local management's monocles pop clean out of their eye sockets.
The space around him was enveloped in thick violet-gold radiance. The virtual roulette spun with a deafening jingle of coins, hurling holographic treasure chests into the air.
Ding! "Common item: Rusty Anchor (Keychain)."
Ding! "Common item: Salted Dried Fish (Restores 1% health, leaves a terrible smell)."
Ding! "Uncommon buff: 'Enemy Seasickness'. Your enemies will feel a mild nausea in your presence."
— Seriously? Dried fish? — the corpse objected, crossing his arms over his chest. — What am I, a pensioner on a fishing trip? Give me proper loot!
As if hearing the complaint, the interface exploded in blinding pink light. Pompous music played to the tune of a pirate shanty.
"EPIC DROP! Outfit received: 'Captain Seduction'!
Description: This outfit will make even mermaids come ashore. Includes a luxurious naval coat of black velvet with gold epaulettes (worn strictly over bare skin), a stylish eyepatch of dragon leather for the right eye, and narrow leather trousers. Bonus: +40 Charisma, +15 spray resistance. Passive skill: 'Rum and Dominance'."
A flash of light momentarily blinded the guy. When his vision refocused, the old clothes had evaporated, replaced by new gear hugging his body. The heavy velvet of the coat pleasantly cooled his shoulders, gold chains on his chest clinking softly with each movement. The eyepatch covered his right eye, while the left now burned with an even brighter, demonic crimson light. In the reflection of a metal bulkhead, Sim saw a genuine pirate baron straight out of Japanese comics — bold, dangerous, and indecently stylish.
— Now that's more like it, — the mutant drawled with satisfaction, adjusting his collar. — Now I'm ready to board this floating circus.
Suddenly the idyll of self-admiration was interrupted. From the depths of the hold, somewhere from the refrigeration section, came the screech of metal, followed by a deep, guttural roar. The sound bore no resemblance to the moaning of ordinary zombies. This was the voice of a perfect predator, broken free.
"Attention! Integrity breach detected in cryo-chambers, Sector C. Biological threat: Hunters, Alpha model. Count: Three individuals. Threat level: High."
— Hunters? The green frogs with machete-sized claws? — Sim hopped off the crate, stretching elegantly. The muscles beneath the velvet coat rolled, ready for explosive action. — Excellent way to warm up the blood before the landing. And fresh biomass doesn't grow on trees.
The guy silently slipped into the shadows, moving through the labyrinth of freight containers. His sharpened sense of smell instantly caught the acrid scent of ammonia and animal sweat. Ahead, in the dim light of a broken lamp, a massive scaly silhouette flickered.
A Hunter sat atop a metal crate, jerking its head nervously. The creature was a horrifying cross between reptile and primate: powerful hind legs built for enormous leaps, impenetrable green scales, and razor-sharp claws capable of decapitating a human with a single swipe.
The mutant didn't bother hiding. He stepped directly into the center of the passage, smiling slyly and letting the gold epaulettes glint in the half-darkness.
— Hey, overgrown lizard! — Sim called to the monster brightly. — Are you checking tickets here or just staining the deck?
The Hunter spun sharply around. Yellow compound eyes focused on the insolent trespasser. The creature let out a piercing shriek, alerting its brethren, and with incredible speed launched off the container, hurling itself into the attack.
The space around him seemed to slow. The former office worker, now the scourge of Gacha, didn't even reach for a weapon. At the moment the Hunter's claws should have ripped open his perfect abs, Sim fluidly stepped aside, demonstrating wonders of agility. The claws only scratched the air, leaving a light breeze in their wake.
— Missed, gorgeous, — the guy whispered right into the ear of the creature flying past him.
From his left shoulder, tearing through the stylish coat at a specially designated spot, the Nemesis tentacle burst out with a wet crunch. The violet appendage lightning-fast coiled around the Hunter's muscular hind leg mid-air. Sim sharply yanked the growth toward himself, slamming the monster face-first into the steel floor. The crash echoed through the hold.
"A blow of stunning beauty! +50 Style Points! Two more targets detected approaching from the flanks!"
From the left and right, from behind the containers, two more Hunters burst out. They moved in coordination, like a wolf pack. One aimed for the throat, the second came from below, targeting his stomach with its claws.
— Boys, don't fight over me, there's plenty to go around, — Sim laughed.
The tentacle, still holding the first monster, became a lethal whip. The mutant spun the heavy reptile carcass around himself like a mace, cleanly sweeping the attacker coming from the left. A nauseating crunch of shattering scales and bones rang out — two Hunters collided with each other at tremendous speed, becoming a twitching mass of flesh.
The third monster had gotten in close. Its claws gleamed a millimeter from Sim's face. But the T-Virus carrier's reflexes surpassed any instinct a bioweapon possessed. The guy caught the creature's wrist in his hand, squeezing with such force that scales burst like shards.
His crimson eye gleaming from beneath the pirate eyepatch, Sim activated the Cobra Bite skill. His jaws spread unnaturally wide, exposing lengthened fangs. A savage lunge — and his teeth sank directly into an unprotected, pulsing vein at the Hunter's throat.
Scorching hot, acrid reptile blood flooded his throat. The energy of the foreign mutation burned, but at the same time granted an incredible sensation of euphoria. The creature thrashed in agony, trying to break free, but the corpse's grip was iron. After a couple of seconds the monster went limp, turned into an empty shell.
"Magnificent absorption! Received: +400 Biomass Points. Material quality: Premium grade. My, you are a connoisseur, Captain!"
Sim fastidiously tossed the drained body aside and wiped his chin with the back of his hand. The two remaining Hunters, having barely untangled themselves after their collision, attempted to crawl away. Even their primitive minds were enough to understand: this was not prey before them — this was the top of the food chain.
— And where do you two think you're going? — the guy cooed gently, slowly advancing on the wounded monsters. The tentacle behind his back writhed hungrily, anticipating seconds. — We haven't finished our tour of the hold yet.
Ten minutes later, Sector C was plunged into dead silence. The floor was generously soaked in green blood, and the System interface was bursting with notifications about level-ups and the crediting of enormous amounts of evolution points.
The mutant stood in the middle of the carnage, neatly adjusting his gold epaulettes. The velvet coat hadn't suffered in the slightest — the Gacha knew a thing or two about the durability of fan-service outfits.
"Sector cleared. Biomass collected. Level 5 reached! Access to the passive mutation branch 'Muscle Fiber Densification' unlocked."
— Not a bad warm-up, — the guy walked to the porthole, wiping condensation from the thick glass.
Outside, the storm had begun to ease. In the breaks between leaden clouds, pale moonlight pulled from the darkness sharp rocks and the grim silhouettes of Gothic towers. Rockfort Island was approaching. Umbrella's secret training base, a prison for the corporation's most dangerous enemies, and a repository of the Ashford family's secrets.
— Well then, — Sim smiled carnivourously at his reflection in the glass. — Time to show the local aristocracy how real pirates have fun. Get the roulette ready, System. The night promises to be hot.
The ship never managed to dock properly. When only a short distance remained to the concrete piers of Rockfort Island, the night sky was torn apart by the deafening roar of jet engines. A squadron of unidentified fighters swept over the very masts, raining incendiary bombs down on the Umbrella military base.
A series of monstrous explosions rang out. The watchtowers flared like matchsticks, air defense sirens wailed in full cry, and the blast wave struck the ship's hull with such force that the multi-ton freighter listed and with a screech drove its bow straight into the port structures.
Sim, standing at the porthole, merely elegantly adjusted his pirate eyepatch, watching a branch of hell unfold on the pier. Warehouses burned, mercenaries scattered in panic, and from the demolished barracks the first victims of a T-Virus leak were already beginning to crawl out — it always finds a way in during this kind of chaos.
— Looks like someone decided to ruin the Ashfords' evening before I even arrived, — the guy remarked philosophically, kicking out the armored glass with a light tap of his boot and stepping out onto the buckled deck. Rain immediately soaked his velvet coat, but the spray resistance buff was working flawlessly: the fabric didn't grow heavy, it only acquired an even more alluring sheen.
Dropping onto the cracked concrete of the pier, the mutant inhaled a mixture of ash, ozone, and fresh blood. Rockfort Island was a grim sight: sheer cliffs, barbed wire, and a Gothic palace rising in the distance, looking as though it had been lifted straight from a Bram Stoker novel.
"Attention, Captain! — the neon interface blinked joyfully before his eyes. — Location 'Prison Complex' unlocked. Radar detects a familiar plot signature! Quest available: 'Old Flames Never Rust'."
— What old flame? System, I have no time for romance, I need to raid the local labs, — the former clerk waved it off, brushing ash from his gold epaulettes.
"Target: Claire Redfield. Status: In trouble, out of ammo, but still with attitude. Rescue reward: +600 Style Points and a unique chance to flirt at the epicenter of a disaster. Penalty for ignoring: The System's moral condemnation and a karma penalty."
Sim froze. The girl from the R.P.D. parking lot who had promised to turn him into a bathroom rug. Fate clearly had a specific sense of humor, throwing both of them onto this godforsaken island.
— Alright, you talked me into it, — the Gacha owner smiled predatorily, breaking into a sprint. Muscle tension carried him over a three-meter barbed-wire fence effortlessly, the way a light breeze might toss a dry leaf.
The prison courtyard was a horrifying mess of mud, gravestones from an old cemetery, and the burning debris of guard towers. Rain fell in sheets, turning the ground into a slippery swamp. It was here, pressed with her back against massive wrought-iron gates, that Claire was fighting off a crowd of infected wardens.
She no longer wore the biker jacket from Raccoon City. Just a wet, form-fitting tank top and prison trousers. An emptied pistol lay in a puddle, and in her hands she gripped an iron rod wrenched from somewhere. She moved heavily, breathing with a rasp, but had no intention of surrendering, methodically caving in the skulls of the advancing corpses in gray uniforms.
One of the zombies, a particularly large guard with a baton, made a sharp lunge, knocking the rod from Claire's hands. The girl cried out, losing her balance, and crashed into the mud. The corpses roared with delight, tightening their ring around the defenseless victim.
— Why do I always end up with guys with such terrible manners? — Claire exhaled, instinctively covering her face with her hands.
But no pain followed. Instead, above the cemetery rang the whistle of cleaved air, followed by a nauseating wet crunch.
The heavy carcass of the guard shot upward as if weightless, hurled by the strike of an invisible whip, and smashed into a stone cross with a squelch. The other zombies stupidly shook their heads, trying to understand where their meal had gone.
Directly in front of Claire, landing softly on the balls of his boots, appeared a tall figure. The rain washed mud from luxurious black velvet, gold chains jingled in the nighttime quiet. From beneath a black pirate eyepatch, a single eye blazing piercingly with crimson light regarded the bewildered corpses. From the stranger's left shoulder, swaying smoothly in the air, protruded a thick violet tentacle.
— Good evening, Miss Redfield, — Sim said in a velvety voice, inclining his head in a mockingly gallant bow. — I would offer you my hand, but I'm afraid of dirtying my gloves.
Claire blinked, wiping rain from her face. Her eyes went wide with recognition.
— You?! — she breathed, unable to believe her eyes. — The freak in tactical rags from the parking lot?! How did you even get here?! And... what in the hell are you wearing a stripper pirate costume for?!
"DING! Enemy demoralized by your appearance! Ally outraged by your sense of style! Charisma multiplier x2! — the interface literally sparked with delight. — Begin the exhibition performance!"
— I prefer the title of 'Captain Seduction', darling, — the mutant winked, turning toward the advancing crowd of zombies. — And the outfit is a gift from fate. Watch and learn how the professionals work.
The corpses, finally figuring out that this was not a decoration before them but a fresh threat, surged forward.
Sim didn't draw a weapon. There was no need. He began to dance. The Nemesis tentacle shot forward, coiling around the neck of the nearest warden. A sharp yank — and the zombie sailed into the crowd of his brethren, knocking them down like pins.
The former office worker slipped into the gap that formed. A spinning heel kick shattered one monster's ribcage. An elegant pirouette, a grab — and the second corpse was relieved of its head through the precise work of his muscle tension. Every movement was calculated, graceful, and saturated with the primal force of the T-Virus. And through all of it, the velvet coat sat perfectly, baring exactly as much defined abs as the moment required for maximum effect.
Claire slowly rose to her feet, forgetting about the cold and the mud. She watched, transfixed, as this insane, clearly virus-infected guy dismantled a dozen monsters with his bare hands and a tentacle as if he were shooting a pop music video rather than surviving in hell.
Finishing off the last zombie with a flick of his fingers that sent the corpse's head snapping back with a crack, Sim elegantly brushed an invisible speck of dust from his epaulette and turned to the girl.
"Mission 'Old Flames Never Rust' complete! Elegance off the charts! +600 Style Points received. Claire Redfield is impressed (and a little flustered)."
— I hope you enjoyed the show, — the Gacha owner stepped closer, looking the soaking-wet heroine over with amusement. — Last time you promised to make a rug out of me. I see the plans have changed?
Claire snorted, trying to hide the faint flush rising to her cheeks despite the cold. She crossed her arms over her chest, taking a defensive stance.
— I can still arrange that, pirate. If you think you saved me and now I'll fall into your arms, you're overestimating your... velvet. Who are you? In Raccoon City you were playing around with Leon, now you're here on a secret Umbrella base. Are you a Wesker mercenary? Another experiment?
Sim laughed. The laugh was genuine, low, and sounded nothing like the noises bioweapons make. The tentacle obediently retracted back into his shoulder without leaving a trace on the skin.
— You can call me Sim. And I am a freelance artist in search of the perfect loot, — he stepped up close to her, looking down with his glowing eye. — Wesker, Umbrella, the Ashfords... to me they're just sponsors of my personal party.
The girl narrowed her eyes with suspicion, but didn't reach for a weapon. Her instincts told her this strange guy, despite his demonic aura, had no intention of hurting her. At least not while he was having fun.
— Alright, "artist," — Claire nodded toward the burning structures deep within the complex. — I need to find someone and get off this cursed island. And since you're already tossing zombies left and right... are we going the same way?
"WHOA! Co-op invitation from a main character! — the System rolled a giant blinking thumbs-up onto the screen. — Accept it! With her we're sure to find something legendary in the local aristocrat's chambers!"
— Only on one condition, Miss Redfield, — Sim gallantly offered her his arm, ignoring the fact that chunks of flesh were still scattered around them. — No boring gunfights. If we're going to tear this island apart, we're doing it with style.
Claire looked at his outstretched hand, then at the pirate eyepatch, let out a heavy sigh, and shook her head.
— What have I gotten myself into... Lead the way, Captain. Just don't trip in those tight trousers.
Smirking, the mutant stepped toward the Gothic palace. Somewhere in there, among exquisite rugs and antique china, Alfred Ashford lurked with his sniper rifle. The hunt for gold Lugers and elite loot had officially begun.