#Umbrella corp is even more nasty for how they send out their killer mutants

[spidermilkshake]

Deployment

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, plus also human adults cuss like human adults)

Mr. X would rather like to get off Umbrella Corp.'s wild ride. It's a rather short one while I'm working on finishing up the next--which will FINALLY feature a certain newbie RPD guy about to be pursued by a Big Big Fella.

7: Deployment

            The agent commanded Mr. X to enter the panel moving truck, but by the limited space within and the chill that pervaded the blank interior the unmarked vehicle was clearly a refrigerated compartment. T-00 set itself down against the far wall in a cross-legged posture, tucking itself down to resist the slight cold and letting itself doze off for much of the rumbling journey. It must have taken several days, which mattered little to it. It did not wish to be all that aware after being torn away. Its metabolism had been slowed enough by the confines that only once an armed guard yanked open the door and blasted the dormant Tyrant with morning sunrays did it notice any sort of thirst or hunger. Its joints cracked stiffly as it stood, tromping down the truck’s ramp and into a familiar yet unfamiliar industrial warehouse setting.

            There were five other Tyrants already waiting in a semi-circle, immobile while Umbrella staff and guards buzzed around them like frantic bees. It recognized one of them—not by designation, but by its drowsy habits during downtime. T-00 came to a stop right beside the other Tyrant and eager to be near someone familiar, who greeted the younger with a bleary blink, grunt, and a slight bob of its head. Mr. X rumbled in its throat in response, but the nonverbal reunion was interrupted by a labcoat-wearing older man approaching the group of huge creatures:

            “T-103 Tyrants—stand by for your new orders.” The man rasped, untucking a sheaf of documents and photographs from under his spindly arm, “T-048, T-049. You two are to maintain a perimeter around the Disposal Plant. No unidentified creatures or persons are to exit this perimeter. Destroy all irregular mutants; kill all armed persons you find.” These two accepted between them a copy of a large photograph which showed the exterior of a large disposal complex, one hand of each holding opposite corners as the B.O.W.s nearly hit their skulls together in their close study. They were much more similar in looks than many T-103s—likely from a split embryonic batch and accustomed to assignments together.

            The older man also handed a copy of this photo and an internal map schematic to the three others.

            “T-029, T-033, and T-035. T-035. Hey, Sleeper. Wake up.” He snapped, and Mr. X’s former holding room neighbor flinched and snapped to attention, “You three will infiltrate the facility. Clear out irregular mutants you find inside and put all organic materials from them into the disposal chamber. There will be a trained armed squad of outsiders within. Kill them all.”

            These Tyrants grumbled roughly in a sort of response, weight shifting from pillar-like leg to pillar-like leg—anxious, building with adrenaline at the thought of the more violent-natured assignment. This left T-00 standing alone, eying the old staff member as he turned towards it and appeared to ogle its trilby for a long moment.

            “As for you—you have a very special mission.” A small stack of papers was offered towards it, and with a curious head tilt it took them in one vast hand and began shuffling through them. “You are to obtain a sample of Dr. William Birkin’s G-virus. You are holding a schematic of the N.E.S.T. layout below the city where all samples should be located. However, intelligence suggests that before a team was sent to dispatch him Dr. Birkin had locked the sample cache down with a number of fail-safes that will detonate unless it is unlocked with a specific keycode. Next you should see a photograph of Dr. Annette and William Birkin’s daughter, Sherry.”

            Mr. X examined this photo. Sherry was very much what its experience had it expect of juvenile humans, though as pale as the Birkins’ where Mariposa had been as dark as Ramirez. She shared the tired lower eyelids of Julian’s daughter in this frozen moment she was in—baring her teeth in a broad smile between her two distracted-looking parents.

            “Based on the bugging of their house, it is very likely that one or both of the Birkins has given Sherry an object which conceals this keycode, if not a dormant sample of the G itself. If you encounter her, get that object. It could be jewelry, a pager, a flash drive—anything roughly that size.

            “You have a secondary task—find the Raccoon City Police Department and clear it. A photo of the building is in your materials.” There was in fact a photo of a large, distinctive building with a sturdy gate around its front exterior, and a… tower? Tower, yes. It would be very hard to miss even from a distance.

            “You are to track down all surviving members of the R.P.D. and kill them all. You have photos of every confirmed member of this force. If you encounter any of these targets, kill them immediately. Understood?”

            T-00 gave a heavy nod, flipping through the smaller five by sevens which appeared to be officially-taken headshots. There were more than a dozen to memorize, so Mr. X took an additional minute to do so, its leathery brows just barely mobilizing in concentration.

            A heavy blast of air from the propped-open warehouse door had the Tyrant’s free hand shooting up to catch onto the brim of its hat. A powerful whirring of double-rotors slowing filled the space and drowned out the shouts and commands of the Umbrella personnel as the cargo helicopter touched down just outside. A woman in a labcoat leaned down over the high catwalk above the bioweapon conference and bellowed in a voice of authority:

            “Alright boys—get those living tanks loaded up! Move—we don’t have all goddamn day!”

            Aware they were about to be on the move, the Tyrants all pocketed their various background materials and fidgeted in place, their tremendous weight giving the small movements extra energy, extra menace for any observer who knew what was good for them; T-00 straightened up its hat atop its scalp and watched as two armed guards gestured at the group of Tyrants to follow over towards a cluster of heavy, metallic cylinder-shaped pods that sat strapped and ready to be hooked up and airlifted. These drop-pods were arranged two by three—ten feet tall and more than six feet wide, the devices armored and painted minimally with a dull red and white block letters naming the designations of each Tyrant they were meant for. Mr. X’s sleepy-natured neighbor was loaded into the cylinder just ahead of it, and the creature startled sharply at the noise of the curved doorway hissing as it was hermetically sealed and its support systems came online. With a swift glance, it confirmed for itself that none of the handlers had noticed the sudden jolt of fear, and under another goading from the nearest guard it cautiously wedged itself into the extremely tight confines of its pod.

            The gas valves sizzled painfully in its ears as the door shut it in. A small LCD screen lit up mere inches from its eyes, showing a diagram of a vague bipedal form along with a short instruction: LINE UP WRISTS AND ANKLES IN THE SHOWN POSITION. T-00 felt its jaw clench tighter with the stress, but it focused on where its arms and legs were backed up into the grooves built into the sleek white inner surface. A green light half-stunned it from the screen, and firm Kevlar belts engaged from the grooves to restrain it in place. The Tyrant let out a panicked croak. This was… not a part of training, or something it was intuitively inclined to accept or understand. It tried to concentrate on anything else but the clinical, plastic-y smell choking the stuffy space or the complete loss of mobility: The G-forces on its huge frame increased, telling it the pods were finally being lifted.

            The muffled double WHUMM-WHUMM-WHUMM from above was the only thing now that could distract it from the tightness and the nauseating proprioception as the Tyrant pods lurched along behind the tow line. The bioweapon hoped the distance until the airdrop point was not far; not that it had anything to vomit up, but it did not want to think about how the pod’s systems would react in that case…

            It was a torturous half-hour of top-speed flight until the pods gave a second, even more violent lurch—now dangling straight down over a selected spot as the helicopter hovered over. It had felt so many times longer. T-00 gave a reflexive jerk against its bonds as a pneumatic whoosh sounded from a neighboring pod; then another—and another. Five Tyrant pods had been dropped in succession; Mr. X was alone now. It strained with greater force against the straps holding it down as it felt the chopper’s tow line drag along again, swinging the Tyrant in a perpendicular direction. The inch-thick Kevlar started to give off little ping!s as its fibers gave way, one at a time.

            Mr. X really, really wanted off of Umbrella Incorporated’s wild ride. Before it had the chance to put its enhanced muscles to the test doing that, there was a sudden k-CHUNK! from overhead. The straps holding the deployment pod ripped free with a controlled hiss. For a few seconds, T-00’s eyes widened until they watered in the artificially-dry air, sensing itself floating up from the floor—slowly putting together what this lapse in gravity meant, especially given its great mass.

            This box had better be strong enough to—

            CRASH!