Just three hours after the explosion, representatives of the corporation swarmed the site, hastily cordoning off the area—"supposedly radioactive"—and checking their Geiger counters. At some point, one of the perimeter posts stopped responding, and when one of the "operations chiefs" arrived with a sizable escort, they found nothing but corpses.
A sweep of the territory yielded nothing. Much later, however, by tracing a straight line from that post into the heart of the affected zone, the scientists discovered a strange bubble—brownish in hue, hollow inside, and ruptured from within. The bubble itself revealed nothing of value. It emitted radiation, and a faint trace in DNA analysis showed similaritieswith the Tyrants—and more specifically, it unmistakably pointed to T Nemesis, a strain of the T virus clearly associated with a certain specimen.
Still, the theory that Nemesis could have survived was dismissed. And the question of what might have passed through the secured sector was postponed for better times.
***
Some time after the breach of the restricted zone, near a small town on the other side of the Arklay Mountains.
Damn it, my eyes are still watering. And that's with my sensitivity still on par with Tyrants and Birkin—in other words, below human range and far harder to overwhelm. On the other hand, what did I expect? The light emission of a nuclear explosion is a stream of radiant energy that includes ultraviolet, visible, and infrared radiation. So whatever strange properties my vision might have, the nuclear blast hit on all fronts.
And my "bomb shelter" clearly didn't have time to regenerate the passage I carved into it while hiding inside. On the bright side, I'm not glowing in the dark, my appearance hasn't changed much, and I haven't sprouted any extra limbs (unfortunately, in the case of tentacles). Which means Nemesis justified himself.
As for changes—my granite-gray skin tone shifted closer to the actual logo color of a certain well-known group, clearly drawing inspiration from Nemesis's light brown hide. Yet, contrary to expectations, I seemed to become even sturdier.
Furthermore, Nemesis's vocal cords were capable of supporting human speech—that's common knowledge; just hear him say "S.T.A.R.S." and there's no room for doubt. What I ended up with is something in between. Now I can speak—but my voice… it's like dragging a claw across glass. A dubious pleasure, at best.
My hood also underwent changes. Yes, it's still on my head—and even become part of my body. That's monstrous evolution for you. I've acquired a strange pouch, like a kangaroo's—just not quite in the same place. If I wish, it retracts into my back and shoulders, leaving only a thin fold visible. Honestly, I'd prefer wings again over this creepy mess.
My face… honestly, when it was granite-colored, it looked less horrifying, even if it did appear burned and melted.
Now I'm heading to meet Ada—a rendezvous set for a couple of days from now—and I'm also hoping to catch someone else there. I understand that Four Eyes acted logically, and I could have left the city altogether. So, in my place, it might have been her, waiting for me. And considering I ultimately didn't make it in time, it's not hard to imagine what would've awaited her if she'd stood where I did.
Still, a heartfelt conversation is in order.
With those thoughts, I race through the forest, genuinely glad that despite everything that has happened, I'm (relatively) alive and have left that damned city—albeit in a rather radical way—having escaped from what remained of Raccoon City.
I can't say that everything went brilliantly, and things didn't always follow my plans. But aside from those final actions, I can't call it a failure. Honestly, it could have gone much worse.
Now the main issue—legalization within society. With my face, that's a real problem. So Yamata needs to be brought into the light, while I remain in the shadows. But what kind of work does that leave us?
What can we actually do?
Across three lives—I've been a medic, a test subject, and an elite mercenary. Yamata is a scientist, a hacker, and also a mercenary.
Yeah. What a stellar résumé.
There's also the matter of finding a place to live—preferably at least minimally fortified, with a lab and basic equipment not only for research but for mastering our abilities. From that perspective, becoming mercenaries isn't the worst idea. For example, that way we could cover ourselves with contracts—or even actually have them in hand, if I manage to play things right despite my far from complete knowledge of a future that's already deviating from canon. This would allow us to take contracts from the 3rd Organization and/or from Wesker.
Or rather—from Ada Wong, assuming everything goes smoothly.
At the same time, I'll be able to influence her further and learn plenty of interesting things, maybe even acquire something useful.
So many tasks, and only a couple of months left before the next stage of the race for the viruses begins.
Ah, this is not the life I dreamed of—neither the part of me that was once a transmigrant, nor the remnants of Nathan, nor Vector himself ever wished for such a fate, imagining it more in nightmares than in dreams.
(End of Chapter)
P@treon: /SadRaven
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