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spidermilkshake · 6 months

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Gifts

More RE fanfics--more mutants, more corporate shenanigans. This one's actually pretty sweet after the pure monster abuse displayed in the last one.

Rating: Teen (TW for suggestive language, human experimentation, dehumanization, medical/lab settings and stuff, plus also human adults cuss like human adults)

In which we meet a Dr. Ramirez--an Umbrella scientist partially responsible for T-00's existence as a prototype new phase of T-103. This man has some... quirks. Though it does result in hat-related greatness.

4: Gifts

The Tyrant stood immobile in the center of the much smaller room—not quite a lab, not quite a holding chamber—awaiting another command from the trio of Umbrella staff gathered around it. Dr. Ramirez clapped once with animated fervor, grinning up at the entity towering over him.

“Isn’t he fantastic?” the man gushed, and the taller doctor standing by the door let out an almost imperceptible snort. T-00 had the continuing impression that Birkin chafed under the energy that the T-103 phase 4’s director put out. It did not find such a reaction particularly reasonable. Dr. Ramirez was clear and concise in his commands, and logical in his procedures, methodology… As far as the Tyrant had seen. As the doctor circled around it once more, hands raised as if presenting the hulking form to the others, it remained passive and still to allow itself to be gawked at.

“You saw the latest trial run, yes? Absolutely blew the other subjects away! I’m telling you, I was onto something with this one. Imagine the newest wave of T-103s with these improvements, this discretion, this intellect at no sacrifice to power—”

“You know how I feel about that… ‘intellect’ part,” Birkin sneered, running a hand through his greasy blond hair, “Especially after what we’re hearing from the Arklay labs. You know that’s why those early-model Tyrants were shelved.”

Ramirez pouted, patting a hand against the side of T-00’s massive bicep as if to console it, “What, Willy—this not enough meat for you?”

“Don’t start with that,” he snapped back, “I’m just not comfortable with B.O.W.s being left up to their own decision-making. However limited this thing’s is.”

“He didn’t mean it,” Ramirez stage-whispered over to the bioweapon with a smirk.

“Stop that.” Birkin scowled and crossed his arms, “I’m just saying that giving it that much higher brain function is unpredictable. Instinct is predictable. And predictable in a killing machine is good.”

“Well, I’m just saying that I find raging phallic meat-monsters a little ineffective. And gauche. Not to mention creepy,” he cocked an eyebrow.

“Creepy?!” Birkin’s voice jointly cracked and went shrill, and he disentangled his arms from each other to square up, “You don’t think this thing is creepy?” The Tyrant twitched its head over in a sharp movement as William aimed a strong shove at its chest. The creature’s right hand snaked up and before Birkin could retreat or take out any more frustration on the stoic beast it had clamped a thumb, index, and middle finger firmly around the wrist of the intruding limb. Holding him there against the man’s budding panic, T-00 stared down at this flimsy human in mild confusion, wondering what he’d hoped to accomplish with this.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Ramirez’s voice dripped with an almost sadistic glee. “He’s a level-headed fellow, but he’s not above appropriate response.”

“C—call it off—!” The doctor had paled sheet-white, completely unable to remove himself from even this very dainty-looking grip. Dr. Ramirez snickered but nodded towards the Tyrant’s expectant glance. The mighty fingers loosened and Birkin went staggering back, glaring at the bioweapon with a renewed wariness. T-00 slipped back into its more docile posture; once the unimportant exchange was over its gaze centered once again on the animation of Dr. Ramirez.

“Don’t look at ‘im like that,” he laughed, “T-00 wouldnt’ve actually hurt you. He was just getting a point across!” The man’s thin mustache quirked, “Now, if you’d tried that with a weapon you’d not be in very good shape.”

“So how the hell if anyone supposed to work on these things?”

“Simply ask them nicely to stay still,” Ramirez scoffed, “Be civil with the big guy, and he’ll be civil with you. You see what I mean about the benefits of that intelligence now, hm?”

“I know what you’re trying to say, but I for one do not want to be around the first time that malfunctions.” Birkin sighed, “Okay, fine, fine. I’m wasting time here now. I’ll file that recommendation, but I really should be getting a flight back. I have too much work to do testing the new G strain.”

“Excellent. Well then, might as well get some practice in, off the record,” the smaller man chuckled. The third human, a lab tech furiously jotting notes, winced and jumped in surprise as Ramirez clapped her chummily on the shoulder, “I’ve been ready for this—be a dear and grab my briefcase from the table over next to you, please?” She seemed to hold back her reluctance and displeasure at being asked to do something so menial and passed the fairly large leather case over to him. The Tyrant watched him click a three-number combination into its latch and pop it open, before cheerily slipping something small and dark out. Whatever it was, the man handled it with a bizarre, loving care—unrolling a thin, rigid edge from it and pushing its center out so that its flat form became convex. The bioweapon could not make out what it was even in its revealed state; it was a stiff thing… felted fabric and leather, mostly round, hollow on one side, with a narrow brim surrounding it, one side tilted down to a point, the other upwards and flared.

“Oh Goddamnit Ramirez.” Birkin did seem to know what it was, all too well. The scientist ignored the other’s derisive tone and held the… object up between his hands—almost with reverence—and nodded towards T-00:

“Here, T-00—I’ve got something for ya…”

“Jesus Christ, really?” Birkin snarled, arms crossing again, “You’re giving it your damn fedora?”

“It’s a trilby, you uncultured swine,” Ramirez gave an indignant snort. He turned back to the bioweapon, beaming, “Can you bend your head down, big guy?”

T-00 assumed this was an order, or at least close enough. It bent one knee, ducking its head down low enough that the tiny entity could reach it. The felted interior of the strange item was settled squarely onto the top of its skull; it pondered the function of this task even as it stayed bowed for the scientist to shift the thing’s brim about, making adjustments.

“There we go.” Ramirez chortled, “Really completes the look.”

Dr. Birkin just blew out a harsh noise of exasperation. T-00 slowly rose back up. Two of its fingers raised experimentally to probe at the unfamiliar item resting over its rough, featureless scalp. The thing was large enough to sit there snugly—though it did not cover all that much. What an… inefficient piece of… head gear? The creature gave a rare blink to express its puzzlement.

“That’s your hat now, T-00. Should help tell you apart better,” Ramirez snickered, “especially now that you’ll have your new assignment.”

At this, the bioweapon’s head tilted a few degrees, instantly alert for what the doctor had to say. New orders. It would always obey, but something about the way this human issued the commands made it want to obey with even greater alacrity. Dr. Ramirez had also yet to set it on any objective the creature found truly unpleasant to fulfill—something welcome by now considering the first exercise of its purpose…

“T-00, you are assigned protective orders. Your assignment—yours truly, the one and only Dr. Julian Ramirez. Prevent harm from coming to me until I or a superior staff member dismisses you. Hmm…” The man appeared to twist up his expressive brows in thought, leaving the Tyrant hanging for the next syllable, “Also, I think you should answer to a pseudonym… let’s see… how’s ‘Mr. X’ sound?”

“What.” Birkin looked even more disapproving of his peer’s particular charms than ever.

“Hey, better than John Doe, yeah? Come on, you never listened to any classic radio dramas?” Ramirez gestured broadly to the attentive mutant, “I liked ‘The Man Named X’. And look at ‘im. Fits fantastically!”

“Somehow doubt any of your damn detective swill imagined any character as a crusty gray monster, seven foot nine and half as wide…”

“And Dick Tracy couldn’t put a boot through an armored car. We all have our own strengths and weaknesses.” The doctor met the awaiting gaze of the armored car-mangler in question, “So be it. T-00—you will also respond to codename ‘Mr. X’ until ordered to cease doing so. Understood?”

The Tyrant did. It stood slightly more upright and replied with a slow, creaky nod—unused to the newly-learned gesture. It was “Mr. X”. It was T-00. T-00 was Mr. X—synonymous. It had a name. So be it.