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yurozo · 1 year ago

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the wolf and the lamb (leon x reader)

chapter two, a mouse trapped in bloodied claws:

synopsis: a seed of doubt begins to take bloom in your chest, watching ada slowly succumb to the infection. before you can react, you run into the agent that's meant to take away everything you've ever known. (ao3)

a/n: leon's finally here baby! let me know what y'all think

word count: 3.5k

Nothing seems truly alive here, in this crumbling village just past the borders of Spain. There is only the quiet, occasionally interrupted by the grumbling of villagers below you that fill the air’s emptiness. A flood of bustling footsteps marching in unison temporarily breaks the silence. The sound echoes throughout, a rattling thump, until it fades into nothingness. Weapons carved from homogeneity, born into a persistent numbness to their existence before. You almost envy the simplicity of their existence, repeating the same domestic rituals with dragging feet and half-garbled sentences.

Wesker told you to start at the village, wait until she makes herself known, and keep your eye on anyone who might try and interfere. The woman in red is trustworthy enough for him, but the whispering of another actor in his grand design is too loud to ignore, a man determined to bring down everything he holds dear. To take you away from him, his precious masterpiece, and turn you into a weaker thing. Thus, you were cast from your iron podium, nothing more than a spectator to his and the woman’s scheme unless the moment called for it.

For such a critical factor of his ineffable plan, it is painstakingly boring .

You whisper ramblings to the open air to no answer, a meek attempt to quell the rising boredom that slowly lulls you to sleep. A monologue to an absent god, if anyone even existed up there. Sitting at the bell tower’s highest level allows you to see everything happening, but it’s far away from the action. Occasionally, your eyes wander over to the bull mulling about in its pen, and you wonder how its blood would feel between your fingers.

You close your eyes, if only for a moment, allowing yourself to get lost in the daydream. Your mind supplies images of your hands digging inside your own chest, gripping the tendons and flesh holding the fragile organ together. Your fingers struggle to squeeze the organ in a futile attempt to keep it still.

The sound of a scream breaks your reverie, along with the livelier bustle of villagers as they file out of their desolate houses. You watch them drag a screaming man to the middle of the square, his blood mixing into the dirt.

A flash of blue. A uniform.

There’s this aching feeling in your chest, your heart hammering itself against your ribcage like angry fists on a concrete wall.

The man wails as the nails are hammered into his limbs, pinning his body to a crudely made cross. His screams fill the emptiness moments later as the fire licks upwards and consumes him entirely. You hear his final words– a desperate cry to the sky above. It’s enough of a show to entertain you, for the time being, until you can catch wind of your real target.

Who is pointedly still not here for some reason.

You hear a knife being unsheathed and the sick crunch of bone when you realize the show is only beginning. Crawling to the edge of the bell tower’s ledge, you watch a man gingerly place the body of one of the village women out of sight before swiping at an herb to shove it in his pocket. The other villagers spot him moments later, rushing toward him with relentless anger. That aching silence is once again shattered by the unrelenting sound of gunshots.

You watch the fight ensue, chin resting in your palm, momentarily sated by the entertainment of seeing the villagers fall one by one. The man is clearly experienced, obvious in the practiced elegance with which he handles his weapon, but still young– if the momentary stiffness in his shoulders every time a villager prepares to fight is anything to go by. The hoard seems never-ending, and as time ticks by, the man is clearly starting to reach the limits of his energy. This sophisticated dance of bullets and blood is nearing its conclusion, and you’ll be damned if you let those blubbering subordinates get a one-up.

If what Wesker said about this agent is true, it will be you who gets the glory of the kill.

Your foot shoots out and kicks the bell, the sound reverberating in your ears. The ringing is enough to signal to the horde that their momentary goal is completed, leading the stragglers to wander off towards the tower. They saunter off with glazed eyes, leaving the man standing in complete bewilderment. Before you can hop off the ledge, you hear him mutter something to himself, and you can only huff in passing amusement.

A second later, you see a streak of red shoot past you, disappearing among the houses before you can react. The game is beginning.

–

The woman in red, for the little that you trust her, is at least a more entertaining watch. She’s incredibly skilled, precise in each shot with a steadfastness that almost scares you. Every attack is perfectly timed, each movement without a wasted breath. There’s a reason why Wesker chose her– she’s efficient, deadly, and clearly knows better than to ask questions. Some unbidden part of you admires it, how easily she can follow orders without giving into any desire for more . She flourishes in this institution with a grace you could never achieve while still being able to retain an inherent virtue that you envy.

Despite your obedience, despite this binding attachment to Wesker, a part of you always wondered if there was more to this. More than the lab, than the cell, than this inescapable position at the heel of his foot. Perhaps if you were better, if you obeyed every command without a moment’s hesitation, maybe he would make you more than just a conveyer of his whim. Maybe you could be more like her, unattached and cool in the face of everything.

Someone like her is who he would always prefer. You knew that.

Your earpiece crackles as you hide yourself behind a chimney.

“Update.” Wesker’s voice rings through your ear, a touch of annoyance in his tone. He’s upset about something, and a part of you cowers at being the target of his ire. “We’ve lost Luis’ signal in the forest. I’ve sent Ada to track his last known location.”

“Understood.” You sigh, eyes flicking down to where Ada racing away on her grappling hook. “I’ll make sure to follow and keep you updated.

Wesker is uncharacteristically silent on the other end, only the faint sound of breathing audible over the earpiece. “Any sign of the man?”

Your heart stutters in your chest and slows to an eventual halt. He knows. A part of him must know, aware of this growing seed of doubt in your chest. “Caught him once in the village. He seems skilled.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Wesker snaps, the noise squealing in your ear. You wince.

“I know. I’m sorry.” You try to take a steadying breath as you step off the roof, your boots crunching in the dirt below. Despite every movement accomplished in Wesker’s name, it always ends with you begging in forgiveness– kneeling at his boot and pleading for another chance. “I don’t think he’ll be a threat."

–

Something instinctually doesn’t trust Luis. There’s this aching disdain towards his position as a researcher that unsettles you, something core in his existence that boils this pit in your gut. You wonder is he shares the same affection towards his construction as the man who created you, or if he’s acting out of regret for all that he’s created. You wonder if the answer would change anything.

Even if you’ve never met the man, you can’t help but wonder if his life is really all that worth saving. He made the Plagas, turned these humans into these weaker things that are doomed for extinction. Something stronger will only come around and put them out of their terrible misery.

Ada stumbles back to the village below you, clutching the side of her chest with a wince. A momentary instant of weakness there, this human part of her that seeps through her stone exterior. She stumbles forward, her head folded down.

There’s something wrong .

You hear the gunshot before you can see what she’s aiming at. There’s just enough time to hide behind a stone wall, knees folded into the harsh gravel. With a harsh breath, you peek your head out just enough to see into the square without exposing yourself fully. Ada is shooting into the open air, launching herself at nothing in particular. She must be seeing something you’re not, mind clouded by something you can’t put a name on.

It isn’t until you see the cloaked figure of a bioweapon behind her that everything clicks into place. This sick feeling of disappointment twists in your chest. You crumple behind the stone, pressing your earpiece once with a sigh.

“Update.” You whisper into the mic, voice quiet so as to not attract Ada’s attention. You’re not even sure if she can hear you over the gunshots, but you can’t risk Wesker’s anger.

His voice cuts in a moment later. “Speak.”

“Something isn’t right.” The gunshots falter, the click of an empty magazine clear through the village, and you hear her groan in pain. “She’s infected. Looks to be early stages.”

Wesker heaves a deep sigh, his voice clipping in annoyance. “Compromised?”

You peek over the wall once more, watching her inspect the handgun with great focus and mutter something to herself. “Most likely. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Fix it.” The earpiece crackles before finally falling silent.

The silence gnaws at this softer part of you, one hidden beneath tears of calloused skin. For someone trusted enough to be given such a significant responsibility in his project, for someone who navigates Wesker’s design without uncertainty, Ada is thrown away like nothing. Part of you wants to believe that this is a necessary evil, this ability to know which pieces in the game to sacrifice for the greater good.

If a greater good exists in this circumstance. The thought of more people like you wandering the same land you occupy, teeth bared at all the weaker things who are unfortunate enough to be in its proximity. You wonder what would happen to you in those circumstances, if Wesker would remove the dagger or simply let the skin grow around it.

Ada crumples to the ground, weeping silently in pain. Wesker would have been disappointed at such a blatant sign of weakness, would have held a gun to her head and ended the pain as swiftly as he could. That’s what he valued most: strength. The strength to survive every circumstance and the strength to take out the faulty pawns when they could no longer move across the board. The sight of Ada slowly succumbing to the infection and clutching at the gashes in her arms would have been enough reason to toss her away with the rest of them.

You remember the tubes of littered corpses in the lab, forever stuck in this stasis of not-quite-really-living. It would have been a waste of her, you think, of her physical prowess reduced to this barely living corpse. You silently rise to your feet and walk into the closest building, careful to stay out of her sight. It would have been easy to tear her apart when she’s distracted and injured; soft flesh is nothing to sharpen and aged claws. Her back is facing you– half the work is done already.

Something stops you, something much stronger than your desperate need to obey.

There was no satisfaction in killing someone half-dead already, and that terribly soft part of you rises to the surface.

You suppose the infection would take her one way or the other.

–

The Ganados are an easy enough target for distraction. Slashing through bone feels easy– natural, even. This animalistic instinct to end this sad existence they’ve carved out for themselves overtakes you, and it’s not long until their blood is pooling around your feet. It’s the better alternative to thinking about your momentary weakness, that hesitation to follow orders from the only person who ever cared about you. Disobeying Wesker is not an action that comes without consequences. It is a darkness veiled over you that festers guilt like a mold.

He gave you strength, and this is the payment you give in return. He built you from nothing, meticulously stitched parts of you back together until you became something more than some sniveling weak child. He tore every soft part of you and replaced it with metal and bone and helped you when the pain pulled at each fiber of your being.

And yet, you hesitated. All because you wondered if he would love you still with the soft parts intact. If he would throw you away if something stronger took your place.

You hear the door swing open as you rip into the last Ganado’s chest, hands dripping with its ichor. There’s barely time to react before you hear a loud shot and feel a bullet tearing its way into your shoulder. The pain is only momentary, a slight distraction from the intruder who had the nerve to shoot you.

You turn your head– a small, barely noticeable movement. Your features begin to catch in the light as you step forward, firm muscles and vein-riddled skin splattered with blood. A flash of blue fills your vision before it trains on the pistol aimed directly between your eyes, white knuckles hovering over the trigger. You see his eyes fall to your hands, at the still-pulsating heart clutched desperately within bloodied, sharp claws.

“The hell are you?” The man snaps, taking a step back. His eyes flit up to your shoulder, where the flesh is rapidly stitching itself back together. It’s clear that your appearance takes him aback: the matted hair, sharp eyes, and veins bulging out of scarred skin. Every part of it is unnatural, like something fighting to break its way out. A woman poised and bred to kill.

His eyes eventually wander back down to your hands, to the blood dripping down unceremoniously onto the floor. Your head tilts slightly, but his expression doesn’t change, still stern and serious.

You recognize what he’s doing: sizing you up, seeing where he lies on this hierarchy of predator and prey.

You smell his fear and know his answer.

Prey.

That delicious scent of fear reminds you of someone, although you can’t quite place who. It doesn’t really matter; you can only focus on the way it permeates every sense and sharpens that instinct to devour. There’s something different about him– this thrill to destroy seems amplified a thousand times over. It’s been so long since you tasted it: bioweapons aren’t truly controlled by survival instincts, simply throwing themselves at their goal with reckless abandon to their own life. This is different, this is someone in a shitty situation with everything to lose. Its taste is magnified by some other feeling you can’t name, but it’s fucking delicious.

You can only smile at the man’s realization, this sharp and crooked action that feels entirely unnatural. He takes another step back. You step forward in response.

His eyes are flickering across your face, searching for something. Perhaps some kind of sign, a hint of humanity or empathy behind those pitch-black eyes. He finds only a forest fire of rage, restrained only by your obedience and lightened by curiosity.

“Leave.” Your voice cuts through the dense air between you, fully turning towards him. A part of you hopes that he will pay heed and run for it. There was always something about the chase, the unpredictability of someone skilled enough to keep it difficult, that always had your heart pounding in your chest. This could be the recompense for your unforgivable sin, bringing back the head of the agent that threatened Wesker’s mission. It was easier to kill someone willing to fight back and sharp enough to bite than one scrambling and pleading for a chance to live.

“Like hell I will.” The man scoffs, straightening his back. A meager attempt at confidence, you think, like a stray cat backed into a corner with its fur straight.

You grin. “Final warning.”

His body visibly tenses, adrenaline pumping through his veins. You can almost admire his steadfastness, the way he doesn’t cower in front of you but only tightens his finger on the trigger. He’s strong despite his age. Despite his soft flesh and beating heart that could be easily torn to shreds.

“I’m not leaving until I know what-” He pauses, a slight tremble in his hands. “ -who you really are.”

His statement confuses you, if only for a second. There’s a flicker of curiosity blooming in your chest at the man who still refuses to shoot her again. Being fearful of a beast coiling around your chest is one thing; asking for its name is another. Most of your targets never hesitate in their responses, either attacking in a scant attempt at continuance or folding when they realize they’re outmatched. This man does neither. He stands his ground and stalls. His decision lies in this void of ambiguity– questions the dog baring its teeth.

He doesn’t seem happy with your lack of an answer. “Who are you?”

“Does it matter?” You finally answer, tilting your head playfully at him like a cat toying with a half-dead mouse.

“It matters to me.” He breathes out, his lips pursed in thought. “A fucking sentient bioweapon. Just my shitty luck.”

If only he knew. If he could understand this weight thrust upon you as a beast of burden, doomed to live in an eternal position of obedience. Where softness is weakness, to be tender-hearted in your world is to resign yourself to death without a chance of fighting back. It means your final words will forever be an echoing and dying bark.

“Something like that.” Is all you can answer.

“Great.” He chokes out a nervous laugh, gritting his teeth in frustration. His fingers tighten on the pistol. “Another one of you, let out of the lab for God knows what reason.”

Your chest stings at the comment and hardens your expression. “Sounds like you have experience.”

“I’ve seen my fair share.” There’s a faraway look, if only for a moment, as if he’s reminiscing on something far lost to him. You had that look once, too, many ages ago, when there was something other in your chest than wrath and sinew. “You don’t look like any I’ve seen.”

You watch the slight tremor in his hands, a giveaway to the fear hidden beneath that stony facade. There’s no doubt in his experience, you’ve witnessed the adept way he handled the ones in the village. A second nature almost, not too dissimilar to yours.

“There’s no one else like me.” Your lips curl into a sharp grin, all devilish sharp teeth. For now , at least.

“That I don’t doubt.” He pauses for a moment, lowering the gun a fraction. “You going to make me kill you?”

“You shot first. I believe it’s my move.” You take a slow step towards him, a fluid and practiced motion of intimidation. “Shall I give you a headstart?”

“Whatever the hell you’re planning, I want no part of it.” He takes another shaky step backward, pressing himself against the front door. “I’m here for the girl, and that’s it.”

A beat. You freeze, brows furrowed in confusion. “Girl?”

Your hesitance clearly doesn’t convince him; his eyes narrowed, and his mouth turned into a frown. “Don’t bullshit me. The president’s daughter. Tell me where the hell she is, or I’ll shoot you again.”

You decide against telling him that it would be futile and would only succeed in momentarily slowing you down. Wesker claimed he was there to throw a cog into his grand design, to take you away and tear you apart like they do the others, not save some girl . Maybe Wesker had plans for her. The very thought of it makes you sick, thinking of him replicating you onto some lesser thing.

“You’re not here for me?” You take a step back, your voice faltering slightly. Wesker couldn’t be wrong. He wouldn’t lie to you. This agent is here to rip you away from your life and dismantle this precarious control you’ve carved out for yourself.

He scoffs. “I don’t even know who the hell you are.”

He should. There was only one of you. You were Wesker’s grand design, not something to be copied onto those who couldn’t handle the weight of this burden. You couldn’t be lumped into a circle with these lesser beings that only existed as a testing ground. No one else would understand this terrible strength you were given– they were the losing dogs in this ring of power, and you and Wesker were the winning dogs.

Before you can answer him, you throw a flash grenade onto the ground and disappear from sight.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy/reader #leon kennedy #resident evil #resident evil 4 #re4r #resident evil x reader #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy fanfiction #albert wesker #ada wong #bioweapon reader babey!!!#yuro's writings

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spidermilkshake · 1 year ago

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It's Alive

Here we go, Resident Evil fanfic. Guess who loves mutants and monsters and hates corporations.

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

First in a series: The T-00 Tyrant, later known as "Mr. X", done gets born and has a bit of a time during its first few minutes of aliving.

1: It’s Alive

When the newly-created bioweapon first gained consciousness it took several moments to adjust itself to the barrage of sensations. There was something wrong… dizzying about the way its weight was distributed; when its fingers twitched, it felt the movement of cold fluid flowing between them, explaining right away the strange thickness that surrounded its form. Somewhat distorted, slightly muffled, it began to hear a conversation from close by, which it found it could understand:

“Eugh. Ugly fucker, isn’t he?”

“Ugly is as ugly does, Carson. By the way, it can hear you.”

“Shut up. You’re not gonna scare me that way. Now, where’s that Limiter?”

“It’s all in that box over there. I’ll start the drain.”

There was a heavy clunk, then a pull from below as the liquid it was suspended in began being siphoned away. As its feet met the grate at the base of the chamber housing it, the bioweapon wavered in place as it finally felt its full weight settle with the force of gravity. There was a burble as the last of the fluid sucked through the drain-holes followed by relative silence, broken only by dripping from its fingertips, back, and down its chin. The chill of air beginning to dry its bare skin elicited another twitch, and it finally was motivated to open its eyes.

Through the curved warp of the glass tube its piercing vision first perceived the face of a researcher, brows scrunched up in concentration as he examined it right back. The man was young with scruffy stubble, and clad in a long white lab coat (though with many small stains of indeterminate color). The bioweapon’s gaze slowly slid to the side, watching as the second researcher bent over a bank of controls attached to the cylinder containing it. There was another clunk, a hiss of pneumatics and a hum of electricity as the tube raised up into a housing in the dark ceiling. A new sensory capacity—scent—washed over the newly-awoken being as the stark, sterilized air of the laboratory was introduced to it. The creature blinked out of the unfamiliarity, metal grate floor creaking underneath it as it shifted its weight.

“Tyrant T-103, designated T-00,” the second researcher said as she straightened up and took a pace over towards it, snapping its attention back to the humans over the environment. It focused on her, examining the much cleaner lab coat, the tight bun of hair, the red and white insignia over the breast pocket; humans were very small, very frail-looking, far smaller than itself and upon that nonplussed realization it had the first thought of what it was. The researcher’s voice stalled that thought with a sharp order, “Step out T-00.”

The Tyrant designated T-00—absorbing what the woman had called it—obeyed with its first two heavy steps. Internally it was intrigued and alarmed as it felt the tiled floor shake beneath it. It must be several magnitudes larger than it had first supposed; the creature stole a moment to crane its neck further down, trying to look at itself as best it could. Its own massive chest blocked much of its view, though it could also see its own huge, stout forearms. Thick, leathery gray skin permanently marred with tightly-packed, curving striations covered every visible inch, though it was much thinner and less wrinkled towards the center of its chest—as if strained and bulging outwards from sheer mass contained within. Pulsating movement on each side of the sternum caused it to look closer. The skin there was bulging outwards; lacing through gaps in the underlying bone and muscle were twin oversized aortas, presumably issuing from twin oversized hearts, shifting visibly just under the surface as thick blood was rapidly shunted through its gigantic frame. This was… not something typical to humans, and it knew that instinctively.

“Here. Put these on yourself.” As a bulky armful of heavy black Kevlar and leather was pushed towards it, the Tyrant’s eye snapped back to the man, who struggled to manage the whole bundle of immense boots and trousers and buckled straps until the bioweapon grasped them with the tiniest fraction of its strength. After a curious pause, it very gingerly tested its movements to crouch and set down the boots, sliding into the lower half of the sleek black covering one leg at a time. Then, into the boots one foot at a time—fumbling with the straps and buckles but then learning quickly how to make finessed motions with its new fingers.

“This too,” And a matching trenchcoat of similar scale and material was pushed into its hands as it stood back upright. The Tyrant obeyed, carefully tightening each of the straps until the tough inner lining conformed snugly around its torso, wrists and neck. Something felt immediately correct about this. Not exactly pleasant but the presence of this outer covering was reassuring, and the bioweapon squared itself up in a more at-ease posture as it made a final few adjustments to its gloves.

“That went well,” the male researcher muttered over to his cohort, who was piecing together notations in a sheaf of files on her clipboard. The bioweapon overheard it all with a stoic stare out over the darkened lab, aware it was being ignored. “So, this one’s finished and ready to roll out?”

“Not quite. It still needs an implant. After that it needs to go to QA for a few days to be sure it isn’t faulty.”

“I—I thought they came out with the implant?” He was quite suddenly doing anything but ignore the casually waiting Tyrant, stepping back and locking eyes with it before whispering over to the woman, “Um. Um… How well do these things follow orders without the controller again?”

“Stop pissing yourself, Carson. The 103s are perfectly loyal to Umbrella staff. They’ll take any commands in-person, but to have a mission they deploy for they need the implant to keep them in contact with command servers.” She scoffed at his ugly expression towards her and stepped up a mere foot from the T-103, “Without a mission, this thing should be pretty docile. Proto-Tyrants were like wild beasts—these guys are domesticated,” She had reached up with a balled-up fist, thumping solidly against its shoulder as high as she could reach. The Tyrant could barely feel it through the Limiter, “Well, I wouldn’t try to attack it or insult it, but otherwise this big boy is currently harmless. To us, at least.”

The bioweapon eyed the woman quizzically as she continued past it and to a flat, sterilized slab on the other side of the row of growth tubes. The creature did not understand the purpose of the gesture, though it had concluded it was neither intended as aggression, nor was this pencil-thin figure at all capable of doing any damage to it.

“Here it is,” she returned, hands now sheathed in latex, one index finger and thumb pinched around a tiny silvery cylinder. In her other hand was a surgical drill, which piqued the creature’s interest. The male researcher’s skin turned a shade paler.

“Jesus, you’re just gonna—?”

“Yes, it’s fine. Just pass me the screw when I need it.”

“…Alright. It’s your funeral…” The creature broke eye contact with the point of the drill to meet her expression—a reserved, customer-service-type smile—as she spoke its designation again:

“T-00, please bend down this way and hold still for a moment.”

It did so, making a pointed glance again to the drill. She didn’t miss the wary observation it was making of the tool even while it was putting its head within easy reach of it, and the false smile half-faded.

“Yes, this is going to involve some pain and minor tissue damage. It will be brief. Stay completely still.”

The creature did nothing to acknowledge that it had understood the researcher’s explanation, aside from fixing its attentions to the floor between them and going rigidly still as instructed. The male researcher drew back further as the drill turned on with a high-pitched whine.

Only seconds later, the new Tyrant learned in practice what “pain” even was as the tip of the drill bit into its temple. A fiery searing lit up across its entire scalp and travelled in a shock down through its body, but aside from a startled blink it obeyed. Even as a sickening grinding slowed the drill’s progress, sinking a deep pinhole into its skull. Its hearts pounded harder, faster, in an automatic process to kickstart its healing factor. Its gigantic lungs huffed in and out without any conscious decision. …Ow.

Before the flesh could close over the portal into its brain cavity, the researcher jammed the open circuit side of the metal cylinder inside, giving a pronounced twist to ensure the active component was fully inside the entity’s cranium. With an urgent gesture, she summoned the cowering researcher back over to pass off a long, thin screw to her, which she wasted no time in inserting into its place and drilling again to push its point deep in until the top was flush with the protruding receiver. Firmly anchoring the device into the already-regenerating bone.

“There. Done.” She stepped back, discarding the soiled drill onto a tray and peeling off her gloves before similarly ditching them. The bioweapon stood back up to its full height, letting go a deep exhale from its cavernous chest as the throbbing echoes of that new, awful sensation faded. One of its hands wandered up to the scene of the split-second surgery, trying to explore the wet trickle starting to run down through the deep grooves of its face. The tip of one finger had just made contact with its temple—and the sticky, deep-red blood—when a far worse jolt ripped through it, as if its spine had caught fire while being simultaneously frozen solid. The creature wasn’t ready for anything like this—caught off-guard, it jerked its hand away and visibly staggered, surprising itself further as something unknown happened in its throat by reflex. A strange tightening as air rushed out, and its own breathing made a noise, a sort of deep croak, vocal cords coarse and clunky and unused. This alone triggered another stiff flinch.

“T-00, don’t attempt to touch the implant, or the deterrent will activate.” The researcher said, crossly striding away and beginning to make further notes on her clipboard. The Tyrant turned and gazed at her despite her now completely paying no attention to the nearly eight-foot bioweapon standing stunned after its brain had been cattle-prodded. “Carson, I’ve got to finish up here. You’ll be sure to take that to the holding area so QA can get to work, alright?”

“Ugh. Fine.” The Tyrant was presently aware of the other researcher taking a few timid steps towards it, snapping it out of the brain fog that the jolt had punished it with, “Come on, you heard the lady. Follow me.”

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