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soshadysoquiet · 1 year ago

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Grace Thoughts

Grace's transformation in tua is fantastic, and I'd like to talk about it, so I will.

S1. She's obviously created to be a specific image, but comes across as a well-loved doll, if a stereotypical doll nonetheless. She's clothed and pressed neatly and finely, respected and loved by the children she cares for, viewed as a member of the "management triangle" by Pogo and Reggie. She's kept limited (Lord knows Reggie loves to suppress) and not given free will that she's clearly capable of, but there's the sense that she's cared for and respected in her own problematic way, probably as much as Reggie is capable of (again, weird seeing S2, but we'll get there)

S2. Reggie clearly Does respect and value this Grace, they talk about sharing lives and he looks genuinely emotional. But in the original timeline he... remakes her as not a scientist, but a mother? Along with changing her accent which is a hilariously pretentious choice. Question is; did Reggie value her Scientific mind, or value her Nurturing one? She was able to form a strong bond with Pogo, teach him to do incredible things. Perhaps Reggie is so scientifically advanced that her scientific intelligence wasn't what impressed him, but her ability to nurture and teach was, a skill set Reggie decidedly does not possess.

OG Timeline: Did he construct Grace into Mother of the Year Every Year Ad Infinitum (in his mind, I actually don't think she's a perfect mom, but thank christ the kids had her.) because of respect for her natural nurturing ways as he saw her? It's still wrong that he created her at all in plenty of senses and removed bits of her personality to suit, but that is very Regginald of him. Also, what happened to OG Grace? We may never know...

Now, in the timeline spawned by the 60s: Grace grows to question Reggie, she never might have without Diego tipping her off, and also giving her some likely not-common-for-the-time-period respect. Her and Reggie face a fallout point, and we all know Reggie doesn't like to be questioned, disobeyed or not have things go his way and resorts to drastic measures.

So that leads us to, S3: For Starts: this Grace seems to have a very different physical appearance; compared to S1 and S2 her hair is less lustrous and more plainly kept, her clothes are less flattering and more basic. She seems less like an upheld stereotypical ideal and more like the slave that she truly is, negating any respect for her 'nurturing' or 'scientific' mind. Even the children have no love or respect for her. She's sidelined and the kids are actively cruel to her often.

So Reggie was so pissed off about Real Grace getting a reality check about him in S2 that he did her an even greater disservice when recreating her as a robot. Did he create her out of cruelty rather than misguided affection this time around, and spare her little other resources? Either way he was still obsessed enough with her to create her, even when we know there were other nannies (did these ones get offed by the Sparrow kids like the Brelly ones did? R.I.P the nannies). Either way, Grace was always going to be made.

Grace's transformation really shows us in yet another way just how sick, twisted and cruel Reginald's mind is. If they try to make him 'nice' and 'redeemable because it was all for love' in S4 I will flip a table.

#What version will Grace take in S4?#Is she even in S4?#I'd like there to be an army of Graces #All service work jobs are Graces #Everyone has a personal Grace-o-tron #There's just one Grace and Reggie is building her like a creep in his lab somewhere his wife doesn't know about #tua #the umbrella academy #Grace deserves better #She has a fantastic wardrobe in S1 tho oh my #I have so many thoughts on this show and I will not be stopped.

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judasiskariot · 4 months ago

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RE: Umbrella Asylum - CHAPTER 2

☣HAPPY RESIDENT EVIL DAY!☣

🏖⭐☣Happy Arklay S.T.A.R.S. Mansion Incident Day 07/24/1998☣⭐🏖

Albert Wesker

Umbrella Laboratory

Story: Are you interested in what everyday life was like for the Umbrella scientists? The daily routine in the laboratory? The daily routine and fate of the test subjects with no hope of rescue? The true horror in an Umbrella laboratory or just the price of progress...

Category/Content: Accompany Umbrella scientists on their latest experiment

Long fic with more chapters to come, Chapter 1 here

w/c: 1,686 words in this chapter;more to come . ao3 . 18+ only . nsfw (to come) . german version(also on AO3)

tags: Resident Evil, Biohazard, Umbrella Corporation, Dr. Albert Wesker, Smut, F/M, Female/Male, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Horror, Drama, Thriller, Angst

Humanity Ends Here

This is where humanity ends

The sparkle of scalpel blades under neon lights.

The smell of ether.

Medicine and pills that were supposed to heal people, but made people sick.

Health twisted into madness and disease.

What was meant by the asylum upstairs?

The so-called sanatorium was more or less just a cover and the Umbrella Corporation wrapped this cover around its research facility.

The international, billion-dollar pharmaceutical company was unofficially more interested in gaining even more money and power by developing weapons for biological warfare. But this may not have been the true interest of the founder named Spencer.

To the public, it was a pharmaceutical company that contributed a lot to research into medicines and made an entire city flourish economically and almost single-handedly provided it with jobs. Thus the friend of the entire public interest.

A deceptive and fatal misconception.

Beneath the institution - which was operated by Umbrella in about as much official capacity as its non-pharmaceutical research - was one of its laboratories. The human and animal experiments that took place here made one understand:

This is where humanity ended.

The sanatorium was the perfect cover for all medical equipment and supplies of chemicals and medicines and, above all, it provided human resources. Normally no soul would stray into this antediluvian institution and be missed. That was the point of it; but for the public's sake it housed enough suitable patients to present a clean image in an emergency. Fortunately, hardly anyone cared about people labeled “crazy” by society. A person without rights quickly became a person without dignity because he was a person without protection.

But how many souls were here through no fault of their own? Very conscious? Fully understanding what happened to them? Very well, defined by society as mentally healthy?

Corridors in which the screams and sounds echoed like a memorial to dying hope.

Corridors whose every flicker of light cast evil shadows; Shadows like evidence of the absence of humanity.

Corridors whose mere presence promised a story of cruelty, without ever being able to capture their true horror in words, let alone pictures.

So many fates. So many lives. So much torment. So many nightmares.

Every day. Each night. Every hour. Every second. A painfully long eternity.

The painful reality.

The horrible reality for brother and sister.

The Napier siblings sat huddled together in their new, dark, underground cell. There was still horror in their eyes from what they had seen on their forcible transport down there. They had witnessed something they never thought possible. The asylum had already been hell on earth for them, but their “transfer” made them realize that there were greater horrors:

Genetic experiments on living humans in a secret research facility beneath the sanatorium.

Images that seemed to come from a gruesome novel or a terrible horror film; Images that only seemed to harbor a nightmare filled with sweat of fear had become their reality here. It was reality and they couldn't close the book, change the channel or open their eyes to finally escape this torture of a nightmare.

The noises and screams on the way to their cell had caused pure panic in them. They were completely different screams than the long-term, grueling shouts, stammering and groaning of the inmates that they had to endure so far.

But when the voices of the guards outside the door could be heard again, the panic only increased. Jacob - whom everyone just called Jack - put his arm around his younger sister Harleen, who had previously been called Lee by her friends before all of this, in an attempt to calm her down.

“Stand back!” was ordered according to protocol and the wards only entered after the two prisoners were standing against the opposite wall, which could be observed through a small barred window in the door.

Several of them then entered with disgusting grins and the two siblings, who were already shaking and clinging to each other, held each other even tighter. Mischief emanated from them, which seemed to literally drip from every single one of their pores.

“Come on, hold on to her!”

Two of the tall guards grabbed the woman and brutally tore the two apart.

“Leave her alone!” the brother shouted in panic and his attempt to hold his sister with his eyes wide in shock and attack the giants was suddenly stopped when two others held him by his arms. As ruthless as a vice.

“Keep him calm! He can watch.”

The blonde kicked and screamed as the guard in front of her began to tear at her white prison clothes and push her legs apart. The air was ominously filled with the cries of the struggling prisoners, which reflected less anger and hatred and more pure fear. In between, the almost grunting, amused voices of the group of men in nursing whites.

"Stop it now!" Jack's voice was loud but a little shaky, full of fear and panic that turned into nausea at the sight of his sister fighting tooth and nail not to be undressed. With all his remaining strength, he tried to tear himself away to protect his sister, only to collapse to his knees in pain the next moment with a choking rattle. It was the guards' fists that dug painfully into the pit of his stomach that almost knocked him off his feet. The two men began to punch his stomach again and again and he found himself gasping for breath.

"Jack! No!" his sister cried out in pain and no longer paid attention to her attacker, but looked at her brother with wide eyes, "Leave him alone! Please leave him alone! Don’t hurt him!”

“First I need the test subject with…”

This scene of inhumane violence and desperate defense was suddenly interrupted when a man in a lab coat stood in the cell in the middle. However, he didn't pay any attention to the scenery, his focus was elsewhere and his gaze was focused on his clipboard with documents. His tone was just unemotional but firm.

“First I need the test subject with…” the scientist’s slender finger ran over his document until he found the desired spot and pointed in the direction of the woman, “…blood group 0.”

Only then did he raise his head and seem to see what was going on.

“We still have work to do here,” grumbled the guard, who was still holding his unzipped belt in his hand.

A cold voice that was as unmoved as it was authoritarian replied: “You can do whatever you want as long as it doesn’t interfere with my research. And a time delay has a hindering effect on this. Continue when I’m done.”

The henchmen laughed and only God knew what there was to laugh about, thought Jacob Napier at that moment.

"Only when you're done with her, then we can't do anything with her anymore."

Reluctantly but obediently, they finally let go of the two of them and Jack seemed relieved that his sister was saved from these savages for the time being thanks to the scientist's appearance.

She saw it differently. Her gaze remained on the blonde in the lab coat and she didn't move away from her tormentors towards him. Someone who rose above such sadistic monsters but nevertheless did research here. How much safer could it be with someone like that? In particular, the guards' last words echoed in her head, giving her a bad premonition. A horrible…

She pulled at her partially torn clothing.

Silent, intimidated. Head lowered to avoid any eye contact.

Before she had been a bit louder and had to be literally dragged here, but that wasn't even a great effort for several full-grown men. After the young Napier was forcefully brought into the office and laboratory amid shouts of protest, the first thing she did was quickly look around to explore the room:

The room contained a heavy desk. On this one computer and neatly sorted files. Almost too clean; almost meticulous. Behind it is a glass display case and cabinets with a variety of medical instruments, as well as metal surgical instruments and many ampoules with a wide variety of active ingredients.

Behind the desk in the far left corner was a heavy metal door set into the wall, which, like the access door, was also locked with an electronic combination lock.

No escape.

On the left wall was another door that led into a private bathroom and on the same wall in the left corner, there was a control panel and a whole row of surveillance monitors.

To the right of the table was an examination stretcher positioned at an angle on which arms and legs could be fixed. There was enough examination equipment to make any hospital jealous.

Even though everything was sterilely clean, that didn't hide the horror that the sight radiated.

The guards had pressed the new test subject onto this same operating table and fixed his legs and left hand so that the right hand was initially free for the Umbrella Scientist's upcoming projects.

But now the young woman lay there in silence with her eyes downcast and, ashamed, using her free hand to straighten her white clothes, some of which had been torn by her attackers.

No more protesting, no more attempts to defend yourself.

The virologist was alone with his test subject.

The emotionless look didn't quite understand why her biggest concern was fixing her clothes. She seemed to him like a lost little girl.

She really was lost. Completely lost.

Left helpless.

Without any human emotion, he turned back to his short report for the executive department, entered the last data that was relevant to them - or rather he assessed that it was relevant to them; without any statistics that broke everything down perfectly in detail, as something like that only caused enthusiasm among himself and his colleagues - and finally signed.

The prisoner's head now rose slightly and craned around with rapidly searching eyes to catch a glimpse of the paper.

He signed with Albert Wesker.

Happy Arklay Day 07/24/98

Have a blonde, shades-wearing, blue eyed Umbrella lab Wesker.

(I call him Dr. Sexy MD)

Happy Resident Evil day you all!

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spidermilkshake · 9 months 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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