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Default 06-22-2010, 07:17 PM

The constant moan and groan of the zombies below had begun to grate on her ears as she thought through everything that had happened. What had happened wasn't atypical; people were always attempting to expose Umbrella's true purposes. She pressed a hand to the glass window, staring down at the walking corpses. No, they weren't her biggest concern. They never would be. One of the vials of the new virus had disappeared. Either it had been smuggled out by a scientist or it had been absolutely shattered in that explosion. The disease was experimental, and an accident. The attempt to find an anti-virus to the T-Virus had been all but failure. These viruses that had come as a result of tinkering with it were usually eliminated through fire, UV light, or pure and simple ethyl alcohols.

But this one. The ones her workers called the Green Flu... They couldn't find a way to kill it, short of nuclear weapons. The sample had been locked up in her laboratory. There were only three people with access to it. Herself, herself, and herself. Somebody had stolen her keys; two were gone. But she comforted herself with knowing that whoever had grabbed it would soon be on the same page as every other critter out there. Stumbling. Mindless.

Always hungry.

She turned from the window and walked into the viewing area behind her, looking around. There were numerous, steel-reinforced Plexiglas walls all around. Each segment of the room contained a monster. They ranged from simple zombies to complex, huge monstrosities like the Tyrants. Her particular favorite one was modeled after Sergei - but then again, they were all modeled after him. Lucky b*stard... She shook her head of the thought and turned to the Tyrant in question, smiling at it in its tube in the room. She was taking no chances with it; the cryogenic storage tube it was in would only unlock on her say-so, or in the event that a Code Black was necessary. It never would be. Nobody knew what they had been tinkering with.

She walked down the aisle to a group of cells called the Green Subjects. They were true monstrosities, Carmen knew that: warped and beaten and regenerated into something that was barely human. The zombies created by the Green Flu were faster, more violent, than the T-Virus subjects. The name of the virus, she knew, was spot-on: the symptoms of it were completely different than that of the T-Virus. Coughing that went from mild to resembling the Whooping Cough in a matter of hours. A slightly green tinge to the veins. Projectile vomiting. Foaming at the mouth. Then the hunger began. The Green Flu subjects did not rot. They were not dead. They were, as it were, akin to animals with rabies - with the exception of the Boomer and the Smoker, she noted with some disgust. The Boomer's cell walls were coated in a runny, foul-smelling substance that she could smell through the walls. The mutant lumbered around, waving its stubby arms and its bulges of fat disgustingly bouncing with each step. It took everything she had not to vomit, herself. The beasts would explode if harmed. They would be dead; but anyone within a certain radius would be splattered with the foul vomit, and it would alert every Green Subject in the area. For some reason, regular zombies didn't care for the smell.

Across the aisle from the Boomer was the Smoker. It, like the Boomer, would explode, but would leave only a nasty smelling gas in its wake. The cell was full of green smoke, and every now and then she could hear a deep, rasping cough; the thing was alive, but the smoke had accumulated as there was no ventilation system in place. Once or twice as she observed the cell, a long thin tongue plastered itself to the Plexiglas, but it didn't scare her. Nothing did.

Except.. her.

Carmen steeled herself as she stood in front of the cell holding the Witch. Witches were, by far, the strangest of the mutations they'd discovered in the Green Subjects. She looked near-human, with the exception of her grotesquely-long nails. No... not nails. Claws. She would sit and sob, and sob, and cry for hours. It had grated so much on one researcher's nerves that he had gone in foolishly to kill her to make the sound stop.

The bloodstains were still all over the walls and floor.

As Carmen approached, the sobs stopped and a low warning growl came from the Witch's throat, and a pair of glowing red eyes was visible through the claws as the beast lifted her head. When Carmen didn't react, the growls became more like screeches and grunts - and without warning, the sounds grew into full-on screams as the Witch launched herself at the wall, scratching at it and trying to tear it down so she could kill Carmen. It was the single most disturbing thing Carmen had ever seen. She had watched her workers be eaten alive, seen autopsies of the test subjects, had killed a few of them herself - but the sheer violence and insanity behind the Witch was what terrified her the most. She took some steps back, and it seemed to placate the monster; it slid down the wall, curling up and returning to its soft sobbing.

Carmen swiftly left the room, unable to deal with the unnerving sounds. She leaned against the window again, staring down. At least the T-virus zombies were emotionless, that all they had was a permanent hunger. She had concerns about other creatures that may crop up - the Hunters, Lickers, Cerberus, even Tyrants were known to appear at random if a human had the right DNA patterns. She lifted her head and stared at her reflection in the window next; blue eyes, blond hair. Some of the workers had gone so far as to compare her to Albert. Her teeth began to grind together at the thought. Albert. It was always Albert Wesker did this or Albert Wesker was such and such. She'd done so much to place herself on her own pedestal, but the comparisons continued.

She was not Wesker.

Carmen Wesker would not make the same mistakes.


Tina Shapo was not in the best of moods. Let's face it, if you were being chased down by zombified freaks, you wouldn't be, either. But so far, they'd avoided the room she was in. She couldn't really fathom why, but she wasn't enjoying the locker she was hiding in. The scientist peeked out of the slits in the metal, holding her breath out of fear.

There was nothing in the room.

She cautiously opened the locker door, trying to be careful. This was the last time she was hiding in a sch-

The hell was that?! She threw herself back in, slamming it shut as she listened to the noises. There was a low hissing noise coming from the ceiling. Oh, god, oh god. Oh-

She stared down at the puncture in the metal that went straight through to her stomach. A sharp, almost paper-thin fleshy appendage was connected to a hell of a face in front of the locker, but she didn't look up at it as she felt blood come up into her mouth.

Oh, what a hell of a way to die.

The locker fell open as she collapsed against the door, and the vial in her pocket slid out and cracked open on the hard tiles.

Thirty minutes later, the squad from Umbrella kicked open the door. However, by then, Assistant Researcher Shapo was dead. They saw the vial, but didn't think anything of it. They did what they were ordered to do. Pour gasoline on the body. Set it on fire. When it was thoroughly charred, douse the flames.

No need for Crimson Heads.


Arik Roarke hated zombies. It wasn't personal. They scared the living hell out of him. The stories in the movies and books - let's face it, those don't do sh*t in comparison.

But holy mother of god was he glad for his frying pan. It seemed to damage the zombies enough to keep them away. It even seemed to have killed a few of them.

He shook the frying pan a bit, spraying some of the coagulated blood against the floor, and looked around the kitchen of his restaurant in dismay.

"I am never serving burger again if it does this to my customers."

A camera in the corner of the room focused on Arik, enabling Carmen to read his information.

Name: Arik Roarke.
Age: 47
Personality: Affectionate moron. Has the best of intentions. Does not have any prior connections to Umbrella. Lost wife, Elizabeth, in inital infection and uses humor as a coping mechanism for most situations. Seen as a stupid optimist, but claims he prefers to look on the sunny side of pessimism.
Bio: Moved to Avalance with his wife and daughter twenty six years ago. Loves to cook. One charge of battery on a customer who was assaulting a waitress. Counter lawsuit pending against customer.
Appearance: He has claimed he holds a resemblance to soap drama actor Jensen Ackles. Currently wearing a blue bandana, chef apron, and jeans and t-shirt. His hair is short, brown, and his eyes are brown. Tanned.
Preferred weapons: Has gone to the town shooting range on occasion to practice with handguns. Also shows proficiency using cooking implements.
(Not shown: Disliked monsters: Zombies and Green Subject Common Infected/Jockeys)
Carmen glanced over this information, but didn't really read it. At the moment she could care less about the lives of the survivors. If they could get out, more power to them.

I stare at the girl in the mirror: T-shirt, torn up jeans, no beauty queen.
But the way that you see me, you get underneath me, and all my defenses just fall away, fall away.
I am beautiful with you, even in the darkest part of me. I am beautiful with you;
Make it feel the way it's supposed to be!

You're here with me: Just show me this and I'll believe I am beautiful with you!
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