(Simmons POV)
The helicopter trembled.
Not violently—not yet—but enough for Simmons to feel it through the metal floor, through his bones, through the nerves that no longer fully obeyed him.
Warning lights blinked red.
Wind screamed past the open vents.
Below him, the ruined city burned in patches of orange and white, like a world already halfway to hell.
Simmons leaned back against the interior wall, breathing hard.
Blood soaked his side. His leg barely responded. One arm hung useless, fractured in three places. Every movement sent a wave of agony through his body.
And still—
He smiled.
"…Insects," he muttered.
Around him, his remaining soldiers worked frantically.
"Altitude dropping!" one shouted.
"BSAA radar lock detected—!"
Another voice cracked. "Sir, we need to evac NOW—!"
Simmons laughed.
Not loud.
Not yet.
"You still don't understand," he said calmly. "They can't stop progress."
Outside—
A sudden roar.
A BSAA jet tore through the clouds, sleek and merciless. Its engines screamed like judgment itself.
Missile lock.
One of the soldiers turned pale. "M-Missile incoming!"
The pilot yelled, "Brace—!"
The missile hit.
The world exploded.
Fire consumed the helicopter in an instant. Metal twisted. The cabin ruptured. Soldiers were torn from their seats like dolls, their screams cut short as the aircraft broke apart midair.
Simmons felt himself hurled forward—
Then everything went black.
He woke to fire.
Actual fire.
The wreckage burned around him, half-buried in the side of a shattered high-rise. The helicopter was no longer a vehicle—just a molten carcass of metal and bodies.
All his soldiers were dead.
Some burned.
Some crushed.
Some barely recognizable.
Simmons lay in the center of it all, impaled through the abdomen by a steel support beam. His ribs were exposed. One lung had collapsed. His spine screamed with every breath.
Any human should have died.
Simmons laughed.
It started as a wheeze.
Then a chuckle.
Then something ugly and wet bubbled up from his throat.
"…Still," he coughed, blood spilling from his lips, "…breathing."
The beam creaked as his body trembled.
Veins pulsed violently beneath his skin.
His fingers twitched.
The pain didn't stop him.
It fed him.
"Do you know how many times," Simmons whispered, eyes unfocused, staring at the burning sky, "this world tried to erase me?"
His heart slammed harder.
Harder than humanly possible.
The C-virus responded.
His skin began to bubble.
Not swelling—crawling.
Something moved beneath it.
His ribs cracked inward this time, compressing instead of expanding, organs liquefying, rearranging. Bones softened, reshaped, dissolved into something elastic and wrong.
The steel beam impaling him began to corrode.
Simmons' laughter grew louder.
"…You think I was a man?" he said, voice distorting, layering over itself. "I was always more."
His back split open.
Not violently—but deliberately.
From the wound, translucent wings tore free, wet and veined, unfolding with a nauseating sound. Another pair followed. Then another.
His arms thinned, joints snapping and reforming, fingers fusing into hooked limbs. His jaw unhinged, mouth stretching wide as compound eyes burst through his skull—dozens of them—each reflecting the burning city in fractured pieces.
Eyes opened everywhere.
Along his neck.
Across his torso.
Inside his mouth.
Blinking.
Watching.
"THEY SHOT ME," Simmons shrieked, his voice splitting into overlapping frequencies, vibrating the glass of nearby buildings.
"THEY BURIED ME."
His body lifted.
Not rising like a man—
But hovering, supported by the furious beating of massive fly wings that displaced the air like a storm. Ash and debris spiraled upward around him.
"AND STILL," he screamed, fully airborne now, "I ENDURE!"
The building beneath him collapsed inward as he ascended.
His Mega Fly form eclipsed the rooftop, a grotesque fusion of human intelligence and insect dominance. Chitinous armor hardened over his flesh. Veins glowed beneath translucent plates. Heat rolled off him in waves.
Fire clung to his body—
And slid off.
He hovered above the city.
Above the streets.
Above the fleeing lights below.
Somewhere in that maze of streets—
Nobita.
Simmons' laughter became a deafening drone, layered with the sound of wings.
"You think you won," he buzzed, the words vibrating through the air itself.
"You think you stopped me?"
One massive limb slammed downward, tearing through the side of a building, sending concrete raining into the streets below.
"I am the proof," Simmons snarled, "that this world cannot kill its own future."
His mutation continued—wings expanding, body swelling, eyes multiplying—pushing beyond its previous limits. The sky darkened as his shadow stretched across entire blocks.
"I will outlive you," he hissed.
"I will outgrow you."
Far away, sirens screamed.
Jets roared.
But Simmons only smiled—his mandibles peeling back grotesquely.
"…And when I'm done," he whispered, hovering like a living plague above the city, "there will be no one left to remember your names."
His laughter echoed across the skyline—
A droning, insectile scream.
Then..
Nobita stopped walking.
It wasn't sudden.
Not dramatic.
Just—
his foot hesitated mid-step.
A chill crawled up his spine.
Doraemon noticed instantly. "Nobita? Are you okay?"
Nobita blinked, hand pressing lightly against his chest.
"…Yeah," he said after a second. "I'm fine."
But his voice lacked conviction.
Something was wrong.
Not nearby.
Not immediate.
Something big.
Like the air itself had learned fear.
They continued toward the bunker entrance, the heavy blast doors already opening with a low mechanical groan. Inside, lights hummed softly, sterile and artificial—too calm compared to the ruined city above.
Chris was already inside when his phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen.
Then frowned.
Then answered.
"…This is Redfield."
Silence stretched.
Chris's posture stiffened.
"…Say that again."
Everyone stopped talking.
Shizuka sat on a medical cot nearby, pale but conscious, an IV still connected to her arm. Nobita stood close—too close—like stepping away might break something fragile.
Chris ended the call.
He turned to face them.
"I've got good news," he said slowly.
Hope sparked instantly.
"And bad news."
The spark wavered.
"The good news," Chris continued, "is that the U.S. government succeeded in synthesizing Anti-C."
Doraemon's eyes widened. "You mean—?"
Chris nodded. "Using Jake Wesker's blood. It works. It's stable."
Nobita felt his chest tighten.
"…Then we can use it on Shizuka," he said, almost afraid to speak it out loud.
Shizuka looked up at him, eyes shining.
For the first time in a while—
Real hope filled the room.
Chris exhaled.
"…Yeah," he said. "That was the plan."
The room leaned forward.
Then—
Chris's jaw clenched.
"The bad news," he said quietly, "is that Neo-Umbrella intercepted the transport."
Silence.
"They took Jake Wesker," Chris finished. "And the Anti-C with him."
The words hit like a punch.
Suneo's mouth fell open. "They—took everything?"
Gian slammed a fist against the wall. "You gotta be kidding me!"
Doraemon looked stunned. "…That means—"
Shizuka swallowed.
Her fingers trembled slightly.
Nobita said nothing.
His system pulsed once.
[24:35]
He looked away.
Meanwhile...
Far above the city—
BSAA jets U turns to reach the fallen simmons helicopter.
Black smoke still rose from the shattered building where Simmons' helicopter had gone down.
"Command, this is Echo-Two," a pilot said over comms. "We're approaching the wreck. No movement detected so far."
"Proceed with caution," command replied. "Confirm KIA."
The jets slowed.
One descended.
Searchlights cut through smoke and dust, illuminating twisted metal… burned bodies… melted rotors.
Another pilot frowned. "Something's off."
The wreckage was too clean.
Too empty.
Then—
The smoke moved.
Not drifting.
Parting.
A low, vibrating sound filled the air.
BZZZZZZZZ—
"What the hell—?" one pilot whispered.
From within the smoke—
A shape emerged.
Wings.
Too large.
Reflecting the searchlight in fractured angles.
"CONTACT—!" someone screamed.
The Mega Fly rose.
Fully formed.
Fully alive.
Its wings beat once—
The shockwave ripped one jet apart midair.
Another was struck by a whipping tentacle, spiraling out of control in flames.
"EJECT! EJECT—!"
One pilot managed to eject, rocketing downward as the sky behind him burned.
He hit the ground hard.
Too hard.
Bones shattered.
But he was alive.
Barely.
His helmet cam flickered as he groaned, dragging himself backward through rubble.
"…Mayday," he gasped into the mic. "Mayday—this is Echo-Four—something's here—!"
The signal routed automatically.
Straight into the bunker.
Chris's tablet beeped.
Incoming video call.
He answered without thinking.
The screen filled with static—
Then stabilized.
A bloodied pilot stared into the camera, face pale, eyes wide with terror.
"Please," the pilot choked. "If anyone's there—help—"
Behind him—
Something moved.
A shadow passed overhead.
A wet sound followed.
SCHLK.
A tentacle punched clean through the pilot's chest.
Blood splattered the camera.
The pilot gasped once.
Then—
The camera tilted upward as his body lifted off the ground.
The screen filled with compound eyes.
Wings.
Mandibles peeling back.
Mega Fly Simmons.
His laughter poured through the tablet speakers—
A distorted, droning echo that filled the bunker.
"Ohhh," Simmons' voice buzzed, layered and wrong.
"You're watching."
Everyone froze.
Nobita felt it now.
Clear.
Undeniable.
"That thing…" Leon whispered.
"…That's Simmons," Nobita said grimly.
On the screen, Simmons leaned closer.
"So kind of you," he laughed, "to send witnesses."
The call cut to static.
Silence crashed down.
Shizuka clutched Nobita's sleeve.
Nobita clenched his fists.
Above the city—
A monster had been born.
And the clock was still ticking.