So, as you know, I was reading another one of those Chinese fanfics, and I saw the main character wants to kill the entire Japanese population. I don't understand why. I know about their historical past, but is it worse than what the British did? Like the Indian famines, the Irish famine, and so many more.
I don't know why we aren't taught about all this. For example, China remembers the famines caused by the Japanese every year, whereas we don't talk enough about British colonialism, which killed 100 million of our people through famines. And we don't want to kill every British person—that's just madness and a death to humanity. I don't understand why those authors do that. I could have understood if they did this with every other country, but it's only Japan. And they don't like the USA, India, South Korea, or the UK either. Why don't they acknowledge Mao Zedong's Great Chinese Famine, which killed more people—around 15-55 million? And why do they love it so much?
Is there something I'm not getting? After all, it's not North Korea—they have internet access, so they should know the problems with their own country. And they aren't religious fanatics who believe they'll go to heaven for 72 virgins or something. I could have understood that. Why do they want to kill the Japanese so much?
Get those stones going boys and tomboys, we need to get those numbers up!
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[The Outdoor Porch]
They exited the pool room, stepping out onto an open-air balcony.
The cool night air hit their faces. There was a fountain in the center, dry and cracked, and a few stone benches. The view looked out over the dark forest.
"Nice view," Atlas noted. "If you ignore the apocalypse."
CAW. CAW.
The sound of wings flapping filled the air.
They looked up.
A flock of crows was diving toward them. Their eyes were red, their beaks sharp as razors.
"Damn," Rebecca cursed, raising her launcher. "Even the crows have mutated."
"Save your grenades," Atlas said.
He raised the Winchester shotgun.
CH-CHK. BOOM.
Birdshot filled the air. Three crows fell.
CH-CHK. BOOM.
Four more dropped.
Atlas moved with mechanical precision, pumping the slide and firing until the sky was clear. Feathers drifted down like black snow.
"I wonder what other mutant animals are waiting for us," Rebecca sighed, lowering her weapon.
"Believe me," Atlas said, turning to her with a confident grin. "As long as I'm here, we'll leave safely."
Rebecca looked at him. And for the first time this night, she believed it completely.
"I know," she smiled.
They crossed the balcony and re-entered the facility.
They navigated a maze of corridors, killing two stray zombies with practiced efficiency. They found a service elevator at the end of a hall.
"It only goes down one floor," Atlas noted.
They jumped down the shaft, landing in a small storage room. It was empty.
They exited the room and found themselves back on the second-floor landing of the Main Hall, but on the opposite side.
"This building is simply a maze," Rebecca muttered, looking at the layout. "I want to know who designed this..."
"Tell me, what are you two doing up there?"
A voice called from the ground floor.
They looked over the railing. Billy Coen was standing in the Main Hall, looking up at them.
"Did you find anything?" Atlas called down.
"Other than zombies and monsters?" Billy shouted back. "Just some information about Umbrella's 'Management Training' protocols. Oh, and I found this."
Billy reached into his pocket and threw something up to Atlas.
Atlas caught it one-handed.
It was a statue.
A Black Angel Statue.
"Perfect," Atlas grinned, looking at Rebecca. "The counterweight."
---
Location: The Training Facility – Main Hall (Second Floor).
Time: 11:45 PM.
The three of them stood on the balcony overlooking the Main Hall. The Black Angel and the White Angel were now in place on the scales, the mechanism grinding into a locked position. They had a moment of reprieve—a breath of stale air before the next horror.
Billy Coen leaned against the stone railing, checking the magazine of his stolen MP5. He looked tired. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the heavy reality of his situation.
"You handle yourself well, Marine," Atlas said, breaking the silence. He was cleaning the barrel of his Lightning Hawk with a rag, his movements methodical.
Billy let out a dry, bitter laugh. "I had practice. But not against things like this."
He looked at Rebecca, who was organizing her medical kit. She paused, looking at him with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.
"The report said you killed twenty-three people," Rebecca said softly. It wasn't an accusation anymore; it was a question.
Billy sighed. He looked at the portrait of James Marcus looming over the hall, then back at his temporary allies.
"Africa," Billy began, his voice low. "Last year. 2001. A joint task force."
He stared into the middle distance, seeing ghosts.
"We were sent into the jungle to find a rebel hideout. Intel said they were staging a coup. We marched for days. The heat, the bugs, the guerilla traps... my unit got chewed up. By the time we reached the coordinates, there were only four of us left. Four out of twenty."
Rebecca stopped what she was doing, listening intently.
"We were sick. We were angry," Billy continued, his jaw tightening. "And when we finally found the 'hideout'... it wasn't a base. It was a village. Just mud huts, farmers, and kids."
Atlas nodded slowly. He knew this story from the game, but hearing it from the man who lived it gave it a weight that pixels never could.
"The Intel was wrong," Billy spat. "I told the Captain we needed to abort. But he... he snapped. He couldn't go back empty-handed. He ordered us to execute them. 'Hostile sympathizers,' he called them."
Billy looked at Rebecca, his eyes pleading for understanding.
"I refused. I threw down my weapon. So the Captain knocked me out with the butt of his rifle. When I woke up... the village was gone. Burned. Everyone dead. And the Captain pinned it all on me. Twenty-three counts of first-degree murder."
Silence settled over the group.
"The military tribunal didn't want a scandal," Billy finished quietly. "So they stripped my rank, dishonorably discharged me, and sentenced me to death. I was on my way to the Regulat Base for execution when the leeches hit the jeep."
Rebecca looked at him. The black-and-white morality of the S.T.A.R.S. handbook was crumbling around her.
"I believe you," Atlas spoke and Rebecca just nodded after him.
Billy looked surprised.
"We're fighting monsters, Billy," Atlas added, his voice deep and resonant. "I know a killer when I see one. You're a soldier, not a butcher."
Billy straightened up, a weight lifting off his shoulders. He nodded at Atlas, a silent gesture of respect.
"Thanks," Billy grunted. "Now, let's get ready to leave here. I've had enough of this funhouse."
CLICK.
The intercom system crackled to life, interrupting the moment. A robotic,
pre-recorded voice echoed through the hall.
{ BATTLE SIMULATION STARTED. }
{ PREPARING TO RELEASE B.O.W. WEAPONS. }
Atlas's head snapped up. "Move!"
The wall panels at the end of the corridor slid open with a hydraulic hiss.
Three shapes leaped out.
They weren't zombies. They were sleek, reptilian nightmares. They stood on two powerful hind legs, hunched forward. Their skin was covered in thick, green scales that glistened like wet emeralds. Their hands ended in massive, razor-sharp claws capable of decapitating a man in a single swipe.
Subject: HUNTER ALPHA.
"Contact!" Atlas roared.
He raised his Lightning Hawk Magnum.
BLAM!
The shot hit the lead Hunter in the shoulder. But the creature didn't drop. Sparks flew as the high-velocity round glanced off the reinforced carapace, leaving only a crack.
"What the hell?" Billy shouted, opening fire with the MP5. RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.
The 9mm rounds bounced off the Hunters' scales like hail off a tin roof.
The Hunters shrieked—a high-pitched, raptor-like sound—and jumped. They covered twenty feet in a single bound, claws extended.
"Dodge!"
Atlas grabbed Rebecca by the back of her vest and threw her behind a stone pillar just as a Hunter slashed the air where she had been standing. The claw gouged deep grooves into the marble floor.
"They're fast!" Rebecca gasped, clutching her grenade launcher.
"And armored," Atlas noted, firing again. BLAM. This time he hit the unarmored neck. The Hunter screeched, stumbling back, purple blood spraying.
"These aren't random mutations," Billy yelled, reloading. "These are weapons! Umbrella made these things for war!"
"Can't fight them in the open!" Atlas commanded. "Retreat to the Pool Room! Move!"
They fell back, firing suppressive bursts. Atlas took the rearguard, using his massive strength to kick a heavy oak table into the path of the pursuing monsters.
They burst through the double doors of the Pool Room and slammed them shut. Atlas and Billy threw a heavy locker in front of it.
THUD. THUD.
The Hunters rammed the door, screeching, but the barricade held.
"Safe," Atlas breathed. "For now."
[The Observatory]
They caught their breath in the humid air of the Pool Room.
"I didn't expect us to come back here,"
Rebecca said, wiping sweat from her forehead. She instinctively moved closer to Atlas, standing almost in his shadow. "Didn't we go in a circle?"
"Not necessarily," Atlas said. He pointed across the room. "Look there."
The door to the Conference Room—the one that had been locked—was now open. The "Battle Simulation" must have unlocked the testing grounds.
They moved cautiously through the door.
They weren't in a conference room anymore.
They were in a circular stone tower.
The Observatory.
In the center of the room stood a massive, antique brass telescope, pointed toward the glass ceiling. The room smelled of oil and old parchment.
"Dead end?" Billy asked, looking around. "There's no door."
Atlas walked to the base of the telescope.
There was an intricate stone pedestal with three empty hexagonal slots.
"A mechanism," Atlas noted. "It needs keys."
"I think I've seen these shapes before," Billy said. He reached into his tactical vest. "I found these tablets while I was searching the East Wing. I thought they were just paperweights."
He produced three stone tablets: The Tablet of Obedience, The Tablet of Discipline, and The Tablet of Unity.
"Standard Umbrella cult nonsense," Atlas scoffed. "Put them in."
Billy placed the tablets into the grooves.
CLICK. CLACK. CLICK.
The ground beneath them shuddered.
RUMBLE…
The entire Observatory began to rotate. Gears the size of cars ground together beneath the floor. The telescope retracted, and the floor descended like a massive screw elevator.
"I want to know why they have so many mechanisms for a training school," Rebecca whispered, clutching Atlas's arm as the room shook. "Who builds a school like this?"
"Paranoid megalomaniacs," Atlas replied dryly.
The shaking stopped. A new door slid open in the wall.
They stepped out.
They were outside, but still within the facility grounds. A stone bridge stretched across a misty abyss, leading to a small, gothic building.
The Chapel.
[The Chapel]
They crossed the bridge, the wind howling around them. Atlas pushed the heavy wooden doors of the Chapel open.
It was a solemn place. Rows of pews faced a modest altar. Stained glass windows depicted saints, but upon closer inspection, the saints looked suspiciously like the Umbrella founders.
Atlas walked to the door adjacent to the altar.
Locked.
"Let's spread out," Billy suggested. "Check for switches or keys."
"Atlas, there's a mechanism here," Rebecca called out from the corner. She was pointing at a floor plate.
Atlas stepped on it. CLICK. The door next to the altar unlocked.
"I'll go in," Atlas said immediately. "Billy, stay here with Rebecca. Watch the entrance."
"You going alone?" Rebecca asked, concern flashing in her eyes. "We should stick together."
"It's a small room," Atlas reassured her, his voice softening. "I'm just scouting. I'll be right back."
He walked into the side room.
It was a sacristy, empty except for dust. Atlas frowned. Nothing here.
He turned to leave.
SCREEEEEEE!
A sound like a banshee's wail tore through the roof.
Atlas looked up.
The stained glass skylight shattered inward.
A nightmare descended.
It was a bat, but mutated to gargantuan proportions. The Infected Bat. Its wingspan was twenty feet. Its fur was matted and grey, its muscles bulging with unnatural strength.
Swarms of smaller, normal-sized bats fluttered around it like a protective cloud.
"Well," Atlas muttered, drawing his Winchester shotgun. "You're a chunky boy."
The Bat swooped, its talons aiming for Atlas's face.
Atlas didn't dodge. He engaged his Enhanced Vision. The world slowed down. He tracked the trajectory of the beast.
BOOM.
The shotgun roared.
The buckshot slammed into the Bat's chest. It shrieked, veering off course and smashing into a pew.