But for the moment, those thoughts only flickered through my mind. I was far more concerned with whether my landing had been heard in the next room. Why was I so worried? The problem was that I landed on my feet—but failed to account for how slippery the tiles in this hall were. As a result, I fell flat on my back and slid a couple of meters into the wall, seriously damaging it and breaking my legs in the process. So there I was, lying there, regenerating while simultaneously pulling my lower limbs out of the wall, where they were buried knee-deep. What a bummer!
I crawled over to the special forces soldier, deciding to combine business with pleasure and have a bite to eat to speed up my regeneration. The cloudy eyes of the almost-dead man stared at me.
"Don't walk near me, monster." A hoarse wheeze. Yes, I'd worried for nothing about him calling for help—he really couldn't speak in a full voice anymore.
"I'm not walking, I'm crawling," I replied, unable to resist. What could I do? I hadn't had anyone to talk to since I arrived in this world. But this wasn't the time for conversation, or he'd die right here—his eyes were already bulging. Although it seemed you could count the number of talking dead people around here on the fingers of one hand.
I shoved my thoughts and lengthy arguments aside, because I'd already crawled over and was now pulling myself up to the special forces soldier's neck. He tried to resist, but very sluggishly, which only made me hurry. And finally—the moment of triumph—I sank my fangs into his throat and began to hastily drink his blood.
A couple of seconds passed, and my legs were fully restored. But I continued drinking from my victim, sinking deeper and deeper, until at some point there was a crunch, and my donor's neck was severed—his head torn off.
Oops.
The feeling of regret at such an ending to the meal didn't even have time to fully form before I fell into my victim's memories. At first, I tried in every way to block or skip them; I really didn't need his first steps or first words, lest I become sentimental and shed a stingy man's tear. But why not? After all, I remembered him as a little boy! Yes, sarcasm crept in again—but what can you do? For paramedics and doctors, it's second nature. We become callous when we see—and help or transport—people with broken bones and other injuries every day, so you could say an unhealthy sense of humor is a professional trait.
After some time and effort, I managed to speed up the flow of memories pouring into me. So, quickly skipping through to his training, I began to look more closely, now actively trying—willing—to make his knowledge and skills my own. Since I'm no brainiac, I had to rely entirely on desire and willpower, and even then it was mostly at random. So to speak, I'd wish for something, and whatever happened, happened. Unexpectedly, though, this approach worked. At times it genuinely felt as though I was living those moments alongside the special forces soldier.
And the soldier himself turned out to be a tough nut to crack. More precisely, from the standpoint of his service record, he was exemplary—he served his country. A patriot. But his mission—to help the special unit "Echo Six" obtain evidence of the Umbrella organization's involvement in what was happening—was especially interesting. The government was eager to pin all the blame on the corporation, but while there was plenty of circumstantial evidence, there was still no direct proof. And without it, Umbrella could get away with everything.
That was why the brave soldiers needed survivors who could testify. As you might guess, they couldn't just grab the first person they found—the more information a witness had, the better. But rescue operations were being conducted throughout the city, even though Umbrella was actively interfering with the government's efforts. That was probably why not all parts of the city were sealed off by the company; American commandos controlled some areas, while the remaining few percent seemed to have been forgotten by everyone. Still, it would be wrong to assume that everyone in America was so altruistic.
Ordinary civilians might not know much, but with fragments of information, it was possible to assemble a fairly complete picture. Silencing one person was easy; silencing a hundred was difficult, and several hundred was already unrealistic. So here, too, a clever "undermining" of Umbrella made sense.
And then there was one poor ghoul in the middle of all this beauty. What to do? It seemed to me that the plan was being expanded, and now it even felt realistic to frame Umbrella on my own—and in the foreseeable future. Still, I wasn't abandoning my earlier plans. After all, someone else will find a way to bury the corporation without me, but my priorities were knowledge—possibly skills—and scientists, first and foremost. As well as technologies.
Following the corporation's squad of fighters was quite profitable. They were sure to visit at least one laboratory, or at least I hope so. And if not, I'd still gain skills along with knowledge, and weapons along with armor. And if I was feeling really optimistic—what if I got lucky and managed to absorb them all? I'd even settle for one at a time, with long breaks in between. So what? None of us are perfect; sooner or later they'll make a mistake, and then I'll be there. (This is where a villainous laugh is supposed to go, but what I don't know, I don't know.)
With that thought, I snapped out of the memory-viewing—because I'd seen everything—and noticed that the world was floating before my eyes. What was this? Was something wrong with me? Judging by the fact that I was alone in the hall, it seemed so. But I didn't feel anything. Then again, I don't feel anything even when something is broken.
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