Chapter XI: The Art of Puppet Masters
The battle had ceased being a contest the moment Nemesis descended upon the field. There existed a singular, inescapable reason why Tyrants alone guarded the treasury's deepest secrets—they were evolution's answer to the question: What kills perfectly?
"Our so-called Strongest Human is still standing," Lionel observed, lounging in a chair the Baker Family had graciously provided. His teeth crunched through an apple with audible satisfaction, wayward blonde strands falling across his glasses as he watched the carnage unfold. Lucas had already retreated inside, presumably to tinker with something that would explode spectacularly later.
The soldiers weren't merely dead—they were decoratively dead, scattered across terrain that no longer resembled terrain. Every missed blow, every dodged strike, every desperate counter had terraformed the landscape into something resembling abstract art sculpted by violence itself.
"Poor bastard really thought new moves would matter," Lionel muttered, adjusting his glasses with one finger. "All those martial arts that didn't exist in Yggdrasil, all that technique—and Nemesis catches them like he's swatting flies with a dictionary."
The Strongest Human committed everything to an overhead strike, muscles screaming, ax descending with enough force to split mountains.
Nemesis caught the blade one-handed.
Didn't block it. Didn't deflect it. Caught it, absorbing the kinetic energy like a black hole swallowing light—casually, effortlessly, with the mechanical indifference of a god who'd forgotten what effort meant.
While Nemesis held the ax hostage, the Strongest Human pivoted desperately, launching a kick toward the behemoth's midsection—
Nemesis grabbed his ankle mid-strike.
What followed wasn't combat. It was a demonstration. The ground became an instrument, and the Strongest Human was the drumstick, used to beat a rhythm of brutality across the earth. Thud. Crack. Thud. Crack.
"YES!" Lionel launched from his chair, apple forgotten, fist pumping. "THAT'S EXACTLY HOW IT FEELS!"
The phantom memory burned bright—every time he'd played Resident Evil 3 Remake, every humiliating death, every desperate run through Raccoon City with Nemesis's footsteps thundering behind him like fate itself wore combat boots.
He glanced sideways.
Deborah stood there, fruit bowl cradled in her arms, staring at him with an expression that somehow conveyed both confusion and concern without moving a single facial muscle.
Lionel's enthusiasm deflated like a punctured lung. He dropped back into his chair, clearing his throat with exaggerated dignity. "I, uh... I'm simply an admirer of Nemesis's combat efficiency. The technique. Very... technical."
Smooth, Lionel. Real smooth.
After several more minutes of what could generously be called "combat" and more accurately described as "assisted suicide," the Strongest Human dangled from Nemesis's grip like a rag doll whose stuffing had been replaced with regret.
"Nemesis! Special delivery!" Lionel called, waving both hands overhead. "Deborah, darling, would you mind terribly passing that chair?"
Deborah nodded, positioning a second chair beside him with practiced efficiency.
Nemesis grunted—a sound like a diesel engine acknowledging a request—and hurled the broken warrior directly at Lionel.
The scientist stood, rolling his shoulders, bouncing on his toes like a quarterback preparing to receive. The body hurtled through the air in a graceful arc that physics textbooks would call "ballistic trajectory," and witnesses would call "oh god oh fuck."
Lionel's hands shot up.
He caught the Strongest Human cleanly by the throat—somehow, impossibly, the man's neck didn't snap like a dry branch despite the velocity, despite the physics, despite everything Newton had spent his life explaining.
"Gotcha," Lionel said cheerfully, depositing his catch into the chair like a fisherman displaying prize marlin. He sat opposite, dragging his own seat forward until they were face-to-face, close enough for intimacy or interrogation.
"Why did you make me do this?" Lionel's voice carried genuine curiosity beneath the mockery. "You started this fight—wagered your entire kingdom, your soldiers, your legacy—just to test yourself. Think, Strongest Human! Think!" He gestured broadly, blonde hair catching the light. "Was the ego massage worth the casualties?"
The man couldn't answer. His mouth worked soundlessly, blood bubbling between split lips.
Lionel sighed, tipping back in his chair. "You bet everything on a dice roll that had already landed. That's not bravery—that's just poor risk assessment."
He leaned forward again, elbows on knees, face splitting into a grin that belonged in a biology textbook under "predatory mimicry."
"So... Strongest Human, huh?" The title dripped with theatrical disdain. "Marketing really oversold that brand, didn't they?"
"Kill... me... already," the man rasped, each word riding a fresh wave of blood from his ruined throat. Beside them, Nemesis stood motionless, barely scratched, like a monument to the futility of human ambition.
"Not yet," Lionel said, voice bright with terrible cheer. "See, I heard you're affiliated with something called the Black Scripture. Ring any bells? Care to elaborate?"
The man's eyes focused, sharpening with the last remnants of defiance. "Over my dead body."
He spat.
The bloody projectile caught Lionel square in the face.
Deborah moved like lightning, hand already reaching for a weapon, murder written in every line of her posture—
Lionel raised one finger, halting her mid-strike.
"Okay then!" His voice maintained that cheerful cadence even as he wiped his face clean with one sleeve. He draped his arm casually across the man's chest, smiled warmly, almost fondly—
Then sent a spike of concentrated biomass through his heart with surgical precision.
The Strongest Human's eyes went wide, then empty.
"I guess he skipped brain day at the academy," Lionel quipped, withdrawing his hand and inspecting his fingers like a sculptor examining his tools. He stood, walked several paces away, and inserted one finger into his ear with exaggerated focus.
"Now then. Time to collect what you wouldn't donate."
A thin tendril—black as oil, flexible as silk—emerged from his palm and snaked its way into the corpse's ear canal, burrowing deep, seeking the wetware that contained everything the man had known, believed, feared, and protected.
Lionel stood statue-still, eyes closed behind his glasses, blonde hair shifting gently in the breeze. His consciousness dove into the stolen memories like a swimmer plunging into dark water.
Information flooded his synapses.
"Hmm... interesting," he murmured, eyes still closed. "The Black Scripture—twelve adamantite-ranked adventurers plus one irregular member. The Slane Theocracy's premiere wet work division. God's own hit squad." He opened his eyes, withdrawing the tendril. "Well. That's certainly dramatic."
"Shall we dispose of the body, Creator?" Deborah approached, staring at the corpse with clinical detachment.
"No." Lionel selected an orange from the fruit bowl and began peeling it with methodical care. "There's a reason I kept the heart wound minimal—barely visible, easily explained away."
He separated a slice, examined it against the light. "I can't risk exposing all of you. Not yet. Our power is considerable, yes—but humans are resourceful." He bit down, juice running down his chin. His expression transformed into genuine delight. "Oh, this is sweet! Excellent work, Deborah. Remind me to compliment the orchards."
She bowed slightly, pleasure evident in her posture.
"As I was saying," Lionel continued, consuming another slice, "these humans will become our infiltrators. The Slane Theocracy depends so heavily on the Black Scripture that they've stopped questioning it. Institutional faith—it's the best camouflage."
"H-How, Creator?" Deborah's voice carried uncertainty, a crack in her usual composure. "Wouldn't erratic behavior expose them immediately? Memory gaps, personality shifts—"
"No, Deborah." Disappointment colored his tone, sharp enough to cut. "You're underestimating our capabilities entirely."
"I apologize, Creator." She dropped to one knee instantly, head bowed.
"Forgiven," Lionel said, helping her rise with gentle hands. "But truly, it's remarkably simple." He approached the corpse, that predatory smile returning. "Would you like a demonstration? I call this technique: The Three-Step Resurrection Waltz."
He held up one finger. "One."
Black tendrils emerged from his palm, carrying microscopic Mold spores directly into the corpse's ear canal, spreading through cerebrospinal fluid like ink through water.
"Two."
He placed his palm against the chest wound, and beneath the skin, the Mold went to work—knitting cardiac tissue, restarting cellular processes, rebuilding what death had broken.
"Three."
Lionel snapped his fingers inches from the dead man's face.
The corpse's eyes opened.
No gasp, no dramatic resurrection scene—just eyes that had been empty suddenly filling with terrible, alien awareness.
Deborah gasped, stumbling backward.
"How may I serve, Creator?" the Strongest Human asked, his voice carrying none of his former pride, none of his identity—just hollow obedience, perfect and complete.
"Return to the Slane Theocracy," Lionel commanded, adjusting his glasses. "Report that the army was annihilated, but you managed to kill one of our forces during your escape. Let them draw their own conclusions. Act natural—be exactly who you were before, minus the free will."
The puppet bowed and departed, walking like a man who'd never died at all.
Silence stretched between Lionel and Deborah.
"But..." Her voice emerged small, almost childlike. "How are we different from them?"
The question hung in the air like smoke.
If viruses created pawns this easily, this perfectly—how would they know they weren't manufactured the same way?
Lionel turned to her, and his expression softened into something almost human. "You were built in the laboratories, Deborah. Crafted with intention, purpose, care. You're not pawns—you're my proud children." He gestured toward the departing puppet, then toward the J'avos working in the distance. "Those are tools, disposable assets. But you? You're family."
He met her eyes, letting the weight of that word settle. "Understand?"
Deborah's arms wrapped around him, squeezing tight. She nodded against his shoulder.
'I almost feel bad,' Lionel thought, returning the embrace mechanically. In the game's lore, Deborah had been experimented on without consent—a victim of ambition and cruelty. Most of his creations shared similar origin stories, sanitized now, recontextualized as "proud purpose" rather than "tragic violation."
But they shouldn't know that. Can't know that. Won't know that.
"Now then," he said, gently extracting himself from the hug. "Go rest if you need to. I require some alone time for planning."
Deborah nodded and withdrew.
Lionel watched her go, then muttered to himself: "Alright. The girls are too... enthusiastic outside. Too hungry, too conspicuous. Now that they're secured on their designated floors, I can finally explore without worrying about civilian casualties or diplomatic incidents involving drained corpses."
He activated the Hive Mind, his consciousness touching the web of connected servants.
"Jack, slight oversight on my part—would you kindly have the J'avos collect the dead knights from the village perimeter?"
"What shall we do with them, Creator?" Jack's mental voice carried curiosity but no judgment.
"Convert them into builders. Also, inform Deborah to prepare her workspace. I'll be delivering a fresh batch of C-Virus shortly." The next phase was taking shape in his mind—trade, infiltration, economic conquest. Violence was effective, certainly, but commerce was sustainable.
"As you wish, Creator."
Through the Hive Mind, Lionel heard Jack bellowing orders before severing the connection.
The elevator descended smoothly into the treasury levels, and Lionel stepped out into the vault that contained his entire arsenal of biological horrors—every virus, every vaccine, every nightmare that science had birthed and ethics had tried to abort.
The Host room gleamed under fluorescent lighting, shelves lined with color-coded vials that represented extinction events in convenient travel sizes.
"Oh, punctual as always," Lionel said, finding Nemesis already stationed in the treasury like a grotesque guardian statue.
"Can't exactly put you back in the pod without extensive preparation, so you'll guard this place. Think of it as... executive protection duty." He patted the behemoth's arm—an arm that felt like concrete wrapped in leather.
Nemesis grunted acknowledgment.
Lionel entered the Host, scanning the organized chaos until he found what he needed: three jars of C-Virus, each one glowing faintly with bioluminescent potential.
"Two hundred builders would be ideal, but let's go with a hundred to maintain safety margins," he mused, collecting the jars with reverent care. "No point getting greedy and creating a zombie construction union."
Back up the elevator. Through the laboratory. He peeked into the mouse enclosure—Radames worked inside, surrounded by J'avos who handled the smaller test subjects with surprising gentleness.
"Let's not disturb the mad science in progress," Lionel whispered, slipping past.
Outside, Deborah had already organized the corpses into neat rows—a morbid assembly line awaiting transformation.
"I'm here," Lionel announced, setting down the jars with careful precision. "How many conversions so far?"
"Fifty, Creator."
Lionel clapped, the sound sharp in the open air. "Excellent. I need fifty more dedicated builders. The remainder can supplement our general workforce—farming, maintenance, that sort of thing."
He surveyed the landscape, frowning. "Although... these trees won't sustain our lumber requirements. Look at this—vast grasslands, minimal forest coverage. We'll deforest the region in a month at current consumption rates."
"Have you considered using our viruses to accelerate cellular growth?" Deborah suggested, her tone careful but confident.
Lionel paused, genuinely considering. Would that work? Could they control it?
"We'll experiment tomorrow morning. No sense overworking everyone tonight." He glanced at the J'avos, who showed no signs of fatigue but deserved rest anyway. Even tools needed maintenance.
"Understood, Creator. Thank you for considering my suggestion." Deborah bowed.
"We also need quality metals for weaponry," Lionel continued, adjusting his glasses thoughtfully. "I could manufacture firearms—the technology is trivial—but ballistic weapons represent a significant vulnerability. Physical damage bypasses most viral enhancements. If humans acquire and enhance conventional weapons, they could neutralize our advantages." He shook his head. "Better to let them remain dependent on magic. Keep the playing field tilted in our favor."
"Excuse me momentarily, Deborah," Lionel said, stepping away while she resumed injection procedures.
"Heisenberg. Report to my location immediately."
Karl Heisenberg arrived within five minutes, boots crunching gravel, hat tilted at a rakish angle that suggested either confidence or complete disregard for military regulations.
"Not sure if you two are acquainted," Lionel said, slinging his arm around Heisenberg's shoulders and physically steering him away from Deborah before the man's staring became genuinely awkward. "But let's save introductions for later."
He'd caught Heisenberg's repeated glances—the way his eyes lingered on Deborah with that particular combination of fascination and hunger that made HR departments nervous.
"I see you appreciate her aesthetics," Lionel said conversationally, guiding them toward the J'avo formations. "I won't forbid relationships—workplace romance can boost morale—but please, save the crushes until after the conquest. We have priorities."
"Apologies, Creator," Heisenberg muttered, looking genuinely chastened.
Lionel patted his back. "While our J'avos excel at hand-to-hand combat, we need weaponry to maximize effectiveness." He gestured toward the newly created workers. "That's where you come in."
"You need mining operations in the nearby mountains?" Heisenberg guessed, surprising Lionel with his quick deduction.
"Precisely." Lionel grinned. "Time to retire those flimsy Haulers and work with a real workforce."
He directed Heisenberg's attention to the J'avos. "These are J'avos—collaborative work between Carla Radames and Derek Simmons. Faster than humans, stronger than humans, and infinitely more trainable. They don't unionize, don't complain, and don't require benefits packages."
Lionel warmed to his subject, pacing as he spoke. "This world contains metals that make our conventional materials look like aluminum foil—Adamantite, Orichalcum, Mithril. Imagine your Soldat project forged from materials that can channel magic, resist corrosion, and maintain edges that never dull."
His eyes gleamed behind his glasses. "Imagine what you could build."
"When you locate these materials," Lionel continued, "bring me samples immediately. We'll reverse-engineer their molecular structure and establish replication protocols. They're rare and expensive, yes—but everything is replicable if you understand it deeply enough."
They were planning rapid-growth trees tomorrow. Mineral synthesis couldn't be that much harder.
"As a signing bonus," Lionel declared with theatrical flourish, "meet your new assistant: Ustanak!"
The massive bio-weapon emerged from the shadows like a nightmare given flesh—humanoid but wrong, muscles corded beneath leathery skin, one arm terminating in a massive drill apparatus that screamed "occupational hazard."
"Fast, strong, equipped with a drill arm for excavation and combat," Lionel listed, his tone shifting into something resembling a weapons manufacturer's sales pitch. "He also has a symbiotic relationship with Okos—bat-like organisms that can detect subsurface anomalies, geological weaknesses, and approaching threats. Think of them as biological seismographs with teeth."
"I apologize, Creator, but..." Heisenberg hesitated. "What about my Soldat project? I can't abandon that work."
"That's where Lucas enters the picture," Lionel said, beckoning Lucas forward.
The young man approached with the cautious enthusiasm of someone who'd been volunteered for something they hadn't quite agreed to yet.
"Lucas Baker—Jack Baker's prodigal son. You both possess brilliant minds for technology, engineering, and applied insanity." Lionel physically pushed Lucas toward Heisenberg like a parent arranging a playdate. "He'll assist with mining operations and serve as temporary project lead on the Soldat work whenever you're needed underground."
"He can also contribute to the Soldat development directly—fresh perspectives, new approaches." Lionel's grin turned mischievous. "Plus, you're both passionate about your fields. That's practically a foundation for friendship, right, Lucas?"
Lucas turned crimson, mumbling something inaudible.
Heisenberg laughed—a genuine sound, surprisingly warm—and clapped Lucas on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him. "Great minds think alike, kid. Let's see if we can't build something that makes god nervous."
Perfect, Lionel thought. No signs of competitive friction. Yet.
"Choose any mountain except ours," Lionel added. "That one's structurally integral to the base. Everywhere else is fair game."
When neither man laughed at his joke, Lionel coughed and produced his remote—black, sleek, covered in buttons that controlled things ethics committees would've immediately classified.
"Just because Ustanak accompanies you doesn't mean you're completely secure. Infiltrators exist, rival factions operate in these regions, and Murphy's Law remains undefeated." He pressed a button with deliberate ceremony.
Another pod launched from the mountain's interior—but unlike Nemesis's violent crater-forming entrance, this one descended smoothly, landing with hydraulic precision behind Lionel.
The doors hissed open.
"Gentlemen," Lionel said, stepping aside with a showman's grace, "meet TALOS."
The Tyrant that emerged made Nemesis look subtle.
Cybernetic implants covered its body like technological scar tissue—optical enhancements, reinforced skeletal structure, armor plating that could probably deflect artillery shells. It moved with mechanical precision, each step calculated, efficient, wrong in the way that perfectly optimized killing machines are always wrong.
Both Lucas and Heisenberg stared, mouths slightly open.
"Heavy assault specialist, equipped for siege operations and defensive protocols," Lionel explained, clearly enjoying their reactions. "Consider him your insurance policy against everything that goes wrong when you're three hundred feet underground in a tunnel that shouldn't exist, fighting something that shouldn't be alive."
He confirmed with Deborah that a hundred J'avos were ready—she gave a thumbs up from across the field, her silhouette backlit by the setting sun in a way that made Heisenberg stare again before catching himself.
"I'll leave you to your work," Lionel said, stepping back. "Please cooperate efficiently. We're building an empire here, and I'd prefer it didn't collapse because two brilliant minds couldn't share equipment."
The two departed toward the designated mining site—two mountains away, far enough to avoid structural concerns, close enough to maintain Hive Mind communication.
Lionel watched them go, then retreated to the laboratory, through familiar corridors, into his personal quarters.
He collapsed onto the bed, fully clothed, glasses still on, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow would bring three experiments, mineral requisitions, and probably three new crises he hadn't anticipated.
Just another day building a shadow empire in a fantasy world using bioweapons from a horror franchise, he thought, closing his eyes.
Perfectly normal.
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Dawn arrived with the subtlety of a brick through a window.
Lionel woke to find a hundred J'avos assembled outside his laboratory, standing in perfect formation, waiting for orders with inhuman patience.
"Alright," he muttered, running fingers through disheveled blonde hair. "Starting early with the botanical horror, I see."
He activated the P.A. system, his voice crackling through speakers throughout the facility.
"Would everyone from yesterday's meeting please report to the conference room? Yes, again. No, I don't care that it's early. Science doesn't sleep, and apparently, neither do we."
The meeting room filled quickly—his core team assembling with varying degrees of alertness.
Once everyone was settled, Lionel got straight to business.
"Deborah has successfully created a hundred J'avos for construction purposes," he began, gesturing toward the windows overlooking the assembly. "However, our current location presents a significant resource bottleneck—specifically, lumber."
He pulled up a rough map he'd sketched earlier. "We're surrounded by grasslands with minimal forest coverage. At projected consumption rates, we'll exhaust local timber supplies within weeks. I'm not asking for suggestions this time—I want solutions. Give me options."
William Birkin leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "I've observed numerous plants infected with T-Virus and T-Veronica variants. All developed aggressive defensive mechanisms—carnivorous tendencies, mobile root systems, pollen that causes hallucinations and respiratory failure." He paused. "We need trees that grow rapidly without developing the ability to murder their harvesters."
Lionel snorted. "Imagine a lumberjack getting grabbed and thrown by an oak tree. The workers' comp claims would be spectacular."
"The Golgotha virus could induce hyper-accelerated growth," William continued, ignoring the joke. "But infected specimens become... irregular. Anatomically chaotic. And yes, they develop eyes. Lots of eyes. Everywhere."
"Wait." Lionel sat forward, an idea crystallizing. "What if we infect a tree with Golgotha, let it undergo initial mutation, then inject the DEVIL Vaccine to stabilize the cellular regeneration? The vaccine would prevent runaway mutation while maintaining accelerated growth rates. We'd get exponential size increases with controlled morphology."
The room fell silent.
The others exchanged glances—uncertain, calculating. The vaccine wasn't their creation. This was outside their expertise.
'Oh right,' Lionel realized, cringing internally. 'They don't know comprehensive vaccine profiles exist for most of their viruses. They also don't know William has a daughter and wife who became test subjects. Maybe let's not mention that right now.'
"Nevermind the theoretical details," Lionel said quickly, standing. "Let's conduct empirical testing. Find a suitable tree outside the agricultural zones. I'll join you shortly with the necessary materials."
They nodded and filed out.
Lionel clutched his head, alone in the conference room.
"I need to be significantly more careful with what I say," he muttered. "One slip about game knowledge, and this whole carefully constructed dynamic collapses."
The treasury elevator descended smoothly.
Lionel retrieved two test tubes and two syringes from the Host room's medical drawer—organized with obsessive precision, color-coded, labeled in three languages, including one that didn't exist yet.
He filled one test tube with DEVIL Vaccine—iridescent amber liquid that seemed to glow with internal light.
The other received G-Virus—dark, viscous, moving like it was aware.
"Alright," he said to the empty room. "Let's go traumatize some trees."
Outside, the team had located their test subject—a tree slightly smaller than its neighbors, unremarkable except for its imminent role in botanical horror.
"First test: pure Golgotha injection," Lionel announced, drawing G-Virus into the syringe. He injected it directly into the trunk.
Everyone stepped back.
The tree convulsed.
Growth erupted like cancer given physical form—branches splitting, multiplying, merging, wood cells reproducing with cancerous abandon. The trunk swelled, twisted, and developed textures that hurt to perceive. The mutation was unstoppable, expanding exponentially, consuming resources, defying botanical logic.
Within minutes, it no longer resembled a tree.
It looked like wood had attempted abstract expressionism and failed catastrophically—a massive, irregular lump still growing, still mutating, bark cracking as new growth pushed through old growth in an endless cycle of cellular violence.
Lionel injected the DEVIL Vaccine directly into the mass.
The mutation halted immediately, frozen mid-transformation.
They stared at the monstrosity.
"So..." Lionel said carefully. "Anyone think this is suitable for lumber production?"
Everyone shook their heads.
Deborah looked vaguely horrified.
William Birkin looked fascinated.
"What if we create a mold?" William suggested, approaching the malformed wood. "If the mutation is uncontrollable, then providing a pre-defined structure would force it into desirable configurations. The virus would expand to fill available space while the container prevents chaotic growth patterns."
Lionel considered this. "The mold would need to withstand enormous internal pressure. The G-Virus generates tremendous force during cellular expansion—wooden containers would shatter."
"We'd need metal," William agreed. "Reinforced, possibly enchanted if this world's metallurgy includes magical enhancement."
"Fortunately," Lionel said, adjusting his glasses, "I've already assigned Heisenberg and Lucas to mining operations. Once we establish stable metal supplies, mold creation becomes trivial."
He gestured to the non-working J'avos. "But let's test the concept with available materials. Construct a wooden mold using lumber from the previous test subject."
The J'avos worked with inhuman efficiency, cutting, shaping, assembling a crude cylindrical mold from the first tree's remains.
"Ready?" Lionel asked, positioning the mold over a fresh sapling.
He injected Golgotha directly through the wooden container.
The sapling exploded into growth—but this time, directed growth, following the mold's interior shape. It still broke through weaker sections, still cracked the container in places, but the basic principle held.
The tree followed the provided form.
"It works," William said, almost smiling. "The concept is sound. We simply need stronger materials."
"Which we'll have soon," Lionel confirmed. "Heisenberg's mining operations should yield sufficient metals for industrial-scale mold production. Once that's established, rapid timber cultivation becomes sustainable."
He surveyed the team, noting their expressions—calculation, satisfaction, the peculiar pride that scientists feel when forcing nature to do something unnatural.
"Good work, everyone," Lionel said, meaning it. "Dismissed for now. We'll reconvene when mining delivers our first metal shipments."
As they dispersed, Lionel remained behind, staring at the malformed trees—monuments to ambition and biological horror.
Just another day, he thought, turning ecological principles into nightmares.
Perfectly normal.
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Author's Note:
Chapter XI complete! Thank you for your patience during the delay. Regular updates will resume as we continue building this empire of biological horror and questionable ethics.
Thanks for reading, and I hope you're enjoying the story!