Kindly remember to add this new work to your libraries."Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus"
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*****
"Okay, big guy," Atlas growled, stepping directly into the monster's path to draw the aggro.
"Let's see if you're tougher than your brother."
The Tyrant stopped its charge, recognizing the challenge. It looked down at the man standing in its way—a tiny speck of biomass compared to its own three-meter bulk.
It swung.
It wasn't a punch; it was a demolition swing. The massive left claw cut through the air with a sound like a jet engine.
Atlas didn't block. He dropped to his knees, sliding across the slick floor. The claw passed inches above his head, the wind pressure alone messing up his hair.
As he slid past, Atlas lashed out.
SHING.
His bone claws raked across the Tyrant's thigh. Sparks flew as bone met mutated chitin, followed by a spray of dark blood.
The Tyrant didn't even flinch. Its defense was monstrous.
It spun with unnatural agility for its size, delivering a backhand with its human-sized fist.
Atlas crossed his arms to block.
BOOM.
The impact was like being hit by a freight train.
Atlas was launched backward, his boots skidding on the metal floor, carving deep grooves into the steel plates. He stopped ten feet away, shaking his arms.
He felt a sharp twinge in his forearms. Micro-fractures.
'Strong,' Atlas analyzed coldly. 'At least 30% stronger than me. If I take a direct hit from the claw, I'm paste.'
But he was faster. Much faster.
The Tyrant charged again. Atlas met it head-on.
The room became a blur.
Chris and Barry stood by the console, weapons raised, but they couldn't pull the triggers.
"Jesus Christ," Chris whispered, lowering his shotgun slightly. "Barry, do you see this?"
"I see it," Barry muttered, his eyes wide. "But I don't believe it."
They were watching a man fight a monster on equal terms. Atlas was a whirlwind of black leather and white bone. He was weaving under claw swipes that shattered concrete pillars. He was running up the walls to avoid ground pounds that buckled the floorboards.
SLASH. SLASH. DUCK. STRIKE.
Atlas was landing ten hits for every one the Tyrant attempted. He was carving filet mignon out of the monster's chest and arms.
But the Tyrant was a tank. Its regeneration was instantaneous. Wounds knitted shut seconds after Atlas opened them.
And every time the Tyrant managed to graze Atlas, the sheer kinetic force sent shockwaves through the room.
CRASH!
The Tyrant landed a heavy stomp. Atlas jumped, but the shockwave threw him off balance. The Tyrant seized the opening, swinging its massive claw downward.
Atlas caught the claw with his crossed blades.
KRAAAK!
The floor beneath Atlas collapsed into a crater. His knees buckled. The sheer weight of the monster was crushing him. He could feel his skeletal groaning under the pressure.
'Not enough,' Atlas gritted his teeth, sweat stinging his eyes. 'I need more torque.'
He mentally screamed at the interface.
'Pleione! Allocate Status Points! Add 5 to
Strength! Add 5 to Agility!'
[ ACKNOWLEDGED. ]
The change was instantaneous.
A surge of heat flooded Atlas's muscles. His fibers grew denser, knitting together with viral potency. Time seemed to slow down even further as his synapses fired at a new velocity.
The Tyrant was pushing down, trying to crush him.
Atlas looked up. He smiled.
"Get off."
Atlas pushed back.
With a roar of effort, he threw the three-meter behemoth backward. The Tyrant stumbled, caught off guard by the sudden spike in power.
Atlas didn't let up. He exploded forward.
Bam.
He pushed the air apart in the confined space. A vacuum of air collapsed behind him, shattering the remaining glass tanks in the room.
He appeared in front of the Tyrant before the monster could regain its balance.
"Round Two," Atlas roared.
He unleashed a flurry of blows that made his previous attacks look like a warm-up.
TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.
Atlas pressed, claws flashing in a whirlwind. Left slash—gash across the pecs, black ichor spraying. Right hook—dodge, counter with a stab that punctured a lung. The Tyrant roared defiance, absorbing the hits with brute strength superior regeneration, landing a glancing shoulder slam that cracked two of Atlas's ribs like dry twigs. —Bones fracturing under the onslaught—but Atlas grinned through bloodied teeth, trading blow for blow, his speed keeping him one step ahead.
His claws became a meat grinder. He targeted the Tyrant's exposed heart.
SLASH.
The armored pericardium was shredded.
STAB.
The muscle beneath was pierced.
The Tyrant roared in genuine pain, flailing wildly. It tried to match Atlas's speed, its body turning red as it entered its Super Tyrant phase, its limiter releasing. It grew faster, stronger.
It didn't matter.
Claws locked with claws in a screech of bone on bone—sparks flew, air compressing into a vacuum CRACK that imploded the catwalk railing, sucking debris into a howling vortex. Atlas twisted, drove his knee into the Tyrant's gut, then unleashed: a frenzy of slashes that peeled back armor plating, exposing throbbing flesh and pulsing veins.
Atlas was moving at the agility of a jet. He was a blur.
The Tyrant threw a punch. Atlas caught it with one hand.
THUD.
The collision created a visible shockwave of compressed air that blew the papers off the desks across the room.
Chris and Barry shielded their eyes from the wind.
"He caught it..." Chris breathed. "He caught a punch from a Tyrant."
Atlas twisted his hips and delivered an uppercut with his claws extended.
SHING.
The blow lifted the Tyrant off its feet, carving a deep trench up its torso.
Atlas didn't let it land. He grabbed the Tyrant's massive claw arm that was cut from many places, planted a boot on its chest, and pulled.
TEAR.
Muscles snapped. Tendons gave way.
The Tyrant shrieked as its arm was dislocated.
Atlas was overwhelming it. He was striking faster than the T-Virus could regenerate the tissue.
The precision strikes to kidneys, hearts, nerves. Regeneration faltered, wounds gaping wider.
Ten minutes of hell: claw met spike, air vacuums BOOM-ing with every collision, walls buckling inward, floor tiles exploding into dust clouds. He targeted the vitals—ripping into exposed organs with surgical savagery, black blood fountaining.
Regeneration bubbled, knit flesh... but couldn't match the onslaught. A final evisceration—claws plunging deep, twisting through hearts and spines—dropped the Tyrant to its knees, convulsing as it struggled to keep up.
"Die!" Atlas shouted.
He drove both claws into the Tyrant's chest cavity, grabbed the ribs, and ripped them open.
The Tyrant flailed, its movements becoming sluggish as its core was dismantled.
Atlas spun, delivering a roundhouse kick to the monster's head.
CRACK.
The Tyrant's neck snapped. It was sent flying across the room, smashing through the main computer bank in a shower of sparks and metal.
It tried to rise. It pushed itself up on one arm, gurgling, its heart a ruined mess of pulp.
Atlas walked over to it. He didn't run. He walked.
He stood over the fallen god.
"Regenerate this," Atlas whispered.
He raised his foot and stomped down on the exposed, ruined heart.
SPLAT.
The organ detonated.
The Tyrant seized up, its body arching in a final, rigid spasm. Then, it collapsed, dissolving into a twitching heap of dead meat.
[ Target Neutralized: Tyrant (T-002) ]
[ +5000 XP ]
Silence fell over the ruined lab. The only sound was the sparking of destroyed electronics and the heavy breathing of the three men.
The Tyrant lay dead, a twitching mountain of biological failure.
Atlas stood amidst the wreckage, the bone claws dripping thick, black sludge onto the metal grating. The silence in the room was absolute, save for the sparking of ruined electronics.
He took a deep breath, slicked his hair back with a gloved hand, and clenched his fists.
Snakt.
The bone blades retracted into his knuckles, disappearing beneath the skin without a trace.
Atlas peeled off his ruined tactical jacket, now shredded and soaked in the Tyrant's fluids. With a rough, full-body shake—like a wolf shaking off water—he scattered gobs of pale flesh and sticky dark blood in every direction. Underneath, his black t-shirt was relatively dry, clinging to the dense muscle that had just overpowered a bioweapon.
He straightened, wiping his face with the back of his hand, and walked toward the stunned officers. His boots crunched across the broken glass and carnage, casually stepping over the Tyrant's severed arm.
Barry Burton lowered his Magnum, staring at Atlas with wide eyes. He reached out and clapped Atlas on the shoulder—hard.
"Saved our asses again," Barry breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. "But Jesus, man... you're a monster."
It wasn't an insult. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the kind of awe usually reserved for natural disasters.
Chris Redfield stepped forward, his shotgun resting on his shoulder. He looked at the dead Tyrant, then at the man who had stomped its heart out.
"I don't know what you are," Chris said, offering a tired, blood-stained hand. "And right now, I don't care. I'm just damn glad you're on our side."
Atlas gripped Chris's hand firmly. "I'm the guy who wants to go home, Chris. Let's leave it at that."
*****
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