𝙲𝙰𝚂𝙴 #𝟶𝟶𝟹𝟺𝟸 - 𝙼𝙾𝚄𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙾 𝙽𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 
It was a small sound, but unmistakably present. It was fragile like the innards of a claymore bomb, demanding the sharpest of ears to listen and, for Sheva, that meant stalking closer in slower, calculated steps. It was a…cry — no, whine! — that caused her steps to become completely silent by comparison.
It was like a creaky door begging to be freed from its hinges or was it…? She couldn’t place it; she needed to see for herself. The farther she delved down the hall, the lesser the light become until she was swallowed whole like a starving demon ripe for gorging.
The darkness caused a stark contrast to her skin, almost like a star in the far-off waves of space. It was oppressive darkness. Why continue to pay for a facility they would no longer be using? Sheva remained diligent and removed her flashlight, creating a tunnel at anything she happened to shine it on. Had it not been for careful footing, she would’ve sent the clipboard on the table she nearly missed careening into the dark. Since it was left untouched, she couldn’t help but take a glance at it.
Statistics and obituaries had become her morning papers since she joined the BSAA; she’d long since abandoned the uneasy feeling that came when her gut started to bubble at the sight of corpses. These, though, were alarmingly close to making history repeat itself. Paper after paper, body after body all shared horrid mugshots and even more daunting narratives. They all shared ages between 3-to-9 days.
This was a morgue.
These bodies came from a maternity ward.
Sheva found herself aghast as if the room’s oxygen had shifted to poisonous gas. She attempted to stifle this moment of weakness by forcing herself to breathe slowly, but it was futile as the odds were far greater stacked against her. Her conscience would not let her rest.
Since the Uroboros epidemic over a decade ago, Sheva steeled herself to justify how she carried out her mission. The infected, she debated, were sick — not even human anymore, pain would do little to truly afflict them…but they were still her people. She’d stopped Wesker’s attempt to spread the virus, but so much of the population had been affected in residual ways.
The few following years still had the infected to take out, and now those who weren’t directly infected still carried the gene. Her country was set on fire and those who weren’t burned suffered from smoke in their lungs. This included those who were pregnant. An entire generation had their children taken from them.
It was disgusting, inhumane to have them suffer — and to be experimented on. Those who were born with the infection would be guinea pigs as their very DNA would be affected. If it could work on them, it would work on everyone else. Sheva nearly spat at the thought. Logic be damned, babies were not test subjects.
Evidently, even the scientists knew this. The giveaway was the smell. The odor of dead bodies, unfortunately, was as common as smelling dinner sizzling on a grill. This scent, however, was far worse — it smoldered like a moist collection of organs piled and left to rot. They could’ve only gotten this bad after time. They must’ve left them behind to decompose; what good were failed subjects if they were leaving the site soon thereafter?
Sheva burned with an ire that blistered her palms. She now thought back to the moment she gutted Wesker’s heart with her knife, how much blood and pus spewed them in a pool of guts. She still remembered how each stroke felt and her only regret was not doing more. He deserved far worse for what he caused…
The only thing to break her trance, however, was that…sound again. The cry. It was here and it was close…