GTAG Chapter 70 Recovery
Hank twisted his body just in time, narrowly dodging the rocket that whistled past his chest.
He could feel the heat of the missile as it streaked by.
Without slowing, Hank slammed into the Tyrant, knocking it to the ground.
Rolling over, he planted both feet on the monster's shoulders and hooked his claws beneath its jaw.
Having fought Executioners before, Hank knew well—when dealing with modified abominations like these, the fastest way to end them was to tear off their heads.
With a roar, the muscles in his arms bulged, and his claws sank deep into the Tyrant's jaw.
With a grotesque crack of muscle and bone, Hank ripped the head free, vertebrae still dangling from the severed neck.
Before he could even toss it aside, an explosion slammed into his chest.
The other Tyrant had already fired its rocket launcher, and the blast sent Hank flying backward.
The Tyrant discarded the empty launcher and strode toward him, while the one that had been struck by Hank's axe wrenched the weapon free from its chest and also advanced, dragging the massive blade along.
Through the fire and smoke, Hank pushed himself up.
His chest burned, his expression twitching as he glanced down at the scorched wound. The explosion had blasted away a patch of scales, revealing the more vulnerable flesh beneath. The exposed skin was charred and raw.
He was hurt, but he also felt relief—at least now he understood just how strong his defenses really were.
Grinning coldly, Hank charged toward the Tyrant that had injured him.
Using his superior agility, he slipped behind the creature before it could turn. His claws clamped onto its skull—another head ripped free in an instant.
As the Tyrant's body collapsed lifelessly, only one opponent remained.
"Roar!"
The last Tyrant showed no fear. It barreled toward Hank, swinging its massive axe downward.
Hank sidestepped lightly.
"Big guy… this axe is mine now."
He stomped down on the buried weapon, then kicked the Tyrant square in the chest, sending it flying back several meters. The monster lost its grip on the axe.
Pulling the weapon free, Hank strode toward the Tyrant as it staggered back to its feet. Without a word, he swung the axe in a brutal arc.
Crack!
The blow bit deep into the Tyrant's waist, nearly cleaving it in half. Its reinforced spine kept it barely intact—had it been a regular zombie, it would have been severed clean through.
The Tyrant lashed out with a massive palm, but Hank leaned back, the gust of wind tearing several strands of hair from his already thinning scalp.
Because scales had grown across most of his body, his head was one of the last places where a trace of humanity still remained. His few remaining strands of hair were precious to him—symbols that he was still human.
Seeing more of them torn away filled him with fury.
With a snarl, Hank kicked the Tyrant down again. Before it could rise, he brought the axe crashing down.
Crack!
The monster's spine gave way completely.
But Hank didn't stop there. He raised the axe and hacked again and again into its chest. Blood sprayed, bones shattered, organs burst beneath the relentless strikes.
Any normal creature—or even an Executioner—would have died long ago.
But this Tyrant, with a transplanted secondary heart, still twitched weakly, sustained by unnatural vitality.
Hank simply kept chopping until the monster finally went still.
At last, he let out a long breath of relief.
Without sparing the Tyrant's mangled corpse a glance, he turned and walked toward the forest's edge.
He needed to leave this wilderness, find a town, and dig up information on the Umbrella Corporation—ideally the location of one of their bases.
As long as that company was hunting him, he wouldn't be able to sleep soundly.
That was why he chose not to vanish deeper into the wilds. He refused to live in fear. It was better to destroy Umbrella outright than to keep running.
Hank never noticed that his thinking had changed. Without realizing it, he now instinctively leaned toward violent solutions. Perhaps this was just the way of the apocalypse.
The moon fell. The sun rose.
A night had passed.
At the battlefield where Hank fought the Tyrants, a squad of armed survivors arrived, their guns trembling as they approached the corpses.
From their gear, it was clear they were the ones who had escaped from the helicopters.
They spared little attention for the mutilated Tyrant bodies. Instead, they searched the ground carefully—until they found several scales among the rotting leaves.
These were the fragments blasted from Hank's chest by the rocket.
They collected them meticulously, leaving not a single piece behind.
Moments later, more helicopters arrived and whisked them away.
Raccoon City.
Inside the same room lined with glowing screens, Wesker was in a foul mood.
What should have been a smooth mission to capture mutant specimens had gone disastrously wrong.
First, the Hunters and Tyrants had turned on each other. Then, the mutated beings proved far stronger than expected, slaughtering every Hunter and Tyrant.
Even with helicopter fire support, the Umbrella forces had failed. Worse—the mutants had turned their fury on the helicopters themselves. Few had survived.
By comparison, the team that faced Hank had reaped the greatest reward.
They had recovered several of his scales.
Others had managed to wound some of the creatures, but retrieving scales or flesh was nearly impossible. The mutants prowled constantly, leaving no chance to collect samples.
[Please give powerstones if you're enjoying the story.
500 stones = 1 extra chapter
patreon com/GuessMyName33 for up to 40 chapters ahead]