One shot. One miss.
Not just a miss—a complete, humiliating whiff where the bullet didn't even graze the target.
Havel stood frozen, awkwardness washing over him. Wasn't he supposed to be a shooting genius? How could the chain drop at the most critical moment? Had the original owner's reputation been a scam all along?
Hey, hey, he pleaded internally. Big Brother, where's your talent? Don't fail me now! If that little girl Rebecca laughs at me, where will I put my face? I beg you... if you have any unfulfilled wishes, I'll burn ten billion dollars of spirit money for you later, okay? Just work with me here!
Havel slapped the back of his hand hard, as if trying to wake up the dormant muscle memory. He assumed the original soul was holding a grudge about being evicted and had decided to sabotage him. He had to bluff his way through this, or his image would be shattered forever.
In the distance, Rebecca saw the pristine clay pigeon land on the grass and couldn't hold back her laughter.
"Shooting genius? Please."
She had expected him to miss. A hundred-meter moving target was a drill for rifles, not handguns. Hitting a moving target at fifty meters was already elite level. A hundred meters was just bragging to the moon.
She knew he would fail, but she hadn't expected the failure to be quite so funny.
"Hey, Havel! What happened?" she shouted, cupping her hands. "Can't get it up? That's just like a man—talk a big game, but when it matters, you go limp! I guess your 'genius' is all hot air!"
A sly grin spread across her face. This was too good. He had corrupted her work ethic, and now she finally had leverage. She was going to spread this story through the S.T.A.R.S. office the moment they got back.
However...
Her taunts seemed to act as a trigger. Havel felt a twitch in his hand. It was as if Rebecca's mockery had pierced the fragile ego of the original body's spirit. A surge of power welled up inside him.
The power of... pure spite.
Maybe the original guy really was a 'three-second man,' Havel thought darkly. He's a shooting genius, after all. Shooting fast is part of the job. That must be why he's so sensitive about being called impotent.
"..."
"A man can never admit he can't do it!" Havel roared back. "I was just... calibrating the drop! That was a test shot! Rebecca, throw it again! This time I'm serious! Don't get scared when I blow it out of the sky!"
Feeling the sudden clarity of the original owner's instincts flooding back, Havel shouted his challenge. This felt different. The connection was there.
Click-clack—!
He racked the slide, chambering a fresh round.
This time, Havel relaxed his mind. He let go of the anxiety. He stared ahead with a calm, detached focus. He had done this training thousands of times in his memories. He just needed to trust the countless days and nights of high-intensity drills ingrained in his nervous system.
"Hmph."
"Here it comes!"
Rebecca, willing to humor him for one more laugh, snorted and threw the red disc high into the air. She put more arm into it this time—faster, higher, and more erratic.
She didn't believe he could hit it. As she said, hitting a moving target at a hundred meters with a pistol was like winning the lottery.
But...
The original soul of Havel would like to remind everyone that he had already cracked the lottery's algorithm. For him, this wasn't luck. It was math.
Whoosh...
The bright red disc soared, tracing a beautiful parabola against the blue sky.
Havel raised the gun. His eyes narrowed, locking onto the target. The black muzzle of the Glock 22 tracked smoothly. In his mind, a complex equation resolved itself in a millisecond, calculating velocity, gravity, and lead time.
Snap—!
BANG—!!!
He pulled the trigger.
The gunshot cracked, sending a bright orange flash and a shockwave of air from the muzzle. The bullet, moving like a white stallion crossing a rift, intercepted the red disc at the apex of its arc.
Shatter!
The clay pigeon exploded. Fragments rained down onto the grass, tinkling as they hit the ground.
A confirmed hit.
"Th-this..."
"How is that possible?" Rebecca's jaw dropped. "Was it luck? Or..."
She stared at the shattered remains, the sly smile vanishing from her doll-like face. It was unbelievable. In all her time at the academy and on the force, she had never seen handgun marksmanship like this. To hit a small, moving object at a hundred meters...
No wonder S.T.A.R.S. had made an exception to recruit him. He really was that good.
"Hey, Havel!"
"Do it again...!!!"
Without hesitation, Rebecca grabbed another disc and launched it. Faster this time. A more difficult angle.
BANG—!
BANG—BANG—BANG—!!!
One by one, the red discs flew.
One by one, the gunshots echoed.
And one by one, the targets were obliterated in mid-air. Havel, possessed by the ghost of his own talent, didn't miss a single shot. Every bullet found its mark, turning the clay into dust.
Finally, the slide locked back. Havel lowered the gun, his hand trembling slightly. The mental synchronization had been intense, leaving him exhausted, as if he'd just run a marathon.
"Phew!"
"Damn fine shooting, kid," a gruff voice broke the silence.
Havel looked over to see Old Man Hawk standing nearby. He had been watching for a while.
"Here. Your hand-cannons," Hawk said, placing the Desert Eagle and the S&W M500 on the table. "I remember when I was in the war... I wasn't half as good as you. A hundred percent accuracy. One gun to wipe out a squad. Not bad."
Hawk leaned in, his expression serious. "I heard S.T.A.R.S. picked up a prodigy. Looks like the rumors were true. But don't get cocky. This is just shooting targets. If you face a living person... or something else... you have to have the guts to pull the trigger just like you did today."
The old man's warning was heavy. Shooting and killing were two different worlds.
S.T.A.R.S. dealt with the worst of the worst in Raccoon City. If Havel hesitated against a criminal, he would die.
"If you show mercy to the enemy," Hawk said, "you are being cruel to yourself."
Havel, recovering his breath, nodded solemnly. He understood. Especially since his future enemies wouldn't be human. Against zombies, hesitation was death. He would pull the trigger without a second thought.
His gaze shifted to the table.
He picked up the Desert Eagle. The heavy steel frame, the thick grip, the reassuring weight of .50 Action Express... it was a beast. Even against a mutated zombie, this would give him a fighting chance.
It could drop an elk at two hundred meters. At close range, it would liquefy a bear or a rhino.
Then he picked up the M500.
It was absurd. The silver-and-black revolver had a barrel alone that measured over ten inches. The whole gun was nearly half a meter long. If he stuffed this in his pants, people would think he was hiding a donkey's leg. It only held five rounds, but each one was a miniature bomb.
"..."
"Nice guns... very much my style," Havel nodded with satisfaction.
He could finally relax. The Glock 22 was fine for cops and robbers, but for the apocalypse? He needed artillery.
"Hey! Hey!"
Rebecca ran back from the field, breathless and beaming. She circled behind him and began massaging his shoulders with her small hands, her face the picture of sycophantic eagerness.
"That was amazing, Havel! Where did you learn that? You have to teach me! I want to know how to hit a moving target at a hundred meters!"
The girl changed faces faster than a dramatic actor. A moment ago she was mocking him; now she was trying to curry favor.
Havel sighed internally. He couldn't teach her. His skill came from the body's muscle memory, not a technique he could articulate. It was a passive buff he couldn't share.
However...
He couldn't teach, but he could scam.
His shooting skills might be borrowed, but his ability to bullshit was entirely his own. With his silver tongue, he could wrap this little girl around his finger. Having a loyal, obedient follower would be useful.
"I can..." Havel said, closing his eyes and enjoying the massage. "But the training is brutal. Can you handle it, Rebecca?"
He opened one eye. "And private lessons aren't free. Cough... You know the rules."
"Huh?"
Rebecca blinked. "What do you want? Money? Or guns? I don't have much cash... and I don't have any cool weapons. The only reason S.T.A.R.S. recruited me was for my chemistry and medical skills."
She looked crestfallen. She didn't want to be useless. She knew her combat skills were lacking, and she feared being seen as a burden—a "flower vase" purely for decoration.
Havel looked at her with disdain.
Flower vase? With that boyish cut and that baby face, she was a mascot at best. If anyone was a "flower vase," it was Jill Valentine over in Alpha Team.
And honestly, hearing her mention her medical skills reminded him why Bravo Team got wiped out in the original Resident Evil 0. Their medic was a rookie with the chest capacity of a jelly cup. How could she heal anyone? A true healer needed "great tracts of land" to inspire the troops!
"Cough. I mean you have to listen to me!" Havel corrected quickly. "I don't want your money. Just... massage my shoulders properly. And when we're on a mission, don't interrupt me when I'm acting cool. Do that, and I might teach you for free."
He needed her to be obedient. He didn't want a rebellious sidekick. If she "healed" him to death during a mission, he'd haunt her.
Meanwhile.The Outskirts of Raccoon City: The Arklay Mountains.The Underground Management Training Facility.
This place was once the domain of James Marcus, one of the founders of the Umbrella Corporation. It had been sealed for years, gathering dust in the dark.
Decades ago, in West Africa, deep within the ruins of the Ndipaya tribe, a flower called the "Stairway to the Sun" was discovered. It contained a unique RNA virus that could grant superhuman vitality and extended life.
However, the virus was violently toxic. Most who consumed it died instantly. The Ndipaya used it as a test for kingship—only the worthy survived.
Umbrella founder Oswell E. Spencer believed this flower held the key to human evolution. To study it, he founded Umbrella with his aristocratic friend Edward Ashford and the brilliant virologist James Marcus.
They extracted the "Progenitor Virus."
Time passed. Edward Ashford died after accidental exposure. Spencer consolidated power. Marcus, indifferent to corporate politics, focused solely on his research. He wanted to solve the virus's lethality.
He discovered that leech DNA could bond with the Progenitor Virus. He created a new strain: the "Tyrant" Virus. The T-Virus.
But the T-Virus was unstable. It caused rapid cellular necrosis (rotting skin), brain damage, and extreme aggression. Marcus, obsessed with perfecting it, began using human test subjects. Twenty candidates died in his lab.
Spencer, ever paranoid and greedy, wanted the T-Virus for himself. He sent Marcus's own students—William Birkin and Albert Wesker—to betray him.
On a rainy night in 1978, Umbrella special forces stormed the facility. Marcus was gunned down in his lab. As he lay dying, he saw his beloved students watching coldly from the shadows.
He was betrayed.
In his final moments, the "Queen Leech" specimen tank was shattered. The leech, carrying the T-Virus, slid into Marcus's mouth as he drew his last breath. His body was dumped into the sewers.
But he didn't die.
Over ten years, in the darkness, the Queen Leech bonded with him. It repaired his cells, replacing his DNA, slowly reconstructing him.
Now, the ten-year slumber was over.
James Marcus had returned from hell. Not as a man, but as a creature of pure viral hatred. He was young again. He was powerful. And he was ready to make Umbrella—and Raccoon City—burn.
The Resident Evil Zero nightmare had begun.