HISS—!!!
Green mist spewed relentlessly from the vent beneath the displaced chess piece, washing over Havel. Thanks to his S.A.S. grade gas mask, he was immune. But he wasn't the only one in the room.
Rebecca and Billy were exposed.
"Move! Get out of the gas!"
Havel shouted, but the gas was spreading too fast. He looked down at the source—the hole he had uncovered by moving the Black Pawn.
"Damn it!"
He didn't run. Instead, he grabbed the massive stone Pawn.
"Get... back... in... there!"
With a grunt of exertion, he shoved the heavy statue back onto its original square.
THUD.
The stone base slammed over the vent, sealing it shut. The hissing stopped instantly.
"Cough! Cough!"
Behind him, Rebecca and Billy were on their knees. They had pulled their shirts over their noses and mouths, squeezing their eyes shut.
It was the correct move. Mustard gas and nerve agents don't just damage the lungs; they attack mucous membranes. If the gas hit their eyes, it could cause temporary blindness or permanent corneal damage.
Before modern gas masks were standard issue, soldiers in WWI would bury their faces in the dirt to filter out chlorine gas. Rebecca and Billy were using a similar principle—minimizing exposure to the sensitive tissues of the face.
But even a little bit was too much.
"Ugh... Haa..."
As the ventilation system slowly cleared the room, the two lowered their shirts. Their faces were pale, tinged with a sickly yellow. They retched dryly, clutching their throats.
"Rebecca! Billy!"
Havel rushed to their side, supporting them.
"Status report! Can you breathe? Any burning in the lungs?"
He was genuinely worried. If the protagonists died here because of his mistake, he was screwed. He needed them to open doors and trigger cutscenes.
"Cough... I'm... okay..."
Rebecca wheezed, her eyes watering. "Just... a little dizzy. We didn't inhale much. It was mostly contact with the clothes."
"Lucky... really lucky..."
She pointed a shaking hand to the pouch on her belt.
"Havel... the Green Chemical. The vials... grab one. Give one to Billy."
"Got it."
Havel rummaged through her medical kit. He found a row of glass vials. Red (Vitality), Green (Antidote), and Yellow (Reaction).
He popped the cork on a green vial and held it to Rebecca's lips. Then he tossed one to Billy.
The Green Chemical in Resident Evil 0 was a universal antidote. It neutralized toxins in the bloodstream almost instantly.
"Drink up. It tastes like mint and battery acid, but it works."
After a few minutes, the color returned to their faces. The nausea subsided.
"Thanks," Billy grunted, wiping his mouth. "That was close. Dr. Marcus really didn't like people touching his toys."
"My bad," Havel admitted. "I broke the rules. I tried to move an opponent's piece without capturing it."
"Rest here. I'll finish this."
Havel returned to the giant board.
This time, he played by the rules. He ignored the black pieces. He focused on the white ones.
He grabbed the White King.
Grind...
He pushed it forward, positioning it to trap the invisible Black King in the corner. Then he moved the White Rook to cut off the escape route.
Checkmate.
CLICK.
A heavy mechanical sound echoed from the corner of the room.
The desktop chessboard on Marcus's desk slid open. A hidden compartment revealed itself.
"Bingo."
Havel walked over to the desk.
Inside the compartment lay a heavy, leather-bound book.
The Book of Evil.
He opened it. Inside, nestled in the hollowed-out pages, was a pair of stone wings.
Unlike the feathered wings of the White Statue, these were webbed and clawed.
Getty Images
Black Wings.
"Demon wings for the Statue of Evil," Havel nodded. "Now we have the set."
But that wasn't all.
Next to the wings lay another book. A journal.
[Marcus's Diary]
Havel picked it up. The cover was embossed with the Umbrella logo. He flipped through the pages.
December 4th... T-Virus experiments are proceeding...January 8th... Spencer is trying to steal my credit...February... I will become a God...
Havel sighed, shaking his head.
"Who writes a diary these days?"
"Seriously. Putting your crimes, your passwords, and your evil plans in writing? It's like asking to get caught."
"Serious people don't write diaries," Havel muttered the famous line to himself. "And people who write diaries aren't serious."
But then again, Marcus was a genius. And geniuses were often lonely, narcissistic megalomaniacs. When you think you're smarter than everyone else, who can you talk to? Only yourself.
The diary was just a mirror for his own ego.
"Well," Havel pocketed the diary and the wings. "Thanks for the confession, Doc."
He turned back to his team.
"Alright, survivors. We got the wings. Let's go balance those scales and get the hell out of here."