#interviewing monsters

You waved from the back of the room, holding a sparkly pink notepad and a tiny USB mic. “Hi, I’ll be documenting the emotional depth of local B.O.W.s today. Technically, that’s not in the mission brief, but Wesker didn’t say I couldn’t. You know, for science.”

HUNK tilted his head half an inch. “You’re joking.”

Wesker wasn’t.

“And don’t lose her,” he added coolly. “I’ve got a bet going that she’ll outlive the Lickers.”

HUNK said nothing, but you were 90% sure that was his version of swearing internally.

Day One – 07:42 Hours

You were crouched behind a flipped ambulance, holding the tiny mic up like it was a sacred relic. “Excuse me, Mr. Licker, what does love mean to you?”

The Licker shrieked and pounced. A bullet cracked through the air. HUNK dragged you by the back of your vest like a misbehaving puppy.

“Target was hostile,” HUNK muttered, voice clipped, as he adjusted his grip on his weapon. A twitch of his gloved fingers was the only hint of the adrenaline spike he’d just ridden through.

“Yeah, but nonverbal,” you huffed, brushing glass off your sleeves. “I think we were getting somewhere. It twitched when I said ‘vulnerability.’”

HUNK didn’t respond. He just checked his gear. You noted he reloaded like it was an act of vengeance.

A second Licker hissed from a distance. You raised the mic again. “Sir, follow-up—do you feel misunderstood in a world that only sees your claws?”

Another shot rang out. You sighed. “Dramatic silence. I’ll allow it.”

You spent the rest of the day interviewing a rat. “Do you fear assimilation or celebrate mutation?” It squeaked and ran away. You nodded solemnly. “A true minimalist. Speaks volumes.”

Day Two – 15:19 Hours

Mr. X stood towering in a hallway like the world’s grumpiest bodyguard. You stood below him like an entertainment reporter at the Oscars.

“Sir,” you said with a dramatic flourish of your mic, “who’s your hat inspiration? Be honest—are you more of a bold accessory king or subtle fall layering enthusiast? Would you ever consider a scarf for fall?”

He blinked slowly. Then reached for you. HUNK’s boot collided with Mr. X’s ribs mid-grab. “Tyrant engaged. Extraction now.”

“Wait, I didn’t get his skincare routine—” you cried out, half-reach still extended toward Mr. X as you were yanked back like an unwilling correspondent mid-broadcast.

“You’re the extraction,” HUNK snapped, his grip firm and tone flat—though the barely concealed exasperation in his body language said he was regretting not just the mission, but every life choice that led to it.

“He has zero pores,” you muttered as you were yanked backward by your collar. “That’s not natural. I demand answers.”

You glanced over your shoulder just in time to see Mr. X pick up your mic and crush it in his hand like a soda can.

“My tiny mic!” you whimpered, hands outstretched like you'd just watched your firstborn get snapped in half. You dropped to your knees like a fallen soldier. “She was so young.”

“I brought backups,” HUNK said. You blinked. Did… did he plan ahead?

Later that evening, you crouched beside a cracked pillar, whispering into your mic, “This is ambient B.O.W. tension, take three. Very post-apocalyptic. Subtle dread.”

Suddenly, a guttural snarl echoed above. You looked up and saw a Hunter descending like a nightmare ballerina. You shrieked. Loudly. Your mic caught all of it in high fidelity.

HUNK blurred into motion, tackling the creature mid-air in a perfect arc. He slammed it to the ground with practiced ease and pinned it with one boot.

He turned his helmet your way, voice laced with dry fury. “Stop narrating your own death.”

Still breathless, you sat up, checking your recorder. “But it’s for the behind-the-scenes footage. The drama sells it.”

HUNK wiped gore from his visor and muttered something deeply judgmental into the comms.

Day Three – 23:04 Hours

You were pinned against a sewer wall while G-Virus-William stared you down with way too many eyes.

“Hi!” you chirped. “On a scale from 1 to ‘deep internal trauma,’ how would you rate your mutation?”

A tentacle shot forward. HUNK caught it mid-air and launched a flash grenade. “This isn’t an interview. It’s suicide.”

“And yet, somehow, I’m thriving,” you muttered, recording everything on your tiny mic.

“I swear to god if you try to rate his aesthetic—” HUNK growled, his voice nearly drowned out by another roar from William.

You didn’t even blink. With a flick of your wrist, you angled the mic toward the monstrosity and smiled brightly.

“Actually, I was going to ask if he regrets not moisturizing pre-transformation.” You gave a dramatic tilt of your head, like a talk show host pivoting into a deep question. “Because that forehead is doing a lot and none of it is exfoliated.”

Another tentacle slammed into the wall beside you. HUNK fired three precision shots and pulled you back just as acid splattered the cement.

“I am filing this under ‘survivor’s guilt journal entry #27,’” you said. “That’s a thing, right?”

“I’m requesting a transfer.” HUNK didn’t shout, didn’t growl—just muttered it with the numb exhaustion of a man who’d fought monsters, wars, and bureaucracy… but nothing like you. His visor tilted slightly upward as if appealing to a higher power that could make it stop.

As you were dragged to safety, you looked over your shoulder. “He didn’t even blink. That’s inner peace. Or rage. Maybe both.”

Day Four – 18:30 Hours

You found a lone zombie gnawing on a car bumper.

“Excuse me, sir, you’re on live audio,” you announced, stepping forward like a roving journalist with a death wish.

It moaned, lifting its head slowly, chunks of metal still wedged between its teeth.

“Do you have any thoughts on capitalism?” you asked with wide, journalistic sincerity, leaning forward like the zombie might have something meaningful to add. “Or perhaps the ethics of viral-based bioengineering?” You tilted your head, like this was the most natural small talk in the world between two intellectuals. The zombie groaned in response, tilting its jaw, which you interpreted as 'deep disapproval of corporate greed.'

It lunged with a guttural snarl. HUNK didn’t look up. His arm moved like muscle memory—one clean shot to the forehead. The body dropped.

“You’re asking philosophical questions to corpses,” he said dryly, voice edged with disbelief.

“And you’re expecting progress from bullets,” you replied, undeterred, wiping blood off your mic with a tissue printed with little skulls. “We all cope differently.”

“I’m asking the real questions,” you added, turning your mic back on with a click.

Later, you stood before a broken vending machine, one hand on your hip. “Mr. Machine, how does it feel to be the unsung hero in apocalyptic morale?”

The lights flickered once. Nothing dispensed.

“You’re losing it,” HUNK muttered behind you, voice muffled by sheer disbelief.

“I was never holding it,” you beamed, scribbling in your notepad: "Snack dispenser: emotionally unavailable."

Day Five – 13:45 Hours

You crouched beside the Cerberus, holding out a sparkly band-aid with a smile like you were offering candy to a toddler.

“Easy, buddy,” you cooed, crouching low and extending the band-aid like a peace offering. Your tone was soft, coaxing, like a kindergarten teacher talking to a tantrum-prone child. You gave a hopeful grin. “Let’s address those anger issues constructively—maybe with fewer teeth?”

It barked. Then bit your arm.

You screamed. “Rude!”

“Wow, so aggressive,” you muttered through clenched teeth, inspecting the bite. “We’ll circle back to trauma later. This feels unresolved.”

HUNK tasered the creature without hesitation. The Cerberus collapsed with a loud thud, still twitching. He turned and glared at you, his stance taut with disbelief. “You waved at it.”

“It wagged its tail!” you argued, holding up your now-bleeding forearm like evidence.

“That was bone displacement,” HUNK added flatly, eyeing your enthusiasm like it was a contagious disease. He didn’t even bother to look at the wound—his entire stance screamed “I told you so” without saying another word.

You huffed. “You say tomato, I say emotional wag.”

Day Six – 12:00 Hours

Wesker’s voice crackled through HUNK’s comms like static-soaked sarcasm.

“Sending additional reinforcement. Codename: Nemesis.”

HUNK froze.

“That’s not reinforcement. That’s escalation.” HUNK’s voice was tight, jaw grinding audibly through the comms as he stared into the middle distance.

You perked up instantly from where you were organizing gummy worm rations by emotional color spectrum—pink for betrayal, green for envy, blue for seasonal sadness. Your eyes lit up with manic delight. “Wait—Nemy’s coming?!” You scrambled upright, nearly knocking over your chart. “I need to find his loofah!”

Fifteen minutes later, Nemesis stomped into the ruined parking structure, dragging a rocket launcher and blinking affectionately. You waved. He blinked again. Then crouched down and pulled something out of a pouch. A mini scented candle. Lavender.

“He remembered!” you gasped, clutching your mic.

HUNK stood off to the side, arms crossed. “You have a history with this thing?”

“He’s emotionally complex,” you said proudly, lighting the candle. “Also, he likes cucumbers and pink bath bombs.”

Nemesis grunted. “STARS.”

You handed him a fresh mic with a glittery sticker on it. “Want to co-host?”

He accepted it gently between two claws. HUNK visibly aged ten years.

Two hours into the mission, Nemesis had carried you bridal-style across a collapsed fire escape, intercepted a Licker mid-air with one hand, and body-blocked a flaming truck for you.

HUNK, panting and covered in soot, stared at the two of you. His helmet slowly tilted upward, as though looking to the sky and asking whatever gods were out there, “Why me?”

“You were supposed to be bait,” he muttered, voice raspy with smoke and barely-contained despair.

You patted Nemesis’s arm with affection and placed a party hat delicately atop his head, the elastic struggling to stretch under his mutated chin. “He’s my emotional support weapon,” you declared, as if that explained everything.

Nemesis gave a low rumble, the kind of sound that could collapse drywall—but this one somehow sounded pleased.

HUNK’s arms dropped to his sides, as if the sheer absurdity had sapped the last of his will to fight. “You’re both banned from field operations.”

You blinked innocently. “Wesker doesn’t have that authority.”

“He made the authority,” HUNK replied, with the bitterness of a man who once believed rules could still protect him from madness.

Final Log – 04:01 Hours

You and HUNK sat in silence, bloodied, burnt, and absolutely done. He stared ahead—posture rigid, visor dark, as if reliving every explosion, scream, and unsolicited interview question from the past six days. You sat next to him on a broken crate, legs swinging idly, sipping juice from a Capri Sun like a child on a field trip.

You side-eyed him. "You know, you could’ve let me die."

“I tried,” HUNK replied, his voice tired and gravel-worn, like the statement cost him something personal.

“I know. I appreciate the consistency,” you said with a nod, as if he’d handed you a bouquet instead of a confession of attempted negligence.

“…You’re out of mic batteries,” he added after a beat, already bracing for the answer.

“I have more in my sock,” you replied cheerfully, pulling a triple-pack of color-coded backup mics from your boot like it was a clown car.

He didn’t even flinch. He just sighed. Loudly. Visibly. Existentially.

“I named your rifle,” you said softly, as if confessing a deep, emotional truth. You looked at him with all the sincerity of someone unveiling a masterpiece, eyes wide with pride and a hint of chaos.

HUNK finally turned his head toward you with slow, aching deliberation. “What.”

“Baby Boomstick.”

There was a beat of silence so heavy it could've been listed as a combat hazard.

“You’re insane,” HUNK muttered, almost admiringly, like one might describe a wild animal that knows how to open jars.

“Emotionally enriched,” you corrected, sipping your Capri Sun with serene finality.

He stared into the abyss. The abyss stared back. You offered it a sticker.

Post-Mission Debrief

Wesker reviewed the footage: Lickers shrieking. Mr. X walking away in visible confusion. William growling into a mic. Zombies moaning under poorly timed interview attempts. Nemesis lighting scented candles. HUNK exhausted. You giggling.

He threw the tablet across the room. “She’s still alive.”

Moments later, another report pinged in. Wesker squinted at the monitor, pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn’t even open the file—just sighed like a man who had lost a chess match to a pigeon.

“I should’ve sent her to Antarctica.”

“Subject attempted to interview T-078 Tyrant with the phrase: ‘You strike me as a misunderstood romantic. Thoughts?’”

Wesker groaned into his hands. “She’s still alive and spreading quotes.”

(Interview rating: 10/10. Would annoy again.)