#t-00

A Sense of Security

            Traversing the open between the orphanage and the R.P.D. was much less nerve-wracking for the two humans accompanying him now. The rain guttered and filled the streets with the scent of diluted gore, and damp ashes. And the tiniest shred of nature in the form of petrichor. Still, the Tyrant knew enough not to celebrate the cityscape’s renewed pseudo-cleanliness. Many strains of the T-virus survived some duration of time in liquid water—especially when that water was partially bodily fluids anyways. All the rain, all the blood, it had to go somewhere. It had to go downwards…

            It already had, no doubt. Despite Mr. X’s presence making short work of the half-dozen infected they met with, Claire and Sherry seemed hyper-cautious—jumping at shadows. He watched closely in the moments between lunges by nearby zombies for some hint at the source of their jittery behaviors; perhaps they instinctively knew it, or had already seen signs of the fact, that more menacing threats than the shambling, braindead former residents lurked within the city limits.

            “Do you think my mom’s okay?” Sherry murmured from her post between Claire and T-00, head tilting up towards the woman expectantly—but the look in her eyes was not so naïve to suggest she expected the optimistic answer. Claire’s expression flashed to what Mr. X had to guess was… guilty?

            Humans were odd. So similar, and yet so different, to his kind.

            “I dunno.” Claire stifled a sigh, “If she is, she’s gotta be in the underground labs. She works there, right?”

            “…Mm-hm.” She nodded, troubled. Mr. X had never met Dr. Annette Birkin, but knew that both Birkins most often operated within the N.E.S.T. complex. There was something to that omission of William, and from what he had overheard himself it appeared confirmed that the father was in some way out of the picture.

            Mr. X huffed, scanning ahead of their path for danger. She knew something, had seen something. It didn’t bode well.

            “I hope to god she’s holding out down there, then. It’s probably a lot safer than out in the open here.” Still, Claire forced her chin up, if only for her young charge’s sake. Sherry regrouped and her stride grew steadier.

            From not much further ahead, the sharp report of two gunshots echoed between the damp bricks of the avenue. Claire laser-focused ahead, the realization dawning on her where the shots were originating from. Mr. X had stepped up closer to Sherry, a readied fist clenched over her ducked head, ready to sledgehammer-swing into anything charging her way. After the pause which felt like five solid minutes (but more likely five fluttery seconds) another three shots rang out preceding a shrill animal yelp that carried a dull, sickly gurgle of viral influence to its tone.

            Dog, the Tyrant recognized right away. Infected dog. T-virus was a persistent contagion and affected many species, not just humans. Rats, pigs, sheep, rabbits, reptiles, horses, and yes—dogs. Dogs were among the most dangerous once the virus took; they did not lose as much coordination in their four paws as fast, and their teeth were already designed to rip, tear, and adulterate their prey with the ticking time-bomb of their contaminated saliva. Tyrants could afford such bites—already inoculated and toughened against further T-virus infection—but Claire and Sherry absolutely could not.

            “Leon?” Claire clearly had the best idea of who could possibly be the one unloading on the canines, and she hastened her pace around the block towards the station. Mr. X glanced to the little girl with a grunt and stuck to her side as she tried to keep up—careful not to get ahead of her.

            They caught up to where Claire had screeched to a halt and taken the scant cover behind a waste bin—across the street from the now-open parking garage in the back of the police department. It was what was transpiring within this space that had caused her to stop and reassess how to tackle the situation:

            On the stark concrete by the doors leading further into the R.P.D. lay two carcasses—freshly rendered so, but clearly not creatures which had been normal Dobermans in the moments before. They were still outstretched from their crumpled lunges, jaws foaming and wide open as their glazed eyes and lesion-riddled pelts. The two zombie dogs were not the problem. The bodywork of a parked cruiser creaked under the grasping claw of the first monstrosity to show itself crawling over the hood. Mr. X recognized it. One such beast had been what he’d encountered by the library, alongside the mystery woman.

            Of course, that had just been one. From around one of the concrete pylons crept another two, their sprawled, bare-muscle limbs nauseatingly frog-like and human-like all at once. A fourth’s warty-fronted cranium lowered down into view from the ceiling, its tongue lolling out and dangling upside-down, a proboscis probing the air for its lost prey. The source of noise.

            The gunshots, of course.

            Infinitely more sharp-eyed than the blind abominations, the Tyrant spotted that source first. Crunched up to make his form less detectable, a bit of dirty blond hair and some of a man’s shoulder poked out between an unusually small gap between two more cars, hands clasped around his pistol. This was a makeshift hiding spot to say the least—darted into at the last second upon realizing what his mistake had just lured in.

            Also far more visually gifted than the Licker pack, Claire saw the man a second later.

            “Leon—!” She almost called out, but reigned it into a harsh whisper because of the presence of the things triggering those harsh memories. She silently unslung the shotgun from her back, readying herself for the inevitable intervention.

            Somehow even more Lickers had materialized. They perched atop the abandoned paddy-wagon, scuttled down from the dirty, cracked walls. The first let its teeth gnash open and shut with a bubbly gush of noise and it hopped from one cruiser to the next—looming almost directly over their cornered prey. The rest were following suit. Closing in.

            Claire took action upon hearing the low, freight-train thunder of the Tyrant’s growl melding with his accelerating footfalls from behind her, knowing it was the best chance and best back-up she could ask for. She stood and made sure her weapon was fully loaded up.

            “Hey! You ugly-ass fuckers!”

            The moist, rippling forms quivered to a stop at the new auditory input—nine tumorous heads whipping upright and away from where the man was hunkered down. Before the closest of them had the chance to fully shift on its taloned heels the tremendous BLAM of that very familiar discharge sent a round at close distance into what little parts of its head were still required for life. Its cohorts ignored the downfall of their frontrunner and instead all pivoted towards the even fresher sounds and vibrations.

            For a split-second, Leon was relieved that he was being bailed out—hell, that someone was even alive to bail him out. After he craned his neck up to get a look above the hood and headlights of the car that relief was frozen out of him.

            He damn near had a heart attack. He could see the confident (and, erm, objectively sexy) silhouette of Claire and her shotgun against a weakening street-lamp: Bearing down from behind her the tall, dark mountain of that thing.

            —which then… stormed right past her. She hardly even reacted to the near-hurricane of the air displaced by the titanic biped in full sprint.

            Mr. X’s sheer presence caused every one of the biomutants to forget about both of the humans on their radar. Good! His ear had not forgotten what it felt like to be surprised by one of these. Taking on eight more in this fair arena was something much more his speed.

            Two Lickers dropped down from the ceiling to begin prowling towards the bioweapon, and a third accelerated from its writhing trot up to a feral gallop to meet its new target. When it sprang up towards his face, its own gaping maw was disjointed as it met the sweeping backhand, and its limp form was sent flying perpendicular into the entryway’s unyielding cement. A pair stalked up on either side of him as he hit the brakes to fully occupy the exit—blocking them from continuing and trying to get at his new companions.

            One let out a shriek as well as its prehensile, ropy tongue. The appendage lashed up and attempted to wrap around the Tyrant’s neck, but with a ready block ended up caught around his forearm instead. The Licker dug its claws into the slab and tried to drag him off-balance, too much of a basic beast to recognize just how impossible its attempts were before the Tyrant’s other hand grabbed its tongue and lifted its entire body by it like a living flail. The creature behind him was ready to pounce just as its packmate was smashed directly into it from an overhead swing. With a snort, he flung both crushed bodies aside.

            Five to go.

            If the poor, stupid things were more coordinated, then perhaps the whole group of them could put up more of a fight. Thankfully instinct alone piloted them, like programming a robot of meat and bone. A fourth met its end when it hooked up onto the nearby wall and tried to drop down on Mr. X’s shoulders—being swept out of the air by one forelimb and whacked against the floor like a wet towel. A fifth crashed into the floor where he’d stood a second prior, still disoriented when his boot came down on its spine. He strode deeper into the parking garage with the fourth’s rubbery corpse still in hand, eager now to chase down the last three Lickers as their numbers advantage dwindled. The brutes persisted; the two atop the paddy-wagon flung themselves from the vehicle—one directly at T-00, the other at one of the support pillars in an attempt to flank. And the other, its vocal cords straining in a raucous warble, came trampling over the hood of one of the cruisers above Leon, was immediately stifled by its comrade’s body being flung aside and knocking it back to the cold floor.

            Leon peeked back up from where he’d narrowly ducked under that.

            Mr. X bared his teeth slightly, facing the next Licker he’d caught by each arm before he unleashed his explosive force—pulling apart in opposite directions. Its chest ruptured down the middle, ribs and spine and viscera suddenly exposed to view. It sloughed down into a bloody pile; Mr. X’s growls intensified as he twisted to eyeball the Licker hovering at eye level ready to slash out with its jagged digits. It swiped, but only shallowly raked over the ridge of the Tyrant’s nose as he ducked back, just drawing out a few droplets of blood before the cuts fused shut again. T-00 backed off another two steps, beckoning the monster into a reckless attack. Of course it fell for it.

            SNAP!

            With the imprint of Mr. X’s fist perfectly stamped into its sternum and a long spur of its spine protruding out its back, it bashed heavily against the nearest police car and slumped into a final pose, even more twisted than usual. By this point the last Licker standing had wriggled out from under its packmate’s carcass and come back to its senses, hissing and drooling as it locked back onto the movement and heavy steps of the Tyrant making its way over at a casual walk. Its tongue unspooled and reeled back to snap at him, but missed as T-00 drew up short. With a stout kick under the overextended jaw, the Licker’s skull shattered and it was sent head over heels twice until it lost momentum in a sprawling heap. The garage was finally still.

            “Leon!” Claire’s voice broke the stillness. She ushered Sherry towards the entrance now that all dangerous mutants were dispatched, “Are you alright?”

            Leon slowly stood up—hands ready on his pistol. Eyes still on the T-103 dwarfing him from just a few meters away. And Mr. X, too, was absolutely keeping his eyes on the human he finally had a name for. The frown lines around his mouth creased deeper, his brows crunching inwards more ominously.

            Oh.

            Him.

            So this was Leon… Goody… just grand.

            “Oh my god,” Claire’s tension dropped like a mountain of bricks as she and Sherry jogged up to the intensified aura of distrust and distaste between man and monster. “You sure get yourself in trouble when I’m not around, huh?”

            Leon was apparently much too stunned and appalled by the focused stink-eye from his monstrous observer to take notice of the blatant flirtatious undertone leeching through her voice. He had yet to even notice the young girl standing meekly a few feet from T-00. Sherry’s petite brow pinched a touch as she caught on to the young man’s white-knuckle grip on his gun.

            “Hello,” she peeped, and at first neither she nor he were sure he had heard the child’s voice. “Are you okay?”

            “Huh—” Leon finally broke away from the pinprick pupils leveled at him with (he was dead sure) murderous intent and dropped a passing glance back and forth between the face he knew and the one he didn’t. “Sorry, what? Uh—what—wait—Claire?”

            “Yes, Leon. Claire.” She smirked, relaxing after she saw no signs of wounds on him. She could turn her attention to his obvious fear of their gargantuan new bodyguard, “You a little preoccupied with somethin’?”

            “Uh—” Leon turned to look her fully in the eye, incredulous as fuck. That was the only way to describe it, “How—That big freak is—?”

            “H-hey, don’t call him names,” Sherry stepped up, rooting herself between Leon and the giant who by no means needed someone to stick up for him. The young man gawked down again at the girl—finally coming down from the adrenaline enough to fully comprehend her existence.

            “S-sorry?”

            “Don’t call him that. If he chased you he didn’t mean it. It was the metal thing stuck in his head.”

            Mr. X averted his gaze to a place on the wall with a heavy snort. Well… About that.

            “Leon, this is Sherry.” Claire brushed over this in order to make the necessary facts known—and possibly de-escalate whatever the hell was between Mr. X and the young police recruit. “She’s the Birkins’ daughter. Sherry, this is Leon—he’s the guy who saved me at the gas station in town before we got separated. And Leon, this is—well.” She stumbled a bit upon gesturing towards their massive onlooker, “I’m not sure he has a name, but he’s something codenamed ‘Tyrant’ as far as I’ve found out.”

            “Fucking fitting…” Leon grumbled as he took a cautious step back, “…sorry, um, sorry.” He shot a guilty look towards the child and away.

            “It’s fine. Profanity’s the least of a kid’s problems.”

            “Hold on—” Leon braced back on the front of the close-by cruiser, his grip on his gun still two-handed, but now shaky, “I’m sorry, but, how?! You got this th—this big… big dude with you?”

            “He tried to help me,” Sherry sniffled, “before the thing in his head took control.”

            “To be fair, I had a grenade launcher aimed at him when he first bumped into me, and he was even going to leave me alone at first.” Claire’s face seemed to be tugging into a teasing smirk as she stepped up to Leon’s side and nudged his shoulder, “Did you two have a little dispute or something?”

            “I mean… you expect that to be coming at me and… and…”

            “You shot him right away, didn’t you.”

            “I mean—look at the dude!” Leon gestured to the Tyrant as if showing him on a game show like a prize. Claire looked amused enough by now that he straightened up, flushed a bright pink, and elaborated, “He’s obviously not human, c’mon! What would you do?”

            “Well. Aim a grenade launcher at him and see how he likes it?”

            “I didn’t exactly come kitted out with that!”

            “Did you wait before shooting at all?”

            “Yes! Several seconds!”

            Mr. X found himself cooling off watching the pair bicker back and forth—the degree of the hat-shooting bastard’s flustered state and Claire’s playful intonations clashing mightily for him. Joined by Sherry, he was left to be entertained by their display, and he peered down to the girl to be met with a cheeky, childish grimace and a shrug—their collective confusion and dumbfoundedness.

            To his deep shock, he felt a small hand curl up between and grip onto his loose fingers. There was a flash of recognition. Painful recognition. But he could not refuse it; having a hand hold his own was a deeply missed occurrence. It reminded him of loss. But as it was, it was something he at least had now, and would hold onto come what may.

            “Geez, they’re acting like a married couple…” Sherry groaned. Mr. X cocked his head; he had no experience with such a relationship, only a divorced couple. There was some overlap, he had to admit. Though, the Ramirezes had been far more poisonous to each other, far less justified in their complaints, their “teases” towards each other. Sherry would know better than him, he supposed. Her parents were married, after all…

            “Look, what matters is he’s with us now. Whoever controlled him can’t anymore.” Claire said, with great finality. Leon swallowed hard but then appeared to accept the fact of the matter—and the tantalizing advantage that having such a powerful ally brought.

            “And you trust that?” Leon’s brow quirked.

            “We can’t afford not to.” Claire pointed out. “Also, I can’t speak for what you went through, but honestly… with what the big guy just did to these Licker things I doubt he ever really wanted to kill people here, even when forced with that brain device.”

            “I dunno…” Leon was in his case one hundred percent correct.

            “Please?”

            All three looked down to Sherry, still gripping the bioweapon’s hand by three fingers. She looked up at them sweetly. The slightest thing she knew to do, by experience. The only power that ever worked on her parents.

            Mr. X’s brows raised a touch. His large fingers curled that remaining notch over Sherry’s hand, then made a deep exhale and cast his gaze over towards the two adults, waiting on their verdict (and silently knowing he’d totally ignore any hat-shooter led position).

            “Jesus,” Leon’s armored shoulders slackened and he finally let his two-handed grip on the gun shift to a one-handed one. “Fine. But I’m watching that thing…”

            Mr. X uttered a gruff snort, purposely turned Leon’s way. Watch all you want. If he touched his hat again… mayhem.

            For Leon, at least. He would perhaps now be reluctant to kill him. Claire seemed unusually fond of him, and Sherry would be upset if T-00 turned serious violence on any human aside from the sadistic Chief of Police.

            Anyone touched Sherry… worse than mayhem. Far worse for the fool who would do that.

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            There were more minor disputes along the way—none of which compared to the frightful reaction of the first encounter. But aside from this, passage through the R.P.D. was eerily quiet. Maybe all of the unexpected mutants had concentrated on Leon’s attempted escape, and subsequently been the only ones to escalate the nature of the infection. Double infection. Chaos. The human trio could only hope that Lickers were the extent of such irregular monstrosities—and two of them even knew better. The Tyrant could hope that such mutants would at least remain smaller, weaker, and stupider than itself; at worst, just one of the above options would still be a satisfactory disadvantage against a T-103’s capabilities.

            The bloody, bullet-riddled hallways led to where Claire was sure more secrets were held. Chief Irons’s office. Hating that purely evil man triumphed over his baseline distaste for Leon at the moment, though he at no point willingly shared a square meter with him. Sherry, of course, stayed very close to the giant for security and safety, which was something that Leon could not quite comprehend.

            “You sure it’s safe for kids to be around big gray zombie raisin-men?” He grumbled, attempting to be only for Claire’s ears. She tsked at him, both for the unflattering description and the unnecessary distraction while she was riffling through the corrupt Chief’s desk.

            “HRMMPH.”

            “You heard him. Either bother the Tyrant about it or help me search.”

            “Rrrrh…” Mr. X made it clear which of Claire’s options he would prefer Leon go with. Sherry was clinging to his hand constantly now, unnerved on a whole new level by the number of false eyes staring her down from taxidermized carcasses in the room.

            “Hey, it’s okay.” She whispered up to T-00, “Leon’s just scared of you. Once he knows you better I’m sure he’ll stop being so mean.”

            “Rrf,” He certainly didn’t mind hearing a reminder of the hat-shooter’s well-deserved wariness, but he grunted dismissively at the idea of he and Leon “getting to know each other”. Mr. X would have to pass on that. Leon’s face had gone pink to the ears again and he scoffed, embarrassed at the irrefutable truth being so obvious to even the sheltered eleven-year-old.

            His eyes switched now onto a messy stack of paperwork which Claire had shunted aside from one of the desk’s drawers—his own search simplified a great deal as a small memo pad poked out into view. Though his hand could completely envelop it, it appeared to be sufficient space on each page to manage short messages—and after scooping it up and flipping it open it appeared to be all blank sheets with a few scraps remaining of some torn-out ones.

            “…What d’you want with that?” Sherry noticed his acquisition, curious and confused. Mr. X gently released her hand so that he could mime out his answer, using a finger to trace out some writing motions on the open memo. “Oh! I hadn’t thought of that… I’m sure there’s a pen here somewhere…”

            Lighter items of the sort had been tossed all over from their places during T-00’s earlier pursuit of Irons, but Sherry left her giant guardian’s side for a while and found a simple Bic underneath the large storage closet on the back wall. The Tyrant’s lips twitched up into a stiff almost-smile as she handed it to him and he familiarized himself with a gentle-enough grip. Now he just had to think of what to “say”. He kept the memo pad flat against one palm, thumb and last two joints of his fingers clasping it tight and unmoving and hovered the nib over it in concentration.

            Sherry solved his problem with her burning question: “So… what is your name?”

            Skrt-skrt. The Tyrant’s eyes widened and nostrils flared in restrained excitement, fighting to keep the pen steady (and unexploded).

            Called Mr. X. He turned the page outward for her to read.

            “Whoa,” she stood slightly on tiptoe, even the gigantic bioweapon holding the memo down below his waist was not quite enough to bring it to her eye level, “Really? That’s a really strange name… I mean, it’s a nice name! It’s just really different.”

            Mr. X retrieved the notepad and flipped a page, clarifying with a quick word which barely fit across the paper:

            Nickname.

            “Oh… God…”

            Detecting the utter distress in both her voice and scent, Mr. X’s gaze snapped to where Claire had unearthed a slip of passwords and unlocked Chief Irons’ office PC. The woman was locked on the screen’s display of a spreadsheet, and a few email correspondences—which the Chief of Police appeared to have been midway through deleting.

            “What?” Leon finally ignored the bioweapon, leaning over towards where Claire had her elbows shivering on the table, “You okay? You’re pale, fuck…”

            “I think I might throw up…” Claire’s voice certainly hitched like this was the truth, and as the biomutant took one step to see what it was on the screen she suddenly jerked her sweat-beaded head upright, “No! Don’t let her see this. Keep her back.”

            Mr. X withdrew, eyes widened, and clasped Sherry’s hand to keep her back at a distance as commanded. Her voice was almost… frightening in its intensity. The context mattered. T-00 averted its eyes down to Sherry’s own alarmed expression and squeezed her hand delicately; he did not need to see the sordid details. He had seen the half-preserved young woman… girl, really, and nothing could sink his idea of Irons any lower. Sherry had also seen this victim, not too many years older than herself, and there was no way a human juvenile ever had the expectation to comprehend anything worse.

            “Shit, I…” Leon stepped back, eyes distant. “I’m sorry I doubted, I… I didn’t have any idea.”

            “It’s fine. He was a slimeball with power. They’re good at hiding that stuff.” Claire steeled her nerve, switching through emails before frowning, “In any case, he was in with Umbrella. He got issued an entry keycard to the N.E.S.T. complex under the city, so it should be here somewhere…”

            “Unless he’s got it with him,” Leon growled.

            “Shit.”

            The Tyrant watched as Claire turned away and escaped to one of the few ornate chairs left upright in the chaotic office space, slumping with head in hands. Leon held out a hand as she went but seemed reluctant to disturb her during such a state… especially since they were all tired, all battered, and all had seen more than any living thing with a brain should in the span of just six hours. At first he simply released Sherry as she tugged to sit on the clear patch of floor next to Claire, her blue eyes lit with unease and sympathy. The atmosphere was weary, and anxious, and miserable.

            Mr. X flicked his memo to a new page, wrinkled brow and lips crinkling with thought as he contemplated how to fit the message on his tiny canvas.

            Thud—thud—thud…

            Sherry looked up in surprise first, but Claire merely glared up through her clung-together bangs.

            “Look, unless you want to cheer Sherry up or tell us we’re about to get overrun by the undead, I’m not really in the mood to be social.”

            Mr. X remained stoic and turned out the first message on the notepad; Sherry began excitedly tapping Claire on the forearm to get her to straighten up and invest in the intrusion.

            “Claire—look—he can do something—look!”

            “What—” Claire finally raised her slumped head, and froze as she read.

            Will find Irons.

            “…Okay.” Claire had not been taking in the revelation happening behind her that the T-103 was fully able to communicate via language in this capacity, but seeing no other way the writing could have appeared she took it in stride, “How, though? Even with that busted face and limp, he could be anywhere in the city by now…”

            The Tyrant retracted the pad, flipped a page, and let his pen glide along for two seconds of a reply:

            Can track him.

            He flicked to another sheet once sure she’d absorbed the first, and wrote:

            Scent. Very easy.

            “Is that how you found that orphanage?” Sherry peeped, and with a softened brow the Tyrant gave a slight head bob.

            “You could find him…” Claire strained and stood, beginning to reach for her trusty shotgun before two of the Tyrant’s fingers snapped out and stopped the strap in place, “Wh—”

            Mr. X’s grip relaxed right away and brought up a finger in reproach in front of his immobile lips, then flipped to another page.

            Can wait.

            New page.

            Scent strong. Stays.

            New page. He let his gaze flicker down to Sherry for a meaningful moment as he revealed it:

            You need rest.

            “Hey, you bothering her? Because if you are I’ll—” Leon stopped short in his swift interception and raised his hands in submission as the hulking creature shot a sharp, laser-hot look over his shoulder on his approach, “—I’ll… I’ll calmly and non-judgmentally request you don’t, Trenchy.”

            “His name’s Mr. X, not ‘Trenchy’,” Sherry’s nose wrinkled but her eyes held a faint trace of amusement at the back-and-forth. Leon gave her a baffled look.

            “How’d you know that?”

            “He wrote it down and showed me.”

            “Uh…” Leon turned from the girl, unwilling to face her with anything that might let her down, “No way that thing can write.”

            The Tyrant produced a soft chuff, amused himself by the rookie cop’s doubt, and flipped back to the page which read: “Called Mr. X” before holding it out to show him. Leon squinted hard at the small page, then scoffed.

            “Alright, c’mon, there’s no way that is the big guy’s handwriting.”

            Mr. X retracted, flipped to the next blank page, and gently scrawled a new retort with an extra flourish of the punctuation…

            Why not?

            “I… uh…” Leon’s embarrassed flush grew again, with Claire silently suppressing a chuckle at the sight.

            “You thought Claire did it,” Sherry giggled, somehow reading the room and Leon like an open book despite being so young and inexperienced. “You did… you thought it was too pretty...!”

            “No!” Leon groaned, then turned aside, “Coulda been yours…”

            Claire rested her elbows on her knees, and Mr. X could not miss the exhausted muscle spasm of her calf upon doing so, but it was soon overtaken by her laughter, near-silent and equally weakened.

            “Okay, X. Or Mr. X. Whatever. Okay,” she reached and rustled into the hip pouch on her right and pulled out a spray antibiotic before applying some liberally to her scraped and abused elbows. “We can all wait just a bit. We all need a rest…”

            “Somewhere safe,” Sherry peered over her shoulder nervously, eyes to glass-orbs with the permanently preserved Dall’s sheep on display, “and without all the dead things…”