Tartaglia’s Zombie Dance

Tartaglia still smarted from his Dig to Ascend loss to Keqing—a wound to his pride as a Harbinger, a sting that gnawed at him like a splinter under a nail, and Resident Evil's release gleamed as his chance to claw back glory in Liyue's buzzing Internet cafe.

While the melon-eaters lounged in easy-mode strolls—Hu Tao kicking zombie skulls, Chongyun fumbling with Chris— Tartaglia sneered at their leisure, slamming his settings to hard difficulty, his jaw set with a fire to snag the first-pass crown Liam dangled for the bold.

"No shortcuts—hard mode's my stage," he growled, picking Chris's route, his confidence a blade honed by battles real and virtual, unshaken by the notion that Digging's brutal cliffs might pale beside this mansion's lurking dread.

The opening flared—July 1998, Raccoon City's skies dark with portent—Chris, Jill, and Wesker barreled into the mansion, fleeing skinless hounds, Barry lost to the chaos, a trio whittled fast as gunshots echoed from shadowed halls.

Wesker's voice cut through, cool and sharp—"Chris, check it out," he ordered, shoving the rookie solo into the gloom, Tartaglia's grin twitching as he gripped the controls, ready to prove his mettle against whatever shuffled in the dark.

Then it hit—the zombie's iconic turn, a rotting face peeling into a grin, Bai Meisheng's smile reborn in decay—a jolt that didn't faze Tartaglia, though Chris, weaponless, bolted back, leaving the Harbinger cursing, "No gun? Pathetic start!"

He retraced to the hall—Wesker and Jill gone, a lone pistol glinting on the floor—and Tartaglia scooped it up, his bravado swelling, "Now we're talking," as he plunged into the mansion's maze, hard mode's teeth bared in thick-skinned undead and sparse ammo.

Zombies loomed—tougher, faster, their groans a taunt as bullets dwindled; headshots took a clip to down one, and his dagger's pitiful scrape barely dented their hides, a misstep away from a grapple that'd end him in a bloody heap.

The first hour was a slaughter—common zombies pinned him thrice, their claws raking Chris to a game-over screen, Tartaglia's teeth grinding as restarts piled up, each death a jab at his resolve in this unforgiving gauntlet.

Quitting tempted him—"Restart on easy, map the flow," his mind whispered—but the crowd pressed close: Liyue locals, Zhidong expatriates, even Fatui grunts under his command, their eyes a weight he couldn't shed, pride chaining him to the grind.

"For the Tsaritsa's honor, I'll not bend," he snarled, shoving doubt aside—retreat before his subordinates would brand him weak, a stain he'd rather die than wear, so he leaned in, plotting a warrior's workaround to this digital mire.

Bullets scarce, he adapted—guns stayed holstered unless cornered, his focus shifting to evasion, a snakeskin sway through corridors, weaving past lurching undead with a dancer's grace born of desperation and grit.

The bathroom loomed—a zombie lounged in the tub, water sloshing as Chris breached its peace; it flailed, slipped, and crashed, a farce Tartaglia ignored, snagging a key and bolting, "Not worth a shot," leaving it to stew in its damp disgrace.

Further in, allies emerged—Rebecca, Bravo's medic, pale but breathing, and Richard, reeling from a boa's venom, his plea for serum a mirror to Jill's tale, though Tartaglia's Chris bore it alone, no shotgun prize to ease his load.

Serum retrieved, Richard stabilized—he rasped thanks, pressing a walkie-talkie into Chris's hands before collapsing, a lifeline Tartaglia pocketed as he left Rebecca to tend him, his hunt for clues a solitary march through creaking halls.

Deaths peppered his path—snakeskin failed at tight turns, zombies pounced, screens faded red—but save points softened the blow, progress preserved, Tartaglia's curses morphing to a grudging respect for the game's relentless trial-by-fire.

A wooden shack beckoned, its air thick with rot—and there, the mutant boa coiled, its scales a dull sheen, the beast that felled Richard now gliding past Chris's boots, a languid loop that baffled Tartaglia's battle-ready stance.

"Is this thing blind?" he muttered, blinking as it ignored him—unlike Richard's fate, it slithered aimlessly, no lunge, no strike, a puzzle that clicked: "He must've provoked it—dumb move," a smirk curling as he sidestepped its idle sway.

He looted a mask from the shack's corner—step one of the basement's riddle—then slipped out, the boa's disinterest a boon he'd not waste, his mind already mapping the mansion's sprawl for the next piece, death's lessons sharpening his stride.

The crowd murmured—Zhidong voices cheered, "Lord Tartaglia's untouchable!" while Liyue skeptics scoffed, "He's just lucky"—their din a backdrop to his growing finesse, each dodged zombie a flex of skill over the chaos he'd once floundered in.

Hard mode's maze deepened—corridors twisted, doors mocked, and Tartaglia's knack for evasion bloomed; where he'd once burned clips, he now ghosted past, a Harbinger's poise bending this nightmare to his will, failure forging a predator's calm.

Lost hours gnawed at him—Liam's holographic remake dazzled, but its layout was a labyrinth; unlike Hu Tao's arrow hunts, Tartaglia circled, backtracked, died to unseen traps, the mansion a foe as cunning as its undead tenants.

A subplot brewed—Wesker's vanishing, Barry's absence—hints of betrayal Tartaglia sniffed out, his Fatui instincts pinging, "Something's off; they're playing us," a twist he'd chase once masks aligned, his warrior's gut hungry for the truth.

Emotional stakes rose—each save-point retry was a mirror to his Snezhnayan trials, frostbite and blood swapped for pixelated rot, yet the drive burned same: prove the Eleventh Harbinger bowed to no one, not gods, not games, not defeat.

Xingqiu leaned over Chongyun's shoulder nearby—"Chris is tougher than Jill, but Tartaglia's mad to skip easy," he quipped, while Chongyun fumbled, "I'd be dead ten times over," their banter a foil to Tartaglia's silent war, a lone wolf amid the cafe's chatter.

Hu Tao glanced from her VIP perch—"He's dancing with death over there," she mused, her own zombie kicks a breeze beside his tightrope, a flicker of respect for the Harbinger's bullheaded plunge into the abyss she'd tiptoed through.

Liam watched, points ticking—Tartaglia's grit fed the system, a torrent of defiance and rage, a vein richer than Hu Tao's jumps or Keqing's wins; this was the chaos he'd built for, a storm he'd stoke 'til it broke or crowned its king.

Tartaglia pressed on—masks two and three awaited, the basement's lock his prize, and with every sway past a zombie's clutch, he carved a legend: the Harbinger who walked in snakeskin, unyielding, a shadow no undead could snare.

***

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