It’s Raccoon City, 1998 — all over again.
A never-ending, nightmarish version of Raccoon City and its surrounding areas, trapped in an Umbrella-created simulation. Beneath the city lies a massive Umbrella Bioweapons lab, and just outside the city stands the Spencer Mansion.
Everyone’s memories have been wiped; they believe they are simply trying to survive the outbreak. Death is temporary — victims are killed only to respawn later, often without any gear, injured, with fragmented memories.
Death doesn’t end anything here — it only resets it. A survivor torn apart in the street wakes again later, somewhere else in the city: stripped of their gear, freshly wounded, the memory of how they died already fraying at the edges. The simulation simply keeps running.
No one knows how long it has gone on. Days bleed into weeks into something longer, and the calendar always reads 1998. The outbreak never gets better and never gets worse — it just continues, an endless first night of the end of the world.
The characters don’t know how long they’ve been trapped in the city; all they know is that there is seemingly no way out. They’ve been together as survivors for a while now, with the apartment building and garage serving as their only true safe place — a barricaded haven to patch wounds, regroup, and brace for the next push into the dark.
Some faces are familiar: hardened operatives and survivors who once walked out of Raccoon City alive. Others have no record at all — ordinary people the simulation simply decided to keep. None of them remember how they got here, and none of them are aware that it’s a simulation.
Home, such as it is, is a fortified two-story apartment building and the mechanics’ garage bolted to its side — barricaded windows, reinforced doors, a generator that mostly holds, and just enough walls between the survivors and the city to call it safe. It is where wounds are patched, where supplies are counted and argued over, and where the group braces before each push back into the dark.
It runs on the people who refuse to let it fall: the ones who keep the barricades standing and the lights on, and the ones who hold the doorways when the dead come knocking. It is not a fortress. It is a held breath — and every survivor knows how quickly a breath can be taken away.
Raccoon City is a gore-soaked playground of aggressive mutants, zombies, and grotesque bio-monsters. Its streets, buildings, and flooded sewers are saturated with blood and viscera, and danger waits around every corner — monster encounters are common everywhere, in every location the survivors are forced to move through.
Beneath the city sprawls a massive Umbrella bioweapons laboratory; just past the outskirts looms the Spencer Mansion, where it all began. Between those two ends and the survivors’ barricaded apartment lies the whole ruined city — and every inch of it wants them dead.
Far below the streets sprawls NEST — a massive, state-of-the-art Umbrella bioweapons laboratory, the birthplace of the outbreak and the deepest, oldest secret in the company’s empire. Clean-room labs, specimen vaults cracked open from the inside, a cable-car spine descending into freezing dark, and incubators still full of things that are growing.
It is where Umbrella grew its monsters, and where the worst of them woke up. Reached only through guarded entrances far overhead, it waits at the bottom of the nightmare — mostly silent, mostly dark, and never quite empty.
Past the outskirts, high in the Arklay Mountains, stands the Spencer Mansion — the decaying estate where all of this began, built by its architect as a single enormous trap. Behind its oil paintings and long dining halls lie shifting walls, blood-locked doors, and emblem-keyed passages, all guarding the original underground lab where the T-virus was first cultured.
Hunters prowl the carpeted corridors, the gardens have turned carnivorous, and the oldest, saddest experiments still wander the basements. The mansion was built to kill — and it has never once stopped.
Umbrella’s full catalogue of bioweapons walks these streets, exactly as you’d expect from the Resident Evil universe. Shambling hordes of the infected. Skinless Lickers that hunt by sound. Hunters that cross a rooftop in a single leap. And worse things still — the lab’s finest work, set loose with no one left to call it back.
The simulation never runs out of them. Clear a block and it repopulates; put down one horror and another takes its place. There is always something in the dark, and it is always hungry.
The survivors are not alone in the loop, and not everything wearing a human face is on their side. Umbrella’s hand is everywhere — in the creatures, in the labs, in the cold logic of a city engineered never to let go.
And some of the things that walk these streets remember exactly who they are: a composed man behind black sunglasses who is nothing like he pretends to be, a brilliant scientist warped into something no longer human, mercenaries who treat every survivor as a payday. Not every threat in Raccoon City shambles. The most dangerous ones are still thinking.
The survivors believe they’re fighting toward escape — past the barricades, out of the city, free of the nightmare. They don’t know the city has no edge: that the streets fold back on themselves, that the lab below and the mansion beyond are part of the same closed design.
Maybe there’s a flaw in the simulation. Maybe a door its makers forgot. Maybe the only way out is to remember what was taken from them. That question — is there any way out at all? — is the one thing that keeps them moving.
Members can get F.C. Marrow’s Personal Content Pack, available on our Discord, and play it the way he does.
A dark, endless, horror-survival world where terror and survival walk hand-in-hand.