Ch. 1: Fear or Paranoia?

Nighttime.

But there was no way of knowing this in the red-tinted, steaming, sultry boiler room. Other than the hissing that emanated from the machinery, there were no artificial sounds to be heard. The only sign of life was loud, harsh breathing with the edge of someone who didn't know he was doomed.

The man in question stood in the middle of the room, his midlength brown hair unkempt around his head, his stony handsome face sheened with sweat. He was all alone in this strange, unfamiliar, and unhelpful environment, but he'd dealt with this before. This was nothing compared to the necropolis he'd been through 10 years ago.

That thought changed in a flash when a shadow leapt out in front of him. It could've been a man, if said man had 4 knives for the right hand's fingers. It cackled a hellish, domineering laugh, and the brown-haired man followed his only instinct: running.

"What's the matter, Leon? Not undead enough for you?" The voice taunted him with the same low raspy hell that the laugh owned. Leon took it into his mind to run faster, his bare feet pattering against the cold, unyielding floor.

Then he ran into something. Something that was 10 feet tall, trench coated, fists the size of 2 times his head, and a bald head that looked like a white boulder with a just as expressive face. But here was one difference: the Tyrant was smiling. And when it opened its mouth, a roar didn't come out, but the voice of the shadowy demon did. "Expecting someone else?", it taunted, and the giant started shrinking, claws developing on its right hand fingers. A ratty red and green striped sweater appeared over the trenchcoat, and then replaced it completely.

But the head and face was what freaked Leon out the most. Although it stayed bald, the head started to develop terrible burn marks that looked like he had once burned in the fires of hell. The tip of his nose started to droop just a bit, so that it curved out instead of staying straight. A wide-brimmed, brown fedora was now topping of the hellish demon-man. "You ain't in Raccoon anymore, city slicker", the voice rattled, and the claws sprung out at Leon, raking through the skin of his right arm, wounding it…

…and waking him up with a start. He was still sweat-stained, his bare chest glistening in the early morning sunrise peeking through the window.

"Whew…", Leon breathed out in his shaky deep tenor. "It was only a dream…"

But it was then that he felt something leaking out onto his arm. He turned it around so that he was looking down it, and saw a big splash of blood starting a few inches below his waist and stopping in waves near the elbow. Through the red, he could see 4 gashes of deep scarlet, and knew that the cuts had followed him out of his dream.

But how is that possible? Where is this coming from?

Gently and slowly, so as to not wake the still-sleeping, beautiful brunette woman on the other side of the bed, Leon went to the small bathroom across from the bed and grabbed a washcloth from the shower rack. Soaking it with fairly warm water from the sink, he rubbed it against the wounds, the water coming down his arm a pale red as the dried blood washed off. When he was finished, the 4 claw marks still stood out on his arm. No way Angela was gonna let this slide, no way at all.

Figures. First I have to mow down the undead in Raccoon City, then the parasitic psychos in Spain, more undead in Harvardville, and now…haunted by a nightmare man-demon?

Strange to him? Somewhat; somehow the undead seemed a lot worse than a dream demon.

Scary, definitely. Leon thought that after Harvardville, he'd never have to look paranormalcy in the face again. Sure, he'd spit in its eye, but he was getting rather tired of it.
He set back out to his room to get on some street clothes, still trying to get the nightmare man out his mind.

Scraping his claws along the metal handrail, the same dream master ran unnaturally fast, catching up with a certain woman in a red dress, swinging her way with a metal grappling hook through the bowels of the boiler room. He could feel her fear emanating off of her figure in waves, although she was taking great care to not show it.

He knew who got through to her. So he decided to be that person. He could now feel the hair coming out of his head, the fedora disappearing, the burn marks receding, the sweater replaced by a t-shirt and bomber jacket. The clawed glove was still there, just as a surprise. He flicked one of its talons, and a split second later, the grappling hook broke, and the woman fell right into the disguised demon's arms.

"Leon? Let's get out of here." Her voice was throaty, satiny, almost a purr, and the demon had to take a good effort to not laugh out loud…at least, for now.

"Sorry, but following a lady's lead isn't my style", he said mockingly in his normal voice, the voice she didn't expect. He raised the claws, ready to strike, but the woman bent herself out of his arms, and kicked him hard in the leg as she landed.

The demon man groaned in mock pain, but quickly recovered and swiped at her…just as she'd pulled a gun out and fired a shot off. The bullet pinged off of one of the razor fingers, and buried itself in her ankle. She began to fade away; the pain must be waking her up. But just before she dematerialized, she smirked and said, "Bye, Freddy."

Freddy was left standing in front of where she had been just a moment ago. "How sweet…a woman after my own heart…" He sprang out the blades on his glove, finishing with a high growl, "Hope she likes it dark!" Laughing manically and evilly, the boiler room lost its red color, growing darker, the shapes of buildings, skyscrapers, shops, and houses springing up in its place, the sounds of painful moaning ringing in his ears.

Freddy couldn't kid himself…he wasn't just in Raccoon City, he practically owned Raccoon City.

The undead and the survivors of them were his.