This story will be made up of many flashbacks.
Contains m/m slash (Morgan Lansdale/Clive R. O'Brian) and may contain other couples. Other Revelations characters will make appearances.
Rated M for possible sex scenes. If there's any NSFW scenes, it'll be when Morgan and Clive are younger. I've developed their personalities, traits, and stories more since we weren't given hardly any information about them in Revelations. This is especially shown when they're younger.
I'm a brand new writer so please excuse any awkward writing.
6 years had gone by already. What felt like 20 years was only 6 to Lansdale. He sat every day in his prison cell surrounded by cracked, concrete walls. In his cell there was a very small bathroom with a toilet and sink in the back, an old wooden desk where he had his books stacked, and a single prison bunk.
He always tried to clean the best he could, but it was difficult with no cleaning tools. He usually wiped the dust with the sleeve of his orange jumpsuit. He cursed the prison for not giving him more than two pairs, especially when they only get washed twice a month. He had read about hell, and this was it.
The only light in the cell was a small bulb hanging from the ceiling, which was usually turned off unless Morgan was reading. Even then the light was dull. Natural light shone in from a very small rectangular window with thick iron bars defending it. It was high up, so high that even Morgan couldn't see out of it, so it had no use to him.
He had the choice to go out into the courtyard, where there were other prisoners out getting some fresh air and exercising. Yet he chose to stay inside. He didn't want to see other people. A confrontation was not what he was worried about; he may have been old, but being in the military for over 30 years of his life didn't go to waste. He wasn't as muscularly toned as he used to be, but he still had a good, healthy physique for his age. He hears a lot about prison fights and simply does not want to get involved.
There was also a cafeteria, in which Lansdale didn't bother to go to either. A prison worker would just slide the food in through the slate in the door. He once called Morgan "spoiled", and if he were with him at that very moment he would've smacked the boy across the face. Was he not taught to respect his elders?
Though spoiled really was a way to describe it; Morgan's diet consisted of more high-end food that the prison served. While the other prisoners were getting pig slop grade food, Morgan was getting a slightly decent diet. It's a rule that the elderly get more "quality" meals due to them usually not being as healthy as younger men, but the most fancy thing Morgan ever here got was a turkey sandwich.
The most enjoyable thing in his prison life was coffee in the morning. The coffee was surprisingly decent, which was great because he didn't think he would stay sane without it. Back before his arrest, there was absolutely no day Morgan went without drinking at least one cup of coffee. Coffee was all Morgan asked for. Well, demanded.
He leaned back on his cot, slightly cringing as he laid on the mattress. He could feel the springs though the mattress, which was not good for his aging back.
Right when he was getting the least bit comfortable, he heard a echoing knock on the metal cell door. He snorted, getting ready to make a sarcastic comment to the knocker, but the man spoke before he did. "Mr. Lansdale, I have some news for you."
"...Then let me hear it." Morgan said with his eyes closed in annoyance.
He heard paper being slid out of the envelope, then the man cleared his throat before reading it aloud,
'June 2nd, 2011
Return to sender, recipient Neil J. Fisher, deceased. Date of death: March 23rd, 2011.
Our condolences,
-Terrasave HQ.'
"This is the letter that was sent back to you when you attempted to contact Neil Fisher about two months ago. That is all." The man slowly walked away, not knowing the amount of shock that was on Morgan Lansdale's face.
Neil was dead. He let that sink through. His most favored agent, and his legacy, was dead. The F.B.C.'s chances of revival were gone. Everything he worked for in life. He finally had it all after Terragrigia, but then that mutt...
He unclenched his teeth and took a deep breath and shook that out of his mind. He was furious. How did Neil die? He thought Neil wasn't responding to him just in case someone was watching him, or he was too busy trying to contact Alex Wesker. Did she do this to him?
Neil was incredibly loyal to the F.B.C., and even more loyal to Lansdale. Neil was the only enjoyable form of contact he had. In fact, Neil was like a son to him. That's why Morgan chose him as his successor, because he knew he was a great young man and he knew he would make him proud. But he was wrong, because Neil died before he could.
He had laid back down since he sat up in surprise when he heard the news about Neil. He rubbed his forehead, his head was beginning to hurt.
Now he was once again, alone. Neil was the only person who visited him ever since he got arrested. He would come a few times a week even, bringing him books and cigarettes. He mentally kicked himself for reminding himself about cigarettes. He would kill for one right now. He had no one else to contact to bring him some now that Neil was gone and his distant family cut him off. There was only one person, and he'd go to hell and back before asking him for anything.
Despite the aching thoughts in his head, Morgan fell asleep.
The next morning, Morgan was awoken to the sound of banging on the door. He hesitantly got up, and dragged his feet over to the door where the man was waiting with his coffee. He knew the smell immediately. He would have been more pleased if he didn't sleep so horribly. His back was more sore than usual, and he kept waking up periodically then had trouble going back to sleep each time. His usually sharp mind was in the gutter.
He took the tray that had his breakfast along with a newspaper on it, which he didn't care for. He placed the tray on the wood desk. He would sit on the wood chair that went with the desk, but whenever he sat on it it felt like it would break under his weight, and he'd prefer not to embarrass himself by falling on the floor and injuring himself.
Though it wasn't a television, a newspaper was nice to have so he could keep up with the day's events. Not knowing what was going on in the world bothered him. He sipped his coffee and read the newspaper. God, he felt old.
He folded up the newspaper so the edges lined up perfectly, and set it on the table next to his cot. He laid back down, visibly uncomfortable.
Thoughts kept bouncing around in his head. He was beyond craving a cigarette. He smoked daily, but would rarely chain smoke unless he was really stressed out. During the weeks that the events of Terragrigia and The Queen Zenobia went on he would smoke at least 10 cigarettes a day. It was a bad habit that he didn't like but it helped soothe his stress and headaches.
Groaning in annoyance, he got up and went over to his desk where was a notebook and pen. He ripped off a small piece of paper and began writing. When he was done, he went back over to his cot to rest, waiting for the man to bring his lunch so he could ask him to send the note to someone.
He felt desperate. He hated himself for doing it, but he needed something to keep him from going absolutely mad. Maybe if he pretended to be insane he would be transfered to a mental hospital instead. The care may or may not be better, but at least there's entertainment and human interaction.
Most of the time he loved his privacy, savored it actually. But now he was basically craving for someone to talk to him. With his best agent dead and his family cut off he had no one else to go to. He wouldn't admit it, but he finally felt lonely.
The man arrived with his lunch and Lansdale told him to send this letter to the address written down.
The guard rolled his eyes and nodded, as he was not allowed to decline letters from prisoners unless they were threatening. Lansdale took the food and went on with his day as usual. Eat, rest, and think.
Clive R. O'Brian. Ex director of the BSAA, retired 6 years ago after the Queen Zenobia incident. After he retired he would mainly stay at home but he would be out and about sometimes. Though he doesn't work directly at the BSAA anymore, he still works as an advisor. He loves visiting his agents, who are always happy to see him.
He misses his job a lot, but he feels too guilty to take it back. He sent his own men on suicide missions to expose one person. In the end, it was probably worth it, but those thoughts would most likely plague him for the rest of his life.
It was a typical Saturday morning, slow and lazy. He went outside to check the mail which always arrived early in the morning-perks of living close to the post office.
In the lot of mail he found some bills, a few pieces of personal paperwork, and a letter.
He walked back inside while looking through the lot of mail. He set all the papers on the table but kept the one letter written to him. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw where it came from.
'Clive R. O'Brian
(address)
Sent from Washington State Penitentiary'
No name was written on it, but he knew immediately who was contacting him. He hesitated to open the letter, expecting a long piece of writing from Morgan about everything that happened. An angry letter to blame him for putting him in jail. His stomach sunk, and he opened the letter only to be greeted with one simple sentence.
'Bring me some goddamn cigarettes.'
He blinked. That was not what he was expecting. 'Bring him cigarettes? That's all he has to say to me? After all these years and everything that happened?' he thought. He had to smile. It was probably an excuse to get him to come talk to him. 'It's been 6 damned years, Morgan. I was wondering when you'd contact me. I was beginning to think you sincerely never wanted to see me again.'
He knew the man would still have at least some pride. Morgan would never ask for anything, but it's obvious the man wanted company. Clive smiled again. He went into his room to throw on some decent clothes and left the house.
"Morgan Lansdale, you have a visitor."
He opened one eye. "Really?" he said without thinking, in genuine surprise. He knew who it was. He didn't think he'd actually come-especially not that fast.
"Yeah, I'm pretty surprised too." The man snorted.
"Shut your damn mouth, boy." Morgan got up and tried to straighten his jumpsuit, frowning at the wrinkles. He looked horribly disheveled. 'What will he expect? I've been in prison for 6 years. I'm not going to walk out in a damn tuxedo.' It wasn't that he wanted to look good for O'Brian, but he enjoyed looking clean and professional for anybody. But it's impossible to do here. He missed his suits. He missed being able to get clean hair-cuts, and missed being able to trim his beard to his liking.
He shook his head. The guard outside unlocked and opened the door, allowing Morgan to step out. Usually it's protocol for the guard to handcuff a prisoner while escorting them to the visiting rooms, but over the years he learned that Morgan was to be wary about.