Authors Note: This will probably be a departure from the usual Resident Evil fanfiction, while we will get to the horror and things you come to expect from the Resident Evil universe, my writing always takes things to a more human place. This story will deal with the aftermath of intense trauma, how humans cope with the things they've been through, as well as other possibly upsetting themes. If you prefer your stories heavier on the horror and deeply rooted in the Resident Evil universe, this might not be for you. But hopefully you'll give it a chance, and enjoy!

For visuals, this original character - Ana - would have a pic base of Kate Beckinsale.

As slow burn as this story is, I have huge plans for it and you can expect to see many of your Resident Evil favorites appear. These events take place a handful of years after the events of Resident Evil 6 and Resident Evil: Vendetta.

"When I was a kid, I used to think about what kind of man I'd grow up to be. I never thought my life would turn out this way."

- Leon Kennedy, "Resident Evil: Vendetta"

She hadn't always been a country girl. Montana held her roots, it was her birth place and where she grew up, but the second she'd had the chance to escape what she saw as a boring and very small existence she'd taken it. Packing her bag and heading for the bright lights and the big cities. In her short time on earth, Ana Ashmore had travelled much of the country. A nomad, never putting down roots, never staying in one place for too long. She'd seen Los Angeles and New York, New Orleans and Dallas. Wherever there was a big city full of opportunity, she'd taken it. Working wherever she could get work, she'd tended bars, been a dental assistant, helped out at shelters and had even been a dancer here and there. Not ballet, mind you. She didn't have the dedication or probably even talent for that kind of dancing, but she did have a naturally slender figure, blessed with long legs and a head of dark hair that seemed to have a mind of its own. No, the dancing she'd done hadn't been her proudest moments, but it had paid her way and she was very much of the mindset that if you had an asset at your disposal, you should use it.

She tried not to pay too much attention to big wide world. She didn't own a TV and from what she saw on televisions in bars and such, all she was missing was a terribly bad time. Some time, over the last 8 or so years, some really weird shit had started happening. You couldn't not notice it, what started out as rumors and scary stories seemed to creep ever closer to home. The world had become a place of strange outbreaks, of watching who you talked to and choosing your routes more carefully. The dead coming back to life and roaming the earth? Were they living in a horror movie? For the longest time she'd refused to buy these stories, thinking it was propaganda, some government conspiracy to get people to pay more taxes or something. But the stories never went away, the people on the news never stopped telling them. From time to time she'd meet someone that had had an experience with it first hand.. so they said. She'd listen to what they had to say and hope with everything she was that they were talking nonsense. She'd heard about Raccoon City, the old man that lived opposite her at the time assured her it was just the Russians. But in an age of social media and gossip spreading faster than plague, she wasn't sure.

Until one day, as she walked to a subway in New York after dark and came across a man eating a dog. She'd stood, frozen, unable to comprehend what she was seeing until the pale, stone eyed figure had turned his attention to her. "Sir, are you okay?" she'd asked in a nervous and hopeful voice. He wasn't okay. He'd lunged at her, teeth and clawed hands making a play for her flesh. She'd never screamed in her life, but she did that night. Before she knew it, she was on her back and the snapping, stinking creature tried to bite. She'd held him back, somehow, screaming for all she was worth. Only by the grace of God, or whoever, was she able to keep him at bay long enough for two passing guys to tear the rotting corpse from her. They'd yelled, called him a drunk, and then it had attacked them too. One of the men was bitten, and she'd watched in horror at the shower of blood that poured from his neck. Then as quickly as it began, two gunshots rang out and the walking dead hit the pavement, finally really dead.

It was a blur, men in uniform surrounding them. One of them helping her up and asking her lots of questions. She was taken to a truck and she was examined by a medic, it had all kind of happened around her, so dazed and shellshocked by the series of events. She didn't know what happened to the other two men, but she did hear one more gunshot. It had shaken her to her core. She'd thrown up, and while the medic had given her water and clean bill of health, she overheard words like 'Contained' and 'Outbreak'. She was told the man was sick and a wanted criminal and she should go home and try to just carry on, though she was given a number to call if she felt traumatized. Traumatized? That was a word for it.

The next day she'd packed up the few things she'd owned and she returned to Montana, to silence and solitude of her parents ranch in the mountains. Away from cities, away from people, away from outbreaks and monsters.

As it turned out, her return home couldn't have been better timed, as her ailing parents had let the ranch run in to a state of disrepair. She set to fixing it, she became pretty handy with a hammer and nails. Swapping dancing in a G String for repairing fences and brandishing a power drill in some figure covering overalls. There were no bright lights out here, but there were no monsters either. That year, her father passed away in his sleep. Old age and a lifetime of working in fields getting the better of him, leaving just her and her ailing Mother. They'd buried him under a tree down by the river, just her and her Mom. Peaceful, like death was supposed to be. The memory of what had happened in New York never went away, it woke her up at nights in a cold sweat. But she tried to forget. She tried really hard. Up there in the mountains they were cut off from the world, no TV, no signal on a phone. Who knows what was going on in those big cities, if she lived out her life never knowing she'd be just fine with that. But you know how life never lets you forget.

It was storm season and the thunder rumbled through the night, lighting up her bedroom in intervals. She was used to it, she slept through it for the most part. But a particularly loud crash had her sit bolt upright in bed, her long deep mahogany hair clinging to her neck and chest. Nightmare? She couldn't remember, but the boom of thunder had been so loud it had shaken the house. Her room lights up with another blinding flash and she pulls the covers back, freeing her legs and slipping out of bed. Her bare feet hitting the wooden floor, she tucks the curtain back and peers outside as another flash lights up the fields and mountains beyond. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nevertheless, she was thirsty and she grabs her robe, creeping out of her room and briefly checking in on her bed bound mother before heading downstairs. She gets a pitcher of water from the fridge and pours a glass, listening to the rain hit the windows as she gazes out of them. A little shiver runs down her spine and she shakes it off, putting the glass in the sink and moving to head back upstairs, she flicks out the light and as she does, something catches her eye out of the window in the back door.

Hesitating, she steps back to get a better look. A different kind of light was flickering in the night. Not lightning, but the golden glow of fire. She couldn't see what was burning, just the dancing glow lighting up the brow of the hill. Her hands fumble with the lock and she pulls open the door, stepping onto the porch and wrapping her arms around herself to brace against the cold wind. She narrows her eyes, looking closer, then a strike of lightning lights up the sky and she sees the outline of what looked like a mast of some kind. A mast? Her mind races, and it hits her as suddenly as the rolling thunder. That was the tail of a helicopter.

"Oh, shit!" she exclaims, rushing forward then remembering she was barefoot and in a nightie. She quickly turns, running back into the house she grabs a flashlight, pulls on some boots and a jacket over her nightie, then she bolts out into the night. Rain batters her and her torch and the lightning guide her way. She runs down to the fence and climbs it, sprinting as best she can in boots in the mud. Down to the river, then up to the crest of the hill. When she reaches it's top and looks down, her heart begins to beat faster. The helicopter was a mangled mess, broken in half just about. Fire still raging despite the rain. For a moment she didn't know what to do, just searching the wreckage with her flash light from afar. There had to be people, at the very least a pilot. "Hello?!" she calls down to whoever might be there. Who was going to answer?

Biting the bullet, she makes her way down. The heat from the fire was incredible, even from several feet away she could feel it searing her skin. Thunder rolled overhead and lighting lit up the scene the closer she got to it. She could see the outline of a human being in the pilots seat, but he was shrouded in flame. Long gone from this world. She bends double, feeling like the air was knocked out of her, tears stinging her eyes. That poor person. "Hello?" she calls again once she's gotten her bearings, "does anybody need help?" she doesn't know what else to say. Making her way around the side of the wreckage, she spots another body, this one had a shard of metal sticking from his gut. She creeps closer, crouching beside him, she presses her fingers to his neck. Nothing. Blood pooled in the water and grass under them, he'd bled out. Hopefully it was quick. She gazes at the body in sympathy, offering up a prayer to.. whoever. Picking herself up, she discovers two more bodies on the other side, both of them still in the main chamber of the helicopter, both of them with terrible injuries sustained in the crash. She wipes tears from her eyes, though mixed with the droplets of rain it was hard to tell what was what. She sits, in the mud, staring at the scene in front of her. It only then really occurs to her what they're wearing. Military? It didn't look like typical military wear, not that she was an expert. But they were definitely dressed for a fight. She swipes her hand under her nose and pushes herself up, getting a closer look. They had emblems on their bullet proof vests but she didn't know what the letters meant. And they had knives strapped to them.

And guns.

She's searching for some kind of ID when a groaning sound reaches her ears through the din of thunder. For a moment her heart stops, New York flashing back into her mind. Was it one of those.. things? She whips her torch around, searching for the source of the noise. Then she spots him, face down a good few feet from the wreckage, slightly obscured by the trunk of a tree. She makes her way cautiously over, he wasn't wearing what the others were wearing. He had on a leather jacket with stripes on the arms and what looked like jeans or dark utility pants. But there was a holster strapped around his leg and hip, and dirty blonde hair soaked through and obscured his face. There was blood pooling in the mud from a wound to his head. "Sir?" she asks, crouching down, still wary. She reaches out and puts her fingers to his neck, feeling a pulse. Not strong, but there. Placing her torch down she tucks his hair back, examining the wound, then checking him over for others. There was a tear in his jeans on his thigh and a shard of metal protruding. She had to rouse him, it was the only shot she had at getting him back to the house.

With that in mind, she begins talking to him, asking him his name and where he's from. Gently tapping his cheek. She uses every ounce of strength she has to turn him onto his back, he was a big guy, and once she has him on his back she finds nothing but a plain shirt and more holsters. He was armed to the teeth. A knife, another large looking gun. She's running a hand over his stomach to check for wounds when his hand suddenly snaps up and grabs her wrist, making her jump and yelp.

He doesn't speak, just groans. But his eyes are open and blinking against the rain. "I'm just trying to help you, you were in an accident.." she says above the din of the storm. "Can you move?" He doesn't respond, knocked for a loop quite clearly. "My house is over that hill, if you can move, we can get you dry and.. get that fixed up." She glances at his leg. He closes his eyes, tightly. His hand releasing her wrist at last, he had a hell of a grip. She pulls her hand back and nurses it for a moment, "please, we have to get you out of this cold, or hypothermias going to kill you before infection does."

Infection. That word seems to bring him around. His eyes open again and he really focuses on her.

"I am too old for this shit." he rumbles as low as the thunder. He didn't look that old, but then, it was dark.

"Ten minutes.. that way.." she points to the brow of the hill, "if you can walk."

He grunts in response, turning on to his stomach. She pulls back, getting to her feet, offering him a hand that he doesn't take as he hauls himself up. He nearly topples as soon as he tries to put any weight on that leg, and shes swift to his side, propping him up. He growls, reaching for the metal shard and trying to pull it out. She stops him. "You could bleed to death! You don't know if thats gone through an artery.. lets get back to the house. I have things there." Again he grunts, but he seems to accept the plan.

What should have been a few minutes, took them almost an hour. Limping inch by inch back to her house. When they get through the door, she helps him to a chair in the kitchen and sheds her soaking wet coat and boots. Leaving her just in her sodden nightie. If he was more alert, she might be more concerned about the fact it was practically see through and clinging to her body, but he wasn't. She gets him water and a towel. Helping him shed the leather jacket and unbuckle the holsters, they end up with a pile of leather and guns on the kitchen table. "Real one man army, huh?" she murmurs as she dabs the wound to his forehead with a clean cloth. He doesn't answer. She might consider him rude if it wasn't for the fact he'd just been in a helicopter crash that had killed everybody he was travelling with. "Do you remember what happened?" she asks quietly, getting his forehead and face cleaned up, she rummages through her quite substantial farmers medical kit, finding something to bandage him with.

"Lightning.." he says gruffly, "lightning hit us." It was all the answer he was giving and all she was pressing for, for now. She nods, fixing a bandage around his head, then going to a drawer and fetching scissors. "The fucks that for?"

"Your jeans." She answers flatly, "I need to get above that shard to tourniquet, and we can pull it out."

He looks displeased, but lets her do it. It doesn't take long to slice through the material and to get a good look at the metal protruding through his skin. She gets up again, heading to a small room to the side of the kitchen, she returns holding one of her fathers belts. Fixing it around the top of his thigh.

"Now, I just need something to grab that with.." she sighs, looking around for inspiration. Then he suddenly grabs the shard with his leather gloved hand and yanks it right from his thigh. She lets out a yelp, covering her mouth with her hands. "Jesus!"

"You got any whiskey?"

She blinks, stammering, then hurrying to her feet and grabbing a bottle from the cupboard. She hands it to him and he takes a long.. long drink. Then pours some on the wound. He hisses and growls as he does, then drinks some more. She watches with her arms folded around herself, who was this insane person in her kitchen?

"I.. uh.. do you want me to stitch it?"

"You can do that?"

"I can.. I mean.. I've stitched the cows."

He chuckles, and gestures to the wound as if to say 'be my guest'. She nods and gets the kit out of the medical supplies. As she works, he drinks. Once she has the needle threaded, she kneels beside his thigh, looking up at him.

"I don't have anything to numb it."

"I'll live."

"You want something to bite on?"

"This'll do just fine," he waves the bottle.

"Okay.. well, tell me if you want me to stop."

"Just do it."

She nods and, biting her lip, begins her task. He doesn't flinch. Was he even human? Stupid question.

"So, you got a name?" she asks around the half way point with the wound.

"Do you?"

"I asked first."

"I'm the guy with the badge."

"You're a cop?" she glances up at him. He laughs.

"Not today."

"Ana.. my names Ana." she looks back to the stitches, working slowly, making them neat.

"Ana huh.." he sighs, taking a swig from the bottle, "another fuckin A name."

"What?" she frowns.

"Nothing... Ada, Ashley, Angela.. I meet a lot of women with A names."

"Oh." She wasn't sure what to make of him, already bragging about conquests was kinda skeezy.

"Work.. not.. well.."

"Oh." She says again.

"Ana short for something?"

"Annalise." she replies, getting another stitch done then looking up at him, "what about you, you gonna tell me your name or do I just have a nameless man bleeding all over my kitchen floor?"

He smirks. "Leon."

"Like the professional hitman from that movie?" she muses.

He looks momentarily amused. "Kinda. Except I don't usually take out people."

She swallows, glancing at the pile of guns and knives.

"I take out monsters." he adds quietly, punctuating it with a swig from the bottle.

She looks up at him curiously, then ties the final stitch. "All done.. Leon." she says softly.

He looks down at the stitched up wound, seemingly impressed. As she gets up to go wash off her hands, he peels off his sodden t shirt and gets to his feet, testing out his leg. "Usually I have to let this shit heal on its own."

She glances back at him, drying her hands.

"You get impaled a lot huh?" she laughs, then notices the long scar running along his abdomen, like something had tried to slice him in half once. And another on his chest, and ribs. He drains the last of the bottle.

"Just another day at the office."

"Well.. before you get back to getting impaled at the office, can I offer you a hot shower and somewhere to sleep off that whole bottle of whiskey?" she gestures.

The look he gives her makes something inside her do a little flip flop. He looked so.. weary. "My fathers clothes should fit you too, if you want something.. dry. And y'know, with two legs." she adds with a chuckle.

"That sounds good.. thankyou." his gruff exterior crumbles for a moment as he drags a hand through his fluffy, drying hair. He seemed like a man that had seen way too much.

"C'mon." she gestures, leading him up stairs which is a slow process, his leg clearly giving him more trouble than he wanted to let on. But that was okay, they take it slow and when they reach the upstairs she shows him to her fathers old room. Full of hunting and farming things. Clothes. A bed. They lived simple lives out here, self sufficient for the most part. She wasn't even sure her fathers old truck even started anymore. "Bathrooms across the hall." She gestures, standing in the doorway and leaning slightly against the frame.

"Your fathers not here?" He asks absently, perching on the edge of the bed and rubbing his shoulder, a bruise was starting to form over a large area and she was a little worried his injuries were more extensive than just the leg and gash to his head. At the question, she bows her head for a moment, arms folding across her chest as though guarding herself from the still raw nerve that was losing her daddy.

"He passed away, a little while ago," she says quietly. He sighs, bowing his head too.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay.." she stops herself from saying more. Why would she open up to a guy she just met? A guy that just crashed a helicopter into one of her fields. "My bedrooms down the hall, and next door is my Mom.." she motions, "shes pretty much bed bound and fairly deaf, but still.. should probably warn you she's there."

He nods.

"Do you need anything else?"

"Do you have a phone?" he asks. Her eyebrows shoot up, of course he'd want to contact someone. A whole squad of people dead, he probably had family, a wife.

"I.. uh... don't actually." She says awkwardly and he looks at her like shes from another planet. "No signal out here, and it's too far into the mountains for a land line. The nearest one would be..." she puffs her cheeks, "about 25 miles away, Lazy J motel is pretty much our nearest neighbor unless you head for real civilization."

"Jesus.." he mutters, glancing around himself like he just realized he was living in the dark ages.

"In the morning I can try and get my fathers truck started, we can drive out there. I should have thought of that earlier, you must have people concerned."

"For me? Not really.." he murmurs, "but I do need to report back to my superior, let them know what happened." He looks back to her, "nobody else made it huh?"

"I checked them all.." she shakes her head, "I'm sorry. They were your friends?"

"I only met them today," he replies quietly, "hazard of the job, people come in and out of your life so fast you barely get a chance to remember their names."

She wanted to ask him what he did, why he was in a different uniform – or not even a uniform. The thought crossed her mind that maybe he was a prisoner, but they wouldn't have had a prisoner armed to the teeth.

He groans, rubbing his head, and she draws in a breath. "Ill let you get some rest.. if you need anything that isn't a phone, I'm down the hall."

"Thanks."

With that, she turns her back on this man that fell from the sky and returns to her own bedroom. Realizing only once she's closed that door that her white nightie was made see through by the rain and now she was drying out she looked a hot mess.