A/N: Well, here's another story I've been working on. I'm very, very sorry I haven't updated Black Wings in more than two months, so I decided to make it up to you readers by putting this up. I should have another BW chapter up in January, and one for this story. As always, reviews will be much appreciated.
Two men, both clad in black suits, were walking down an empty street.
"Please, Christopher, think what you're doing," said the younger of the two, who, despite having a slight limp, kept in pace with his companion.
"I have thought about it, and that's exactly why I'm doing it," answered the older one, Christopher, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "This world is filled with impure minds, impure souls. Man thinks that he has conquered everything, that nothing is out of his control, out of his grasp. I'll show them how mistaken they are, John, but I have to do it quickly, or risk not doing it at all; my time is running short," he added, with a grim smile.
John stopped walking, and took a deep breath, as if steeling himself. Christopher halted too, looking curiously at his friend.
"I will not ask you to be part of this," he said, throwing the butt of his cigarette on the pavement, and crushing it with his foot. "Though I'll admit, I'd feel a lot more confident if you were at my side."
"You don't need to ask. I'm in," sighed John, extending his hand. Christopher clasped it, and they shook hands, both grinning darkly.
"Well then, we begin!" exclaimed Christopher, taking out a cell phone and dialing a number. When the person on the other side answered, he simply said, "Release it," before closing the lid on the phone. He looked up to the clear, starry sky, and muttered to John,
"Beautiful night, isn't it?"
"Yes, very beautiful," replied John and the pair started walking again, but this time, they had a destination: Triton Pharmaceuticals.
Little did the inhabitants of the city know this would be a night nobody could ever forget.
Crash!
The apartment's door blew open, banging against the wall. The person on the other side walked through, and, with the same lack of care, closed it, rattling the door frame.
As he walked towards the bedroom, he deposited his leather jacket on a chair, and, without stopping, pressed the "PLAY" button on his answering machine. He heard the device beep, and, in a generic female voice, tell him the he had no new messages. Once inside his room, he groped in the darkness for the light switch and, when he found it, turned it on. It shone so brightly compared to the ones on the street that, for a moment, Leon S. Kennedy had to close his eyes to shield them from its sudden attack.
Not even bothering to remove his clothes, he fell on the bed, wincing a little. Even after six months, the injuries from Spain hurt still. The doctor's final verdict had been: three broken ribs (Leon had Saddler to thank for that), a slipped disk (Courtesy of Ashley and her penchant of jumping off ladders, instead of actually using them), a concussion (Saddler again), two dislocated fingers, and a hairline fracture on his femur, plus a dozen or so cuts and bruises. Still, he was relishing the fact that he didn't have anything to do for the rest of the day, or the rest of the week, for that matter.
It had taken quite some time, not to mention pulling some strings, to get a vacation. His superior had denied the time-off request several on several occasions until Leon had literally stomped down to the man's office and presented him with an ultimatum: either he got a week to rest, or by the end of the day the Secret Service would have one less agent. Upon seeing that Leon was not joking around, his superior had relented; after all, who would want to have the loss of a national hero credited to them?
His co-workers were shocked at this out-of-character reaction, not to mention his superior; Leon was normally calm and collected. Hell, he barely spoke at all. But he had a reason for wanting a work-free day, or two, something Leon would never tell his co-workers: he needed to sleep. On the rare occasions when neither his job nor the paperwork that came with it kept him awake, memories and nightmares from Spain made sure that he didn't close an eye, and, despite how much he tried to ignore it, with each sleepless night his temper grew shorter, his concentration faltered more and his movements became slower.
Slowly, he closed his eyelids and settled for a good night's sleep, the first in many months. And then, his consciousness departed from his body, letting the subconscious take charge and allowing his body and mind to rest. And for once, his dreams were far away from Spain.