The moment it happened, Leon's mind had gone into autopilot. Shoot, dodge, shoot, reload, repeat process. Until he had come out of his almost unconscious stupor a little worse for the wear, but otherwise unscathed, the blood soaked ground underneath him littered with ragged, lifeless bodies, limp parasites, and various disembodied limbs. But he didn't care about that now, didn't care about the fact that all of his vital signs were pointed to the fact that he was about to collapse right then and there from exhaustion, didn't care that there was a long cut running up his right arm, making any movement of it an annoyingly painful process, but none of that mattered at the moment. What did matter was the small, limp body that he knew lay somewhere among the piles of-whatever they were, as they sure as hell could no longer be classified as men, and come to think of it, neither could he. It took him a moment to realize that his knees had given way beneath him, and that he had grabbed the nearest arm to keep himself propped in a vague semblance of an upright position, and glancing down, he muttered a soft curse before gathering the last dregs of his strength to heave the body off to the side.

Leon had never had feelings for Ashley one way or another, never taken the time to actually slow down and look at her, which perhaps was a good thing as any wasted time, was time for the enemy to move, more time for them to be killed. However, among the unshaven faces and half-rotted flesh, her light blond hair shown out, almost like a beacon in a haze of murky waters. She looked, to make all matters worse, like an angel. The angel that any presidents daughter should be, the one that should have been home, safe and sound by now, the one, that he had failed to save.