A/N: So, here we head into the first chapter of the actual game. It's fun to write. Naturally. And it's going to loosely tackle 4 with a flair for humor and blood and guts.

Thanks for reviewing and reading!

Keeps me writing!

Slainte.

….

II: OBSCURITY

"If I could I would always work in silence and obscurity, and let my efforts be known by their results."

― Emily Brontë

Rojo la Muerte, Spain – 2004

Central Police Department – International Communication Division

It was never a good idea to be the international government agent looking for help in a foreign land. It wasn't. It was painful and awful. It was usually met with disdain and distrust. And a good deal of discomfort for all parties involved. It involved a lot of red tape and hoop jumping. It involved waiting for one hand to wipe the other in terms of government agencies. But it also meant you got to spend your Thanksgiving, not with family, but in the middle of a rural forest with two guys in a jalopy headed toward answers about the President's missing pride and joy. The first Daughter was M.I.A. and they were beginning to suspect kidnapping. Politically, it made no sense. There was nothing that intel could turn up that said there was a power play happening here in the middle of nowhere.

In this particular case, our hero found himself being escorted through the rural dredges of eastern Spain by two very irritated police officers who, clearly, thought they were better served using their skills elsewhere. Leon couldn't blame them. This was, without a doubt, a total pain in the ass assignment. For everyone involved.

The little jalopy carrying him and his erstwhile companions rolled to a stop at the end of a narrow bridge. The driver, a sallow faced man who resembled a ferret in countenance, turned back to grin with crooked teeth at him. In a heavy Spanish accent, he intoned, "This ees it for you, cowboy. We'll wait here for you."

Leon glanced over the rickety bridge toward the village. He lifted a brow. "You sure you don't want to come along? Sitting in the car in the middle of a rural forest in the middle of nowhere? That's the start of a bad slasher flick."

The officer laughed and shook his head at him. "Don't you worry about us. You? You have your trouble up ahead yes? Small villages don't often take to….outsiders."

Awesome. So he was outnumbered and up against angry locals. Super. He might as well just give up and go home.

With a sigh, Leon slipped from the back of the jalopy and pulled his communicator from his pocket. It made a crackle of noise and showed the face of his contact in the Field Security Operations (FSO) office: Ingrid Hunnigan. "Agent Kennedy, I see you've arrived on schedule. Thank you for being punctual."

Amused, Leon studied her pretty face. She was smooth coppery skin and sleek dark hair in a no nonsense bun. The little glasses perched on her nose were adorable and made the face. "No problem. Subjects name is Ashley Graham right?"

"That's correct. She's the newly elected President's daughter. She was on a holiday in Paris with family. She went missing, somehow, even under protective detail. At first, the friend admitted they'd slipped their guards to go out with some boys. But she went to get some beers and came back to find Ashley missing. She swears Ashley wouldn't just run away. Intelligence found traces of her in Spain. And a further tap into the underbelly there shows us that she was likely kidnapped. We don't know who and we don't know why. But the area doesn't seem ripe for a political takeover. So, speculation is limited at this point."

Leon nodded, crossing the narrow bridge and listening to it groan and protest beneath his weight. "Gotcha. I'll check out the local flair and start asking questions. Hopefully we're just dealing with a girl that got bored and ran away."

"It never hurts to hope. Keep your head down, Leon. Let's try not to make too big of a wave there. Insinuating a kidnapping when there might not be one won't reflect well on a new President."

"Roger. I'll be good. Kennedy, out."

At the far side of the bridge, Leon paused to scan the terrain. It was fall leaves in varying shades of gold and orange and red. It was endless trees over the long, long horizon of forest and uneven craggy mountain. It was small little houses that could be seen in the line of trees with chimneys pumping heat into the cold, clear air.

He struck up a cigarette and stood for a moment, looking at the face of the girl in the picture he carried. She wasn't exactly pretty. She had the President's awkward ears sticking off a crop of blonde hair and big blue eyes. Her long thin face was matched with a stingy little mouth and a pert nose. It wasn't her fault, logically, that he was spending his Thanksgiving here hunting her down. It wasn't. Or maybe it was.

This mission? It was punishment. He knew it. It was punishment for his last run in with command. He'd told them to sit and spin when they'd suggested he submit for psychological testing following a suspect apprehension that had resulted in the other man dead. He didn't need testing. He needed to come up against subjects NOT carrying AK-47s in hostile terrain. They'd run, Leon had chased them, and the ensuing fight had cost Leon some blood and the other man his life.

It was unfortunate. It was the job. And it HAPPENED sometimes.

But command didn't care. So, they'd stuck him on a desk pending an investigation and made him file paperwork. He'd played desk jockey and wanted to poke himself in the eye with a stick to get some relief. When this shit detail had popped up, he'd been happy to take it. Even though he knew it was just to get him out of the way.

He was fairly sure his father had pulled some strings here to get him assigned to the President's side. That was fine. He had no problem doing search and rescue. It was better than suspect apprehension. He'd be escorting a twenty year old girl and not fighting with hostiles. So, it was better. If a bit boring.

He'd come strapped, of course, he never went anywhere without packing. But it was unlikely he'd have to draw down here. The locals might not like him but he wasn't likely to need to shoot any of them for a search and rescue mission. He was probably going to find Ashley Graham in bed with some Spaniard trying to avoid her Daddy's powerful reach. The worst he'd have to deal with would be a weeping coed pissed off about her Daddy being the most powerful man in the western world.

Chic drama didn't need a gun….most of the time.

He shifted the photo in his hand and tucked it back in his jacket. The jacket was good brown leather, the kind that holds up for years and feels like butter beneath the stroking hand, it was lined for winter with Sherpa and felt like clouds of warmth on his skin. He wore moisture wicking black beneath it and fatigues to match. The jacket was left open enough for him to reach inside and draw down from his shoulder holster. He had a spare piece holstered on his thigh and a combat knife hooked to his belt.

His black boots, steel toed and waterproof, were crunching along the dead and dying leaves as he moved through the forest that was preparing to head toward winter hibernation. The feel of shifting seasons and the end of fall hung thick and cool around him as he moved. It was a good day for football and pumpkin pie and turkey. Sadly, he'd had bad black coffee and a stale muffin before he'd left the police station that morning.

No turkey and cranberries and stuffing for Leon S. Kennedy.

It was a sad day.

A dilapidated porch hung off the first house he came to. It was a two-story farmhouse with peeling paint and rotting gutters. The siding had started to peel and crack and the brick was faded and charred in places from the chimney. The cloudy gray sky shone down on a roof that was in desperate need of being shingled and he could hear the sound of a mooing cow somewhere in the distance.

Cows.

He was in rural Spain on Thanksgiving about to deal with cows.

It was a sad day.

The door was open. So, Leon called into the open frame, "Hello? Anybody home?"

He knocked and poked his head in, glancing around. There was no one and nothing inside but some peeling blue wallpaper and the smell of a fire. The crackling and snapping of wood lured Leon into a dining room complete with a chipped and scarred wood table and chairs. A staircase wound off to one side, inviting the viewer to the second floor. The main room was sparse, with a rocking chair and an old braided rug in fading red, but clean. There was a man tending the fire with a wrought iron poker.

The snap of the wood hungrily devoured the fresh piece he added, jiggling the remainders with the poker to ignite the embers beneath.

Leon was ITCHING to pull his pistol. He didn't even know WHY honestly. There was no threat here. Just a guy enjoying a fire on a cold day. No threat. But the hair on the back of his neck stood up anyway. Instinct? Or paranoia?

He pulled the picture from his pocket, "Excuse me? Sir?"

Ignored, Leon tapped his foot a little. With a sigh, he stepped up beside the man at the fire. The craggy-faced gentlemen turned an irritated expression to him. His graying beard surrounded crooked and yellowed teeth. It seemed unlikely that oral hygiene was all that important in the rural outposts of the country. When they were cultivating crops and animals for slaughter, he doubted they worried about whitening their grills.

"Sir? I'm sorry to bother you and I'll get out of your way in a second here. But I'm looking for this girl. Have you seen her?" Leon offered the picture. The man glanced at it, looked back at his face and cursed at him.

The Spanish he cursed was heavily slanged. The dialect was butchered and rough. Leon, fluent in Spanish, still only caught about three words of it: Get out, bastard. That was mixed in there. There might have been something about cutting out his heart as well.

Slightly overkill based on the situation. But maybe rural farmers didn't like American's up in their business. Or maybe? This guy knew more then he wanted to share.

Leon scoffed a little and returned, mockingly, "Sorry I asked, man. Shit."

He turned to leave and the world skewed sideways. The poker swung at his head, swiped with a metallic whoosh, and missed him as he rolled away. A split second but it explained the feeling on the back of his neck. Not paranoia. Instinct.

As he rolled, Leon ripped his pistol from his thigh holster and gained his feet in a fluid motion. He aimed down his arm at the advancing farmer in his dirty vest and shirt. "Buddy, don't do it. Freeze!"

Nope. He kept on coming. He hefted the poker and had spittle dripping down his beard. He looked insane. He looked hungry. And he looked like the type of guy who killed you and kept your corpse in a room to pick off pieces to cook and eat. Texas Chainsaw shit.

Leon tried again, "I said freeze, you idiot! Take another step and I will put you down."

The farmer grinned, like a madman, and lifted the poker over his head. And then? Did he freeze? Nope. He charged right at Leon with the poker over his head like a sword about to strike.

Leon drilled him, just once, right between the eyes. The gun bucked, it was loud in the quiet morning. The body was thrown back and skidded over the floor to smack into the table. The table shuddered from the assault.

And the quiet morning returned.

Leon shook his head and touched his communicator. He kicked the body with his boot to be sure it was dead and said, "Hunnigan?"

"Leon? What's up?"

"I encountered a local. He turned hostile so I had to neutralize him."

"….didn't I say NOT to make waves there?"

"Sorry. But seriously, the guy just fucking freaked out on me. I think somethings happening here, Hunnigan. I think this guy knew something about Ashley Graham. He just tried to kill me to protect it."

Hunnigan was silent on her end. Finally, she said, "Take all necessary measures to secure the subject."

"Roger. Kennedy, out."

He clicked off the communicator and heard the coughing wheeze of an engine firing up. Curious, Leon stepped to the window beside him and glanced out. There was a big, old farm truck being revved a little down the lane where he'd come from. Three men hopped in the back. They were holding pitch forks and shovels. They were shouting to each other in Spanish. He could pick out pieces again: Bastard. Intruder. Traitor. And heart. They kept yelling about, he was sure of it now, cutting out his heart.

"…Jesus Christ, man. What the fuck?" Muttering, Leon turned and hurried up the stairs beside him. On the top floor, a low lying roof had him ducking a little as he determined there wasn't much here but a chair with a book, a window, and shotgun.

There was an old double barrel shotgun just sitting on the floor beside the dusty blue chair. Leon snatched it up, cracked the barrel, and found it loaded. "Awesome."

He was no longer alone. The room where he'd come from was full of men. They were shouting and calling to each other. Leon figured there were at least six of them down there.

It wasn't good odds.

Turning, he glanced at the window. It was only two stories. He could take the fall. He'd trained for it. And he was NOT going back down the stairs to be impaled by inbred farmers with pitchforks. No thank you.

Leon backed up three paces and ran at the window. He tucked his body, hit the brittle glass, and burst out the other side. It shattered, tinkling in a shower around him as he fell. He rolled when the hit the ground, absorbing the impact through his back and hips. It stole the breath and hurt, no lie there, but he was fine.

Getting to his feet, Leon hurried toward the narrow path toward the village. He kept his pistol in his hands as he moved. He wasn't going to make it though, it seemed, as three men emerged from the house after him.

Turning, he put down the first two with clean shots to the face. The third grabbed for him, he felt the skim of fingers on his face, and Leon gave him an elbow in the face for his efforts. As he reeled back, Leon spun a side kick into his chest and followed it up with a round to the face that put the man on his ass in the dying fall leaves.

Three more of them were coming. One ran like an Olympic javelin thrower. He cut loose the hatchet in his hands like he'd win the gold. It flipped, Leon dropped, and the hatchet cleared the air a quarter inch from where his head had been. From the couch, he shot the hatchet man in the chest and watched him go down in a burst of blood.

The second man made a grab for him. Leon threw his leg out and foot swept him to the ground. As the man went down, he was finished off with a shot to the back of the head. Holstering the pistol, Leon gripped the pitchfork on the ground and rose.

The final man made a mad, stupid, desperate rush for him. He got himself run through for the effort. Leon shoved as the man grabbed and spitted him on the tines of the pitchfork with a grunt. The man was pinned to the tree behind him now and gasping, bleeding, and STILL trying to kill him.

Leon studied him, breathing heavy in the cold air. It gusted out of his lungs in a white puff of breath. He said, "Where is the girl?"

And the dying man on the tree laughed. He laughed. His eyes had bled red around the pupil. They were red and bloodshot and agonized. Leon tilted his head, like a curious dog, and volleyed his eyes over that desperate…hungry…face.

Hungry.

He touched his communicator, "Hunnigan?"

"Leon? Everything ok?"

"Not exactly. The locals are trying to make me dinner and that's not a euphemism. They want to gut me and serve me with paella. Can you get me any information on potential outbreaks or viral threats that might have occurred anywhere in the region?"

Interested, Hunnigan answered, "Of course. Is it viral?"

"Can't say yet. But this guy dying here with me isn't entirely human. Not anymore."

"I'll get you what I can. Keep me updated."

"You bet."

Leon stepped forward again. He tried the command in Spanish. "Donde esta la niña?"

The man coughed, spewing blood all over his front. He cursed again in Spanish. And then? He whispered, "….Lord Saddler…"

And he died. His eyes fixed and dilated and stared.

Leon touched his communicator, "You hear that?"

"I did." Said Hunnigan, "I'm on it."

"Good. I'm gonna go radio silent while I move here. I don't need the extra possibility of feedback alerting them."

"Sounds good. Be careful."

Leon moved down the path and picked his way through the trees. He strayed a little into the woods to avoid being on the direct walkway. There was a sound behind him that drew his attention. It was a whining yelp.

Curious, he picked his way toward the noise. There was a bear trap snapped shut on the leg of a struggling white…wolf? Leon stopped, hesitated, and thought about turning back. But the wolf barked weakly at him and he just…couldn't. So, at the risk of losing his hand or throat, he still eased forward to help the poor thing.

"Don't eat me. Ok?"

It looked at him with eyes glassy with pain. It may, also, have been judging him a coward…a little bit.

Leon knelt and grasped the rusty trap between the jagged teeth. He pried it open and the wolf yelped and pulled its bloody leg free. It backed up from him, eyeing him wisely. Leon let the trap snap closed again and stared back.

They were nose to nose in the cool fall air.

Finally, it…licked his face. It brushed its wet tongue up his cheek and then it barked and escaped at a run through the trees.

Amused, Leon rose from the ground and wiped his face.

He continued on toward the village, careful to avoid direct contact with the main path. The way was clear now and finally ended in a gate that was open and inviting. He stepped through and heard the sounds of the village that waited beyond the rise.

Stepping into the trees, Leon tugged out his binoculars to scan in toward the center of the tiny village. The whole thing was maybe ten houses and a church. The church had a steeple with a big bell that was likely to signal evening and morning mass. There was a bonfire happening in the middle of the town square.

It crackled and popped and licked the sky above it with tongues of flame and curls of smoke. He could smell the distinct scent of cooking sap and pine. His binoculars scanned over…and found the body hanging in the fire. It was spitted through the chest on a big hook like a fish. He zoomed in further.

"Holy shit."

It was one of the dead cops that had brought him. The one who'd been pissing on a tree when he'd left them. Jesus Christ.

He was deader than disco now. His body was roasting there like a hotdog on a campfire. What the fuck was happening here?

Taking the path of least resistance, Leon moved through the back alley of the village behind the narrow row of houses to one side. He kept his Magnum in his hands as he walked. The shotgun on his back bumped as he moved. There was the cluck of chickens as they scattered under his approaching gait.

He had a feeling he needed to get in that church. It was the most likely place that Ashley would be held. It was secure and clearly protected. Although Leon didn't hold out much hope that she was still alive. They'd tried to eat him. He was assuming they'd done the same, or worse, with the President's bumbling baby girl.

He made it a good distance without being spotted. Stealth was his thing after all. And then he crossed by the barn. There was a farmer inside hauling hay. He saw him, froze, and shouted a warning to the rest of the town.

Leon shot him in the face for it and turned. He fled through the barn and into the closest house. Slamming the door, he moved to bar it with the closest piece of furniture. He shoved the dresser nearby in front of it and moved.

No hesitation, Leon went straight up the stairs while the town assembled outside his door. He could hear them PLANNING. He could hear them shouting. He could hear them cursing him. Kill the bastard, they yelled, kill the intruder. Stop the AGENT.

He froze.

The Agent.

They knew he wasn't just some guy. They KNEW he was an agent.

No time to worry about that. Leon hit the top of the stairs and kicked the window beside him. It tinkled and shattered. He stepped through onto the roof top and picked his way carefully across the slick shingles.

Judging the distance, he leaped to the neighboring roof. Behind him, the town was coming through the broken window after him. He could leap to the ground again, but that was worse than where he was. Because there were twenty fucking town members down there waiting for him.

He made a stand, turning to face the ones coming across the roof after him. They weren't graceful. They kept slipping and sliding. He shot the first one in the knee. It went down and tripped up two more behind it. They all scrambled and slid and fell down.

In tandem, they slid off the slanted roof and hit the ground beneath with grunts and shouts of pain. The fourth one eyed him, wielding a big butcher knife. She was fat, short, and had on an apron stretched over her enormous breasts and belly.

Leon tilted his head at her. "Don't be stupid. Go back the way you came."

She didn't. She wielded the knife and came at him. He waited, feinted left, felt the blade swish by where he'd been and spun back on her. He came up under her arms with his shoulder, caught her wrist, and hyperextended her elbow. She shouted and he elbowed her in the face for it with his other arm.

As she reeled, Leon jerked the knife clear of her hand, and broke her arm over his shoulder. She shrieked even as he kept on rolling the movement and put her in a hip toss. Up and over, she flipped in the air and went off the roof to hit the ground below.

The next one made a grab at him from behind and he threw an elbow, ducked and spun left, and stuck the butcher knife in their belly as he went. He ripped it up their sternum as he rose, opening their body like a zipper. And there was the hot spill of blood and intestines on the roof around them now. It smelled like fart in the already acrid air. Stomach gases had a tendency to do that.

Leon drove a kick into the mess of his attacker and sent them off the roof to join their friends below.

He couldn't do this all day. He had to get to the that church. He was outnumbered but they weren't nearly as well trained as him. There were just more of them. He needed to fatal funnel them and take them out.

He started to leap off the edge of the roof to the ground below and the early morning air was suddenly filled by the sound of a sputtering engine. He waited, listening. And there was the ripping roar of it now. The roar of it.

A chainsaw.

Through the window where he'd come from, a man was emerging. He was tall, fat, and muscled. His naked arms were roped with muscles beneath his filthy shirt. He wore an apron like a butcher over his bloated middle that was stained with brown flecks of blood. His face was covered in a burlap sack soaked in blood. One eye was visible within the confines of the burlap. It was bloodshot and rolling in madness.

The chainsaw man let out a whooping laugh that scared the piss out of him and froze his blood. He raised the chainsaw above his head and trumpeted his battle cry into the steely gray dawn. It the was moment he knew that this was WAY outside of his pay grade. There had better be a HUGE raise in his future.

Leon rolled the shotgun to his shoulder and dropped to one knee.

"Let's do it then! How brave are you, you ugly fuck?"

The chainsaw man ran at him and Leon blasted him in the face with the double-barreled beauty that he held. It bucked, it roared, it blasted death down with a warrior's kiss. And it blew blood and chunks of skin and burlap…but it didn't stop him.

He didn't even care. He stumbled a little and then he…brayed like a jackass. He laughed and giggled and kept on coming. Leon blasted him in the chest this time. The heavy round hit, it exploded with blood in a steamy wash, and he staggered again. But he didn't go down.

And he was too close now. He was four feet away.

Leon turned and grabbed the edge of the roof. He leaped down and started moving.

The town converged on him, laughing and grabbing for him. He spun kicks and used the shotgun like a baseball bat to beat them back. He smelled fetid breath and tasted fear.

He was afraid. He hadn't been afraid since Raccoon City. He was afraid now. And it tasted like pennies and ash in his mouth.

He scrambled, he went down, one was on his back and grabbing for his hair. Leon drove the shotgun butt into its face and sent it sprawling. He staggered back to his feet and ran toward the path on the far side of the village. There was a set of double doors barring his path and a small guard house to the right side.

Leon threw himself inside it and kicked the door closed.

There was nothing more than a table in the room with him, so blocking the door with that wasn't going to help anyone.

The door rattled under the assault of thirty fucking people. He was done. He was dead.

The chainsaw was still roaring from somewhere outside.

Leon reloaded his Magnum and aimed at the door to wait. His hands were…shaking. He was shaking. Annoyed, he dug down into his guts for the will to die, at least in theory, not pissing himself.

The door was thrown open finally and hit the far wall. He blew away the first face that appeared. The .50 caliber round threw the man backward into his companions. Leon fired into that doorway until he ran dry.

When he was out of bullets, he pulled the combat knife. The first one through got it straight to the face. He ripped it clear, spun out and kicked the second into the wall. When another grabbed for him, he dropped down and caught them in a tackle. He tossed them up and into a pile with the other two. The small house was full of people now. He was dead.

There was no way out of it now.

And the chainsaw man was in the doorway.

Leon stabbed the first face that lunged for him and elbowed the second. The chainsaw man giggled loud and high. He advanced into the open door frame.

Leon sliced a throat and took a spray of blood to the face for it. It winged over his forehead and saturated his hair. He kicked the pumping mess into the chainsaw man. Staggering, the chainsaw man brought that horrid weapon down and drove the teeth of it into the offender.

Blood sprayed, the weapon ROARED, the chunks of flesh and muscle were thrown around like horrid confetti. Leon ducked to avoid being soaked in it. The chainsaw man flicked it and sent the remainder of the mutilated corpse to the ground in a red wash.

So it was one on one now, Leon thought desperately, surely he could do this. He could do this. He could DO THIS. Palming the knife, Leon braced, breathing fast and low.

The chainsaw man watched him, that mad eye rolling in the soaked and bloody burlap.

"COME ON! What are you waiting for!?" And maybe his voice squeaked and broke a little. Maybe. A little. Or not. Maybe it was super masculine and deep and not at ALL afraid.

Maybe.

The chainsaw man moved toward him, the bucking, grinding, growling death machine clutched in his hands throwing blood like paint around the small room.

The sound of heavy machine gun fire split the air.

Leon saw the bodies beyond the door start twitching and jerking and flopping with it. The chainsaw man brought the weapon down on him and Leon dropped to one knee, feinted right, and drove that combat knife up into that beefy chest.

Inside the attack range, the chainsaw was useless. Leon tucked himself into that fat belly and twisted the blade in his hand, searching for the heart. The chainsaw man roared and released his weapon with one hand. He backhanded Leon in the face so hard that it threw him to the side.

He slid along the floor and hit the wall. His head smashed into the table leg. His vision went red at the edges.

He heard the toll of the church bell somewhere in the distance.

He tried to get up.

He heard the roar of the chainsaw again, close, so close. It was coming for his face.

Leon felt the fear close off his throat...and the lull of the church bells chased him down, down, down into the waiting dark.