A/N: So, I've had this fic idea for a while, and I decided to write it finally just cause I love this game so much! Not only does it take place in Spain, where I was an exchange student almost a year ago, but all the people in it speak Spanish! So, I decided to do one of those Dora the Explorer deals with integrated languages, except instead of being good and wholesome, this'll probably be mindrotting while being minimally educational. That's the goal anyway. So, this won't be just ANY Spanish because I speak fluently, you can expect actual Castillian Spanish (Yes, with the lisps and everything. I never wanted to do it, but it just became habit). Yeah... I'll shut up now before anyone really violent decides to hurt me.

Now, just a side note. Spanish dialogue will be in Italics and English dialogue will be normal. Any Spanish in normal text is meant to be butchered, mispronounced and otherwise raped to your heart's content!

Have fun and be sure to tell me what you think! It means the world to me!

Ch.1: For Heaven's Sake, it's Jack the Goldfish!

Leon sighed and planted his chin on his fist, and stared out the window, pouting miserably. He thought that if he was being sent to Europe, that it'd be somewhere cool with lots of history and technology, dance clubs filled with foam, bizarre fashions, men's purses that he could justify usingj ust by it being European,and stuff like that. He apparently had been decieved, because what he was experiencing was none of these things. Instead, he was stuck in a stinkin' SUV with a couple of stinkin' Spaniards, forced to listen to their crap music, which to him, seemed like the singers were making up the song with a very talented and patient guitarist somehow managing to keep up with all the insane rungs and random key changes.

He frowned at the Spaniards and returned to staring out the window listlessly. His brow furrowed as he tried to remember why in the world he ended up here. His face loosened as it all suddenly came rushing back to him, reminding him of when that skank Hunnigan barged into his life and brought his world crashing down around his ears in one fell sweep.

The day she ruined his life was a lovely sunday morning. Leon was sitting in his sunny kitchen enjoying the paper with his most favorite person in the world; Jack the goldfish.

His kitchen was sunny mostly because Leon couldn't afford blinds. Nor could he afford a newspaper. The one he was reading was his neighbor's paper, the same old fart he'd been stealing from for the past six years. His neighbor never really wised up, and was so convinced that there had to have been some sort of paperboy error, that he started getting two subscriptions, both of which Leon steals now. He sells the other paper to some hobo that lives in the "out of order" handicap stall in the bathroom on the lobby floor.

He snapped his paper open, accidentally hitting his fist on the doorway. "Ow! Shhhhhiiii-oot!" He cried, promptly sucking on his throbbing knuckles for a moment. Then he forgot the pain he was in and spontaneously decided that he wanted some breakfast, so he scooted his chair away from the kitchen table, smackingt he back of his head solidly on the wall behind him. Today, he apparently forgot that his kitchen was only about four feet wide. He sat huffing and puffing angrily for a moment, and suddenly threw his paper on the floor and took the table by the bottom, flipping it over and busting half of the stuff in his kitchen.

Breaking half of his belongings didn't seem to phase him much, judging by the way he dusted his hands off smirking like an idiot. After he had smirked sufficiently, he turned and took a step-and-a-half to his kitchen and grabbed a piece of stale bread off the table and stuck 'er in the toaster.

He sat back down in his seat and picked up his paper off the floor. Smiling, he turned to his most favorite person in the world, who happened to live in a fishbowl on the coffee table in his livingroom, which stood only three-and-a-half to four feet away. "Sorry, Jack. I didn't mean to scare you." Even if the fish didn't answer, he acted like it had, opening his paper and beginning to read. It took a few paragraphs before he remembered that he doesn't read the paper. So he threw the whole thing (minus the funnies, of course,) on his tinder pile in case he decided he wanted to kindle a fire in his broken oven to fix himself some dinner later on that evening.

He poured himself a cup of something that was probably coffee a week ago and glanced at the spot on the wall that once housed his super special wild songbird clock that used to chirp and twitter pleasantly every hour, on the hour. Its silhouette reminded him that he sold it for fifteen bucks to buy bread and peanut butter, the staple of his diet. No way he could live without his peanut butter toast. He shrugged, fixed his toast and put it in his mouth as he got his aviator jacket on, grabbed his mug of whatsit and headed to the door, assuming he was late to something. Even if he had nowhere to go, he figured he might as well look like he had somewere important to be, because Jack was starting to get upset with him lounging around the house all the time.

He stopped at his apartment door, saying his goodbyes to Jack by raising the mug and grunting incoherently through a mouthful of peanut butter toast. "Thee 'a latha dthack. I-uh bhee bhack thoo."

He stepped out into the hallway, not even bothering to lock the door behind him; he owned nothing valuable, (except for maybe his wild songbirds clock, but as we remember, he already sold that.) and he sadly knew it and acknowledged it. They could always steal Jack, but if they're as desperate as he hoped, they'd know that he's just another mouth to feed. ...However small that mouth is.

Anyway, by the time he'd reached the end of the hall and stepped into the stairwell, he'd already downed his toast and raised the mug to his lips to wash down all that peanut butter with what he hoped was coffee.

It was fractions of an inch from his gaping mouth when he suddenly caught a whiff of something foul. The smell stopped him dead at the top of the stairs. With his face contorted in an odd mix of confusion and utter disgust, he began carefully scanning and smelling his surroundings for the source of the stench. His confusion grew when he couldn't see or smell that godless sin of a smell that had darn near sent him into a coma. Having produced no explanation for his efforts, he proceeded carefully. So, as he walked down the twelve flights of stairs, he kept his nose wary, sure to note every smell and its source.

In his vigil of the world around him, he had overlooked the true culprit; overlooked it, in fact, all the way to the bottom of the stairwell.

When he arrived at the bottom, he stopped and surveyed his surroundings once more. His senses told him nothing, so he absentmindedly went to take a sip as he cautiously eyed the stairwell and stepped into the Lobby.

The questionable substance hit his palatte right as he entered, and it had the same effect as if someone had suddenly taken a cattle prod to his stomach right thern and there. He choked and forcefully spat the liquid everywhere, and gagged loudly. Clutching his stomach, he fell to his knees, and dry heaved a few more times.

When he had finally stopped retching he stood over the garbage can and stared at the mug's contents, as if debating whether or not to drink it. Upon deciding that it wasn't worth the pain, he poured it out in the trash. He paused again with the mug, hoping to think of a way of salvaging it. He shook his head and lazily tossed it in the trashcan, and went on his way.

After he had been to the park, visited three hotdog stands without buying anything, stood in the middle of a construction site for an hour, Impeded traffic, thrown pebbles at pigeons and helped a busfull of nuns cross a busy street, it kinda dawned on him that he REALLY didn't have anything to do.

Since sitting around the park was boring him out of his mind, he figured that it was pretty much the same thing if he went home and sat around there. He could probably curl up on the couch and watch the black and white fuzzies on the TV for a while. Maybe if he concentrated enough, he could see silhouettes of what his neighbors were watching. It was something like doing one of those Magic Eye thingies, except without the books, posters, color or sophistication. He could apologize to Jack for his unproductivity later.

As he was making his way towards the ghetto he called home, the Home-Ghetto as he fondly named it, his butt rang. Actually, it was his long, lost cell phone ringing-- thanks to the government for buying this phone and paying his bill-- and he took it out and answered it. "Hello?"

That was the first word of the conversation that ruined his life. Before he knew it, he was thrown on to a plane and whisked off to Europe. He didn't even get to say goodbye to Jack or find anyone to take care of him! Actually, he didn't trust anybody in his apartment complex, so he probably wouldn't have found anyone anyway. But, what would Jack do without Leon there, the poor dear! The very thought of leaving his beloved pet behind made his insides wrench with guilt and helplessness.

And that's how he ended up here, in the middle of nowhere.

"Joo're a long way from home, Cowboy." the stupid smelly Spaniard that wasn't driving suddenly commented.

Leon slowly turned his head away from the bland scenery to face this foreign idiot.

"Why are you here, really?" the other stupid smelly Spaniard asked. His accent was significantly better.

Scowling, Leon replied. "You know very well why I'm here!"

They just stared at him. Yes, even the driver stared back at him, hitting several small animals along the way.

Leon sighed. For once HE wasn't the idiot here. "My mission is to rescue the President's daughter!"

The two Spaniards snorted and chortled sarcastically, despite the nearly nonexistant state of sarcasm in Castellian Spanish. "All by jourself?"

Our hero had had enough. "Aw, shaddap! Remember that you morons VOLUNTEERED to be here, so cut the crap and cooperate, dammit!"

Leon's harsh words probably didn't register, judging by the way they chuckled to themselves and shrugged their shoulders.

Aside from the non-driving police Spaniard taking a leak at some point, nothing really happened.

Then, an undisclosable amount of time later, the car suddenly stopped and Leon's nose smashed against the window, TOTALLY ruining his day. Leon, with teary eyes from his brutal nose-smashing, looked at the driver questioningly.

"Here it is. The village is that way." Driver Policia said, pointing down a drab looking pathway.

"Hey, aren't you coming?" Leon asked, leaning in between the two front seats.

"Ah, eso. Pues, we have to stay here and watch the car." One of them lied. "Don't want to get a Parking ticket."

Leon rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, those are brutal, for sure. Would'nt want to get a parking ticket IN THE MIDDLE OF FREAKING NOWHERE!"

"See, Joo understand! Now get a move on. The President's Daughter is waiting!"

"Who the heck's gonna ticket you? A tree?" Leon screamed, struggling against them as they attempted to shove him out. "NUUU! YOU BAST--"

"Adios!" They chimed in unison before slamming the door in Leon's face.

Our hero stood up, dusted off his keester and secretly cursed the useless Spaniards that had assigned themselves to him. He vowed he would see them dead for their crimes.

Having cursed to his bitter heart's content, he headed down the drab pathway and brandished his piece of crap handgun. It made him feel powerful, being able to point and shoot whatever he pleased. He wished he could use it on them... or Hunnigan, but even he knew that wouldn't happen. It didn't hurt to wish, though. To fill the void of not being able to kill his least favorite people, he killed a couple of crows along the way. In hindsight, that probably wasn't a very effective or healthy way to deal with his rage, but then again, Leon is not known for his emotional health. His favorite person is a goldfish, for heaven's sakes!

Suddenly, his transciever began crackling and making that horrible naggy-harpie sound that Hunnigan makes when she talks to him. He shuddered and glanced down at the transciever at his hip. It conjured too many bad memories and emotions even considering answering the blasted thing, so he just turned the volume down and continued on toward the ominous-looking house.

The door was even left open for him! "Maybe these rural Spaniards will be more friendly than... the Policia." he thought to himself vengefullyas he entered the suspicious home without any guilt.

Was it just him or did the guy that lived there have emphysema or something? He turned the corner determined to preach this guy straight about the dangers of smoking. He spotted the fat Spanish guy standing in front of his fireplace, poking at the fire as if he had nothing better to do.

"Kay, dude, you really gotta lay off the smokes. I could hear your coughing from a mile away."

The fat man stared at him.

Nervously, Leon cleared his throat. "Um... Ahem."

He just kept staring.

"What? What is it? Is there something on my face?" Leon asked anxiously.

It was then the Spanish man spoke. "Hombre, que dices? Que no me he enterado de nada!" ("Man, what are you saying? I didn't understand anything!")

Leon had one of those forehead smacking moments. "Of course! You speak Spanish!" He chuckled and approached the man and clapped him on the shoulder. "Sorry, man! Here I come acting like the Ugly American, totally just BARGING in here, speaking English like I own the place!"

The man slapped Leon's hand off his shoulder. "No me toques, tontolabas. A mi no se me toque nadie." ("Don't touch me, you nincompoop. Nobody touches me.")

"Man, I really feel dumb. I can't apologize enough." Leon said, offering his hand to the stranger.

Eyeing Leon's hand suspiciously, he asked a question that, of course, Leon didn't understand. "Y que quieres que haga con la mano? Te recomiendo que la retiras, que no puedo ser responsable por lo que la pasara si no hagas lo que te digo." ("And what do you want me to do with your hand? I recommend that you take it back, because I can't be held responsible for what happens to it if you don't do what I tell you.")

"Oh, right! Spanish!" Leon said, switching to High-school Spanish class mode. "Ho-la! Cohmo essstas? Me llamo Leon. Yo soy de los Estados Unidos. De donde erres too?"

Fat man looked confused. "El que? Cual idioma era eso? Ruso o algo?" ("Huh? What language was that? Russian or something?")

"Crud." Leon swore. "I can't understand a word this guy is saying! Why the Hell didn't I pay attention to Senorita Sanchez back in high school!"

El Espanol watched Leon lament his total lack of lingual skill, however not understanding anything, and decided that this guy was enough of an idiot that Saddler would probably let him kill him, even if he hadn't confirmed the guy's identity. The Villagers were under strict orders not to murder just anybody who came by, seeing as this reflected badly on the village.

As Leon scolded himself, the villager turned away and reached for his hatchet...

To Be Continued... Maybe. Perhaps some positive feedback might change my mind... :Shameless selling out: