The F.B.I were keeping their hand pretty close to their chest. At this point, all Leon - all Scott - knew was that he was an asset, an ace in the hole. What kind of game they were playing, what kind of play they would make, was out of his hands.
All he could do was wait.
Part of him was starting to regret signing up. At least on the outside, he'd have been in control. He could have joined Claire and her brother, or just taken Sherry and gone to ground. But he didn't know where the Redfields were, and the little girl was in protective custody now, same as him.
They were all just part of the statistic caused by Raccoon City. The lost and disenfrancished plus four.
At least he was safe. The apartment where they'd set him up was a far cry from the one he'd rented while attending the academy. It was clean, spacious and fully furnished. He had a bed now, and not a mattress on the floor. He had a refrigerator, so he didn't have to live on takeout and tinned food.
Leon Kennedy had worked his ass off to become a cop. Scott Clark was the one enjoying the pay off.
He dropped the grocery bag on the counter, unpacked eggs, onions, butter, ham, and put a skillet on the stove. He scraped a fat wad of butter out of the tub with a knife and flicked it into the pan. Seconds passed. It melted into a bubbling drizzle that cascaded across the metal. He cracked the eggs, chopped the onions and ham, and threw it all in a bowl. Once it was thick and golden, he poured it onto the sizzling metal.
One omelette. The Scott Clark Special. Better than Kennedy had ever managed.
He carried it through to the living room and set it down on the coffee table between the two leather sofas, plunking the soda in his other hand beside it. Then he reached under his seat for the locked metal strongbox.
He had the key on a chain around his neck. He never took it off.
Once the lid was off, he started to unpack the components inside. He didn't know how many times he'd gone through this ritual, how many times he'd completed the collection, assembled them and hidden them away in another hidey hole in his "safe" apartment. There were enough guns in the walls by now he was getting worried someone would find them if he ever got robbed.
Then again, maybe the sight of a Glock 17 or a SIG P226 embedded in the drywall might make them wonder whose house they were stealing from.
This was going to be the pinnacle of his little armoury. A Beretta, chosen sidearm of the U.S. military. He slid the firing pin he'd acquired with his groceries out of his pocket and set it in its place next to the loose barrel. Now he had everything he needed to make it work.
He spooned a couple mouthfuls of omelette into his mouth, took a swig of Pepsi, and made a start.
He'd always had a morbid fascination with guns. One of the reasons he'd decided to become a cop in the first place was the sidearm. His dad had tanned his hide more than once for touching his piece, even though he'd just been pawing at it in the old man's holster.
Guns weren't toys. They were real. They were dangerous. And they were fascinating.
How could something he'd mimed with his fingers as a kid take a life? So quickly? So brutally?
The Beretta was a dream model. Effortless to construct. A couple of minutes, and a few squirts of oil, later and he was slotting the slide into place over the barrel.
He looked it over from every angle. His best work, if he did say so himself.
He hadn't fired at a living target before Raccoon City. But he'd put clean shots through the heads of so many wooden targets at the academy range he'd almost gotten sick of it.
Load, chamber, aim, fire. Rinse and repeat.
He slid a magazine into the new pistol and jerked back the slide. It was a comfortable habit to feel himself slipping back into. That self-taught weapon's discipline. It had kept him safe in the past. No reason why it wouldn't do the same for him now.
He targetted a piece of pointless modern art nailed to the wall, imagined punching a hole through it with hot lead. Another thing his dad would have tanned his hide for. One of Jim Kennedy's rules: never point a gun at anything you don't plan to shoot.
He popped the clip and set it back in the box.
He'd become a cop, just like his old man. He'd rolled into town, first day on the job, head full of rules, regulations and righteousness, and hit the ground running.
He'd clocked up twenty kills before he'd even reported in at the station. Every one had been a headshot. They had to be. Zombies didn't fall down holding their guts in like people did when they took a bullet to the stomach. They didn't go into shock from a shot in the shoulder or thigh. They just marched on, hungry, eyes blank, faces sagging, arms reaching...
He blinked, trying to shake the slideshow reel playing in his head. Each image was seared by a spark of muzzle flash into his brain.
But that was over now. No more zombies. No more monsters. And soon, no more Umbrella.
And where did that leave him? In hiding, where the company's vengeance couldn't find him. Under a rock, like an insect.
He smirked. Chris and Claire had it covered. They probably had Umbrella on the run by now.
He was a rookie cop, or had been. Fighting corrupt corporations wasn't his job. Never had been. His fight, his nightmare, was over. Time to dream.
What reason did he have to go back out there anyway?
Revenge? For Ada...
That name. That woman. Still so much a mystery, and yet...
Even knowing she'd been working for them from the beginning, he felt like he knew her. Like he'd known the real her all along.
She'd wanted him to believe she was the agent, cold and hard, embittered. In the end, that had been the lie.
The concern on her face as she'd bandaged the hole in his shoulder. The sadness in her voice when she'd told him she couldn't care about anyone but herself, like she regretted that she couldn't love him the way she wanted to. The way she'd died trying to save him from the monster, the Tyrant, that had chased them into the lab.
He remembered holding her, crushing his lips to hers, her body going slack in his arms as the life passed out of her. And he remembered screaming her name so loud it felt like he'd bring the world crashing down around them. Screaming until his lungs ached and his throat was raw and his eyes burned with tears.
Had he loved her? Had she loved him?
Do people throw their lives away to save someone they don't love? Does losing a stranger feel like you're being ripped in half?
He tapped the gun against his temple. It barked. A bullet whistled past his face and punched into the ceiling. Hot brass burst from the breach and stung him on the lips.
He yelped. It tumbled from his fingers. Then the sofa toppled backwards and threw him off.
He kicked along the laminated wood until his back hit the wall. His heart was bouncing pinball crazy off his ribs. He put his head to the wall and just focused on breathing. His lungs ached with every inhalation. He felt like he was about to have a heart attack.
Oh Jesus. I cleared it. Didn't I?
He hadn't cleared it. There'd been a round sitting in the chamber. He'd popped the clip and left the goddamn bullet in. Stupid, careless, dangerous rookie mistake.
Bet your old man would be real proud to see you now. Sitting under your rock playing with your toys.
He stood up and righted the sofa.
I thought I wanted this. I thought I wanted to escape, but...
He looked at the gun, wisps of slate-grey smoke still tethered to its barrel.
There's your wakeup call, son.
He couldn't do this. This nothing wasn't him.
There's another way. They gave you another option.
He scooped up the Beretta, affording it the respect it deserved. He flicked the safety on and checked the chamber. Nothing. Just as he'd thought, but it paid to be sure. He set it back in its box and closed the lid.
He rubbed his palms into his face, still breathing slow and deliberate. That tingle of shock wasn't gone just yet.
He put his fingers to his lips. He could feel the burn where the casing had hit him.
It was like she was trying to remind him. That last kiss would stay with him, forever.
Tomorrow, he'd be Leon Kennedy again. Tomorrow, he'd take his life back.
-x-x-x-x-x-
A/N: It occurred to me that I'd never actually written a back story for Leon before. He's never been one of my favourites, in actuality, but I thought I needed to put something in the way of a history to him. That's what I've done here, in and amongst confronting Leon's trauma.
I figured that not all of these could be necessarily negative, although Leon's pathology does seem to be about running into dangerous situations in the name of a dead woman who kissed him once. I guess you could call that negative.
Enjoy. Let me know what you think.