Chapter 8

"It's a surprise, Leon, that you have survived my first examination of your abilities," Mr. Death spoke in his deep, bellowing voice amidst the howls of the dead.

The tight, security of his mask gave him a comfortable feeling of seclusion from the infected world. The idea of contamination from the world's highly polluted air was more than enough persuasion to force Mr. Death to cover and protect every inch of his flesh. That, coupled with the fact that the carriers hunted these city streets like viral hordes, was even enough to make Mr. Death grimace.

"I will admit, Leon," Mr. Death continued, his own voice echoing to clear his mind of all except the mission, "Our first encounter left me surprised and impressed. These are disruptive notions that I have not felt in quite some time, and for good reason. They are a nuisance to me, an encumbrance from my mission."

Calmly he looked down at his hand, the muscles still aching and begging him to not force them to contract or stretch. The blood still stained his clothing. Not all of it was his victim's.

He was an animal. His ragged clothing, soaked in blood and rain, barely seemed fit over his sinewy, muscular form. His long hair was more like a mane as it hung in moist groupings before the emerald gems that glowered at Mr. Death. The subject charged with a furious roar. It was apparent that the virus had finally taken over his body.

Mr. Death leapt forth as well.

They met in the makeshift arena: a graffiti-stained basketball court chained in by fences and alleyways, the festering eyes of the rotting carriers staring from beyond the fences.

The subject leapt up and spun his legs about into Mr. Death's chest in a side-winding fashion. The blow was painfully embarrassing to Mr. Death, and instantly he made note of the subject's speed as it landed and shoulder-checked him to the ground.

Mr. Death rolled backwards to his feet and his face met with another shoulder-check. Again, he hit the ground and was pinned as the subject began furiously beating in at his throat and face. Mr. Death remained calm, observing the fighting techniques of the subject. He fought savagely, but his moves were too repetitive. Mr. Death stopped one of the punches with a quick block and threw his hips back, catching the subject with a foot to the ribs.

Perfect.

He shot his foot out hard, sending the subject over his head and into one of the brick walls behind them. The subject smacked into it and crumpled to the ground, clearly not suspecting the blow.

Centered and calm, Mr. Death stood and walked towards the subject. With his black hand he reached down and grabbed a tuft of his wet hair, pulling back so to fully expose his throat.

"You're no perfect soldier," He spoke to the subject like he would an animal.

Albert Wesker was a fool to believe in such a theory. Idealists. What a collection of dead-weight philosophers. No better then the subjects they fascinate about. Mr. Death was so disappointed in this Leon Scott Kennedy's lack of capability, that he was nearly disgusted. The subject struggled weakly in his grasp as he unhinged the machete from his belt.

Idealism was the fuel behind failure. It was the excrement that dreams are made out of.

He felt no need to stall in sentiment as he raised the machete above his head to strike. This poor soul was nothing more than a fallacy spawned by the nonsensical philosophies of Umbrella's filthy visionaries. No longer was this hunt for Leon Scott Kennedy a pleasure. Now, it was just business, and Mr. Death was just taking the trash out for Umbrella.

Mr. Death swung the machete—

What happened next was nearly imperceptible.

The subject, originally upon his knees, his throat open and his hair in the fingers of Mr. Death's fists, became a blur. He stood and flung himself back against Mr. Death and caught the machete-wielding arm as it swung. He caught it and tucked it into his armpit, jerking swiftly in such a motion that made Mr. Death's eyes widen as his wrist snapped.

The world of rain, zombies, and graffiti became a blur as he was flung into the air and sent spinning to the ground. The snarling face of the subject was above him, its bloody fingers about his throat. Mr. Death reacted quickly with means to exterminate, swinging his leg towards the subject's temple, but the subject flipped away.

Mr. Death stood and felt his wrist. Sprained.

He looked with his red eyes at the opponent before him. The subject was much faster than he.

"But I'm stronger," Mr. Death snarled.

Both stood as living Gods amidst the watching dead.

Mr. Death wiped the blood from his uniform, his iron fingers edging along the perforations of his survival vest. Worthless weight—he tore the vest from his body and dropped it to the streets below. He sat perched amidst the stone gargoyles of some older building, his red eyes revealing his solid figure amidst those of stone. It was cliché, but Mr. Death saw it as fitting. He was part of the night, though more a demon than a guardian.

And yet, he was more human than Leon Scott Kennedy. The name burned Mr. Death's ego. No longer would he refer to Leon as 'the subject', for such a title was depreciative of the demon's abilities. For once, Mr. Death felt less than perfect. No longer was he alone on his divine level of power. He had an adversary that traversed the same plane. Not an equal, no, but surely a force to be reckoned with.

Albert Wesker had some weight to his pathetic notion.

This untamed beast had the potential to be the perfect soldier. Should the T-virus inside of Leon harmonize with whatever lingering human intellect he had left, he would be perfect. Mr. Death could see what Umbrella would do; they would sculpt and hew every aspect of the potential until he was ideal. The very ideal that Albert Wesker had envisioned. Mr. Death would be obsolete if the subject were to reach the clutch of Umbrella's gnarling fingertips.

Furiously, he swung a fist against the jaw of one of the nearby gargoyles. The statue crumbled against the strike, falling to the tattered streets below.

This could not happen. Mr. Death was the perfect soldier. He would prove it. He would kill this wild animal, exterminating it and any notion of its involvement with Umbrella.

He would thus prove that he was the perfect soldier, and secure his place in the roots of Umbrella's legacy.

Leon Scott Kennedy must be eliminated.

000

"Look, even if Umbrella was somehow involved in this, I don't really care. We're not staying in this city," Claire wrapped a blanket around Sherry to fend off the growing cold that slunk about the halls of the Police Department.

"Ah, Claire, you suck!" Joseph replied, "We need this! Umbrella was behind the incident at the mansion, we know they're behind the city too! Now we've got a chance to get some evidence on them!"

"How?" she folded her arms to try and neglect the cold.

"They've got some kind of headquarters here, or something. I dunno, some kind of warehouse facility-"

"It's an industrial plant where they supposedly make some of their famous remedies," Leon said quietly as he placed a newly acquired jacket around Claire's shoulders.

"Yea, bullshit they make 'remedies' there. I guarantee you we can find some evidence there that will put those faceless assholes behind bars," Joseph practically spat as he spoke.

Leon, seeing as how his shirt was tattered, wet, and stained with blood, had sought out new clothing. He had stumbled upon several discarded items throughout the second floor, as well as something to eat. He had scrounged up several cans of Spaghettios which he ate cold—however being that he was starved there was not much objection. As for clothing, he had found a wife-beater and a green, rather tight-fitting v-nekc thermal with the R.P.D. logo on its back. He had also scored a shoulder holster that enabled him to sling the shotgun from his back, as well as a shotgun. The black jacket he found, a biker's leather jacket, he gave to Claire to keep her from the creeping fingers of the chilling cold.

"Joseph, the chance that they would have any evidence on the whole…undead virus thing, is still a chance. There's a chance we could be wrong-"

"And even if we were right, there's still a chance they could have testing facilities dealing with biological warfare like they did in the mansion," Leon looked darkly at Joseph, "You know what that means. Test subjects."

Joseph shuddered with a sigh, "I know, I know. But, come on Leon…This is our chance to get them back."

The group still sat amidst the cluttered desks of the S.T.A.R.S. office. Joseph paced around the room frantically, as he often did when angrily excited about corporate and governmental conspiracies. Leon had sat on a desk in the corner, observing the morality of the group. More, however, he eyed Claire and Sherry.

Claire sat at another desk with Sherry upon her lap, watching the little girl draw random doodles on the backs of police report papers.

"Come on, man," Joseph suddenly was in Leon's face, his hands on the desk between the two, "Aren't you the least bit angry with Umbrella? Look what they done to us! They've ruined our lives! They've killed thousands of people! What the fuck else do I have to say?!"

Leon looked at the two girls before he responded, "Let's talk outside."

He stood and walked past Joseph, a hand extending to rest upon Sherry's head for a moment as he opened the door and exited. Joseph stormed noisily after him.

Leon closed the door behind them, running a finger through his hair to still find clumps of caked blood.

"What's happened to you?" Joseph murmured at Leon's nape. He said it like a disregarded child.

Joseph watched Leon's shoulders sigh, his head lower.

The hallway was burnt yellow in its dim, neglected state. A puddle of drying blood sat against a wall beneath a window, dried dripping trails stretching down like blotchy fingers to the puddle suggested that Joseph had killed something as it came in through the window. Even now, Leon still could not ignore his attention to the stories told by evidence—a trait that only a cop is addicted to.

"Come on, dude. Don't do this shit to me," Joseph pleaded with a breath, "I waited for you. Everyone left, but not me. Everyone died, but not me…"

Leon turned to watch Joseph saunter a ways down the hall before slumping up against the wall to look out another window. The hallway reeked of that determined grip of death.

Joseph choked a little, what he had went through had nearly broken him, "I went through so much shit…"

"Joseph-"

"And what are you doing?! You're just--…F-Fuck you, Leon! Everything that has happened is their fault! You're letting them go!"

Leon was silent.

"You owe me this, Leon. I…I just…jesus, man, I was so fucking scared you were dead. And now…"

A minute of composure and Joseph had found control.

"Joseph," Leon spoke, his fingers fidgeting curiously at his wound, "You saved me. Twice. That's one I owe you for."

Joseph looked at him, "Twice?"

"You put all our crap up against the door."

"Oh yeah, well it was the only plan I had."

"Speaking of, how did you think I was going to get out of there?"

"…I didn't say it was a good plan."

Leon chuckled under his breath and Joseph sat down and pulled out his cigarettes—only two left. Leon sat beside him.

"Why is one of your cigarettes upside down in the box?"

"It's my lucky cigarette."

"…"

"Whenever I first get a pack I put one cigarette upside down in the pack for good luck. You can put two upside down, one for the luck and one for the fuck…but I don't smoke after sex."

"More like you don't have sex…"

"Fuck you, dude."

They were silent, and some weight was lifted from Leon's shoulders as he saw Joseph smile in the middle of lighting a cigarette.

"I am glad you're alive, dude."

"I know, and vice versa."

"…don't be gay."

"Can I have a cigarette?"

Joseph looked at Leon like perhaps he had indeed turned into a zombie.

"You fucking serious?"

"Yeah, it's been a rough few days."

"Psh, don't need to tell me twice," Joseph spoke through the butt in his mouth as he handed the lucky cigarette to Leon and lit it, "You get the lucky one."

"Yeah…listen. You know that I want to nail Umbrella with their own fucking cocks—just as bad as you. But that's not going to distract me from those two in there. You and I both know they stand a better chance of living if we're with them."

"…Yeah."

"I need your help, buddy. I can't do this without you."

At this Joseph grinned, shaking his head. It was Leon's polite way of saying 'I want to look after you too.'

"You never could do anything without me."

Leon took a very strained drag of his cigarette and exhaled. They were quiet for a minute, grinning and thanking god one another was alive. Leon softly punched Joseph in the arm.

"Gay," Joseph replied, and flicked his cigarette away as he stood.

Leon stood too—with some difficulty—though remarkably he was felt quite able.

"Oh by the way..." Joseph said.

"Yeah?"

"Are you ever gonna nail Claire?"

Leon frowned as Joseph snickered.

Sherry shrieked from inside the room, and both the men went cold with fear.

Leon bolted for the door first, feeling it splinter against his weight as he crashed in. Joseph hovered over him, wielding the sawed off shotgun he'd never once put down.

Sherry was on the floor, her nose bleeding profusely.

Claire struggled as she was pulled behind a revolving door disguised in the walls. Police Chief Brian Irons clutched her throat in his thick arm, a revolver to her head.

The door was closing as he glared with maddened eyes towards the two ex-S.T.A.R.S. members.