23:52 PM | Raccoon City Police Station | September 29th, 1998
Leon is still going with the theory that this is a really bad dream; the byproduct of the unhealthy amount of liquor he chugged the night before, and everything that has transpired is his subconscious' weird, sick way of processing his anxieties and traumas.
Waking up late for work? Classic case of new job jitters.
Rescuing Claire at the abandoned Mizoli gas station only to be separated? Nostalgia. Subconscious memories of how he and his girlfriend found (saved) each other in the midst of hard times, shattered by the shock and pain of being alone again.
All of his colleagues turned into hungry, bloodthirsty monsters? Insecurities of an overachieving Omega in an Alpha-dominant profession. (Which reminds him that he completely forgot to take his freaking suppressant injection yesterday… Thank God the world's gone to hell, because Christ on a stick, Kennedy, you would've been in trouble.)
To be honest, with that kind of mindset, all of this apocalypse shit almost makes sense. Damn, maybe he should have been a psychologist instead of a cop.
Alright fine, so he's hanging onto delusion for survival, but at this point, Leon doesn't care, because he'll take whatever justification his small town brain can make up to process the industrial bowels of the RPD.
Nothing else explains why a secret passageway leads to a remarkably pleasant office, which leads to an elaborate underground facility.
Nothing else explains the deranged half-man, half-blood-and puss-filled monstrosity that tried to beat him to death with an iron pipe.
Nothing else explains the rabid, mutilated Rottweiler in the garage, barking and snapping its slobbering jaws at Leon, hellbent on ripping his jugular out.
"Get off of me!" Leon shouts, struggling against its wild movements.
Gripping the dog with one hand, he swipes the other to the side, reaching for his dropped gun that's just out of reach. The dog's head almost jerks out of his hold, forcing him to bring the other hand back up, grunting with effort to keep the undead K9's muzzle away from him, grimacing as its foul breath and slobber wash over him, and its barks assault his ears, reverberating in the hollow underground space of the garage—
A gunshot.
Warm scarlet splashes on Leon. The dog goes limp in his hands. Breathing heavily, he lets it go, watches it fall on its side.
"Hey." Someone calls out from the dark.
Leon sits up, squinting at the silhouette. "Who is that?"
"Stay sharp." The stranger warns.
Low growls rumble in his ear as the dog resurrects before Leon's eyes. He swipes up his handgun and blasts a bullet between its skim milk eyes. It crumples, lying in the growing pool of its own gore, panting and twitching…
Footsteps approach. Leon turns the gun on the approaching figure: a woman in a trench coat, heels, and sunglasses of all things, angling a pistol at his head.
"Lower it." She flips open a wallet, flashes a badge and ID. "FBI."
Leon perks up at that. A survivor, and someone from a federal agency at that. Maybe he can finally get some answers about this mess.
He lowers his gun. "Sorry. Thank you—"
The woman shifts her aim and fires. Leon winces at the zombie mutt's pitiful whine as more blood spews from yet another bullet wound. Jeez, take a hint, Fido…
"For your help," he finishes.
Her stoic response is: "Surprised you made it this far."
And then she turns round on her stiletto heel. (Kind of an odd choice for an agent, in Leon's opinion, even for a routine investigation.)
"FBI, huh?" He asks, back on his feet. "What's going on here?"
"Sorry, that information's classified," she tosses back.
Classified? He might die with a zombie's jaw locked around his throat before daybreak, and he can't even be granted his dying wish of knowing why?
"Where are you going?" He blurts out. His sparse understanding of the RPD's layout tells him she may be heading for the jail…
She stops on a dime and turns to him, talking like a fed up higher up dealing with a green rookie. "Do yourself a favor: Stop asking questions and get the hell out of here."
Despite her suggestion to do otherwise, Leon jogs after her, more questions on the tip of his tongue. She's walking through the jail entry when he calls out, "Hey, I'm not done talking to you yet!"
And by the time he enters behind her, seconds later, the halls are silent and empty. No sign of her. As if she were a figment of his imagination.
He's not sure how this mysterious figure fits into his dream psyche, but so far being a placeholder for his voice of reason is his top pick. (You don't have to tell him to get the hell out twice.) A life-saving hallucination a close second.
After checking out the workroom and finding it empty, save a map and some handgun ammo, Leon ventures to the jail cells, walking dead center down the walkway to stay out of the barred infectants' reach. As he passes, he wonders who they were before they met their demise.
Were they being held for misdemeanors? Or awaiting punishment for felons? Did any of them have a fate waiting for them worse than this?
He highly doubts it.
He's pleasantly surprised to hear a "Hello?" from the end of the hall, and that's about where the pleasantness ends.
The cell occupant seems like he has his wits about him, for the only human behind bars, but then he brings up Chief Irons.
"Hopefully he's somebody's dinner by now," he says, and Leon doesn't like the sound of that.
"What do you mean by that?"
"He's the bastard that locked me in here." No kidding.
"I'm sure he had a good reason."
"He did."
The man's eyes twinkle with a secret. The kind that comes when you've seen the bones shoved in the back of someone's closet. He takes a toke of his cigarette and flicks it to the side.
"I was about to blow the whistle on his dirty ass. I'd have done the same thing too, I guess."
A whistleblower, huh? Booked by the chief of police himself? And what 'dirty' business could he possibly be accusing Irons of, exactly?
The interrogating questions stacking up in Leon's mind derail at a distant, heavy sound. Metal scraping against something, or warping out of shape.
Their gazes dart up the walkway. It's empty.
"Hey, I'll make you a deal. Unlock this cell and I'll give you this." The man holds up his lanyard. Inside is a Parking Permit keycard. "There's no other way outta that parking garage, believe me!"
Look, Leon does believe him, and he isn't holding what the guy said about Chief Irons against him. Honest. He's probably one of those shutterbugs, making ends meet by digging up trivial crap and blowing it out of proportion for gossip columns. But as tempting as the offer is, it's Leon's first day on the job, and even in a hellishly lucid nightmare, Irons wouldn't appreciate him releasing any prisoners.
Especially ones that have ill-will towards him.
Nothing personal, as the old saying goes, just business.
He shakes his head. "Sorry, I can't do that. I have to talk to the chief first."
More metallic squeals. Closer now. Louder.
The corridor is still empty, and Leon still can't determine where the sound is coming from. There are no shadows, no visible movement, and it's not like any of the brain-dead inmates suddenly got the bright idea to bend their cells' bars and break out.
"Look, we're both prisoners in this station," the other man negotiates nervously. "So either we play nice and help each other out—" Jarring rumbles rise from the next cell over. "Shit. It's coming."
There's no scent, but it's not necessary, the pallor in his cheeks and quiver in his voice is enough to reveal mounting panic. Leon's not faring much better, his own glands shedding a bitter odor.
"What?" Voice steadier than his climbing heart rate, Leon steps to the cell gate while the whistleblower backs away. "What's coming?"
"C'mon, don't be an asshole, okay?" The man prattles, back against the wall. "You need this!"—he holds out the card, the key to freedom—"Just get me the FUCK OUTTA HERE!"
Leon's heart damn near bursts at a thunderous CRASH.
Thick clouds of grit and dust erupt from the crumbling wall. There's sounds of struggle, a trembling "Let go!" As the clouds disperse, Leon sees the man clawing at a giant hand hooked around his face.
Ignoring a niggling feeling of déjà vu, he snatches his pistol out of his holster, then freezes. He can't shoot at the hand without risking the man's life. Guilt worms in his chest as he helplessly watches the hand rip through the stone and brick, dragging the screaming and flailing whistleblower across the wall, his feet clear off the ground and kicking wildly in the air.
Then the black fingers flex and dig into the man's head, squeezing until his jaw drops and a harrowing scream peals out, until there's a sticky crunch, and blood and fleshy clumps explode between the fingers.
Leon gasps.
The gloved hand drops its victim, smearing a thick bloody streak down the wall. He leans against the cell gate.
"Oh, my god…"
Framed between the iron bars is the cover of a slasher film. The man's forehead and cheek are pocked and caved in. The left eyeball bulges out of its socket like a goldfish's eye, the other is rolled back, its waterline pooling blood, droplets run down his cheek like tears. His limp, crooked jaw, hangs to one side as if the cause of death were a stroke.
Oh fuck, Leon gulps. Am I next?
He swoons at the thought, head full of air and abdomen tight, like his stomach is trying to shrink out of existence. A sharp tang wafts around him. If anyone were nearby right now, they would probably smell spoiled lemons.
And then he realizes it's quiet.
Slowly he raises his head, staring into the pitch black hole.
Too quiet.
Survival instincts bring Leon's gun up, aimed at the darkness. As if a bullet could take down anything of that insane strength. As if there's a barrier between him and the thing.
A few seconds of dead air pass when light, clicky footsteps grab his attention.
"Who is that?"
"It's just me." The FBI agent. She gives a cocky little tilt of her head and gestures to his gun. "So you can put that thing away."
She peers through the bars while Leon stammers and stumbles over his words. "I–I don't even know what happened—it just happened so quick."
Personally, he believes that officers of the law should keep their composure, whether in front of civvies or fellow law enforcers, but in his defense this is his first time seeing a guy's head get crushed, so, he should have the right to have a nervous breakdown in front of an FBI agent. Y'know, as part of his recovery.
No flinching away, no gasp or disgusted sound, she simply turns to Leon and snaps: "I told you to get out of here." Guess morbid crime scenes aren't uncommon in her line of work. "You wouldn't want to end up like Ben, would you?"
Leon's brow furrows, taken aback. "You knew him?"
"He was an informant," she answers, surveying the wrecked six by eight cellblock. "Had information of use to my investigation."
"So what he said was true?" 'About Chief Irons?' hangs in the air with the reek of fresh death, but he can't tell if she caught his implication.
All of his police academy lessons on body language come up useless against her. No twitch of the lips, or restless foot tapping, and those tinted shades don't help. (Who the hell wears sunglasses at night anyway?) And just like Ben, there are no scents to enlighten him about her emotional state. He deduces this is either due to scent suppressants, or Beta biology.
Leon is still waiting for an answer when she turns her back to him and starts walking away.
Oh no you don't.
"Hey, you can't keep walking away from me!"
He grabs her arm, she instantly snatches it away. Her pursed lips warn him to be careful of what he does or says next. Okay so he may have gotten a little excited, but finding another human (as Ben so adequately emphasized) was hard enough, let alone someone who's alive longer than 60 seconds after meeting him. He half expects a snide comment about him being 'pretty uppity for an Omega,' but she stays silent.
"I don't even know your name!"
More silence. She has no intention of giving it, does she? Sheesh, it's like talking to a real-life noir detective.
"I'm Leon Kennedy."
Another beat passes, but this time it feels thoughtful, because there it is: a change on her dispassionate face. A millisecond smirk.
"Find a way out, Leon, before it's too late." She nods at Ben's cell. Right, like he needs more motivation. "Then we'll talk."
As she click-clicks away, she tosses him a bone: "Name's Ada."
It's an inch, but progress is progress. Maybe now that they've more or less made one anothers' acquaintance, she'll cough up more information next time they cross paths, which Leon won't lie, he hopes will be soon. It'd be a nice change of pace having a partner around.
Turning back to the cell, he eyes the dead man's keycard.
"Well, I guess the deals on." He says, and then the hairs on his neck stand as the unmistakable clunk of boots passes beyond the smashed wall, marching deeper into the building.
He shudders.
That giant, from back at the west hallway. It was there the whole time…
While one half of Leon is relieved it didn't take obvious advantage of the situation and kill two humans in one blow, the other is deeply unsettled that it didn't.
Why? Was it weighing its options? Was it eavesdropping on his and Ada's conversation?
Does that mean it can… He gulps down a stone sized lump.
It can think?
According to this whole bad dream theory, the late Ben represents Leon's desperation to escape this hellhole, and if his tragic demise means anything, then it is an omen.
Leon will never leave this nightmare.
He's not dreaming. This is reality.
Raccoon City is going to hell in a handbasket, and he has a front row seat to watch it go up in flames.
He flirts with the idea of kissing the world goodbye and gracefully exiting the tattered theater of life. (As gracefully as someone armed with guns, a combat knife, and a couple of grenades could, anyway.) But there's something about the FBI agent, Ada, that keeps him tethered to the land of the living. (More like the living dead.)
Her almost inhuman cool-headedness and suppressed knowledge, as infuriating as it is, is the embodiment of 'if there's a will, there's a way.'
And according to Ben, there's no other way except through the parking garage.
Thanks to his earlier runaround, Leon is prepared for the long roundabout excursion of finding notes and tools and piecing together a plan of how to fix the broken control panel.
What he isn't prepared for is the ever increasing stress.
Though witnessing Ben's death was a high contender for the tension coiled in his muscles—and knowing that sick bastard is out there somewhere—the infected hounds running amok aren't helping.
Nor the stupid crows on the second floor. (They have always freaked Leon out since he was a kid, but this is the first time he's come across a murder of oily black wings and razor-sharp claws furiously beating and lashing at him with the intent of pecking his eyes out.)
Nor the chore of barring one window with loose boards he found to keep more uninvited guests out, only to hear another window shatter and see two more zombies fall head over heels into the room.
With every shock and blast of fear, Leon's body tenses and tightens, but he powers through, wincing through phantom cramps and wiping beads of sweat off his hairline and neck. Memories come to him: sick days as a kid, doing everything he could to get out of staying home, headaches, nausea and all. Even if that meant spending the day in the school nurse's office or playing hooky and hiding in the local library. Especially those weeks after he presented as an Omega…
Anyway, presently, he's not at the debilitating point of a high fever, but he feels it building in his gut and pelvis. Like a dam, steadily and patiently rising, knowing it will soon burst.
Now, despite his inner bitching, his own health and survival isn't his only concern, believe it or not.
Between barricaded hallways and opening shutters and dodging dogs infected with something worse than rabies, Claire and Ada cross his mind, particularly when he comes across evidence that someone has been in an area before him. (A cracked safe, an open drawer that was previously locked, some extra items in the storage crates he doesn't remember leaving).
And every now and again, when he takes a break to catch his breath and ground the herb leaves he's collected so far, he fidgets with his radio and broadcasts the same message.
"This is Officer Leon Kennedy of the RPD. If you can hear this transmission, respond immediately."
He gets nothing but static hiss. Same as before.
In the cracks of concern for himself and the other two known survivors, lies Ben, and his comments about Chief Irons.
'I was going to blow the whistle on his dirty ass.'
The statement rolls in Leon's head as he treks across the rooftop balcony towards a ladder. It doesn't make sense.
The chief is like the saint of tough-love to the city. A lot of people see him as a communal father figure, and he acts like one, too. Hell, when Chief Irons congratulated Leon at the police academy graduation, he was like a relative Leon never knew he had, a genuine pride in his smile and respect in his firm grip as they shook hands. And over the years he has provided programs for abused women, support for animal conservation, and if Leon remembers correctly, Irons even took up the position as the director of the Raccoon City orphanage.
Then Ada's comment strikes him, three rungs down the ladder.
'He was an informant. Had information of use to my investigation.'
And the fact that she traveled all the way to the city to talk to him personally, likely briefed on the zombie fiasco beforehand. (Did she really come all by herself? without a team? Leon doesn't know whether to label that 'courageous' or 'idiotic', although she did seem to be faring well by herself last time they spoke.)
Then that means the info Ben kept close to his chest (that twinkled behind his glasses like a glare) wasn't petty gossip. It had something to do with this outbreak. And if it bothered Chief Irons enough to put Ben under lock and key…then he must be hiding some—
CLANK
The handrail pipe in Leon's hand slips out its socket.
Metal groans as gravity pulls the ladder out of its welded mount, stripping off the wall. Midair in limbo, his mind a whirling carousel of fuck fuck fuck's Leon (foolishly, yes) adjusts his footing to climb back up. Another rusty creak and the ladder jerks, submitting to physics and throws Leon off balance. He loses his grip and falls, hands clawing for the out of reach rungs.
He crashlands on his back, all the air punched out of him. The ladder misses him by inches and its jarring clatter rings out in the quiet drizzle.
Wincing, he hauls himself back on his feet. The entire top half of the ladder stripped off. No going back now.
"Dammit."
Taking in his surroundings, he sees a lever on the nearby wall. Seems to be for the water valve. Following the pipelines to the right, he sees a spout over the crashed helicopter engulfed in flames. It seems only natural to use the lever to put out the fire. And as life would have it, it's even more natural for Leon to be completely unaware of the busted pipe above his own head.
"Shit!" He gives a startled yelp and switches the water right back off, cold and soaked.
"So much for graduating at the top of the class," he mutters, shaking his arms. "Just failed SA 101."
He walks inside the section of the building in front of him, immediately coughing and covering his mouth as smoke and heat snuffs the oxygen. Around the corner he sees the twisted helicopter and blaze blocking the corridor, and thus access back inside the station. Apparently the rain isn't enough to put out the fire, he'll have to do it himself.
Of course. Why would the universe make any of this easy for him?
Back outside in the downpour, he pulls out the map for the area. It shows a staircase that leads down to the boiler room, and seeing how the pipelines run in the same direction, there should be a way for him to reroute the water flow downstairs.
Rubbing his smarting back, Leon limps down the stairs, slowing at an unsettling rattling growl that grows louder with each step. He reaches the bottom of the stairs, one hand on his pistol holster, and peers at the door leading into yet another building. Must be the boiler room, he figures. Then after a second he realizes it's not a growl—it's the putt-putt-putt of machinery. He laughs at himself, which just sounds like a shivering chatter of his teeth.
Moving around the vent in front of the stairs, he finds it. The water pump. A relieved grin crosses his face, but he barely lifts a hand when the door to the nearby building shakes. Something on the other side pounds against it, snarling.
Leon knows that sound all too well.
He reloads his pistol and once the magazine clicks back into place, the door crashes open and two zombies stagger out.
Eliminating them is easy enough: six bullets in the head puts one down, and well-aimed shots tear a leg off at the knee and immobilize the other. But not completely of course. Leon clicks his tongue as the female zombie drags its crippled body up to him, reaching for his pants cuff, then huffs, stomping down on its head until its skull cracks open like a stony, red-yolked egg, and the zombie finally stills.
Once upon a time, Leon wouldn't have been able to imagine himself capable of doing such a thing. His combat training during his academy days was violent enough, let alone learning how to shoot another human being, and yet here he is, driving knives into skulls, shooting off limbs, and stomping bodies until they stop moving.
These aren't people, Kennedy. They are monsters, and it's your duty to rid the city of them. Whatever it takes.
Nodding to himself, he looks away from the gore under his feet and moves back to the water pump. He flips the switch to 'L' before taking a quick detour inside the boiler room.
The front area gifts him a bottle of gunpowder, then moving to the back, he finds a key with a bejeweled clover handle taped to a whiteboard, above a scribbled: 'Anybody missing a key?' With a tired huff, he rips the key off the board and pockets it.
All of this treasure hunting is getting old, but he's so close to a safe way back into the streets. Just a little further and he'll get the true prize.
Before he leaves he notices a desk with a typewriter. He doesn't know why they are stationed all over the place, but he's built a habit of recording his findings and whereabouts for anyone who might stumble upon his pages. Kinda like the memos, letters, and journals he's come across throughout the station; written in the hopes that what little knowledge he has may be key to someone else's survival…
Right, as if there are any survivors left.
He snorts, mind cloudy with pessimism, but the wheel of habit moves him anyway, and he leaves a typed up entry before leaving the boiler room and heading up the stairs.
Back on the upper level, he pumps the water lever and douses the inflamed wreck until the fire dies with a smoky hiss.
Here goes nothing.
Inside, he stops to pluck a few leaves from the potted red herb, then turns down the hall, sniffing stuffy air laden with kerosene and burned metal. Now, if memory serves him correctly, this is the east hallway, and the first door that comes to his mind with the clover symbol is on the first floor by the press room: the interrogation room. So after finding a way to slip past the hunk of metal, he should be able to get to the—
Metal shrieks. Glass clinks.
Leon raises his gun and flashlight, illuminating the crushed helicopter further down the hall, then stops cold. As it creaks and tilts towards the wall, it reveals something that sinks his heart fast as a rock tossed down a well.
A tower of dark gray and leather.
No.
Easily as brushing a tree branch aside, the giant single-handedly shoves the ruined aircraft aside, burying it deeper into the wall and clearing the way.
Leon blanches at the sight. Stumbles back, stomach clenched tight as a fist.
"Gimme a break!" He blurts before turning tail, wasting no time in getting the fuck out of there.
The horrifyingly familiar boom-boom-boom fills him with a dread that sends him slamming into the door. Apparently he didn't shut it all the way when he entered, and now it gives too quickly, causing him to trip. Panic surges through him as the footsteps vibrate in his planted chest, and pushing himself up, feet scrambling on the slippery ground, he beelines for the stairs.
If he were to look over his shoulder, three steps down, he would see a fist the size of his head pummeling towards him, and have a chance to duck out of the way.
Unfortunately, he doesn't.
A brutal force hits his back and a shout flies out of him. He misses a step and the world spins as he tumbles down the stairs. He lands on his side at the bottom, groaning.
His head throbs, he feels the air and rain, cold and stinging against exposed, bleeding skin, and an ankle stings, just on the cusp of twisting. If he didn't have on riot gear, the damage would have been far worse, like broken ribs and a busted elbow worse. When Leon finds Irons, on top of the laundry list of questions and demands he already has in mind for the chief, he may ask about including a helmet as part of the uniform set…
His stiff body refuses to move, but something forces it to anyway, shoving him on his back with a pained hiss.
Under the battering sheet of rain, the creature towers over him.
Eight feet of black and gray.
A predator staring down at its prey.
Wincing, Leon shakily reaches for Matilda, but a large hand grabs his throat, causing him to drop it and gasp for air as he pulls and tugs at the arm lifting him into the air. His watering eyes meet the unblinking white rings, and up this close, he sees it.
Swimming in the dark, soulless depths is an intelligence beyond the mindless, cannibalistic daze in the zombies' dead eyes. It's not human, but it is sentient.
And that terrifies Leon worse than a roomful of zombies and lickers.
Violent, throat-scratching coughs rip out as he kicks and squirms, vision fading as he tries to kick the creature hard enough in the chest to drop him.
Nothing. Must feel like being poked with a stick.
Bullets of sweat and pheromones seep out. Omegan distress, anguish, and fear meld with leather and rain. Leon barely registers the loosened grip with the dizziness overcoming him, but knows this is his only chance to escape, or die trying.
He grabs the first weapon he can reach. The Lightning Hawk. Wheezing through his clenched throat, blinking away the black spots in his vision, he plants the muzzle against the giant's temple and shoots point-blank.
The hand lets go. Leon feels himself falling for a nanosecond before smashing into the ground, ears ringing.
He coughs violently, finding it incredibly difficult to coax his body to move, let alone stand. At the very least, he sits up, and sees that the creature has taken a knee.
No hole or blood where Leon shot it. It's only stunned, and when it gets back up he does not want to be here.
Weighed down by the aching heaviness in his body, Leon swipes his fallen flashlight and pistols back up, forces himself on his feet and half-trudges, half-crawls up the stairs, legs shaking and screaming with every step forward. Wincing and stumbling, he shuffles back inside the station, and down the hallway, past the helicopter. His struggles for breath come in shallow, scratchy wheezes.
Jesus he's tired. But he can't stop now. It's over if he does.
Then, as if to make his point, he hears it. Boom-boom-boom.
Apprehension and terror reverbs in his heart in time with the ground-shaking footsteps. Forget the interrogation room, he won't make it out of the hallway with this thing tailing him. He has to slow it down, again.
Mustering the strength and courage to face the thing that nearly choked him to death less than a minute ago, Leon stops, sucks in a deep breath, and turns around. Lightning Hawk still in his grip, he aims, waiting for the monster to stomp around the corner. The second it's in the line of fire, he squeezes the trigger.
Click.
Leon blinks. He doesn't have any more magnum ammo.
He wants to yell, but his recovering throat only manages a hoarse: "You gotta be kidding me."
The floor shakes as the thundering steps approach. Swearing, he puts the Hawk away, unholsters Matilda, and fires. The creature doesn't respond to the bullets that ricochet off its coat, clips its hat off its head, or strikes its wrinkled flesh, but Leon shoots.
And shoots.
And shoots.
Until it does.
Until the creature stumbles back, and he notices a red blotch where a majority of his bullets pierced its cheek.
It can… It can bleed?
The first flame of hope flickers in Leon like a hot feather.
He quickly reloads, almost spilling the ammo in his haste, now taking two steps back for every one of the creature's long strides, and then fires again. As the rounds fly, his eyes widen. He can't believe what he's seeing, but more liquid is spurting from its unflinching face as bullets tear its skin.
Soon, his back hits the wall and he watches in uneasy awe as the red flows, until dark red covers half of the giant's face like a mask—as if it wasn't intimidating enough—and it steps into the white moonlight streaming through the gaping hole in the wall.
Stop. Air catches in his throat, hands tightening around the grip to stop them from shaking. For the love of every-fucking-thing-holy, stop!
Finally, it swerves again, shaking its head this time before picking up its pace as if suddenly filled with more determination.
That doesn't deter the hope tickling Leon's heart. He cracks a grin, a triumphant laugh ripples through him as he continues emptying the pistol magazine, spraying 9mm's at the monster's stony face, spattering more blood until—
click-click-click.
His heart stops at the hollow sound, fearing the worst when the giant comes to a stumbling halt, then falls to a knee like before, right in front of him.
Carefully, Leon steps to the side, back flat against the wall, wet shoes squeaking against the floorboards as he backs down the hall, empty gun pointed at its bowed profile. In passing, he senses something in the space between them—a feeling of magnetism, a response to subconscious call—then the thought dissolves in favor of focusing on getting the hell out of there before he finds out what the feeling means.
Around the courtyard balcony, down the east stairway, and around the hallway, past the press room, he runs, not stopping until he reaches the interrogation room. He rests his head against the metal door, appreciating the chill against his skin while his sore foot throbs and his lungs flutter painfully as he unlocks the door.
He almost doesn't cross the threshold when he sees the smashed glass wall and the glittering fragments covering the table and floor.
What could have done this?
Deciding he doesn't really want to conjure an answer to that question, he enters, then immediately freezes.
A bloodied corpse awkwardly leans against the file cabinet by the door. He nudges its outstretched arm with his flashlight, and sighs with relief when it flops to the floor. (It's so weird being in the presence of a dead body and being so damned relieved that it's not getting back up. What was once a given is now a white-knuckled wish.)
He collects an electronic safe and a report on a kleptomaniac with a confiscated code of some sort in a plastic bag. If he hadn't found the handgun ammo in the adjoined room, he would've considered this a complete waste of time. Although the hard to come by peace and quiet is pretty nice…
No zombies. No lickers. No dogs. And no eight foot tall stalker. Maybe it's searching for him in another part of the building. Then his pessimism whispers a suspicious thought.
Unless it's waiting for you.
Shaking his head, Leon settles into the folding chair at the table and clicks at the portable safe's buttons. Impossible, he would have heard it.
Once he solves the combination and stores the small panel key in one of his pockets, he leans back into the chair, the W-870 he found in the safety deposit digging into his back.
Damn, what he wouldn't give for a bottle of painkillers. Or a beer… Or both. He runs his hands over his face, rubbing sweat and tears he doesn't remember falling into his skin.
If only he'd taken his friggin' injection… Or at the very least packed a couple of emergency suppressant patches like a 'responsible Omega.' Although his head and vision would still pound from the overwhelment and anxiety in his veins, he wouldn't have to worry about his body forcing itself into heat, a goddamned heat, as some last ditch effort of protection.
An Alpha would double down on the offense, fighting tooth and nail for their life, foaming at the mouth style. Betas are typically calculative peacemakers, slow to raise their hands or voice; not as naturally fierce or domineering as Alphas, but when their backs are against the wall, they don't back away from a fight. And here he is, on the brink of losing his mind and his last defense to spare his life is to offer his body like a cheap, street corner gigolo.
A cruel snicker titters past his lips. Pathetic.
And what Alpha is around to respond to him anyway? Claire? the girl he met like two hours ago, and now has no idea where she is?
Who, if he closes his eyes and goes back to the short ride from Mizoli to the zombie pileup down the street, he remembers smelled lightly of ambery vanilla. Whose Alpha voice ('Please, just go.') though pressing, gently urged him to find safety before the courtyard gate broke down.
Whose… lips are probably like petals.
Whose soft yet firm hands could hold and wrap around him perfectly. Whose sweet, warm folds drip arousal like nectar, hiding a sheathed girth that could fill him up just ri—
Jesus fucking Christ, Kennedy, what the hell do you think you're doing?!
Eyes wide, his hand whisks off his stiff crotch as if it caught on fire. Whatever subconscious pleasure he got in that short stint vanishes.
Where the hell did that come from? It hasn't even been 24 hours since the breakup and he's already thinking about sleeping with a complete stranger. While he can blame it on his looming dry heat, it doesn't make him feel any less scummy… Jeez, if (when) he crosses paths with Claire again, is he going to be able to look her in the eyes without blushing like a teenager with Playboy Bunny posters plastered on his bedroom walls?
Groaning, with all the weight of the world on his shoulders and a frustrating tension in his loins, Leon slumps forward, pressing his face into the palms of his hands.
God help him. He's at a tipping point. A boulder impossibly balancing on the tip of a mountaintop that will either slope down into insanity or drop off into black nothingness.
The worst part is, no matter which way he falls, he's destined to spiral into a pit he won't be able to climb out of.
But if he stays here, in this safe limbo, he won't have to descend into either one. Maybe he should just stay here, far away from the chaos, tucked in this little corner of the station where nothing can hurt—
He shoots up from his chair. "Man the fuck up!"
He finds himself unclenching his fists and flexes his fingers. Feels red crescents pulsing in his skin. Marching to the door, he pulls out his handgun and the ammo he found.
"Don't forget what you sacrificed to earn this badge and uniform," he reminds himself, loading the pistol with a tactile click. "Don't let it be in vain."
A new wave surges through him then. A conviction that pushes him out the door and down the hall with slow, steady, steps. He can do this. All he needs to do is find a way up to the bell tower, retrieve the second electronic part, and then go back down to the jail and get the keycard.
Piece of cake.
Now would someone explain what are the chances of the press room wall exploding the instant he rounds the corner?
The force knocks Leon back like a high wind. Debris and dust scatter the air and across the floor. He bites down on his tongue to cage in the startled shout that nearly escapes. Without so much as a glimpse at the crumbling hole, he slips back against the wall, knowing exactly what caused it.
It's a stupid idea, but he peeks around the wall, watching the giant duck out of the hole. It doesn't look like the monster saw him. If it goes to the right he'll be able to go around it by running straight through the press room.
The monster's chest expands, seemingly taking a deep lungful of air. A few seconds pass, Leon's hands twitch around the pistol grip, watching its hulking shoulders relax, thinking how unsettling it is that something inhuman can breathe air just like him, when its head swivels in his direction. An uneasy thought blips through his mind as he ducks out of its line of sight.
The blood and the gunshot wounds... They're gone.
He slowly sidesteps down the hall, barely moves three steps when a floorboard creaks. He winces.
Don't come this way, don't come this way, do not come this way…
Footsteps move in his direction.
Oh for fuck's sake.
The giant comes around the hallway in a few long strides. Leon trains his gun up at its head when white rings meet his and something flares in the space between them. (That sensation from earlier, in the hallway by the crashed chopper.) It makes his knees buckle and his feet retreat back to the interrogation room.
He shuts the door behind him, locks it. Reaching towards his shoulder blades, he pulls the shotgun out his back holster and pumps it, praying as he backs away from the door, moving towards the shattered mirror. Thumps resound in his body, and for a moment he doesn't know if it's his own heartbeat or heavy footfalls.
Then the door knob rattles.
He flinches at a spine-shivering screech. The door. It's bending inwards, caving into a force pulling from the other side.
He hops over the short wall into the adjacent room, and just when he lands, his heart leaps into his throat at a clash of metal. Down on the floor, knees tucked against his chest, he curls himself into a ball under the ledge.
He's got the gun in his hands, and he knows the fucker will fall if it takes enough damage, so why, why, is he not he shooting at it? Where did that self-assuredness go? Where's the police officer who was ready to do whatever it takes to get out of here alive?
Boom-boom-boom.
He shrinks even more at more metallic screeching coming from the other side of the wall and things crashing on the floor. The table.
Boom.
Boom.
The world goes silent and comes to a halt. Black falls over him. A shadow.
As if he has all the time in the world, Leon slowly lifts his head and meets ghostly eyes in a pool of rippled gray. He catches it: a thigh-sized arm pulling back to… punch him? Rip his head off? Choke him?
Wrong.
He ducks, but it's too late, the creature grabs a hold of the back of his shirt and drags him through the hole, over shards that tear into his pants.
"Let go!" He yells, grappling at the large hand and kicking, boots cracking pieces of the mirror that are still in place. "Let go of me you bastard!"
Unsurprisingly, the creature doesn't listen.
Arm outstretched, it lifts him up, like an owner holding its pet by its nape. Its eyes have never changed since Leon first looked into them, but somehow he perceives that it's mulling over something. Before he can wonder what could possibly be running through its head, he's thrown down on the table that previously had audio equipment and a laptop on its surface.
He almost loses his grip on the shotgun, but keeps it in his hold, arm hanging off the table's edge. Coughing, and the back of his head blooming hot, Leon feels a chill wash over him. Closer, clearer-headed inspection reveals the monster leaning over him, trapping him between hands splayed by his head.
What the hell?
His eyes bulge almost as wide as Ben's when it leans down closer to him. He turns away, gasps as cold air—breath—grazes his neck before hearing the brisk sound of a sniff by his sweaty scent gland. He freezes, so much like a rabbit caught in a fox's maw, waiting for sharp, hungry Death to clamp around his throat and crush it.
Then a low rumbling growl mixes a cocktail of fight, flight, and disgust in his gut and spikes liquid ice in his blood.
Leon squeezes the shotgun between their bodies, barrel aimed at the underside of the dark, wrinkled chin—"I said. Let. Go."—and pulls the trigger.
His ears and head ring and pound from the blaring gunshot, but the direct impact gets the job done: it knocks the monster back a few steps.
Sitting up, Leon pumps the barrel and blasts a second round, satisfied at the crimson that blossoms on the gray skin under the fired shot. He slides off the table, wobbles for a moment as his senses settle down enough to allow him to regain his balance, and starts for the open space where the clover embellished door used to be.
Then, movement in his peripheral: A glove, reaching out to him.
Heart skipping, Leon spins around. (Click-bang) one, (click-bang)two more slugs sling at the creature's upper body. The first shot misses, the second smacks the giant's cheek. It's enough to push it back once more, forcing it to recuperate as it brings a hand up to its head.
Leon gulps as he steps away, nearly tripping over the corpse that was now spread in front of the doorway and toppling out of room, but he catches himself and hauls ass out of there, and everything after—from the interrogation room to the bell tower—is a blur. Nothing more than a harrowing pulse of light and sound in his overstimulated brain.
Not until he shuts the tower door does he slam back into present reality, sliding down to the floor, hands covering his mouth, stifling a sob as dread skewers his bones and curdles his blood. The voice surfaces again, like a shadow against the slant of moonlight shining through the window, lying to him.
Stay. We're safe here.
Tucking his legs against his chest, Leon wraps his arms around himself, burying his burning face into his knees.
"Fuck off," he mumbles, sniffing. "I'm so goddamn sick of this shit."
As much as he hates that voice (himself) right now… he listens, if only for a second. Or a minute. However long it is, he sits.
He sits on the tower floor, surrounded by the smell of overripe citrus and sour grapes, imagining for a moment the voice chanting safe, in the back of his mind isn't his own. (It comes from lips soft as honey-warm eyes.) Imagining that sounds from below are the normal groans and moans of an old building settling in the cold night, and thunder.
(Boom-boom-boom.)