TW: graphic descriptions of blood and gore; standard Resident Evil violence and war crimes.
I love carving out my own little space on here. I can post whatever I want. anyway I have an AU where Krauser isn't groomed by a cult and instead goes into hiding and it's Leon that's abducted by Ashley instead of Ashley being abducted by Krauser. the government is corrupt, the president works with Umbrella after Operation Javier, which is why Krausers Unit is wiped out. they found out about Saddler and what he's doing, which gets Ashley working with them because she's sadistic and finds it fun and wants to be powerful too while also controlling a bunch of trained military people. they were going to infect Leon, send him back to the US so he can infect the rest of STRATCOM with the Las Plagas, and what happens happens. I like Krauser a lot in case you can't tell.
started: 3/9/2023
they shouldn't have made it out. he shouldn't have made it out, to be more specific. about 90% of them didn't.
it was Leon that'd clocked on first, the second he'd heard the choppers blades slowly creep towards them. he'd been suspicious too, since they'd all agreed to deny Uncle Sam's evacuation request, but he hadn't spared another thought toward it. his arm hurt, he was tired, and honestly, he was still kind of bitter about the whole thing. who sends an entire Unit to strike Umbrella without even telling them it was Umbrella affiliated? had they wanted them to die or something? probably sent someone out to collect our sorry asses anyway, he'd reasoned, tuning out the choppers approaching hum to focus on the blood being wiped away. he did need an actual Medic to look over his wound. maybe the chopper was additional support.
he'd felt Leon freeze the moment the helicopter peeked over the top of the trees, causing their branches to thwip around wildly. it hadn't even pretended - the chopper was too short, compact, and slim to house all of them for an evac. it had miniguns nestled on either side, when they knew that all threats had been neutralized, and only they remained in the jungle.
without uttering a single word, Leon dropped the swabs, latched on to his good arm, and all but hauled him away from the area as fast as physically possible. they hadn't made it half way to where-ever they were going, the start of a shout on Leon's tongue to the others loitering in the open (they'd been confused, unguarded, slow, far too trusting) before the miniguns roared to life, and the sudden spray of bullets rained down upon them, merciless and without hesitation.
already overwhelmed, swamped with pain, and delirious from blood loss, he had done nothing, could do nothing, but allow himself be pulled along to fragile safety, as his Unit screamed and gurgled on choking lead and broken lungs. the sounds of their deaths were consumed by the constant thrum of the choppers blades and the unrelenting storm of the miniguns barrage.
cover everything up. leave no string untied. drown out everything, be it the lives of men and woman we willingly sent to their deaths, or the life we leech from them with weapons we promised would always be on their side.
Leon's hand never let go. he'd turned and watched, dazed, as heads popped and chests exploded in sprays of gore, falling into combined pools of mud and blood and body parts, one by one by one. what heads had remained intact, and what bodies hadn't been smushed face first into the river, had slumped on to their backs, their blank, glossed over eyes staring into the enemy turned skies of South America. and even when his entire Unit was down, the helicopter held tight to the trigger, mercilessly rendering the corpses into unrecognizable, potholed humans. it didn't stop until every last head had been shredded into a fine red mist, chunks spread far and wide without care.
finally, the miniguns slowed their spins. the blades kept whirring, the helicopter keeping its position over the scene. it took seconds that stretched into what had felt like hours before it deemed its job done. it flew high into the air, turned toward the north, and took off, leaving nothing but death behind. even when the horrid squeal of its blades disappeared and a deafening silence descended over them, they'd refused to move from their hiding spot.
five minutes was how long it took for him to return to himself and take in the situation; what had happened, where they were, how they were to proceed. the haziness of his vision gave way to full clarity, where he saw his Unit; downed, half in pieces, and dead, with no hope of ever getting back up. Leon's hand was still clutched on his good arm, and when he glanced over, he saw Leon, wide eyed and panting, glaring at the bodies, a fire in his eyes. they were hunched in a dense patch of overgrowth (he doesn't even remember falling into it), of all the fucking places to hide. had the chopper been a touch more cruel, a touch more persistent, a touch more thorough, it could have fired in any and all directions, to make sure the deed was truly done. they could have died, like their Unit, just like that.
to this day, he's still not sure if he considers himself lucky or not.
'-user. Krauser. Jack,' Leon had said, a tremor to his voice, a gentle shake of his arm. he was still looking at Leon. Leon's face was grim set. 'we have to get out of here - that chopper could come back and-and there could be more of them, we have to move.' he had shook his head, light and woozy, but his idea was as ferocious as his want.
he. he had- to- he had to-to get their- 'Major come on, we don't have time-'
a puppet on strings, he'd moved away from Leon, stumbling toward his men, his Unit, his Unit that had been slaughtered with pure, unadulterated power, something he had never witnessed from his own side before. the stench hit him instantly as his boots squelched through the blotchy, man-made streams; it was overpowering, death, death and war all around him, just like before, betrayal, betrayal- and his mind had blacked out again, because when he came to, it was to Leon, hand firm on his good arm once more, lightly pulling him away from them, his other damaged, shaking, blood and mud stained hand gripping the dog-tags of every last one of his Unit.
he had felt nothing but agony. something in his chest ripped clean open. bile in his throat. death in his nostrils. he knew he should've been used to this, had seen worse, but, no. no, he hadn't. not friendly fire. not as brutal and as sudden as that. not to such an extent. there had been no warning signs, before and during the mission - there had been no real reason to wipe them out, as if they'd been nothing more than useless tools.
he didn't understand. he still doesn't understand why.
Leon pathed the way forward, and his grip around the chains never wavered, even as the ache in his open arm got worse and worse because of it.
the last few things he clearly remembers are Leon coming to a stop, him stiffly thumping into his back; Leon turning around to grip him by both shoulders, his eyes still so wide, so full of fire, full of a memory he vaguely knows about because Leon had trusted him enough to tell him parts of his past. a warning, he thinks of it now.
'they'll try and find you,' he'd hissed, fingers digging in, mouth upturned in a snarl that wasn't aimed at him. 'they will look for you, Jack. they won't stop until they've killed you. I was lucky; I was a civilian, and they had someone they could- they can blackmail me with. you're just- you're a loose end. you can still get away. you-you have to get out of here before they realise you're still alive.' his hands moved to cup his face, desperate to make the words really sink in to his fogged up brain. 'get away from here. don't accept any calls. get burner phones if you have to; get a new name, a new I.D, a new life, everything. the second they know where you are, it's over, do you understand me? it's over.'
'Leon-'
'you can't go back.' furious tears had chipped the corners of Leon's eyes. he'd been too weak, too vulnerable, to mock him for it. 'they won't let you come back, Jack, they- I-I know they won't-'
'what about you?' he'd half coughed. Leon's sigh was clipped. it had reminded him of the snuff of an enraged bull.
'I think they expected me to live. I wasn't supposed to be there with you.' his eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Leon lowered his head, almost ashamed. 'they. expected me, to call them. with a report. said to do it away from everyone; in private, I guess. but James had already radioed in when we got back, so I figured I didn't, need to. so, I stayed. with you.' another sigh. Leon refused to look at him.
'but, why? why keep you alive?' his voice gave out right as Leon's hands slumped back down to his shoulders, then off him completely, instead being balled into his eyes.
he doesn't recall what Leon's answer was, but he does remember him crying. the memories are hazy at best, none-existent at worst, after that.
blocks and smears of colours that rapidly changed through the course of the day, from deep greens and bright yellows to light blues and dull whites (how long was I out for?). Leon wrapping his arm up with the fabric torn from his shirt - no time left to clean it all the way or find proper bandages. a hasty plane ride - he doesn't even remember how he'd gotten through customs, let alone how he'd boarded the god damn thing; he'd probably looked like hell warmed over, what, with being fresh out of a war and running from a witness scene, and they'd still let him on one.
he wouldn't count that as luck. that was just pure stupidity.
the next thing he knows, he's waking up in a dingy flat somewhere in Eastern Europe, with his battered arm bare, having bled all over himself, and about 4 bottles deep in Whiskey. every single dog-tag was neatly scattered about on the cracked coffee table, not one resting on the floor. he had zero memory of getting off the plane, shuffling to a store, and he doesn't even try to think about how he'd gotten Whiskey, or where he'd gotten it from.
he's somewhere in Russia, now. he doesn't want to test how far his fucked up luck will go (I should have died, my arm should be dead weight, they should have found me the second I stepped off that plane and staggered for a drink), so he thanks the stars he'd bothered to learn some basic Russian from his rookie days, and gets to work on planning out what's left of his future.
his new name is "Jacob Mason". one I.D, no drivers licence or passport. unemployed, but with enough money to last for a good six years (fourteen, if he really stretched his budget, which he does. he was lucky he was even able to get a hold of that money in the first place. not for the first time does he wonder if he's actually being hunted or not). he can still use his arm as normal, even with the shoddily healed hole punched clean through it, he just needs to take well rounded breaks every couple of hours.
the scars never seem to fade.
he supposes that his old life is well and truly over - trying to go into a different fraction could attract the attention of Another fraction, and he's not sure if he even can. two years later, and he's still not sure if he can make peace with the fact that a part of him had died in South America with the rest of his Unit.
a hole in his arm, a hole in his heart. he can't feel too much of a difference between the two these days.
it's still hard for him to accept the concept that Operation Javier had been two years ago. most times, the mission felt like it'd happened a week ago. days ago. mere hours ago. minutes. seconds. the constant sting of his limb makes him forget about how he'd almost lost his eye to Hidlago too, until he looks in the mirror, and the blistering scar stares right back at him, passing over the lid and stretching down to his nose, looking as fresh as the day it'd happened.
another bout of luck. lucky arm, lucky eye. lucky, lucky, lucky.
the smell of death, the large, conjoined puddle of blood; their lifeless eyes, bodies not even resembling bodies anymore with how shredded they'd become from the metal rain. it's all still so raw in his mind. how it had been their own government, their own people, that had covered it up. had they been hand-picked because they'd been too good at their ranks? what kind of sense did that even make? they had signed their life away to that rotten place, to that son of a bitch president that dared to call himself a "man of the people". what, did he think they couldn't handle a few B.O.W's, and the rise of Umbrella, when they very obviously could? had proven that they could? no one had died on the mission before that helicopter had come and wiped them out, even when they'd gone in practically blind, basically lied to about who the real concern of the mission was. tch, druglord. yeah, it sure had been a god damn druglord alright.
was the president scared that they'd try and run off, and tell some higher up's about what they had seen, had done, had fought against? who would they have even told? or were they really that upset that they'd denied their evacuation offer? what a load of bullshit. what a waste of money. what a pointless exertion of power.
I could wield that power far better than they ever could, he thought, constantly thinks, violently. he knew that Soldiers like him were expendable. he was fine with that. but to go the extra mile and wipe out an entire group, the second the mission was finished, after years and years of preperarion over the whole thing? that shit just didn't sit right with him.
any time a helicopter flies overhead, that's far too low for comfort, he gets down, always using something for cover, and he would not get up until the sound disappeared. the pain in his arm would flare at his sudden spike of anxiety. painkillers had stopped working - he'd taken too many too fast in those first few months, and he couldn't go to a hospital to get anything stronger than stolen goods. hospitals leave tracks. getting anything higher quality leaves tracks, no matter how hard you try and hide it, or how good you get at sneaking around. having more than a few large, unusual scars in your arm and on your face also lead to different kinds of tracks - the whisper of nurses here, concerned calls from doctors there, the secret attention of people above them doing a background check. no, hospitals are much too dangerous.
he's been hiding for two years. no sense in breaking that record over a little bit of pain.
he still trains, even with his bad arm. he'd taught himself to be ambidextrous, since his Major never did, not properly - his left didn't swing as hard as his right, but it held more steady, and, more importantly, his left hand never shook. sometimes the aches came and went; some days, it would sink its fangs into every inch of his arm, straight down to the bone, and it would feel like it would never go away again, lasting for a solid week. other days, it would be a gentle throb. a constant reminder. the hole gradually healed, but the marks were eternal.
he trained and trained and trained.
he constructed his own bow and arrows from materials he'd "borrowed", simply because he could. frustration and loneliness helped to create his own explosives for his arrows, too. it made him feel stronger. it made him feel that, if any helicopter threatened him again, he could shoot it out of the sky, and hey, even if the explosives didn't down it, at least it would do long lasting damage. enough damage to make it retreat. and he knows that he never misses, bum arm or not.
his Units dog-tags were neatly stored in a locked drawer, tucked beside his bed. he would open the drawer and clean the tags once every two weeks. he always looks over their names, their service numbers. feels like he owes that small bit of mercy to them. feels that echo of I wasn't strong enough boom through his soul, as he neatly puts them back and locks it up, not to be disturbed for another two weeks.
he doesn't go anywhere. only for essential stuff, like food, and meds. he steals where he can, and uses cash if he absolutely has to. he's gotten good at that. even with his lumbering size, he's faster and stealthier than anyone gives him credit for, something he's always been good at. he keeps his head down. always makes sure to keep his bad arm hidden, even in the heats of summer, and always wears shades, even in the bitter winters. constantly watches over his shoulder for anyone that could be keeping steps with him. his hairs gotten longer. he'd dyed it brown at one point. he just wears hats, now. he likes berets the most. they remind him of the old days.
he's made a few safe houses here and there, all within running distance; abandoned buildings and forgotten about shacks, stacked with none perishable foods and easy to reach weapons. even with everything being as quiet as it has been in the last two years, you could never be too careful, and he'd always found that being overly paranoid was a good thing.
he doesn't relax even when he's inside his apartment. he can't remember the last time he's really relaxed.
he hasn't heard anything from Leon since then. couldn't, really. he hadn't heard from anyone. he understands why. really, he does. it doesn't make the loneliness any less suffocating. you can't really go out and connect with people over these sorts of things, and therapy isn't an option, either (though he doesn't think he would go to therapy if given the option). it's all too dangerous; one bad comment, one wrong impression, meeting the wrong people, staying out for coffee too late - it could all result in the end of his life by the next day.
he tries to find even a whisper of Operation Javier out there in the wild. nothing turns up. no reports of wars, no terrorism, no news spike of Umbrella seemingly being revived and already back in working order, however long its even been in working order (and it's all really concerning, that there's no mention of it anywhere, because he knows damn well that it's not kept quiet to keep the public from spiriling into a panic). he did manage to find one snippet of his past, and boy howdy, had that been a bitch to obtain, buried half way down some secret folders of other lesser known missions (he would never share on how he got his hands on it).
the reporter, much like his Unit, had been "taken care of". both his and the reporters name was blanked out, though his status of Major hadn't. somehow, the reporter had found- no, had gathered enough information to form a headline, and somehow, the government had found out and tracked him down. he had been careful in making a copy. he's government trained, after all. it's all second nature at this point.
the report stays nestled with the dog-tags. it almost seems like a peace-offering. we aren't forgotten, he hopes the slim little folder conveys. people do care. no matter what they do, if people want to find out, they surely will.
two years since Operation Javier. two years since his arm was broken and his perception of where he stood in life was forever tainted. two years since he last saw Leon, last spoke to Leon, last spoke to anyone. two years of staying silent, of not partaking in any missions, of constant knife swings and stealing goods, of slowly going insane while he made more arrows and more explosives for targets he couldn't aim at. two years of a constant bitterness and a painful acceptence that feel like they will never be shifted from his heart again.
and then, one cloudy day, in the middle of October's chilly dusks, he gets a phone call, on his burner phone, where no one should even know he existed.
