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‘So you get the t-Virus,’ Leon thought, grinning hysterically as he’s poked and prodded. His fists are clenched tight enough to draw blood were it not for his gloves, still coated in grime and blood from his last mission, just like the rest of him. It was all standard procedure: Blood samples, saliva swabs, that sort of thing.
And yet every time he closed his eyes he felt like he was in Spain, a needle in his neck and pain in his chest, a prickling feeling at the back of his mind.
‘This may be unpleasant,’ one of them had said, as if he wasn’t intimately familiar with so many other forms of hurt, as if it wasn’t written right on his file: ‘trypanophobia.’
He knew something else was written beside it: ‘flight risk,’ and he couldn’t deny there was a vicious temptation to dodge the next hand and run. He’d already held off so many instinctual responses that demanded he struggle, fight, and do everything he could to escape.
Quarantine was worse for it, that sterile room where his own thoughts were scarcely interrupted by anything more than a microphone. They’d ask the same questions over and over, his current status, his name and age, his level of pain. It had gone on so long he was starting to wonder if there was a wrong answer, and if he’d somehow found it each and every interview.
He submitted to X-rays and MRIs, heard whispers under doctors’ breaths that made paranoia begin to brew. He woke in the night (or what he thought was night) often, whether from nightmares or the outright sensation of being watched that always plagued him.
He’d ask questions, receiving answers like ‘classified’ or ‘unable to divulge’ between the outright silence. When curiosity failed, he’d tried to reason that he could give more accurate information if he knew what they were looking for, that he had experience with dealing with infected before if someone just told him what was going on.
When reason failed he tried anything and everything: Insults, avoidance, even outright disobedience. That blank-eyed stare would look at him with exasperation like a parent watching their child have a tantrum, and he’d wake up hours later without any recollection, his head pounding.
Weeks flew by without notice, until a calendar in yet another exam room nearly sent him into a panic attack. Still the same tests, still the same questions, and he could do nothing but give the same answers, again and again.
Hungry for stimulation, he hardly remembers breaking skin, languidly blinking at the open wound on his forearm littered with his own teeth marks. The red was so bold against all the washed out nothingness that had consumed his life for the past month, stark and beautiful against the tiled floor. He remembers a scolding voice, a wet wipe cleaning away the ugly stain it had left behind while he begged and pleaded for them not to.
He felt like a wet rag being rung out to dry, a piece of paper crumpled so badly it would forever be creased. Was it any wonder his fragile psyche was turning against him? Making him see shambling corpses where his co-workers stood, nearly identical to the bodies lining the hallways of NEST, clad in white coats that he searched through for wristband chips all those years ago.
NEST easily became that interrogation room, pictures of Claire and Sherry laid bare on the table he was cuffed to, a silent threat that short-circuited his exhausted mind. ‘Work for us,’ the man had said, not a question, but a threat.
Logically, he knew he was on a tight leash. There was a tracker beneath the skin of his arm, a not-so-metaphorical gun to his sort-of daughter’s head, but logic wasn’t forthcoming, not when an ocean of panic and fear laid on top. It was why he’d palmed that scalpel, smoothing his finger over the sharp edge on long, sleepless nights to provide some semblance of protection. It was why he was here now, looking over the seams of a vent cover that was easily unscrewed and thrown aside.
He knew nothing but his mission agendas at that moment, hundreds of burned documents and discarded manifests with a numbered list of priorities and legal disclaimers regarding retrieval. On auto pilot he was clambering through, silent as a whisper as his emaciated body slipped soundly through the tiny air chambers. A layout he’d memorised through counting footsteps, a quiet disturbance wiped from security camera footage, no more than a ghost.
The fresh air was satisfying, even with the rain pelting down, soaking his stolen jacket and thin gown in moments. He felt like a drowning rat, desperately treading water in hopes that something else would catch the current and save him.
He remembers stopping to catch his breath, falling to his knees before digging his nails into his arm, clawing at skin and muscle with frantic need. Hearing his own sobs over the rainfall, smelling his own blood over the mud, screaming his throat hoarse until that little piece of metal finally hit the ground, still covered in nerves and sinew.
Even in that state he’d known better than to crush the accursed thing, leaving it behind in hopes that an animal would swallow it when it sampled the gore.
He remembers limping by the roadside, hiding from headlights and bumming change off a woman nonchalantly smoking beside her idling truck; it was either too dark or she didn’t care enough to ask questions, and he preferred it that way.
The harsh downpour, the lit gas station like a beacon in the dark. It was one “Welcome to Raccoon City” sign away from his (second) worst nightmare.
Settling in to phone Ada’s burner on the nearby payphone was the last thing he remembered, the dial tone a background noise to the mounting fuzziness in his head.
He thinks maybe he heard her voice, her laugh, her teasing tone shifting into concern as she asked after his location. Shuffled movements and swears trailing from the receiver near his head as he laid back against the booth, his own voice repeating ‘I don’t know’ again and again, slurred so horribly even he barely understood.
He remembers hoping he didn’t wake up if it meant being back there.
-
Something prodded at his mouth, insistent even as he turned away with a groan. A faint, far away chuckle sounded, smoothly taunting until a hand parted his lips. Oh, water. That’s nice, actually.
He can hear someone mumbling, something about ‘idiots not feeding him enough.’ There’s an honest to god blanket pulled up to his chin, an actual mattress against his back, …an IV in his arm. He jolts, pain thundering in his head that can’t stop him from nearly throwing himself to the floor.
“Kennedy,” the voice says, and it blurs into dozens of others calling him ‘agent’ and ‘asset’ and, worst of all, ‘subject.’
“No…” He pleads, shivering from the effort it took to move his heavy body, “Please, I can’t…!”
He’d rather be dead, hell he’d rather be tortured than be under their care again. At least someone hurting him would acknowledge his words, his screams, his submission.
He can feel the needle in his neck, sobbing as the plunger is pushed and struggling as best he could with flailing limbs. It cools the panic in his body, but his mind is not so easily soothed, begrudgingly shutting off with his brain as fear cools into dread.
-
He can feel the bandage on his arm when he wakes, drawing a line up his skin until the wrapping is beneath his fingers. He prods at the wound, the deep ache that makes itself at home in his joint, and thumbs the edge where thread-worn fabric might just fray with enough jostling…
A hand suddenly grabs his wrist, and he’s about ten seconds from freaking out until-
“For the umpteenth time, do not touch it.”
Leon shudders, a cold voice like that never means anything good for him.
The other person sighs, clearly frustrated.
Frustration usually isn’t good either. He felt like Pavlov's dogs, twitching at every sound while his brain screamed that the other shoe would drop any moment.
He grabbed their wrist with his other hand, in just enough anguish to risk yet another attempt.
“Kill me,” he begged, “Please. I’m infected, they won’t know, please.”
The silence that rang out was damning, and if they hadn’t seemingly frozen in their movements he’d have suspected they were ignoring the request like everyone else had.
“Kennedy-” Leon flinched, trying to draw back despite his weakness.
Another sigh, “Leon,” they prompted, and he worried his teeth over his bottom lip.
“Leon,” they repeated, “Where do you think you are right now?”
He breathed in…and out… New questions, new answers…
“Dunno,” he said quietly, “DSO facility?”
“Leon,” they stressed again, “Look at me.”
He didn’t want to. To open his eyes and see that same white room again, it’d surely kill him, but he knew it was this or the tranquiliser…
He blinked crust away from his lids, hissing at the light, even as dim as it was. Those overhead, buzzing LEDs never went out at the lab, the very first clue that something was different. Blurred vision cleared to find a bedside table and lamp settled beside a shuttered window, no rails on the bed, no heart monitor beeping haphazardly to his terror.
There was still an IV bag in sight, wheels straddling plain carpet instead of tiles, and tube strapped to the vein on his wrist. He smoothed his hand along the tape in consideration.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Leon jolted, half-awake brain having nearly forgotten the extra presence in the room, “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to be a shambling corpse.”
“At this point, I’m really not sure…” He mumbled back, glancing up through the haziness at his… Captor? Saviour? He wasn’t sure.
“Ah, I see that obnoxious personality of yours is still in intact,” the man notes.
Wait a minute… His nose crinkled, and every available brain cell in his addled head was firing, “…Wesker?”
“Correct,” he replies simply, “Cognitive function is intact as well.”
Leon idly wonders if he gets a prize for guessing right.
“Or maybe not…”
Oh, he must have said that out loud. It’s hard to notice when every word is stuck to the roof of his mouth like peanut butter one moment, then flowing like water the next.
“That would be the morphine.”
Oh. Cool.
“Why’re you here?”
Wesker chuckles, “A far better question would be why are you here?”
Leon blinks.
“Perhaps that’s too much for you to process just yet…” Wesker notes.
“…Ada?” He wonders, vaguely remembering a phone call.
“You may win that prize yet,” Wesker states wryly.
“Why… What does…?” He’s struggling to find the words, confusion marring each syllable.
“It would seem you finally outgrew your lack of backbone, K- Leon. Or, to put it simply: The little government dog finally slipped his leash.”
…Why did he do that again? He just remembers pain, long days in agony as he writhed on a squeaky cot, the same questions over and over…
“The simple answer,” Wesker explains with bemusement, “Is that your little parasite found itself alive once more. Like, say, an individual infected with the t-Virus might be.”
What?
“The diseased parasite left in your internal organs…it would seem they found it intriguing how it interacted with your infection. Staving off the side effects that are usually seen after mere hours of incubation.”
“Fuck off…” he growled through gritted teeth, “That’s…”
“Not true? Is that what you wished to say?” Wesker leaned in close, until Leon could feel his breath against his ear, “Can you really say that you’re worth more to them than that data?”
“Stop…” Leon groaned, shattered pieces of what he used to be turning into ice and stabbing into his chest.
“Don’t worry, Leon,” Wesker said in a whisper, “You’ll live. You’re worth far more to me alive.”
“…Okay.”
Wesker draws back, raising an eyebrow, “‘Okay?’”
“…Just don’t send me back,” Leon pleads, staring at the wall in lieu of facing the embarrassment, “Please.”
“How unexpected,” Wesker taunts, “Not going to demand I let you slink back to your owners? How utterly selfish of you.”
Leon shook his head into his pillow, hiding behind a greasy curtain of hair as sheer relief finally, finally cools the tenseness of his body. He doesn’t dignify the insult with a response, unable to muster any fire as his tired body relaxes for the first time in weeks.
“Hm, and here I’d assume you’d prefer the devil you know.”
“Not a devil,” he protests weakly, “Hell.”
Wesker almost seems offended, “I could make things much more unpleasant for you than those dolts. You would never know peace if I desired it.”
He doesn’t know peace now. “I know.”
He doesn’t claim it makes sense, can’t even begin to try and explain it, but he thinks he’d rather feel every agonising moment of his limbs being torn off than to return there. It’s an old pain, an almost comfortable one that he’d grown so used to, was it any wonder that it felt so nice when it was gone?
There’s a caveat though, a big one.
“…Make them think I’m dead,” he suggested, “Or not worth the effort. Whichever is easier.”
There’s an air about Wesker, one that’s waiting for him to give a reason to be indulged, “Go on.”
“They won’t hurt Sherry if I’m gone,” Leon explained, “Might even pay you for my cadaver… ‘We don’t negotiate with terrorists,’ my ass…”
“A very ‘scorched Earth’ state of mind for the DSO’s prized agent.”
Leon shrugs, “What can I say, you’ve ‘seduced me to the Dark Side,’ or whatever.”
He can tell he’s entertaining him, like a fool to a king, but he’s long since lost any sense of pride. He’d be no more convincing by grovelling or spitting and snarling, and he wasn’t any good at either. He was good at being a dog, a snarky one, but obedient nonetheless.
The BSAA is probably just like them, hell Chris probably won’t even believe him, and Ada is still far too hard to read to rely on. But if he strikes out on his own they’ll put him down like a rabid mutt, and show him Sherry’s head on a platter when they do.
“I’m good at what I do,” he promises.
“I’m hardly interested,” Wesker denies, “'You’re better alive than dead,’ did you not hear me?”
He doesn’t know what else to say, what else to give. Not when it’s been over half a decade and all he knows is their orders, their bidding and punishments and bitter demands choked down by liquor.
He’s about to ask him to leave him to his fate when-
“But. I suppose I could find a better use for you. You’re wasted on those government clowns…”
“Keep me,” he agreed easily, “Hurt me, break me, I don’t care anymore.”
Wesker hums, lifting his glasses so their eyes meet, leaving Leon practically frozen in place as Wesker stares through him.
“That self worth of yours…” he marvels, resting a gloved hand surprisingly gently on his cheek, “We’ll fix that in time.”
It’s the only answer he gives before he turns on his heel, nearly through the door before he turns, glasses already back in place.
“And Leon,” he says lowly, lips quirked upward at the very edges, “You’ll know when you’ve been properly ‘seduced.’”
Leon watched him leave, then presses a hand against the same cheek he’d touched. It’s warm from where his blood rushed, the first blush he’d had in years. The pain is gone, replaced by a vicious heat clawing its way into his stomach. It hits him slowly but surely, just how much he’d just promised to a wanted man.
“Well, shit.”