Chapter Text
Leon
Leon tries not to think about the rotting wound on his shoulder, or the shadow that has started to swallow it.
It won’t change anything; thinking about it. There’s no way to turn back time or predict his fate. There’s no one to predict it for him, either. Not like before.
At least he doesn’t have a parasitic voice seizing control of his body. Though, it might be too early to tell.
The monster who’d torn a chunk from his shoulder had seemed just like every other zombie he’d dealt with before. Mindless and starving. It lived when Leon fired at its stomach, but fell when he destroyed the brain.
But, as Leon wanders further down the narrow halls of the Wrenwood Hotel, he questions it all.
The zombies which linger around in the hallways of the hotel moan, but it’s not monstrous. It feels more like mourning. Guilt stirs in Leon’s stomach when they run at him and he has to shoot. It’s only before their heads burst that they let out the soulless cry he knows.
At least that explains the eerie silence in the hotel reception. He wouldn’t have heard them. Not until they were too close.
He wouldn’t be so disturbed if that was all it was. After Raccoon City, he tried not to make a habit of looking at the faces of the things he had to kill. Seeing features he saw in a mirror reminded him all too often of who these things once were.
But he doesn’t even need to look at these monsters' faces to see the humanity that this infection has replaced. They act in such a way that, for a moment, Leon believes this hotel is alive again, and he’s been murdering innocent staff.
Closer to the guest rooms, another zombie lingers. She’s dressed in a soft black dress, and in her mangled hand she clutches a broom. Her sweeping is slow, but it’s precise. It’s only when she sees Leon that she succumbs again to the animalistic hunger of infection, and he needs to defend himself.
Leon stares down at her and feels sick in a way he hasn’t since that night in Raccoon City. He wishes, this time, he’d used his handgun. The hatchet ruined her.
Yet, even with a skull opened like a split, bleeding fruit, her hand twitches towards the broom.
These monsters haunt near the cemetery of Raccoon City, but they haven’t risen as the same undead.
“What the fuck,” he hisses. The files didn’t mention this. Hunnigan didn’t mention this.
Would this be his fate? Bound to his life before death, even after he dies? If he succumbs to the infection, would his instincts recognise the threat within himself and turn the gun?
Leon’s neck burns and his veins pulse, warning him of an invasion he can’t stop, and all it does is remind him of inked skin, a parasite wriggling underneath, and the man who’s the only reason that parasite isn’t still feeding on his lungs. He thinks, foolishlessly, that if Luis were here, he’d be fascinated by this strain. Maybe, there’d even be hope for a vaccine. For Leon.
He grits his teeth. Spiralling never left him anywhere but a dilapidated bar, forcing down a burning bottle of gin and thoughts of a future that never could’ve happened. He needs to be at least a little aware of himself if he wants to complete his mission. Whether that’s apprehending Gideon or finding Grace.
All Leon can do is continue down the halls. He tries not to choke on bile every time a zombie shows a semblance of who they once were. Spits out the bitterness when he has to put them down. Every hotel room only houses corpses. Every time Leon stumbles back into the hallway, he’s left with only a dull fatigue and a duller hatchet.
There’s no sign of Grace, but that’s not what freaks Leon out. It’s the absence of Gideon. There’s not even a ghost of his presence; no abandoned equipment, no zombie on Umbrella steroids.
But Leon’s had to deal with Umbrella’s bullshit too many times. If there’s one thing they love more than fucking up innocent lives, it’s a concealed passageway. They hid like rats under the RPD, for fucks sake. Cowering away in a hotel made more sense than that.
So, Leon searches, and as he searches, he kills. By the time he finds what he’s looking for, his boot is soaked with clotted crimson and curdled insides, and he’s wasted through almost a full box of handgun ammo.
A faded, oil painting hangs underneath the staircase that Leon climbed so many times he could now do it blindfolded. To the untrained eye, the painting is mundane; a mountain landscape in bleak blue and silent grey. The hotel has other paintings, but this one is different. When Leon shines his flashlight towards it, a shadow reveals itself underneath. A shadow that shouldn’t exist if there's a solid wall behind it.
Leon approaches the painting, Matilda raised. He isn’t going to be caught off guard by one of those bastards again. Who knows what another bite would do to him?
Reluctantly, he takes his finger off the trigger to prod at the canvas. As he expects, it moves slightly under the pressure.
Predictable Umbrella, Leon sighs. Trust them to hide a scheme behind a painting of all things.
Over the years, he’s caused enough property damage for a fine of millions, so one torn painting is the least of his concern. Hurriedly, he scratches at the canvas until it peels away like picked skin, revealing a lever underneath.
Leon wonders how Gideon, or whoever, had the time to set this up. At least it’s not as ridiculous as those medallions and that marble statue.
But any sound made is a siren call to the undead he’s yet to slaughter. Leon doesn’t wait for them to show up. With a pull of the lever, the wall opposite opens like a gaping wound. Beyond is a staircase leading into nothing but shadows.
Leon rushes through the open mouth. When he yanks down the opposite lever, the walls shut out the furious growls of the undead.
He gives them the finger. He’s so tired of walking corpses. Though, that probably won’t be the end of them. If what awaits him is Gideon’s lair, it’ll be crawling with those bastards, or worse.
Leon massages the ache in his neck. Even as he descends through biting cold air, his own bite feels set alight. Reaching the bottom, he continues through a damp, faded tunnel, his flashlight keeping the corners trapped in a murky vignette. The smell of sour, melting flesh sticks to the walls, and Leon resists craning to see if it’s his skin that’s boiling over.
But there’s no undead. Not yet.
When Leon emerges from the tunnel it's to what looks like a hospital. The walls are bright, lined with a sharp blue pattern that strain Leon's eyes. Strewn across the lobby are stripped beds and trolley’s of medical equipment that he’s sure weren’t used as intended. The sheets are stained red, and the syringes are left bleeding. The overheard light is stark, and he chokes on a sharp, sterile smell that tries to overwhelm the rot. It doesn't do a good job at it.
Regardless, he has to keep moving. This place is likely where Gideon is cowering, doing fuck knows what. If Leon can find him soon, he might not even have to worry about Grace. He can apprehend Gideon, call in reinforcements, and get himself quarantined until things are sorted out.
He didn't want to consider that, maybe, the DSO won't take that risk. Years of devotion mean nothing when considering the spread of a virus. If this is deemed incurable - if Leon is doomed - they'd shoot him in the head without a second thought. He'd become another nameless casualty who died for the cause.
It might be a better fate than the one these zombies have chosen. The few zombies that guard the hospital are even more violent, as Leon assumed. But deep within their frenzy there is still that humanity that disarms him. Some must’ve been patients, dressed in drab, loose gowns, tugging along IV drips in despondence. Others are staff, who try to arrange equipment and fill out forms until they hear Leon’s footsteps. A zombified doctor flailing around a chainsaw reminds Leon once again of Spain, where the villagers attacked with bloodied axes and pitchforks held with recognition. They were only able to wield those because of their puppeteer; Leon knew that. Yet, sometimes their eyes would be fogged with a memory of using those axes not for slaughter, but for a mundane, everyday task. These people would've cut wood for a fire to warm themselves, or their family, the same people they had to watch succumb to the wills of a freakish bug found in amber.
Leon’s not sure what use this doctor ever had for a chainsaw, but the zombie sure knows how to use it. If Leon didn’t have his hatchet, he might’ve been the one split open. Whatever the case, it seems to be Gideon's last line of defence for now. When Leon drags himself past the fresh, undead corpse, he finds respite in the room behind it. It's a typical hospital room, with thin window curtains that float like spirits through the wind, and beds that have been empty for too long now. There's cabinets housing bottles upon bottles of medicines, which Leon stashes, just in case. However, his attention is diverted when he notices a computer, solitary in the corner of the room. It’s not as sleek as the models his handlers use now. When Leon tries to start it up, it whirs with fatigue.
He groans, and resists the urge to hit it. But there’s no point in risking a finishing blow. Not when he has a feeling the evidence he needs is right here, only trapped behind an excruciatingly slow loading screen.
The sharp emptiness of the display reflects his own wearied, pale expression, and he can’t help but stare at the black mass on his neck, spreading like an oil spill. At this rate, his reflection will contort into one of those monsters before it loads away.
Leon leans against the desk, taking a deep breath. Don’t start thinking like that now. Las Plagas took longer than this. You have time.
But his reassurances are empty when his mind is aware it knows nothing. Leon fights viruses, but he doesn’t understand them. That was Luis’ job.
The screen buzzes alive, and Leon straightens up. Whoever used it last must’ve left in a hurry, because it’s still logged in. Leon sends a fleeting thank you to whatever God pitied him in this moment. Then, he searches.
Most of the files are named scientific jargon he vaguely recognises, but one makes him stop.
What the hell is Elpis?
Leon clicks. The screen fills with scrawled notes and twisted images of the infected. From these Leon recognises the dark shadows crawling up arms, spreading through veins, stemming from bitten skin.
Elpis is the virus, then. This is what’s going to kill me.
He doesn’t want to read on. But the Gods would only bless him once; he has to. The images explain every detail of Elpis like a doctor would declare a fatal diagnosis. Every symptom he feels; a burning wound, overwhelming emotions, heavy nostalgia. Next, his mind would fog over with rising smoke, and then his limbs would spasm. His teeth would dislodge, fall light like scattered dice, as blood gushed from the holes and spilled onto his lips. His words would become growls, and all he’d remember would be the endless years of fighting to survive instead of just to live.
Leon grimaces. It couldn’t be worse.
Unsurprisingly, the rest of the documents consist of nothing but mindless ramblings. Gideon sounds just like Saddler. The bastard is convinced his virus will set humanity free.
Leon scoffs. What a load of bullshit.
But within those ramblings is a name Leon recognises. The acid churning in his stomach rises in his throat.
What does Grace Ashcroft have to do with this?
But, when he starts to read further, a shrill scream rings through the walls. He jolts away from the desk. Again, it echoes, followed by heavy thumps in fast pursuit. In Leon’s ears, the fear rings like tinnitus.
Fuck the evidence. It’ll survive without him. If that’s Grace out there, she might not.
Leon bolts out of the room and down the corridor. He doesn’t even know where he’s going. The undead wander, but he kicks them away with a surge of strength, sparing them nothing more than a clean bullet through the skull before skirting past. Deep beneath his feet the building shakes, as monstrous wails swallow terrified shouts. Leon follows the sound like it’s hooked to his neck and dragging him upward through bloodied water.
The screams begin to deafen him, and as he rounds another corner, he realises why. Grace is scrambling across the floor, slowed by her shuddering sobs. The looming mass of skin behind her inches closer, stretching its teardrop mouth in anticipation, saliva dripping from rotten teeth, its eyes rolling like marbles in its sockets. She holds a lighter up to it, but the flame can’t even singe.
Leon doesn’t hesitate.
“Hey!” He yells. Grace, panicked and disorientated, barely manages to crawl out of the monster's grasp before Leon unloads every bullet he has into the mound of flesh. They sing in the air until they sink into the skin with a dull squish. The creature wails, red pouring from the wounds.
Leon doesn’t wait for its inevitable recovery. He grabs Grace from the floor and tugs her down the corridors. She’s a ragdoll behind him, so light and limp that for a moment Leon wonders if she’s even there. But her tight, strained breaths are constant. Even when he pulls her into an empty room and bars the door, she struggles to calm down.
“What.. the fuck.. was that?” She hiccups. “Who are you?”
As she studies Leon’s figure, her eyes widen. “No, no wait. I know who you are-“
Leon interrupts her gently. “Calm down, okay?”
“You’re um.. fuck what did he call you..”
“You’re delirious,” Leon tells her. Ashley was like this too. Chasing incomprehensible words to fathom what was happening to her.
Leon reaches towards Grace. When she doesn’t move away, he continues. “You’re with me now, so you’re safe-“
But Grace cuts him off with a gasp. “You’re Sancho, right?”
Leon flinches. Grace’s lips are moving, but her words aren’t heard. They’re drowned out by a deeper, playful tone that Leon always wondered if he could truly remember. When haunting him, it never sounded quite right. It never made Leon feel warm.
Perhaps Grace had read Don Quixote, and made the same comparison. Leon had. After weeks of searing anger, of wondering why a person he didn’t even really know had consumed him so wholly, he’d scrambled to find a copy of the novel. The version he found was worn, ink fading into dry, coffee stained pages. But it was a treasure. Sleepless, he’d read it in a single night.
That novel helped Leon to understand Luis more than he thought he’d ever have the chance to.
It would be an eerie coincidence for Grace to think the same, but it was more plausible than the alternative. An alternative Leon never tried to hope for, because in a world of monsters and plague, miracles like that were unheard of. You could come back from the dead, but never back to life.
He’s so trapped in these thoughts that he doesn’t notice Grace approaching him until her hand rests on his arm.
“Hey. Sorry, um.. Leon?” She asks. Now, her voice is soft and stable. It’s weird. He should be comforting her.
“Yeah, um-“ He coughs. and takes his arm away from her concern. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. You’re not hurt, are you?”
Grace shakes her head. But then, she fixes him under knowing eyes, and Leon averts his own.
“But you are, right?”
“What?”
“You’re infected. Like those monsters.”
Leon backs away. The lump in his throat becomes a grating stone. She can’t know. How does she know?
Grace, sensing his apprehension, hurriedly mends her words. “No, like, it’s fine! It’s not obvious! I was just told to give you this.”
There’s no more distance Leon can put between them. She shuffles closer, revealing a syringe from her pocket.
“I was lucky I didn’t drop it running from that thing,” she whispers. “Seriously, what the fuck was that?”
Leon feels bad for leaving her without an answer, but his question hurts to think about. “Who was it who gave you that?”
“Oh, so ignore my question again,” Grace scoffs, but it’s not harsh. All she shows is sympathy, and it makes Leon’s chest constrict in forgotten ways. “I don’t really know. The monster arrived before I could actually ask, but he made sure I didn’t leave without this. He said it was really important I got this to you. Told me it should stave off the infection for a while.”
As Leon rolls his sleeve up, she continues. “Oh, and that you need to value your life for once.”
The irony of that request makes Leon feel hysterical. Last time he checked, he was the one who still had a life to worry about.
Not that Grace’s mysterious aid is Luis. Leon can’t bear to hope.
Grace inserts the syringe, and it doesn’t take long before a numbing calm envelopes him. The wound remains decayed, but its aching is distant, and Leon no longer burns. Inside, the virus still wants to gorge on his humanity, but it’ll have to be patient.
Leon tests his functions. The gun shakes less in his grip, and the fog in his mind begins to dissipate.
Grace breathes out a sigh of relief. “Does it feel better?”
“Yeah. How.. I mean, what the hell was in that?”
“Um..” Grace shifts. “My blood. I’m glad it actually worked.”
“You’re serious.” Leon glances at the pinprick, and the faint red that stains the wound. He imagines Grace’s veins invaded by a needle. Now, every drop of blood stolen sieges through Leon’s veins.
“It’s okay. I said he could take it,” Grace explains.
“That’s not what I was thinking about.”
There’d be no world in which Luis would force Grace to give her blood. When approaching Ashley, he’d been hesitant. In taking her hand, it was nothing but gentle. Even with Leon, beneath the flirting and the facade, Luis had cared so much. Devoted himself to it.
Leon can’t stand it anymore. He needs to ask.
“This man.. What did he look like?”
Grace tilts her head. “He was wearing a lab coat, and glasses. He had long hair, too.. I mean, only a little longer than mine. But I was kind of freaked, so I wasn’t really paying much attention, and it was kind of hard to see a lot of his face, considering just how.. well, his infection looked worse than yours.”
Leon’s pulse pauses at the mention of an infection. Is it possible that Las Plagas still resides in Luis? If Luis looks worse.. how far would the infection have progressed?
But, even from Grace’s description, it’s not enough for Leon to know for sure. Grace doesn’t mention eyes like soft silver, or an accent Leon can’t fully recall. When Leon knew Luis, he didn’t wear glasses, or lab coats. There’s no specifics about the light curls in the hair, or the deep brown shade, or how soft Leon had always imagined it to be. Grace wouldn’t know the roughness of Luis’ hands, or how brushing against them felt like finding warmth in front of a dancing fire. She wouldn't know, but Leon wanted her to mention it. He needed her to.
The disappointment is so stifling Leon has to fight to breathe against it.
“You know him, right?” Grace continues. “He definitely knew you.”
“I used to,” Leon admits. “Maybe. It wouldn’t make sense though."
Then, he remembers the lighter Grace held, before his torch guided their way instead. It looked so familiar.
Before Leon can stoop low enough to ask to see it, a sharp screech slices through his words. Instinctively, he guides Grace behind him. He approaches the door with his Matilda raised.
“We can’t stay here,” he tells Grace. “That thing.. it doesn’t want me.”
“I-I know,” Grace stammers. “Gideon said my blood was special.” She spits out the word.
“Even more reason to get out of here,” Leon confirms. Whatever Victor Gideon wanted Grace for, it wouldn’t end with Grace alive. He’d drain her until she was only an empty sack of skin and bone.
Under her breath, Grace mutters something along the lines of you sound just like him. But she only seems to want Leon to hear her fear.
”Where can we go? We can’t go back through the hallway, and his laboratory…”
“Did Gideon mention anything to you? Plans?”
Grace mumbles, but the monster’s visceral screaming eats her words. Leon fears that if they don’t run now, they won’t make it out.
“Look, I can distract it,” Leon continues. He turns to Grace. She’s quivering, staring dazedly at the bloodstained floor, as if begging it to open up with an escape. Leon knows how it feels. As a young, weak rookie, he did that a lot. Always hoped that when he looked up, things would be different.
They never were.
“You have to go,” he tells her. As he begins to press his gun into her turbulent hands, she jerks up. Her eyes cry tears of pleading.
“No! Not again, you can’t leave me, please!” She stammers. “I don’t know what that guy wants, but he mentioned something about using that city. Raccoon City. We have to go together this time, please.”
The words run from her mouth, and Leon doesn’t know how many to believe. He doesn’t want to believe them. This hospital, the hotel, they were hard enough. But Raccoon City itself? What the fuck does Gideon need there?
But, Grace won’t let him leave her alone. Whilst they can’t stay here, returning to the hotel is too obvious. If he were Gideon, that’s where he’d lie, awaiting his foolish prey. Leon’s not going to be stupid again.
Leon sucks in a stinging breath. “Okay. But you have to listen to everything I say, alright?”
Vehemently, Grace nods. Leon turns back towards the animalistic screeching. He hopes a few more bullets will be enough to stop it.
With haste, he shoves the door open. The door bangs, and the creature shrieks louder. Leon’s own steps fade underneath the creature’s shambling as it tears through concrete and plaster. The whole structure quivers, almost as fiercely as Grace’s hand.
Leon doesn’t stop for anything but to make sure Grace is still behind him. They run through the hallway, up a staircase, towards what he begs is an exit. Zombies lunge at them, catching black nails on loose fabric, but Leon can’t spare them much more than a hurried shot. He has bigger problems, like the impending beat of that monster. Or, that the man Leon grieved till his heart bled might still be alive.
He’d been taunted by Luis’ corpse in every reflective surface. If Luis is alive, who was haunting him?
Grace’s shuddering breaths twist into a ringing scream, and only then does Leon abandon all thoughts of Luis.
His other problem caught up.