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Ashley’s hand was cold and clammy. The stark black color of her veins was sickeningly prominent on her too-pale skin, and her pulse was rapid and shallow when Leon brushed his fingers over her wrist. Leon had some knowledge of first aid from his training with USSTRATCOM, but he couldn’t quite shake the buzzing uncertainty that settled itself inside of his chest. He took a moment to steady his hands before sweeping back Ashley’s blonde hair, exposing the veins in her neck. Well, Leon thought to himself, at least they’re easy to see.
Leon lined the injector up with one of the dark lines before pressing down on the plunger. Ashley flinched under his hands, a reaction Leon attributed to the plaga beneath her skin. She twitched, but her eyes remained closed as her body once again settled into unconsciousness. The blackness of her veins began to fade, and Leon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Gently, he placed a hand on Ashley’s sweat-soaked head, a comfort that, if he was being honest, was mostly for him. “You’re gonna be okay,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.
As he lowered his hand to the metal surface that Ashley rested on, he noticed his own skin was starting to turn a sickly pale color. The darkness that had previously inhabited Ashley’s body was mirrored in him, and it felt like fire in his bloodstream. He traced the lines with his eyes from his wrist to the top of his forearm. Leon felt his body tense as a sharp jolt of pain shot through him, a side effect of their predicament that he had so far been able to pass off as a brusque roll of the shoulder or a brief clutch of his side. But Ashley was unconscious now, and thank God for that, because it was getting harder and harder to ignore the agonizing sensation that crept under his skin.
A second, stronger surge of pain flooded him, accompanied by a wave of nausea and the uncomfortable feeling that that damned parasite was worming its way around his insides. Leon stumbled forward slightly, letting out a soft grunt and bending forward to regain his balance against the metal bedframe. A brief spark of panic ignited itself in his mind as he realized just how vulnerable the two of them were in that moment. Ashley, though some of the color had returned to her face, was still out cold, and even if she had been awake, Leon doubted that the effects of the suppressant were powerful enough to completely eradicate all effects of the plaga. It certainly hadn’t for him; he had to keep pushing through a constant layer of dizziness and dull aches even after Luis had assured him that the medicine had worked.
Maybe some of it was the circumstances he was under, sure, but he was supposed to be better than this. Hell, he had trained under some strict regimens, and he’d survived Raccoon City. If he could fight his way through his worst nightmare, then he should be able to execute a rescue mission, parasite or no parasite. But each event seemed to drag them deeper into this hellhole, and every time he was able to reassure Ashley that they’d escape safely, some other monstrous cultist or creature would tear her from his grasp. Leon needed to get a grip.
Gingerly, Leon lowered himself to the ground, drawing his pistol as he did so. The concrete floor was cool against his feverishly warm skin, and the metal of the bed behind him creaked as he sagged against it. He let out a shaky breath as he checked that his weapon had enough bullets to at least sufficiently wound any wayward Ganados that found their little hiding spot. With his other hand, Leon wiped away the sweat that was steadily pooling above his eyebrows. It seemed like he was in for a bit of a wait.
It had been twenty minutes. Ashley was still asleep, and Leon was starting to get antsy. Every little noise set him on edge: the high-pitched creak of an old hinge, the brief crackle of an unstable fluorescent light, even the little pitter-patter footsteps that Leon, while logically aware that they were mice or some other pest, couldn’t help but imagine were the creepy little bugs that skittered around people’s bodies like some deeply fucked-up playground.
The pain hadn’t subsided, either. If anything, it had gradually intensified, because now Leon’s vision was starting to wobble and the nausea that had initially felt like a subtle ebbing-and-flowing now felt like a bubbling whirlwind in his stomach. He could feel the plaga, its disgusting little presence compressing his lungs with a deceptively strong grip and slowly crushing his organs. Despite the pressure inside of his body, Leon held his gun tightly as he stared straight ahead. Focusing on one point in front of him—a pair of cardboard boxes haphazardly piled onto one another—helped to keep his mind from wandering. Now was not the time for what-ifs, or for wallowing in the agony that the cult had inflicted on himself and so many others. Like Luis, a traitorous thought whispered in the back of his mind.
Luis. He had just warmed up to the Spaniard when Krauser’s knife embedded itself directly into his spine. Leon watched as the light had left Luis’s eyes, like a lighter being snuffed out by the breeze. He watched as the scientist—his savior, his Don Quixote—fell limp, the cigarette in his mouth sticking briefly to the blood spilling over his lips before slipping onto the floor.
Leon scoffed when he caught himself. His Luis. As if he could ever have anything good in his wretched life. Luis hadn’t belonged to him, nor had he belonged in this mess of a place. He was a ray of hope; sure, one that was a little diluted and definitely a bit irritating at times, but a light in the darkness nonetheless. That’s why his death had dealt such a blow to Leon; it was the proximity of the mission, and his willingness to help even at the cost of his own life. There was nothing else to it.
There was nothing to the heat that rose under his face when Luis called him “prince charming.” There was nothing to the jolt of electricity he felt when Luis would brush against him in the winding tunnels of the mines. And there was nothing even remotely to the fluttering of his heart when Luis would look at him with a wry smile following one of his stupid one-liners because this mission was about Ashley. He didn’t have time to swoon over some mysterious, gentlemanly hero like a woman in a telenovela because he was here to rescue the president’s daughter. And he had let himself slip up time and time again.
And the worst part of it was how much Ashley admired him. He saw it in the way she followed him, her eyes shining even after all that she’s been through. She was like a little kid, gazing up at her hero who could never do anything wrong. And Leon was that hero, the infallible champion, the one whose simple mistakes could break her, or worse, get her killed. She should’ve had a better knight in shining armor. One who could do more than sink in his own misery when things went awry.
“Some agent you are,” Leon muttered to himself. His vision grew blurry and he tilted his head back, partially to combat the dizziness he felt and partially to keep the tears he knew were welling up at bay. He inhaled sharply, but his lungs were still so tight from how the plaga had situated itself. After a few moments, he lowered his gaze once again, focusing on the cardboard boxes ahead of him. Leon furrowed his brow when the area in front of him began to swim, but before he could steady his eyes, a soft voice interrupted him.
“Leon?” Ashley was awake, and it was time to get moving once more. Leon forced down the dizziness, the nausea, the agony, the overwhelming pressure of a dam about to break, and pushed himself up to his feet. With what little bravado he could muster, he met Ashley’s gaze.
“Sorry I’m late.”