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Lightning from the raging thunderstorm outside briefly illuminates the hallway of the police station with bright light and sharp shadows, and Leon can’t help but pick out the blood splattered on the walls and piece together the grim story it tells. He’s seen the shambling figures outside; he’s had his run-in with the mindless creatures turned monsters, determined to tear him limb from limb. Lieutenant Branaugh has warned him against hesitating, nursing the gut wound of his own mistakes in the main hall, and Leon refuses to acknowledge its severity or the eventual consequences that may come from it.
Instead, he takes a measured breath as he rounds the next corner of the hallway, pistol out, crossed over his left forearm that steadies the flashlight. Just like he was trained.
What his training neglected to take into account, however, was how to deal with the moaning police officer, pale skin, sightless eyes, rasping vocal cords, reaching out for him, hissing for his blood.
Leon squares his shoulders into the proper stance, takes careful aim, narrows his sights, and shoots his would-be co-worker straight between the eyes.
It says a lot for his current situation when the former officer grunts out, perturbed but not stopped, staggering briefly before continuing with his mindless drive to tear into anything warm and living.
He fires again, and the once-human only stumbles for a moment before reaching again for Leon, teeth bared, shrugging off a second headshot like it was nothing.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, Leon thinks for a moment before firing a third time.
The creature stumbles, then mercifully drops to the floor.
He exhales, lowering the gun.
Then he hears it.
Something is behind him.
Every nerve in his body goes taut, and he can feel his heart skip a beat, before redoubling its efforts at the scrabbling, wet, hissing noise that comes from above him. He’s only encountered the skinless, long-tongued monsters once before when he had a shotgun full of ammo and a brief flash of finally getting a handle on his situation. The ammo had run out before the horrors of this night had, however.
Leon doesn’t want to know but can’t help himself.
He looks up.
The skinless creature pounces on him the instant the light hits its lidless eyes. It knocks him down, sitting heavy on his chest, and its serrated teeth dive for the exposed flesh of his neck.
He catches its jaw, holding it back with all the strength lent to him by the desperation of survival, trying to push, twist, escape....
Holy shit holy shit, Leon can’t stop the mantra in his mind, and his arms are trembling with the effort, the creature’s teeth moving closer and closer to his throat, and he can feel the damp breath wash over his face as it hisses.
Drool pools in the creature’s mouth, dripping onto his cheek as the jaws inch closer to his thundering pulse, despite his efforts.
He can’t hold it back, he can’t-
He remembers the knife he picked up, reaches wildly for it and desperately hoping he’s faster, drives it into the creature’s neck as hard as he can. The monster shrieks and pulls back; it’s enough for Leon to shove it away and scramble back to his feet.
He shoulders past the creature, intent on getting past, getting down the hall, getting anywhere but here-
And then the former officer who he’s shot in the head three times grabs his calf and tears into it with reckless abandon, determined to hobble him, stop him, pull him back.
Hot, sharp pain erupts in his leg, and Leon can’t stop the gasp of horror as he feels himself stumble, dragged back to the ground by what could have been a colleague in another world.
Another growl sounds and then there's another body on top of him, where did she even come from, and he doesn’t have another knife; there are teeth sinking into his shoulder, vicious and tearing as he narrowly avoids a bite to his neck through fumbling, desperate pawing with his hands, and the skinless monster is shaking off the blow from earlier, and his flesh-crazed would-be ally is opening its jaw for another bite.
Leon panics.
He’s distantly aware that he’s thrown all training to the wind as he completely unloads his pistol into the third creature who’s intent on tearing out his jugular. It’s too close to his own head and his ears ring with the sound of the gun’s retort.
But she stumbles, thank god, and he rolls out of the way of the skinless, long-tongued creature who was intent on skewering him in revenge for the blade still sticking out of its neck.
That leaves his former colleague who he kicks at wildly, shoving the bloodless face away from his leg with his hands, giving himself just enough of an opening to stumble to his feet and run.
His sense of direction is completely lost in his panic; the tight, narrow hallways all promising similar chances of salvation or further horror.
There’s supposed to be a hallway, he wasn’t going this way-
No, it’s behind-
Something lets out a feral, inhuman scream and it’s too close, too close-
He’s turned around, the map he carefully committed to memory not translating to the dark hallways filled with jagged shadows, hastily piled blockades, and fear given form.
There’s the staircase
There’s the window, another flash of lightning outlining a figure banging on cracking glass; mouth frozen open in a rigor mortis.
The sound of talons on wood is right behind him, and he needs to figure out-
There.
He ducks around the staircase, into a narrow passage and bursts through the door of the darkroom, bleeding, gasping, eyes darting around the room, assessing it for any threats, any movement.
For whatever reason, it seems like none of the creatures come here. He thinks it might have to do with the strong chemical smell permeating the room from the film processing. It seems to mask his smell, cover his tracks, and turn away the undead creatures. For whatever reason, it calls out safety.
Leon slumps against the table in the middle of the room, still trying to catch his breath. That was close. He almost- No. He can’t afford that thought.
From outside the door a frustrated scream sounds, and he fights down a shudder at the noise.
Okay.
Okay, he’s... he’s alright.
It’s alright.
He has to be proactive, has to keep moving forward, and he straightens up, reloading the pistol he emptied into the undead creature’s face earlier.
The mag clatters to the floor.
“Shit,” he mutters, reaching down to pick it up.
It slips from his grip again. “Fuck... no,” he says, frustrated.
His hands are shaking and he can’t get them to stop. He needs to control himself; he needs his body to listen to him. Something stupid like this? Like dropping his mag instead of properly reloading it? That’s a death sentence. He can’t afford that; the people counting on him can’t afford that. He has to be better. He can’t make stupid mistakes like-
His breaths are coming too fast, too violently, and he’s distantly aware that the darkness currently tunneling his vision is likely caused by his lack of being able to pull in consistent oxygen. Leon sinks down beside the table, breathing hard despite the scoffing voice in his head, and he knows it’s the adrenaline crash; he knows that it’s likely shock from his injuries; he knows that it’s normal, a human response, but he can’t stop hating himself when a gasp for air catches on his throat a little too hard and sounds a bit too close to a sob.
It’s too much.
He wants to help people, he wants to be a good cop, he wants...
A low moan outside the door makes him turn the empty handgun onto the entrance, but after a painstaking moment where Leon is certain he doesn’t draw a single breath, the noise abates.
Fuck.
FUCK.
Just...
“Fuck,” he says, voice coming out too hoarse, too strangled. He’s finally able to slot the filled mag back into his gun, ignoring the shaking of his hands. However, his wounds are making themselves known now that the adrenaline has faded from his body. His leg and shoulder ache, pulsing hot pain in time with his heartbeat, and he’s not entirely sure how he made it into this room with an actual chunk of his calf missing.
He rolls up the leg of his pants, face set in a grim line as the injury comes into view.
It looks as bad as it feels, and he turns away, telling himself he’s just searching for the medical supplies he knows he stashed in this safe room even while his stomach flips with the idea that this is his leg.
Leon’s breath stutters as he sprays the can of med spray generously over the wound, not quite certain how things like infection work with.... whatever this is.
The spray has analgesic qualities at least, lessening the white-hot burn into a manageable, mint-scented ache.
He carefully winds the bandage around his leg anyway, hands shaking, trying not to think too hard about the missing piece, clutched in some undead creature’s mouth.
His shoulder receives a similar treatment, antiseptic spray and bandages, and he’s feeling a bit more in control of his situation.
And then Leon considers leaving the safety that this room provides and going back into the unknown.
And god
GOD
He can’t.
He knows he has to; he can't just live in this little corner with the nauseating smell of chemicals forever, but-
His hands are trembling again, and he’s getting that distinct feeling like he has to throw up.
He has to go
He has to.
But the undead monsters wearing the faces of his fellow officers are still out there; notes of their petty disputes, or short-term memory for codes and combinations left in their wake.
He can’t help them.
He wants to; god, he wants to help, to do something worthwhile so badly-
But it’s his first day, and there’s a welcome banner for the new rookie, and silly joke-y puzzles, waiting for him to unlock his desk, people who are genuinely looking forward to calling him their comrade-
It’s too much.
Leon slides down the wall, sitting next to the door, breathing still irregular and he can’t do this.
He knows he needs to complete the mission for the Lieutenant. He knows he needs to be strong for Claire, who’s just a regular civilian, caught up in this mess without any training on how to deal with stressful situations. He knows people are counting on him; it’s his first day and he still has something to prove....
But
The phantom pain in his shoulder
The helpless feeling of being held down while some human-shaped creature tears his life out of him
Cornered, trapped, and alone...
He can’t... he just can’t....
His vision is darkening at the edges again, the hum of the lights becoming distant as if he were underwater.
Leon knows the steps for calming down panicked civilians; he knows he needs to concentrate on breathing deeply and not the desperate shallow breaths his body is currently taking, as if it’s his last.
Knowing is not doing though, and it takes him a long minute before he is able to force himself to hold his inhale without breathing out and trying to take another quick breath.
Slowly the room comes back into focus
He’s still here
He still has things he needs to do
He’s still (mostly) in one piece-
Except for that chunk of him that’s in some creature’s stomach, anyway
I’d ask if you want a piece of me, but-
It’s the stupidest thought he’s had all night, and Leon can’t stop the irreverent snort that escapes him.
It’s so incredibly dumb, it actually manages to pull him out of the fatalistic spiral his mind was edging towards.
Unbelievable
He sits a minute longer, concentrating on his breathing, on the awareness of his body, like he’s supposed to.
Slowly, with resolve he still doesn’t fully feel, Leon pulls himself back to his feet, letting out another measured breath.
Marvin was counting on him; Claire was counting on him. There might yet be other people in Raccoon City that were counting on him.
You wanted to help people, Leon reminds himself, the situation might not be what you thought, but you can still help people.
Okay,
Okay.
Deep breath.
“You can do this,” he reassures himself.
Leon squares his shoulders and pushes out the door, handgun out, flashlight on.
The woman who had taken a bite out of his shoulder is standing a few feet away, head lolling drunkenly as she jerkily turns towards him, throwing her head in his direction before the rest of her body follows.
Leon doesn’t hesitate, putting five consecutive shots into her forehead until she drops.
“Bet you’ll feel that in the morning,” he mutters, taking the moment to reload his weapon, as smoothly and quickly as he’s ever done in the firing range.
Nothing else moves, and he hesitates for the barest of moments before heading up the stairs, the mental map in his head coming back to him.
He can still help people
He can do this.