#nerd!leon au

[rookieinglasses]

Sometimes I think I might be autistic. But I don’t know for sure because I'm absolutely terrified of psychotherapists, psychiatrists, and psychologists. Honestly, it feels like it’d be quicker to drag Albert Wesker to a pretrial sanity evaluation — even if I had to improvise and pull him straight out of a volcano crater — than to get me into an office

[rookieinglasses]

Headcanons:

Leon collects keychains and badges. Mostly, they are related to Star Wars. He also has a dog paw badge—perhaps he volunteered at a dog shelter during his college years.

Nerd often wears warm clothes like sweaters or hoodies because he gets cold easily and hates the chill.

He dislikes getting haircuts. Even though he keeps the same haircut as all other Leons, he always looks a bit shaggy and overgrown.

Nerd has freckles almost all over his body—on his face, neck, shoulders, and arms.

[rookieinglasses]

it was late; too late to still be at the school, but the papers wouldn’t grade themselves. that’s when you hear it - the telltale sound of metal, clinking up in the vent. something shoots out, flying across the ceiling and shattering all the lights in its wake.

it spins on a dime, it’s long tail lashing behind it as it stalks towards you. you can’t make it out, but what you can tell is that it’s big. and it’s not looking at you; it’s looking through you, - almost like it was sizing up not only you but your soul too - unblinking and eyes aflame. literally and figuratively, they were the only source of light in the now dark classroom

Leon almost jumps out of his skin at the rumbling coming from the ventilation duct. Every light bulb flies off and shatters like Christmas tree ornaments toppled by a cat. He shields his head from the tiny shards of glass and plastic flying from above.

It's murky, except for the fluorescent stars that light up one by one. A few weeks ago, he and the children had taken astronomy, and their classroom had become a star chart. A creature crawling across the ceiling, knocking down light bulbs one by one, gracefully, like a shadow, lands on the floor with astonishing silence. A pair of mirrored eyes glow in the darkness, and a huge tail, larger than the creature itself, floats anxiously in the air. It's the gaze of a predatory cat, but not a killer.

Perhaps this creature is looking at him with the same sense of apprehension that Leon himself feels?

Leon exhales briefly when his eyes have adjusted to the darkness enough to make out a silhouette opposite him. This humanoid creature stands on two straight legs, slightly hunched over, like a cornered predator with no choice but to raise the fur on its back.

"Who are you?"

Leon gathers the courage to raise his hands, demonstrating that he means no harm, and awkwardly crunches through broken glass as he steps forward. He takes his time, so as not to upset the mysterious creature.

[rookieinglasses]

[06.24.2000]

With just over an hour left until dawn, he had to hurry. He wanted to slip out silently, unnoticed, but the moment he passed by, Star got up to follow him, her tail wagging briskly. While he was putting on his shoes, as if asking where he was headed, it showered him with licks wherever she could reach—his nose, ears, and forehead—until Leon finally gave in and wrapped his arms around her, pressing himself softly against her fur with a quiet chuckle, wiping the dampness from his cheeks with the back of his hand.

"Come on, let's go."

Star bounded eagerly on her leash, setting a cheerful, springy pace even where her owner remained cautious, scanning the street to make sure no one was around. Once they reached a deserted, shadowy path lined with inky-black trees, Leon checked his surroundings one last time and leaned down to unclip the leash, briefly embracing the excited dog.

"And remember to behave. We don’t bother anyone."

He whispered this right against her ear, kissing the bridge of her snout before letting her go. Star didn't have a mean bone in her body; it was driven by a childlike curiosity, nudging everyone she met to get acquainted. Other people, blinded by the misconception that all dobermans are vicious attack dogs, would panic whenever Star poked her nose against their waist to sniff them out. No matter how much they recoiled, doberman would sensitively step closer to understand them. When the particularly fearful ones started screaming, waving their hands, and insulting his doggo child, Leon's patience would wear thin. Before pulling his girl away, he would give those idiots a piece of his mind, while his dog just tilted her head in utter confusion, retreating like a child behind his back. In moments like these, Leon found himself thinking more and more that he wasn’t the one walking Star—she was walking him.

By 3:28 AM, Leon began his run. He deliberately sought out the most derelict spots: abandoned industrial zones, overgrown, wild corners of the park, dead neighborhoods—anything that bore a resemblance to... Raccoon City. He didn't run along the designated park paths where it would be safe. On his missions, he almost always faced the same architecture of ruins and devastation. Star ran right at his side, a loyal companion keeping perfect stride with his rhythm.

An average of 4.28 minutes. Horrific. Monsters are faster. Leon recalculated, squinting to catch the digits on his watch, but he nearly tripped over a fallen cable, losing a few crucial seconds. No matter how he crunched the numbers—at this speed, it was no wonder Mr. X caught up to him so often, ready to smash his skull like an egg against a wall.

He timed himself roughly every 3 miles. Sometimes he used mile markers, and in their absence, he relied purely on instinct. Every mission, every sleepless nightmare about September 30th boiled down to one thing: a fatal lack of speed. He couldn't always shoot or blow up the monstrosities hunting him, whether it was Mr. X, a Licker, or something else entirely. He never knew what to expect on those assignments, which his superiors spoke of so sparingly right before almost shoving him toward the military transport.

4.23 minutes. Still too slow. Back at the base, the combat instructor always wondered with a hint of exasperation how someone with Leon's specific skills and high learning curve had even survived in the first place, before begrudgingly handing him an increased training quota. Leon hated the drills, sometimes even more than the missions themselves. He liked Stanley Kubrick's films, but he never wanted to find himself living inside one. But did he ever have a choice? Did anyone care how much he despised weapons? Despised the military? They didn't care; they just wanted to take Sherry away…

3.67 minutes. Leon shook his head, flipping back his sweat-soaked bangs. He needed to be faster. If he had been faster back then, he would have saved Elliot. Elliot would have made it out alive if Leon hadn't been such a slowpoke. If he hadn't been so clumsy, that man would still be here.

3.21 minutes. Leon exhaled sharply, searching for Star with his eyes. She was running right beside him, carefree and light on her feet, her tongue lolling in the wind. She wagged her tail—that was his girl. She was nothing like those disease-ravaged hounds from the past. Those dogs ran faster. They would already be waiting in pairs right at the edge of the turn, ready to lunge in a matter of seconds and rip his throat out.

2.95 minutes. Leon's breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps, his knees going numb. Dawn was breaking as he finally reached the park. Running through those grim, shadowed ruins in the twilight had been suicidal. But how else could he learn to run fast and nimble enough to survive among debris, barricades, and dense forests if he only stuck to the designated paths?

The slate-gray sky began to fill with deep blues and golds as the sun lazily rolled over the horizon. The clouds stretched thin, resembling the trim of a tangled, discarded blanket after a restless night. Still untouched by the sun's warmth, the park smelled of fresh grass and damp earth.

A cramp treacherously seized his leg, forcing him to slow down. Leon lengthened his stride, leaning his torso back. But he was too late even here; it barely helped. Striking the curb, Leon tripped, completely at the mercy of inertia and gravity as he went down.

By some grand miracle, he managed not to smash his head or nose. Realizing just how lucky he was to have landed in the grass, he let out a hoarse laugh that dissolved into a suffocating cough. Star jumped anxiously onto his chest with her front paws, showering him with licks. Propping himself up on a scraped elbow, Leon tried to catch his breath while she licked his ears, his hair, and his forehead, nudging his neck with an anxious snout.

"I’m okay."

He patted his girl’s withers, offering reassurance. His dog was extraordinarily intelligent; she already held his glasses in her teeth—they had flown off into the grass during the fall. Unbuckling his backpack, he pulled out a water bottle and a travel bowl for Star.

His knees were scraped raw, down to the flesh. The only reason he hadn’t snapped his neck was because he had taken the brunt of the fall on his knees, skidding across the asphalt before hitting the grass. It was just as fortunate that his glasses were intact. He wiped her drool off them, though he was entirely covered in it himself anyway. Even for Star, these outings were an absolute endurance test.

[rookieinglasses]

As you walk closer, the shape of the house reveals itself to be an old single-room church, steeple on the left reaching for the dim moon. The graying paint has worn away across the wooden battens, but there are signs of care in the flowers planted out front.

A rose window sits beneath the gable while three pointed arch windows line the lower facade at even intervals. The center is a clever door, betrayed by the two steps leading up to it and the sticky note with an arrow pointing to the handle (in case it wasn't obvious).

The barest slivers of soft light glow through the citrine glass, muted as if something has been draped across the interior.

👁️‍🗨️ Meet the contacts? Y/N

«Is it time to confess my sins?»

Leon didn't know; he believed in neither God nor the devil. This was perhaps the most unusual meeting place that could ever exist. Was he dealing with a religious fanatic? A cult? Why did this tiny Gothic church become the final destination of his chase after a shadow?

It was too early to tell, but the fact that they expected his arrival and left curious notes for him, much like the "Eat Me" labels left for Alice, was becoming more and more unsettling. He stopped before the door, trying to listen for any sound behind it. Someone was in there. Light danced across the stained glass—muted, barely piercing through the multi-faceted patterns of the window. There were no silhouettes, no outlines; just a strange waltz of shadow and light in the stinging silence.

The steps creaked treacherously, betraying his inner trepidation. His hand reached for his weapon but dropped to the door handle as if burned. The door opened with a slow, drawn-out groan, like an old woman’s muttering complaint. He peeked inside like a schoolboy who arrived late, his eyes quickly scanning the surroundings.

Who was his contact? Why had they chosen a remarkably preserved church in such a dilapidated, dead place? Who tended to it, keeping the wind and time from turning it into mere splinters and dust? Who were the parishioners? What kind of sermons were preached in this otherworldly silence, beneath the quiet weeping of fallen leaves?

He was prepared to see anything: a fanatic with religious fetishes like BTK, "ghosts" like those in St. George's Church, or members of the Church of Starry Wisdom. Yet, there was nothing. It was clean, and disquietingly still.

There was no smell of dampness, no incense, no human scent at all. He stepped deeper into the room, walking between the rows of pews, searching the shadows for his contact.

[rookieinglasses]

The interior looks like some academic's private study. The few rows of pews that remain (the rest having been beyond saving) are covered in cushions and books, plants overflow from shelves, and at the far end in front of a stained glass window that stretches nearly floor to ceiling, a large walnut desk has replaced the pulpit.

There's an envelope on the desk, propped up against a dimly lit lamp, your name written in neon pink marker.

The most remarkable feature, however, is the arrangement of pillows and blankets beneath a sheet suspended from a piece of rope spanning the room. Surrounding it is a pet fence, and sleepy puppies are strewn about here and there. A few glance up as you get closer, noses twitching curiously.

👁️‍🗨️ Read the letter? Y/N

Leaning forward like a stray, lost dog, he freezes. His gaze hangs on a rope that leads into the predatory darkness deep within the spire. The man swallows hard. A tight, subtle tension builds inside him as he fumbles for his flashlight, wedged between two spare magazines. He wants to curse out loud when the thing rattles stubbornly in his hands, unwilling to surrender its light to the ravenous dark. He strikes it sharply against the heel of his palm; with a crunch and a sputter, the flashlight blinks and shudders awake.

Once again, they have left him a letter with his name on it—as if there were anyone else here who could possibly read it. Perhaps he is neither the first nor the last to wander into this wasteland.

Leon spins around, straining to catch every murmur. He feels a sudden urge to dive under any bench, searching for the boogeyman that must be watching him. But these are just puppies. Waking up, they don't even bark yet—so small they haven't learned how to chase away intruders like him. Their noses press into the cage mesh, trying to catch his scent, trying to know him.

This darkness is so vast and impenetrable, like a night sky torn apart by a thunderstorm. The beam of his flashlight bogs down—like a radio signal in deep space, futilely searching for the source of an invisible void that binds the organized chaos of dust.

His hand reaches toward the letter and freezes. Wasn't this bizarre house, tucked inside an abandoned church, exactly where they would try to lull his vigilance?

The place looks so uncanny, as if it were Perkins’ tent rather than a derelict Gothic church in some dead, backwater town. People live here, though it is utterly impossible to imagine how without modern utilities. It is warm, smelling of autumn and book dust. Yet, there is no fireplace or stove in sight. Not even a shadow of dampness or drafts, despite what the facade suggests. Where did the fuel come from if there was no car? Maybe they had driven it away so he wouldn't record the license plates?

Cautiously, he scans the perimeter. He cannot shake the feeling that he is being watched—either remotely or directly. Why bother inviting him here, into this "home," just to leave a letter? Could it not have been left on his desk just as easily? Does it really matter whose desk you leave letters on?

The puppies race from one end of the enclosure to the other, as if they, too, are searching with him. Their bead-like eyes glint in the velvety twilight, making his heart bleed every time he looks at these caged children.

His search yields nothing, and it relentlessly fuels his anxiety. Where could someone vanish to, leaving their home wide open, heated, and lit by kerosene lamps? There is no electricity here; this place is severed from civilization—it has ceased to exist. The informant and owner of this "home" must be right here, nearby. The sooner Leon finds him, the less severe the consequences will be.

The owner clearly wants him to come inside and read the letter; that much is obvious. Just as obvious as the fact that once he does, something irreversible will happen. The bell in the darkness hangs like a shotgun over a doorway. He is no Indiana Jones, and his guardian angel choked on its own bloody feathers a long, long time ago; he won’t escape his fate if that gun fires.

Before opening the letter, he moves the puppies away from the mysterious tent. Every time his gaze drifts upward, it plunges into the darkness of the past—back to the blood-stained sheet on the bed and the smears left by his own mangled hands. He shakes off these images like a sudden frame from a documentary on Raccoon City, allowing himself to bury his face in the fur of one of the pups, who lets out a loud, wet sneeze from the cold on the tip of his nose.

The letter. Leon hates feeling like a killer in these black gloves that he so thoroughly loathes, like those of a Hollywood hitman. God, he had searched the entire town looking for colored ones, only to be met with bewildered stares directed at an idiot. A poor excuse for protection, but for lack of lab gloves, better than bare hands.

[rookieinglasses]

🎉♟️Happy Pawniversary♟️🎸🎉

[rookieinglasses]

Go to your playlist, pick the oldest song on there. (Song age) Pull a Lyric from it and post that. See how many can guess it.

Leon offered a fleeting smile, his mind drifting back to those wondrous days when he would sit on the floor for hours after school, sorting through his father’s vinyl records. It was a carefree time—a time when his mother would find him there, fondly ruffle his hair, and help him guide a record into the stereo. Afterward, he would follow her to help around the house.

"The sad sack was a-sitting on a block of stone, way over in the corner weeping all alone"

Leon let out a soft chuckle, remembering how he used to goof around with his mother, and how his father, arriving home to a moment of bewildered amusement, would sweep her into a dance. He missed home. He missed Sherry. He missed his dogs.

He breathed out, adding to the post:

"And of everything I have shared here so far, it comes down to this:

No, I won’t be afraid, oh, I won’t be afraid, just as long as you stand, stand by me"

He and Sherry had danced like that once, on a rainy night, completely oblivious to the downpour of September 29th. He would never let her slip from his embrace, even if the sky itself were to come crashing down.