#timeline: vendetta

[armasdefuego]

@gatheringstars Chris Redfield / Lauren gave me too much freedom!

He loses count on day 4 or 5.

Time loses meaning when everything begins to blend together. He barely has the strength to spit insults at his captors anymore. They conduct various "tests". He thinks they explained them to him, because of course his captors love the sound of their own voice. The details are foggy. All he knows, is that the pain is relentless. That it has been the only constant. It waxes and wanes.

At first he struggled against it. He kept his mouth shut. He bit down on his lips to keep from screaming. He used every technique in the book that he knew. Don't tell them anything. Destabilize your opponent if you can with whatever you can. Leon was always good at pissing people off with his snark. Most of the time it worked to his advantage. This time, though, his captors just laughed. They smirked. Called him cute. Someone took his jaw with the facsimile of a caress and then jammed a needle into his exposed neck.

Apparently, he was the best test subject they'd had.

He almost escapes twice. The first time he bites someone's finger off and kills two people. He doesn't know how deep in the facility he is until security tasers him at a false door to freedom. They muzzle him. The second time, he's feral on adrenaline and the plan is less freedom and more sabotage. He kills one of their BOWs, a pet project, and someone, maybe the head of the research department, says he might be more trouble than he's worth. They beat him and break his legs. He realizes, he might die here.

Whatever testing they are doing, he knows one thing. He's not being infected. This is about whatever is already in his blood. This is about his immunity, his las plagas infection. This is about creating something else. Maybe. It doesn't matter. By the time they're through with him, Leon hopes they'll make it quick. But death doesn't come. Instead, he remains in limbo, the only thing he knows is the coming and going of people into his padded cell, until even that stops.

[elinorsmuses]

@victorious-sigyn wrote:

She hid her face under her arms as an object was slid across the floor to her. When it was silent she peaked over her arms and cautiously drew the garment toward her. She instinctively knew how a jacket worked, though she couldn’t seem to recall s time she ever had one. It smelled like… something she’d never smelled before.

She didn’t quite move from her place, still cautiously afraid of the man with a weapon. “Is your name Federal Agent?” she asked softly. She’d never heard those words. She’d assumed it was a name, he came in and the tone he used was one of identification. “Do you know where Spencer is? He did not come at lunch. He always comes and lunch.”

Leon watched as the woman cautiously examined his jacket like was strange and unfamiliar thing. He stayed crouched on the floor, trying not to make any sudden movements. She was the opposite of threatening, but if she had any abilities that he couldn’t see, they might be triggered by fear as much as aggression.

“Is my name…?” He repeated after she spoke, startled by the bizarre question. It couldn’t be a language barrier thing; she wasn’t just speaking English, her accent was American. How long had she be here?

“No,” he smiled gently, “‘federal agent,’ is my job. My name is Leon. Listen, we can talk about Spencer in a minute.” God, if Spencer was someone she was attached to, Leon hoped he wasn’t dead. With luck, he was the guy he’d found doing paperwork on the second level, who was currently unconscious and secured by a zip-tie, to be retrieved by who ever then sent in after Leon to clean up. The mercenaries who’d been guarding the place had been more determined, and less lucky.

“What’s your name?” He asked. “How long have you been down here?” He needed to get her moving and get out there, soon. Something was off about the whole mission. It had been much too easy to get through the facility; it had felt like it was running on a skeleton crew, with that one scientist and not enough security. And now he’d found the BOW specimen, and it was just a scared woman who didn’t know what “government agent” meant. He needed to get to the upper floors and contact Hunnigan.

[waltzingwithmatilda]

The number seven lit up on the elevator display, and the door opened with a metallic whoosh.

“Here we go,” said Leon to himself. “Into the seventh circle.” It was the lowest level of the underground facility. Intel had said his target was something new; definitely a new type of BOW, maybe even a new virus. The previous levels had yielded no information; no test subjects, preliminary results, unsuccessful attempts. There had been plenty of data, but it was still being decrypted when he’d lost his connection to Hunnigan in DC around level five.

With no idea of what he was walking into, Leon stalked the corridors carefully. The level was deserted, just a small, square corridor that bordered a central room. The room itself had no windows; several monitors were set into the wall, but the feed was cut. Around the corner from the elevator was a steel door with a keypad lock. He knew the code; he’d found in on level six. Taking a breath to steady himself, he keyed in the code, listened to the thunk of the heavy bolts releasing, and used his boot to swing open the door so that he could enter the room with his rifle at the ready. He was prepared for the worst.

Instead, he found himself looking at a woman. He hesitated. A survivor, maybe? A scientist locked in when someone took the specimen and ran?

No. She was wearing a hospital gown and scrub pants, barefoot, complexion pale and wan like she hadn’t seen the sun in a long time. She wasn’t a scientist. She was the specimen. He kept the gun trained on her.

“Federal agent. Hands where I can see them, please.”

@victorious-sigyn

[armasdefuego]

@condomconfetti cont. from x

One hand balled into the fabric of the bastard's collar, the other was poised for another blow. He wanted to beat the shit out of this guy. He wanted to slam his fist into his face until it was nothing but pulp, until he went blind, until his brain was bleeding out of his ears. It was the kind of rage few people ever brought out in Leon. That was deeply locked away, only glimpsed at by people who didn't live long enough to be important.

Caden was about to be one of those people. Leon's morals were the only thing holding him back. The fact that if he killed this guy without anything other than a complaint of a shitty remark, he'd be the one stripped of his badge and thrown in jail.

Or, at least, he'd get suspended for a while. They bent the rules for worse.

"Sorry, not my type," Leon said. "I know a lady who might be right up your alley, though."

Leon pulled back, still on attack mode.

"Touch anyone like that again and I'll make sure you'll be eating out of a fucking feeding tube."

[armasdefuego]

[text: Ken doll 12:55am] i dont know where i am [text: Ken doll 01:09am] thinking abt u. thinking abt ur hands [text: Ken doll 01:10am] just wanted to say ur amazign ok

@condomconfetti

[text: mercedes; 1:15am]: thanks. so are you

[text: mercedes; 1:15am]: need me to get you?

[elinorsmuses]

Something about Chris Redfield had never sat right with Leon. Difficult to put his finger on; if it wasn’t, he would have done something about it years ago. He remembered when they’d first met, a joint operation between STRATCOM and the BSAA. When he’d realized he was Claire’s brother, the one she’d been looking for in Raccoon City before she disappeared soon after, he’d been quick to express his condolences. Something about the man’s grief had been...hollow. The combination of sad, regret, and fond memories had been a little too perfect.

Since then, he’d met him a few more times, and he’d been every bit the BSAA’s golden boy. Always just a little too perfect. Finally, Leon had an opportunity to try and dig deeper into who Redfield really was, and whether he was everything he seemed: he’d volunteered to partner with him on a mission attempting to locate the remaining strongholds of Los Illuminados in Spain. He was a bit tired of the Kennedy Report being the first thing anyone mentioned when they heard his name, but in this case it served him well; there was no one with more direct experience with the cult and the plagas they used.

Of course Salazar’s castle was empty, as was what little remained of Saddler’s island lab. Any useful information had been taken when the place had been raided after his mission to rescue Ashley Graham, more than ten years ago. But it was a starting point; certainly an important location for the cult given its proximity to where las plagas had been unearthed. But night was falling, and so far they had nothing.

“Wanna make camp here?” He asked Redfield. They were in one of the many rooms of the labyrinthine castle, probably an antechamber of a drawing room of a sitting room of a bigger antechamber, or something. “Creepy as fuck, but easy to secure.”

@disxloyalty

[elinorsmuses]

Besides BOW-killer and police officer, what other occupation do you think you would go for? [Leon]

“How about I just go back to being a cop? Don’t even worry about making detective, just be a beat cop. Hand out traffic tickets, drunk and disorderlies, maybe break up a fight on a big day. I don’t know. I’ve been doing this for so long I don’t even know what else I know how to do. 

“Maybe I could teach something--besides that damn seminar they make me teach the new guys every six months. What would I teach? Gun safety? How about martial arts. Teach one of those classes for kids with all the different color belts where everyone’s a winner. Do kids do krav maga? Probably not. Maybe jujutsu.”

“Nah, I’m gonna die, doing this job. I don’t want to. I’m not brave about it like some people. I want to get old and grumpy and lose my hair, die sleeping in an armchair with a cat on my lap. But I’ve looked death in the face and survived too many times. It’s coming. I used to think we could win this war, but now I’m pretty sure it’s going to outlast me.” 

[elinorsmuses]

Stationed in New York City for six months. A non-combat role; working with the NYPD and the BSAA on an updated and expanded disaster plan in case of another bioterror attack. Leon is certainly surprised when he gets his new orders. It leaves some people at the DSO wondering who he’d managed to piss off this time; Leon’s not a fan of paperwork, and he’s made that widely known.

He knows why, though, even if no one says it out loud. He’s been dancing on the edge of burnout for years, and after Chris had to drag him out of an empty bar, day-drunk, to help with the fight against Arias and the C-Virus, it seems like the DSO has finally noticed. He’s not sure if he’s furious or relieved.

The first month is good, though he’s hesitant to admit it, doesn’t want to jinx it. He takes the subway, works regular hours. Has time to cook, to rest, to play the guitar again. He considers taking up the mandolin. Sometimes he even sleeps through the night. He still keeps up his training, but he runs outside instead of on a treadmill at the DSO gym.

There’s a tattoo shop at the end of one of his favorite routes that keeps catching his eye. He’s been thinking about getting a tattoo on and off for years. It’s not about style; he doesn’t even know what it would look like. The incident with las plagas in Spain had left him with a persistent fear of needles; although he was technically unconscious when it happened, sometimes he still wakes up from a sound sleep, convinced he can feel that cold needle against his neck from when they injected him with the plaga. He gets through it, but it’s a constant frustration in a line of work that requires regular vaccinations and bloodwork. And he’s always heard that the best way to deal with a phobia is to confront it; a tattoo seems like a good way to do just that.

One day, he slows at the end of his run, takes a breath, and walks into the shop, trying not to give himself time to actually think about it. It’s quiet; probably early for tattoo appointments, although how would he know, really? He walks straight to the counter.

“Well, I guess...I’d like to get a tattoo,” he says to the young man at the counter. And then stops, because he realizes he has absolutely no plan for what he’s going to say next.

@inkmemoirs