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Leon faded in and out of his dreams, being pulled slowly from them. Second by second, he felt like he was resurfacing, pulled upwards, up-
He woke with a jolt. He never woke up gently. Eyes scanned the room quickly, his hand under the pillow feeling the security of his gun. The room was silent, his clock blaring 3:56 am at him. Another fitful and restless night. He could barely remember his dream or whatever he’d call that. He laid tense in his own bed, almost unsettled to really let out the breath he’s been holding in, to relax the tenseness in his shoulders.
But he was awake. Again.
Minutes passed by, his mind finally blank for once. He stared up at the ceiling covered in moonlit shadows. That shadow looked like a bottle of whiskey, that shadow looked like the jaws of a BOW waiting to-
He shut his eyes.
One.
Two.
He looked at the shadow again. It was gone. Replaced by shadows of other objects littering his room. The bottle of whiskey.
He sat up with a start, groaning at the ache in his body. God, the pain. The colder weather made every ache in his body intensified, the scars littering his body ablaze. The wound in his shoulder reminding him.
Reminding him. Remind-
He walked over to the bottle and didn’t even bother to pour the liquor out into a glass. What was the point? The burn in his throat reminding him that he was alive. Again.
It felt like every fiber in his being was angry at him for being alive. For waking up. For continuing to move and breathe and take up space others could be taking. The ones who have died from BOWs. The ones he couldn’t save.
Reminding him.
The pain in his body reminding him time and time again that he was the one that was alive when it really shouldn’t have been the case.
The burn in his throat was almost comforting, the haze in his mind settling in. If for a moment he could feel nothing, he would. The liquor helped cover the traces of living he had in him for a small while.
What a pitiful life he was born into. Leon Scott Kennedy. One of the best agents in the government’s arsenal. The one sent to do the dirty work, alone. What did Leon do to deserve such a fate?
He glanced towards his phone. He would’ve broken it into pieces if he could, but he had to wait like a dog for his next orders. Like a damned puppet moving only under its master’s strings. But it kept him moving. He knew if he really was left to himself he’d finally finish it all. Bring an end to his suffering and pain. Maybe then, he can get the good night’s rest he deserves. He wonders if death was as cold the winter morning bringing the ache to his body, or as warm as his mother’s embrace he had forgotten long ago.
The bottle in his hand was empty. Fuck.
He moved slowly through his soulless apartment, nothing really signifying someone lived here except for the bare furniture and the bottles littered around. He searched for a sign of a bottle he hadn’t finished, itching for more. Every bottle was empty, nothing left for him tonight. Perhaps his flask?
He dragged himself to his gear, opening the front pocket of his vest to find the steel flask. It had some dried blood on it. He didn’t really notice or seem to care, content with the weight of the flask in his hand. The liquor seemed to stop burning his throat at some point. Or maybe he just couldn’t feel anymore. The pain in his body stopped screaming.
Leon found himself sitting at the balcony of his apartment, staring at nothing. He should’ve worn a jacket, but the winter chill made him feel something for a small while. It didn’t take long for his extremities to feel numb, the cold biting away at him gently. Will death be as cruel as this? Or will it be as gentle as the time he was sent on a mission he almost didn’t come back from? Laying on the cold forest floor, the only warmth coming from the blood pooling at the wound in his abdomen. He had stopped moving in that moment, too stuck in his own thoughts to dodge an attack. So he was struck, but he managed to kill it regardless. And there he had laid, listening to the roars of other BOWs nearby. He was so sleepy in that moment, his fingers barely inching to his radio to call for help. He thought he had heard Hunnigan’s voice yelling out at him, but he could barely hear her. He was calm in that moment, coming to terms with his death. Maybe like that, he could’ve rest.
But he couldn’t. He was rescued. And here he sits, on his balcony, staring at god knows what with an empty flask in his hand. Breathing.
His phone rang in the bedroom, bringing him back into reality. He swore, the cold finally registering in his mind.
He had to keep moving. To answer his master’s orders and bring some sort of order to this hell. By the time he reached his phone, the ringing stopped. Too late. Too late to save the innocent, to save the ones screaming his name for help. Too late to-
It rang again. He picked up. Hunnigan. A mission in Germany. A mission. BOWs.
Again.
Again.
Another mission.
Another list of people he can’t save.
More endless pulls of his trigger into the carnage, into the twisted nightmare he has to stop himself.
The trigger he has to pull time and time again to kill these fucking abominations.
The trigger he has to pull-
Click.
Click.
Nothing.
He pulled the trigger again and again against his own temple, but nothing came. There was no smell of gunpowder. No loud bang. Just the clicks of an empty mag.
Leon fell to his knees, shaking.
How would have death felt?