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Rare Side Effects May Include the Following:	By : maiafay376 Category: +M through R > Resident Evil Views: 39552 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Resident Evil or characters therein. I do not profit from this story. Original characters and plaga hierarchy are mine.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
Chapter 4: The Masks We Wear
“Keep the sun at your back, hide our true nature.”
Leon didn't understand what the plaga had meant at first, but upon stepping onto the platform, the chilly wind whipping at his hair and the rusty glow of the sun dipping below the horizon, he admitted its wisdom. His eyes would be the first thing Saddler saw, and his eyes gave him away as the mint iridescent wings did the lunar moth.
After the debacle in the lab, every area he had entered barred his and Ashley's escape one way or another—whether it be dead-ends, rogue maidens, or patrols of ganado. He felt like a rat pawing at the side of a glass cage. What had happened with the ganado haunted him, the blood caked under his fingernails served as a reminder of how much he had changed in the last few hours. The plaga scoffed at his discomfort. You will gather them in force, sever their binds, make them yours, such power is our birthright.
Birthright? Thanks, but no thanks.
Tired of running in circles, he sought higher ground. Ashley stayed below at his request, and not a word of protest had passed Ms. Graham's lips—a remarkable occasion in itself—but he didn't celebrate. He knew why, and he knew some time apart would benefit her and his conscience.
He hadn't seen Ada since their last meeting. No sign of her slinky red dress made him nervous. The love poke she had given him back in the caves hadn't throbbed in a while, and when he last checked, blood crusted his pants—but the wound itself had closed. The slash across his cheek from Krauser's blade also had disappeared. So much for battle scars.
The lift clanked and wobbled behind him as it settled, but another sound creaked over the sigh of the nearby windmills. He tightened his jaw and pulled Killer 7 from its holster. Its cold weight put him at ease. His surroundings, on the other hand, made him wish Saddler chose a daisy-filled meadow to build his research facility.
High steel pylons, cables, cranes, and construction equipment formed a maze of dark gray that made him feel dirty just by looking at it. The tread plating had seen better days, the rusted metal and missing sections meant he'd have to watch his step. Behind the crisscross of metal framework, peeked cliffs and rock—and beyond the twin catwalks that bridged the smaller part of the platform to the larger area—an ocean shimmered in the dying light.
And in the middle of it all, tied and unconscious and dangling from a crane like a pretty red carrot, was Ada.
The wind nudged her in a lazy pendulum swing and the rope complained with a familiar squeak. The steady throb of her aura told him she was unharmed, but that wouldn't last long.
The obvious trap jacked his already heightened senses past red alert. The shadows around him came alive, the darkness shifting to gray—every sound, every movement zinged across his brain in hyper clarity.
He comes.
A low chuckle grated from the left side of the skeleton buildings where darkness had gathered the thickest. Leon pivoted, raised his gun and hoped he could get one clean shot at Saddler's mouth before the bastard could utter that nauseating “I'm better than you” laugh again. What a relief it would be to finally shut him up. His finger tightened on the trigger.
Do not engage! Distract him, addle him, wait until we are ready.
I'm not going to kill him, I'm just gonna maim him a little. I know we need his energy—
Strike when I command, not before.
Watch the tone—no one commands me to do shit. Got it?
Then keep your distance, your control. My...suggestions...are only for safety...our safety.
Yeah right, he wasn't stupid. The plaga wanted the driver's seat, but he'd have to be dead or dying before he'd give it up again. And just as he thought that, the itch returned. The pinching sensation traveled up his spine and across his shoulders, ants on a mission. He shrugged it away, and it punished him by adding flames along with the pinching: fire ants on a mission. Knock it off! he said. I need to concentrate!
When the priest glided into view clad in his regal violet robes, that absurd golden clasp thing around his neck (it gave a whole new meaning to the word bling), and a gloating smile plastered on his face, Leon almost shot him on reflex. His breath caught, his hands clenched around the gun in a slick, sweaty vice. A miracle the damn thing didn't go off.
Restraint, host! Restraint!
Restraint would be if I shot him in the face without hesitation. You're lucky, my little leech pal that I'm being such a good sport about all this. And what did I say about the itching? Stop it!
Round metal darts irritate, not destroy. Stir his ire, diminish precious time.
Ada moaned and his eyes went to her. She met his gaze, her aura flitting in all directions. Scared for once. Hard to believe after all she went through in Raccoon—after all they went through. Did she bury past horrors under missions and adventure, or did nightmares seep into her dreams at night? He might ask her after this was over, if she didn't do one of her vanishing acts again and leave him alone, confused and wishing he had never cared for her in the first place. Women like Ada, high maintenance for a guy like him. At least, that's what he told himself.
Blood in the water, but no sharks swam in it—snakes did instead. Saddler's aura billowed everywhere, an ocean of blood fire that bled to black around Saddler's body. Serpentine coils writhed from behind him like a vision of hell. So much energy, he wouldn't even make a dent—
NO!
Fuck! Will you stop distracting me? If anyone's going to mess this up, it's you!
Saddler spoke, his voice coated in heavy cream. “Ah, Mr. Kennedy, so good to see you. Did you tire of scuttling below and come up for air?”
Maybe if he focused on the Saddler's forehead—on that nice patch of wrinkles over his eyebrows, he could cure his wandering eye. “Needed to stretch my legs a bit,” he said. “You don't mind, right?”
“Oh, not at all, stroll about at your leisure, though, I must insist we have a small chat first.” Saddler's mouth quirked and his palm lifted.
What had happened in the throne room had been a disaster on all levels. He had failed to protect Ashley, he had failed to defy Saddler, and he had failed his mission. What he had managed to do after Saddler's magic palm trick, was fall on his face and gasp a lot—which didn't help anyone except Saddler, who had found his reaction entertaining enough to reward him with a few bouts of nasally laugher. Lucky him.
This time, the rush of power didn't force him to his knees, didn't crush his chest, or make the plaga squirm in agony. From Saddler's outstretched palm, the energy flowed over his body in balmy wave. The wave spread, collecting in his nether regions and along his spine where the bizarre itch seemed strongest.
Ah yes, a prelude of what we will devour. How pleasing.
How nasty. His kneecaps floated in his legs, but he held his ground—even managed to yank his knife from its sheath. The power flow recoiled, and Saddler frowned as if the wind up key had broken on his favorite toy soldier.
“Sorry, old man,” he said with a grin. “My plaga took a long, long, overdue trip to wormy heaven—Ashley's, too. Your little palm trick won't work anymore, so how now, brown cow?”
Without thinking or even aiming, he whipped the knife at the rope binding Ada. The section above her head snapped and she landed with a quiet “oomph” on the tarp below. She looked at him and rubbed her wrists, her aura swaying with thanks.
“You okay?”
“I've been better,” she said.
He nodded, his eyes on Saddler as the priest circled to the right. The tentacled staff he carried waggled at him with fury. Both he and the plaga felt a twang of satisfaction. Good, served the bastard right having all his precious plans blow up in his face. “Then get to safety. Me and grandpa here are going to finish our man chat.”
“Leon—”
“It's okay. I got this. Ashley's below. Keep her safe until I get back.” Ada's aura didn't like what he said, but she gave a firm nod. The black scarf at her throat fluttered when she slipped between the tall piles of equipment and he heard the whine of the lift a moment later. Saddler remained where he was, his aura making slow swirls of disinterest.
“The American hero, how cliché. You've won nothing, you are nothing.”
“Well, this so-called nothing just ruined your evil plans and saved the day. What do you say to that?”
“You save tatters and dust,” Saddler said. “The girl is only the beginning; soon the tower of lies your government has built will topple to the earth. And after it falls I will crush the broken pieces beneath my feet and gouge out the eyes of your leaders.” Out of Saddler's vast aura, one blood-stained snake emerged and darted its head this way and that. It coiled and unwound with a lazy twist. He couldn't help but watch it, watch as it moved in a sensual dance where every graceful dip and sway tugged at his groin and nudged his breathing faster.
“Why do you stare so?” Saddler canted his head and furrowed his brow. In his aura, the same snake Leon had been watching turned and regarded him with suspicion.
His heart leaped into his mouth, his tongue now trapped under its weight and unable to move. He swallowed, but the pause turned his witty reply into an awkward fumble. “Because...smiling and nodding take effort.”
Saddler's smile bent thin and crooked. More snakes stopped their hypnotic ballet and peered at Leon as if noticing him for the first time. “Such wit.” Saddler sounded contemplative, as if musing what he would eat for lunch. “Instead of my guardsman, I should make you my jester. Bells and foolishness suit you.”
Careful, he suspects.
How? All I did was look at him funny, he should be used to that—
No, see his aura.
Pulled by invisible strings, Saddler's legion of blood snakes began drawing tighter and tighter to his robed body. The colors dimmed, the dance slowed to a sluggish waltz. The edges containing the serpents began fading, the thick swathes of energy drawing away like the tide returning to the ocean.
Saddler's voice was a spool of silk. “So you used the laser treatment, yes?”
“Guess I won't bother answering that question since you already answered yourself.”
“You attempted to destroy it—“ The snakes wrapped around Saddler as if they meant to squeeze the life from his body. Leon wished they would and so he could save his bullets.
“What part of 'I killed it' don't you comprehend?”
Saddler's fingers curled around his staff. “Then why do I still sense kindred?”
The line of ants marched up and down, up and down. He tried to ignore the tremble in the finger cramped around the trigger. “Maybe because you're getting senile; maybe because you're mis-sensing—maybe because you're really really desperate for a new bodyguard. Or maybe because you're just plain deluded. I. Killed. It. Got it?”
Saddler stroked his chin, considering him. From the black ocean, the nest of blood snakes hissed. Not a good sign. Another round of palm attacks could give away the plaga. And speaking of the tiny monster in his head, it had been too quiet during this conversation; it should have interrupted at some point with its weird metaphors, and should have given “suggestions” on how to behave. He gave it a mental poke, but it shooed him away as if he were some bothersome child. Ants bit with their super-heated pincers into his shoulders, and he winced.
Another pause lengthened, now crossing the border of awkward into the territory of damn uncomfortable. Saddler's gaze kept roaming his body as if he would spy something incriminating, some hidden clue that would reveal his secret. Until the plaga finished abusing his body, keeping Saddler from discovering his stowaway became top priority.
“Don't make me repeat myself, old man,” Leon said, his voice low and even. “Consider your plans for invading America on a permanent hiatus.”
“How confident you sound. Ever since we've met, I've admired that about you.” The ocean became a shallow pool. What was left of Saddler's aura clung to him in a thin, crimson layer. One snake wavered for a moment, then wisped out like a blown candle. Fear wrung his stomach. He tried to keep the alarm out of his face, but he knew Saddler noticed a reaction when there shouldn't have been one at all.
The staff stopped in mid-squirm. Saddler's yellow eyes narrowed to slits. Leon held his breath. The sun, oblivious to the drama below, shuffled ever closer to its westerly bed. Dark clouds approached, dulling the orange haze to a salmon pink.
In his mind, he pelted the plaga's window with imaginary pebbles. Hey worm, pay attention! I need your help. Saddler's—
Yes, yes, a moment more, its distracted answer came. Almost finished.
“Come closer, I want to see your eyes.” Each word dropped like a stone. Leon moved back. The itching became so fierce his eyes watered. On the bright side, that helped hide the color, but having to explain why tears ran down his face would be a conversation he'd rather not have right now. He blinked them away and adjusted his stance.
“We all want things," he said. "I want a thick, greasy cheeseburger right now, but I gotta go without don't I?”
“You use impudence as a shield, but I am not fooled.” Saddler set his staff on the ground. It thrashed a moment, then flopped over and made a wandering journey to a nearby pile of steel beams.
Leon swallowed, his breathing erratic. A muscle twitched along his spine. Then another. And another. His gun dropped and he raised it again. A moment, just a moment more it had said. Hang on. He closed his eyes and wetness flowed. He opened them again and searched for Saddler's aura. He wanted to see it, if it was there that meant everything would be okay. Their plan would work, no hitches, no hiccups, no—
The priest took a careful step forward as if approaching a skittish dog. Leon didn't blame him—he felt like a skittish dog—one that might bite if the hand came too near. “Something went wrong during the treatment, yes? Something you hadn't anticipated? Describe what happened and I can give answers—“
The Sovereign lies, his words are silk, his tongue a blade, keep your distance. The plaga's voice hummed in and out like a insect zipping by his ear. Then it hurried back to its ant army and issued new orders: full-scale assault. The incessant biting, stinging, gnawing made him want to scream. If the ocean-side of the platform had been less cluttered with pylons and junk, he would have thrown himself over the edge.
“Are we pals now? Best buds?” His laughter sounded as if he had a few screws loose—probably all of them. “You have no idea what happened and don't pretend you care. You're incapable of emotions that complex.”
“And humans are paragons of compassion? I think not.”
He raised the gun and he didn't give a rat's ass how bad it was shaking. “Parasites just take take take, and then take some more. And now it's my world. You're no better than us, you're worse.”
“What are humans but screaming grasping children? If it shines or glitters, you lust for it. The earth crumbles beneath your feet, the world burns from your touch—”
“Show me the difference! You've destroyed this village, its people—”
“We live in harmony with our environment—”
“Bullshit!” In his mind, images came, pale little faces and shallow graves. “Where are the children of the village? Where? Oh that's right—dead. All dead! Go on, priest, preach your message of harmony and love.”
“What has your world endured since your creation?” Saddler raised his arms to the heavens as if they nodded down in agreement. “Suffering, war, pestilence, and all caused by the vainglorious ambitions of humanity. You are the true plague here, not us.”
“This is our world, if we want to fuck it up that's our right!”
“Your rights? Consider them revoked. In this universe, planets with life are rare jewels, precious beyond words. Humans are the dominate species no longer. You have failed as caretakers and my people will supplant you. Americans, all that decadence and power—“
“Yo pot, kettle says hi. All this bitching about Americans and for what? What the hell did we do to you?”
“You Americans abuse your wealth, privilege, and freedom; you care for nothing but yourselves.”
“Give me a break! You Sovereign are in no position to pass judgment—”
Saddler straightened, his voice soft. “Thank you, Mr. Kennedy. I had to be certain.”
Fool, that word is theirs, only plaga know plaga.
A moist THUNK sound and he lurched forward. His world stopped. Killer 7 dropped from his suddenly numb fingers and clattered to the ground. Immense pressure crushed the breath from his lungs. Pain yawned from the center of his chest, and that yawn expanded to swallow his entire body. Hot blood gushed up his throat, filled his mouth with the taste of sour metal, and poured over his chin. He sputtered, and with a drunken loll of his head, looked down. He would have laughed at the irony if his lungs weren't a ruined mess. The tentacle Saddler had used to kill Luis Sera protruded from his chest. Same talon, same entry point. The tip of it glistened red in the waning light, a bony third arm that curved toward his face as Saddler shoved it deeper and higher. He scrambled for purchase on the fading edge of his consciousness.
Endure this, we are almost ready, almost complete.
He couldn't form a coherent thought in reply. His lower body became an unbearable weight, and then to add to his torment, the ant army along his spine melted into rivers of lava that surged over his skin and below it, converging at the base of his neck and shoulder blades. He pawed at the tentacle, his hands slipping in blood and viscous fluid.
The worst were Saddler's eyes. He flailed like a hooked fish and Saddler watched him with an expression that wavered between awe and rapture. “Forgive my crude methods,” he said, his voice breathy as if addressing a lover. “But I know you will heal. Already, I can feel your flesh knitting around mine. Such an intimate thing, yes?”
Saddler's aura roared to life, a churning sea of black waves Leon craved more than the organic blade out of his chest. Whatever energy he had gleaned from Ashley had whittled away long before he set foot on the platform. And if Saddler decided to let him live, the gaping hole in his chest would require even more energy to heal. If he could just call the aura, draw it to him somehow, he could feed and heal and gain the advantage again.
As his body descended and glided forward, those light snakes became his only focus, his only desire. All other pains dulled, became meaningless twinges. The priest's aura teased his senses; energy flowed and stroked inside him, a warm salty spray buffed his face. He groaned, struggling to free himself and dive headfirst into those red-black waters.
I implore, do not yield.
His spine seemed to twist, fold in on itself. His hunger recoiled, then surged back in defiance. His body fought a war on two fronts, the invader within his mind and the invader embedded in his chest. Both sides pushed his will to the brink and frayed his sanity to the point he worried he would never have a normal thought again.
“I feared I had seen the last of those eyes.” Saddler caressed the side of Leon's face with one finger. The touch sent shivers through him; the hunger stalked back and forth, batting at the flames licking his spine in irritation. “I've waited so long, endured so much. Our lost children have returned, our Indigo.”
Another round of fire darts arched over his shoulders and curved along the back of his skull. The grand finale of misery—and then nothing. The hunger crouched, hesitating. Relief flooded him; he sagged in Saddler's grip.
With a sickening slurp, the tentacle pulled free and slid back under Saddler's robes. Warmth suffused his chest, and as the bones reformed and skin mended, and he had a brief wisp of a thought: where did that tentacle come from, exactly? Saddler only had so many places he could store such a large...thing. The beast inside him whined for attention and that sound made it past his throat and into the air before he could stop it.
Saddler ran his thumb over Leon's lips, cleaning them of blood and saliva. “Poor, poor, chico, so much energy wasted. Here, let me slake your thirst.”
Host, the plaga interrupted in a breathless rush. Guess poking him with needles must be hard work. The weapons I have created are beyond your abilities. I beg your acquiescence, allow me control, allow me this last conscious act. Let me destroy him!
Oh, now it wanted to help. He recalled when he had vowed he would be dead or dying before he would allow the plaga to control him again. The worm didn't say it out loud, but he knew this was its way of punishing him, of reminding him who really wore the pants in their relationship.
Leon sighed in surrender as Saddler's mouth closed over his. Do it.
When Annette Birkin had shot him back in Raccoon City, it had hurt—it had hurt bad. Even after the wound had healed, his shoulder seemed intent on reminding him just how stupid he had been. It would ache when it rained or when he pushed it too hard. That heated twinge became a lifelong reminder of what happened—and what he would do again—when he acted with his heart instead of his common sense.
Since he had arrived in Pueblo and as the events of the last twenty-four hours unfolded in all their twisted glory, his pain threshold had been bullied to new heights as if some malevolent deity delighted in finding new ways of torturing him. Being skewered like a piece of meat had been the breaking point: he had reached his limit. Anything beyond and he would die before enduring it again.
Or so he thought.
When his ribs snapped and his shoulders split apart, he howled with lungs half-healed and still aching. On the Leon Scale of “I Want To Die”, that pain registered about a three. The sensation of something ripping out his spine and then sticking all the jagged pieces back the wrong way—that was about a fifteen.
His vision doubled and he staggered as 'something' white and gleaming ripped free from his flesh and sliced the air in front of him. He had a glimpse of Saddler's wide eyes and gaping mouth before his glistening new limb cleaved the priest in two.
Saddler's aura flared and divided. Entrails hit the ground in a steaming pile. A wet sound bubbled from Saddler's throat and even wetter noises came from his upper body as furious tentacles erupted from the raw mess of filaments and organs. Three big rope-like limbs, one that had made his acquaintance already and two slightly smaller versions, burst forth and served as temporary legs.
Some distance away, and by a blood-spattered construction cone, Saddler's lower body recovered and propelled itself slowly toward the torso with a multitude of similar tendrils. Its aura had baby versions of the bigger snakes, and a pond instead of a sea to swim in. Their tongues flicked the air in distress, upset by the separation, but unsure what to do about it.
And all the while, Saddler's eyes stayed locked with his, vibrant, aware.
Adjustments are required, the weight is wrong.
No, don't you dare, don't you fucking—
The wing...thing twisted in the air and retracted with a sensation he couldn't even begin to articulate. The force of it sheathing itself knocked him off balance. His head smacked the steel plating, stars exploded bright and twinkled behind his eyes. Then the plaga took a heavy mallet and whacked his spine a few times. The muscles there went into a rolling spasm. His back arched, he clawed at the ground. One last hard crack between his shoulder blades for good measure, and it tossed the mallet aside.
Better, more practical, now we finish this.
He had no time to protest. The plaga shoved his consciousness in the backseat of his mind and strapped him in. Satisfied he couldn't escape, the plaga took control of his limbs and turned his body over so he rested on his hands and knees. His head lowered, the plaga made him take a deep breath. Oh no. That meant bad things, bad, bad—
For the second time, the bone wings exploded from his back, spraying blood, bone and little bits of his skin. He screamed from his tiny seat and writhed against his bindings.
Apologies, we are almost one, I can only dull the pain now, not erase it.
It frightened him how it could have been worse. His awareness muffled with cotton, Leon slumped in his seat and stared at the elegant constructs bending to either side of his body. Not your typical bird wings, not even close.
Slender ivory bones formed the feathers, each tapering to a slightly curved point. An ivory mesh of tendons connected these feathers with the main forearms and ligaments, but also allowed them both to separate. The plaga demonstrated this by flexing the wings in all sorts of impossible poses, even detaching the forearms from the smaller arms and vice versa.
“And each 'feather', as you so call it, is a blade,” the plaga said from his mouth. “Flesh or stone, they cleave through both with ease. Powerful weapons, don't you agree?”
No, he didn't agree and he made sure the plaga knew it. What the hell gives you the right to make wings? What's next? A tail? Horns? Those things better go back in when you're finished—
“Stop fretting, they suit your form.”
The plaga moving his body around and talking from his mouth was one thing, but these...appendages were the final insult.
I'm not letting you mutate me into some freak. I want my body back! Give it over!
“I will return your 'seat' when the task is finished.”
Nearby laughter caught their attention. Saddler supported himself on his three dripping legs like a spider that had been stepped on, but not squashed completely. He didn't seem concerned that a few feet away, his lower body struggled toward him in a vain attempt to reunite. A double jolt of revulsion spiked through Leon—his own, and the faint echo of the plaga's.
The plaga curled his lips into a smile, a mean one at that. It made his body stalk over to the priest and halt several feet away. Leon could sense its anger and disgust, but it also seemed uncertain of its own intentions. It would feed, yes, but then what?
What's the matter? Leon said, mimicking the plaga's tone and words when it had forced him to chase Ashley. “The prey is near, why hesitate?
“Silence, host.”
“Keeping that American quiet may prove harder than you think, remnant.” Saddler chuckled and blood sprinkled the ground beneath him. “Your control falters, as it should.”
Saddler's giddy amusement seemed out of place. In his aura, the frantic snakes searched for their baby brothers in every direction but the right one. Swathes of energy spun out of his line of sight, toward Saddler's missing legs. Leon tried to swing his body that way, but the plaga kept his eyes fixed on the priest's face.
“We will end you, Sovereign. We will feast on your power, become one.”
“Well then, what are you waiting for?” Saddler's eyes shone with delight. He must be in shock: the blood loss, the trauma must have taken a toll on Saddler's mental state. Bastard's gone loonie tunes, his father would have said long ago and in a much happier time. Watch after yourself, Scott, but never take your eyes off the crazy bastard whose got nothing to lose.
The plaga sauntered around the fallen priest, razor feathers clinking like tiny dangling pendants. From the left, Saddler's legs inched forward. The plaga saw this and made a growling sound. A delicate hiss of air and the battle for the torso ended in a splash of blood and the baby snakes winking out forever.
Saddler's smirk never faltered. “Oh, whatever will I do now?”
“You think this a game, always a game!” The plaga never moved, but the wings continued to cut Saddler's legs to pieces, each slash more vicious and angry than the first. Talk about overkill. “Will I ever be rid of you? Will I ever be free?” The words at the end came in a wrenched snarl, and with a rush of helplessness, the sense of an unavoidable fate. The plaga's hands shook. Leon sat in his seat and gripped the armrest, his mental knuckles white. The plaga's emotional state bordered on hysteria, a far cry from the aplomb persona making his life miserable before.
Now he knew what the plaga had been keeping from him, the reason beneath the insults and the manipulation—why it had been so eager to confront Saddler in the first place.
They knew each other, knew each well.
“Those are magnificent.” Saddler's voice dropped low, his awe returning. If he was concerned over the fate of his legs, he didn't show it, nor did the mommy and daddy snakes seem to realize their babies would never come home. “Human flesh is pliable isn't it? I've seen such wonders carved from their bodies— the most beautiful now before me.”
“As the spider weaves his web of lies, he forgets the fly can see him.”
Guess the plaga took his spider analogy to heart. Look, he said. I don't know what your issues are and I don't care. Finish what you started, kill him!
Leon would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy this, playing the role of the plaga, giving back a little of the grief the worm had given him. The taste of one's own medicine is always bitter.
Take pleasure in what you wish, my host, I hope your seat is comfortable. You may be in it for a long, long time.
That's not funny, he growled and strained the straps as far as they would go. You're deluded if you think you can hold me forever. I'll break free, I'll find a way. You'll have to sleep sometime, wormy. And when you do, guess who'll be driving then?
Mental laughter, a nod of respect. I chose well.
“Listen to me, remnant,” Saddler spoke with deliberate care, as if trying to calm a wild horse that might trample him at any moment. “You're confused. Let me help you understand. You are a catalyst, a vessel containing wisps of thought and intentions, the final moments of the one I loved. When you feed properly, Mr. Kennedy will inherit those memories. You will cease to exist and I again, will have what is mine.”
“You deserve death for what you've done to me—to us, to all of us.” The plaga whirled upon Saddler so fast Leon's world spun. He gasped as harsh images flickered and spat around his mental prison: blood dripped from a white hand, fingers twitched, white petals fell, a massive black door with winged handles slammed shut, people screamed from distorted mouths, wild eyes—
“No,” Saddler shook his head as if to rid himself of some great pain. Tears glittered. Saddler...crying, okay, now he knew he was hallucinating. This entire situation was too surreal to be real. “As soon as the attack began I sought you. I deserted my elders, left the front lines of battle to be with you. The city fell around me, the dying to either side of me, but I did not stop, I never stopped looking—”
This was a side of Saddler he didn't want to see. He didn't want remorse, tears, humility—or worse—humanity. The emotional speech affected the plaga to an even greater extent. Its indifference vanished, its once cold, apathetic thoughts scattered upon a wind full of hate, sorrow and fury. The images seesawing around him (come see the merry-go-round) blurred and overlapped each other in a mindless parade of colors and sound.
“Lies, lies, lies! Madness the Sovereign cried when we did not obey!” The plaga all but screamed in Saddler's face. “Thief! You bound your rotting soul to mine, you damned me in their eyes!” The plaga paced back and forth, its darting wings snapping inches from Saddler's nose. The priest did not move, didn't even flinch. He seemed stunned with some nameless emotion, his snakes frozen beneath an ocean of ice.
The plaga continued its rant, jabbing Leon's finger at the priest in accusation. “The last hunt, I remember it, every detail, every moment. I will show my host your crimes, I will show him the truth!”
“You remember the worst of it," said Saddler. "A distorted version of what really happened. There are more to those memories, so much more than—“
“The spider's sweet words are poison, this fly refuses to drink.”
“Then show him this profound truth! Go on, remnant, feed and cease to be!” In a great heaving motion, Saddler shoved himself closer. The plaga recoiled as if it couldn't bear to be near him.
Damnit, end this! Leon kicked his seat in frustration. He just offered himself to you! Take him!
“Caution host, his tricks are many.”
“Indeed,” Saddler whispered, the sly smile returning. “A wise little remnant, but still so, so, careless.”
Fear skittered through him, a watered-down version of the plaga's raw terror. “You can't use them,” it said, shaking its head in disbelief, “I made certain of it!”
“Ah, but you forget. Humans are different than the last species we conquered. Better DNA, better bodies...better ways to hide weapons I thought I'd never use again.” His aura bloomed, the snakes unfurled in some sort of euphoric dance that made Leon's imaginary cheeks burn. Saddler's tri-arms lifted his torso high to reveal a large pustule-like organ nestled under the white cage of his ribs. It glowed a brilliant orange, the membrane casing rising and falling in a liquid sigh—and when the membrane tore open and birthed a seething black mass of tightly clumped tendrils—the plaga reeled in horror.
“No, you will not have me!” it shrieked. He didn't think his voice could go that loud or that hysterical. The tentacles charged en mass, but peeled away from the main lump like strands of intelligent hair fleeing a skull. They moved independent from one another, swerving and evading the deadly arc of the plaga's wings, but they all had the same goal in mind: attack his body.
The wings scythed through the approaching horde with precision and skill, but Leon couldn't pinpoint the reason for the plaga's irrational response. The tips of these creatures were not barbed or sharp, though a thick fluid oozed from dozens of tiny suckers dotting the length of the tendrils. The more movement they made, the more that syrupy liquid splattered to the ground. The plaga avoided those puddles with almost fervid concentration, as if touching a drop would mean death.
Saddler used the distraction to his advantage. He tensed his limbs, and like a grotesque frog, leaped on top of the steel pile his staff rested under. A single wave of his palm and it was in his hands.
The plaga kept its distance, most of the slime hair now lay twitching at its feet. The urgency diminished and its confidence returned. Leon saw the impatience in his body's stance, the restless way the wings moved—and that was good. He let out a sigh of relief, and the plaga echoed him for once instead of the other way around.
It focused on Saddler's ugly walking stick and snorted. “The sight of your squirming pet fills me with such dread.” The plaga's sarcasm made Leon proud. “Will its big eye blink me into submission?”
“Yes.” Saddler pointed the staff in the plaga's direction. “In fact, it will.”
Leon couldn't feel what hit his body, but whatever it was caused the plaga to stumble backwards with a surprised cry. The wings drooped, the world swayed, and with a reluctant sigh, the plaga consciousness slipped away. One minute, there and vibrant, and the next, gone like smoke.
The straps vanished, the mental seat dissolved under his equally mental ass, and Leon tumbled into control with no idea what the hell had happened.
Two points of entry throbbed in his throat, a thin trickle of heat trailing from each. He raised a heavy arm and grabbed at what had struck him. Weakness stole the strength from his fingers. His hands went limp. Something weighed him down, disturbed his balance. The wings. The plaga had wielded them with no difficulty, but despite how thin and light they appeared, they were foreign to him—two extra limbs he had no idea how to control.
Saddler's power pressed against the things in his neck, driving whatever they were deeper into his skin. More warmth flowed, the weakness increased.
“Don't worry, Mr. Kennedy, these barbs aren't full of poison," Saddler assured. "They contain my blood, and the more of my blood inside you, the better I can control you—physically, at least.” He raised his palm and invisible arms roped around Leon's armpits, jerking him from the ground and lifting him in the air. His spine bowed, his back went rigid. Immobilized and levitating like a magician's unlucky assistant, he could only glare at Saddler and hope his entrails snagged on something sharp.
“As lovely as those wings are, they will better serve us tucked away.” A graceful flick of his wrists and Leon's wings folded and slithered back into his body. He would have given a noise of disgust if he had control of his mouth; he doubted he would ever get used to that feeling. He supposed Saddler helped him in a sense by chasing away the plaga puppeteer. He'd make sure he thanked the priest properly with a kick in the face when the bastard let him down.
“Now that I don't have to worry about you running off—” Beads of sweat trickled down Saddler's temples; his blood snakes quivered, pale shadows of themselves.
Leon watched as Saddler bent over, panting and shaking and aura pulsing. Then the priest raised his head and his voice rang out in Spanish. By magic, six ganado materialized from a door on the far side of the platform. Their ugly auras sloshed around them like green acid, but they looked healthy—not a speck of rotting flesh or dragging limb. Faces blank, they approached single-file and halted just shy of the beams Saddler squatted upon.
The priest nodded to the first in line and without hesitation, the ganado began climbing. When the creature reached his master, he bent on one knee and bowed low in supplication. Saddler gazed at his servant, a pensive king deciding how to honor such loyalty. Then his mouth cracked his face open, and he bit the ganado's head off.
Raccoon city came alive in his mind, a memory he couldn't shake or drive away. The stench of garbage and decaying corpses, the streets teeming with the walking dead and the poor souls they feasted on. The zombies hadn't unhinged their jaws as Saddler did now, nor had they sprouted dripping tentacles from their throats, nor had they plunged those very same tentacles into an oozing stump of a decapitated slave, but the effect remained the same. It made him five years old again, a frightened little boy who hid under the bed from the monsters that would eat him.
Saddler devoured the ganado like a starving dog, a messy meal he engulfed with great wolfing bites and throaty growls. His greed stirred Leon's beast into wakening. The thing (he knew now it was separate from the plaga, though he didn't know how or why) inside him sniffed at the bloody display with interest. Good thing he floated ten feet in the air. The thought he might have joined in, taken the last few in line while Saddler ate the rest, filled him with such self-loathing he wanted to curl into a ball and disappear.
He couldn't turn away, he couldn't close his eyes. The noises were the worst. If only they screamed, shouted, pleaded—something other than that awful silence and the sound of tearing flesh.
He looked to the left, to the furthest point away from the carnage and tried to coax the plaga from the cave it had fled into.
Wake up! Pull it together—help me!
A quiver in the darkness, a delicate stirring of air. The Sovereign blood drains my will, I cannot help myself, I cannot aid you.
Can't you neutralize it somehow? Don't you have some sort of...anti-blood secretions or something? I'm dangling like a fucking doll up here!
A despairing sigh he not only heard in his head, but his bones hummed as the plaga's breath soughed through. He's eating them! He's...eating them alive! What's to stop him from doing that to me? He wasn't proud of his fear, in fact, it shamed him. But he couldn't shake the images of those city streets filled with hungry mouths—some with teeth, some without—chewing and chewing their way through warm skin and still pumping blood. Not to him, not to him. He would die first.
A shivering sensation, the plaga's exhausted amusement. “Host, the Sovereign rebuilds himself 'for' you, to feed you—us...one mind...soon. I will reveal the truth, what he hides from you and himself. He's almost finished...prepare...
That didn't make him feel any better. And when he slid his eyes over he found Saddler had worked his way through the line and back onto the ground. He stood naked in the twilight, his ruined robes in a lumpy pool around his brand new feet. Blood stained his legs and torso, but he was whole again, his aura once more a bloody Medusa's head floating in a black sea.
Saddler turned and they locked eyes.
Leon skipped his gaze away, his heart pounding in his ears. He never wanted to see that look again on Saddler's face, and never again directed at himself. He stared at the far door, the one the sacrificial lambs had marched from. If he could break this hold on himself, and if he was quick enough, he might be able to—
A warm hand covered his chest. Leon flinched in theory, but his body stayed stiff. He made a sound in his throat that screamed “don't touch me!” but that didn't keep Saddler's aura away. The curious snakes nuzzled and groped his body, exploring him. The hand over his heart stayed there, thumb stroking in a parody of comfort.
“I do believe this is the first time I've seen you afraid, Mr. Kennedy. Astonishing after all we've been through.” Saddler rotated his wrist and lowered him. The sensation felt bizarre, dreamlike. Dizziness nudged his thoughts in a woozy circle. “Not to worry. That chattering inside your head will end soon, I promise.”
Fingertips, gentle and calloused, traced his lips. Leon wanted to bite them off. That violent desire flashed and vanished, leaving him wondering what he had thought to begin with. He struggled to keep his eyes open.
“The remnant can't be blamed. It's only acting on instinct, the urge to protect its host at all costs—even against its would-be savior.” Saddler cupped the back of Leon's skull, tilted his chin up with his other hand. The Sovereign's life force besieged him on all sides. The smell of it, sour lemons and meat, should have sickened him, but it fomented his hunger to a higher state of lust.
“You are hungry, yes? All that fighting, all that energy the remnant used at your expense—and all just to spite me.” Saddler's heated breath ghosted over Leon's chin. Deja vu, but this time the plaga had run out of gas. It made itself small, a tiny ball cowering between the folds of his brain. “I will show you its true purpose, who you are, who you will become. It begins,” he whispered against Leon's mouth. “Now.”
AN: This chapter is why Ashes is being rewritten. I think you can figure out why :)
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