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Rare Side Effects May Include the Following:	By : maiafay376 Category: +M through R > Resident Evil Views: 39551 -:- 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
- 5
- 6
- 7
A/N: Before I get complaints regarding what happens here...I would request everyone reread my warnings in the first chapter. They have an addition. And the start of this chapter is an experimental technique used to create the sense of a frantic pace and Leon's state of mind...which, isn't good by any means. There's a reason he started hallucinating at the end of chapter 5.
---Chapter 6: Three Blind Mice---
Run. Keep running. Stop. The halls looked alike, all hollow tunnels the color of bone. Not that way, the Woman said, ganado down that hall, we'll find another door. World tilted, then leveled; whirled, then halted. The voices in his head said, Come see the merry-go-round, the horses are chained and bleeding. The Girl pleaded with the woman, Ada, give me a weapon, let me help you. The Woman said, No, you should have taken the keys when you had the chance. Doors started to change colors, white to gray to black. Winged handles. He heard the bells. His heart choked him. Slow down, Ms. Graham, he's getting sick again. Hands touching him. He shrugged them away. Leon, are you alright? asked the Girl. We can't rest here, said the Woman, they're coming. Run. Stop. Down the hall, another door. Door stayed white. Safe. Real. On the other side, another hallway. Stone walls. Dripping. Cracking. He closed his eyes. Stop. Breathe.
Outside, his body shook. Sweat seeped through the ruins of his shirt. His soul was coming apart, he knew it, he felt it. Inside his mind he swam though an ocean of breath and words, thick, smothering, like swimming through mud. Islands loomed in the distance, monstrous constructs built from distorted memories and forgotten experiences. A fire burned on one, the smoke so pungent it coated his throat like tar. That island had a name, had a name—
"Crap." The Girl noticed he had stopped and ran to his side. Her aura curled around him, soft and lambent. So hard not to snatch it from her and keep it for himself. "Not in the middle of the hall, Leon." She tugged on his arm as if she meant to pull it off. "Come on, we gotta keep moving!"
"Let him rest," said the Woman. "We're fine for now." She set down the silver case she had purloined from a dented locker several hallways ago, and appraised him. Maybe she would buy him if the price was fair. The Sovereign held auctions all the time; they made games of it, fondling the merchandise until they squirmed, chaining them to poles, leaving them crying and begging to feed.
He couldn't meet her eyes. Her face kept changing into other women, women once lovers and enemies—sometimes both. He wondered why that was. The Girl liked to call the Woman different names. Miss Wong, Ada, and then, You Bitch. She used the last one often.
"We're not fine," the Girl said. "We won't be fine until we find a way out. Are you sure you know where you're going?" Her aura made a violent sway in the Woman's direction. "It's confusing down here, and nasty. Can't you smell that? Like old meat or piss or something worse. It fucking stinks! Why does everything here stink?"
"Calm down, there's another exit at the end of this hall. We'll head down there after Leon pulls himself together."
"I don't think there's anything left to pull together. You haven't been looking at him, at how he's been acting. He doesn't even know who we are!"
"He knows. Somewhere in that mess Saddler made of his mind, he knows."
"I think he's broken, really broken. He's never going to be the same even if he does remember." The Girl's shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug, and water gathered in her eyes. Her voice was in his head, words spoken after he and the Woman had exited the rusty elevator. My God, Leon, what did Saddler do to you? There's so much blood! Why's there so much blood? In his ocean, ghostly reflections wavered in the water: a twinkling tree full of lights, a woman singing. The Girl's memories. He had fed on her once. Why hadn't he killed her?
"You don't give him enough credit." The Woman glanced around to confirm nothing had followed them into their temporary sanctuary. The light above cast everything in sickly yellow. The Woman's dress was on fire, the flames engulfed her body, her dress falling away, her flesh melting and turning black. Her hair alighted, rising from her shoulders as it burned. He blinked. The fire vanished. The Woman continued speaking as if nothing had happened. "I've seen him survive worse, most of it back in Raccoon. Let him work it out for himself."
"You're forgetting he eats people now."
"We'll find alternatives to that...little issue."
"Who's this mysterious we? It's 'we this' and 'we that'. Who are you working for?"
"We—meaning you and I—can have this discussion another time. Unless you'd rather get caught and infected with a baby plaga again." The Woman unclipped her device—the one that had what the Girl called "Spy Quest"—and stared at it. The walls behind her bled; then they cracked open. Blackness behind them; then nothing behind the blackness. Empty spaces, endless falling. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to listen to the Woman speak. Her voice soothed him, made the visions fade, gave him some semblance of sanity. Something about her warmed the ocean waters, made the island a little clearer, a little closer.
"I have a feeling you and I have been bumped down on Saddler's list of priorities," said the Woman. "He'll probably just kill us and be done with it."
"Oh, that's encouraging," said the Girl. "I said earlier I wanna gun. Will you shoot something that has one, please?"
"No shooting, no noise. I want to keep Saddler guessing where we disappeared to. These maps I have are for the original facility, one built before he even arrived in Spain. I think he's forgotten about these lower levels. From the state of neglect, no one's been down here in a long while." The Woman poked the device and it made a beeping noise. He wanted to snuff out its cold soulless aura and eat the Woman, absorb whatever magic she had that chased away the waking nightmares. No. Not right, not nice. She was important, somehow. Her and the Girl. They were helping him in their own clumsy way. And he wasn't hungry. Not yet.
"You can't leave me with nothing. Give me a grenade then, a knife, a paper cutter—something that makes things bleed." She hesitated a moment, then added a small, sincere, "Please?"
A sharp smile thinned the Woman's lips. Her aura gave a sly twist of blue light. "I'll offer again, last chance. Take my keys—"
"You'd like that wouldn't you? Get me out of the way so you can do whatever you want. Sorry, not going to let you. He wouldn't leave me. I won't leave him."
"Are you certain about that?"
"He's not like you."
The two females glowered at each other, their auras trembling swathes of color. Never mind the eating, he just wanted to kill them. Then maybe their faces would stop changing. One mask to another mask. Make believe faces, daydreams. Their auras stayed the same. Real. They were real. This moment was real. Now. Not the past. The past would eat him alive if it caught him. Crunch his bones, spit them out.
He giggled at that, the sound tumbling into a low groan. The females jumped, their eyes (always strange, always wrong) darted over him like nervous butterflies (the ringing is yours now). The urge to kill rose again, but in his mind, he ducked under the voice ocean, cold songs to sing away the rage. But even under the waves he could still smell the fire, hear the screaming of people not alive. Hungry people. He dove deeper.
Dream places, images of a spring evening, a porch swing, yellow water called lemonade, and in the background, in the woods tinged red by the setting sun, the sleepy chirping of crickets. A man sat next to him on the swing, his blue uniform velvet in the waning light. The badge on his breast winked silver, the name blurred by red.
Daddy, I want to be a po-leece man like you.
Only if you love people, Scott. And even if you love 'em, you gotta love 'em at their worst.
"Can we get moving?" the Girl said. "I don't like how he looks—I don't like how he's looking at us. I think he's getting hungry again."
"If he is, I can deal with it."
"Oh what, you got a secret tranq gun hidden under your dress?"
"I have many things under this dress, though I doubt you'd be interested in most." The Girl made a retching noise that the Woman ignored. "Anyway, last door on the left looks like the best choice. Then one more level and we'll be at the caverns. A little beyond that is the beach. We'll rendezvous with my transport there. It's not far now," she added in a soft voice, and looked at him. "Leon, are you alright?"
"The Sovereign like games." In his mind, he left the porch, fled from the man that made him feel sad and lonely. He glided over the forest, over mountains, over oceans, and finally into a cave at the base of a towering white cliff. Others like him were inside, their indigo eyes glassy and frightened as they crouched behind large stones. "World with no name," he said to the Woman and the Girl. Words were difficult, like snatching leaves from the wind. "Red moon filled sky. Indigo run through maze of trees and caves and rivers. Sovereign hunt us on flying beasts. They find us, one by one. Last found fucked for days and days...no rest. Not until soul is crushed and breath is gone."
The Woman sighed, her many faces drawn and tired. "English this time, but he's degrading."
"Gee, you think so?" The Girl's hands clenched at her short tunic, gathering what little there was of the material to twist in her palms. "It's worse when you can understand him. Damn it!" She blinked against the water in her eyes, squeezed it to the corners where it trickled to her nose. "And we were so close, almost there. We did the laser thing, and everything. If we're rescued, I'm having my father blow this fucking island up."
In the Dirty Hall world he looked at the ceiling and drew a long breath. The ceiling changed from stained glass, to marble, to stone, to wood, then to stars that twinkled and died. In the Dream world, in that grimy cave, someone grasped his hand. In the shadows, someone was crying.
"He'll get though this, he will...he has to," the Woman said, though more to herself than to the Girl. The Woman's aura shifted with uncertainty, then with doubt. She paused there in the hall, silent and still. Her aura wavered as she seemed to reflect on her troubled emotions, and then analyze them. This went on for only a moment, but the Girl shifted in impatience. Behind the walls, pipes grumbled and moaned. Somewhere, water dripped the same word over and over.
When the Woman slid her device back in its holder and withdrew her weapon, her aura became a pool of blue glass, sunlight trapped under the surface. "I think it's time for some tough decisions, Ms. Graham. I can't string you along anymore."
"What are you talking about?" the Girl asked. She feigned innocence, but her aura barred its teeth, fur rising. Her eyes were on the gun the Woman held in her hands. "Does this have something to do with that little silver case you keep toting around? And why the hell are you pointing that thing at me?"
"To give you motivation. I've tried everything to encourage you to save yourself. Being nice isn't working, being a bitch isn't working, because where Leon is concerned, your sense of self-preservation is practically non-existent. This won't do. I'm sorry, but now I'm forcing you to take these keys. Take them and leave."
"You bitch. Who do you work for?" The vehemence in the Girl's voice made him pay attention. He gazed at her, his vision blurring the details of her face except her eyes. They burned fierce, almost feverish. He knew many like her, cornered souls, betrayed by the ones they trusted or loved. The Sovereign conquered worlds, entire races, son against father, lover against lover, all the little ones sick and dying, and for what?
Perfection, echoed many Sovereign in one voice. We will reclaim what we have lost. It is our right. We will not be judged by a dead god.
"Well that depends, dear, on who pays me the most," the Woman said. She smiled, but her eyes held no mirth. "Which is why I'm 'toting' this little silver case here. My mission was to gather specimens of the Los Plagas, but that was only part of the deal. The other, is no witnesses alive. One of my employers sees you as expendable, the other would rather not deal with questions regarding your survival, and his involvement. Two very ambitious men with very little morals, and both on their way here this very moment. So you see, Ms. Graham, it would make things easier for everyone if you took the keys from me, and slipped away."
"Won't these mysterious men punish you for not killing me?"
"I couldn't help if I was distracted. Leon's quite a handful." They looked at him then, the Woman and the Girl, each with their own version of pity. The island burned brighter in his mind, and in that sea he still swam toward it, never reaching it, the stench of the dead deep in his lungs, poisoning him. Faces in the water. He stared at them with yearning; he would join them if he could.
"I don't want to leave him," said the Girl, her voice wet and sulky. "It's not right. He came here because of me, he's all messed up because of me—"
"It's his job. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Take the keys."
"I don't want to!"
"Ashley, take them."
"No!"
"I've shot people for less. Take the keys. Now. I won't ask you again."
The Girl started crying. She managed to sniffle a weak, "You bitch" before yanking the keys out of the Woman's hand. The hand holding the gun didn't waver until the Girl clipped the keys to a loop on her strange tunic. The fuzzy brown animal attached to the silver ring hung upside down. When she moved, it swung, beaded eyes glaring at him.
"And take Leon's PDA, he won't be needing it," said the Woman, her voice soothing, a mother praising her obedient child. "Once you get far enough from the island, call for help. Leon's contact, Hunnigan, will send someone asap. Tell them anything you want about what happened here, it won't matter. Leon and I will be long gone before your father can send anyone."
A familiar chuckle rasped from the dark. "So optimistic, my dear. And for so little reason," said a voice that cleared the fog from his mind, sent his heart pounding into his throat. "There's nowhere left to run."
Instinct and choking terror ripped his wings free, the motion little more than a blur. The Woman raised her weapon and pivoted in one sinuous movement; the Girl bleated, pressed herself against the wall and became a wide-eyed statue.
The Sovereign stepped from his hiding place, a covered lump of ancient medical equipment gone unnoticed until now. His staff unfurled a greeting, but no wisp or flicker of his aura snakes. He should have felt the Sovereign's eyes, should have smelled his stench, should have heard the rustle of his robes. But he had been swimming too long, too hard; his ocean had dulled his senses.
Ganado came from doors and shadows, silent despite their numbers. He tried to count them, but they all looked the same. They approached the Sovereign with slack faces, greed in their eyes, weapons of every kind grasped tight in their hands. A group gathered on the other side of the hall, blocking the chance for escape. No auras, no light, no hint of life.
"You tucked them away," he said. The words bubbled in his head like sea foam, slippery and soft. They spilled from his lips in the wrong order, the wrong meaning. He tried again. "You made them nothing, how?"
"It's been many years. My power has grown since we last saw one another." The Sovereign's voice rolled through the air like a wind full of black spores and rotting leaves; the taste of it sent his stomach into a trembling roil. He felt his strength draining from him, the ocean stealing it, drinking it dry. His wings shook, the delicate bones clinking.
The Sovereign held his hand up. "Stay," he said to the ganado. "Don't attack unless I command it." He set his staff aside and came forward, palms out, empty hands. False surrender. Worms of lust crawled beneath his skin, they twisted, burrowed to the surface. They wanted to touch him. The Sovereign's brows furrowed, false concern, false empathy, no one but a fool would trust it. "Leon, listen to me—"
"No near! Stay rooted!"
The Sovereign's gaze narrowed, the eyes within the eyes regarding him. His lips pursed, the ganado waited, their excitement radiating like sour heat. The Sovereign slid his gaze to the Woman, his lip curling. "His condition is your doing. Running through my halls like blind rats, following that silly device you carry. Why do you think he can't even speak his name?"
"Pointing fingers, Saddler?" said the Woman, her aura swishing like a cat's tail. "Shame on you. You're the one who started this. If you had left Ashley alone, none of us would be running though your halls, and Leon would have been fine."
The Sovereign waved his hand, swatting bothersome flies. "You are in my house, I know every crevice and cave, and have been long aware of where you intended to escape. The irony is that I've been waiting for you. Been here for quite some time, listening to you manipulate that girl, and fret over what to do, what to do – it amused me at first, but soon he will be beyond my help, become like the others. I won't let that happen."
"If you were listening, you would have heard me say he's stronger than he looks," said the Woman. "I know him, he's gone through worse than this."
He saw her in two places: The Dirty Hall world, standing defiant, challenging the Sovereign; the other, his island, her hair blowing in the wind, her hands held out in invitation. When had she arrived there? Did she come from the city? The ocean? What did she mean to him, to this host?
"There is a reason the Indigo must be bound to us, we provide stability, rationality—"
"Isn't he brand new? A new plaga species even to you? Seems to me you have no idea what he needs. You're assuming the worst for no reason," the Woman said.
"And you assume the best because you are a fool."
"Please, sir," said the Girl. Her aura hugged her body as if consoling her. "Por favor, just let us leave. We didn't do anything to you, not at first." She hesitated, gathered herself. Tears ran unchecked down her face. So many others pleaded the same. Entire worlds. An endless sea of faces, tears the Sovereign granted no mercy. "Leon's only here for me. It's not his fault. We'll leave and won't bother you again. We won't tell, we—"
"Hush." The Sovereign put a finger to his lips. Something close to regret simmered in his eyes. His words came slow, thoughtful. "I never had a quarrel with you, girl. You were a means to an end that no longer appeals to me. This woman was correct in saying my priorities have changed. And they have, considerably, and for reasons I could not possibly convey in this limited language of yours. However..." He gave a heavy sigh and drew back on his heels, a weary judge deciding his prisoner's fate. "I am not without compassion. Your death will be swift."
"What kind of bastard are you?" The Woman aimed her gun between the Sovereign's eyes, her own flaring with rage. The Girl broke down in sobs and covered her face with her hands. Never show emotion, never let them get to you, a coward whispered in his mind, a man who fled his own demons and lived in a castle of white. The Girl called him Father. The Woman's glass aura shattered, spitting gold and flecks of blue. "If you don't need her, let her walk away."
"It would have been easier, and kinder, for you to have shot her when you had the chance. There's still time to rectify this, if you'd like. I won't interfere,"said the Sovereign.
"Sorry, your grace, the only one kissing bullets will be you," said the Woman. To the Girl, she said, "Ashley, I won't hurt you, and I won't let him either, I promise."
In his Dream world, she kept shining there on the shore, beckoning to him. He wanted to reach her, but he didn't know which woman was real. The Girl huddled against the wall, fingers outstretched, white upon the gray. She didn't look at the Woman, or at the Sovereign. She looked at him, the naked desperation on her face pulling his mind together again, chasing away the Dream world and the island from his thoughts.
"Leon, please come back," she said, a child praying for a miracle. It brought back the many nights he, and every host before him, spent begging on knees for absolution. Prayers that went unanswered, ignored. "Make him stop, please. Make him go away. I don't want to die. I want to go home, I just want to go home."
"Even if he were to suddenly come to his senses," the Sovereign said. "He can't kill us all. What you see in this hall is a mere fraction of what awaits behind every door, in every room. There is no chance, Ms. Graham. For any of you. Face your end with dignity." He said the last not unkindly, but with the gentle scolding of a father. "Death is a release from fear, from pain. You should embrace it."
"Let's see if you take your own advice, Saddler," said the Woman. Her finger tightened on the trigger, the Sovereign smiled. He held his arms out, his brows lifting in wry amusement.
"Ah, it's been a while since we've had sport," he said. "Particularly with females. Do what you want, my flock, but kill them in the end. The Indigo, of course, is mine."
The swimmer inside his mind stopped; the Dirty Hall world commanded his full attention. It became a world of motion and sound. The hall shifted around his enemy, a castle corridor, a black stone cave, a forest path strangled by trees, a cramped vale between two towering cliffs. Angry at his spurning, the ocean in his mind churned, the voices under the waves shrieked. He told them to be patient, he would return to them soon; remember or die, they would decide his fate in the end.
His wings tilted, changed direction. One pointed toward the crowd of ganado that began to advance, the other toward the Sovereign whose robes had begun to move below his waist. Tentacles rushed at him, wove around the mob of ganado, and darted at his legs. He severed them with one wing and cleaved two springing ganado in half with the other.
The Girl squeaked and ducked behind the feathered blades. She pressed against one of the locked doors, her hand tugging the handle in panic. Orange light flashed to his right, the barrel of the Woman's weapon sparking with each shot. Three fell. More came. The ganado pressed against them on all sides, their eyes burning ash, their smell, overwhelming, their cries of bloodlust, deafening. He realized it didn't matter how powerful the Woman's tiny gun was, or how adept her skills, she would eventually miss, run out of bullets, run out of luck. He would soon tire, or the Sovereign would release the bane—and then no amount of strength, or luck would help him.
The Woman held the key. In the Dirty Hall world, she stood at his side, but as a pale shade, insubstantial. In his Dream world, she glowed on that island, her dress rippling with the wind, fire against fire. The choice was his: remember, or sink into the waters forever. One path promised more heartache and pain, the other, the confusing oblivion of madness.
Two more ganado spilled their insides on the floor, their bodies falling, creating enough space for him to rush forward.
The Woman cried out when he reached for her, struggled when he pinned her arms behind her back, moaned when his mouth covered hers, bucked when his aura strained against her own. Blue invaded by violet, his captive now. The Girl called his name as she fended off grasping hands, but she too, fell away. The Dirty Hall world crumbled, and he plunged into his dream self, the eternal swimmer. He surfaced, the sky above an angry red, the ocean a vicious purple. Time didn't exist here, one moment could carry on forever if he so desired. It all depended on her.
The Woman was ahead of him, cutting through the water at a frantic pace. Her thoughts fluttered to him, light as bird wings. Mother said never to play in water I couldn't see the bottom, never swim so deep I couldn't find my way back. He followed, the island for once not drifting away, but coming closer, closer still. He swam faster. The Woman staggered to her feet, her butterfly dress clinging to her body, baring one leg to the hip as she crawled onto the beach, sputtering and coughing and crying.
His feet brushed against sand, and he rejoiced. He fell to his knees, stumbled forward until he collapsed. The urge to gather the sand into his arms was so powerful, so hard to resist. Real, real, real, this was real. But the Woman was running from him, her thoughts a whirling storm of dark leaves, wet and shivering. Not again, not again, please. I want to forget this place, forget it ever happened, forget my part.
He chased her into the city, the streets a mess of ruined vehicles, some floating in the air, fire from their mouths licking the red sky. One path, the Woman ran, towering structures of rusty metal blocking all others, corpses dangling like dead birds inside cages. Papers and debris fell like jagged snowflakes, blew over the ground, drifted into corners, piled high as if they meant to climb the walls. Shadows moaned, lurched on broken legs, grasped with skeleton fingers. Blood rained, puddles splashing when he disturbed their solemn reflections. The Woman ran on, aware he was closing the distance, aware her strength was failing, aware her body was tiring.
Her path narrowed, then stopped. A wall of dead refused her passage, heaps of contorted bodies aglow from the fires, empty eyes staring, accusing. Layers and layers of them, stacked against the flood of tears and regret that the Woman poured from her soul. Let me through! I couldn't do anything, couldn't help you, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, don't let him catch me!
The tips of her dark hair kissed his fingers, then embraced them, his hand tight against her scalp, her flesh hot and damp from the sea. She lost her balance, her hands clawing at his arms, at his face. But she couldn't hurt him, not here. Her mouth opened in a scream, and he claimed it again. A kiss within a kiss. Memories within a dream. A sudden burst of understanding, her knowledge became his.
The city on fire, Raccoon; dead men feeding, the T-virus; a young woman with red hair, wearing a pink vest, an angel on the back; Claire Redfield. Looking for my brother, Chris, she said. A blond child, Sherry Birkin; her father, William Birkin, and the monster he had become.
Then he was lost, alone. No Sherry, no Claire. This is when he met her, the Woman. Inside a stone place, vehicles parked between yellow lines, a shot fired and missed. He flinched, then turned. She wore red then, too, her dark hair shining. My name is Ada Wong.
But that's not your real name, is it? His mind pressed into hers, eager for more memories, more answers. He almost had himself, almost had his name.
Don't make me remember, I promised her I wouldn't forget, but I lied, I lied. I hate her. I ruin everything I touch, just like her. My mother. I don't want to remember!
Then show me myself. Make me whole again.
You won't like what you see. She sighed, weariness in her voice. I hurt you. I...left you. I leave everyone.
But you can't leave. Not until I say. And I won't let you go until you show me.
Alright, but promise you'll forgive me. Promise me, Leon.
He paused, giving her words the consideration they deserved. I promise.
Like a reluctant girl handing over the sweets she had stolen, she showed him the rest, her horror, her fear, her betrayal. He lingered on those images, the wound she had tended on his shoulder, and then her wounds he had bandaged later with loving care; a laboratory, red and white emblems on the walls. Umbrella; they were the cause, the reason for everything. Raccoon's murderer.
A bald monster threw her into steel, made her sleep, sleep so deep he thought she was dead. But she awoke after he had left, made her slow, painful escape from the lab, met a man she called Contact in a building named after a fruit. Contact slouched in a chair, gun hanging from his hand, his head an explosion of gore. Albert Wesker gave Contact a new name. Coward.
Albert Wesker, the blond man he had seen on her small device; the man with the red eyes, the flaming aura. In this room, he smiled on a bigger screen, taunted her with death until she showed him a glass tube, purple liquid twisting inside smaller tubes. He leaned forward, gloved fingers on his chin. It is in our best interest that you survive, he said. The G-virus is required.
The G-virus and the T-virus, makers of monsters; the other variants of these, each one worse than the last, forming a black sphere of destruction that kept spinning, spinning, and would never stop. Humans, playing with toys that bit and stung. They cried, they bled, but they never threw their playthings away.
Yes, we are fools, aren't we? Saddler was right in saying that. But some of us are better, stronger. There's a reason I fell in love with you, Leon. Ada's voice filled his mind, her words a path to the light, to reality. You do the right thing. You always have. Come back, I need you...the world needs you.
His eyes sprang open, his sense of self popping back into place with no more effort than a gentle nudge, a soft breath.
Leon...his name was Leon...Leon Scott Kennedy.
And he was in deep shit.
He threw himself and Ada against the wall, his wings shredding a ganado unlucky enough to be in his way, and skewering another by accident when he yanked free from the first. He had razor noodles on his back, none of them would go where he wanted. Ada sagged in his grip, breathing hard, her aura a bunch of drunken arms waving, but still vibrant, still aware. He hadn't fed on her, hadn't had the time, or perhaps he hadn't even thought of about feeding. Either way, if he didn't get these stupid appendages under control he would kill them both.
"Leon! Leon, help me!" Ashley held Ada's gun in her hands, the gun shaking more than she was, a lone, frightened girl keeping the ganado away. They could've rushed her, a few of their number falling to the remaining bullets left in Ada's five-seveN—if Ashley even managed to aim it correctly, but they kept their distance. Their expressions flitted from laughing to growling, their auras lighting the hall like vapor from a witch's cauldron. He didn't remember them smelling this bad when he had been crazy.
He pulled his wings close, winced when one bony edge scraped his arm. "Ashley, where's Saddler? Where did he go?" he asked. Ada shook her head, untangled herself from his body, swayed like a reed ready to break.
"Leon? You remember? You remember me?" The joy on her face brought a smile to his, but in that moment he knew she had forgotten where she was; she had forgotten his question, the question she should have answered instead of lowering the gun, lowering her guard, a thousand words of relief ready to spill from her lips, her arms ready to wrap around him, her legs ready to run to him.
She forgot to answer the question.
The radiant grin she wore froze on her face, her brows coming together in puzzlement. She opened her mouth, blood poured out. Ada's gun clattered to the floor, the metal shining bright, garish, red. He couldn't watch this happen, but his eyes wouldn't close, his body wouldn't move. Saddler's resigned sigh sounded like a dagger falling, the tip piercing him as it pierced Ashely.
I am not without compassion, your death will be swift.
She dangled, suspended by the bulging tentacle lodged in her torso. Saddler stood several feet away, calm, stoic, the folds of his robes parting to make way for death. The ganado gawked at her, enrapt, awed, as if this bloody angel would somehow bless them, forgive them for their sins. Ada made a strangled noise behind him, her aura recoiling with horror, her promise dying before her eyes. Ashley, I won't hurt you, and I won't let him either...
She'd be alright. His thoughts fled like bees from a burning nest. She'd be alright, she'd be alright as long as Saddler pulled out clean. If he pulled out clean she had a chance—not a great one, but better than—
Ashley's right breast exploded in red as another blade burst through, the tip wedged tight between her ribs. She jerked in the air, her body arching as if caught in the throes of macabre passion. Her eyes met his, one iris wreathed in blood, the other already glazing over. "L-L-" she tried to say and gave one, delicate shudder. Her hands went limp, her body next.
Saddler's tentacles ripped free with a wet, crunching sound. Ashley dropped to the floor.
The hall went silent. No one moved. Ashley's aura flowed over her body, a golden ghost, no trace of blue. He sensed its uncertainty, its confusion. Then it rose, a gossamer bird instead of a ghost, hovering there, staring at him. He stared back, rooted to spot, frozen as Ashley's last smile. Maybe he could force it back inside her, lock it in, throw away the key. Could he do such a thing? Was it even possible?
This question would never have an answer. Not now. With a slow nod of its head, the aura bird broke its eyeless gaze, and flew through the ceiling on graceful wings, its tail wisping out in a glittering puff. Gone. Ashley Graham was gone. Gone because of his weakness, his stupidity, his tendency for getting himself into the worst possible situation with the worst possible outcome.
The world around him burned with his failure, the pieces falling away in great, crumbling slabs of ash. The embers flared in the wind, turning crimson. Ice replaced the fire; numbness palliated his rage, the miserable consequences of his mistakes. Hollow him out, let the cold sooth the raw spaces inside. It kept him from screaming at the unfairness of it all.
"Come vengeance," Saddler said, the shadows swallowing him in his retreat. The ganado vanished, but their egress went unnoticed and unchallenged. In these terrible moments, all he could see was Ashley's blood spreading on the floor, over her lips, oozing from the ruins of one breast, the other still soft and white. Unspoiled. His fingers twitched; he wanted to close her sweater.
"Come, deal your punishment." Saddler's aura surged to life, every ugly snake mocking him. "Kill me for what I've done."
"No! Leon, he's baiting you!" Ada reached for him, yelped when she slipped in Ashley's blood and fell. He had never seen Ada's face so pale, her eyes so wide; not even when he chased her through la la dream land. She braced herself against the wall, slipped a second time. Her dress tore, butterflies lost their wings. "Leon, don't go, we have a way out! We keep running, we keep going, we don't stop. Wesker said three hours, but that means two! Don't you understand? Early, he's always early!"
He understood, he understood perfectly. Be a sensible boy, turn around, go with Ada, escape. But nothing resembling sense motivated him now. The primal urge for revenge, to punish, to kill drove him into the darkness, bone wings tucked in, halls bleeding into one another, and behind him, with her dress bloody and aura wild, Ada screamed his name with such desperation that he almost turned around.
Almost.
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