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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
- 6
- 7
- 8
---Chapter 7: Sins of the First---
Deserted hallways, one after another. Some were clogged with construction equipment, rusty medical carts, and even one wheelchair, its seat serving as storage for a teetering pile of old folders. He had no idea where he was going, where he was, or how far underground Ada had led him and Ashley during her search for an escape. Pure instinct guided him, the sound of Saddler's footfalls, the glimpses of that blood-black aura.
His awareness had sharpened to the point where he could split himself between the physical and mental planes of consciousness. He didn't contemplate how he could do it. He just did it. Like Dumbo realizing he never needed the feather in the first place; he could have flown anytime.
In his mind, every host, their life, their experiences manifested as books inside a massive library. Walls upon walls of them, disorganized stacks on the verge of toppling over. All he had to do was think "torture", and books floated into his hands, binders dusty, ancient pages, and inside, ways to kill a Sovereign in the most brutal, bloody manner imaginable. He should have blanched at the horrific details, but he studied them, memorized them, every method, every design.
An eye for an eye, one book whispered, its pages so old and worn he was afraid they would disintegrate in his hands. Let no desire go unfulfilled, let no wrong go unpunished. If the law is broken, let the grievance decide the consequence; if the slight is personal, let the offended decide the price.
An eye for an eye it was. For his police escorts, for Ashley, Luis, Mike, all the villagers, their children. The dead would find justice. Ada thought he had lost his reason, all his marbles spilling out of the bag, bouncing to the floor, rolling under the furniture. But he would be a careful crazy man, one prepared for anything.
He paused to catch his breath, researching what he could in the little time he had to rest. On the highest shelf, someone had slapped two slabs of stone together around the biggest dictionary he had ever seen. The book glimmered with invitation. What life did it contain? Someone who lived quite a while from the looks of it, someone who maybe knew how to defeat Saddler better than the others.
A rickety ladder appeared at his whim, its rungs made of bone and twine. His mind was fun like that. For some reason the book wouldn't come when he commanded. Too heavy, maybe. There was something odd about it besides the age, and the fact it was stone. He paused when he reached the top shelf, wary for no reason. What was he afraid of? The damn thing wasn't going to bite him. Dust puffed around the book as if someone was breathing on it. The binding was cracked along the edges, chipped in the corners. Its pages were red. He couldn't remember if they had been red before. Whispers stirred when he began to reach for it, warnings, mutterings that seemed born from the shadows themselves. He paused, uncertain, then shrugged away the voices. The yapping choir annoyed the hell out of him, but they were no threat.
His fingers brushed the cold stone, flakes of gray sticking to his skin. Darkness swirled, his only warning before two floating hands clamped down over his. He cried out, pinwheeling on the ladder for a good horrifying minute before regaining his balance.
The hands, so pale he could see the delicate veins in the wrists, snatched the book and dragged it out of sight. A voice spoke, the timber and tone genderless, but stern. These pages contain only suffering, regret. Seek your answers elsewhere.
"Telgren? Is that you?" His voice echoed when it shouldn't have. The library had expanded without him willing it, growing more books, more shelves, more complex isles. Dark shapes appeared out of the corner of his eye. Nothing answered him, but there was movement all around him. From below, something touched the ladder, sent a shiver of vibration spiraling upward. He craned his head to see what it was, but a mist pooled around the floor. Something else unwanted. His control was slipping. The voice spoke again, a general fed up with his meandering soldier.
Tarry here no longer. Kill the Sovereign.
He opened his eyes, let out a whoosh of breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. It was bad when his mind was scarier than reality. Those weren't Telgren's hands. After Telgren had committed suicide via butterfly bomb, the shrapnel had turned his own brain to mush. His mind he had reclaimed (for the most part), but Telgren was indefinitely MIA. What host was he dealing with now?
The voice jabbed him in the temples, a persistent poke that grew louder and meaner the longer he idled. The general was pissed now, downright enraged. Go, kill the Sovereign. Kill him, kill him, kill him, kill—
He ran. The voice dimmed, but it was still there, chanting beneath his consciousness. He was a dog running away from his tail on fire. He couldn't escape it. Something had been left behind of the plaga, or remnant, or Telgren...or something else. It felt malevolent, powerful, using his mind and body as a shield for itself. Terror urged his run into a full-out sprint. What the fuck was inside him?
Nothing opposed his wild canter through the corridors except a lone Regenerator that staggered back with a startled baby cry when he sped past. As if dropped by Hansel and Gretal themselves, the wake of Saddler's aura clung to the walls, became shiny bread crumbs to follow. All he needed now was a picnic basket and some suspenders.
Ahead, and somewhere to his left, a door slammed, the barest scent of blood, fading footsteps. The voice kept chanting. He vaulted up a set of stairs, entered another hallway without a ganado in sight. Too easy. Obvious trap. But that did not stop him from yanking open the only door at the end, yelping when his hand slipped free, dripping in—
Oh shit...Oh God...he stared at his hand, his breath expelling in a wheeze. Already the warmth was spreading through his fingers, up his wrist, his nerves tingling with heightened awareness, sensitivity. He wiped it off on his pants, frantic, angry gestures that brought agony and pleasure. He broke out in a sweat. To the hollow of his elbow now, and still spreading. White flesh, then pink, then red. Nerves on fire, heat licking his skin, needy, wanting. How could he have been so stupid?
He stumbled back, his quest for revenge waylaid by toxic slime. The books in his library knew it by another name, but saying it—even thinking it—might make the bane spread. His shoulder throbbed, the red trail snaking around the bone, his nerves singing, coming alive.
"Did you think I would play fair?" Saddler chuckled behind the offending door. "Not take advantage of your reckless nature, your temper?"
He ignored the urge to cradle his arm. As crappy as this situation had become, at least the bane had shut up the voice. He couldn't even picture his library now. No pale hands in the dark. "Pretty underhanded, even for you, old man," he said when the door opened and the edges of Saddler's aura curled into view. Snakes tasted the air, searching for him. The bottom folds of Saddler's robes left snail trails of glistening goo.
"I'm practical," Saddler said. "And patient. All I have to do is wait until the ichor reaches your heart, then we can cease these game. And don't try anything foolish as others before you have done, like sever the affected limb. I'm prepared to intervene if necessary."
"Come a little closer then, I'm feeling suicidal."
"Yes, I'm sure. Your poor little charge. I assure you, I took no joy in her death," A ring of frost circled the pupils of Saddler's eyes, his frown both pensive and resigned. "What I did was necessary."
"You did it out of spite, you did it to hurt me, to bait me." He managed to keep the tremble out of his voice, but not his hand. Nerves stretched beneath his skin, squirmed for more simulation. What he would do for an "off" switch right now, some level to pull, little red button to push. Break in case of emergency. He tried summoning the images of such things, but they formed and vanished before he could use them.
"And you? Did you not kill my best men? Bitores? Salazar? Did you not destroy hundreds of my ganado? You even took pleasure in their demise—"
"Are you seriously comparing me to you? I was defending myself, protecting Ashely. Your little cows would still be mooing if you hadn't taken her in the first—"
"No." Saddler's snakes writhed as if hypnotized by an angry charmer. "Krauser delivered her to me. He, and the female spy are dogs of that red-eyed fool, Albert Wesker. I hope dear Albert realizes his bitch likes to roam. Serves the master who throws her the best treats."
"We're not talking about Ada, we're talking about you, killing Ashley. Tearing her up like...like—" Tongues, warm and silky swirled around his shoulder, the line of poison sighing there before moving on. Library and angry general still a no show. No help there. His pulse doubled, pumped more tainted blood to the rest of this body. His groin strained, begged for freedom. His hand moved, curled on his thigh. Saddler followed the motion with one eyebrow raised, his face darkening. Aura snakes slowed their sempiternal dance, watched with black eyes, flicked red tongues.
"The ichor is our natural defense against you, despite your protests to the contrary," said Saddler. Familiar yearning unwound in his voice, wrapped his words in downy gauze. "The Indigo submit so easily to its effects, a roaring lion reduced to a purring kitten. Unfair and unsporting, but it serves its purpose."
Leon made one bony tendril cleave the air, the hiss bringing clarity like ice down his parched throat. "Stop it! Just stop," he said. The ichor ate him one piece at a time, his skin soft and ripe in its jaws. The hall blurred behind Saddler, a desert mirage of gray and white. He had to stay focused, stay sane. Keep talking."I'm your enemy! En-nah-mee. Got it? Yeah, I tore through a whole bunch of you ugly bastards...your star soldier boys, Big Cheese Man, Grandpa Midget...and yeah, I enjoyed it. Just like you enjoyed murdering an innocent girl. Don't say you're sorry. You're not sorry. No more than I am."
"I should hate you then—"
"Yes! Hate me! Because if you throw one more lovesick glance my way, I'm going to spew all over your shoes!"
In the likeness of a scholar, Saddler canted his head, stroked his chin with his thumb. "Should I hate the sea then, when her waves spill over the shoreline, drowning all within her path? When a storm devastates the land, wind uprooting trees, should I rage against it? Should I curse the snow for falling, the desert for burning, the volcano for erupting? Nature is nature. Deadly, yes, but it holds no malice."
"I hold lots of malice...oodles and oodles of it."
"Yes, but that is your nature."
The desert mirage behind Saddler changed colors. Purple, reds, some yellows, a magic kingdom of pastel blobs. "Never mind. No more Momma Nature, okay? How about we...discuss how many new holes I'm going to put in your...ugly face. How many limbs can I chop off...before you, before you croak."
"We both know that won't happen. You're already slurring your words. Movements are turning sluggish. Good. While I may not take personal offense to your mindless slaughter of my servants, I will curb your destructive impulses. I will harness you, tame you."
"Call me Black Beauty...take me for a ride." He laughed, his muscles twitching under his skin as if they got the joke. "You know how many times you've said you'll...'tame me'? I ought to make a drinking game of it."
"Yes, I know how many times. As many times as you've claimed I will not succeed, as many times as you've vowed to take my life. I have told you, this is an old song between us."
"Then stop singing...old man...'cause you suck."
"Interesting choice of words."
"Don't...get excited. Take one fucking...step...over here, and...and—" The rest of what he wanted to say flew right out of his head. He forgot where he was, what he had been doing, saying. The torn parts of his shirt weren't wide enough; the air couldn't reach his skin. He was suffocating, a moth inside a glass jar, no holes in the lid. He swayed to the side, on fire, unable to breathe, the pulse in his ears, deafening.
The hand against his cheek, rough and cool, startled him. Saddler, inches away, his snakes nuzzling before they swallowed him whole. How did the bastard get this close without him noticing? His wings jerked from their drooping stance, slow, heavy, like petrified bones.
"Stop. You'll waste precious energy fighting me, fighting fate."
"I don't believe...in fate."
"The irony of that statement, the innocence is endearing. What would I give to start fresh every time I took a new host, to paint the colors of past horrors paler and paler." Dry lips brushed his neck, his head tilting back on instinct. Disgust followed, then shame. Warmth and wetness climbed his legs, affectionate vines eager to share their poison. His heart lurched, his knees buckled, but he did not touch the floor. Saddler's arms supported him, aided by the other appendages that crawled from beneath his robe.
He closed his eyes and pounded on the door to his library, each strike ringing hollow. No one home. Creepy voice still bye bye. He tried to remember the words of each book, but the words flowed together, smearing under golden oil. Ichor, the Indigo's bane, the Sovereign's salvation.
Saddler said something in his ear, a breathy promise. His body reacted, a groan wrung past his lips. He raised his hands and tendrils wrapped around them, fluid oozing over his fingers, sweet and bitter smelling. "I want to savor this," Saddler murmured against his throat. His wings shivered, blades like wind chimes when Saddler's hands caressed where the bones protruded from his shoulders. "It doesn't matter how many times we cross this path, the thrill of conquest never diminishes. You are my enemy, my lover. You carry part of my soul and I carry a part of yours. This binding is only a formality. A renewing of vows spoken long ago."
His clothes, soaked through and dripping, hit the concrete with a slap. The sensation of his exposed body against hot slippery flesh drove all sense from him. His groans, his thrusting seemed far away, an erotic scene from someone else's dream. The sanity he had eked out from a jumble of hallucinations and a swim in an illusionary ocean all but crumbled into nothing. Even if he stumbled into his library now, all the books would be floating, words drowning in golden goo. And he was drowning, Saddler's aura crashing into him, an ocean full of serpents pulling him down into darkness.
He didn't even feel the kiss when it descended, too high on sensations beyond pleasure, his body drinking in the bane, muscles and tendons pulsing, his bare legs gripping a lover no longer human. He rocked against this creature, slow at first, then faster, faster still. He ached, begged for more, and took what it offered without hesitation. No more shame. No more guilt. This horrible empty feeling inside filled with flesh, blood, and pleasure. Ashley, her doll eyes and slight, white body on the floor. That had happened so long ago, to someone else. Maybe it hadn't happened at all.
That's right, said Saddler, sliding what served currently as his hands under his ass, crushing him even closer. Don't think of it. A trifle thing.
A soft mist plumed, sweet smelling as a pollen cloud. Then it cleared. A familiar field, a familiar house, a porch swing with a small wooden table beside it. A glass of lemonade half full. Or half empty. What sort of person was he?
His father sat on the swing, pushing it with his boot, the hinges protesting with sad, whining squeaks. Clad in his dark blue uniform, a gold star on his shoulder: Sheriff Dept., Whitmore County, no hat, no gun on his belt. "Heya, where'd you scamper off? Been waiting for you, silly rabbit. We were just getting started."
"I had to find my island. Ada helped me."
His father nodded, winced a little when he took a sip of lemonade. The cut on his lip, a thin trickle of blood. His father wiped the red away, smiling.
Crickets filled the silence with trilling wings, the sunset a smudge of russet behind the trees. Stars already dotted the sky, winking good evening from across the universe. He frowned. The Big Dipper was missing.
A weathered hand patted the seat, thick callused fingers, short bones. He had his mother's hands, long, tapered, the kind meant for art, or music, not for the steel of weapons, the smear of blood stains. "Hop on, we were going to India, remember? See Bull Temple, the Taj Mahal."
"I'm too old for that game." But he sat down anyway, the swing creaking another melancholy sigh. He scanned the heavens. Pisces had swum away, frightened by an old toad that squatted on a lilypad made of thin violet clouds.
"You're still angry about what happened aren't you? I'm sorry, Scott. I did what I had to. She was in trouble." Under his father's eyes, bruises bled there, an invisible artist deciding to add a bit of purple, a little more black. The cut at the corner of his lip deepened, the trickle of blood curved over his chin.
Daddy, I want to be a po-leece man like you.
"You didn't have to do anything," he said, the memories surging like the overflow of filthy water, the sudden chance to say the things he had been wanting to say all these years. "You shouldn't have gone over there. What made that time so different? Chuck and Denise, stupid white trash, those stupid beer can wind chimes on their front porch. They always fought, everyone knew it, everyone always ignored them."
His father shrugged, a sharp movement, the bones grinding as if pulled out of their sockets. "What have I've always said? Gotta love them at their worst."
"You weren't even on duty!"
"The badge never comes off, Scott. It stays for life. Right here." His father thumped his chest with blood coated fingers, the bottom of his uniform pocket filling with life ink. Blue to sticky purple.
"Mom said you couldn't stop. Like a broken faucet. Had to be the hero all the damn time. Denise didn't deserve it. She could've left him and never did." His fists clenched his knees, fury welling up, biting at his eyes. The crickets held their breath, the sun slipped out of the sky to avoid the sudden tension. The stars shifted position, glittering bright, attentive. Wrong constellations. All of them. Scorpio scuttled under a rock, leaving behind a spider spinning a web out of pink dust. Spiders. The butterfly lost. In the dark place between the house and the shed, hungry arachnids sucked a delicate carcass dry. Bad luck, bad timing. The butterfly had taken a wrong turn in the wind, or perhaps the wind had gotten sick of carrying it.
"She would have died, Scott. A rabid dog had better sense than Chuck. Better control. Denise was damn lucky I'd been home. Heard her screaming clear across the field. Like you said, no one else would have gone, no one else cared enough."
"You could have called a unit over, they would've taken care of it—"
"And right after I hung up with them, I would have had to call the coroner."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do. You weren't there. You didn't see what he had done to her. To her face. Never was a pretty girl to begin with, but the way he busted her up—" His father sighed, took another sip of lemonade. Red flowed into the glass like swathes of dye. "Not even her own mother would have recognized her."
"You're wrong. I was there. I was the one who found you. Denise never called the cops. She didn't do anything but sit there in the corner pissing herself and crying. I would have killed her myself if I hadn't seen you on the kitchen floor, your head—" He wiped his eyes and looked at the line of trees dividing the sky from the woods. The breeze blew the dandelions bald, little tufts of white on the grass. "I sat in your blood, and held the back of your head together. It didn't matter that you were dead. You were still bleeding. I thought I could stop it. I thought about mom. Who would kiss her like you, love her like you? Who would help Leslie with math? Who would walk her down the isle when she got married? What would happen to us? Our entire world ended because you had to be a hero. And they never caught Chuck. The bad guy got away, Dad."
"But she was screaming. How could I not go? What kind of man would that make me? She would be dead if I hadn't intervened. You understand why. It was the right thing to do."
"She should be dead. Better her than you. Sometimes you have to be selfish, choose what you love over duty or what's right."
"You don't mean that."
"I do. And I don't care what you think. You're dead, remember?"
"And you don't mean that either. You're a bad liar, Scott. You've come so far, endured so much. You honor us, your mother and I. We're proud of you."
"Shut up." He put his head in his hands. His father put his arm around him, pulled him close. He smelled blood, tasted the salt of his tears, his lips trembling. "Don't talk anymore. Just be with me."
They could've sat that way for two minutes, or two weeks. Dreams ignored time, and anything resembling sense, or coherency. He sat with his father, that heavy arm around him, warm across his shoulders, the low tune his father hummed, the creaking of the swing. The comfort he had been denied for fourteen years restored for a few stolen moments. It was enough.
"Look at the stars."
He looked up, his eyes slow to move, his head even slower. The rest of the constellations had leaped away sometime during the sun's escape. Strange creatures wandered into the empty spaces, uncertain with their new surroundings. For a moment they hung there, a flying stag, a beetle, a four-headed snake, then they began to drop from the sky. They fell in torrents, streaks of pink flaring orange for a brief second before the ozone ate them in a flash of light.
"What do you do with a falling star?"
"Catch it in a jar, keep it 'till morning so it can say hello to the sun." He said this as if reciting a nursery rhyme, some little poem he had known all his life. No. Not his life. Not his words. The gentle grip on his shoulder tightened, fingers and hand no longer his father's. The wind turned cold, the creak of the swing turned menacing. He glared at the impostor. "So how long has it been you? Was my father here at all?"
"Your memory of him, for a time," said Saddler. The arm around him stayed, and he wondered if his wings would work in this place. Might be a good time to find out. Saddler chuckled beside him, rattling his already tense muscles. "You don't have control of this dream, little one. I guide you now. Remember your library, I want you to see it."
"Why?" He didn't ask how Saddler knew about the library, but it disturbed him. It was his library, even if did have that creepy voice, shadow people, and disembodied hands.
"You don't have the mental discipline to keep me out. And you never will, especially not after the bond."
He bolted from the swing. Saddler remained, his face neutral, robes sweeping dry leaves into the porch cracks. No aura. No way to predict Saddler's actions except by his expression and posture. On the bright side, Saddler looked like Saddler again, choir robes and all. "We are not bonding," he said. "Right now I'm feeding on you, and we're...doing other things I'd rather not think about. This weird trippy dream is memory Show and Tell. What happened before won't happen again. Ever. Doesn't matter how much you sweet talk or coo in my ear. And by the way, stay out of my library. It's mine. I decide who gets to visit."
Saddler nodded, the gesture eerily similar to his father. "The bond is happening. Right now. Our memories laid bare, or rather, yours are laid bare. I've had practice." He quirked his lips and shrugged in apology. "I had thought you shallow, a fool boy with no regard for anything other than glory. Typical American idiot. I was wrong. I've seen your memories. You...humble me."
"What do you know? He stared at Saddler, his ghost eyes. "You're a parasite. A thing. A goofup of some bored god with no sense of humor. Even if you had the capacity to love, you don't deserve it."
"Because I hurt you—"
"You hurt everyone! Do I need to conjure a big stone wall so you can see every name? I'll even include their families, lovers. Anyone attached to those you've murdered. Maybe then you'd understand. Maybe then the light will pop on inside your wee little brain, and remind you that life isn't something you can snuff out on a whim. People are important. Families are important."
"I had two daughters before the plague," Saddler said. "Secile was four, Mera was seven. I met Rathel, my wife, in a small river town. She was Indigo. Mixing houses was frowned upon even after the war, but I didn't care." Saddler looked at the stars and rocked on the swing. He looked more human than he ever had before, a lonely old man, the frost melting in his eyes. "They were killed by an insane priestess and her disciple, a misguided boy who worshiped her, who thought she was the voice of God. Creator. Maker. Great One. So many names for a deity of hatred." He sighed, ran his thumb over the links of the arm chain. "You say I don't know how to love, I don't know how precious life is. Then prove it. Open that book in your library, the one on the top shelf. The one he won't let you touch."
"I don't know who you're talking about." Against his will, he found himself climbing that ladder again, amazed he could visualize it with such clarity. His yard faded with every beat of his heart, the whispers pushing against him with tiny hands. On that shelf, the ancient stone relic loomed in the shadows, undisturbed. The shadows shifted, a glimpse of pale skin. A lurking shape growled a warning. The general was displeased.
"He's the original. The very first Indigo." A shade of himself, Saddler smiled at the bottom of the ladder, that cold glint in his eye returning. "After the host's death, his soul becomes dominant again. What remains of their memories are his to command. Telgren was a mask he wore. Every voice you have heard, every memory you have experienced are what he chose to show you. He had fooled even me. All this time, I thought I had been dealing with the ghost of my former lover, but after reviewing your memories, I know with certainty who I'm dealing with. I'm almost honored. Something about you must of piqued his interest."
The Indigo recoiled at Saddler's words, but didn't budge from his post. The dark hid his face, but his jawline was defined, his cheeks narrow. His eyes glinted like a feral animal. Only a trace of aura, a purple shimmer outlined his crouching body. If he attempted to touch that book, the Indigo would pounce, maybe take him over. Then it was the return of the pod persona he had fought so hard to get rid of. He couldn't risk that. Not again.
"Ah, he's all fur and no teeth. He can't hurt you, he needs you. You are the host."
"I don't think he cares who I am. Why is he snarling over this overinflated encyclopedia?"
"To keep his crimes secret. To keep his shame hidden. What he began long ago, and her. He cannot bear it."
He reached for the book, grasping the sides. His fingers couldn't even fit around it. The voice soughed in his ear, a general no longer, but a pleading friend. I keep these memories to protect you. My sin is my burden, not yours. The Indigo's hands on his, cool, but not icy. The voice so remorseful, so insistent. That made sense. Why should he go poking his nose where it didn't belong?
Saddler's voice in his other ear, a devil perched on his shoulder, whispering. "But you have inherited his legacy, his failings. If I am to punish you for his sins, you should know his transgressions."
His hands tightened on the book, and the Indigo's hands tightened on his. "You'll punish me for something I didn't do?"
"You are both innocent and guilty. But even if the First had not betrayed us, you have killed many of my kind. Yes. I will punish you."
See? See how twisted his justice is? Heathen. Vile abomination. They are a blight we will snuff out no matter how many hosts they take. They cannot escape our Creator's wrath, His judgment!
He had enough of this creature yanking his emotions around like chains attached to disobedient dogs. Enough games, enough of the lies. "Let go," he said. The owner of the hands regarded him with surprise, then resentment. The Indigo's aura moiled like vapor, a poisonous-looking hue that illuminated his shadow shape for a moment. A light-colored robe swathed his frame, ceremonial by the looks of it, but tattered and frayed. Something that looked like dried blood stained the sleeves.
As if sensing his scrutiny, the Indigo's aura drew back, and his body returned to the vague humanoid lump. Only his eyes stayed visible, eyes of a cornered predator, fierce and unyielding. Their staring contest lasted so long he was glad he didn't have to blink in dreams. Saddler laughed softly in the darkness below. A rasp of air between teeth, and the Indigo gave a bowing nod, exaggerated and mocking, before he lifted his hands. Fool. You will regret knowing, but go, read, see if the past frees you from his tyranny.
The book's weight almost toppled him to the floor, but he clutched the massive thing to his chest, and willed his mind back to his front yard. All this yo-yoing was making him dizzy. Unlike the other books that had disappeared after he read them, or had shelved themselves back in place, the stone one stayed in his hands. Solid. Tangible.
Back on the swing as if he had never left, Saddler sipped the rest of his father's lemonade. Remembering that trail of red, Leon stiffened, watching the liquid in the glass. Yellow again, no trace of red. Saddler took his time, his neck arching as he downed the last of the contents. He set the glass on the table, a pleased grin breaking the mask of age, a flush rising in his cheeks. He didn't know how the bastard could be so cheery after threatening to "punish" him, after gutting Ashley, after infecting him with this schizophrenic parasite. Forget Sybil. All these Indigo personalities inside him could run a small country.
He dropped the book on the grass, the loud thud shutting up the imaginary crickets. "Smirk all you want. I'm only reading this damn thing to get rid of the jerk pitching tents in my brain, and to get rid of you, preferably in the most messiest way I can."
"Then what are you waiting for?" Saddler said. He folded his hands in his lap, and leaned forward like a patron expecting some wondrous presentation. "Open it."
AN: Anyone who has visited my FFnet page knows I want crits. On FFnet, I have one girl who's wonderful at giving crits. Her input is valuable. I may not agree with all that she says, but I do follow many of her suggestions because it's how I IMPROVE. And, for those who care to look, she's not always cooing advice at me. Sometimes she's very blunt.
So why am I not throwing a fit? Why am I not acting like a "diva" with her?
Hmm, maybe because this girl knows how to give a PROPER CRIT. Certain select morons here think serving me a dish of random mistakes, no improvement advice, and then topping off their review with an attitude qualifies as a "real crit". LOLZ. No. Sorry. Try again. I have no issues with a bitter tone as long as you KNOW what you're fucking talking about. That girl on FFnet knows what she's fucking talking about. She's majoring in English. But more importantly, she gives ways to IMPROVE, is SPECIFIC with what doesn't work, what does, where the mistake occurred, and how to fix it. That is how you critique.
From now on, I will delete anyone more interested in being a cock than providing a real crit. If you want to be an asshole, fine, be an asshole - but you better tell me where, when, and how to correct the errors cited. If you don't, you're gone. I can't make it any simpler than that.
Leon's past, his father's bad luck, is of course made up by me. The only canon elements are the fact his parents were involved in some sort of crime, which in turn, made Leon want a career in law enforcement. This referenced by Project Umbrella. No word on what happened to his mother yet, but I'll probably reveal that in the next story.
And for some reason, I had Saddler's eyes yellow throughout this entire story, but Skarto pointed out they are actually white. Weird. I think I confused his big mouth eye with his normal eyes. I'll eventually edit every reference to yellow eyes, and from here on, they will be referred by their correct color.
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Rare Side Effects May Include the Following: