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The heights of darkness were stretching tall above each bowing ceiling tile, piled with rusted, water-damaged wood. Whilst the world basked in that frivolous, gaze bending absence, there haunted a blinding light, a strike of a phosphorus match against a gritted surface. The fluorescent broke down the colour cones, hidden deep within a pale blue. A whirring, then a near-omitted hum bumping around the anchored hourglass of Leon’s ears. This room, lacking in sterility and hospitality, was a transition point. Another stingy story added to his catalogue, it was long bursting at the seams with capitalised idiocy he’d known of and experienced throughout his long lasting career. The lamp puckered again, a top left bulb flickering at a low amplitude. He was taught to know when to keep his head down and counting, especially when ropes bound him in an unmoving commission.
Then, emitted footsteps, a row of slow rumble grazing mouldy parquets, the agent sharpened his muscles taut. A dealing defence.
He had enough time to memorise the rivet step of most foes he encountered: some rippled with high heels, moving droplets of water and wine on a surface of tempered glass with their grace and confidence; some knocked down buildings and sent quakes in his direction. The ones belonging to Victor Gideon were unsure, cautious but reeking of inexperienced tragicality. This sloppy strut, there was no reason to hold down for focus when it was so recognisable. Picking up and dropping one last time, the predicament sung in serene once more. Leon Kennedy lifted his heavy head, triggering the brain to work closed his pupils and allowing light to bounce off, acclimatising his eyes to contrasting sources of brightness. The man standing before him finally came into target, a sleasied posture, a stature of a great man once were, revived and stitched back together with nimble thread and barely tacky tape. Yet despite it all, the agent learned long before to not underestimate even the least impressive of threats, he did take him down with ease after all, there had to be a variable to take into condition of his likely weakness, then a time to boast came on.
“Why are you here?” The giant croaked, dully, a silhouette of cooped coats restricting the flash that was resting right behind. His tone wasn’t rageful, it wasn’t even irritated, at most of what it was… it was a genuine inquiry, a trial at decoding information that he very much lacked. A piteous attempt at gathering intel, even more so considering playing good wasn’t in his daft favour. “Is it for me? No… it’s different…” Victor’s stale chuckle hushed almost as abruptly as it cleft from his thin mouth. The predatory train of cycle began anew, a heavy foot landing to his side, a rattle of metal sounded out with it. The man felt a dry, crackled paw roaming his sideburns, combing back the hair. The movement was deliberate and deadset on one goal: sowing confusion to blinding indifference. It lingered for a moment durable, hovering close to his turned in rushing ignorance face. The doctor parted them, his fingers snapping back to his midsection, leaving the blond unimpressed with an attempt at inconsiderable coaxing.
“I assume you are, ah, familiar with this. Considering you’re a special kind of proxy.” The nearby table hooked on his view when Gideon rummaged inside its contents, slipping out a thin scalpel, the once pristine tool was caked in a flock of dusty grey. He continued on; “We can work together, I can even begin a treatment to help with…” An inticed digit uncovered the inflamed red blotch, weaved with purging, webbed flesh design and it kneaded. A jolt of panic preluded him, the unmoving ropes taking parts at stopping vital escape patterns from eventing before Victor’s technical spider spectacles. He revolted away, a brisk of pretentious, disgusted mimicry painting his bruisingly bitten lips. “Ah, I understand, then.” The enthusiasm lacing his words unhidden, proud in the open.
A pantheonic shudder besting Kennedy’s better judgement, a trapped, aired out gasp managing past the curtain of apathy when the blade passed, barely an inch of length into his bared neck, nicking the supple meat of skin. The index slipped past the incision, its sheath parting without hinder. The rasped acoustics of Leon’s voice straining when a bulging fixture, reddened by the blood of his own vessel, kept there for a prolonged tick of time. The tendon hauled beneath the intrusion, Victor’s mischief resuming a heightened sensation that traveled all abroad with a restless fever, a foreign body so proximate to taking him down, yet uncertain and promising to bring more. More of disastrous nerve inductions, more of sweet wait. Miniscule tents of air packaged them hither, each chord and note that played on their chords more awestruck than the last. Comparisons haunted the agent’s mind, of how the hand that brought him down enveloped him with ease and left the land spinning from his vision, he was a league of his own, but to fail for something as simple as astonishment of simple physical form? When monsters dawned your every dream you learned to tune out the inhumanities, but when humans, imperfect as they are, started bouldering the line between strange and correct? They were standing out, sore and spot marked with pins. Leon recollected, turned anew to leave the trance that bespoke him. The hand never left.
“You see, I mean this with all respect, but when I am beneficiated with a specimen, such as yourself, you can’t expect me to not be… fascinated.” A breathless response, a separation of derma. A sting.
There were maggots writhing under his skin, thick and fat with nutrients, but not in the true form as they were in nature. No, the maggots he felt, they were the tendrils of infection, spreading long ago and sticking to any surface their plague could reach deep within him. White with unmelaninated slough, fairer than he. The disease bruised above, extending below garments and collars when he wasn’t looking, trapped to hold heat and now it was unveiled before a foe no less.
He’s seen it before, the same layout, the same trap. The same attempt at holding him to a low, butchered standard of a real interrogation that never worked. The chair his limbs were bound to would collapse and shatter upon real impact, the ropes were good for stringing still carcasses, not someone who’d take to untwining them as nobody was looking. Yet then;
Victor pressed the fat of his cheek against the man’s, hunching over with a heavy exhale that smelled of rot and demolishment. An even filthier tongue, thinly triangular and slick, kissed the handmade entrance as well. If a more suffocating debauchery ever came his way, though doubtful, Leon wouldn’t miss this one for a flick of eyelids. It was a display so forcefully measured, but lies would’ve been told if he didn’t admit how troubling the lonesome carry of the horrific knowledge was before. To leave all he knew, the battle and death, returning to normalcy wasn’t a particularly fond ideal, this instead? This was familiar, the burden lifting off his shoulders with each lick that fired his synapses down south at rapid speeds. A traitorous reflection of a smutted, unlifted mind that fermented by itself long enough to grow vengeful sprouts. It still took him by surprise to hear a sultried whine, his own throat being its very first ascension. It elated the madman to staticity. Truly.
A coil of heat tugged at his member suddenly, as if to humiliate him even more so. The stimulation above, cold and restless, took to varying degrees how dazzlingly and oddly it partook within his traffic formatted thought process. Respite wasn’t on the horizon, not when a mountain of spit ridden eagerness rampaged him. Fruits of evil always tasted divine, no matter how low they hung. This wasn’t any different, not when a cameral dissonance crusted his edict.
“Get to it.” Was Leon Kennedy’s only prompt, a postulat to fraying patience. The dip of his trousers standing to alert when Gideon’s gaze returned to it. It wasn’t a command, if anything it was a plea with how tiny the threat of the agent’s rage coveted upon the scientist. It must have been sensitive, the raptured area, in tandem with how viscid he left the crevice, teeth clasped over it to suck, busted knuckles brightened with force when they enclosed onto Leon’s crotch. The ignited flush permeated his, disorted in a lost grimace, face. He was in red, scorching bliss when another anchor of bitterness resolved him, splaying the wings of his flapped wound so far apart and dressing his prick with a sorrowing discomfort. The hand that enclapsed it was thick, had two rings sitting on two fingers that dug so coarsely to the delicate elements of his flesh. He might’ve exploded in that frame of right.
A sluggish, debilitating grind assumed position. The snakeskin trenchcoat rustled right above. Drool curled on his own tongue, escaping in the openings of his maw, dribbling onto his coarse chin. The vigour stilled. It kept there, so omnipresent and terrible. The operative’s hips mounted unceremoniously, trying to get at where the other left off, to chase that high while it still rode a wave of raw bewilderment. It pushed around his eyes and teeth, the spout of his larynx too close for comfort as a colonising fist hurdled inward.
The furorous cadenza nearing its cliff, a train massacring his cortex with a nonending abuse of his sense, the deprivation of logic and a tsunami of macabre mauled into the otherwise unscathed psyche.
“You are a dead man walking. I can tell you that.”