Chapter Text
Leon finds himself staring at the harbour-blue walls of the office whilst his superior takes his sweet time downing the rest of his mug of coffee. The DSO's building isn't the flashiest, the decor and carpet a decade or so out of date and few sterile white rooms to be found. At least this room is fairly large for an office, and has a big, polished antique desk. It still looks like it'd belong to an accountant or spokesman rather than the boss of one of the more important anti-BOW divisions. As said boss brings his mug down, there's a slight unsteadiness to the movement. Leon guesses he's four cups deep. Five, and he wouldn't be able to hide the shakes.
Eventually, his superior speaks, "This ended up on my desk this morning." His baritone voice is deprived of emotion, as usual. From a drawer, he produces a paper printout. The image is black-and-white, likely taken at night, and quite grainy. It's of a figure opening the door to a store front. They're wearing a beanie and hoodie, about as much as one could cover without looking conspicuous, but as they've faced the camera the effort hasn't done them much good. Leon picks up the sheet to get a closer look. Their face has some weird-looking shadows cast across it, giving the appearance of mouth scars more prominent than the Joker's. And their eyes... completely blacked out by shadow, aside from two stray highlights. That's the rational answer, at least, but something feels off about them that Leon just can't put his finger on.
Still, "It's probably just a trick of the light."
"I would agree, had I not seen the photo album of security footage that accompanies this. It all comes from Utah." Start booking your flight now.
"Can I have a physical description?"
"Sure. There's reports of a man with purple skin and glowing white eyes roaming Hurricane. Most sightings are at night." Just the one guy? "Shouldn't be too hard. Find the source, dispose of any bioweapons you find, come back and write us a report."
After all this time, Leon still can't tell if his superior is trying to manipulate him or he's genuinely optimistic whenever a roach crawls out of the woodwork. Every time, he's told the mission will be simple, but breaking into the nest usually reveals something far beyond the scope of a one-man team. And of course, he has to deal with the consequences without backup. But he's the favourite agent, STRATCOM's little boy wonder, and refusing means being out of a job and put on a watch list without any of the perks. So, of course, he thanks his superior and heads down to the purpose-built basement armoury to pack for the trip.
¤=■#—°~☆
Leon's journey to the Midwest stops at one of Hurricane's tired, old gas stations. He grabs himself some junk food as a treat and a can of soft drink to hopefully keep himself up until he pulls up to the motel waiting for him. While Cedar City might have accepted his private flight over, Leon's found that good rarely comes of him drawing attention unnecessarily in his line of work. So, he landed outside the state on a small runway, rented a car for a week, and spent the rest of the day driving.
It's something his younger self could have screamed at him for; wasting valuable time whilst the unknown plots in the shadows. But, patience is a virtue. This isn't an active emergency. If he stays quiet and uses his head, he might be able to neutralise the threat before the next terrible thing is set loose on a city of innocent people. And wouldn't that be something to celebrate, prevention instead of glorified damage control and pyres for hundreds of corpses?
"Cash or card, sir?" The gas station cashier drones, breaking Leon out of his musings. They sound young, a high school graduate at most, but the look on their face seems to hold about half a century of stress and pain behind it. It's the mundane, benign impossibilities Leon's found most struck by, like a weird rest stop for his brain amongst carnage and nightmares. Like the clearest, cleanest lake just ten miles from a bloodsoaked battleground Leon's participated in, or an unharmed family amongst a wreckage of buildings.
Leon takes the card out of his wallet, the one he uses on business trips, subsidised by the taxpayer. He figures now's about as good a time as any to collect some firsthand accounts. "I heard there's a guy with a... skin condition stalking around here?"
The attendant tilts their head, taking an unusually long time to process the question. "Oh, you mean Mike."
"Mike?" Leon pries further.
"Yeah," They confirm unnecessarily. They cross their arms, looking at the shelves next to them, full of brightly coloured candy wrappers. "I see him, now and again. I don't know what his story is, but he's been here as long as I can remember." Distance creeps into their otherwise tired, monotone voice as they recount.
"And how long's that?"
"Fourteen years."
Well. If this kid's to be believed, that predates Raccoon City. Leon stamps down the rising fear that he's in way over his head yet again, he doesn't know anything yet. 'Mike' might just be a regular guy with an odd face, or have a penchant for practical effects. Shouldn't be too hard. It'll be an open-and-shut case, and he'll get to bring the car back early before relaxing on the private jet going back home.
The teen turns his way to look him directly in his eyes, an unexpected sternness in their features, "Don't bother him, he won't bother you."
Leon hums inquisitively, slightly too taken aback to use his words.
The teen exhales through their nose. "You shouldn't go punishin' someone who's done nothing wrong, is all. He has no business with anybody." Leon senses the end of the information they're willing to give, and the end of the conversation. He peacefully takes his spoils. "Have a good night, sir."
"You too, kid."
¤=■#—°~☆
After thinking it over some more in his motel room, Leon comes to the conclusion that Mike may not be a bioweapon at all. Eyewitnesses report of an unsociable loner of few words. Those are symptoms of infection for many bioweapon pathogens, sure, but most days Leon's not any different. The only thing that sets them apart right now is simply appearance. Leon feels a premature pang of sympathy for the guy. If this really is all a misunderstanding, people have been collecting information on Mike for years and sending it to the government just because of his unusual appearance.
If Mike is a BOW, he's the oldest surviving one Leon knows, as of the death of Lord Saddler and his following. He would likely be host to a strain no-one's heard of before. He's not hostile, yet, and he appears to be the only active one of his kind. And, though Leon has no concrete evidence, he believes Mike to have most, if not all, of his mental faculties. Outside of the glowing eyes and unnatural skin tone, his appearance differs in almost every sighting. So if he's changing his appearance himself, he must be aware of his physical state. Generally, that's the first thing to go for the infected. He's seen the way people forget to take care of themselves as the pathogens take over. The biggest clean freak in the garrison forgetting to shower, wash his hands, or even drink water. Leon distracts himself from the thought by remembering the indescribable stench radiating off Ramon. He was sniffing his own gore-encrusted shirt mid-battle just to escape to a different odor.
Sure, the dumber BOWs are far easier to lure, distract, and outwit, but they're always hostile. That gas station employee was right—if he stays out of Mike's way, he can rest assured he won't be hunted down, just like any other human Mike coexists with. When he does inevitably get the man's attention, though... eh, problem for future Leon to solve.
When marking out the sightings on a map of the city, Leon finds an area of interest. A line of abandoned buildings that eventually lead to... something on a hill. An unmarked building, probably a residence. The place seems important, separate from the suburbs, despite only being a short drive from them. Leon knows where he's visiting tomorrow. And if it is abandoned, he'll investigate. Finally having a plan seems to quell Leon's over-active mind, and he barely turns out the light before sleep unyieldingly pulls him under. Thank God.
¤=■#—°~☆
It's nearly nine when Leon regains consciousness. He might have overslept, but hey! Four hours of shut-eye is pretty decent. He notifies STRATCOM that he's awake, and immediately his radio goes off. "Good morning, Condor. Raring to go?" It's Hunnigan's voice, as usual. They've grown close over the many missions they've done together, causing her previously stalwart, professional demeanour to morph into clear excitement and a seemingly endless undercurrent of energy. She, like Leon, is delighted at the chance to work together again.
That delight, as always, comes with a gnawing worry. Leon could almost call them good friends. His job is, to put it mildly... unpredictable. If she hears him being seriously hurt on the radio or worse, he dies during a mission, that could really effect her. Not that he doesn't also fear how his other coworkers and friends would react to his presumably violent and gruesome death, it's simply that Hunnigan is the one he talks to the most by nature of their work, so he is reminded of her more often.
"Yeah, and I know just where to start. I'm heading up to this building in the northwest of Hurricane. Maps tell me it's surrounded by forest and sits on a hill... oh, and there's a lake sort of nearby? It's a few minutes' drive from the suburbs."
"Al..right...," Hunnigan intones distractedly, and Leon can faintly hear her typing and clicking away. "I see what you're talking about. I'll find out what I can about its history and get back to you," she adds after several seconds.
"Thanks. I'll be heading up now."
"Good luck."
"Condor out."
¤=■#—°~☆
It's a house. An old, unkempt thing with broken windows and rotting beams of wood. The grass grows wildly, and the wilderness creeps towards it. "I love abandoned places, almost as much as I love getting axed in the back," Leon quips to himself. In the absence of a comrade, the shit joke lightens the burden of braving the unknown. He pats down his jacket, reassuring himself of his weapons, before stepping towards the door. He finds gratitude in the fact there's no raised porch to give out from under him, trapping his foot, freedom, and dignity all in one. It's happened more than once...
The door is open, squeaking in the slight breeze. There are heavy brass locks on the outside. Leon holds his breath, straining his ears to listen for any other disturbances, finding none. The floorboards creak as he steps inside, louder than a gunshot in the dark quiet. Leon chews the inside of his mouth instead of flinching, nervousness bunching in his chest. It's... odd... to feel his anxiety this close to the surface. Nothing's even happened yet.
Then he remembers something a fellow agent told him a few years ago. He opened up slightly about the antsy way some missions made him feel. He wasn't quite sure why, he felt a little stupid blurting it out honestly, but the other guy had a thoughtful look on his face. "My mom said that feelings can linger in places. If they're strong enough, they'll push their way into your head and make you experience them. She says, 'If a place makes you panic the moment you step in, run away as fast as you can.' " They both went into a fit of laughter over that. BOW nests are always pits of misery. Leon never saw that agent again. He wonders if he's still alive, but he's smart enough not to check.
Most of the curtains are drawn, the shadows obscuring parts of the room even after his eyes adjust. Leon figures he doesn't want to be taken by surprise today, so he opens one set. He's treated to garish, orange wallpaper and minimal furnishings. A scratched-up table here, a couch there. A crumpled tripping hazard of a rug in the middle. The walls themselves are damaged, like someone tried to punch their way through instead of using the door. Well... the dents are kind of... everywhere. Did someone have a psychotic break in here? He glances at the door. It could be locked on the outside...
It can't be a bioweapon. They would have broken through. Whoever this was, they were human, and not strong enough to leave. Or perhaps they were inhibited in some way. Restraints, or drugs? Leon dares to brave it, empty his mind and pull focus away from his senses. Maybe the house can tell him. There is nothing for a couple seconds, only Leon's calm mind and the faint tingling of anxiety that isn't his own. Then, as they're met with no resistance, foreign emotions crash into him like a hurricane.
The first thing Leon's able to process is the fear. He goes completely rigid, pulse hammering throughout his whole body. His arm twitches, finding the urge to protect his vital organs from something. Some overbearing presence that fills his stomach with lead. He feels small. Vulnerable. Useless. Leon hears a roar faintly over the already deafening sound of blood rushing. Something metal clanks. Claws. Teeth. Blood. Bright, burning dots of light dance in his vision, making him even dizzier. Leon hears small lungs scream, the voice hoarse and wrecked. And under all of it, is something bright, something furious. Smaller than a candle flame, but white-hot.
Leon shakes his head, crowding his head with his own thoughts. It isn't real. He has a knife and a handgun in his coat pockets. He's about as safe as he'll ever be. Still, his heart is pounding and his whole body is shaking. Now he knows, more than he ever wished to learn. A boy, a child, stuck in a haze of fear and dread for who knows how long. The metal claws, the gnashing teeth, Leon's not sure if it was real, but the boy saw it all. And he was locked in here. He feels an echo of the kid's matchstick-flame rage, but this time, it's all his own. He's left with the gut instinct to burn this whole place to the ground and be done with it.
The inherited insanity-inducing fear fades from his body, back into an uneasy tingle in the back of his mind and a tightness in his chest. He should think with his head, not his heart. Obviously, the boy isn't here anymore. The door is unlocked. Either he was found, or he escaped before then. And though he probably came back to smash the shit out of the place and steal the furniture, it's all in the past now. Releasing a slightly shaky exhale, Leon resumes investigating. He heads to the room on the left.
Two glowing white dots amongst pitch darkness are what he sees when he peeks inside. They stare right at him. Fuck. What was that about staying out of Mike's way? They stare each other down for a few seconds. Human, and human's unnatural predator. For half a second, the lights blink out, and Leon has just enough time to wonder if his neck's about to be snapped before they reinstate themselves in exactly the same spot as before. The thing in the dark releases a haggard sigh. Fuck this. In one practiced motion, Leon reaches into his coat pocket and produces his handgun.
The glowing dots shift, the BOW swaying slightly. "Of course... Put the gun away, please. I won't bite you." The voice is tired, strained, and strangely accented. Mike sounds like it's just his luck that an agent would come here and point a gun to his head. Wait, how can he even see it? Maybe the glowing eyes have night vision?
"Step into the light," Leon orders. Usually, even the most sapient bioweapons can't be reasoned with, but Mike's awareness in his words is a pleasant surprise. Leon's not ruling out the idea Mike will try to bite his head off or stab him with a big wood splinter, but he'll give the BOW a chance. The guy doesn't sound too eager for a violent confrontation, and it'll suit Leon just fine not to be down a few bullets.
"Seems like you can see me just fine," Mike replies wryly. Ah, that's a Recieved Pronunciation accent. Leon didn't realise before, the exhaustion in his voice causing the bioweapon to speak uncarefully. Leon clicks the safety off. The dots shift down slightly as Mike presumably bows his head in chagrin. "Alright, alright." Leon hears the sound of fabric shift as Mike slowly steps towards him. Leon steps back. Together, they awkwardly totter back into the brighter entrance room. Leon notices Mike's uneven gait; his steps are stifled and silent, but for all his careful movement, he cannot disguise his limp.
The light reveals Mike in all his terrifying glory. Though slouched and about half a foot shorter than Leon, his appearance is intimidating enough. Dark voids with an impossible, glowing white dot in each hole make up his eyes. His face is so pale it looks bloodless in some parts, and a dark, heavily bruised purple in others, especially under his eyes and the end of his nose. His cheeks are terribly scarred; it looks like his jaws were once pulled so far apart that it ripped them right open. Leon has the strange urge to cry looking at him. There's things that don't match with the utterly inhuman visage, though. His shoulder-length brown hair, for one. And he's wearing a denim jacket over a magenta turtleneck. Leon was rather preoccupied before, but now that he's able to keep track of the guy, he smells a strong, lavender scent radiating from Mike. Probably some perfume or essence.
As Mike's being cooperative, Leon rewards him by lowering his gun and flicking the safety back on. He doesn't put it away yet, though. "You're Mike?"
"Yep. Mike, Michael. Whichever you prefer." Where Leon is keen to stare at Michael, the purple man prefers to look at literally anything else. He sounds faintly annoyed, his words not dragging out like before. Leon will allow him that, he'd feel the same in the other guy's place.
"Are there any others of you?"
Michael scratches his arm. "I have... siblings. But they're not like me." He says carefully, thoughtfully. "Are we done here, or can I sit down?" Leon nods at the couch. Michael huffs, falling back onto it. With no other chairs present, the human decides to just lean against the table. Michael slumps fully onto the backrest, tilting his head up to look at Leon.
"I'm not contagious," Mike supplies, before Leon can barrage him with more questions.
That makes his brain short-circut. "What?" Had the BOW pathogen been removed from his system? No, that always kills the host this far in. "You're sure?"
Michael's eyes narrow in annoyance. "Yes. No pathogen was involved in... in my... creation."
"Were you, like... engineered? Were you a test tube baby?"
Michael snorts, shaking his head, "I was born, like anyone else. Died..." he trails off.
Leon puts his gun away, taking out a notebook and pen instead. "You're not a bioweapon, then."
"Technically, no," Mike agrees. "I'm in a... condition. State of being. It's irreversible," the last word comes out bitterly.
Leon doesn't quite follow, and he knows Michael's being vague on purpose. "Someone made you this way?" Michael thinks for a long time, staring at the wall.
"The scientist responsible for my creation... he wasn't there when it happened to me. But it's his fault. He's done many terrible things. He must die, or he will continue to hurt people. Kill... innocents..." Michael is pained, sorrowful. He laughs humourlessly, musing to himself. "I could never overpower him, especially not now. But I don't have to. I won't die."
"You can't be killed?"
"Eventually, I always get back up. Fire is the only way. But don't worry, Blondie. Once I get rid of my problem, I'll take care of myself. I'll be out of everyone's hair soon." Mike's tone is unreadable.
Well, that's a hell of a confession. Might as well pay it forward, give Michael the chance to trust him. "I'm Agent Kennedy. I was sent here on suspicion of bioweapon creation and actvity. If your scientist poses a threat to civilians, I am authorised to use any means necessary to stop him. I help you, you help me?"
It seems to do the opposite. "I knew you were a bastard cop. Well, thanks for not shooting me, I guess." Michael looks away, and Leon bristles. "By the way. I heard you freaking out while I was in the kitchen. You saw something, didn't you?"
The memory is slipping through his fingers fast, like a dream. "Metal... screams... I can't make sense of it, fully."
Michael smirks to himself, and shrugs. "Follow me."
They turn right, down a long corridor. The darkness swallows them both, Leon straining his eyes just to see a yard in front of him. Michael stops, and it's only due to Leon being on high alert that he doesn't bump into him. Michael's glowing pupils become visible again as he turns his head to face the agent. "Oh. I forgot, you can't see. One moment." Leon hears Mike move around him, though keeping as much distance as he can.
"I should've brought my flashlight." He'd left it in the car.
"Good idea for next time, Blondie." Mike opens the curtains over the small hallway window, blinding both of them for a second. But afterward, Leon sees it.
Them. Four metal robots, lying on the floor in a heap. Dread rolls back into his mind. Their teeth... their claws... the memories the house gave him fall back into sharp focus. Leon tries to calm himself. He reaches forward, touching the hand of the one with red eyes. His vision changes, warps. He is tall. Terrifying. Silent. He approaches a white door. It opens. It's a boy, a fourteen-year-old boy. His hair is chestnut brown, and his sterling grey-blue eyes are shining with unshed tears. The boy turns on the flashlight, and Leon pounces, clamping a large, metal hand on the poor boy's shoulders. His roar meshes with the boy's shriek of terror, tears spilling from the kid's eyes. The fear is potent. But the boy can't take it anymore. His eyes roll back, and he faints, dropping to the carpeted floor.
Blissfully, Leon is sent back to the present moment. He's panting heavily. He feels like throwing up. He remembers he's not alone, and he whips his head around to see Michael, who's been studying him intently. The undead is the first to speak, a strange smile on his heavily scarred lips, "To be alive, yet get this close to the Flipside... You and death must be good mates. Scratch that, you could've fucked the Grim Reaper, you've been so close."
To shuffling off this mortal coil? Many times. "What happened to the boy?"
Michael becomes stone-faced. "He was let out. Used. Used some more. And when he died, no-one could hear his screams." He kicks the pile of terrifying, metal giants.
"You-?" Leon closes his mouth. Fuck. He stands, deciding he's had enough investigation for today. He turns to Michael. He hadn't seen another vehicle on the way here. "Want a ride home?"
Shock overtakes the glowy-eyed man. "That would be lovely, thank you." The response sounds automatic. Mike avoids eye contact afterward.
¤=■#—°~☆
After dropping Michael off, Leon goes over his notes.
BOW name - Michael
Type - glow-eyes (good enough)
Says he's reanimated
By scientist who worked on him
Fear experiments?
Flipside? The afterlife?
Mike claims he was the subject of both
Yeah, it looks like crazed chicken scratch. Leon wouldn't hope that Michael is a totally reliable source of information, but he saw some things he couldn't explain, things that Mike seems extremely knowledgeable about. Though vague, his story has no glaring inconsistency. And he's clearly stated his intentions.
Vulnerable to fire?
Planning murder-suicide.
Leon twirls his pencil around his fingers. Should he trust Michael? No, obviously. The real question: does he trust Michael? He remembers how the glow-eyes fell into the chair, neck exposed. His tired way of speaking. He limps, he slouches. For a zombie, Michael seemed remarkably weak, frail. His face was gaunt. Starved-looking. Looks can be deceiving, but Mike made it quite clear he didn't appreciate Leon's presence. He doesn't doubt the undead man would have tried to get out of the situation the moment Leon put his gun away, that is... if Michael thought he could get away or overpower the agent. Clearly, he didn't. While Leon was away in a memory of horror, seeing through the eyes of a monster, he was at Michael's mercy. The guy barely moved in his direction...
Leon's radio beeps out. He welcomes the distraction. He felt like he was thinking in circles... Hunnigan's chipper voice greets him, "Hey, Condor. Sorry for the wait. I dug up as much on that house as I could."
Leon smiles. "Don't be. You're just in time."
"The house's current owner is a man called William Afton. Problem is, there's no trace of him on record for over a decade. He's closely tied with a defunct pizzeria chain that used robotic animal mascots for entertainment. Those abandoned buildings you pointed out were all once restaurants. At one point, he was CEO of its sister company. It seems he kept his face and voice out of the public eye, though. There's newsletters and written interviews, but no recordings I could track down."
"Sounds like he's got something to hide," Leon interrupts. "Does he have family?"
"Yeah. This is the most suspicious part, actually. He was married and had three children. All but the eldest son have been missing for decades."
"Do you have their names?"
"The Missus never comes up in any documentation, and the middle child, a son, has his name expunged on every record I could find for some reason. But the eldest son is Michael Afton, and the daughter Elizabeth Afton."
Leon nearly chokes. It could be coincidence, but neither he nor Mike seem lucky enough for that. "I've met Michael. He's the suspected BOW."
"Oh! Is he... taken care of?"
Leon shakes his head, "No. He... he remained nonviolent, even after confrontation. He said he's looking for the scientist who created him, and I have a feeling I know who it is now."
Hunnigan hums. "Is he subservient-"
"No," Leon cuts her off. It almost makes him chuckle, the very thought. Michael is in such contempt of the man, his... his own father, that he's going to drag him down with him. "Michael remains in full control of his mental faculties. He can be negotiated, reasoned with. He responded to threats placatingly. And he wants to kill the person who turned him into this."
"That's... miraculous. What will you do about him, then?"
"I... he's kept secrets from me, but I think we could work together." There's Leon's optimism speaking, his willingness to help. He's playing a fool's game, trusting... whatever it is Mike really is. He can't seem to help himself. Let it be his mistake.
"I trust your judgement," Hunnigan affirms sincerely.
"Thank you." Suddenly, Leon gets a flash of inspiration. "You said Afton had no public appearances?"
"Yes?"
"Well... check the employee records across both companies. Videos, promotional materials, things like that. Look for a man who resembles Michael Afton, has a deep voice with an RP accent."
"You think he was hiding as one of the employees!?" Hunnigan's voice is loud with surprise.
"How can you run a business if you never show up?"
"With a mole. But what better mole than yourself... alright. I'll be on the lookout. Going through all that's going to take some time, though. As for the house itself... there was a fire in the area in '79. Then it was demolished and reconstructed a couple times. Some faraway photos and reports on the site with construction workers and contractors in the 80's, but there's no permit for any of it. I think there might be a hidden building nearby. Or a sub-basement."
"Thanks, Hunnigan. I've learned a lot today. I'll take some time to process it all."
"Would you like me to forward you the report about Mike? You seem to have an interest in him," she jokes. She's right, it's good to be prepared before a possible allyship.
"Yeah, I should take him on a date. Condor Out."
He doesn't really need to process most of it. Shady fucks with no attachments and way too much money, abandoned buildings, secret lairs, all of that he's well used to. But everything he experienced in that house, everything he's learned about Mike... is practically beyond his understanding. The reanimated man referred to William as a 'scientist'. The torture, the manipulation, whatever the hell happened to Michael to make him look like that, was it all an experiment? All to be detachedly observed, while his own son screamed bloody murder? What happened to the rest of the family? The thought makes him sick. He's seen people become and be ripped apart by mindless, flesh-eating monsters, but he couldn't have imagined what Mike Afton went through in his worst nightmares. Leon finds he can better understand the glow-eyes' strange way of speaking, and his lack of regard for his personal safety. The guy's surprisingly well put together, considering the circumstances.
Leon takes his knife out, fidgeting with it but not quite focused enough to risk doing tricks. One thing's for sure, he can't wait to help Michael kill that sick bastard.