Washington, DC
The tiny apartment that belonged to one Leon S. Kennedy wasn't decorated with beautiful furniture or cutting edge technology, but rather with black-and-white photographs, newspaper articles, notes, maps and any other random scraps of memorabilia related to just one entity:
Umbrella
As Leon reclined in his office chair, he studied the calendar on the wall of his bedroom with a furrow in his brow; it had been seven years years since the viral incident in Raccoon City, a quiet little mountain town rocked by the T-Virus. The pharmaceutical company Umbrella was to blame, as Raccoon City soon fell prey to the walking dead, mindless zombies that caused and spread havoc.
And although the city no longer existed, it was a night that he would never forget.
"Hmph," he issued with a slight grunt, "I wonder what Claire is up to."
He tore his eyes away from the calendar that read September 29th, 1998 and instead placed them on a faded color photograph of a beautiful woman with striking red hair and delicate features. Claire Redfield, a strong-willed woman and friend of his, and of course, a survivor of Raccoon. Had it not of been for her, he wouldn't have made it through that horrible night--she was just as instrumental to his survival as he was to her's.
Leon stood from his chair and turned his back to the desk, though his obsession followed him all over the walls as he paced; highly classified pictures of mutated victims stared back at him, as did the Birkin family, and a solitary photo of a man named Albert Wesker--the black sunglasses and smug curl of the lip did little in easing the mind of the distraught government agent.
Leon stole a glance at his watch before he closed his eyes and rubbed them; it was only noon on his day off and already his brain hurt.
He needed some fresh air.
-----
The warm, muggy atmosphere of the gym suffocated and winded those who inhabited it, but it suited Leon--it was exactly what he needed. Loud music blared all throughout the basement, which was outfitted with cutting edge equipment, a plush massage center and spa, and even a full kitchen; nothing less than fantastic digs for the White House.
His sparring partner, Ricki, was across the room getting water, but Leon continued working, striking a punching bag repeatedly with precise punches and elbows. He was shirtless and drenched in sweat, with his hair matted to his forehead and shorts clinging to his thighs, but he didn't relent--rather, he worked himself into a a frenzied pace, his hands becoming a blur.
"Hey Leon, take it easy, ya? Wouldn't want you to chip a nail."
Ricki cracked his knuckles as he approached Leon, a gold tooth gleaming as he grinned; Ricki was a government agent as well, a tough customer who thrived in the field and lived in the gym, but his reckless actions had gotten him into some hot water in the past. He dwarfed Leon in height by a handful of inches and his muscle mass and definition made it seem as if Leon were malnourished.
"How's about this Leon: first one to land a clean strike to the chest buys dinner. Deal?"
Leon turned and face Ricki, wiping the hair away from his eyes, taped hands stinging from abuse; he offered a chuckle and fixed his partner with an incredulous stare.
"If you wanted to take me out on a date, all you had to do was ask."
Ricki cocked back his head and howled at the joke, his deep Samoan baritone drowning out the music. But within moments, he cut his laughter short and lunged at his partner, his gloved right hand catching nothing but air as Leon ducked beneath him.
A left hook from Leon was met with a forearm block by Ricki, who chuckled and quickly issued a scathing criticism of Leon's 'prissy' fighting style, before he unloaded a haymaker toward his partner; the punching bag rocked back and forth as Ricki's heavy fist missed Leon by a mile.
Leon grunted as he jumped, reaching up to grab the chain that the punching bag was suspended from; finding purchase, he swung his legs forward and caught Ricki square in the chest with a dropkick.
Both men hit the floor, though Leon's catlike agility allowed him to somersault out of his fall and to his feet, his taped hand immediately extending to his partner who was sprawled out on the floor upon his back.
"Beginner's luck, Leon," Ricki touted as he took the hand offered to him and got to his feet.
A myriad of memories rushed past Leon's third eye just then, images of Raccoon, South America, and most recently, Spain coming to mind. He frowned and turned away, his obsession coming back to him just like that.
"Yeah," Leon mumbled as he gathered his things before heading for the door, "beginner's luck."
-----
"Hey. Just getting back to you, haven't heard from you in a while. Call me whenever you get this. Ok, bye."
Ashley Graham sure was persistent.
He had turned down the President's daughter months ago during his rescue of her, but every once and a while she got in contact with him; she was obviously still quite interested in doing that overtime back at her place.
He was too tired and too deep in his thoughts to give Ashley, or any other woman his attention, at least right now; instead, he battled inner demons such as Birkin, Salazar, and Saddler. He was certain luck had a lot to do with his survival, not to mention assistance from a supporting cast such as Claire Redfield, Ada Wong, Jack Krauser, and even Luis Sera.
On the other hand, though, he was confident in his own abilities to find solutions to situations others could not; he was a special government agent hand-selected by President Graham himself, after all. He shouldn't feel the need to validate himself, but guilt and self-doubt over fallen allies always found a way to creep into his psyche.
Leon strode into his bedroom and collapsed upon his bed in a pair of boxers and a faded RPD t-shirt. As he laid in bed, he realized no matter how much he distracted himself with work or with exercise, he would never escape his past. Tomorrow he would be back to work, but he had one more restless night ahead of him.
He rolled onto his side, his eyes closed, and awaited the nightmares.
The tiny apartment that belonged to one Leon S. Kennedy wasn't decorated with beautiful furniture or cutting edge technology, but rather with black-and-white photographs, newspaper articles, notes, maps and any other random scraps of memorabilia related to just one entity:
Umbrella
As Leon reclined in his office chair, he studied the calendar on the wall of his bedroom with a furrow in his brow; it had been seven years years since the viral incident in Raccoon City, a quiet little mountain town rocked by the T-Virus. The pharmaceutical company Umbrella was to blame, as Raccoon City soon fell prey to the walking dead, mindless zombies that caused and spread havoc.
And although the city no longer existed, it was a night that he would never forget.
"Hmph," he issued with a slight grunt, "I wonder what Claire is up to."
He tore his eyes away from the calendar that read September 29th, 1998 and instead placed them on a faded color photograph of a beautiful woman with striking red hair and delicate features. Claire Redfield, a strong-willed woman and friend of his, and of course, a survivor of Raccoon. Had it not of been for her, he wouldn't have made it through that horrible night--she was just as instrumental to his survival as he was to her's.
Leon stood from his chair and turned his back to the desk, though his obsession followed him all over the walls as he paced; highly classified pictures of mutated victims stared back at him, as did the Birkin family, and a solitary photo of a man named Albert Wesker--the black sunglasses and smug curl of the lip did little in easing the mind of the distraught government agent.
Leon stole a glance at his watch before he closed his eyes and rubbed them; it was only noon on his day off and already his brain hurt.
He needed some fresh air.
-----
The warm, muggy atmosphere of the gym suffocated and winded those who inhabited it, but it suited Leon--it was exactly what he needed. Loud music blared all throughout the basement, which was outfitted with cutting edge equipment, a plush massage center and spa, and even a full kitchen; nothing less than fantastic digs for the White House.
His sparring partner, Ricki, was across the room getting water, but Leon continued working, striking a punching bag repeatedly with precise punches and elbows. He was shirtless and drenched in sweat, with his hair matted to his forehead and shorts clinging to his thighs, but he didn't relent--rather, he worked himself into a a frenzied pace, his hands becoming a blur.
"Hey Leon, take it easy, ya? Wouldn't want you to chip a nail."
Ricki cracked his knuckles as he approached Leon, a gold tooth gleaming as he grinned; Ricki was a government agent as well, a tough customer who thrived in the field and lived in the gym, but his reckless actions had gotten him into some hot water in the past. He dwarfed Leon in height by a handful of inches and his muscle mass and definition made it seem as if Leon were malnourished.
"How's about this Leon: first one to land a clean strike to the chest buys dinner. Deal?"
Leon turned and face Ricki, wiping the hair away from his eyes, taped hands stinging from abuse; he offered a chuckle and fixed his partner with an incredulous stare.
"If you wanted to take me out on a date, all you had to do was ask."
Ricki cocked back his head and howled at the joke, his deep Samoan baritone drowning out the music. But within moments, he cut his laughter short and lunged at his partner, his gloved right hand catching nothing but air as Leon ducked beneath him.
A left hook from Leon was met with a forearm block by Ricki, who chuckled and quickly issued a scathing criticism of Leon's 'prissy' fighting style, before he unloaded a haymaker toward his partner; the punching bag rocked back and forth as Ricki's heavy fist missed Leon by a mile.
Leon grunted as he jumped, reaching up to grab the chain that the punching bag was suspended from; finding purchase, he swung his legs forward and caught Ricki square in the chest with a dropkick.
Both men hit the floor, though Leon's catlike agility allowed him to somersault out of his fall and to his feet, his taped hand immediately extending to his partner who was sprawled out on the floor upon his back.
"Beginner's luck, Leon," Ricki touted as he took the hand offered to him and got to his feet.
A myriad of memories rushed past Leon's third eye just then, images of Raccoon, South America, and most recently, Spain coming to mind. He frowned and turned away, his obsession coming back to him just like that.
"Yeah," Leon mumbled as he gathered his things before heading for the door, "beginner's luck."
-----
"Hey. Just getting back to you, haven't heard from you in a while. Call me whenever you get this. Ok, bye."
Ashley Graham sure was persistent.
He had turned down the President's daughter months ago during his rescue of her, but every once and a while she got in contact with him; she was obviously still quite interested in doing that overtime back at her place.
He was too tired and too deep in his thoughts to give Ashley, or any other woman his attention, at least right now; instead, he battled inner demons such as Birkin, Salazar, and Saddler. He was certain luck had a lot to do with his survival, not to mention assistance from a supporting cast such as Claire Redfield, Ada Wong, Jack Krauser, and even Luis Sera.
On the other hand, though, he was confident in his own abilities to find solutions to situations others could not; he was a special government agent hand-selected by President Graham himself, after all. He shouldn't feel the need to validate himself, but guilt and self-doubt over fallen allies always found a way to creep into his psyche.
Leon strode into his bedroom and collapsed upon his bed in a pair of boxers and a faded RPD t-shirt. As he laid in bed, he realized no matter how much he distracted himself with work or with exercise, he would never escape his past. Tomorrow he would be back to work, but he had one more restless night ahead of him.
He rolled onto his side, his eyes closed, and awaited the nightmares.
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