#forafuturewithoutfear

+ forafuturewithoutfear.

     Ragged breathing echoed against damp, empty walls—the alley the agent had been sprinting through leaving little to the imagination, about what was at the other end. What he came face-to-face with, when he broke through the eerie emptiness, the quiet that was too still, too... out of place. The air felt heavy, clogging his lungs, and causing him to wheeze—it tasted like poison, metallic dancing on his tongue as he tried to escape the mess of blue fog.

      There were footsteps behind him—gradually growing closer, louder, the less his legs moved. A bout of exhaustion washing over his beaten and battered form. The uniform blue button-up beneath his tactical vest stained with dirt and blood. His own? Maybe. Mostly someone else's—the splattered remains of a man he couldn't save. One to the tally board.

      The agent reached for a clip to pop into his emptied handgun, groaning when he remembered he had run out of ammunition a couple hours ago—of course he ran out. When had anything ever gone easily? "Hunnigan? Hunnigan, I've got myself into a bit of a mess—" He glanced behind him, a crook in his neck just enough to try to count the number of undead that were hot on his heels. He weighed his chances with a knife—too slim. "I'm gonna need an air-lift."

      A brief pause—Leon took advantage of the comm silence to let out a breath, one he hadn't been realized he was holding whilst sprinting through the destroyed city streets. Of course he knew the response wouldn't be one he wanted to hear. "Leon... The DSO can't afford air-lifts right now. Not in such a crisis. You know that." No he didn't, but oh well. Letting out a sigh, he took a quick turn—his luck growing gradually better as he spotted another alley, one less infected-looking.

      Not even bothering to say goodbye, the comm transmission was ended—Leon was doing something he should have thought about before doing, just like always. He practically threw himself to the ground, sliding stiffly on the rain and blood streaked pavement... he went a pretty good distance, a distance that his legs would no longer carry him, and popped up, pressing his back up against the brick of a building.

      Brush burns. They stung the exposed parts of skin on his arms—his rolled-up sleeves not providing much protection. They wouldn't have done much down either, he imagined. He bit the tip of his tongue, keeping himself from hissing out in discomfort.

      Thankfully the footfalls that were chasing him a few moments ago were now fading—his breathing becoming less labored in the process. A soft whisper slipping through dirt-caked lips.

"Sorry guys, looks like playtime's over..."

☮: An argument I think my muse would have with yours.

"...I swear, do you just come here every day just to tell me you don't think I've changed?"

"Well...yeah pretty much because I don't think you have, you may have fooled everyone else but not me."

  She stood at the window, watching the parents go past with their children, arms folded over her chest, a deep ache inside.

  "What's up with you?" the question was caring, the voice it belonged to was not. Alina stiffened and turned her head slightly to regard the man from beneath her shades.

 "I'd answer if I thought you weren't just asking to get into yet another fight," she drawled. Chris crossed his arms and walked in the room, to peer out of the window she was looking from, a smirk gracing his features.

  "Oh, I see," he chuckled. "Awww, poor little Wesker misses what she can't have. Maybe you should have thought about that before letting your kid live in some backward country for most of his life because you were too busy being a complete bastard."

  "Do you have anything better to do than this?" Alina sighed, looking back out at the parents and children. She'd never get to do that with Jake, she'd missed her chance, seeing all those happy faces made her positively green with envy and although Chris' barbs stung, she knew he was right. Which made them sting all the worse because damn her hide if she was going to admit that to him.

  Chris shrugged, leaning against the windowframe, arms folded.

  "You know," Alina said airily, pointing down, "there's preschoolers out there who are more mature than you've been acting these past few weeks."

  Chris aid nothing, but the set of his jaw told her he was growing irritated. Again.

  "Give yourself a break, Redfield," she said, turning away from the window, to go back down into the labs, "You're going to give yourself a heart attack one of these days."

forafuturewithoutfear

withoutalibi