Chapter Text
LEON CAN’T help it. He stares.
The man in front of him is a put-together picture of quiet lethality: black shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, trousers perfectly pressed, blonde hair tousled into a loose slick-back. Kinda hot, if he’s honest to himself. Yet, he thinks back to Ada’s parting words: He may not look like much, but trust me, he’s got a nasty bite.
And he thinks she’s right — under that calm, professional veneer hums something dangerous, corded through lean muscle and, frankly, too much pomade. His stance is relaxed, but in such an assured way that Leon knows this man could probably dismantle him in ten different ways if he so pleased. The fact that he is seemingly unarmed speaks to either stupidity or competency, and nothing about him feels unintentional, from his posture to his clothing.
Also: this man is wearing sunglasses indoors.
There’s something…off, about his gaze, hidden behind those dark lenses. Leon can’t put his finger on it, but it’s like there’s an almost imperceptible glow, faint and ominous. Surely, it’s just his eyes playing tricks on him. Right?
“What are you, some kind of Bond villain?” Leon can’t help but blurt with an awkward chuckle. He immediately regrets it.
“I’d heard that you have a particular…humour about you, Kennedy,” the man replies, brutally sardonic. “How charming. Need I remind you, we are not here to play foolish games.”
“Sure, whatever,” he returns, why is this man speaking in Queen’s English, “just get this goddamn parasite out of me.”
As the man types something into his computer, Leon clears his throat, realising he doesn’t even know how to address him. “So…hi, I’m Leon S. Kennedy.”
Silence. The sound of clacking keys fills the room.
Right. So, a rich asshole with no social skills?
“And…you are?”
A long, suffering sigh. The man stands to his full height, assessing Leon with a pointed gaze. At least, as much as can be seen of it through his tinted shades. Then, slowly, a finger reaches up to drag them down his nose, and—
What the fuck.
What the fuck. Leon.exe has ceased to function.
The man has fucking cat eyes. Black, bottomless slits surrounded by pools of glowing vermillion, swirling with orange like molten lava. Something about them nags at the back of his brain, like he’s seen them somewhere before. And then, suddenly, several things click into place within Leon’s mind: the monstrous eyes, the blonde hair, the slightly accented voice — he’s heard hushed whispers of the name around the USSTRATCOM office before, spoken in quiet tones as if not to invoke the boogeyman, read field reports that could qualify for the horror section.
This is none other than Albert fucking Wesker.
Bioterrorist extraordinaire. Human-turned-bioweapon. Former Umbrella top dog.
Owner of a cozy downtown penthouse?
Leon shakes his head, mind failing to wrap around the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. He, Leon S. Kennedy, US government agent, is standing in what looks to be the home of the Albert Wesker, blonde douchebag and world’s most infamous bioterrorist.
Yeah, that’s a hell to the no.
Leon steps backwards clumsily, meaning to retreat into the elevator, but then his back meets solid steel and panic claws its way up his throat. Whipping his head to the side frantically, his fingers paw over the smooth wall, only to find that there apparently isn’t a down button.
This day just keeps testing his dwindling patience.
God, please please please — this cannot be how he dies. At least he’ll die with a scenic view of the Washington skyline. But then an uglier thought rears its head: What are they going to do to Sherry if he dies? If he’s gone, then she’ll be useless as leverage, useless as bait to coerce him into missions, each riskier than the last. Contrary to what most people think, Leon S. Kennedy does not have a death wish.
He is simply a man doing too much, running on too little.
With that, resolve tightens in his chest. Whatever happens, he’s making it out of this apartment building alive. Albert Wesker is only one in a long line of egomaniacs he’s had to take down.
In a flash, Leon unholsters his gun, pointing it at Wesker’s forehead with wavering fingers. To his dismay, the man doesn’t even flinch. Sunglasses back on, his expression remains unchanged except for a minute tick of his jaw, like he’s experiencing nothing more than mild irritation.
“I told you not to play these foolish games,” Wesker says dryly, almost disappointed. “I’m a busy man, Kennedy. I do not have time to waste on these utterly useless displays.”
“Let me out, now,” Leon demands.
Wesker sighs, not even moving to defend himself.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. You already agreed to my terms, Kennedy. It’s answers you want, isn’t it? To your little infection? Fortunately for you, that’s something I’m more than willing to provide, contingent upon your cooperation.”
Leon hesitates, vision swimming with memories of black staining his hands. What other option does he have? His gun shakes in his trembling grip, but he keeps it pointed squarely at Wesker.
“You are not cooperating,” Wesker states blandly.
“Jesus Christ,” Leon laughs, blinking the frenzied tears out of his eyes. “You’re a wanted criminal, for fuck’s sake! You can’t just expect me to drop my gun into your lap and play house.”
Wesker tilts his head, making an expression that’s seemingly exasperated. “Humans. Always so narrow-minded,” he says with a tsk. “Fine. Seeing as I’ve all but exhausted diplomacy, forgive me if I resort to more crude tactics.”
As soon as he finishes the sentence, Wesker seems to vanish in a dark blur, only to reappear inches from his side. Before Leon even has time to gasp, the man disarms him in a practiced motion, gun clattering loudly across the floor. He feels the action more than he sees it, though, because in the blink of an eye, Wesker is standing calmly in front of him again: gun held loosely, sunglasses perched perfectly on his nose, not a single blonde hair out of place.
Sure, Leon’s heard about the man’s abilities — hard not to, when the survival rate for missions involving him hovers somewhere close to zero, and those that do survive talk about him like the second coming of Satan. Leon has sat through one of those debriefs before, listened to the lone survivor ramble on, panicked eyes darting around the conference room as if still haunted by bloody memories. It was a f-fucking nightmare! God, one second my buddy would be right beside me and — and the next…his head would be lying three feet away.
But seeing them in person is something else entirely. Leon is acutely aware that there is no cheating death with Albert Wesker. Everything that happens is by design.
He realises that giving him a choice to come here willingly, hell, letting him stand here, unrestrained — that is by design too. Far easier to let the prey feel like it’s in control, when in reality, all paths lead to the lion’s den. Wesker could’ve simply broken into his apartment at 2 am and bundled him into a van; the outcome would’ve been the same. But giving him an illusion of choice, when really, this is the only choice he would’ve ever made, traps him in an agreement he willingly said yes to.
At the heart of it all, Leon S. Kennedy is an honest man. In a world of lies, his own honesty is the only thing left to cling to. Evidently, this is something Wesker knows.
And so he says, “Fine. What do you want?”
If Ada let him stroll right into this particular lion’s den, then surely, she must’ve at least been certain that Wesker wouldn’t kill him. He hopes.
“I’m not one for beating around the bush, Kennedy, so I’ll be blunt. I wish to study your blood. The Plagas has had some rather…interesting effects on you,” Wesker reveals.
“Right. And the best place to do this is…your bachelor pad?”
Wesker’s face doesn’t betray much, but by the way his mouth twitches, it looks like he wants to sigh again. “My personal lab is also stationed here. This pet project of mine is not exactly company-sanctioned, you realise.”
“I want answers first,” Leon says stubbornly. “Why am I still infected?”
“I will indulge you, Kennedy, but be reminded that I am, in fact, the one holding the gun,” he responds, raising it momentarily from where it hangs at his side.
He continues, “Your previous exposure to the T-virus in Raccoon City has led to residual traces of the virus in your blood. Dormant, perhaps, and the viral load is too low to have any effect, but it’s present. To simplify a lengthy scientific explanation I doubt you’d understand, when you attempted to remove the parasite, Las Plagas tried to search for places in your body to hide, to survive. It found the residual T-virus, recognised it as a foreign body your immune system had also failed to destroy, and attached itself to the virions. By that time, the T-virus had already assimilated into your body, enough to ‘disguise’ Las Plagas.”
“So that’s why it worked for Ashley,” Leon concluded, realisation dawning on him. “Because she wasn’t exposed to the T-virus like I was.”
“Precisely. Perhaps there’s hope for you after all.” Wesker waves his hands dismissively. “In any case, nothing I wish to do will be of detriment to you. And in the process, you’d have the last remnants of Las Plagas removed from your system.”
Leon hesitates, shifting his weight. On the one hand, he’d really like this parasite out of his body, thank you very much. But he also isn’t exactly comfortable with staking his chances on Albert Wesker. A man who has no qualms about pulverising his fellow agents into dust, probably wouldn’t bat an eye at doing the same to him.
Although, Wesker is also nothing if not rational. He doesn’t seem like someone who does things by half-measures, but he also doesn’t seem excessive, at least from what Leon can tell. If killing Leon doesn’t benefit him, then he simply wouldn’t. Still…
“I know where your apartment is now, though,” he points out. “How can you be sure I won’t report that back to HQ?”
Wesker exhales shortly, something like his version of a derisive laugh. “I could run circles around your pitiful government if I wanted to, Kennedy. That’s hardly of concern to me. It’s simply more convenient to keep you alive, to avoid upsetting certain useful parties who are more…invested in your wellbeing.”
Ada. He means Ada. Well, that’s touching.
“Consider your circumstances carefully, Kennedy,” Wesker reminds him, tone sharp but reserved. “We would be doing each other a favour.”
Leon glances to the side, thinking. There was only ever one real option, anyways. The choice Wesker’s offering him is nothing but a formality. If he really wanted to, Leon would already be shackled to an operating chair before he could even yell. And what else can he do? Go crawling back to USSTRATCOM? Between two dead ends, he’d rather the one that doesn’t have Simmons at the end of it. Wesker’s a pompous asshole, but escaping his clutches would be far easier than that of the entire US government.
“Alright,” he finally agrees. “But the moment you do anything funny, I’m out.”
He supposes it’s healthy to at least threaten the guy a bit, even if it’s kind of pointless.
Wesker inclines his head. “Wonderful. If you’d follow me.”
Then, Leon follows Wesker deeper into the penthouse. Everything is sparsely furnished in monochrome, sleek and brutalist, almost like a catalogue showroom. It feels…cold. Unlived. Leon frowns at the books on the shelves against the wall, all in neat, untouched rows: Meditations on First Philosophy by René Descartes, On the Origin of Species by Charles Darwin, The Selfish Gene by Richard Dawkins.
Basically, a whole lot of science and philosophy bullshit. Maybe he could convince Wesker to give Ian Fleming a go instead.
“You actually read these?”
“Naturally,” Wesker answers, and offers no other comment.
Eventually, he pauses in front of a nondescript portion of the wall. But if Leon squints, he can just make out a rectangle in the shape of a door.
Of course Wesker’s lab would be hidden like a cartoon villain’s secret lair.
“What’s the password? ‘Open sesame’?” he jokes, not expecting an answer.
Wesker gives him a sidelong glance, turning back to the hidden entrance. “Aperire,” he says, strange syllables sliding smoothly from his tongue, and then there’s a click before the panel slides open soundlessly.
“I find Latin far more elegant than something so childish.”
“You’re joking,” Leon replies incredulously. “You speak Latin?”
“Of course. It’s the language of science. The root of all the Romance languages.” Wesker eyes him up and down. “Not that I would expect someone like you to appreciate the significance of that.”
“Rude,” Leon scoffs under his breath, then swiftly decides Albert Wesker is not someone he wants to anger.
They move through a short, sterile corridor before arriving at another door, this time unconcealed. Wesker presses his hand against a scanner before the door beeps and swings open.
Leon gets that Wesker’s rich, but does he really have to flash his fancy shit everywhere?
Grumbling, he follows the man into his lab, hearing the door close behind them with a soft swish. Inside, harsh white lights border the ceiling, dousing the room in clinical brightness. Everything is neat and precise, just like he’d predicted: clean test tubes held in racks, bunsen burner tucked in one corner, rows of other equipment that he can’t even begin to fathom the purpose of. A computer sits in the middle of the desk, multiple flat screens branching from it.
God, how much do they pay this asshole? Someone needs to dock his paycheck.
“Okay, Doctor Evil. You gonna tie me to a chair now?” Leon snipes.
“Nothing quite so barbaric, I assure you,” Wesker responds coolly. Is this man allergic to laughter? “Unless, that is, you refuse to cooperate.”
Leon snorts. “Don’t think I have a choice. Although, I do wanna know — what are you planning to do with this…research?”
Wesker sighs, which Leon is coming to realise, is seemingly the extent of his capacity for human expression. “Always with the questions, Kennedy. Call it scientific curiosity that I wish to satisfy, but it’s most definitely not what you imagine.”
“Uh-huh,” Leon says, not quite convinced. He can’t shake the feeling that Wesker has an ulterior motive. A cunning, manipulative bastard like him doesn’t just do things out of curiosity. The idea that he might be contributing to the very bioweapons he’s trying to stop crawls under his skin, but what choice does he have?
It won’t come to that, he tries to tell himself. And if it does, I’ll make sure to stop it in time.
“Are we doing this, or not?” Wesker questions, growing impatient as he adjusts his shirt cuffs.
“Fine,” Leon says to placate him. A violent Wesker would be decidedly very disastrous for him — at this point, even if he wanted to back out, escape simply wouldn’t be feasible. Better to deal with the ramifications later. At least that he can handle and figure out on his own.
He continues, “But if you try anything—”
“The agreement is broken, we’ve established that,” Wesker repeats tiredly. “Contrary to what you might believe, Kennedy, I am a reasonable man. I do not complicate things for the sake of complicating them.”
Unease settles in the pit of Leon’s stomach like acid, but he nods hesitantly. Time to bite the bullet.
Wesker turns on the computer, keying in his password which Leon unfortunately can’t see. Then with a whirr, several machines come to life, lighting up an examination table pushed against the wall.
Leon eyes the restraints on it warily.
“I won’t restrain you. Consider it a gesture of goodwill,” Wesker assures him, but Leon doesn’t find the reassurance of a wanted bioterrorist particularly meaningful. Still, he figures he has no choice but to cooperate, and so he shuffles towards the examination table and lies down on it. The overhead lights are blinding, making him squint uncomfortably. He hears a sink running and then the distinct snap of gloves.
Here we go, he thinks, and shuts his eyes.