September, 2014

Washington, District of Columbia

"I've been... less than honest with you."

Chris Redfield nodded, as if he could possibly know. He lit another cigarette, breaking two matches in the process. The flame illuminated his face - the briefest picture of a man who lived on the edge of the death. He shook his meaty fist out, and the light was extinguished. Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes.

After an impossibly long time, Redfield blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. It billowed out of his nostrils, unfurled from his mouth, mingled with already choked air, and floated away.

Leon Kennedy stared at him. Redfield had been even more of a sour-pussed dick since the kid died.

The door opened. More people came in, gathered in a huddle at the back of the bar. Someone played Touch, Peel, and Stand from a blown-out stereo system.

Leon glanced over his shoulder. He took a sip of his fățată.

"Yeah... we're all dishonest." Redfield's voice was gravelly. "That why you called me out here tonight?"

Leon sucked at his bottom lip. The cigarette smelled dangerously good. It was a habit he'd kicked nearly fifteen years ago. The request for one was on the very tip of his tongue. But he couldn't afford it.

No more relapses.

No more just this once's.

Leon knocked back whatever was left in the shot glass. It made him wince. When he looked up, Redfield was watching him through narrowed eyes, his mouth set in that arrogant half-smile.

"Fuckin' jet fuel," Leon coughed out. "How do you -" His voice burned in his throat. "Drink this shit?"

"I developed a taste for it." He tilted his head and brought the cigarette to his lips again, thoughtful. "Edonia grew on me. This is the only place that has it stateside... that I've seen."

Leon shook his head, wiped his face, blinked away the headache he knew was coming.

"That bad, huh?" Redfield spoke in puffs of smoke. He ashed into his glass, the one that had seemed to empty itself as soon as it was filled. His thick fingers tapped at the bar. "What is it, Lee? You fuck Claire again? Am I gonna be gettin' a call about what an asshole you are?"

"Albert Wesker is alive."

Redfield's clever expression dissolved. The cigarette burned, dangling from his hand. He looked at it, as if he had quite suddenly forgotten what it was. Swallowing hard, he drowned the butt in the wet bottom of the glass.

Leon pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubbed.

"H-how?" Redfield finally managed.

"I dunno..." Leon stared at his own reflection in the filthy mirror behind the bar. "I don't fuckin' know anything anymore."

One Month Earlier

Shantou, Southern Coastal China

"If he's a Chinese national, he's not going anywhere... No, Max, they're not going to let him through. Chow's stayin' put, man." Leon paused, listening. He cradled the phone between his shoulder and cheek. The clerk, a little boy much too young to sell him alcohol, handed him the grocery bag full of booze. The bottles clanked together. Leon mouthed a hasty thank you in Chinese and headed out the shop door into the crowded Shantou night.

"Lanshiang is still a fuckin' mess. They closed off the borders... Yeah, dude, I've been here a year now, trying to clean it up on our end. What - did'ya think I was on vacation?"

A thin sheen of warm summer rain blanketed everything. The pocked asphalt glittered with the thousand neon lights of the city's buildings, lit up like so many miles of Christmas trees.

"No. The answer is no. I'm serious. They're not even close to containing this shit. He's sitting tight until the W.H.O. lifts the quarantine... No, I don't care what you tell him. Just handle it."

Leon hung up, looking left and right before he yanked his jacket over his head and jogged across the street. He dodged between stopped cars, catching the dirty water their wipers tossed off. He cursed and barely made the leap over a dark puddle.

On the sidewalk, he slowed and tied the handles of the bag into a loose knot. A gaggle of teenage girls, still in their school uniforms, passed close enough so that Leon could smell the heady, saccharine mix of their perfumes. The girls chittered loudly in Min Nan dialect - he caught the phrase xiǎo bái liǎn when they all turned to look in his direction.

Pretty boy... or gigolo, depending on whomever one was referring to.

He smiled and winked, his Chinese now good enough to know a back-handed compliment when it was given; the girls giggled and then broke into a playful run.

Swinging the bag of the evening's entertainment, he found an easy pace on his walk back to the apartment Uncle Sam paid for. He was starting to enjoy the noisy, bustling nights in Shantou - even if his days were spent with soul-sucking politicians on a damage-control tour. It was a cleaner city than Hong Kong or Shanghai, and not quite as built-up. That wasn't to say it didn't have a ridiculous skyline, because it did, but there was still a feeling of home about it. Shantou was an energetic city without the bitter-manic personality of the other Chinese metropolises he had visited of late.

"Cockle?" A street vendor implored from a circle of dappled lamplight. He held out a styrofoam plate of the fragrant stewed mollusks. "Cockle?"

Leon stopped. The smell of garlic and the quintessential brown sauce of the region intoxicated him. Spicy, tender mussels and high-end Chinese beer wouldn't be the worst way to ride out an evening by himself. He slipped the bag's handles over his wrist and reached for his wallet.

As he counted out the yen, he happened to glance up just in time.

Across the street, a man was heading into one of the more infamous massage parlors of Shantou.

Under any other circumstances, the ordinary scene wouldn't have warranted a reaction at all. But as Leon watched this man, the blood in his veins turned to ice.

"You want this?" the vendor asked in make-shift English.

Leon could only nod, handing him a wad of the colorful bills. The man, startled by the excessive payment, squinted at him. "Change?" he asked.

"No... no... you keep it," Leon mumbled, leaving the plate of cockles and starting off toward the red doorway like a moth to a flame.

He studied the layout of the decrepit brick building where the brothel-cum-massage parlor took up the east corner. There was the entrance on the main road, roughly ten steps from the curb. There was also a boarded up fire exit on one side, and a dented metal door around the back. He'd tried it a few times; the lock held. Every room had a window - ratty curtains down or broken blinds closed always. Hazy light poured through the slats and silhouettes moved about the rooms almost romantically after the sun set.

From a perch on the roof of adjacent building, Leon kept vigil. For five consecutive nights, the man in question returned to the brothel at exactly nine o'clock. He arrived by chauffeured car - a big black Buick, shining and new, something of a strange sight in Shantou.

Late on a Friday evening, Leon watched the ominous vehicle switch lanes as it approached, narrowly avoiding motorbikes and throngs of weekend pedestrians. It pulled up to the sidewalk, the well-coiffed driver turned on the hazard lights, and went around to open the passenger door. Like a perfectly timed magician's trick, the subject of Leon's obsession emerged from the brothel, adjusting the cuffs of his beautiful dress shirt, and ducking directly into the idling car.

The drizzling August rain matted Leon's flaxen hair to his scalp as he sat on the rooftop and watched the Buick pull away, disappearing into the confused traffic of the Shantou night. He hadn't even noticed the inclement weather that had hung over the city for the better part of the week; a cinematic backdrop to his stormy mood. He folded the binoculars and stowed them away in the pocket of his wet jacket. His hand, instinctive, felt for his gun, tucked inconspicuously in its holster under his damp shirt.

A bell tinkled as Leon pushed open the carved front door. He was awash in a fog of heavy incense almost instantly. He looked around dumbly in the threshold.

Vibrant tapestries lined the walls of the entryway, telling forgotten fairy tales. Paper lanterns hung like soft red clouds, the flames within each glowing and dancing. An enormous traditional armoire stood like a sentry at the end of the hall. There was a winding, narrow staircase to his right - he listened for signs of life, for the sounds of pleasure he was certain he'd hear. Nothing except muted classical music, echoing quietly somewhere above.

Leon took a deep breath and then a step, but his foot met with something solid. He looked down - a stone frog with a coin in its wide, mocking mouth and beady jewels for eyes.

"Fix him," came an unhurried voice. "Fix him quickly."

Leon looked up. A beautiful Chinese woman appeared, taking each step on the creaking wooden staircase carefully. She eyed him, her delicate hand tracing the length of the ornate railing as she descended.

Leon stammered. "I, uh... who?"

"Jin Chu...You kicked him when you came in and now he's facing the door. Turn him around... please," she implored in a lilting British accent.

Shaken, Leon adjusted the heavy little frog so that it glared into the brothel. "Sorry," he said, shoving his hands in his jean pockets. He was suddenly unsure of what to do with himself.

The woman nodded, her red lips smiling. She was older than she'd sounded; he could see the wrinkles on her forehead, the crow's feet around her eyes, despite her best efforts with a silky-looking foundation. She was lovely though, anyway.

"You're American?" she asked then, her smile growing flirtatiously. She extended a hand. "I'm Meilin. Welcome to Vulenerable Lèqù."

Vulnerable Pleasure.

"Yeah." Leon paused, considering his options. Introduce himself as a U.S. agent and conduct an official interview... or... He shook her hand. "Brandon." It was the first, most American-sounding name that came to his mind.

She nodded again, slowly this time, as if she didn't quite buy his deception but wasn't about to push the issue. "Brandon," she said, tasting the nom de guerre. "You would like a... massage?"

Leon licked his lips. He put on his best sheepish smile, his eyebrows drawn up innocently. He ran a hand through his wet hair for good measure, cast his bright blue eyes down. "Another American... a friend of mine... he was just here. He told me that his girl is... something else."

Meilin didn't blink. "Jiayi?"

"That's her... Jiayi."

"Jiayi is indisposed at the moment. Perhaps you'd enjoy another girl?" Meilin looked away, her graceful hands busying themselves with an arrangement of lotus flowers on an embellished side table.

"I can wait. For Jiayi, I mean."

"It will be quite a wait, Mr. Brandon."

"That's fine," Leon countered.

Meilin clasped her hands. Her easy smile had turned cold, tight-lipped. "Very well," she said, icily.

The long wait turned out to be not so long after all. Once an extraordinarily steep transaction had been arranged, Madame Meilin led him up the squeaking staircase to the second floor, down another red hallway, and past several tall golden doors.

"The other American," she whispered in front of the very last room on the right. "You have the same tastes as him?"

Leon hesitated. "I do."

"You are not to touch Jiayi, at any time during your appointment, Mr. Brandon."

He tried hard not to look taken off-guard. No contact? It was a whore house, wasn't it? He cleared his throat, furrowed his brow seriously. "Of course not."

"If you have any medical conditions which might... interfere with the act, it's advisable that you turn back now, because, as you know... getting one down is a bit of process, yes?"

His heart began to race. What exactly was going to happen to him once he stepped into that room? Regardless, it was imperative that he play it off without alerting her. "Yeah. My friend mentioned it was..."

"Strenuous," she suggested.

"Yes."

Meilin smiled sweetly again, ever the gracious host now that her guest had paid in an inordinate amount of money for the use of one of her girls. She opened the golden door and made an offering gesture, ushering him inside. Leon stood on the precipice, his hand slipping under his jacket, fingers brushing against the holster, readying. He peered around the doorframe, his eyes sweeping the perimeter.

A single chandelier dripped from a dizzyingly high coffered ceiling. There was a simple wing-backed chair against one wall, facing the window that looked out onto the Shantou street below. On the aged wood floor, there was a clean white drop cloth. A pile of coiled rope lay in the center... and above it... some type of rig and pulley.

Chopin played in one of the other rooms, echoes of a haunting piano solo mingling with the distant horns of angry, tired drivers.

His fingers twitched on the gun.

The room was clear - one way in, one way out. No traps as far as he could see. He turned back to Madame Meilin. She was staring at his hand. Her eyes darted up to his; she frowned, disapproving.

"Yes. I see you are very much like your friend," she said so quietly that it couldn't be considered the sneer it was. "Please," she started again, smoothing a hand down the front of her expensive-looking shirt. She tugged at the hem. "Go in. Make yourself comfortable. Jiaya will be with you soon."