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The East Hallway’s supposed to be safe, echoes in Leon's head. It's why he dared to remove his gear and try to relax as he looked over his wounds. He swore he already put down every zombie roaming in this wing of the station. It's supposed to be safe. He doesn't know how more zombies got in there, he doesn't have time to wonder, not when they appear around him in too many numbers, fuck, how many are there? How did they break through the boarded windows? He barely has the time to get his gun and start firing, and he kills one, two, more, one after the other, but there are too many, there's only so much time before they rest is on him, and he fights, tries to hit them, yelling, already envisioning the pain of being torn apart-

But there is no such pain. There are hands - bloody, dirty, already rotting, disgusting - pushing him down on the floor, and through his struggling he realizes they're tearing at his pants, ripping them apart, and something horrible sets in his gut as hands pull his legs to the sides until he screams in pain - and he knows he shouldn't be so loud, but he cannot stay quiet. Then they stop, just hold him like that, not even noticing as he tries to kick them.

The fear that filled his mind as he thought he would die is shifting, the alarm is making his pulse beat hard, and he doesn't want to think about what is happening, doesn't want to think about what this looks like, what this feels like, he doesn't want-

Then there is a zombie bending down between his legs, and his world shifts in a nauseating moment when he feels it push its face - cold , it's so cold, corpse cold, he wants to cry, wants to scream, wants to be anywhere else but here - against his crotch, then he arches his back, tries to rip his limbs free, shouts mindlessly as something wet pushes into his ass.

But that's not all. Far, far from all. The stench surrounding him - and he can't get away from it, the death, the decay, the stale and nauseating scent, he would stop breathing if he could, but it's in his nose and his mouth and everywhere - gets thicker, and he slams his head back down into the tiles as another zombie leans closer. And he screams, frustrated, helpless, as it follows, and it's too close, he sees all of the blood and rot, and the stench makes him want to gag, but it presses closer, and he keeps screaming as it opens its mouth and pushes its tongue into his mouth. Reflex takes over, and he bites down, but the zombie doesn't react, doesn't stop, it's holding his head still as it forces its tongue into his mouth, and he can feel something slowly running into his mouth from where he bit down, he can taste the rot, and he feels sick.

His body's shaking, the stench of dead flesh and stale blood is assaulting him from all directions, corpse cold hands hold him down, and he feels the wounds he'd been bandaging leaking blood, but none of the monsters surrounding him seems to even notice. There is still a tongue moving in his ass, pushing so far into him that he feels the teeth pressing into his flesh, and his mouth's being pushed into as well, and he feels his eyes burn as he reflexively swallows when some of that fluid slips into his throat. And he feels more, feels hands touch his body, groping him, moving quickly with jerking movements.

And then the tongue retreats from his ass, and he makes some noise, down low in his throat, thoughts whirling in his head about what that was, why did he make a noise, what's happening. Only moments pass, a few seconds, before he feels a pressure against his rim again, but it isn't wet, it's not a tongue, and his eyes fly open of their own accord, staring past the rotten face bearing down on him, because no-

And he screams, uncontrollably, mindlessly, as the rotten appendage pushes into him, as the zombie cock pushes into him, fully erect, so cold, so fucking cold, he almost feels burned by the chill, and god, he can feel it, feel all of it as it pushes into him in one hard, mindlessly merciless movement.

There are moans all around him, the same noises that the dead have always made, but now it fills him with dread in a way it's never done, as his body's breached, violated, in a way he'd never imagined. The cock pushes into his body, pushes his body with strength far outweighing his, pushes deep until he can feel torn clothes burning into the skin of his backside, and he groans helplessly as his eyelids flicker, a tear running down the side of his temple to wet the rotting hand holding his head in place. His hands shake, but he doesn't know what for, when he doesn't even have the strength to struggle anymore. He doesn't know anything.

His head is filled with the stench of the dead, he doesn't even really notice it any longer, even if it's making it hard to breathe. But maybe he should stop that, he thinks, maybe if he stops everything else will stop too, and then this will all go away. It's tempting, too tempting, he knows he shouldn't think so, knows he should fight, but as the zombie fucking him moves, pulling out and slamming back into him with harsh, unnatural movements, pushing his body around as far as it goes in the grip of all the other zombies holding him down, he thinks he would prefer the creeping darkness to swallow him for good.

But he's been left by whatever god might have existed, and death would be too kind a fate, apparently.

The tongue in his mouth pulls out, and all of sudden he can breathe again, and he does, coughing and swallowing and choking on the fluid left in his mouth, and mindlessly gasping for air - but only for so long, because then there are hands holding his head in place again, and the air's stuck in his throat as another cock is being pushed towards his face, already thrusting mindlessly into the air.

“No! No, no, no, this can't be happening, fuck! No!”

No one hears him, or if they do they don't care. He tries to resist with renewed fervor, strains against the hands holding him down, tries to toss his head away, grits his teeth when that doesn't work. But there are groans and growls among the moaning, and a hand pushes against his throat, cutting off his air. His struggles are ignored, again, again and again, and his vision is getting blurry, and he can't breathe - he wanted this, wanted the darkness to take him, but he can't control this, can't control his body screaming for air. And he's weak. He screams silently, cursing himself, cursing his body, as his mouth flies open, gaping and subconsciously trying to find some way to breathe, and then the cock's thrusting into him, into his mouth, down his throat, and it hurts, the cold flesh is such a difference to his sweaty, practically feverish body, and he chokes, tears falling freely. But the hand around his throat disappears, and he can suck in air through his nose, which he does mindlessly, while the zombie starts thrusting into his throat with punishing strength.

And there is still the zombie pounding his ass, and Leon feels something in his mind snap as he considers the situation he's in, as he thinks of the many hands holding him down, holding his legs spread open, holding his head still, as he feels the stale death heavy in the air, in his mouth, as his body's ravaged by fucking zombies thrusting into both his ass and his throat.

This isn't supposed to happen. This isn't supposed to happen. It's unreal, it's wrong, it's sick, it's some bad dream that he needs to wake up from, he needs to wake up now.

No matter how many times he tells himself so it changes nothing, of course. It's not a dream. It's not a fucked up fantasy. And nothing he does will change a thing, because it's real , and nothing says that as clearly as the realization that more zombies are pushing their cocks against his body, and they're so cold, like corpses, because they are corpses, and he could never forget it even if he tried. He feels them slide across his skin, against his stomach, his legs, the back of his head. There's residue left from the cocks, he feels it, feels how his hair's turning almost sticky. He has no power left, no strength, no will to even hold back his tears anymore, and when he feels a body lie across his and bite into his shoulder - not to tear off flesh, but as if to hold him, because the zombie stays in place, and by the changed movements of the cock in his ass he knows which zombie the teeth belongs to at least - he closes his eyes and lets go, praying to let this end soon. Some way, any way, he doesn't care. He just wants an end.

It doesn't take long after until the cock slams into him as far as it goes - and, fuck, he can almost imagine he feels it in his chest, it's so fucking deep - and then he feels wet warmth spread, the heat shocking after being forced open by freezing cold cocks, and it hurts all the more so because of it. He feels like he's going to vomit when the zombie thrusts a few more times, pushing the wetness somehow even further into him. And the teeth latching onto his shoulder almost shake with the full body moan that spills over Leon's skin. Then the teeth are gone, and the rotting, stinking body's moving away, and without warning he's empty. His thighs quiver, trying reflexively to close again, now that there's no body to keep open for. Slowly, so slowly, he feels the burning wetness move inside of him, a few drops oozing out of him. The moans that echo all around him paralyze him, but only for a moment, until something at the back of his head makes him fight again, makes him kick out, turn his body, try to twist out of the grips, his movements as frantic as the zombie that fucked him, as the zombie still thrusting deep into his mouth.

It makes no difference, whatever he does, and he moans around the cock when he feels another frozen body push against his thighs, thrusting mindlessly against his ass. He feels it miss his hole a few times, as it's clearly not even looking - it leans over him and bites down on his shoulder almost immediately, and he shudders at the moan hitting his skin. Then he shudders harder, arches his back, screams around the cock in his throat as the new zombie finally hits home, pushing into him. And it moans harder as it realizes it succeeded, slamming into him with bruising force, making him take even more of the rotting cock into his throat as his body's pushed forward. And the horror rises in his chest, makes tears flow faster, as that cock comes to a halt, pushed so deep down his throat, pushed so tight against his face that he once again can't breathe. Then, he feels it pulse, and burning hot fluid shoots down his throat, making him choke as he desperately swallows.

The cock retreats from his mouth after what feels like an eternity, and Leon coughs, still choking on the fluid - sperm, he didn't know zombies could still have sperm, but he's not stupid, and he can't keep denying. The taste is thick in his mouth, of rotting flesh and blood and something undeniably sick, and without thinking, far beyond his control, he starts heaving, turning his head to the side while the tears leak from scrunched shut eyes. The sperm is in his throat, his chest, his stomach - it feels like it's everywhere, filling him, contaminating him, infecting him - and he heaves, feeling it burning in his throat.

But it never gets anywhere, he never manages to do anything. New hands tear his head around, and another cock is pushed into his mouth before he can understand what's going on, and he chokes back the bile, chokes back the sperm he wants out of him as he instead chokes on the cock, the stench of decay filling his nose and mouth past the actual appendage taking up space.

And it doesn't matter what he does, how he struggles. He gets tired, he gets worn out; freaking zombies don't.

Leon loses track of the time, loses track of everything outside of the room, of the monsters holding him down and violating him, as they trade places, one by one fucking him and filling him with that disgusting warmth. He loses track of the zombies too, forgets how many times they've changed places, how many times he's had a frozen cock shoved down his throat, how many times he's felt teeth latch onto his shoulders and his chest. He forgets everything apart from the hands - rotting and deadly cold, corpses, they're corpses, of course they're fucking freezing, but still stronger than him - holding him down, and the sperm that fills him more and more as time moves by.

The cock in his mouth moves away, and he only lets his head hang limply as come runs along his jaw. He knows that stink is still there, is still in his mouth, but he can't feel it any longer, can't taste or smell it. In some part of his mind, what's left of it, he knows he's covered in it, and that's why. But there's no strength left in him to feel disgusted at the thought. When a new zombie comes he just closes his eyes and lets them grab his head and shove past his lips without any struggling.

Around him the monsters are still all going strong as they were in the beginning, and his ears are ringing with the unnatural moans that is the only sound he hears. That, and the squelching as some zombie thrusts into his ass. He's full now, so full that no matter how deep they push, how hard they fuck into him, their come constantly leak out of him. He feels it, every movement, coating his skin more with every thrust - he thinks some of the come at the lower end of his back have managed to dry, and it should alarm him to realize how long this has been going on. But he feels nothing, thinks nothing. His hands are limp in the monsters’ grip, and his legs stopped shaking a long time ago. What use is there to fight when there's no hope to succeed?

Through the moaning he thinks he hears something new, something that feels somehow familiar. The floor shakes- or it's just the zombie slamming into him as it loses control and comes, filling him with even more come. It was nothing, he decides as a new zombie takes place between his legs. There is nothing outside of this hell.

But the floor shakes again, and he feels hands let go of his leg - abruptly, as though they were ripped away - and there's some new sounds, sounds that make something in his mind wake up, because that sound is familiar. And he opens his eyes as yet another pair of hands disappear, because that sound is dangerous.

And the zombies around him move differently now, more aggressive. Confusion lies like a blanket over his mind as they all let go of him as one - even the cocks thrusting into him are removed, and he lies blinking into thin air for a few seconds before he slowly turns his head.

And horror hits him like a truck at the sight that greets him. Like a lightning from the sky his mind snaps back to life, and all he can think of is that he needs to run. Now.

Out of the many zombies that had held him down with no problems there were only a few left, swarming the big Tyrant - and he, in turn, kept grabbing them and either crushing their heads or tearing them apart with the same effort Leon might have used to rip a paper in two.

No one's around him now, no one seems to care about him, the zombies all focusing on the intruder. Leon knows, he knows it deep in his soul, by the crunching sounds and the sickening squelches as bodies drop to the floor, he knows it's only a matter of time before the true monster is the only one left standing. And no matter what else, Leon knows he doesn't want to remain where he is at that moment.

So he turns around, forcing back the nausea welling up because now is not the time and pushes his hands against the floor, tries to get up on his feet. He can't run if he can't get on his feet. Gritting his jaw he tries to shake the weakness out of his limbs, tries to get them all to work again, tries to ignore the pain lacing through him as he moves one of his legs, tries to ignore the disgust that fills him as he feels come run even faster from between his legs when he moves, as he spits come so as to not puke it all up.

But

He

Fails.

He hears moaning cut off behind him, and with terror and desperation giving him strength he starts crawling forward instead, forcing his leg along and gritting his teeth as he pushes past the pain, looking for where his gun is, because if he can't run then he can at least fight. He knows what the Tyrant is capable of, has seen the aftermath, has seen the mutated monster in action. He knows, if he allowed himself, that a simple gun will be as effective as those zombies - but he has to do something. Maybe if he manages to distract the monster he can get time to get his shaking limbs under control again, and then run. Time, he just needs time.

Time, as it turns out, is not something he'll be given. Too quickly the thundering footsteps are heard again, moving towards him, and he almost wants to sob as he feels the Tyrant's eyes on him, boring into his body. And he feels his own nakedness all too clearly now, some torn remnants all that remains of his pants. Never has he been so weak, so exposed. And the steps come closer.

There's a part of him screaming in denial, screaming in anger, screaming that he will not give up and just die. And he spots something glinting, something hard, something metallic. His gun. Determination washes away all pain, and he throws himself forward, hands sweaty and full of blood and grit, but steady, and he feels the handle against his palm.

Then he hears a sickening crunch, close, too close, where did that come from? The pain hits him a moment later - his knee, his leg, he feels a heavy boot not so much stomping down as simply weighing down, but that's all it takes, and he can't think more, can't help losing the grip of his gun as he screams, his body convulsing, trying to get away but trapped under that impossibly heavy boot, curling in on himself but it only makes his leg twist, and his mind blanks for a moment as his voice just cuts off. His mouth's still open, though, he knows that, somewhere in the emptiness of his mind. He's still screaming.

Eventually the boot moves, and Leon sobs with relief, but it isn't really relief because the moment he moves the pain flashes up bright again, and he might have screamed or he might have blacked out, he doesn't know. He does know the shadow that moves over him, and with half a mind he throws out his arm again, grabbing the gun - only for another, much larger, inhumanly large hand to grab his arm and squeeze. And as the bones shift beneath the increasingly tight grip Leon feels the gun slip out of his hand. But still the Tyrant keeps gripping him tighter, and Leon mindlessly moves, writhing on the floor, clawing at the gloved hand, trying to get loose. All for nothing. He hears the bones break, hears the crunching sound he's starting to associate with this particular monster, and he feels. He can't even make himself scream, can only moan hoarsely, and at the back of his mind he shudders at the sound, now so disgustingly familiar.

It's hard to breathe, but it's all he can do as the huge monster looms over him. His body shakes as he lies limp on the floor, his forehead pressed against the floor as he gasps - and he knows it's dirty, he can almost taste the grime, but he doesn't care, he can't care, not when the Tyrant's hand is still holding his arm tight, even if the grip isn't getting tighter. For a dizzying moment Leon actually laughs, imagining what'd happen if the monster kept squeezing his arm. Would it keep making those crunching noises, or would it maybe pop right off?

The laughter chokes in his throat as the Tyrant pulls at him, dragging him up from the floor by his arm. Pain shoots through his body like lightning from the sky, and the laughter tears from his throat in the form of a scream as he hangs in the air, and mindless of the way his leg screams at every movement - because his mind can't handle this, there is too much pain, from too many directions, he has to separate himself from some of them, has to focus on one, or else he'll lose his mind - he reaches up and claws at the gloved hand again, kicks violently, turns and twists, his mind pulsing with the need to get away, to get away from the pain, to survive.

The Tyrant doesn't budge, only shakes him, like a ragdoll, and the air escapes Leon's lungs in a shocked gasp, inaudible, utterly silent, as he feels his shoulder jump out of its socket with a pop.

Leon hangs limp, his chin banging against his chest as he stares with wide, empty eyes, choking on the pain that, in that one moment, surpassed what he was able to fully grasp.

As though satisfied with Leon's stillness the Tyrant stops shaking him. He feels the monster's other enormous hand grab his free arm, and Leon knows he should struggle, he can't just let this happen, can't let both his arms be crushed while he hangs there like a wet rag, but his body doesn't react to the way his mind screams. His eyes keep staring into empty air, his mouth hanging open as he takes heaving breaths, and he doesn't make even one movement to fight back as the monster raises his arm and takes it and his ruined arm in one ridiculously big hand.

Time seems strange, moving in a weird way, seconds passing by with an eternity between each one. And all the while Leon stays there, his world nothing but burning pain, trying to remember how to breathe, trying to make himself want to breathe. Behind his back the Tyrant is a silent but overwhelming presence, and Leon finds himself imagining that leathered glove sneaking around his throat, or around his face, pressing close and hard, harder, harder, until Leon doesn't so much hear the crunching as feel it, because it would be his throat, his face, his head. It would be a relief, a whisper says, and he thinks he might agree. He wouldn't have to feel the sick warmth in his chest and between his legs, wouldn't feel the burning in his leg and arm, wouldn't feel this tired.

His heartbeats beat loudly in his ears, and the gasps he takes are loud enough to block out any of the small rustling sounds, and in his experience those are the only noises the mutated monster makes - that, and those footsteps that can seem to make the earth quake. That's why he doesn't notice anything happening until the Tyrant lifts him higher - and he chokes back a scream at that as his crushed, dislocated arm is jostled - and then he feels a cold glove under his thigh, lifting his leg. Spreading them. Opening him up.

And time doesn't move slowly anymore, it moves far too quick as panic fills his veins, and he shakes his head, denials and pleas falling from bruised lips with increased fervor as he feels something huge press against his abused hole. Something makes him look down, some sick sense of curiosity perhaps, and he starts shaking, his protests growing much louder as he twists and struggles, the pain he causes himself only making him move nore frantically. Because what's pushing up between his legs is bigger than any cock he's seen - and of course it's huge, the Tyrant's whole body is a mutated mess, why wouldn't the cock be huge as well, and he almost starts laughing again at the thought, but with willpower he didn't know he still possessed Leon manages to swallow it. But a scream is already building in his chest, because the Tyrant is lowering his body, positioning him over that monstrous cock, and it can't be happening, it can't, this is too much, first it was those zombies raping him one after the other, and now this freak monster will tear him apart, because that cock is huge, too huge, almost as thick as his own fucking thigh, and how could he ever get something like that inside his body? Laughter and screams alike bubble up in his chest, up his throat, and as he grits his teeth to force it all back tears run down his cheeks instead, because this can't be happening.

But it is, and it does, and the pressure increases as the Tyrant lowers him, in a speed that seems more to allow the monster to position him perfectly than for any consideration for him, and the hand on his thigh tightens as it pulls on him, while also letting his own weight and gravity work, and it's impossible, it's insane, it's a dream, it can't be real, it's not happening, it's not happening, and then he feels himself being breached, feels himself tearing open as the Tyrant pulls on him, feels pain shooting up his body, and he screams, he screams, he screams.

The whole time Leon screams, the whole time his body's torn apart, the whole time something too big and too alien forces itself into him, the Tyrant stays quiet. Leon forgets there's something more than the hands holding him, something more than the monstrous thing tearing him open. And he can't think of anything but the thing inside of him, because it was too big, he was fucked over and over until he was spilling disgusting zombie come, but this is too much , too wide, and even as gravity weighs him down he gets stuck long before taking the whole length - a quick glance down tells him as much, and he wishes he hadn't looked, because the hand on his thigh moves to his hip, and then he's lifted and the hands pull him down again, with more force, forces him down, he knows how much more there is to force into his body.

And it takes the breath out of him, he can't even scream, he feels something inside of himself tear as the monster forces itself deeper into his body. He stares, rasping, despairing moans ripped from his throat, as his stomach bulges, more and more as more of the cock enters him. Horrified, but unable to look away, he watches as it moves, as he's lifted up again and once again forced down, forced deeper, and the cock inside of him pushes against his insides, because it's too big, too much, and he can see it, can see it moving inside of him, can see as the bulge gets bigger as it gets deeper into him. He can't breathe, he knows it's tearing him apart, the pain makes his head hazy and any thoughts slow, he thinks he can see blood dripping on the floor, and it doesn't surprise him at all, because he's being torn apart.

Time loses all meaning as his head is wrapped in pain; he can only let out rattling gasps and groans ever so often, when his arm's jostled, when he reflexively tries to move his bad leg, when the Tyrant moves inside of him. There is blood, he was right before, coating his thighs and the floor, mixed with the come left in him, and no wonder he's so dizzy, there's almost enough blood to be called a small pool underneath him. And the mutated monster keeps using him, keeps fucking into him, and he chokes when he realizes it's in, it's all in, all inside of him, the whole monstrous cock.

And he chokes, because he feels it, feels the whole length pulsating inside his body, feels the body of the Tyrant pressing against his backside, and it's too much, it's too much, too large, panic floods his mind as he looks down and sees. Mindlessly he starts struggling, twists in the mutant's grip, kicks with his good leg, pulls at his arm, because this is unreal, this is too much, this can't be happening, he needs to get it out, he needs to get it out, out, outoutout.

The Tyrant actually makes a sound, a groan that makes Leon sob and trash even harder - then the monster tightens his grip on Leon's arms, and it's much quicker than before, simply an action to make him stop squirming, and Leon chokes as the crunching sound reaches him, the sound of the bones in his arms being crushed by inhuman might - both his arms, whole and broken, all of it, his arms. The pain reaches him a moment later, but all he can do is throw his head back and shake and gape with wide eyes momentarily blinded by sheer overwhelming, despairing pain.

He doesn't notice how his head rests against the Tyrant's shoulder, or how the manmade monster stares down at his face. He doesn't notice how the Tyrant lets go of his arms, letting them fall to his sides, unusable, useless, worthless, instead taking a hold of his throat. He just barely notices how the monstrous cock inside him shifts.

Leon's body moves, is moved, and behind him the Tyrant's breath grows to audible levels as he lifts Leon up and lets him fall down down, as his own hips start moving. The grip he has on Leon's throat is tight, painful even, but doesn't hinder the airflow. If he were capable of conscious thought Leon would be horrified about the grip on his hip, on the dents in his very bones that the mutant fingers are causing.

But he isn't, and he feels nothing. Hips move against his ass, hard, powerful, almost bone-shattering movements, as the Tyrant fucks into him for real. The cock inside of him causes his insides to scream, blood constantly running down his legs, because it's tearing him apart. And he feels nothing.

His head falls forward after a hard thrust makes his whole body jerk, and Leon stares down at the his dangling legs, at the large boots, at the floor - and all he sees is the blood. Red. Everywhere. It's beneath him, staining the floor, staining the Tyrant's boots as well, dripping from the soles of his own feet, coloring his own legs in red lines. Blinking slowly he lifts his head, and the red follows, staining the corpses on the floor, against the walls, and the walls themselves are growing red as he stares, the red spreading, oozing, from body to body, reaching down, reaching up, spreading until there's nothing else, only red, he breathes out and it colors the very air red. Maybe he should close his mouth, maybe he should stop breathing out, breathing in, taking the red inside of him - but it came from him, didn't it, does it really matter if he breathes it in again - but he keeps doing it, keeps watching the air grows thicker, watching the redness grow thicker.

The hand around his throat twitches, and Leon chokes, just for a moment, his throat constricting for just that one second, and his head rolls back against the Tyrant's shoulder, and it's the same, everything's the same, red, forming all around him, in the light and in the dark, he sees it pour from the Tyrant's trenchcoat, from his stupid hat, from his face- but no, not everything. Leon blinks again, his breath coming in red puffs. The eyes stare down at him, cold and dead and without any thoughts or feelings in them, boring into Leon the way his cock bores into Leon's ass. And they're devoid of color, of any red. Only white, pure white, dead and frozen, unblinking as Leon gapes.

Those eyes reach inside of him, chills him as time passes by, as the red air moves around them. And Leon's warm, heated, blazing, burning as those eyes sear into him, and isn't it strange, how different coldness can be. Cold should be cold, but the leather of the Tyrant's trenchcoat against his back, the leather of the Tyrant's gloves around his throat, around his thigh, is so very different than the cold he'd been experiencing for so long, the cold that was surrounding him and on him and in him as moving corpses took, used his body over and over. The zombies’ coldness, their skin, their lips, their tongues and teeth and limbs, moved over him, as if trying to infect him the way their disgusting come was warming and infecting him from the inside. But the leather was impersonal. It just was , slowly taking the heat from him, drawing it from him as those frozen eyes chills him from the inside. The longer he stares into them, the harder he shakes, the colder he feels, and he knows he should look away, should close his eyes or move his head.

But the coldness is already inside of him, freezing the red, turning his insides to ice that kept being crushed and smashed up and torn apart. If he could look at himself his whole body, his face, his mouth and eyes, it would all be red, he knows. His arms hang at his sides, and he knows it would make no difference if he could move them. He doesn't try. He doesn't move. He doesn't close his eyes.

The white eyes don't move, the ice doesn't shift, but Leon sees the red huffs come stronger from the Tyrant's lips. And he feels the monster moving faster, slamming into him harder, the grip around his throat tightening. The air around his own face is thick with redness as he gasps, uncontrollably, but the ice holds him, and he doesn't move even as he feels the hand move from his hip to his knee. He doesn't move as the hand wrenches his leg to the side, he doesn't scream as the thrusting gets even more brutal, as the cold leather of the gloves bites into his skin when the grip tightens, he doesn't look away as the bones grind together and breaks.

And he wonders, as the warmth spreads inside of him, in his ass, his stomach, his chest, his freaking throat, if the come will be colored red, if the ice will freeze it soon enough.

He makes some noise, he thinks, as the hand around his throat simply lifts him, pulls him up from that monstrous cock and into the air. And there's no strength left, no mind to try and harness some, nothing but the ice, nothing but redredred; he hangs in the grip, his head falling down towards his chest, and even if everything's red he sees how something's running down his legs, far more than before. He feels nothing, even as the Tyrant turns him around. He feels nothing, even as all his limbs hang broken and crushed and useless. He feels nothing, even as those frozen eyes once more bore into him.

He feels nothing as the hand tightens around his throat, doesn't recognize the crunching sound. He sees nothing but red as the hand lets go and his body falls to the red floor. He doesn't hear the thundering footsteps disappear. He doesn't move.

-

God, it's killing her to be inside the station, the possibility of what awaits in every room she enters making her clutch the gun tighter, but Claire grits her teeth and moves forward. Leon's there, she knows it. They said they'd meet again, inside the station, and even though they'd barely spent any time together she knows he would do anything in his power for that to happen. He's there somewhere, she's sure of it. Maybe he's found a way out of this hellish city, and is only waiting for her.

Corpses line the halls, and she tries not to gag at the smell. The groaning and moaning is absent in this part of the station, and she wonders if it's Leon's doing, if he's managed to create a safe place - or, as safe as can be. But as she moves on the injuries on the corpses changes, and she swallows heavy as she recognizes the way some of the zombies are crushed. Such typical injuries, only caused by one thing that she knows of, and, god, she prays to whoever might be listening that that particular monster isn't still around.

She peers into a room, and immediately has to cover her mouth as the stench hits her, far worse than anywhere else. All across the floor there are remains of what was once people, what was once zombies, crushed and torn apart and tossed carelessly to the side. Driven by something beyond curiosity Claire steps into the room, wide eyes taking in the carnage, the blood covered walls, the- the bandages?

She moves quicker at that, starts actually searching the area. Halfway hidden under the lower half of a former zombie she spots a shotgun, and close to that a police issue vest, and more, more signs of human presence. Of Leon, because who else could it be?

Her hands are clammy, heartbeats loud in her ears, as fear and worry wash over her.

Then there's a noise, a rattling breath, that makes her jump, lifting the gun automatically as she tries to find where the noise had come from. Over there, a body a little bit separate from the others. She carefully moves closer, gun pointed and steady, managing to only grit her teeth instead of jumping when she hears another rasp - and it sounds wrong, sounds painful, it hurts her own throat to hear, but she can't be too careful, has to be prepared for what it might be, be prepared for a sudden attack or-

Something clicks in her head as she spots the blond hair. It's familiar. Too familiar. Her breath quickens; the gun in her hands isn't steady any longer. There's a face under all that blood and grime and filth, she realizes, and a despairing moan's wrung from her lips. A familiar face.

It's too late.

Claire's too late.

Her gun clatters to the floor.

Oh, god.