So my first attempt at a fan fiction. Sorry if it's not the best.
This will be a Leon and Ashley story, since I really do love the pairing.
This will be rated M for future sex scenes, language, and slight violence.
DISCLAIMER: I unfortunately, do not own Resident Evil, that right goes to CAPCOM (insert dramatic sigh here)

Also, sorry for any errors, I looked over this like, a million times and never found any, but I could have over looked something, and the friend I had reading over this found nothing. But we are pretty incompetent sometimes :]

Any who, on to the fic!

Maybe all one can do is hope to end up with the right regrets

~Arthur Miller

"Not my daughter! Please not my daughter!"

Leon silently held the pistol up. His eyes focused on the form of a small girl. Her hair was soft and long, messy, but beautiful in the way only a child's hair could be. Her body was small; he could imagine picking her up with one arm, taking her to her mother. But it was far too late. The girl looked up at him, and Leon understood. Her eyes were white, unseeing. Her mouth wide open, her tongue wagging, and she ran at him.

"No! Have Mercy! Have mercy!"

Leon heard nothing. He took his time aiming. (Or was he hesitating, waiting for the last possible moment? Waiting for her to blink the death from her eyes and become a little girl again…)

"Oh God! Oh God no! No!"

Her sobs emerged, that rocked Leon to his very foundation. But he couldn't falter. No. This was something that had to be done. He opened his eyes a little wider; he wanted to take this all in. He felt his finger press the trigger, surprisingly cold, despite how long he had held the gun in his hands. The sound was deafening, so much so, that the woman was momentarily silent. And he heard it, more then he saw it.

The sound of brute force ripping through tissue and skin. The blast of a skull shattering. Blood dropping like a gallon of water slamming into the pavement, the sound of slush. The body hitting the floor. The sound of a heart breaking.

"No!" Feet ran right by him. But this time, he couldn't be professional enough to stop her. This much, he owed her. The woman dropped her knees, and cradled her daughter close. Her sobs were so painful, so loud, that Leon himself felt silent, warm tears run down his face. He didn't even know when he had begun to cry. And the woman looked up, and his body went numb.

He looked into the eyes of his own mother. "How could you kill your own flesh and blood?"

He looked down and saw his own skin begin to pale, and start to decay. He felt his heart begin to stop, he smelled the stench of his own rotting flesh, and he looked into the eyes of his beautiful mother. And he relished as his teeth sank into her, he almost moaned at the feel of ripping her flesh apart, of tasting and chewing her skin. Of her warm blood dripping down his chin. And he stood tall and straight, turned his head and saw his own reflection.

His eyes snapped open, and he took in the deepest breath; like a drowning man whose head has just broken the surface of cold water. He was panting heavily; his body drenched in sweat. His blue eyes darted around quickly, as his fingers gripped his bed sheets. He was no longer in a dirty abandoned street, but in his own bed. His heart hammered in his chest. He turned to his side, and dropped out of bed, staggering to his bathroom. Everything was a blur to him, and before he knew it his plaid covered knees felt the coolness of the tile floor, and he was vomiting violently into the toilet. The sounds of his chokes, the gagging noises, bounced off the walls, and back to his own ears The sounds of him chocking and puking, the smell of it, God, it made him puke even more. He heaved for what seemed years, until his stomach was as empty as his heart, a matching pair.

When it hurt to breathe, and that salty feeling of blood lined his throat, he knew no matter how much he gagged, that nothing else was going to come out. Standing up, he flushed the toilet, placing the lid down silently. He walked to his sink, and looked up into the bathroom mirror, his breathing was normal, but his heart was still pounding, as if trying to assure him it was alive and pumping. Even alone, even after a nightmare, he would not allow himself to break down. To show any weakness. He was Leon S. Kennedy for God sakes. He was a professional. Showing emotion was not professional. (He had already broken that personal rule of his too many times).

He turned on the sink, full stream and stuck his mouth under the faucet. He gagged as the taste of bile was still burning on his tongue. Grabbing the green mouth wash, he didn't even bother measuring it. To hell with that, he put the bottle to his lips and took in as much as his mouth would allow him, and then swished it around. He bounced up and down, trying to take in the pain, and when his mouth felt like it was bleeding, blistering and on fire, he spit into the sink. It hurt, God did it fucking hurt, but it was enough to let him know he still was human enough to feel. He looked up into his mirror. He was still breathing a little hard, and his body glistened with slight sweat. He cocked his head to the side. His dark, dirty blond hair fell elegantly into his eyes. He stared at himself for God knows how long, almost as if trying to figure something out, before blinking lazily, and deciding what he really needed, was some fucking sleep.

He walked out his bathroom, flicking off the lights. Chris used to joke, calling him a dog, since he was able to stand in pitch blackness for only a mere second, before he could wander around, maneuver his way in the darkness, and not run into a single thing. Not make a single sound. But Leon knew better. What it made him was a ghost really. A mere imprint of what a human being used to be.

Leon walked back into him room, and sat on his bed. He buried his face into his hands, which were trembling, cold and clammy. His eyes were shut tight, and he felt shame build up in the pit of his stomach, even though he knew no one was watching. Leon had stared into the eyes of death himself, and never wavered once, but a dream, something that couldn't hurt him, had caused him so much fear. He was trembling from head to toe, he was still sweating, and his heart wouldn't stop pounding.

What frightened him the most, was not what he saw in his dream, but what he felt. He felt fear, sadness, even hunger. But when he shot the child, he felt nothing. It was routine. Even in his dreams, he was cold and stoic when it came to what he had to kill. And he realized that when a person lost their humanity and became a blood lusting zombie, he lost his own humanity, and became a killing machine. People blended easily, until it was almost like killing ants. He stared forward, looking at his walls. He didn't know when he lost his humanity, but he was wondering when he was going to get it back.

Could he get it back? Was it like getting a hair cut? It's gone in an instant, but surely, it'll come back, slowly, but it due time? He doubted that. Unlike everyone else he encountered, they still felt things. They still screamed, and got scared. They still cried, and laughed, and hurt. No, he was more of a zombie, then a human. He just has the luxury of being aware of himself. He fell back onto his bed, looking at his ceiling, his head tilting to the side, as the shadows danced, like moving paintings before his very eyes, until all he saw was blackness. Until all he felt was the weight of sleep on him, like a comfortable blanket; like the world on his shoulders.

The prologue is now completed!
Chapter one will be put up shortly (whenever I stop being lazy and get around to finishing it, damn college...)
R&R you guys :]
Until next time!