First Person: The Pool Summons
I thought I had reached the limits of humiliation. I was wrong. You can always dig deeper into the well of indignity, and Cecilia Alcott seemed to have a treasure map and a shovel.
On Saturday afternoon, after our kitchen truce, she entered my suite with a determination that put me on high alert. She wore an elegant summer dress and designer sunglasses perched on her head.
"Kennedy," she announced, her tone brooking no argument. "We are going. It is a splendid day, and I have decided that some aquatic exercise is in order."
I looked at her from the armchair where I was reading a book on the physics of IS reactors (a futile attempt to understand this world). "Aquatic exercise? You mean swimming?"
"A brilliant deduction," she said with a touch of sarcasm she had learned from me. "We will go to the main dome pool."
I chuckled. A short, humorless laugh. "Of course not. Firstly, I am your prisoner, not your spa buddy. Secondly, putting myself in an open space with hundreds of your fellow students sounds like a monumental security risk. For me."
"Your safety is my concern, not yours," she retorted coldly. "And you are not my prisoner, you are my pupil. And as such, you will participate in recreational activities I deem suitable for your... rehabilitation. Besides, exercise will help release some of that destructive energy you seem to possess."
"I'd rather release it on a firing range or in a combat gym, not splashing in a pool," I argued.
"You are not in a position to prefer anything," she said, her voice turning silk and steel. "Our agreement is predicated on your cooperation. Or perhaps you have forgotten the alternatives? I am sure Sir Reginald would be delighted to resume his... interrogation."
The threat, though couched in politeness, was crystal clear. It was this, or back to square one with the men I had crippled. I sighed, closing the book. I had no choice.
"Alright," I conceded. "But I have nothing to wear."
A triumphant smile appeared on her face. "Oh, do not concern yourself with that. I have already taken care of everything."
She pointed to a small box she had left on my bed. I opened it with a sense of dread. Inside, impeccably folded, was not a decent, baggy swim trunk like any normal man would wear. There was a piece of navy blue fabric, of a high-tech material that seemed to shrink just by looking at it. It was a "trunk" style swimsuit, tight, European style. It was... minimal.
"You're kidding me," I said, holding up the handkerchief-sized garment.
"It is the current fashion, Mr. Kennedy," she replied, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "I did not expect a barbarian such as yourself to be abreast of it. Put it on. I shall await you at the door in five minutes."
She left, leaving me with the offending piece of fabric and the crushing certainty that my dignity was about to take another hit.
Third Person: The Calm Before the Exhibition
The IS Academy's Swimming Dome was a marvel of engineering. A tropical paradise encapsulated under a smart glass ceiling that perfectly mimicked a summer sky. There were multiple pools interconnected by waterfalls, surrounded by lush vegetation, palm trees, and even a small white sand beach. It was the kind of place one would expect to find at a billion-dollar luxury resort, not a school.
Ichika's squad girls were gathered near one of the larger pools. The atmosphere was relaxed, filled with laughter and splashing.
"Do you really think she'll bring him?" Lingyin asked as she adjusted her swim goggles, her tone one of scientific curiosity. "It would be a unique opportunity to observe his physiological responses in a leisure environment."
"Cecilia is very stubborn," Charlotte replied, floating peacefully on a pool noodle. "If she said she'd bring him, she will. Though I wonder if it's a good idea. Putting him on display like this... it seems a bit cruel."
"Hmph! That man deserves it, after all the chaos he's caused!" Houki huffed, sitting on the edge of the pool, her cheeks slightly flushed at the thought. "Though it is unseemly for a man to be in a pool with so many ladies."
Laura Bodewig said nothing. She simply swam laps with military precision and speed, her body cutting through the water in a display of power and efficiency. To her, this wasn't leisure; it was training.
Ichika, for his part, was clumsily trying to play water volleyball with other students, oblivious to the tension his presence already caused, much less what was to come.
Then, they saw Cecilia approach. She walked with a queen's elegance through her domains, a silk sarong over her bikini.
"Cecilia!" Charlotte called out. "Where is your... guest?"
Cecilia removed her sunglasses and smiled with unshakeable confidence. "He had to change into more... appropriate attire. He's coming now."
As if her words had summoned him, the rarely used men's changing room doors opened. And Leon S. Kennedy stepped into the artificial sunlight.
The chatter and laughter around the pool faded. A sudden, heavy silence fell over the tropical paradise. Hundreds of pairs of eyes turned in a single direction. The show had just begun.
Second Person: The Map of Violence
The first thing you notice is the scale.
In a world populated by teenage girls, most of whom are slender and athletic, he is a mountain. He stands six feet one inch, a height that makes him immediately stand out. He walks from the shadow of the changing rooms into the bright light of the dome, and his physique is fully revealed.
The word that comes to mind is "solid." It's not the inflated body of a bodybuilder, designed for display. It's the body of a man whose strength is a tool, not an adornment. Broad shoulders, a well-developed chest, and arms that have clear definition, the product of years of functional training. His torso tapers to a lean waist, the classic "V" shape that speaks of power and agility.
The navy blue swimsuit Cecilia forced him to wear hides nothing. It highlights the powerful muscles of his legs, and the way he stands, with a natural balance and a relaxed yet alert posture, screams "predator."
But it's not the muscles that capture and hold your attention. It's the scars.
His skin is a map of a violent life, so different from yours, filled with simulated battles and controlled training. There's a long, faded white line running down his side, peeking above the waist of his swimsuit. The trajectory of a knife that almost cut him in two. On his left shoulder, a small, puckered circular scar, the unmistakable mark of a bullet that entered and stayed. His back and chest are dotted with smaller marks: cuts, scrapes, and burns, each a story you don't know.
They are not scars of honor gained in IS duels. They are the ugly, messy, random scars of real-world violence. They are a silent, brutal testament that the elegant, princely man of yesterday and the barbarian of the recordings are one and the same.
The reactions around you are a silent chorus of awe.
Houki blushes a crimson so deep it clashes with her black swimsuit. She sharply looks away, muttering "How shameless!" but her eyes dart back to him, drawn by a fascination she cannot control.
Lingyin has taken off her goggles. Her gaze is clinical, analytical. "The density of scar tissue suggests multiple encounters with bladed weapons and high-velocity projectiles. Healing time varies, indicating these incidents occurred over several years. Amazing." She is cataloging his wounds as if they were specimens.
Charlotte looks at you with an expression of profound sadness. She sees no monster or soldier. She sees a man who has suffered. Every scar is a wound she can imagine, and her empathetic heart aches for the man who had to endure them.
Laura, who has stopped swimming and is standing in waist-deep water, looks at him in an entirely different way. She sees no ugly scars. She sees a history. She sees the marks of a survivor, of a warrior. In her world of perfect soldiers, he is a battle-hardened veteran of real fights. And her respect for him, grudgingly, grows exponentially.
And Cecilia... she watches you, her face a mask of cool indifference, but her knuckles are white where she grips her sunglasses. She wanted to put him on display to demonstrate her control, but by stripping him bare, she has revealed the true nature of the beast she holds on a leash. She has shown everyone that her "pupil" is not a project, but a living weapon forged in the fire of a world far crueler than theirs.
Whispers spread throughout the pool like a ripple. The girls point, they murmur. He, the mystery, the ghost, the DJ, the fighter... he is now real, physical, and covered in the evidence of his past.
First Person: On Display
I walked from the changing rooms to the edge of the pool, feeling every stare like an insect crawling on my skin. I hated this. I hated being the center of attention. I hated being exposed. My scars were mine, private reminders of my failures and survivals. Now they were a public spectacle.
I kept my face impassive, my expression hard and cold, a shield against the hundreds of curious eyes. I walked directly towards Cecilia, ignoring everyone else. She was my jailer. She was the cause of this.
I stopped in front of her. "Happy?" I asked, my voice low and laced with icy sarcasm. "I'm on display, just as you wanted."
She had the decency not to smile, though I saw a flicker of triumph in her eyes. "It is merely a spot of sunshine and exercise, Mr. Kennedy. Do not be so dramatic. Vitamin D is good for one's mood."
I walked past her and approached the group of girls who were now staring at me like I was an alien specimen. Houki blushed and turned away. Lingyin looked like she was about to ask me for a biopsy. Charlotte offered me a small, shy smile of sympathy. Laura gave me a terse nod, a soldier-to-soldier gesture of acknowledgment that surprised me. Ichika grinned broadly.
"Wow, Kennedy-san! Those scars are cool! Did you get them training?"
"Something like that," I replied dryly.
I ignored the unspoken invitation to join the fun. Instead of jumping into the pool, I sat on the edge, away from the main group, and simply dipped my feet into the cool water. I fulfilled my end of the bargain. I was here. I was participating. But I would do it on my own terms.
I became a statue, a silent observer at the edge of paradise. I could feel the stares, the whispers. I let them wash over me. They had stripped me bare, yes. They had seen my past written on my skin.
But as I sat there, I realized something. Cecilia had wanted to shame me, to control me, to display me as her trophy. But she had failed.
They hadn't seen a tamed barbarian.
They had seen irrefutable proof that, beneath the expensive clothes and cynical attitude, lay a man who had danced with death again and again and lived to tell the tale.
She wanted them to see me as her pet. Instead, I had shown them why they should be afraid of me. And for the first time, seeing the nervousness and grudging respect in their eyes, I felt that the power balance, which had tipped so heavily against me, was beginning, very slowly, to level out again.