Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I am the sail, the plank
The mast that breaks and gets replaced
I am remade, repaired, reshaped
But somehow, still the same
Even after every cell in my body changed
I know my name

"Where the hell is he?" says Piers, scowling. "The ceremony starts in twenty minutes."

Chris sighs, gingerly taking a sip of something bubbly that he's not rich enough to properly appreciate. White wine? His wine experience is limited to the boxes of cheap stuff he and Jill would get sick on in their STARS days, drinking it straight from the flimsy silver bag and wearing sunglasses into work the next morning. What's being served tonight definitely doesn't taste like that—it might be champagne, considering all the wealth and power in the room around them. Whatever it is, Chris just knows that it's not the beer he'd prefer to be drinking right now.

Piers is in a similar state. He takes sips from a flute that looks too delicate in his gloved hands, the shiny Derby shoes on his feet squeaking with every fidgety shift of his weight. They're both out of their comfort zone tonight. The elegant decor, the expensive alcohol, the tiny portions of food that seem prepared to increase hunger rather than sate it; Chris has never liked it. Piers, even less. But Leon, who has more experience politicking in one pinky than Chris and Piers combined, had promised to keep them company.

So far, it's been something of a lonely hour.

"Caught up at the office?" says Chris, eyes scanning the sea of well-dressed people for a familiar head of dark hair. "You know how they work him to the bone."

"Or he's being punished for New York," Piers suggests. He drains his glass in an impolite gulp. "The DSO never approved a collaboration. God-forbid he gets recognition for saving a city."

Chris shoots him a sharp look, cautious of the very important figures nearby who might overhear, but the reprimand goes unvoiced. Piers is right, after all. The DSO has always taken a very private approach with its agents—Leon is practically a ghost, while Chris' face is on the damn BSAA website. The co-hosting of tonight's event, a full year after the Arias incident, is no doubt due to political pressure rather than genuine acknowledgement of a job well done, but saving 8.5 million US citizens is enough to coax even the DSO into some performative nonsense.

"Bet he's thrilled," says Chris. "It's not like he wanted to come in the first place."

"Yeah," Piers grumbles, putting his empty flute on the edge of an abandoned table. "Lucky bastard."

Across the room, Rebecca is looking very stylish in her green dress as she speaks to a senator whose name Chris should probably know but doesn't. Silver Dagger was called on another mission a few days ago, with Nadia looking particularly relieved to avoid having to be present for her medal, so Rebecca is currently their only friendly face. Despite hating every moment of being here, Chris is glad to see her. Any opportunity to see her healthy and whole after that virus business is one that he welcomes.

Tonight's event, ostensibly a conference and award ceremony, but seems far too extravagant to be anything but an excuse to rub shoulders and self-congratulate, is black tie optional, even though no one would know by looking at the crowd. Both Chris and Piers had to suffer through an expensive shopping trip just to have something adequate to wear. Piers hadn't owned any formal clothing of this calibre, while Chris' usual suit had grown too tight around the waist when he wasn't looking. 42 had crept up on him.

His new jacket—simple, black, properly tailored across the shoulders so he doesn't worry about splitting the seams—feels hollow inside without the familiar weight of his pistol against his rib cage. He's not used to it. Being in public unarmed and unarmoured just feels like inviting trouble, and he knows Piers feels the same way. The frustrated huffs when Piers' hand reaches for a hip holster that isn't there is telling enough.

"Leon didn't text you?" asks Piers, fiddling with his eye patch instead. Midnight blue, to match his suit. "Thought he was gonna at least suffer through the small talk with us."

Chris blows a gusty sigh. "Nope. Guess we're on our own for this one."

The idea of not seeing his boyfriend (a word that still flares a juvenile thrill in his chest) bums him out more than he'd like to admit. He hasn't spoken to Leon in weeks. Such distance isn't unusual for them, but it means Chris is pathetically eager to see him. They'd made plans for Chris to stay at Leon's place after, so Chris hasn't even booked a hotel room. It wouldn't be the first time something's come up to mess with their plans, but Leon would usually at least let him know if he needed a rain check.

Despite knowing there would be no message, Chris can't help but double-check his phone.

"Speaking of small talk," Piers mutters, and then:

"Captain Redfield. And Lieutenant Nivans," greets the woman, fizzy glass of probably-champagne in her manicured hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you both."

Chris returns her greeting with a polite nod. She's dressed as formally as the rest of them, but her navy gown has an air of professionalism that matches her unwavering gaze. He has no idea who she is. "And you, Miss...?"

"Agent Ingrid Hunnigan," she introduces, holding out a hand.

His brows jump, realising just who he's speaking to. "Agent Hunnigan," he repeats, pleased. Her grip is firm and perfunctory as he shakes it. "I'm glad to be able to put a face to the name."

"You as well," she says. "I've heard nothing but impressive things about you from Agent Kennedy."

"That's very kind of you." The words taste trite in his mouth. A platitude echoed by dozens of identical conversations happening around them. Goddamn it, he wishes they weren't meeting at a work event. He's been wanting to meet the woman Leon holds in such high regard for a long time.

Trying to infuse at least a little authentic sentiment into their interaction, Chris says, "Leon's told me how often you've saved his hide when an op has gone sideways. I appreciate your efforts in getting him home alive."

She takes the compliment with grace, her smile pleasant, if a little distant. "Leon's an exemplary agent by all accounts. I rarely need to interfere."

"Not from what I've heard. We all know—"

"However," she continues, openly interrupting him, "for all his skills, he isn't impervious to being ambushed by something dangerous. There are times when I can do little to help. It's... difficult to be certain of his safety, and I find myself fearing for his life."

Chris tries not to let a reaction show on his face. He wasn't expecting such a... personal confession from the woman he's just met. He knows Leon and Hunnigan are friends, but this admission feels unbefitting of an agent of her standing. They stamp out this kind of anxiety in the rookies before they ever step foot in the field. Any of them could die for their cause. It's part of the job.

"Leon does have a tendency to attract trouble," he agrees, though a little awkward. "But he usually manages to pull through. By the skin of his teeth, if necessary."

"Yes." Hunnigan nods, her gaze especially intense. "Usually."

There's a beat where she says nothing. An errant rhythm in their interaction that lets her words hang between them like lingering smoke. Some might brush it aside as the expected awkwardness of a new acquaintance, but something about the way she's looking at him makes an old instinct pang in Chris' gut.

Piers speaks up from beside him. "Where is he tonight?" he asks. "We expected to see him here."

"So did I," she says. "I haven't seen him in weeks."

Chris frowns, the pang in his gut growing louder. "Oh?"

Her eyes flit around the room before returning. "I've been informed he was called onto a solo mission."

That isn't right. Hunnigan is the Field Operations Support coordinator. Chris can't imagine many circumstances in which Leon would be on a mission without her presence, let alone without her knowledge. Leon rarely lets Chris know when he's assigned a mission, but if even Hunnigan isn't being kept updated on his well being… What the hell is the DSO doing?

More alarmingly, why is Hunnigan telling him about it?

By all accounts, there's nothing obvious to tip him off to any hidden meaning in her words—she stands straight backed but not terse, sipping casually at her drink, but her eyes remain locked on Chris'. She's looking at him far too intently for it to be anything other than a hint. A plea to pay attention.

"Sounds dangerous," says Piers. His voice is as serious as it is at any briefing, and Chris knows he's picking up on the same subtle message within Hunnigan's gaze.

"Yes," she says. "I think you're right."

The pang in Chris' gut whirs into a blaring alarm.

Something's wrong. With Leon. On a mission somewhere without Hunnigan's knowledge. Did she know anything about his whereabouts? His condition? Was she informing him of Leon's situation out of courtesy or asking for his help? Why tell him now, and not somewhere more private?

He takes a breath. Has to, else he risks breaking whatever level of discretion Hunnigan is trying hard to keep. She's keeping a steady watch on him, but he gives her the slightest nod.

Her eyes brighten, the tension leeching from her shoulders, and he knows he's got it right.

"I'm… sure the DSO has the situation well in hand," says Chris, forcing normalcy into his voice. Subterfuge has never been his strong suit, but he has to try. "But the BSAA stands ready to assist," he adds. Hoping she catches his meaning. "As always."

"Very generous of you, captain," she replies, none of that initial stiltedness in her tone now. "Our two organisations can work well together when given the chance. Tonight, for example."

She nods to the short platform intended to be used as a stage, the logos of both organisations hanging from the wall in a show of unity. Chris can't help but be impressed at her double entendre.

Tonight. She has something planned for tonight. That suits Chris just fine.

"The BSAA's finest are formidable," Hunnigan continues, that careful smile on her face again. "Though I'm well informed that the two of you are just as capable as a full squad."

"Depends on circumstances," says Piers. He stands stock still, fidgeting gone now that he has something to lock onto. "Working in fireteams is BSAA standard OP."

"That's certainly the difference between our two organisations," Hunnigan agrees. "The priorities of the DSO often means one or two agents are more than enough for our purposes. And far quieter, I'm sure."

Stealth, then. Not Chris' favourite situation, but he can contact Jill to see what support they can get on a time crunch. HQ won't be happy with him, but when are they ever? Chris nods and smiles like Hunnigan has just paid him a delightful compliment, pretending like he's not mentally mapping the room, calculating how long it'll take to leave. He needs a car. He needs intel. He needs to go.

Before he can figure out a suitably subtle way to get the fuck out of Dodge, Hunnigan says, "Unfortunately I will be taking my leave before the ceremony. Though I'm glad I was able to have a conversation with Dr. Chambers as well—I believe she wanted to discuss something with you soon. Best of luck for tonight."

With a polite nod, Hunnigan makes her exit, gracefully walking away as though she hasn't just tipped Chris' world on its axis.

Leon's in danger. Right now. And Chris doesn't even know where he is.

"Captain," says Piers, low, by his side. There's nothing more that needs to be said.

"On me," he says, walking as calmly as he can manage towards Rebecca, who stands on the far reaches of the ballroom. He attempts not to tread on any gowns beneath his uncomfortable formal Oxfords, his eyes locked on the head of short hair who often vanishes beneath the taller bodies of the crowd.

"Chris!" she greets when he gets close, sweeping up to latch him into a hug, which is the last thing he needs. He grunts and grasps her shoulders, about to push her away when he feels Rebecca's right arm squirm between their bodies. Her left arm is slung tightly over his shoulders, barely able to reach despite her heels, while her other hand shoves itself just about into his pants. He can't hide the flinch that jolts through his body because what the fuck Rebecca, but as her hand leaves he can feel something hard and flat wedged beneath his waistband, snug against the skin.

"Are you alright?" she demands of him, pulling back to hold his forearms in a vice grip. "Hunnigan told me you were feeling ill. Do you need anything?"

"I'm fine," he says on instinct, fighting the urge to bat her hands away. Whatever Hunnigan's reasons for acting like he's sick, he doesn't need Rebecca caught up in her worry—he needs info, fast. "Tell me what—"

"Don't you lie to me, Chris Redfield," she snaps, pointing one finger to his chest. The other hand squeezes, once, against his arm. "You should have told me you weren't well enough to come tonight."

He what? He stares at her. The straightforward plan he'd formed in his mind is rapidly drifting out of reach.

She sighs gustily, turning to Piers before Chris can get a word in edgewise. "I'm leaving it to you to take him home," she says firmly. "Get to the lower car park and take the car—I'll catch a taxi home, okay?"

The three of them had arrived in separate cabs.

"Rebecca—"

"Go, Chris," she says. Her eyes bore into his, that same I'm begging you to understand look that Hunnigan had. "We can talk later, okay?"

His teeth grit. He wants to demand answers, eyes on them or no, but mention of a car makes him hesitate. Whose car? Leon's? Hunnigan's? Too many questions and no answers whatsoever but Rebecca is squeezing his arms again and he knows she's not going to elaborate. He nods tightly and allows Piers to guide him from the room, the prosthetic hand a grounding touch amidst the adrenaline flushing his system.

The lower car park. Where none of them had left a vehicle.

Piers says nothing as they find the elevator and ride it down. Chris is grateful no one attempts to stall them, he isn't sure he could keep up any kind of pretence now that he's moving. He assumes Rebecca will cover for their absence, in the same way she'd foisted this illness excuse onto him, so he and Piers are free to—

To what? Chris still doesn't know what the fucking plan is. It was apparently made without him.

He pulls out whatever had been stuffed beneath his belt as the floor numbers dip below ground level. He doesn't look down, but he can feel the oblong plastic object squeezed within his palm, the flat buttons on the front. A key fob.

Well, that answers one question at least.

When the elevator doors open, Chris immediately presses the large button on the fob. Nothing happens. They exit the elevator in lockstep and keep walking.

Fortunately, the private car park for this hotel is relatively small. Chris is so wound up he nearly startles when he hears four locks click.

Piers points. "There."

A nondescript sedan resides between two far more expensive sports cars. It's definitely not Leon's. It bears civilian plates, new tires, and a distinct lack of flair. The doors open easily as they both get in, and close with a satisfying thunk behind them.

"What the fuck is going on, captain?" says Piers.

"Leon's in danger," Chris snaps. He doesn't mean to, but he doesn't quite care as he flicks down the visor and feels under the seat in hopes of a note, a clue, anything.

"I got that much." Piers checks his side of the car, then twists around to check the back seat. "I meant, what the hell happened to him? How are we meant to help him without—?"

He opens the glove box and a wad of papers falls into the footwell. They stare for a moment, before Chris jams the key into the ignition and reverses too quickly to be subtle.

"That better be some fucking coordinates or something," he growls.

Chris careens the car towards the exit, the front bumper scraping the incline in his haste, and narrowly avoids crashing straight through the boom gate. The machine at his window demands a ticket. He snatches a white paper tucked against the windshield and shoves it into the contraption, which deigns to give him a green light and a smiley face and raises the gate just in time for him to tear beneath it.

"Looks like Agent Hunnigan printed a briefing," says Piers, flicking through pages while Chris shamelessly cuts someone off as he swings out into the street. "Says Leon was sent to a homestead outside of Gettysburg," he continues, a little louder over the incensed honking behind them. "The GPS should have the address logged."

There's a lot of traffic already. Chris fights to keep himself calm as he reaches for the cheap little GPS attached to the windshield. Indeed there's an address already loaded, directing him up the I-270 and into Pennsylvania.

"Why the fuck is he there?" Chris mutters.

"I'm just…" Piers scans the cheaply printed text quickly. "It doesn't say anything other than he was sent to investigate 'concerning activity' two weeks ago and hasn't been in contact since. All attempts at reconnect failed. As of yesterday, he's been declared MIA."

Chris' hands tighten on the steering wheel. He breathes through his nose and says nothing.

"The house seems normal enough on the outside," Piers continues, "but apparently there's evidence of a lab built beneath it in the 2000s. Whoever is there is keeping up appearances to outsiders, so the likelihood of outside defences is low."

"Regardless of the outside defences, whatever's kept him there isn't going to play nicely," says Chris, cutting through a red light and finally gathering speed. His eyes are focused on the road, refusing to think about the possibility of Leon's survival. He will survive. Chris will accept nothing else. "We need to find somewhere on the way and get whatever kit we can—"

"Says here there's gear in the trunk. No details though. You can pull over before we get to the freeway and we'll take stock."

"We're not stopping."

"Chris—"

"Hunnigan is Leon's handler." Chris doesn't take his eyes from the road, but his tone is more than enough to clamp Piers' jaw shut. "From what I've heard, she's the best of the best. If she says we're got gear, I trust her."

Piers exhales a long breath like he always does when he's biting his tongue, hard. "Fine," he says. "Also, give me your phone; we're off-grid for this one."

Chris pulls his phone from his pocket but doesn't hand it over. "I need to call Jill," he says, but the phone is snatched from his hand and replaced with another.

"The glove box had this."

In his hand is a cell phone that wouldn't look out of place in a museum exhibit. Hunnigan must be truly determined to keep this rescue mission off-record to give them a burner phone.

Without looking away from the road, Chris dials the number he's had memorised since his twenties.

It nearly rings out, the speakerphone tinny and jarring, before she picks up with an unwelcoming, "Who's this?"

"Jill, get a team together and meet us in Gettysburg." Chris pulls onto the freeway and accelerates. "Piers will text you the address. Leon's in trouble."

One of his favourite things about Jill is how she wastes no time. "What kind of trouble?"

"We don't know. Agent Hunnigan approached us at the conference. She wouldn't say it outright, but she was asking for help. She clearly doesn't trust the DSO to handle this. I need a team on location in case things go south, but Piers and I will be going stealth first if we can swing it. How quickly can you send a team?"

"Realistically? Six hours."

What? "What?" Chris snaps. "Leon is in danger, now."

"Most of the ready squads are in San Antonio—we were notified of an outbreak from the air force base a few hours ago. Category 3 right now, but the higher ups are worried it'll escalate. Alpha team is on standby."

"Then get me whoever isn't, Jill."

"It's not that simple and you know it," she snaps back. "Look. I'll do what I can to get out there ASAP. But you know as well as I do that Barrett won't prioritise doing the DSO a favour over a Cat 3. I doubt he'll sign off on any teams that aren't heading to Lackland."

Chris curses, loud. He swerves around a rickety old truck and floors the gas, pushing the poor sedan to its limits. It's a fucking automatic, so truthfully he doesn't get much out of it.

"Do you know what you're dealing with?"

Chris focuses on driving. Piers speaks instead. "No. We've got bare-bones intel from Hunnigan, but nothing more."

"Any gear?"

Piers pointedly doesn't answer, making Chris grit his teeth. "Hunnigan set us up with a loadout," he replies. "We'll be fine."

"Get eyes on the place and get back to me," says Jill. Her voice is even, steadfast in the wake of the turmoil that is currently flooding Chris' bloodstream. It's always been this way with her; they balance each other out. When one gets in their head, the other remains grounded. It's exactly how partners should be. "I'll see what I can manage. Get me the address and I'll drum something up. Alright?"

Chris breathes. Fills his lungs and exhales. "Alright," he replies. "Thanks, Jill."

She clicks off.

So no backup. None that he can confirm, anyway. Hunnigan told them they needed stealth, not firepower, but having a team on standby in case things get dicey is the ideal move. It's risky enough going in blind, but with just the two of them the stakes are that much higher.

But what's the alternative? Waiting six hours until backup might become available? If there was a team ready and waiting to go, they would all arrive at Gettysburg around the same time. As it stands, Chris can't bear to wait.

He's just glad Jill picked up. As much as he appreciates Piers' presence, speaking to Jill brings that urgent, panicked part of himself into focus. Support team or no, he has Jill and Piers. They can do this.

"We'll get him back, captain," Piers tells him, quiet but assured.

Chris says nothing. He drives.

It takes two hours and twenty-six minutes to make it to their destination. The road from Virginia to Maryland had been overcome with roadworks, forcing them to crawl along the asphalt at a snail's pace. If Chris hadn't been blocked by a solid concrete wall, he would have swerved onto the opposite side of the highway and been done with it. His badge would get him out of any tickets, but getting pulled over for dangerous driving would have only made their journey slower. Considering Piers' pursed mouth the entire ride, his lieutenant was probably glad for the barriers separating the lanes.

Down the long, dead-end road just outside Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, is a wide stretch of land that indeed appears abandoned. In the dark, headlights off so as to not attract attention, Piers removes his eye patch to guide Chris along, halting him somewhere along the never-ending tarmac. Before them, to Chris' two human eyes, there's little to make out beneath the light of the waxing moon. A flat expanse of grass. A tree line in the distance. If he squints, he thinks he can see a dark block shape that might be a house.

"Can you see it?" asks Piers. Chris isn't sure what his infected eye can make out, but he's certain it's a damn sight more than what he can right now.

"Maybe. In front of the trees?"

Piers nods. "Single story. Wooden. Porch out front. Can't see a barn or garage. Can't see any people, either."

"Cars? Tire tracks? Any sign anyone's been here?"

"No, sir." Piers rises a little in his seat, peering over the bonnet. "No obvious tracks, didn't see any as we pulled up. And there's no dirt on the road—might've been washed away by rain, might not."

Chris blows out a steady breath, focused on the scene before him. He refuses to think about a single agent, making his way into the dark; instead, he attempts to come up with a plan. There's nothing but dirt and unkempt grass, no cover to keep them inconspicuous. If there was a lab somewhere beneath the earth, they would certainly have cameras to surveil the property. They'd be seen in a minute if they attempted to cross here.

He glances behind them—pointlessly, it's still pitch black to him—and swings the car around, driving some 200 yards back until he can see the series of sporadic trees that must serve as the property line. They lead up to the thin forest that edges the south side, bracketing the house, and providing them with enough cover that they have a chance of making it unseen. It's their best bet so far.

"Alright. Let's go," says Chris, and they exit the car.

The first thing Chris does is strip off his ridiculous jacket, flinging it back onto the driver's seat. Both of their ties had already been lost to the roadwork debacle, abandoned somewhere in the backseat along with Piers' gloves. Next is shoving the crisp white sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows, snapping the delicate buttons clean off with the strain of his forearms. There's nothing to be done about his Oxfords, uncomfortable and slippery, nor is there any reprieve from the slacks that will likely end up torn alongside his cuffs. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except Leon.

"Captain."

Chris turns to see Piers glaring at him, lit by the mild light of the open trunk, then down. With a sinking feeling, Chris approaches. And stares.

"What the fuck?" he mutters, the shiver of concern pooling into genuine anxiety in his belly. "Where's the rest of it?"

"There is no rest of it," Piers snaps, angry in that worried kind of way he gets. "I told you we should have checked the trunk before we got here."

"Not the time for an 'I told you so', Nivans," Chris bites back, looking at their meagre gear like something more substantial might magically appear before his eyes.

It's barely anything. Two ballistic vests, two SIGs, an M84 flash grenade, a tac light, and four boxes of ammo. A hundred bullets each to dispatch whatever had taken down Leon S Kennedy. A hundred bullets each for a blind mission they know next to nothing about.

"What the fuck, Hunnigan," he snarls. "The hell kind of loadout is this?"

"Guess it's the DSO special," Piers returns, distinctly bitter, shucking his own suit jacket. "Leon always says the BSAA goes overboard with our set up."

"Leon's always wrong."

It's a bad idea to linger on how Leon is always sent to his missions woefully ill-equipped—and how such lack of foresight may have contributed to his current status, god fucking damn it—so Chris forces himself to focus and starts with the ballistic vest. Strapping it on over what remains of his suit is distinctly weird; he's just about lived in his BDUs for fifteen years and it feels wrong to have the body armour catch on starched fabric and delicate buttons. He then grabs a few things that were hidden under the armour—a set of holsters that he shares with Piers, a med kit, singular, and—

A third handgun. Scuffed and well worn, Chris recognises Leon's Silver Ghost, the pistol he keeps by his bedside when he sleeps. Hunnigan must have picked it up from his house. Chris tries to take it as a good sign that she believes Leon will be well enough to use a gun, but frankly it just makes him worry about their limited ammo even more.

He snatches up the flash and his SIG, automatically going through the motions of loading the weapon while he considers his options. Piers is mirroring him, his prosthesis moving steadily despite the required dexterity. His patch is flicked up over his pale, infected eye, the pupil blown inhumanly wide to better see in the dark.

"This is dangerous," Piers mutters, shoving his pistol in his holster and picking up the Silver Ghost. "We don't know what's down there; we should wait for back up."

"No."

Piers huffs, straightening up. "Captain—"

"I said no, Piers." Chris sheaths his gun and grabs the med kit, strapping it to his holster. He then goes for the light, clicking it twice to ensure it's readiness. "We run low along the tree line. You go first to guide us—we should avoid using the flashlight as much as possible."

Piers tips his head back to breathe. Probably fighting back choice words. Chris lets him; if it means they can get to Leon's location without complaints, he doesn't mind waiting.

After a second, his lieutenant gathers himself, double checking both holsters before nodding. "Yessir," he says, determined as always, and they move.

The grass is a little less overgrown here. Chris' leather shoes dig into his toes and heels as they run in a crouch from tree to tree, his eyes just barely adjusting to the darkness. He's still mostly blind but Piers guides him, giving warnings over his shoulder as they traverse divots and bumps in the terrain. It's not the quickest journey, but he manages to not trip on any unexpected branches as they make it to the thicket of trees and shrubbery that will cover their advance toward the house.

Cool wind rushes over the dry grass in a swishing susurrus that helps cloak their approach. As they get closer, Chris finally notices the outline of the building against the clear sky—it's every bit as unimposing as Piers said.

They pause not far off, hidden behind a shagbark hickory with a creaking trunk.

"Any cameras?" asks Chris, quiet.

Piers peeks out. His white shirt is obvious even in the darkness—Chris nearly regrets leaving their jackets in the car. Their need for unhindered movement was far greater, but the dark suits would have worked better for stealth.

"Negative," is the response. "No movement through the windows either."

Chris trusts Piers implicitly, but goddamn he wishes he had his night-vision scope with him. Cautiously, straining for any sound that might indicate an audience, Chris clicks on his flashlight and takes a look.

The home is worn, but not totally run down. Made of plain dark wood, the place looks more like a cabin one might find off the beaten track in the woods than a hub for bioweaponry. The bright LED spotlight passes one window, and Chris can see the coating of dust and dirt across the glass, the drawn shades within. The porch is dirty but clear of debris and weeds, and the door appears intact. As he pans across the stairs, the air changes.

He freezes. He can feel the hairs on his arm stand on end, a rush of tingling across his scalp, his whole body. Piers hisses in a pained breath, and Chris' flashlight flickers.

"Get back— Captain, back!" Piers shouts, and Chris is bolting as far away from the trees as he can manage before—

He expects a boom. An explosion, a shockwave. Something to justify the way the static in the air just vanishes, pulling down to a point and dissipating without even a pop. His slippery shoes skid a little against the dry grass as he halts, pistol up, scanning the area around him in what little light the moon provides.

It's quiet, just as it had been all night. Chris turns in a slow circle, barely breathing. His teeth taste like nickels. After a few long moments, Piers calls quietly to him.

"What the hell was that?" Chris asks, handgun steady before him as he backs up to where Piers is crouching.

"Don't know," he replies, sounding breathless. He's clutching his prosthesis, the bionic fingers flexing intermittently. "Thought it was lightning."

"So did I." With a final scan of the landscape, Chris drops to his lieutenant's side. "You good, Piers?"

Piers grunts and shakes the arm out. The movement lags. "Electromagnetic interference," he says. "I'll be fine."

Chris doesn't miss the future tense, but he doesn't have the flexibility to be picky right now. Piers is his only back up. If he says he'll be fine, Chris has no option but to trust him.

Reaching into his belt, Chris grabs the burner phone to text Jill, only to find it won't turn on. The flashlight is dead too.

"Goddamn it," he spits, slapping the flashlight on his thigh. Still nothing. "The EMF must've been to cut off our communications. There's no way to contact Jill now."

Shit. Jill had the address, but any further details on her arrival would be completely unknown. Their personal cells were still in the car—it's possible they wouldn't be affected, but Hunnigan had given them burner phones for a reason. Jill was arriving blind.

"Alright," Chris huffs, straightening up. "You take point again. You're our eyes now, soldier."

Piers nods, giving his arm one last shake, before finally standing.

They hurry to the porch. If anyone had eyes on them they would have opened fire already, but Chris still feels more comfortable when they're both pressed flat to either side of the door frame. He signals with his fingers. After a count of three, he spins and kicks the door wide open.

The screech is his only warning as something launches at his face, narrowly avoiding having a writhing something latching onto his head by the grace of his basest reflexes. His gun is up and he's pulling the trigger within the next breath, shooting the skittering BOW with precise bullets, cataloguing crab-like legs, a curving tail, squirming tendrils—

Oh no.

"Captain!" Piers yells, bullet casings peppering his feet as he shoots continuously—he's aiming at the floor in rapid-fire, keeping whatever's inside from escaping. "There's a swarm!"

Chris yanks a cylinder from his belt and pulls the pin, decision made before he can remember making it. "Flash!" he shouts, pitching the grenade into the house over Piers' head and ducking against the wall, his hands pressed hard against his ears.

The bang is still louder than anything, but he's able to get his pistol back up in a few seconds when the blinding magnesium dissipates. In his ears, the screeches of the dozen or so creatures curling up and dying cut through the ringing.

Piers darts up beside him, reloading with a series of clicks. "Shit," he breathes, the last of the dying cries fading out. "Are they...?"

The light is still faint, but it's enough for Chris to see the first of the corpses littering the grimy wooden floorboards.

Las plagas.

They're different from the Type 2, but not by much. It's enough to send shudders down Chris' spine anyway, flashes of Kijuju creeping too close behind his eyelids. His knowledge of this type of plaga comes only from the Kennedy report, the detailed diagrams and blurry pictures seared into his brain from too many sleepless nights in '07; they're mean, dangerous, and they operate under the command of a leader. The fact that these creatures are here, Leon's last known location, is enough to make him feel ill.

"Is that…? Plagas?" asks Piers lowly, nudging the closest body with the tip of his shoe. "I thought they weren't around anymore. Not like these, anyway."

"There's always a possibility of someone obtaining more," says Chris, stepping cautiously over the threshold. He sees the tendrils of a tail twitch, and there's a few more bullets in it a moment later. "But yeah, as far as I know, these types weren't seen much in the black market circulation."

The house is a black void. His eyes are useless, so he strains his hearing to compensate. Their breathing, the wind outside, the rustle of the grass. Nothing out of the ordinary. The longer he stares into the empty space, the more the dark plays tricks on him. Amped up on adrenaline, haunted by too many lives lost, Chris sees a human corpse. Lying somewhere in the room, clawed open, or sliced in half; or maybe fully intact, skin darkened with sickly veins, sunken eyes, the clearest blue bloodshot and empty—

Chris takes a breath. It shakes on the way in.

Piers enters the room behind him, more sure of his steps than Chris is. Vanishing somewhere to his right, there's a series of clicks; a switch being flicked up and down. It remains dark.

"Damnit," he hears.

Chris reaches out to pull aside the curtains, the barest slits of light from the windows blooming into dim rectangles. It doesn't do much for him, but he hopes it helps Piers.

"What do you see?" asks Chris. Tries not to voice his more desperate questions. Can you see him? Is he alive?

Piers' footsteps move around the space. Goddamn these shoes, they have heels for fucks sake. "Basic living area. Kitchen in the corner. Doesn't seem like anyone's living here, but there's not enough dust to be abandoned."

"Anything we can use for a light?"

Piers continues looking. Chris flexes his legs, trying not to pace. He wants to rush into the room, kicking down doors and shouting Leon's name, but he has to be strategic. Whatever happened to Leon was likely in the lab beneath them, and without a light source Chris is useless. The fact makes his teeth itch. He forces himself to turn around to scan the porch again, making use of what little sight he has.

He hears a weird, repetitive pumping. "Piers?"

"Found a lantern," comes the reply. The pumping continues. "Gimme a minute."

There's a scrape and a hiss—Chris turns and blinks at the flare of warm light blossoming from a camping lamp, resting beside an ancient landline phone on a side table.

"Seems like the blackout is a recurring problem," says Piers, dry as he shakes out the match. "Lucky for us."

Indeed the area is as simple as Piers described. Aside from the dead plagas, there's nothing immediately suspicious about the space—a worn couch, a plain bathroom, and two closed doors. The first hides a bedroom with two unmade beds. The second door is locked.

Chris kicks it in. A set of steep stairs greets them, winding down, down, down.

"I'll grab the lantern," Chris commands, heart pumping eagerly in his chest. "Reload your mag and we can go."

Piers, visibly annoyed they don't have their usual kit, makes something of a grumpy noise as Chris stalks off to get the light. Hunnigan had equipped them with eight mags to share between them—nothing short of a slap in the face since Alpha team rolls out with ten each. And rifle mags hold a hell of a lot more ammo than handguns. He isn't exactly in a position to be picky considering the completely unofficial mission they're on, but it's a little difficult to feel grateful with Leon's life on the line. If Chris can't even guarantee his own safety, how the hell is he meant to do his job?

He returns with the lamp in hand, ready to get the fuck down those stairs, and is met with a sight that twists his insides.

Piers is crouched, hunched over a mag, shaking just a bit from the adrenaline. The fingers of his prosthesis pinch a 9mm, preparing to press the bullet inside. Beside his feet, Chris sees the glint of too many dropped rounds.

He remains quiet. Tries not to grit his teeth when the delicate process fails again and Piers curses, too loud, in his frustration.

"We don't," Piers snaps, at himself, "have time for this."

"Piers—"

"This is why you need more than four fucking mags so you don't have to do this shit in the field—"

"Piers."

Chris holds out one of his own magazines. It hovers between them. The look Piers gives him is so vicious that in any other op, Chris would feel guilty. Because he knows this isn't just about their poor loadout. This isn't just about time wasted on an act that should have been avoided with better prep.

It's about Piers' arm.

It's about the 9mm rounds that are so much smaller than what his rifle takes, that his prosthetic hand can't handle as easy.

It's about how before Lanshiang, Piers had never so much as fumbled a reload.

But Chris can't feel guilty. Because like Piers said, they don't have time for this.

"Gimme that," says Chris, refusing to cow to Piers' glare that's looking shakier by the second and switching his full magazine with Piers' empty one. "Tell me if you can see the bottom of the staircase."

Chris doesn't watch Piers stalk to the door without so much as a "Yessir." Instead he focuses on picking up the dropped rounds that wouldn't have mattered nearly as much outside of their current situation. But a hundred bullets is a hundred bullets. They can't afford to be wasteful.

It still takes far longer than Chris would like to refill the mag. It feels like there's a ticking clock on Leon's life that's edging closer to zero with every second he spends thumbing bullets. He has to force himself to take deep breaths. Narrowing his focus. Finally, he snaps the mag back into his pistol. Grabbing the lamp, he enters the stairwell where Piers stands ready, his expression as severe as it's been all night.

"Let's go," says Piers, and takes point. Chris doesn't stop him.

The stairs drop well below ground level, far deeper than any basement. Chris holds the lantern high, illuminating the space while Piers keeps his handgun aloft. He scans the walls and upper staircases for more plagas, or some kind of other deterrent that might impede them, but there's nothing. They descend, the steepness of the steps hindering their speed in a way he hates, but eventually, eventually they bottom out.

Before them, imposing in the low light, is an electronic steel door.

There's a keypad to one side. Piers taps at it, but nothing happens. "Power's still out," he says.

Chris grits his teeth and considers. They have nothing to blow it open, and with the electricity out they can't hope to hack the lock, but maybe...

He discards the lamp and runs his hands along the bottom of the door. There's ridges here, barely deep enough for him to dig his fingers into, but he can't find a hold. "Help me with this," he grunts.

Piers' left hand has about as much luck as Chris' did, but the rubber grips on his prosthetic fingers manage to find purchase enough to create a gap. They both heave, scrambling to keep their grasp on the extremely heavy door, but after a few inches and a proper grip, the servomotors in Piers' arm kick in.

The door rises steadily, Chris lifting from his legs, Piers hauling from his motorised bicep. It's a struggle, sweat breaking out on Chris' brow, but as soon as the counterweights start taking over the bulk of the lifting, the two soldiers drop to their knees, guns coming up, ready to shoot.

The lights are on.

Only two of them, dim and swinging free from the ceiling. The hall before them is barren concrete, devoid of enemies and character, with a cage door on either side. Ahead, a double door that seems deceptively plain.

Chris straightens and gestures Piers to stay close. He can hear their panting breaths and the clicks of their heels, but little else. The room feels too close, almost claustrophobic despite being a decent size. Perhaps it's the knowledge of how far beneath the earth they are. Perhaps it's the deep pit of unease in his stomach that has only grown stronger the farther they go.

He glances into the left-hand cell through a narrow opening of bars. Hindered by his small field of view, he can see a single light, a toilet, and a bed with restraints. One of the corners is hidden by the wall, unable to be seen from his position, but when he yanks on the door to check, a thick padlock jostles against the metal pin.

"Captain," he hears from behind him. Piers' voice sounds off.

For just a second, his lungs freeze in his chest. A wash of fear traces cruel fingers through his nervous system, deathly cold. He's faced a great many things and survived, but this, the image of Leon dead, dying, worse, is something he isn't sure he can take. There's a part of himself he's never admitted to that immediately starts begging.

Begging for it to not be true. Begging for him to not have to look.

He turns anyway. He has to.

In the other cell, Piers stands before a chair. The chair is empty—thank Christ—but the implication of the piece of furniture has that sick feeling crawling behind his sternum. The wood is old but sturdy, adorned with manacles and dull spikes along the back in a deranged facsimile of decoration. Chris doesn't need his extensive training to know what purpose such a chair has. To know what the spots of dark liquid staining the concrete are.

The cell stinks of sweat, piss, and blood. Chris feels the urge to gag burn against his throat.

He's not here, he tells himself, forcing his gaze around the room. Get a grip, Redfield. He's not dead until you find a body.

That darker voice echoes again. The one that's seen too much.

Sometimes a dead body is the better option.

"We need to get through that double door," he says, clawing back his self-control the way he's done a thousand times before. There will be time for grief later. "The rest of the lab will be past it. We're on high alert—if they had plagas in the house, they'll have more defences down here, and there's every likelihood they heard us fight our way in."

Piers nods, readjusting the eye patch he's flicked down since they've entered brighter light. Chris tries to ignore the way he rolls his bad shoulder—lifting that metal door will have lasting impact, bionic arm or no. "I'll watch your back, captain," he says. Despite all his fears, Chris knows that he will.

The double door is locked, but not nearly as formidable as the steel trap behind them. Two kicks from the both of them crashes it down, and then—

Chaos.

"BSAA, hands in the air!" Chris bellows, a group of scientists somehow looking astonished at his arrival.

"On the ground, get on the ground!" Piers shouts, flanking the group, the two of them corralling the white coats into the centre of the room with their weapons.

Someone tries to throw a punch and Chris feels no remorse cracking the butt of his pistol into the idiot's forehead, sending him sprawling towards the others. Piers is shouting at some stragglers to get into the centre of the room. There's some dismayed cries, but little resistance as the half-dozen or so researchers get onto their knees, their hands high in the air.

"Where's Leon Kennedy?" he barks at one of them, a woman who flinches and cries. He feels no sympathy. "Where is he!?"

Another woman laughs, a bright giggle that echoes in the large room. "Oh, he's loud, isn't he?" she says excitedly, nudging her colleague with her shoulder. Her colleague flinches, not sharing the amusement, but the excited woman doesn't seem to notice.

She's at the centre of the group, petite, her hands raised up high like she's on a roller coaster instead of staring down a barrel. Her eyes are dark and sparkling behind her glasses, and she's the only one of the group who's smiling. Chris has to wonder what particular cocktail of stimulants she must be on. Or if, indeed, she's not on any—and whether that's worse.

He stomps forward threateningly. The other scientists flinch in terror at the weapon in their faces, but not her. She grins at him like he's giving her the greatest gift.

"Where is he?" he snarls, rapidly losing patience.

"Which one?" she says, and laughs and laughs. She's so excited she's trembling with it. "There are so many! There are so many, you can take your pick! You have no idea what I can—"

"Chris," says Piers, sudden alarm in his voice. Chris looks up.

At the back of the room is a circular dais. It looks like some kind of cage; a steel half-wall around the edge, red lasers forming bars in the remaining space beneath the lid. Beside it is a chair, something with too many wires and cords attached, something with a man strapped to it, something that makes him panic—

His feet are moving before he even registers the choice.

The jolt beneath his too-thin soles is his only grounding force as he approaches, Leon looking worse and worse as he closes in, and he's only a few yards away when—

"GET DOWN."

Leon's voice.

He drops. A shot rings out. Screams tear through the air. He hears a body hit the ground and he rolls to his feet, crouched, aiming—how the fuck had Leon gotten a gun?

The white coat of a scientist lays prone, the fast bloom of blood spreading across his back through the stark fabric. In his hand lies a small revolver. Piers is shouting at everyone, telling them not to move, and amidst it all, that one scientist laughs.

It's chilling in a way Chris can't quite describe.

Things spring into motion from there. They file the scientists out one by one, patting them down for any other hidden weapons and shoving them into the empty cell in the hallway. Piers holds the door fast with his prosthetic arm to prevent any escapees while Chris scours the larger room for something to lock it. He ignores the blood pooling around the dead man in the centre of the room—nothing to be done for him now—and gets his hands on a padlock and chain from the small control area to the left of the cage. He hates to leave Leon strapped to that chair for another second but he needs to secure the bastards that did this to him, and doing so takes time, and he just about throws the heavy metal lock at Piers before darting back inside, stupid fucking shoes slapping against the concrete to finally, finally reach Leon's side.

"Hey, hey, you with me?" he pants, patting Leon' cheek gently. His hands tingle just from where skin touches skin, the desperate buzzing in his head finally swelling into words. Leon Leon Leon.

Leon jolts violently in response, a weak noise that Chris has never heard before escaping cracked lips. He's coated with sweat, his dark hair hanging in greasy strands against his temples, brushing weakly against pallid skin. Chris' prodding makes his eyes flutter but not much else, air heaving in and out of his lungs like it's the only thing his body remembers how to do.

He seems beyond exhausted. He seems barely alive.

Chris glances down, trying to take stock of his injuries. When his eyes land on it, a flood of white noise rushes in his ears as his blood drains from his face.

A thick, metal collar, fitted snugly against Leon's throat, has sharp barbs jutting a few inches vertically from each edge. Like a twisted corrective posture device, it forces his chin perfectly level, locking his muscles completely rigid. The slightest wrong move would have the spikes jabbing into his larynx. And from the amount of red, oozing sores around his jaw and clavicle, he's exhausted enough to slip up. Repeatedly.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Chris breathes, horrified. He reaches instinctively, moving behind the chair to grasp Leon's head; thumbs behind his ears, fingers under his jaw. He tries not to touch the injuries there but there's only so much he can do, the tacky, half-dried blood sticking against his skin. He presses his own flesh against the spikes and takes the weight.

The man gives a weak sob and slumps immediately into his palms.

Chris takes a shaky breath. He presses his pinkie fingers into the sides of his throat, having to nudge past those sick fucking spikes just to get to the right spot. The rapid flutter of Leon's weak pulse is barely there against his fingers.

"What the fuck have they done to you?" he whispers. He looks over to Leon's body and sees leather straps around his wrists and ankles, skin raw and swollen, fingers shaking with tremors. "How the fuck did you manage to take a shot like this?"

"He didn't."

Chris snaps his head up.

Within the cage, half-hidden by the thick wall, stands a man. The lasers obscure Chris' line of sight some, a weird red distortion in the air, but Chris can see him. He sees. And the pieces connect like a misprinted puzzle, nothing aligning quite right but it's the correct solution all the same.

A man. A dark uniform. Blonde hair, blue eyes, pistol in a ready stance beside his head. Bandaged shoulder. RPD across the ballistic vest.

Chris stares. He stares and stares and stares.

"What the hell is going on here?" the man asks, and his voice is too familiar. His frown, too familiar. His face, too familiar.

Leon, his mind provides, as though through fuzzy airwaves. It's Leon.

Leon with an RPD vest. Leon with a bandaged shoulder. Leon with a face so young it hurts to look at.

"Who are you?" says Leon Kennedy, looking like he's stepped right out of Raccoon City itself. "And where am I?"