Chapter Text
140559ZFEB21
[February 14, 0059 hours
Washington D.C., United States]
“We expect he is armed and dangerous, and we believe you may be someone he will contact in the future. If he does, we caution against believing any information he may deliver; we have reason to suspect Redfield is currently working to undermine the authority of the BSAA.”
We, we, we. It’s starting to sound like a royal we, and it’s grating on his nerves.
“Since you are not one of our agents, we cannot order you to cooperate, but we strongly suggest you comply with our operations to apprehend Captain Redfield. We understand your history and camaraderie; the BSAA simply wishes to uncover the reason why one of our most decorated agents has gone rogue before we implement any disciplinary action.”
Sure. And Sherry Birkin’s pet parrot is the queen of England.
He’s been in this business long enough to know when he’s being fed bullshit.
“This is the end of the briefing; we thank you for your time, Agent Kennedy. Do you have any further questions?”
Leon S. Kennedy laces his fingers as he thinks, his elbows on the table his laptop rests on.
“Does his family know?” he asks the video call with the BSAA liaison.
“Claire Redfield has not yet been notified,” the liaison says smoothly. “We wish for the situation to develop more before involving family members.”
Leon gives a short nod. He knows it’s more bullshit, but the non-answer also tells him something important: they have no idea where Chris is. Any sane person knows Claire would tear through a city of BOWs to protect Chris, and tipping her off that she needed to save her idiot brother (again) was a fantastic way to jeopardize any attempts to arrest him or his rogue squad.
“No further questions,” Leon tells the video call.
“Please do not hesitate to reach out if you have information. Thank you for your cooperation, Agent Kennedy.”
The video call signs off, and Leon’s attention drifts to his phone propped up right beside his laptop, out of sight of the camera with another separate, secure video call silently running.
“Buncha assholes,” says Chris Redfield, chain-smoking like a chimney from an undisclosed location, his face appearing waxen and lined on the tiny screen. “At least I still know they’re all incompetent without me.” He pauses to take a drag, looking away for a moment. “Did you get the files I sent?”
Leon sighs and runs a hand through his bangs. “Jesus Christ,” he murmurs as he clicks back to the packet on his laptop, his eyes locking with the dead, cadaverous gaze of the photographed BOW dressed in a BSAA stealth operative uniform.
It looks so uncomfortably like the Tyrant that chased him all over Raccoon City, pursuing him through the police station that was supposed to be his base, his safe place, his new beginning for a bright-eyed, rookie cop barely out of his teenage years.
Leon shudders and closes the photo’s file.
“I don’t like this.”
Watching Chris smoke over the video call was making Leon itch for a cigarette, and he didn’t like the implications of Chris picking the habit back up. Chris smokes when he’s stressed, which now means Leon’s stressed, but Leon’s also not keen on breaking a near 20-year streak of staying quit.
“Neither do I, but that’s the nature of the job, isn’t it?” Leon mumbles, checking the time. “When’s your mystery contact supposed to call?”
“Five-oh-five, GMT,” Chris corrects, flicking the ash from the tip of his cigarette.
“Winterses are doing okay?” Leon asks.
Chris nods absently. “As okay as they can be. Night Howl and Lobo volunteered to be security detail, and protecting Mia and Rose is the top priority. But that’s also two members of my squad I can’t use for recon now; we’re stretched thin.”
He takes a drag on his cigarette, slowly exhaling the smoke through his nose. “BSAA’s fucked up bringing this syndicate in too many times. Anyone I’ve talked to just says it’s bad intel, the Connections were prepared for a quick evac, they have better covert protocol, whatever. Jill was part of the team that raided their Munich facility, and she said ‘raid’ is a strong fucking word because there was nothing left to find. No one was home.”
“What about you?”
“Me? I don’t think the BSAA gives a shit about what I have to say anymore; United Nations are more or less firing me—“
“No, not that,” Leon shakes his head. “Are you doing okay?”
Chris pauses and takes a drag of his cigarette. “Not really. Been better.” Leon doesn’t interrupt, and Chris continues. “Don’t like it when people who don’t deserve to die can’t make it out.”
Leon just nods quietly, sighing through his nose. All Chris’ S.T.A.R.S. comrades, the many iterations of his Alpha squad, Wesker’s betrayal. Jill’s assumed death had rattled him to the core. Piers had outright broken him for a good while.
The video call rings with an alert: an unknown ID requesting permission to join. Leon checks his watch: 1:05 AM in Washington, DC.
“Did you get any ID from the informant?” Leon asks, fixing his bangs in the selfie camera’s feed.
“None whatsoever, and trying to trace it did jack shit, but they knew enough classified intel to make me nervous. Here goes nothing,” Chris says, swiping the call button.
Both men groan as a familiar face joins the call, her dark, intelligent eyes crinkling as she smiles with poppy-red lips, her appearance as beautiful, suave, and polished as ever.
“You really know how to make a girl feel welcome,” says Ada Wong, tucking a lock of sleek, black hair behind her ear.
“Hi, Ada,” Leon says with zero enthusiasm.
“Whaddya want,” Chris mumbles.
“Really, I thought we established that last time was a case of a stolen identity,” Ada pouts. “I believe I have a rare situation regarding the Transylvania incident where our goals align.”
Leon frowns. “What’s your pitch?”
“My employer delivered intel earlier today regarding the Connections’ efforts to recoup losses following the Dulvey and Transylvania incidents. Two specimens survived the N2 charge that leveled the village; I believe Captain Redfield is already familiar with both.”
Chris scowls as a notification pops up in the text chat, indicating Ada uploaded a file. “And I’m assuming your employer doesn’t want the Connections to get their hands on them.”
“Precisely,” Ada says evenly. “I sent you updated images of what they may be wearing, along with their last known coordinates in Brasov. I believe they may be trying to leave Romania—“
“This is impossible,” Chris interrupts, evidently scrolling through the files Ada sent. “These photos— Ethan Winters was at ground zero and triggered the detonation. He can’t be alive.”
Leon narrows his eyes and opens the files, scrolling through maps, coordinates, and dossiers to reach a small set of photos likely taken with a long-focus lens. One depicts two men standing in the snow yet underdressed for the weather, bloodstains on their clothes and exhaustion evident on their faces. One has blond hair and a few days’ worth of beard scruff disrupted by a scar on his cheek. The other individual’s age is harder to pinpoint; the silver hair suggests he’s an older adult, his face bears a collection of healed, pale scars, but the wrinkles in his face don’t match his assumed age.
“He’s traveling with Heisenberg,” Chris murmurs, suspicion clouding his voice. “You’re certain this is Ethan Winters?”
“No, I’m not,” Ada replies, turning serious. “And I think you’re wise to be cautious. From the intel I borrowed from the BSAA—“
“Borrowed, huh,” Chris mumbles.
“Don’t interrupt,” Ada scolds. “Miranda was able to replicate others down to the level of DNA, so we can’t determine either of their identities based on biometrics. However, Heisenberg was observed using apparent electromagnetic manipulation during a combat data assessment, so we can be more certain of his identity.”
“And Winters?” Leon asks, zooming in on the photo to the blond man’s face, worried yet focused as he appears to be tending to wounds all over his companion’s arms.
“We can’t be certain.”
Chris nods, quiet.
“Trying to analyze Ethan Winters’ blood also proved inconclusive; I included the results. The most I could determine was possible genetic instability, which is a whole other problem. But he’s cooperative and relatively calm, especially after I explained I was affiliated with you.”
“When have you ever worked for me?” Chris scoffs.
“I decided in the moment,” Ada says serenely. “And here I am, providing a briefing to the mission’s superior.”
Leon says nothing and watches Chris instead - he’s seen that look on him before. It’s the one Chris gets when he wants to bang his head through a brick wall.
“Would Miranda cooperate with your personnel?” Ada continues.
“Considering we emptied a couple mags into her and it still didn’t put her down? I doubt it,” Chris sighs. “But she’s also insane, so we can’t count on it. We need more recon.”
“I’d volunteer, but I’m a busy woman,” Ada shrugs. “As far as I know, the Connections haven’t found their whereabouts yet due to my intervention, but I assume they’re very interested in acquiring Mr. Winters. Heisenberg too, though Winters is the real prize.”
Chris takes a drag of his cigarette, his brow furrowed. “Fuck. Fuck. They know what he is.”
Leon pipes up as he scrolls through the files. “He’s a completely stealth BOW that can’t be detected with typical medical testing, his cognition’s intact, he can walk off disabling injuries and - if it is him - he can survive being literally blown to pieces. If the Connections could replicate his mutation on others—“
Leon stops short, falling quiet. His eyes widen as he reads the file, drawing Chris and Ada’s attention. “No,” Leon murmurs. “That’s just the tip of the iceberg for what they could do.”
Ada nods slowly. “What’s the limiting factor for producing successful bioweapons?”
“Money,” growls Chris. “Research, lab facilities, security, weapons; it’s all gotta be funded from somewhere.”
“Exactly,” Leon agrees. “Every virus, infectious agent, every bioweapon we’ve seen had a research team behind it, backed by financiers who blew through billions to make the latest model of abomination.” He holds up his index finger. “Every bioweapon except for one.”
“Rosemary,” Chris says, his voice somewhere between dread and reverence. “Ethan sired another bioweapon with perfect human mimicry and intact cognition, at least as far as babies go. Not in a lab, not with billion-dollar machines, just with good, old-fashioned marital duties. If they get their hands on Ethan, they’re going to make another Rose - one they can control.”
“You think they’d stop at just one?” Ada asks, all her airy flirtation gone. She’s deadly serious.
“That’s just the beginning.” Chris growls. “This shit is a hive mind; the vector infects its hosts, either kills them outright or turns them into monsters, bumps up their durability and regeneration, and controls their actions. The best-case scenario is that they gain the ability to engineer mass-casualty events whenever they want.”
“Worst-case is…” Leon trails off, running his hands over his face. “ Shit. It’s like the Plagas all over again. Saddler wanted a whole fucking world under his control.”
“It’s worse than the Plagas,” Ada adds. “A Plaga parasite had to be implanted into the host manually; even the updated Type 2 and 3 Plagas needed human intervention to spread. The mutamycete doesn’t - it just needs to invade its host to infect it. It can be spread by the vector and the infected hosts alike, it can get in the water, grow on surfaces, and fungal spores make it an airborne pathogen. Worst of all, vaccine technology isn’t good enough for fungal agents yet; we can’t immunize people against this.”
Chris is on his second cigarette. “Fucking dammit. And if the Connections don’t get Ethan, the BSAA will, and his outcome’s the same: a lab rat for BOW manufacturing.”
“What about Heisenberg?” Leon asks.
“Besides Miranda, that one’s possibly the most dangerous BOW contained in the village,” Chris frowns. “There’s a lot anyone could do with just him: he manipulates magnetic fields, so think about how much electricity we rely on for vehicles, communication, life support… if someone teaches him how to weaponize EMP blasts, our tech’s dead in the water. Otherwise they could just open him up, grab the Cadou parasite and megamycete samples, and go hog wild with reverse-engineering those. From what we could find in the village, the Cadou’s biggest weakness is its unpredictable results on the subject. Heisenberg’s one of the rare, high-affinity subjects; studying his mutation could open the door for optimizing the mold’s results.”
“Which means you need to apprehend Winters and Heisenberg creatively,” Ada says firmly. “I can provide you with recon or information I come across, but I have obligations and appearances to maintain for my employers. I strongly suggest you send a retrieval unit as soon as possible, and you do it covertly.”
Ada pauses, and for a split second, Leon thinks he sees a rare expression of anxiety flash over her beautiful features. How old is she now? 40’s? Almost 50? She looks incredible, still effortlessly beautiful with only smile lines and crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes to betray her age, but she wears them with the same grace that permeates her entire being. Leon knows her appearance is a necessity; it’s her most underestimated weapon in her arsenal, and arguably one of her most powerful.
She hasn’t changed a bit. She never does.
“I’m signing off,” Ada continues. “I provided them with a contact you can trust and I’ll send you Winters and Heisenberg’s coordinates when I’ve confirmed them, but there’s not much direct assistance I can provide from here on out.” She smiles, her serious tone melting into her usual teasing nonchalance. “You’re big boys now. I’m sure you can handle it.”
Ada Wong logs off from the call, leaving Chris and Leon to say what’s really on their minds.
“Motherfucker,” Chris swears.
“God-fucking-dammit,” Leon says, exasperated. “Ada Wong just helped us. She only does that when shit’s absolutely screwed to hell.”
“And I’m already running interference to surveil the BSAA’s European HQ with the squad; if we pull out now to grab Ethan, we’re going to make noise and lead the BSAA right to their doorstep.”
“If you try getting any of your other contacts still connected to the BSAA involved, it’s going to send up red flags everywhere,” Leon adds. “Josh, Parker, Jill, Sheva, the Silver Daggers, probably even Rebecca or Claire are too obvious.” Leon frowns. “I’m risky, too. And I can’t just fuck off from the DSO; they’ll know something’s up.” He pauses, his brow creased before he looks back up.
“Chris.” Leon says, suddenly insistent. “Are either of them infectious?”
Chris’s eyes widen. “Shit. I don’t know.”
“If it’s not actually Ethan—“
“Then we’ll opt for disposal,” Chris says, firmly but glum. “If it’s Ethan… I don’t think he’s a vector, but that’s just anecdotal from me and my squad being in contact with him a few times and not being infected. I asked Mia to come clean about what Ethan’s working with, and she suspects it’s a similar situation to Miranda’s mimicry. He’s entirely made of the mutamycete; there’s no human cells left, but they’re able to mimic his human body right down to the DNA structure. It’s why no one realized he was infected, despite all the medical testing.”
He pauses. “And Miranda could also trigger a spontaneous mutation and turn into a giant horror-show of a BOW. Ethan’s a good person - he’s caring, kind, even after Dulvey fucked up his head. He’s smart on his feet when I was training him.”
“Mm,” Leon remarks. “See, I remember you describing him as ‘biblically ADHD’ a few years ago.”
Chris rolls his eyes. “And it still stands. But listen, Leon, I’m not naïve enough to assume he’s not capable of losing the plot, or mutating, or becoming something that needs to be put down. I can send our retrieval team with antifungals and consult Mia on how to protect against infection, but actually making a serum is gonna cost time we don’t have.” He flicks a speck of ash from his cigarette, almost burned down to the filter.
“And we’ll send them with a necrotoxin,” Chris says quietly. “Just in case if it comes to that. We just need a damn team.”
Leon appears thoughtful. “Hey, what if… Could we send someone with natural immunity?”
Chris raises an eyebrow. “Natural immunity? Who’d have anything like—“ He stops short, his eyes widening. “Is he immune?”
“To the mutamycete? I don’t know, but if you can get me a sample, all we need is a blood test to check.” Leon laces his fingers, touching them against his chin. “And to fungal infections in general? Yes. Black mold, Candida family, ringworm, histoplasmosis, everything just bounces right off him.”
Leon glances to his left, to a small collection of photographs pinned on a cork board in his bedroom. They depict what passes for Leon’s family: Claire and Chris, Rebecca and Helena, a scattered few with Hunnigan or Ashley.
There’s only one child among the photos, the closest thing Leon has to a daughter, a head of blonde hair chronicled over the years: birthdays and weekend hiking trips, sunburns at the beach and instruction at the shooting range, highschool, college, taekwondo drills, and that one time she tazed him with a stun baton while they were sparring. Claire caught it on camera, and she never fucking stops talking about it at Terrasave functions.
“His fiancée, too,” Leon adds. “She might also have immunity, and we talked about her going on leave from the DSO to get the ball rolling for wedding planning.”
“Possible immunity, he’s a mercenary, she’s got an alibi, and I’ve seen firsthand what they can do against BOWs,” Chris’ lips twitch with the bare suggestion of a smile. “Think he still has it out for me?”
“Who the hell knows what goes on in his head?” Leon sighs. “Supposedly he’s done some freelancing for Terrasave with Jill’s husband, so I think he’s just holding on to that grudge for show. What about gear or ground support?”
“I have a contact, but you’re not gonna like it.”
Leon groans. “Blue Umbrella. You’ve gotta be kidding.”
“They handled Operation: Lurking Fear and quarantined the Baker Ranch, plus they supplied Hound Wolf for the Romanian mission.” Chris folds his arms, the permanent crease between his brows deepening.
“You know things are concerning when fucking Umbrella’s been acting with more professionalism and integrity than the BSAA lately,” Leon mutters unhappily.
“They’ve got some specialized toys for handling the mold that you’re gonna want, anyway. And I’ll see if I can pull some strings to get you a support team — did Ada send you anything about what contact she gave Ethan?”
Leon shakes his head absently. “Not yet. She probably won’t.”
“If she gave them someone incompetent—“
“You know she wouldn’t, especially if she’s trying to cover her ass,” Leon interjects. “If they don’t establish a line with you, I can ask Ada for…”
Leon trails off as both he and Chris turn their attention to their phones.
A new contact is requesting to join their call.
Chris gestures vaguely with his hand; Leon shrugs vocalizes a noise that effortlessly communicates the sentiment of ‘I don’t fucking know.’ Chris concludes the nonverbal argument and swipes his phone screen; the video feed of his face halves itself and moves to the top half of Leon’s phone while the newcomer occupies the bottom.
“Um, hi Jill,” Chris says by way of greeting. “Are you still in Germany? It must be late there.”
“Happy You-day,” Leon says to Jill Valentine’s unamused face.
“You’ve told me that joke for six consecutive Valentine's Days, and it hasn’t gotten any funnier,” she replies.
“I think it’s multiplied its hilarity.”
“Zero multiplied by any number is still zero, Leon,” Jill steamrollers on (and all over Leon’s feelings). “Chris, you remember that job in Louisiana a few years back that got you for special ops? There was that rescued civilian couple, you asked me to assign you as their caseworker?”
“So, it’s a weird story—“ Chris tries, but Jill cuts him off again.
“Do you wanna tell me why Ethan Winters has my personal number and is telling me you took a rogue squad to blow up a village in fucking Romania?”
There’s few people in the BSAA who stand on equal ground with Chris’ authority. Even fewer have his respect, and fewer still have the ability to shout him down and force-feed him humble pie.
Jill Valentine is one of those people, and Leon decides he doesn’t want to stick around for the chewing-out Chris is sure to get.
“Hey, so all this sounds pretty classified; I’ll talk to you later?” he rattles off, hanging up the call before Chris can squeak out a protest.
Besides, Leon’s got calls to make and a team to build.