▶ independent and exclusively 𝙿𝚁𝙸𝚅𝙰𝚃𝙴 blog for helena harper of capcom’s 𝙱𝙸𝙾𝙷𝙰𝚉𝙰𝚁𝙳 / 𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙴𝚅𝙸𝙻 series. written by 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. psd by somresources.
CARRD.
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@picadorage
▶ independent and exclusively 𝙿𝚁𝙸𝚅𝙰𝚃𝙴 blog for helena harper of capcom’s 𝙱𝙸𝙾𝙷𝙰𝚉𝙰𝚁𝙳 / 𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙴𝚅𝙸𝙻 series. written by 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. psd by somresources.
CARRD.

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@picadorage //liked for a starter
“Yeah, I heard you the first time: we’re still not punching his lights out. You got it?”
Leon pinned her with a flat look before turning toward the establishment they were standing just outside of. He held back a sigh. Scumbag or not, intel said the place was hot. Start something with one of them, they were going to cause a chain reaction. Leon knew what the rap sheet looked like. Three counts of assault, robbery, grand theft auto, and that was just from what he remembered. Three weeks ago, the guy was seen in driving a cargo van which may or may not have been stolen virus samples.
“Wanna bet how long it takes for us to get pinned as ‘cops’?” Leon glanced back at Helena with a smirk. They weren’t gonna last ten minutes.
𝐊𝐍𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 of wrath is a nuisance wrapped in impulses and yellow tape, flaunting itself like the main character of a show that should have been canceled five seasons ago. it should have only been a guest with minor appearances, but wrath is vain — wrath enjoys the spotlight, and wrath wants to burst right into that establishment, and take on those lowly scumbags by force. black market criminals making a buck off innocent lives should burn in 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 where they belong.
she stands dizzied and defiant under the blistering sun, brows furrowed at his request. the anger is quietly simmering, only cooling when their eyes finally meet. ❝ fine, but the second this goes sideways you let me get in the first punch. ❞ helena stares at the entry until the details around them start to blur. the lightbulb is flickering, albeit 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲. maybe she's onto something, or maybe they're about to get their asses handed to them by a bunch of basement dwelling neckbeards.
❝ not if we take the side entrance and act like locals. ❞ she remarks, mirroring his smirk as she places her hand on the small of his back, her silken tone 𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 with snark. ❝ ladies first. ❞
An alias change is in order. You all may refer to me as Knight from now on. Just an FYI that I'm not the same Key as whoever is currently causing a lot of strife and headache. Sometimes, people do choose the same pen name!
HELENA’S FORMER ( DECEASED ) PARTNER AT DSO:
Agent name: River Moore Age: 25 Gender: Cisgender female Timeline at DSO: 2016-2018 Place: Lübeck, Germany Monster form: Askafroa from primary t virus infection, t strain variant. Personality: Lively, bubbly and somewhat reckless. Appearance: Wholesome, brunette with freckles. Closely resembles Helena’s late sister, Deborah.
What was meant to be a small scale outbreak in Lübeck, Germany turned into an unspeakable nightmare in the blink of an eye. A familiar looking mist quickly enveloped the city streets and alleyways, one she had encountered before back in Tall Oaks, this time with a lime green hue with tacky wet vapor which can be described as feeling like extreme humidity against their skin.
Together, Helena and River ran through the cobblestone streets and toward the nearest opening, escaping to a forest just along the outskirts of the city, but unfortunately for River, it was too late. Helena watched in horror as her partner choked on the mist, grasping at the bark of a nearby ash tree, eyes bulging out in overwhelming fear. She must have inhaled it by accident, having been five steps away from the older agent. She simply wasn't fast enough.
Helena made a promise to protect her, and once again, she broke that promise. DSO's newest recruit succumbed to the virus, mutating into a creature that resembles the folklore of the region. They call them the Askafroa, sirens of the forest, tree-like in appearance. River's limbs hardened, her hair curling into endless vines, strand by strand, wrapping around Helena's neck in an attempt to close her airways.
In a mixture of both shock and rage at the situation, Helena slashes at River's tendrils with her bowie knife, breaking free from certain death. Fleeing further into the forest, she reassesses the situation, coming to the conclusion that she has no other choice. She has to kill River, not only for the safety of herself, but for the safety of everyone else.
From a distance she hears a sing-song voice calling out her name. It's River, attempting to lure her in via song. Just like a siren, the melody a pleasant sound, alluring, hypnotic, almost good enough for her to miss the ax lodged into a tree stump right in front of her. At the last minute, she pulls it out from the stump, coming into view as the last remnants of sunlight dance upon her face, reflecting from the blade of her ax. She swallows, gripping the handle in a fury, following the song until she meets the singer. Her partner. Her friend. Someone she’s been overly protective of since day one.
'Oh River... why'd it have to be you?'
She fights River until dusk, covered from head to toe in blood that feels like tree sap, chopping away at each limb with her rusty ax until there's nothing left but a head with gnashing teeth. Drawing her hydra, she takes one final look at her partner, a promising young agent once so full of life and potential, now reduced to an unrecognizable creature. Helena can't help but choke on a sob when she finally pulls the trigger, and as the shot rings out into the dark forest cloaked by twilight, she falls to her knees, overcome with grief, wailing into the skies above.
Another life lost to the consequences of bioterrorism. Another promise broken, and another young woman dead on Helena's watch. The guilt weighs heavy on her conscious even to this day.
Sometimes, she swears she can still hear her singing.
Rhona Mitra as Molly Poole in Highwaymen (2004)

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@picadorage / CONT.
THE LINE CROSSED is sunlight bleached, faded red. Still, it’s there. (Always there, the walls blood-painted, impossible to scrub clean.) And Jane threads the other side consciously, counting on their likely retaliation. Coppers are as they always will be — predictable, relying on the visceral, no matter what letters they stitch to their suits.
The narrow room trembles before giving in, powerless before her wrath. Yet, the mentalist hardly moves. A cup of tea in one, a highly classified paper in the other, he is a picture of serenity, canvas expertly painted.
The rest, chaos.
“ Meh. ” A smile, blinding white, boyish glee. Perhaps part of a performance, that rotten part of him he cannot shut down. Her threats are waved off, her rage, her fear met with an invitation to join him. Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit of that forbidden tree… “ You have to read this — this is incredible. ”
𝐖𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐁𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐃. it can be black and blue, beaten beyond recognition in a seedy alleyway. an interrogation gone wrong, heavy handed, her temper lost to a realm that's seriously lacking in self restraint. a realm of impulses and punched holes in plaster walls, of 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 kneecaps from a well deserved shotgun blast, of bruised knuckles dipped in a bucket of ice, idle and yearning for another cigarette - a realm of blind red, seething rage. it's bound within helena's bone marrow, metastasized. terminally splenetic. just waiting to be poked...
speak of the needle.
❝ john milton. i broke down a door for john fucking milton. are you kidding me? ❞ the rest is caught in her throat like fabric to an errant branch, yanked back, torn. swallowed down as she lets out a sigh and shakes her fists loose. this is how he is. this is who he is, and she's fumbling through his 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐥𝐞 course, one blood boiling prank at a time.
❝ there'd better be more to the story, for your sake. ❞
Leaves a voicemail, voice barely above a whisper, "Harper, get your po-po to track my phone. I've been kidnaped. There's a-- Oh, gotta go." Rustling noises before, "Also, bring some chocolate. Dark. Possibly Norwegian, if you can manage. I'm craving some sugar. Toodle-pip!"
𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒 𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐌𝐈𝐗𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 of concern and vexation, his voice a nagging scratch at a scab, a tug of a loose cuticle, and it's broken free, but at what cost other than persistent and immeasurable pain? That's precisely what he is in this scenario, leaving hardly a trace or clue of his whereabouts. She's left to pick up the pieces, push them back together, even if the papers are 𝐬𝐨𝐠𝐠𝐲 and some edges are missing, presumably eaten. His chaotic whirlwind of an existence says that's something he would do, and the thought leaves the lids of Helena's eyes twitching in response. A side effect of Patrick Jane, with no cure in sight. Just boundless twitching and chipped teeth from grinding jaws.
❝ Goddammit. ❞ She hisses quietly, replaying the voicemail until she can find a morsel to his riddle. That rustling can only mean one thing. This is nothing but a 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐞, and those whispering leaves are undoubtedly a stack of files. He was never in danger to begin with, at least ... not until now.
KNOCK KNOCK. BANG.
❝ Do you realize what the criminal charges are for defrauding law enforcement? You've got some real 𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞, don't you? ❞ Don't mind the flare of nostrils, or office door hanging off it's hinges, threatening to fall at any given moment. That's collateral - the price you have to pay for pranking Agent Harper.
❝ The FBI is a fucking joke. ❞
@coldreads /
Happy Pride month to Benjamin Harper, Helena's father who loved his girls no matter what. When she was fifteen he caught onto the fact that the girl she was spending lots of time with was more than just a friend. One morning he brought Helena down into the kitchen, smiled wide and told her to sit down so they could talk. She wondered what was the matter, concerned she might be in trouble, but couldn't figure out what exactly she had done. That's when he took her hand and placed it in his own, squeezed it tight and said, "Baby girl, it doesn't matter who you love as long as they treat you right. I'll love you til the cows come home, and then some. Now, why don't we have Sarah over for dinner?"
A wave of relief washed over Helena, and she embraced her father with the tightest hug she'd ever given in her life. Finally, she could share a side of herself she'd been hiding for so long in fear of disapproval from the man she loved the most. She remembers that morning so fondly, even now, she can still taste the waffles on the table and the coffee so hot it burnt her tongue, but most importantly she remembers his smile and his warmth, and how loving a father he was to them both. If only every daughter had their own Benjamin Harper. The world would be a better place.
helena still visits chapels to pray despite her bitterness toward the church itself. when things get tense, or she's fallen into a depressive slump, she goes to her local chapel in the morning when it's empty, gets on the kneeler, and holds onto her rosary until there's a faint imprint of a crucifix in the palm of her hand. she's not sure if anyones up there listening anymore, but it helps her sleep at night thinking deborah is somewhere other than the forgotten ruins of a catacomb. she's quiet about this part of her life, but she finds solace in the repetitive prayer and hymns of the catholic church. It's nostalgic and reminds her of a time when she'd attend mass with her sister and father. When they were both alive, and life felt a little lighter and less heavy than it is now.
There’s nothing particularly physical that I find attractive in a man. It’s men with a passion for something that I find attractive.

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𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓.
HANDS: calloused and coarse, fingernails chewed down to the beds.
SKIN: smooth everywhere except the hands, a scar along her abdomen, and the occasional cuts on her legs from shaving.
SCENT: clean laundry, faint cigarette smell on her breath and fingers, the smell of earth, vanilla perfume, leather, whiskey at night.
AESTHETIC: bloody knuckles, clenched jaws, a bed of hay, knees and elbows covered in mud. pantsuits and holsters, dirty boots. fiery eyes.
PASSION: hickeys, muffled moans, sweaty skin and hair, rope burns, straps, tangled limbs, dimly lit rooms, grasping pillows, bite marks.
EXTRACURRICULARS: horse saddles, wrestling mats, broken bones, gunpowder, weights, protein shakes, tight ponytail, hand wrap, mouth guards.
INNER: silent rooftops, car rides on empty roads, half written diaries with torn pages, broken glass, holes in walls, crickets at night and clear skies, shooting stars, horses neighing, the feeling of soil in between your fingers, fresh well water, the blistering heat of summer.
WORK: late paperwork, suspension, clacking heels, broken printers, coffee breaks, skipped lunch, arguments in the board room, clean pressed suits, shaven legs, liquor breath, dissociation.
MENTAL: short temper, outbursts, spiraling, mania, depression. weighted wet blankets. paralyzed by melancholia.
VALUES: family, truth, justice, equal rights, a better tomorrow.
tagging: @nichtmeinvater, @squarecranks, @nujiandie, @redactar , @antiibow and whoever else wants to do this thing.
@picadorage : that was a pretty good fight, huh?
“ 𝙵𝙸𝚂𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙿𝙻𝙸𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚂, 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝚆𝙴 — 𝙰𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙿𝙴𝚁? ” carnage and butchery, before them a scene of cardinal desolation. and high heels ring, a sharp, hypnotic echo bouncing off windowless walls. when finally she stops, it’s only to reload her weapon, a quick, well-practiced maneuver, a ridiculously comforting gesture. ( not many bullets left, it would be wise to leave helena to handle the rest. )
“ hate to break it to you, but… ” lips twist, her aim is impeccable. the shot does not stall, fired right above the woman’s head. “ it’s not over yet. ”
𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴'𝚂 𝚂𝙼𝙾𝙺𝙴, 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴'𝚂 bound to be mirrors, and a woman bedizened in carmine silk, draped in a fine cloak of deceit, she wears the outfit well. ada wong is a mirage, and helena harper is parched, given no choice but to follow in staggering strides, hoping there will be 𝚆𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚁 at the ends of the desert...
but instead of water she's met with a mouthful of sand.
❝ it's never over, is it? ❞ a rotting skull hits the cement wall, disintegrating upon impact. this horde has been here a while, practically starving to death underground, their fingers worn down to the bone. ❝ the exits just up ahead - and these things are like paper. it should be easy for us to get through.❞ she stares for a beat, unable to shake the feeling she'll be alone just as soon as she opens the door, left to clean up a 𝙼𝙴𝚂𝚂 made for two.
❝ before you go, i have something i want to show you. ❞
i was hoping i'd write today but this booster has more power than helena's elbow drop.
today is he.lena's birthday
@picadorage “ all my life i’ve always wanted to have one day just for me. ”
a huff of air jets from his nostrils, his body leaning back into his chair as his lips pull into a soft grin. lids close, as if drifting off into a blissful memory. ❝ you know, i used to think the same thing - hoping one day i’d actually get to enjoy my breakfast instead of being dropped off on a whim into some unknown country, waist deep in the undead. ❞ his eyes open, peering over to her in marginal, wistful gesture. ❝ there’s still time to get out if you want it, helena. you don’t have to keep doing this. ❞
𝚃𝙸𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙻𝙸𝙳𝚂 𝙵𝙻𝚄𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙷𝚄𝚃, 𝚃𝙰𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙻𝙴 breeze from just outside the bar, aroma of white jasmine suspended in the busy air. she can almost feel the eager vines brushing against her skin as she leans back, passively observing the sea of 𝙷𝚄𝙽𝙶𝚁𝚈 customers swarming in like a braindead horde. she should’ve chosen someplace else, somewhere more remote, with less noise and unwanted attention from drunken patrons wanting trouble. ❝ there's no time. not anymore. ❞ muscles instinctively tense in response, and she's soon taking a generous gulp from her drink until there’s nothing left but ice. she's thirsty for something stronger... anything to dull the pain if only for a little while. ❝ and there's no escaping this... not after everything we've been through. i'm not giving up anytime soon, leon. i owe her that much. ❞

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squarecranks:
❝ vitaliano’s. ❞ it was more of a muse to herself than a mere correction, mouth tugging into a tight-knit, nervous smile when the other woman offers her own. ❝ but yes, that sounds wonderful. could you just. . . give me a call when you pull up? i can meet you outside. if it’s not too much to ask. ❞
❝ don't want an agent like me sniffing around your apartment, i see. ❞ 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙸𝚂 𝚂𝙿𝙸𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙴𝙳, unlike the great solemnity that usually convolutes the office from morning to night. it’s a heaviness that 𝚁𝚄𝚃𝙷𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙻𝚈 coils around her entire existence, sinking in bone deep, eating away at the marrow without cessation. sorrow is never ending, just like a river that wraps around the earth, infinitely flowing until the end of time. ❝ you got it. ❞ she holds onto her smile for as long as the muscles will allow it, eyes shimmering with an inkling of mirth. a sentiment she's not felt for some time now. ❝ i can't wait to see how you look outside of your work clothes. ❞
helena grew up in bandera texas, otherwise known as “the cowboy capitol of the world”, where she lived, breathed and ate ranch life. instead of learning how to ride a bike like most children, she learned how to ride a horse at the young age of seven, and lassoed her first cow three years later. she was never afraid to get her hands dirty, rolling around in the mud with the pigs, seeing how far she could spit with her sister, and arm wrestling with the boys. she felt most at home lying in the grass after a long arduous day, jeans covered in dirt, staring up at the star sprinkled sky with a straw of hay hanging from her mouth. she didn't shy away from more girly things like dresses and makeup, but she didn't see the point of them either. helena prefers pants to skirts, scrapes to blush, and short fingernails chewed to the quick over shiny acrylics that would just as soon rip from the beds after reining a wild bull. she didn't fit the mold of a “traditional” southern girl, but she didn't want to either.
in her teenage years she stuck out like a sore thumb, staring a little too long at the prettiest girl in class, not envying her like some naturally assumed, but wanting to be with her. she knew from that moment she would have to keep that side of her a secret, only confiding in deborah, and her closest colleagues later on in life. she lived in a small town after all, and in small towns close mindedness spreads like a disease. she isn't completely against the idea of men, but her taste in them for the most part teeters on the edge of nonexistence. the only man who will ever have her heart completely is her father, who tragically passed away when she was just seventeen, leaving her the ranch, and everything else that came with the job that proved to be too much to handle all at once. if only their mother hadn't abandoned them when she was five, maybe their lives would've been different, but the world is an unusually cruel place, and the harper sisters were dealt a ruthless card in life.
in order to make ends meet she sold the ranch, cattle, and horses a year after her fathers' death, leaving them both with enough cash to get through college, but it still wasn't enough. no one left an instruction manual, or any advice on how to raise a child when you're still a kid yourself. she was both sister and parent to deborah, overbearing at times, wanting to know where she was all hours of the day, scrutinizing every new boyfriend who walked through the door. no one was ever good enough, and it created a rift between the two sisters. a boundary helena wasn't used to, or ready for yet... and then deborah ended up in the ICU, and all she could see was red. she wanted to kill him, to end his miserable life that night, and fell just short of it. an eye for an eye, a kneecap blown out of his leg will suffice. so long as he never touches her again. so long as he understands helena's warning that she won't stop next time. as a consequence of the assault she was taken off a list of promising candidates for the DSO. it was a price worth paying to keep her promise. anything to protect her baby sister and yet... it still wasn't enough.
she visits deborah's grave every friday afternoon, leaning her back against the headstone, aware that the grave is empty. aware of the fact her body will never be recovered, forever haunted by deborah's last letter written before she fully succumbed to the infection.
❝ i'm sorry lena, i tried. i love you. i hope you find someone to love... can't remember much anymore, i'm so cold. it hurts. ❞
when no one's listening, she quietly hums ❝ raindrops keep fallin' on my head ❞ by b.j thomas at the gravesite, recounting the times she'd sing it softly to a young deborah in order to get her to sleep at night. just like their father did when they were afraid or uncertain of what life had in store. they were only kids. she was just a tomboy from a small town in texas, and now she's all alone.