#techniart

So Ashley takes her accrued leave and a red-eye ticket as close as she can get to the coordinates, which turns out to be Madrid. A bus takes her to the closest town, and her feet and a satnav bring her to the coordinates themselves.

A rustle in the woods has her pulling the knife from her boot. A DSO badge has a few nice perks at the airport, like skipping the security check.

“Dulcinea!”

“Don Quixote?”

The tension leaves Ashley’s shoulders, though not entirely. She can’t tell where Luis’s voice is coming from.

She doesn’t need to, though, when she spots movement, drawing her eye to a familiar head of hair and inquisitive blue eyes peeking from over a fallen tree trunk.

“Leon!”

Leon chirps out her name, eyes scrunching up happily as Ashley runs towards him, dumping her backpack to the ground to have two free arms to fling into a hug.

He chitters a laugh and swings her around a few times, feet dangling off the ground until Leon (ever so delicately) releases her.

“I missed you, Leon,” Ashley says breathlessly. He’s got a taloned hand on her shoulder, looking her over at arm’s length.

“What, no love for your brave knight?”

She turns to Luis and wraps him in a bear hug too, a little less aggressively but no less warm. He’s carrying her bag over his good shoulder and grinning.

“I missed you too, sir knight.”

Leon makes a chattering hissing noise too complex for Ashley’s rusty skills to parse and raises an eyebrow at Luis.

Luis apparently gets it, and puts an offended hand to his chest. “A gentleman never corrects a lady’s pronunciation. That would be rude, Sancho.”

Ashley laughs and leans into Leon’s side. “Forgive me. My American tongue is trying its best.”

Leon looks her over again, and makes a sound deep in his chest that became very familiar over their time in Spain the first go round. [Ashley-hurt-question?]

“Just sleepy. Long flight from DC to Madrid,” she reassures him. “Promise.”

“Baby Eagle no more, eh? Our Princessa is all grown up, Leon,” Luis teases.

“Adult Eagle doesn’t have the same ring to it, though,” Ashley muses.

Leon’s side shakes under her shoulder with a chuckle.

“So, what are you doing here?” Luis asks finally. “Not that we aren’t very happy to see you.”

Ashley holds up the letter, blank save for the coordinates and red lipstick kiss.

Leon sighs, but the set of his mandibles is lifted out in a smile. [Ada.]

“Should have expected that,” Luis mutters.

“I can’t decide if I’m happy she’s looking out for you guys, or if I’m unsettled that she knows where I live,” Ashley says.

[Match-same,] Leon agrees.

“Ah, but too much talk! Sancho, we are rude hosts! We have not even invited you in,” Luis tuts, shaking his head.

[Ashley-close-follow,] Leon chitters, offering Ashley a taloned hand to hold as Luis forges ahead into the woods, her bag still over his good shoulder. [Home-safe-warm.]

“Well, lead the way, gentlemen.”

—

It’s a small house, almost more of a cottage, set beside a creek and practically swallowed by greenery.

It’s adorably domestic. Luis starts cooking what smells like breakfast while Leon drags around and rearranges furniture, making a space meant for two into one meant for three. All the while, a steady stream of conversation flows through the room.

Luis dances just short of sharing anything legally incriminating, and Ashley holds her tongue from sharing anything classified, but it’s great to catch up with them.

Finally, breakfast is served, and rather than the table, the three of them sit on the floor, plates on their laps to eat. It’s delicious and rustic and the first home-cooked meal Ashley’s had that someone else made in a long time.

“While I’m here, and before I forget, I have something to tell you two,” Ashley says, once breakfast is a memory and lunch is not yet a thought on the horizon. “It’s something that I’ve been working on with Director Hunnigan for a while now.”

[Hunnigan-boss-question?]

“Yeah, she’s the head of the DSO,” Ashley explains. “Er, right, DSO is what split off of STRATCOM. Specifically the bioterror fighting part of STRATCOM. Anyways, it’s a proposal that’s been in the works for a while, and just needed a push.”

She pulls a folded map from her bag and spreads it out on the floor. It’s Alaska, blown up across several sheets of printer paper taped together.

“A joint base, DSO and BSAA, because they want to have eyes on every possible thing,” Ashley says. “A safe location for researchers and any person who is infected but keeps their mind. Generally agents, but we can cross the civilian BOW bridge when we come to it.”

Leon’s eyes are wide, looking from the map to Ashley’s face.

“Are there… other infected agents?” Luis asks cautiously.

“None that I know of. But when I brought up the idea of someone keeping their mind but mutating physically, all the Director did was sigh and say, ‘I knew the story you had about Condor One was bullshit. He’s too stubborn to go out like that.’”

Luis crows a laugh while Leon’s eyes get glossy, like he’s trying real hard not to cry.

“She also said you owe her a report, but she did that thing with her mouth so I think she was kidding.”

Leon reaches over and gently pulls Ashley into his lap for a hug.

The road is pretty desolate, thank god, but Claire and Sherry do have a laugh over what a trucker might report over the radio if they were spotted. ‘The world’s worst Village People cover band’ even goads a chuckle out of the rookie.

They finally manage to find a motel as the sun is dipping low on the horizon. Marvin and Sherry go in to get a room, Leon and Claire hunkered low in a ditch just past the tree line, waiting for night to actually fall to sneak through the parking lot and into the room.

Showers are taken and Marvin heads out in search of new clothes for them all, Claire legging in the other direction for food. It’s takes some creative application of Marvin’s incredibly rusty high school home ec skills and a dollar store sewing kit, but eventually even the rookie has something clean to wear.

Sherry wipes out fast after dinner, curling up in one of the beds, hair still slightly damp after her shower. The adults last a little longer, but not much.

Leon sits next to the tiny end table, tail curled around his feet as he rests the side of his head against the wall. “You two should get some rest. I can take the first watch.”

“Are you sure?” Claire asks.

“Yeah, totally. I don’t think I’m gonna be able to sleep for a while anyways.”

Claire nods gratefully and slides into the bed next to Sherry, leaving Marvin the other one.

“You wake me up when you start getting sleepy, rookie,” Marvin says sternly. “I better not wake up to the sun rising and find you still up.”

Leon huffs a laugh and gives a thumbs up. “Got it, Lieutenant.”

Marvin sleeps like the d— like a rock until the slow creep of light across his face pulls him back to wakefulness. A rant is building in his chest until the blurry figure at the table resolves itself into reds, instead of browns.

Claire raises an eyebrow at him, then nods to the coffee pot, still steaming. “I woke up about two hours ago. Made him switch with me,” she whispers. “He tried to get me to let him sleep on the floor, the idiot.”

Sherry is still sound asleep in the other bed, breathing softly in the hush. Shes bundled tightly to Leon’s chest, face buried in his sweater. The rookie has his human arm draped protectively over her, every inch of this new body curled up defensively around the little girl in his arms. Even his tail is looped around like a barrier between her and the world. The sting on the end is wrapped in a cheap towel, secured with what looks like one of Claire’s hairbands.

Marvin shakes his head and pours himself a cup of coffee. It tastes cheap and sludgy, just like the coffee at the station, and a pang hits him in the gut when he remembers that he’s never going to get to stand around the kitchen and shoot the shit with his officers again.

They sit in companionable silence for a time, watching the rising sun creep from one bed to the floor. The quiet is broken only by distant cars and the occasional soft chitter the rookie makes in his sleep.

“You’re leaving soon, aren’t you?”

Claire stiffens. “I only ever came to Raccoon City to look for Chris, and—“

Marvin cuts her off with a hand on her shoulder and a kind smile. “Easy, I wasn’t trying to accuse you of anything. You need to keep looking, I understand. We’re gonna need to move on soon too.”

She sighs, then takes a sip of her lukewarm coffee with a grimace. “Thanks.”

“You’ll find him. I have it on good authority that you Redfields are pretty damn durable.”

Claire chuckles.

Once Leon and Sherry finally wake up, Claire takes off. Sherry puts on a brave face, lip wobbling. They exchange emails, and the three remaining each get a hug goodbye, much to Leon’s visible surprise.

“Take care of yourself, Kennedy,” Claire tells him quietly as he relaxes into the embrace.

“You too, Claire.”

“When you find your brother, tell him he still owes be ten bucks for this year’s March Madness bracket,” Marvin tells her at the door.

Down a member, their band of three slips from the motel once the sun has set again. They walk in the same direction as the highway, but several yards away and partially shielded by the trees. Leon takes point with his apparently much improved night vision, carrying Sherry with one arm as she fights sleep again. Marvin trails behind, trying not to break his ankle in a gopher hole.

The sky is starting to lighten once again, from dark black to the deepest navy. Marvin stumbles again, only caught by the rookie’s careful clawed hand on his arm.

“Do you want me to carry you?” Leon offers quietly. “I mean, if it would be easier. It wouldn’t be a trouble, I’m kind of really strong—“

“—Rookie—“

“—and you’ve been up since yesterday, plus—“

“—Rookie—“

“—I can see really good in the dark, and my legs are longer, so I can cover more ground—“

“—Leon.”

Leon’s tirade stops abruptly. It’s a little hard to make out, but the kid looks nervous and weirdly guilty. “Sorry, Lieutenant.”

“Get down here so I can look you in the eye without breakin’ my neck, would ya?”

The rookie obediently sits down on his heels, looking up at Marvin with wide blue eyes closer to shoulder height than they should be.

“You don’t need to run yourself ragged to keep people from leaving you, Rookie. Claire came into this with different priorities, she was always just looking for her brother. She didn’t leave because of you,” Marvin says, clapping his hand firmly to Leon’s armored shoulder. “And I’m not going anywhere, piggyback ride or no. I’m probably not really your Lieutenant anymore, but you’re still my Rookie. So up and at ‘em son, we got a lot of ground to cover.”

The mandibles on the side of Leon’s face lift up and out a little, as close to a smile as the kid can get now. Marvin matches it with a smile of his own as his rookie stands up.

They only make it another quarter mile, in the end.

A Humvee swerves off the road, engine roaring as it brakes hard just behind the three of them. Leon puts Sherry on the ground and hunches down defensively. Marvin folds his hand around his empty pistol, stuck in the waistband of his ill-fitting jeans.

The sudden blinding flood of a spotlight distracts them from the approach of more vehicles, surrounding them, cutting off the exits.

Leon makes a noise of surprise as several darts bounce off his carapace, a handful more landing lucky angles between armored plates. A soldier in tactical gear takes a knee and aims something that looks for all the world like a t-shirt cannon, and with a pneumatic fwoomp, launches a wire net at the rookie.

Marvin shouts, hands going to try to untangle Leon from the trap before he fully loses his balance and topples over. A soldier grabs Marvin’s shoulders, tightly. Another has Sherry around the waist even as she wriggles and yells.

One of the goons steps up closer to Leon, whose attempts to get out of the cutting wire net are getting smaller and slower, and unceremoniously jabs a stun baton right in the leathery red flesh right between two plates on his stomach.

Leon screams, high-pitched and shrieking, tearing metal and summer cicadas and injured human.

Another goon steps up, one gloved hand carrying a fucking Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal Lecter, honest-to-god muzzle. Leon twitches with aftershocks, mandibles snared in the net and held away from his mouth, but the kid’s eyes are terrified.

“‘Arvin!”

Marvin snaps.

The thing about bulletproof vests is that they’re meant to disperse kinetic energy over a wider area. They’re most effective against piercing or slashing, be it from bullets, knives, or other bladed weaponry.

They are not, however, particularly good against a shoulder to the ribcage. So when Marvin yanks himself out of the soldier’s grip, lowers his shoulder and charges, the tackle takes the muzzle soldier off guard and off his feet.

Lots of high school skills are getting dusted off, lately. Home ec sewing, football tackles, fist fighting. Marvin lays into the guy he tackled, knocking the helmet off and pummeling his face until another set of hands grabs him on the backswing.

A quick pivot on his heels has him head butting the new contender in the nose, which sends a sharp burst of pain through his skull, but the crunch it makes is worth it.

Marvin’s muscles lock up. Stun baton. Paired with a prick in the neck and the sudden feeling of cold in his veins.

He straightens up and spins around a time or two as Ashley giggles, then puts her feet back on the floor. Her smile falls a little, eyebrows scrunching together.

“Leon, we joked about you wearing the same clothes the last two times I got to visit, but this is the third time I’ve shown up and found you wearing the same sweats and t-shirt, and I’m starting to think it’s not really a joke.”

Leon laughs hollowly. “I told you before, they’re comfortable.”

“Leon, do you not have other clothes?”

He waffles for a second.

“He doesn’t.”

“Luis!”

Ashley gasps. “What? Leon, how do you only have one set of clothes?”

“The clothes that fit him this way, they don’t fit that way,” Luis explains, gesturing horizontally then vertically. “And the clothes that fit lengthwise do not exist.”

“STRATCOM is just planning on sending you out on missions in pajamas?” Ashley demands. “Why haven’t they done anything? Alterations, tailoring, anything?”

“They’re supposed to have something tactical made before the next time they send me out on a mission,” Leon tries.

“The missions they haven’t cleared you to go on yet.”

“And won’t, for who knows how long,” Luis adds. “Face it, Sancho, they’re kind of leaving you out to dry here.”

“It’s not like you can just go to Walmart and pick up some jeans in size ‘bug monster,’ guys.”

Luis scowls. “Oye, what did I say about that word in this house, hm?”

Ashley frowns. “I need a tape measure and a step stool.”

“Why?” Leon asks.

Ashley’s face is set and determined. “I’m going to fix this.”

Eventually, they find what Ashley needs, and she flits around Leon taking measurements, market cap in her teeth as she scrawls measurements on her arm.

Between everything that happens on a daily basis, Leon actually kind of forgets the whole notion of clothes until Ashley comes back barely a month later lugging several more bags than normal.

“What’cha got there, Ash?”

There’s faint bags under her eyes as she shoves a duffel bag at his chest with a smile. “Clothes. Go, try them on. I also brought my sewing machine, in case I need to fix anything that would take too long to do by hand.”

Leon pulls the zip open just a few inches. The material is fleecy with stretch, soft to his fingertips and a nice navy blue. His throat closes up. “Ashley, I don’t know what to say, I—“

“Say you’ll go try them on!” Ashley demands. “Go! Shoo!”

Leon swallows the overwhelming feeling in his chest and darts to his room to do just that.

They fit almost perfectly. The sweater sleeves actually reach his wrists, and one shoulder is a little roomier to account for his carapace. The pants are fleece-lined, buttoned over his tail to keep it in place on his hips. There’s enough of a stretch in the fabric to allow for movement, but enough weight to the weave to retain heat.

When he peeks back into the common room, Ashley is nervously tapping a foot and fiddling with her painted nails as Luis sprawls on an armchair.

“Eh, Sancho, give us a spin! Put on a show!” Luis jeers. Lingering shoulder injury and Leon’s horrific appearance be damned, Luis Serra is not a man who balks from flirting. He flirts like it’s a full-combat sport.

Leon chuckles softly, but obligingly twirls in place.

“Do they fit? It looks like it but sometimes you can’t tell just from appearance. Do the sleeves need to be let out? Or taken in? What about the pants?” Ashley bursts out.

Leon puts a hand on her shoulder. “They fit perfect, Ashley. Thank you. You—you really didn’t have to go to so much trouble.”

Ashley’s eager nerves rush out in a sigh of relief, then she frowns gently. “Leon, you’re allowed to want things. You’re worth the trouble, you dolt.”

“Dulcinea is right, Sancho,” Luis adds. “You deserve nice things. Not just clothes that fit, though our little seamstress has done an excellent job. Those pants enhance your… assets~.”

Luis wiggles his eyebrows salaciously and Ashley rolls her eyes right back. She grabs Leon’s hands in hers and beams up at him.

“I’m glad those fit. Now try the rest on before Luis tries to tear them off of you, okay? And I’m serious, I’ll alter anything that doesn’t work.”

Leon pulls her into a hug. “How long did this all take? How much ‘rest’ is there?”

“I’m not sure. I just worked on stuff whenever I couldn’t sleep. Gave me something productive to do instead of stewing on nightmares. As for how much is stuffed in that bag?” She counts off on her fingers. “Tight sweater, loose sweater, t-shirt, tank top—I didn’t technically make the tank, I found it at the store and just shaped it up a little—two pants and a pair of shorts.”

Luis whistles, low and impressed. “All in a month? Princessa, when have you slept?”

Ashley laughs, which is the opposite of an answer, but neither man pushes it. Nightmares aren’t new ground for them, either.

It’s gross and messy like always, but afterwards Leon flexes all five (five!) of his fingers on both hands and wobbles to the lab shower to get the blood and gunk off his skin.

Peeking back into the little bunkroom Claire and Sherry have claimed as theirs for the time being prompts a scream, hugging, and more crying. Leon jokes about being dehydrated. Sherry smacks his shoulder gently.

The door creeps open and Chris peers in, sheepish, silent, before he catches sight of Leon and tries to back out just as quietly.

“Oh no, absolutely not, get back here,” Claire demands. “Right now.”

“He doesn’t have to,” Leon says quietly, “it’s fine, I know it’s weird.”

Claire snorts. “It’s adorable you think he has a choice. Christopher Elizabeth Redfield, get your boulder-punching ass back in here right now or so help me—!”

The big bad BSAA captain obediently shuffles back into the room, looking at his feet. “I know you’re probably not comfortable, around me, I—“

“Hang on, wait, no,” Leon interrupts. “You think I’m uncomfortable around you?”

“Well… yeah? You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been avoiding you because I thought you were uncomfortable around me.”

Both men look at each other in confusion.

“Boys,” Claire sighs. “So stupid. Never get involved with them if you can avoid it, Sherry.”

Sherry snickers from her perch on the bottom bunk.

“Why would either of you be uncomfortable around each other? I mean, I know this is sort of a mutual friend situation, but come on, you’re grown adults. Get it together and play nicely,” Claire says.

Chris rubs the back of his neck. “I… my team was on transport duty. We didn’t exactly show the best of the BSAA. I’m sorry, Leon.”

Leon brushes the apology off. “It’s not a big deal. Not like we were expecting you to let a monster ride shotgun.”

Claire hisses sharply, and Sherry flinches. Even Chris looks upset.

“You better not be referring to yourself,” Claire says, poking a finger at Leon’s chest.

“Well I obviously don’t mean Luis,” Leon tries to joke.

“You’re not a monster, you idiot.”

Leon snorts. Claire glowers, and jabs her finger harder into his sternum.

“Leon. You are not a monster.”

“I have eyes, Claire. I know I am.”

“You are not!”

“It really doesn’t get much more ‘monster’ than a ten foot tall bug. It’s okay. I’ve accepted it,” Leon says, voice slowly raising. “I am a monster, and I’d be delusional to think otherwise.”

“Oh, just cause you hit a growth spurt suddenly you’re a monster?!” Claire shouts. “Shut up!”

“I’m not even human!” Leon yells, leaning in as he does.

“Am I a monster?”

Everyone flinches at Sherry’s soft question.

“Wh—Sher, no, of course you aren’t—“

“Why not? If you’re a monster, then so am I. There’s still dormant G-Virus in my blood, and it’s never going away,” Sherry continues, sliding off the bed to her feet. “I could have mutated, like my—like my Dad did.”

“It’s different,” Leon tries, hands resting on Sherry’s shoulders. “You aren’t a monster. Jesus, of course not.”

“How is it different, Leon?”

“Because you’re a good person, Sherry, and I’m—I’ve—“

“I know about the STRATCOM deal.”

Leon pulls back, hands trapped in place by Sherry’s hands on his wrist. Her thumbs are tracing gentle circles over his pulse.

“What?”

“I know what you traded, Leon. A bad person wouldn’t make that deal. So don’t try to convince me you’re not a good man.”

“How do you…” Leon whispers. “How? That was supposed to be classified.”

“Director Hunnigan told me at the wake. She thought I deserved to know,” Sherry says, equally hushed.

There’s a moment of tense silence. Tense like a garage door spring, wound tight enough you worry about ricochet and bystanders when it finally breaks. Tense like a bungee cord ready to take someone’s eye out.

“Do one of you two want to explain?” Chris asks finally.

Sherry doesn’t take her eyes from Leon’s face as she speaks, thumbs never stopping their tiny circles. Her expression is kind, despite the words she utters. “About three weeks after the three of us split after Raccoon, the federal government picked up Leon and I. They knew about the G, somehow, and they wanted to study it. But Leon made a trade, him for me. He would work for them until it got him killed, and in return I got to live a normal life and didn’t wind up as a lab rat.”

Claire’s face goes red as Sherry talks. Chris’s cheeks drain of color as his expression falls.

“I had no idea,” Chris says finally.

“Nobody did. Nobody was supposed to, that’s kind of the whole idea behind something being classified,” Leon grouses. “I just… I couldn’t let you lose anything else, Sher.”

“And that’s why you aren’t a monster,” Sherry says patiently. “Because underneath all that armor plating, you’re still the same baby-faced 20-something signing a deal with the devil for a kid you barely know. Because you’re a good person, Leon.”

“I did not have a baby face,” Leon says quietly, smiling faintly when Claire snorts and Sherry giggles.

“I did think you were Claire’s age when we first met,” Chris says.

“Rude.”

Leon grins as Claire laughs louder.

Wow, he’s really out of practice smiling. His cheeks already hurt.

Wait.

“Shit,” Leon says. “Shit. Okay. I’ll… I’ll be back in a minute, I have to… yeah.”

Claire catches him by the hood as he tries to shuffle past her. “Absolutely not. You can talk, use your words.”

“This,” Leon says, gesturing to himself desperately, “wears off.”

“Oh. Woof, okay, that sucks. Makes sense. But sucks.”

“What do you need from us?” Chris asks.

“I’ll just go, I’ll be back in a little bit, really it’s gross—“

“Not the question I asked,” Chris says. “What do you need from us?”

Leon groans, then winces as his chest tightens and his neck cracks. “Somebody to tell Luis the time, and grab a bunch of candy from his desk.”

“On it,” Chris says, all business as he jogs away down the hall.

“Candy?” Sherry asks, holding Leon upright with a hand on his torso as best she can.

“Sugar,” he shrugs, then winces again as his shoulders pop loudly. “Plaga’s a bug, remember?”

Claire mirrors Sherry on his other side with a snicker. “That guy from Men in Black. Sugar water.”

“You’re the worst,” Leon says mildly. Claire laughs as the two of them help ease him to his knees on the ground. “Easily my least favorite Redfield. And that’s saying something, since your brother locked me in a dog crate.”

“…He WHAT?!”

—————

Chris, bursting into the lab: ELEVEN-OH-SEVEN, WHERE IS THE CANDY?

Luis, opening a drawer: Tell your sister she needs new boots.

Chris, stuffing candy in every pocket of his pants: huh?

Despite being visibly pointy and roughly the size of a Honda Civic, there’s human eyes and a human arm and a very human frustration on a very inhuman face as she darts away.

There’s a mob approaching out the window, like a literal pitchforks-and-torches mob of people that look like they got lost on their way to a historical reenactment.

“Oh, great,” the voice over her shoulder says, and Ashley very pointedly doesn’t turn to look. “The welcome wagon is here.”

Suddenly, Ashley’s ears ring. She feels like she just stuck her head in a tuning fork and let it resonate. She can hardly even see straight as she hunches over.

IT IS TIME FOR OUR LOST LAMB TO JOIN THE COVENANT. DO NOT BE LEAD ASTRAY BY THE FALSE PROPHET.

The ringing fades and the mob roars in response. Ashley looks to the side to see the bug guy in a similar position, hunched over with hands over his ears, eyes scrunched closed.

Huh.

They both manage to straighten up, and he looks at her. “You heard that too?”

Mutely, Ashley nods.

“We need to get out of here,” he says. “C’mon.”

Up a floor, over a little, around some halls until bug boy yanks open a window and throws his own self out.

Ashley looks down to see but lo and behold, he’s completely unscathed and holding out both mismatched arms like he wants her to jump.

“ARE YOU INSANE?” Ashley squawks down at him. Oh, sure, just a high dive with no pool to land in. Great plan.

“Oh, good, you can still talk,” he mutters, quietly enough she’s not sure if she was supposed to hear it or not. “I’ll catch you. Just trust me.”

“I DON’T!”

“Well, pretend like you do. You’ve never done a trust fall for team building?” He asks. It’s such a weirdly normal thing to bring up it almost stumps her.

She can hear the mob inside, Spanish shouts that she doesn’t actually understand, and yeah, at least she has a chance of taking one bug monster over the population of Rhode Island if it comes down to it. So Ashley bites her lip and shimmies through the open window and only closes her eyes a little.

Oof.

One arm is considerably harder than the other, and she’ll definitely have some weird bruises on the back of her legs, but he’s ridiculously gentle putting her back on the ground, not withdrawing the more human arm until she has her feet securely under her.

“See? Not so bad,” he says, and the weird flaps on either side of his mouth (mandibles? Probably?) twitch up and out, almost like a smile. “But they definitely heard us so we really gotta go.”

Despite bug boy’s legs being roughly the same height as Ashley’s entire body, he doesn’t leave her in the dust. Ashley’s running full out, and she starts to feel like a sheep with a border collie.

It’s almost elegant, in a really messed up sci-fi horror way. Her insectoid herding dog whirls and dodges and leaps, not a bit of the movement wasted as he absolutely lays waste to the never-ending flood of villagers trying to grab her. All the while, he’s keeping her running along some pre-determined path Ashley can’t even see.

There’s a shout in the distance, and she doesn’t even have the chance to react before there’s an arm around her waist, picking her up and running. Feet pound, doors slam, and finally her feet are placed gently on the ground again as her chest heaves for breath.

“You,” bug boy snarls, stomping over to the guy in the cabin. The other guy (red leather jacket, wavy hair, vaguely punchable face) looks nervous but not panicked as he backs up, two steps to every one that approaches him.

“Listen, Leon, about earlier—“

“Luis Serra. Former Umbrella researcher,” bug boy, Leon, interrupts, a giant clawed fist pressing jacket guy up against the wall. “You were in Raccoon City. You did this! You did this to me!”

Jacket Guy, apparently Luis Serra, stops wriggling against the wall and freezes in place, eyes wide as he takes in Leon’s everything.

“Roost!”

“Go for Roost.”

“I’m looking right at something, and there’s no way it’s T.”

Ashley sighs. The agent she was just assigned, Crowe or something, is young and skittish, and had the misfortune of being the closest one available to the outbreak currently trying to start in Germany. The details change but the broad strokes are usually the same; defunct umbrella lab, biohazard exposure in a small town near the area, BSAA scrambling for units while the DSO sends in a few stopgap agents.

“If it isn’t T-Virus, what is it?”

“Roost, if I knew what it was, I’d have said that already. But it’s crushing zombies bare-handed.”

Ashley presses two fingers to her temples. “Then describe it. What’s it look like? Use your crayon words, Crowe, give me a color, build, something.”

Crowe huffs. His voice is breathy, like he’s whispering, with an odd quality like he’s got his face hiding in the side of a car. “Giant fucking bug? Shaped like a guy, but tall as shit, like ten foot, easy. Armor plated, like some fucked up biped crab with a long ass pointy tail. BOW, for sure.”

Ashley’s breath catches in her chest. “What color is the hair?”

“What?!”

“The hair! What color is the BOW’s hair?”

“I don’t know, brown? How the hell did you know it has hair? Roost, what the hell is this thing?”

She fights off a grin. “If I’m right, you’re looking at a friendly.”

“A FRIENDLY?!” Crowe demands. “It’s a giant fucking scorpion, Roost, what the fuck do you mean F—“

His voice cuts off abruptly. No loss of signal, but all Ashley can hear is the faint sounds of fingers against the mic, and the soft scratch of hair against the receiver.

“Hola, señora. Your agent friend will be a little… tied up, for a bit. We can’t have him interfering, you see, but he will be unharmed.”

She can’t help but laugh at the new voice on the line, a familiar smooth tone from years ago.

“Luis?”

There’s a long silence, cut only by Ashley’s own breath.

“Who is this?”

“Come on, Don Quixote. I know it’s been a while, but surely you haven’t forgotten about Dulcinea.”

Luis barks a laugh, beaming grin audible in his voice. “Princessa! Always a pleasure to hear from you. Oye, Sancho, seems you left more of a mark than you thought!”

There’s an exuberant chittering over the line, hard to distinguish in the faint static, but she’s pretty sure she catches her own name.

“I can’t believe you two are there,” Ashley says. “You didn’t really hurt Crowe, did you? He’s new, but I’m kind of responsible for keeping him alive.”

“Si, si, your agent is fine. A little duct tape never hurt anyone, I would know,” Luis says. “We’ll leave him where BSAA will find him, don’t worry.”

“I appreciate it. Are you guys… what are you doing?”

Another noisy chitter, and a wordless noise of agreement. “You can take the man from the job, but not the job from the man, Princessa. Our dear Sancho is not a man who rests while people are in peril.”

Ashley chuckles and fights back a grin. “Yeah, that sounds like him. Just… be careful, okay? I’ll try to let dispatch know there’s friendlies on the ground, but I can’t make promises.”

Which isn’t really a fair statement for the whole country, Barcelona and Madrid are probably nice, but Leon’s experience on the ground started with being asked to sit in the back of a K-9 unit SUV and only got worse from there.

The police officers that drove him out in the middle of nowhere nervously whispered to each other in Spanish in the front seat the whole drive, never directing any chatter his way. Leon held his tongue and didn’t say a word either, letting the two men assume he either didn’t speak Spanish or didn’t speak at all.

When they finally let him out, driving off in a hurry, he just shook his head, making his way forward. The locals weren’t exactly friendly, but it’s not like he can really blame them for that. Things escalated from there, and they got out of hand fast.

It could be worse, though, the little voice in the back of his head reminds him. He could be naked. He almost was. At over 9 feet tall, Leon had long since run out of commercial clothing in sizes that fit. Rather than get something made, the brass wanted first to send him out completely unequipped, in the strongest possible sense.

It took Marvin days to argue the higher-ups into it. He tried a lot of tactics, ranging from Leon’s modesty (ineffective, bio weapons don’t need pants) to the thermal impact (finally effective, given Leon’s lack of tolerance to the cold and his status as The Last Option).

Leon puts a hand on the doorknob, carapace clicking almost silently against the metal, twisting it but not yet opening. Someone stands on the other side, scared and dirty. It’s probably Baby Eagle.

This part is always the worst.

Leon used to love meeting new people. People were interesting, they had lives and views and experiences that fueled his love of knowledge. Every stranger had something to teach him. But now?

Meeting new people, especially unprepared new people, was awful. Their split-second expressions of confusiondisgustpanic, the instinctive steps back, the pounding heart and pinprick pupils, all of that hits Leon like a shotgun blast to the chest. It hurts.

But he has a job to do, and someone to help.

“Ashley Graham?” He calls out quietly, getting no response. Smart girl.

The door swings open without any effort, hinges creaking softly as Leon looks in the dark room like it’s practically midday. He can’t spot her, but all signs to her hiding from him.

“Ashley Graham?” He tries again, “I’m here to help.”

Quick reflexes are all that stop him from getting nailed right in the solar plexus with a brass candelabra. He blocks it with his arm, the metal glancing off armored carapace.

She tries again, aiming at his crotch this time, which would have been smart in any other situation. This time, Leon grabs the candelabra, wincing slightly at the metallic reverb, no doubt much worse for her from the way she instantly drops her grip and goes to slip past him.

Leon grabs her bicep with his human hand, flinching again at her strangled scream as she tries to pull her arm from his grip. Her face flashes through the usual expressions before landing on anger, which is all the warning he gets before she twists in his grip. She flails her other three limbs in his direction, blows glancing and ineffective, and it’s really all Leon can do to just wait her out.

“Ashley Graham,” he repeats a third time. “Believe it or not, I’m here to help. My name is—stop that—my name is Leon, I was sent by—hey, stop—sent by your father, the President, to r—seriously?—to rescue you.”

She wears herself out fast, panting and writhing weakly.

“You done?” Leon asks. “If I let go, are you gonna run? Cause that doesn’t really work for me.”