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Chapter Text

“....subject…. pupil dilation….five milligrams.”

Leon regains consciousness in snatches, the world hazy and distorted around him when he manages to flicker his eyes open. His head feels heavy; clogged with cotton and too fuzzy to think straight. Everything feels distant, the telltale over-warm buzz of drugs weighing down his veins and pulling him into the padded surface beneath his back. 

“Wha’...?” Leon tries to ask, but the word is lopsided and sluggish, his tongue refusing to find the right syllables. He can’t seem to move his limbs, something solid pressing into his wrists and ankles when he tries. He doesn’t have the strength to lift his head and see what it is. Movement flickers above him, a pale circle that he recognizes vaguely as a face swimming nauseatingly into his line of sight. 

“He’s waking up,” a voice states clinically. It sounds as if it’s coming from several feet underwater, muted and strangely warbling. “Please remain calm, Mr. Kennedy. The sedation will take some time to wear off.” 

Sedation? That’s not right. The last thing Leon remembers, he was… Where was he, again? The memory is elusive, sliding through his mental fingers when he tries to grasp for it. There was a laboratory. Maybe? It seems like there’s always some kind of laboratory. He tries to lift his head, but something warm and latex-covered presses down on his forehead, gently but firmly guiding him back down to the surface. A hand?

“Relax. We’re about to begin.” 

Begin what? Leon wants to ask, but the words slip away like water draining from a sieve, leaving him frustrated and lost. The smell of antiseptic is sharp at the back of his throat, cloying and acrid enough that Leon feels like he’s about to choke on it. Is he in a hospital? He hates hospitals. He shivers as the chill of the room makes itself known, the papery thin gown he’s wearing doing little to keep him warm. It rustles against his skin, lulling him into a trace of echoing whispers and brushes of rough fabric. 

“...syringe?” The voice is speaking again, and Leon jerks back into consciousness, tensing against the restraints that make themselves known across his body. He didn’t realize he’d even begun to fall asleep again. The person hovers above him, slightly more in-focus than before. They’re wearing a scrub cap and pale blue mask that covers most of their face, but their eyes are surprisingly hard and devoid of emotion, staring down at Leon with the gaze of a disapproving teacher about to discipline a student. He doesn’t recognize who they are, but something about their glare makes his skin crawl. He needs to get out of here. 

A second attempt to lift his head grants him a view of a sterile room, all washed-out blues and blaring white. The person who'd been beside him—a woman, he thinks—is in the process of injecting some mysterious substance into the clear, plastic IV tube that runs down into the back of his hand, fluid dripping through it from a bag hanging high above his head. It aches when it hits his vein. Leon fights the animalistic urge to thrash in place, blinking drowsily to clear the blur from his vision. 

Beside the woman, an older man dressed in the same blue scrubs fixes Leon with a curious glance, stepping around the head of whatever he's been strapped to and settling on a chair to Leon's left. He presses a pedal on the floor with an audible click, what seems to be an adjustable bed shifting Leon's torso upwards as his legs begin to drop. The man presses the controls again to stop the whirring motors in their tracks once the padded surface has become somewhat of a chair, Leon's legs and backrest still tilted at a relaxed angle that props up his knees and allows him to lean backwards in his seat. It reminds him a bit of being at the dentist, though Leon can't quite remember the last time his dentist kidnapped and sedated him. Leon's fingers curl where they sit on the armrests protruding at his sides. Great, now he'll have that mental image to contend with the next time he goes. 

The woman has finished with her syringe, placing the empty barrel on a nearby tray that holds several more medication bottles and wickedly sharp needle-tipped syringes. Nice. Leon hazards a glance at the mound of equipment her male counterpart has stationed himself at, disliking the complicated-looking wires and machines he seems content to swab with antiseptic wipes one-by-one. As Leon watches, the man discards the wipe and picks up a plastic sheet of EKG leads, gloved hands roughly reaching out to pull down the neck of Leon's gown before he has a chance to protest.

"Give a guy a little warning, why don't you," Leon manages, dread prickling the back of his neck with every press of cool, sticky adhesive along the curve of muscle on his chest. More find homes near his shoulders and below his ribs, the man's pointed silence giving Leon far too much time to think about the implications of being hooked up to a heart monitor. He clears his throat. Leon's words are still shaky, slurred together by his clumsy tongue, but he thinks he can keep them clear if he speaks slowly. "So, human experimentation, huh? How do you apply for something like that? Is there some sort of ethics-free graduate program I don't know about?"  

"Subject appears agitated," the woman remarks dryly, tilting her head towards the tiny microphone Leon can see clipped to her collar. A recording? "Please just relax, Mr. Kennedy, you're in good hands here." 

Right. And he's a member of the British Royal family. Leon tugs half-heartedly at his restraints, testing their strength against his still-weak muscles as the straps clink and creak where they attach to the frame. He sighs, letting his head fall back in the chair. His shoulders feel taut, tension running in a frantic current through his veins despite the evenness he injects into his voice. "You gonna dissect me, is that it? Figure out what 'makes me tick'? Believe me, you wouldn't be the first. I can already tell you what you'll—" 

"Please remain still," the woman says, the cold touch of antiseptic at Leon's temples making him flinch. The man has finished setting up the EKG, tapping a few buttons and turning to pick up two small, circular pads attached to even more wires that trail off to somewhere Leon can't see. He places them carefully in the divots behind Leon's eyes that the woman has just sanitized, itchy patches of stickiness that stretch his skin when he blinks. The woman's hands are already digging around in random places on Leon's scalp, settling even more adhesive connectors into place as she methodically parts his hair and presses down a lead. A sick feeling crawls into Leon's throat that has nothing to do with the lingering grogginess of whatever they'd drugged him with. 

"Usually you people can't wait to gloat," Leon tries a third time, eyeing the syringe tray. "Aren't you gonna tell me how awful the world is, and all that? How you're planning to usher in a new era of evolution and cure government corruption?" 

The woman says nothing, eyeing him balefully and reaching out for something behind her back that Leon can't see. When she turns around, there's a silicone bite guard in her hands, and Leon understands with sudden disturbing clarity exactly what they're about to do to him. He clenches his jaw unconsciously, the ache of it spiking through the eternally-tense muscles in his shoulders and neck and curling around the pads at his temples. It's probably pointless to resist, but Leon stubbornly refuses to open his mouth until the woman pinches his nose shut long enough that he's forced to gasp for air, gratified by the faint flare of irritation in her gaze as she jams the mouth guard against his teeth. Thick rubber presses insistently at his gums and tongue as she guides his jaw closed around the mouthpiece, gloved hand holding it in place so he can't spit it back out again. 

"Begin," she says coldly, letting go.

Leon spasms as his muscles lock up in a current of undiluted, excruciating agony, back arching painfully as his arms and legs go taut. His cry of surprise is lost in the back of his throat as his head snaps back against the headrest, body suddenly entirely out of his control as he convulses in the wake of the electricity coursing through his every nerve. Icy, tingling flames of burning pain lick up and down his skin, as if he's been dipped in a bucket of frigid water and set ablaze in the same instant. He can't breathe right. His ears ring with the strain, a high-pitched noise he belatedly realizes is coming from whatever machine they've attached him to. 

Leon can't tell how long it lasts, an eternity passing in the span of what must be a few seconds until the unrelenting tension subsides, a shuddering gasp hitching through his throat as he sags against the chair with twitching fingers and trembling limbs. He already feels hot, overwhelmed and aching where his body had been forced to press into the chair's restraints. He's too dazed to fight the gloved hand that slides under his chin to lift it up, the woman's considering hum washing over him as he pants for breath. Leon does his best to glare. 

"Again," the woman says, letting his head drop back to his chest. Leon inhales jaggedly as his hair falls forwards to obscure his vision for a merciful moment, pounding heart stuttering as the electricity shoots back into his muscles and forces him to jolt in place. His jaw clenches painfully tight around the mouth guard, a single strangled groan the only thing that manages to eke out as he loses himself in the current. His muscles are already going sore from the repeated spasms, entire body aching and contracting despite how hard he tries to relax into it. Leon's head has gone too fuzzy to think of much else, a haze descending over him like the fingers of a clinging fog.

He feels slightly distant by the time the round of electricity turns off, panting and shuddering in his seat as he swallows thickly and leans his head back against the strangely soft headrest. He might as well make use of it, if they gave it to him—he gets the feeling that he's going to be here for a while, and he's familiar with the proceedings of torture. Better to take advantage of minor comforts while he still has them. 

They shock him a few more times before the woman steps forward with a wave of her hand, Leon's muscles like raw slabs of tenderized meat where they shiver and spasm under his skin. 

"Where's that bravado, now?" the doctor taunts, flicking the syringe she's holding and quickly inserting it into the port attached to his IV line. Leon doesn't have the energy to do much more than grunt. Her eyes narrow slightly in what Leon thinks is amusement, head tilting to reveal a patch of dark hair that's slipped free of her cap. "Of course, one of the desired side effects of our electrical brain stimulation process is disorientation, so I don't blame you for being quiet. It's a good sign, actually." 

She nods, pleased, then continues. "We can only achieve so much with the electricity, unfortunately, but Dr. Madison and I think we've found a way to get around that. This drug is the first step, so I'll give it a minute to take effect and we can move on to the next phase. Isn't this exciting?" 

Yeah, something like that.

Leon swears he can feel chilled liquid dripping into his veins, the sinister creep of an unknown drug turning his arm numb as it slowly disperses through his bloodstream. The already-loud heart monitor begins to grow erratic as his pulse picks up in earnest, breaths catching. The fog in his mind surges upward from where it had begun to settle, Leon's vision blurring as his cheeks flush warm. He's—he's in a lab, he tries to remind himself, shaking off the daze. It's getting harder to focus with every minute that passes, inexplicable spikes of anxiety leaving him trembling and confused— what they want , he remembers dully—the pressure of the bite guard in his mouth suddenly overwhelming. He fights the urge to moan in distress, kicking weakly at his restraints and rolling his eyes in an attempt to escape the way they've begun to burn. 

"I think we're about ready," the woman says pleasantly, prying open one of Leon's eyelids before he can pull his head away. "I'll let you do the honors, Kyle." 

Kyle doesn't wait to obey, Leon's shoulders jerking back as his body falls prey to another shock. It almost hurts more, this time, his thoughts blanking out into a wall of sheer pain. At this rate, they'll fry his brain before they can turn him into any sort of viable experiment—but maybe that's what they're trying to do. Leon coughs around the mouthpiece that gags him as the current finally relents, sagging forwards as his fingers twitch and scrabble uncontrollably at the padded seat. If he wasn't so out of it, it would be creepy to watch, but now it just seems like a telltale sign that his nervous system is failing under the assault of so much stimulation. The discomfort of whatever's in Leon's bloodstream returns tenfold without the electricity to distract him, skin itching and heart thudding a rhythm in double time. His ears are ringing. 

"Hmm," the woman says thoughtfully, dragging Leon from the daze he'd begun to submit to. He forces his eyelids to open fully, fixing her with a glare as she picks up a second measured syringe. "Not quite what I had in mind. Results unsatisfactory, increasing dosage."

Great. Leon doesn't even try to fight as she injects him with the substance, forcing himself to remain silent even as the writhing sensation beginning to form under his skin grows near-painful and burning hot. His gasps grow tight, harsh and ragged in his chest, heart squeezing so quickly it feels like it's breaking through his ribcage in an attempt to spill out onto the floor and escape. Well, at least one of them would get out of here. 

Sweat collects on Leon's brow as he squirms in place, body restless but unable to move. The woman rechecks her watch every few seconds, squinting at him and looking down at it so many times that Leon's beginning to wonder if it's actually happening at all or if he's just hallucinating a time loop. He's starting to feel a little nauseous just seeing it, the thought of moving so abruptly making his head spin. Though, maybe that's just from the hyperventilation. 

Through narrowed vision, he can make out Kyle and his stupid ECT machine, gloved hands tapping at the console as he waits for the woman's go-ahead. What a prick , Leon thinks, foolish giddiness swelling in his throat. It would be so nice to just rip off these stupid belts and punch him right in his weak, weaselly jaw until he forgot how to press the goddamn buttons. The second Leon gets out of these, he's going to try it. 

Leon stifles a delirious laugh, recognizing somewhere in the back of his subconscious that he's not quite in his right mind. The swelling euphoria in his chest toes the line between terror and joy, Leon's ragged breaths somehow still coming faster and faster with every minute that passes. They're riling him up like an animal in a cage, he thinks, every coherent thought lost in the sheer inability to focus on one sensation at a time. There's too much going on. He's so uncomfortable, every inch of him crawling with the urge to move—but how or where, he's not certain. Unfortunately for him, his captors don't seem willing to accommodate.

"I think we should try the serum, too," the woman is saying, already picking up her third syringe by the time Leon gathers himself enough to focus. This one is much larger than the last, and filled with a murky liquid that reminds him of swamp water. Gross. He doesn't want that in his veins, but she's already reaching out to insert it into the line.

"Are you sure?" Kyle asks, voice as tremulous and pathetic as he looks. He shoots the woman a look, only to be cowed by her glare and nod in agreement. "Yeah, yeah, if you think so."

"With the results we're seeing, I think he'd be a perfect candidate to try it with. What do we have to lose?" 

Well, Leon's life, for starters. He'd prefer to hold onto that, but he supposes the woman wouldn't like that answer. He grits his teeth in the silicone filling his mouth as the new substance enters his veins, the burn of it like a lit match dropped into gasoline as his entire body flares up. It's agonizing, pure fire making him arch backwards for the hundredth time before the flames finally relent to the deceptively quieter burn of embers. Leon blinks heavily in an attempt to clear the pain, groggy and uncertain of how long had passed between the injection and now—only to jolt as the ECT machine seizes him in its hold again, vision blurring as a silent scream lodges itself in his throat. Directionless panic twists his stomach, the sheer helplessness of the situation igniting fear somewhere deep enough that Leon can feel it in his bones.

They only give him a few seconds to breathe when the current cuts off; ragged, ineffective gasps scraping his throat for a brief moment before the button is pressed again, arching Leon's back and tossing him headlong into the overwhelming rush of sparking pain. It gets harder and harder to focus with every interval, anxious panic creeping in through Leon's veins every time he's not being electrocuted. His nerves feel like they're smouldering endlessly, sharp, tingling shocks dancing up and down his body as trembling discomfort leaves him restless and aimlessly terrified. He wants to run; scream; throw up, all at once, discomfort both emotional and physical swamping him in primal fear that makes it impossible to think. Distorted images and memories flash in front of his eyes, a confusing slurry of sensational input conjured up by Leon's confused brain that leaves him breathless. 

He loses track of how many times they put him through it, only tethered back to his body by the gunshot sharpness of agony in his right shoulder when the man clicks the button again, the current cutting off much more quickly than usual. Leon sags in his restraints with a whimper, blinking his fluttering eyelids in time with the rabbit-fast pounding of his heart. The rush of blood makes him nauseous, the throb of it tangible in the aching joint he has to remind himself to look over at. 

He's not sure what he sees at first, the awkward angle of his shoulder inexplicably wrong and uncomfortable where it rests on the chair back, until his fuzzy mind starts to pull recognition together and he notices that the ball of it has been pulled from the socket. Leon wails a strangled keening sound as the agony kicks in, struggling to make sense of how he can fix this before it gets any worse. The echo of panting breaths fills his ears with an awful rasping, flickers of phantom electricity running up and down Leon's arms as he heaves, jaw clenching in the rubber between his teeth for the hundredth time. He needs to relocate his shoulder. It hurts. 

"... stop? … could injure himself worse," the man's voice filters in as Leon attempts to lift his heavy bicep from the chair. He can't seem to get it to listen to him, like the limb doesn't even belong to him in the first place.

"These readouts are excellent!" the woman argues, the loudness of her voice spiking against Leon's eardrums. He flinches, blinking blearily up at her. Ice-cold eyes gleam with malicious glee, the medical mask gone from her face to reveal the too-wide smile on her garishly red lips. Leon can't tell if it's real or imagined. "Look how disoriented he is! These are prime conditions for manipulation of the fear centre, and—"

There's more, but Leon can't quite seem to grasp exactly what the woman is saying, head falling back to the padded seat as the rooms swims around him. Gloved hands shove roughly at his damaged shoulder, prompting a cry, and then he's being seized by an electric current and all else fades away. He can't breathe right anymore, eyes rolling back in his head as the world dissolves into delirious flashes of light and color, voices and imaginary shadows dancing around him while he writhes. He jerks away from one with a whimper, only to realize he's staring at a plain white ceiling, jaw aching where his teeth must be cracking from the force of its tightness. Consciousness lapses for a long moment—or maybe he just zones out, Leon can't tell—and when it comes back there's a light in his eye, blinding him while cold fingers pinch his eyelid. There's the buzz of speech and roughness of cloth under his nose, and then nothing coherent for a very long time.

He's going to die here. Fear is the first thing to return as Leon blinks groggily at his surroundings, the ability to breathe returning in a rush as his muscles relax of their own accord, head lolling to take in the scientists still hovering over him like nurses around a critical patient. Someone grabs his chin roughly.

"Let's move to phase three," a clinical voice says from afar, and Leon sobs. He knows they're going to kill him, he can just tell. He's too dizzy to fight back. "We need to induce more aggression."

A red flash darts across Leon's vision like a bolt of fiery lightning, one of the shadowed figures crying out as it suddenly jolts to the side. The man, Leon thinks, based on the timbre of his voice. He tries to hold onto the thought, but it's gone along with the next figure in a split-second of movement, panic shuddering through the goosebumps on his arms. Leon squeezes his eyes shut, high-pitched sounds filling the air around him that sound like someone in pain. His own throat aches with the force of them, and— oh. He's making those sounds, and he can't seem to get himself to stop, emotions riled up into an uncontrollable peak of fear that crushes his chest and makes him choke on the chemical taste in his mouth—

Breathe, Leon.

He feels it more than hears, the vibration trembling through him as he gags and gasps for breath, the ghostly touch of a hand on his hair and left shoulder rooting him bit by bit to his body; eyelids opening and closing sightlessly as the panic swells. 

Inhale… exhale. One, two, three—

It's a familiar sound, somehow, Leon's hitching breaths calmed by the curiosity welling up beneath the fear, the tap of a leather—not latex—glove on his forearm triggering a memory he can't quite piece together. There's somebody here that he thinks he knows. He opens his eyes.

"Hello there, handsome. It's nice to see you again," a voice purrs somewhere above him, echoing strangely around the room. Leon blinks, struggling to control his blurry vision as faint flashes of red come into view. Everything is streaked with the black spots tingling in front of his eyes, but he gradually makes out a face, someone's light touch sliding teasingly along his aching jaw. Leon groans faintly, wincing when the figure gently pries his lips apart and removes the wedge of rubbery material from between his teeth. Saliva trickles down his chin, but Leon doesn't have the presence of mind to figure out what to do about that. Thankfully, the person hovering above him seems to clue in on his discomfort, soft fabric brushing over his bottom lip to sop it up.

"Who's'ere?" Leon slurs, eyelids fluttering as the same clever fingers begin to remove the leads and connectors currently taped to his head. The person tuts, ripping another wire free with the same faint sting as a bandaid. Leon swallows tightly. "You—you're—" 

"Just me," the voice says, somehow softer than Leon knows it should be. He blinks hard, the back of his hand twinging as gauze is inexplicably pressed down and taped to the back of it. He blinks again—and suddenly Ada is staring at him, dark eyes brimming with uncharacteristic worry. Leon swallows again, eyelashes falling to half mast. 

"Ada. Followin' me around this time? 'f I didn't know any better, I'd—I'd say you missed fightin' monsters with me." The words spill out in a bloated rush, nonsensical to his own ears but insistent on getting out. "Jus' like old times, eh? We gotta—go tell Ashley, maybe Claire. I'm Sherry—sure Sherry wouldn't mind comin' along, too." 

God, he's dizzy. Ada's face twists into something amused in front of him, her deft hands reaching down to undo the restraints around his wrists. The lack of pressure is relieving, but she doesn't unbuckle them all the way, leaving loose loops around his forearms as a suggestion to keep them in place. Leon tries to lift a hand to finish what she'd started, but he can't really figure out how to pull his arms free. His shoulder hurts, too, when he tries, and it doesn't look very good when he glances at it. Kind of off. Dislocated?

"Huh," he says to the air, a faint, sarcastic smile playing at his lips. "That hurts, y'know. Guess I'm not usin' it today." 

"Yeah?" Ada's voice is rich as always, a low, smooth tone that once gave Leon butterflies when he was still a rookie cop. Now it just feels familiar, another necessary part to the complicated jigsaw puzzle of his life. "Hold still, I'm getting rid of your monitors." 

Leon hums, blinking again. He seems to be doing that a lot. His vision wavers as he takes a moment to consider the ceiling, observing how the static seems to change every time he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment or two. Ada has moved on to the monitor leads on his chest, disconnecting wires and leaving the sticky little circles that wind around his pectoral muscle like a parade of slugs has been placed on his skin. He can't see them, though, when he looks down, just thin fabric stretched across his chest. A thought occurs to him. 

"Ada," he asks anxiously into the buzzing silence that seems to drill into his brain the longer he stays quiet, "do you know where we are? I don't think I know this place."

"I don't think you need to worry about that, right now," Ada says, undoing the velcro blood pressure cuff Leon didn't know had been around his calf. She pats his knee, leaning over him as his limp body lolls towards the edge of the chair, eyelids narrowing. It really doesn't make sense that Ada is even here, her attractive face warping and blurring in time with the pounding of Leon's heart. The strange detached feeling that's been lingering over him grows suddenly more intense, and Leon reaches a sluggish conclusion he should've come to the moment Ada had taken out the first doctor.

"I'm hallucinating," he slurs, frowning. "You can't be real. They said—said they were gonna give me a drug. They did." 

Ada says nothing, confirming his fears. Leon can hear his rapid gasps echoing in his ears, sudden overwhelming fear prompting him to squeeze the armrests of the chair as Ada bobs blearily around him. "Ada? Ada, you can't be real, you—"

"Hang in there, handsome," Ada says, slowing her movements. She's holding something, a file of papers, covered in scrawling handwriting and paperclipped polaroid images. "They did give you a little something, but it looks like it'll wear off in a few hours. Unfortunately, I've still got places to be, but your mountain of a boyfriend is smashing through the halls right now. He'll find you."

"He'll find me…?" Leon explores the words in his mouth, wishing they made any sort of sense. He swallows a pool of saliva, throat aching. "Ada?"

"Just relax, you've earned it. See you in a minute." Someone pats his hand, a flash of red darting towards the door; and then Leon's alone again in the air-conditioned chill of a sterile room, head still spinning. He frowns blankly at the ceiling for what he thinks must be a long time, then closes his eyes in defeat. He needs to get the hell out of this place.

Chapter Text

The lipstick-kiss-marked letter is waiting for Chris when he gets home; a rectangle of creamy paper laid out on Leon's placemat at the dinner table and elegantly labelled with Chris's last name. He drops his unopened gym bag and darts for the page the moment he sees it, heart in his throat. It's officially been seventy-two hours since Leon was declared MIA on a routine investigative mission on American soil, and despite Chris's best efforts, the BSAA still isn't allowed to interfere. The DSO isn't exactly well-known for their rescue procedures, or seeing their agents as anything more than useful liabilities, and, well—Chris is losing hope.

Worry churns sickly in his gut the same way it had all morning and afternoon, Chris's hands almost trembling as he rips open the envelope with the horrified expectation of a ransom note or photograph or lock of hair. Except, the inside only contains a delicately-penned letter, no blood or threats or demands marring the crisp paper. Chris runs a hand through the short hair on top of his head, heart in his throat. His eyes trace the fluttering penmanship a second and third time, desperately trying to let the information soak in. 

I know where he is, it says, and he's alive, for the time being. If you're willing not to turn me in, we can work something out, and I'll help you get him out safe and sound. Find me at— here, there's an address for a local coffee shop not too far from Chris and Leon's apartment, numbers swirled in dark, delicate ink— in an hour, and we can talk business. See you soon, big guy. Don't bring your friends.

             -Ada Wong

"Fuck," Chris hisses, crumpling the letter in a fisted hand. Lingering perfume wafts from the paper, the faint musk of sweet spices and a clean, forest-like overtone washing over him in a cloying wave. Of course Ada Wong would get herself involved in a situation like this—he's heard enough about her from Leon to know she's a schemer. If she's somehow responsible for his disappearance, Chris isn't going to play nice. 

He curses, already halfway into pacing around the room. Restlessness claws at the space under his skin, itching for action; motion, after days of being stuck investigating leads on his own time and ferrying papers around like a worker bee in the wake of the BSAA op he'd completed last week. He needs to work out to burn off some steam, but his heart just isn't in it. 

Conflict claws at his chest, sheer distaste for Ada Wong warring with the far stronger desire to figure out where Leon is, but an hour later sees him walking into the coffee shop with a storm cloud above his head. He sees her immediately, the practiced ease of her gestures as she sips from a coffee mug giving her away almost as much as the strikingly red, long-sleeved shirt. Strands of dark hair hang over her face in elegant casualness, her usual short-cut bob cropped even tighter to her skull than it had been the last time Chris had seen her. She offers a sanguine smile as he approaches, barely reacting when Chris folds himself into the booth with a grunt and fixes her with a death glare.

"I don't even want to know what part you're playing in this. Start talking," he orders gruffly, already irritated. His knees barely fit under the quaint little table, and he has no doubt that Ada is aware of that fact. 

"What, not even a hello? I never took you for a brute, Captain, even if you do look like one." Ada raises a perfect eyebrow with a knowing grin, tilting her head to put the pale column of her throat on full display. Chris fights the urge to growl in frustration, already fed up with the banter. He gets enough of the sarcasm from Leon—at least he knows why the two of them seem to get along so well. "Where have your manners gone?" 

"Hi." Chris grits his jaw. "Let's cut to the chase." 

"Mm, but isn't the journey part of the reward?"

" Ada—"

"Relax," Ada purrs, flashing another smirk that makes his blood boil. "I have every intention to help you find your damsel in distress, Captain Redfield. But fine, we can skip the formalities, if you insist."

Her eyes gleam in the light. Chris takes a deep breath to steady himself, fighting down the instinctive rage—it's not going to get him anywhere with Ada, he knows. He needs to think clearly to keep pace with her mind games. Chris makes himself meet her knowing expression with a flinty one of his own, piecing out the situation in the back of his mind. As relatively close as her and Leon are, they're far from best friends, and it doesn't make sense for Ada to want to find him out of the sheer goodness in her heart. She's up to something, he can tell that much. 

Chris opens his mouth to retort, only for Ada to procure a photograph from seemingly thin air, sliding it towards him with a flick of her slender wrist. It's a picture of a building set into a rocky mountainside, all brutalist cement and sleek, industrial steel. It's an ugly thing, breaking the landscape like an oozing sore of manmade rock rising up from the otherwise pristine stretch of reddish dirt and scrubby bushes. 

"There's a lab, on the southern slope of a mountain in Wyoming that went unnoticed for a long time while Simmons was chief Security Advisor. It was cleared out along with the rest of his nest of snakes, but several members of the DSO still make secret weekly visits to the state." She takes a sip of her drink. "I don't think I need to spell it out for you, but I will anyway—some little mouse has snuck into the space now that all the cats have moved on, and the building's power bills are quite substantial for a place that's meant to be abandoned."

"Umbrella offshoot?"

"Maybe. What matters is that it's isolated, and I have confirmation that Leon is there via my own sources." 

"Can I just ask—What exactly do you get out of this? I thought these people were your employers," Chris asks, wary. “Doesn’t ratting them out lose you a job?”

"Not always," Ada says cryptically, and refrains from elaborating. Chris grinds his jaw, then forces himself to relax, reminding himself that he doesn’t want a headache. He watches Ada for a moment, then scowls, lost. He has no idea what she could possibly be thinking, so he might as well be blunt.

"I don’t understand why you’re helping me," Chris admits sharply, to which Ada shrugs, delicate as ever.

"Call it a favor for an old friend." 

"Leon?" 

"He's one of them." Ada's eyes flash, mug tipping as she sips the liquid again. "I can tell you this, though—I don't want to see Leon hurt any more than you do, and these people will push even his limits to the maximum. Know anything about P-30?"

Chris jolts in his seat, muscles clenching tense, tight enough to snap. " What?"

"They don't have it," Ada continues conversationally, as if every fear hasn't come true all at once and coalesced in Chris's gut like a block of sharpened ice. "But they're trying to replicate its effects, and nothing related to that compound ever breeds good news. Wesker may have been a genius, but he was also a madman, and willing to break any and all of the rules. How far do you think someone with less resources would need to go, to accomplish the same?" 

"Why… why?" is all Chris can ask, voice weak. "Why Leon?" 

"He's a powerful person. I don't know for sure why they'd need him, specifically, but I can guess."

“He's a soldier. Sure, he does administrative stuff sometimes, but—"

“If that’s what you think, Captain Redfield, then you’re even less intelligent than I thought. Leon is a tool, a weapon—and a critical asset who knows enough classified material to be written off as disposable the second someone in the hierarchy decides it would be necessary to purge the system.” Ada gazes at him for a long moment, letting her words sink in. Chris can’t help but feel slightly affronted by her bored tone, but the twist in his gut when he comprehends what she’s saying drowns out everything else. “He’s someone who can be used, in a variety of cruel, strategic ways.” 

Chris is silent for a moment, digesting. He doesn’t want Ada to be right, but something deep inside tells him that she is, a heavy sigh washing over his lips as he reaches up to swipe at his face with a callused palm. The thought of Leon being used as little more than a means to an end puts a sour taste in his mouth, memories of Jill experiencing the same under Wesker’s cold fist only heightening his concern. Bad enough that one of his best friends had been experimented on and forced to serve a madman with her mind inhibited by a cage of drugs and manipulation—Chris won’t tolerate it happening with the man he loves, too. His resolve hardens, hand falling to the table with a thump.

“Okay,” he says, “what do you need me to do?”

-~-

Dusky, sunset light casts Chris’s hands in shadows of delicate rose, the cool mountain breeze rustling the hair on his arms as he checks the magazine of his Samurai Edge for the hundreth time, the pistol awkward in his hands after so many years of operations carried out with an assault rifle at his side. He adjusts the thin, bulletproof vest strapped over his broad chest, hating the lack of protection it offers with only a t-shirt separating it from Chris’s skin. His boots are regular old steel-toed work boots, the kind he’d worn back in the days of STARS and Raccoon City, knee and elbow pads his only protection aside from the vest. It’s uncomfortable to feel so vulnerable in the crisp evening air, Ada’s insistence that he dress light for the sake of stealth already grating on his nerves. He’s never been the type of guy to sneak around avoiding detection, much preferring the reliability of blazing guns and a team at his side. He’s massive, for crying out loud—trying to shimmy his body inside any place that someone like Ada could fit into in a pinch is like parking a semi behind a telephone pole and hoping it’ll stay hidden.

Chris checks his watch with no small amount of trepidation, the silence of the land around him leaving him on edge. The nondescript metal door set into the mountain face at his side gleams with a swipe-card reader he has no way to open, the winding, narrow path he’d been forced to hike along for several miles twisting off into the night back towards the way he came. Ada is supposed to meet him here, once she gains access to the facility, but Chris has no idea how she plans to get inside in the first place. Apart from briefing Chris on the situation and preparing him for the undocumented rescue mission they’re about to carry out, she’s been frustratingly tight-lipped about how she plans for it all to come together. For all Chris knows she’s already been caught, without a partner to watch her back, and now Chris will be left to stand out in the middle of dusty, sparse nowhere without any indication that he’ll have to save Leon on his own—until it’s too late. He squeezes the handle of his gun. None of this feels good.

The door creaks, snapping him out of his daze. Ada’s ruby-red lips grin at him from just inside the dimly lit service tunnel. She’s dressed in a highly impractical bright red jumpsuit, belted at the waist with black leather and accented by dark fabric at the pockets and wrists, matching black stripes lining the insides of her sleeves and the sides of her body where the jumpsuit’s seams are stitched together. The fit is slim, bringing out the natural, lithe curves of her body.

“Waiting for me?” she asks playfully, ducking to the side so Chris can squeeze past. He squares his shoulders, preparing himself with a breath, and steps inside the building, footsteps loud in the closeness of the cement tunnel. He barely waits for Ada to pull the door shut before he begins his march towards the door he can see at the far end, keeping his pace quick and efficient. Frustratingly, she manages to catch up and keep in step.

"Earpiece," she says, delicate hand holding the small device aloft. "Waterproof and shock-proof, and not easy to shake loose."

"Where do you even get all this stuff?" Chris asks, voice rough. He holds his hand out warily.

Ada just shrugs, tucking her own earpiece in place. Chris grunts. He supposes it's better to have contact with his… ally, even if he'd rather not need her help at all. Leon matters more here than anything else, the promise of protection and loyalty Chris had made back when they first began dating burning away the last of his grudge. Speaking of…

“Where is he?” Chris demands, tucking the earpiece in place. “Where are we going?”

“They’re keeping him in the lower levels, Test Lab B-43,” Ada responds, “I don’t have a map on hand right now, but I trust you'll be able to find it when we get downstairs. You’re resourceful, after all, Captain.”

“Gee, thanks.”

The door leads to a resonant metal staircase, Chris's heavy footsteps echoing over cement walls as he travels down… and down… and down. The air grows cooler and harshly sterile with the discordant sharpness of antiseptic the farther Chris descends, a single heavy door at the bottom of the stairs creaking open slowly under his touch to reveal the awful, familiar sight of a white-and-chrome themed laboratory hallway.

"Bit of a cliché," Ada observes in a drawl as he steps out onto the grimy laminate flooring. "These people never have any sense for interior design." 

Chris doesn't bother holding the door for her, but she's at his side in an instant anyways, bright red jumpsuit even more starkly obvious in the middle of the pristine sea of white-painted walls and crisp metal accents. There's a map conveniently placed and labelled on the wall immediately in front of the stairwell, the array of cleanly-labelled sectors arranged in a messy sprawl of hallways and awkward rectangles that have no real pattern to give Chris his bearings. He scans the graphic until he reaches the chart for the basement, mentally marking out the organization of rooms in his mind. He finds B-43 without issue, turning to Ada. 

"He's that way," he mutters, pointing over her shoulder. "Are you planning to come with, or is there some other crime you're about to commit?"

"The main priority is helping Leon escape," Ada retorts. "I'll do what I can to clear the facility while you break him out, but if you don't trust me to help, I can deal with professional objectives instead." 

The irritated response on the tip of Chris's tongue is interrupted by the sudden blare of a screeching alarm, red lights flashing to life where they dot the ceiling along the hallway. He growls, pulling his gun from its holster. "What the hell did you do?" 

"I'm not the cause of every misfortune in your life," Ada drawls, her blasé attitude finally traced at the edges with irritation. "We have bigger problems to worry about than your little grudge."

Armed men appear as if summoned from thin air, spilling through a door at the end of the hall with a violent clatter. Chris ducks lower to the ground as the first shots ring out, the whiz of bullets past his ears sparking the adrenaline rush that allows him to lift his weapon and take out one of the men in a single smooth movement. The clatter of a metal canister against the floor has him scrambling back, the telltale hiss of gas filling the air as thick smoke begins to pour forth from the grenade several feet away. 

Chris coughs, eyes watering as he lifts his gaze to see Ada's red jumpsuit flitting towards the opposite end of the hallway. She's used some sort of gun-like tool on her belt to pull herself across the room with a projectile attached to a rope, reeling herself close enough to the men to avoid the smoke and kick several of them directly in the face. Chris can't help but feel slightly impressed, raising his gun to take out a few of the stragglers making their way down the hallway towards him. He takes them out easily, but the sudden shout of voices behind him draws his attention away, a second group of men approaching with their weapons aloft. Chris grits his teeth. 

The ping of bullets fades into the background as he lines his shots up carefully, the world holding still for a moment before his pistol bucks back into his hands, movements automatic as he crouches and rolls and takes out each man with practiced precision. He's no Piers, but Chris's aim isn't far behind. He had some of the best practice scores back in Raccoon City—but Chris supposes that doesn't matter much anymore. He scans the hallway for remaining enemies and turns back to help Ada.

"Fuck!" Chris shouts, the sight of the large metal shutter lowering slowly beside the still-spitting smoke grenade prompting him into a dead sprint. He must have missed the beginning of its descent in the fighting, but Ada's still on the other side, and so is Leon.

It hits the ground with an echoing boom, Chris's muscular body far too slow to do anything more than slam his fists desperately into it as it closes. Ada or Leon would have found some way to slip through the narrow gap at the last possible second, but Chris has never had that kind of luck. He swears again, resisting the urge to kick the shutter like a child. Chris presses the earpiece button as he turns towards the intersection of the hallway they'd entered from, clearing his throat harshly. 

"Ada, what's your status? I'm trapped on the wrong side of a lockdown shutter. Someone must have known we were coming."

It's quiet for a moment, Chris's footsteps the only sound as he surveys the ceilings for security cameras that could have given them away. The cool, sterile air of the lab around him prickles goosebumps on his bare forearms. Some things can't be forgotten, least of all the oppressive chill of the Spencer mansion's underground laboratory, his body on edge in an instant. The sudden smooth tone of Ada's voice breaks him from his thoughts, slightly breathless but no less coy. Chris chooses to ignore how much it pisses him off. 

"I'll say. I took care of those boys, but more will be on their way. Watch your back, Captain."

"You too," Chris says, voice tight. "But, Ada—I won't be able to go straight for Leon on this side. God knows what they're doing to him. I… I need you to make sure he's safe, before anything else."

"You're lacking in creativity—there are plenty of ways to get around a barrier like that. But I could drop in," Ada agrees far too easily. "I can't stay long if I want our plan to work, but I can make sure nobody is cutting into his brain at the very least."

"Jesus," Chris hisses to himself. He presses his finger to the earpiece again. "Fine. Keep me updated. Redfield, out."

"Sir, yes, sir."

Chris lets his hand drop, fingers wrapping carefully around the handle of his gun. 

"I'm coming, Leon," he whispers to the air, scanning a nearby map and heading around the corner into a new stretch of identical, empty hallway. "Hang in there."

It's easier said than done—the hallways are crawling with armed men no matter which way Chris turns, the report of his pistol echoing too-loudly over the the walls when he's forced to defend himself. He manages to take a few of them out with his combat knife, proud of himself for keeping it quiet, only to slam the next men he comes across straight through a section of the drywall. 

Halfway to his destination, Ada's voice breaks through the silence. "He's still in B-43, ready for you to pick him up."

"What's his status?" Chris demands, but there's no response even when he repeats the question. He sighs, peering around another corner. He'll be glad when he can grab Leon and get the hell out of here without ever looking back. At least Ada really did check in—he hadn't expected her to bother.

Somehow he avoids detection from another squadron, and no more shutters fall from the sky, but Chris is paranoid until the moment he reaches the B-4 basement level almost three-quarters of an hour after he and Ada had first breached the compound. His steps quicken as he enters a slightly darker hallway, the presence of viewing windows and double-doors reminding him disturbingly of an operating ward. Ada hasn't said anything else over the radio.

B-43 is easy enough to locate, one of the few rooms without a window to the hallway. Chris holds his breath as he scans both ways and pushes through the doors with force. The room he enters is spartan, all sterile white and muted gray cupboards along the walls; empty except for the trays of disturbingly medical-looking equipment in the centre of the room and what seems to be some sort of strange, jointed chair, the restraints attached to its arm and leg rests looped around the unmoving limbs of one Leon S. Kennedy. His stomach flips.

“Fuck,” Chris hisses, darting across the room and picking his way over the two corpses lying right beside the chair. They’re not shredded to pieces, and Leon seems mostly intact when Chris quickly scans his body, so he assumes they’re Ada’s contribution to the rescue. Faint irritation sparks over the fact that she left Leon here for him to find, but Chris will give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she had to draw away more armed men. 

He reaches out carefully to squeeze Leon’s partially-bare collarbone, the loose hospital gown he’s dressed in clearly the only garment he has on. Up close, he can see that Leon is uninjured except for the gauze taped over the back of his hand from God knows what—and on second glance, the awkward angle of his right shoulder where it's clearly been dislocated and left to hang. That restraint is loose to allow some relief, as well, and Chris grudgingly reigns in the dislike he’d been holding for Ada. She does have at least part of a heart, and she seems to have done her best to make Leon more comfortable before leaving again.

“Hey, baby,” Chris murmurs, drawing himself from his thoughts. He lets go of Leon’s shoulder to carefully maneuver his left arm free of the loop of leather, taking the opportunity to test the pulse in Leon’s wrist. He looks to be unconscious or otherwise unresponsive, head hanging down over a rapidly-heaving chest so that his bangs obscure his face from view, and his heart rate is definitely elevated. Chris reaches out to cup Leon’s jaw and lift it upright, his own heart aching at the sight of half-lidded, glassy eyes that don’t even focus on Chris’s face. Leon flinches when the light hits his eyes, grunting as if Chris has woken him up from a much-needed nap. His lips move, but he doesn’t say a word, sleepy confusion clear on his face. Chis does his best to stop frowning, keeping his tone light and gentle. “Hey, it’s me. It’s Chris.”

“Chris?” Leon mumbles, slurring the syllable so thickly that it almost doesn’t even sound like a name. His eyes roll back in their sockets before he groans and tries to focus again, pupils so dilated that the blue of his irises is almost nonexistent. He’s dazed, movements sluggish when he shifts his hand aimlessly in his lap, and it doesn’t take a genius to recognize that he’s been drugged—or worse . Chris feels his heart drop to his stomach when Leon releases a faint whine, shifting to stroke a thumb over Leon's drool-slicked bottom lip.

“They did something to you,” he murmurs, violent rage coalescing hotly in his veins as his tone drops to a growl near the end. He forces himself to pack it down into a ball somewhere in the base of his stomach, reaching out to stabilize Leon’s head with his other hand. There will be time to deal with the bastards who did this to him later, and as much as Chris wishes he could rip them to pieces with his bare hands, Leon needs Chris’s support right now—not his anger.

“Did somethin’,” Leon echoes, voice cracked and fragile. He stares curiously up at Chris for a moment, then sighs, letting his head fall back against the padded chair with a thump. He doesn’t react when Chris gently taps his cheek other than to blink for the first time since Chris has entered the room, completely oblivious when Chris quietly calls his name. Chris doesn’t bother hiding his worry. Leon's been messed up, bad, and there’s no telling if it will wear off anytime soon or if there's something more deeply wrong.

He caresses Leon’s cheek a final time and turns his attention to the straps over Leon’s ankles, his bare legs worryingly lax and pliant even as Chris slips them free of their bonds. There’s a trace of dried blood on his knee, but Chris can’t find a source, and the few blossoming bruises on Leon’s skin are at least several days old. He assumes they’re from whatever managed to get Leon stuck in this room, but Leon isn’t exactly coherent enough to clarify.

“Alright, Leon,” Chris says, addressing him by name in the hope that it might help his sluggish neurons connect. “Hang in there just a little longer.”

Now for the hard part—Chris tries his best to be gentle as he undoes the strap over Leon's dislocated arm to maneuver it into his lap, wincing when Leon sucks in a pained breath between his teeth. The little bow at the back of Leon's neck is easy to undo so that Chris can peel the gown forward to expose the dislocated joint, the sight of the bruises already blossoming around it a bad sign. Chris swallows. 

"Stay there for a sec," he says, nodding encouragingly when Leon blinks up at him in uncertainty. The room's cupboards are at least well stocked, a box of triangular bandages tucked into one of the drawers that will serve as a temporary sling to stabilize Leon's arm—who's conveniently clutching it to his chest by the time Chris turns back to him. He doesn't say a word as Chris carefully helps him tuck his hand closer to his collarbone, tying a simple tube sling to keep it close to his body and immobilized. The only indication that Leon's in any pain at all is the faint twist of his brow, all other emotion lost from his face. It's unsettling.

Leon’s legs are remarkably strong when Chris manages to wrestle him out of the chair, if unstable, his body swaying dizzily despite the arm Chris wraps around his waist. He’s confused, response time severely impaired whenever Chris gives him a simple command, and Chris can tell by the trembling of his shoulders that his muscles might not last. He blinks hazily as Chris hauls his left arm over broad shoulders, listing to the side before Chris draws him back to centre. 

"Where's…?" he slurs, then squeezes his eyes shut with a groan. Chris almost thinks Leon is going to be sick for a second, his face blanching to a telling grayish-green, but he seems to hold it in even as his head lolls towards his chest. Chris squeezes Leon's wrist.

"Can you walk?" he asks gently, taking an experimental step forward. Leon stumbles after him without answering, his own limbs noticeably clumsy but still able to hold his weight. Barely.  

He nods, the movement dopey and disjointed, like his neck is no longer sturdy enough to support his own head. Chris supposes it's good enough. 

He keeps Leon close to his side as they move towards the door to the medical room, mindful of the sling. They have no free hands between them, meaning this next part of the operation will need to be exactly what Chris was dreading—sneaky and careful. The hallway is quiet when they step into it, the security cameras still smashed and useless where Chris had made sure to shoot them on his way towards the room. Ada seems to have done her job in keeping the facility clear for Chris to move through, but someone is bound to be back this way sooner or later, so Chris sets off at a brisk pace. 

It's almost too much for Leon, his lurching steps sapping all his energy and leaving him silent and pliant at Chris's side, but they manage to at least get up four flights of stairs to the door on level B-2 before his knees buckle. Chris grits his teeth and hefts Leon higher on his shoulder as he makes a small sound and starts to collapse, squeezing Leon's hip with his right hand. 

"I've got you," he murmurs. "Just take a second, okay?" 

Leon mumbles something incoherent that echoes in the enclosed stairwell and slumps weakly into Chris's shoulder. He's breathing hard, body warm against Chris's skin through the thin medical gown, but Chris isn't sure whether it's an effect of the drugs or the exertion. His bangs are damp with sweat, knees still trembling. Chris sighs. 

"How are you doing?" he tries, and recieves no answer aside from a grunt. Chris reminds himself that it's a better response than an entire lack of one, but he's still worried that Leon isn't conversing with him. He's about to open his mouth and say something more demanding, but the sudden sound of boots and loud voices freezes Chris to the spot. He glances up in time to see the gleam of light from the floor above and curses silently. They need to move.

Slowly, Chris creeps towards the door leading out into the B-2 hallways, hefting Leon higher on his shoulder and praying that nobody is walking past. He presses his back up against the metal bar, intent on pushing through—and flinches when it clicks loudly, gaze snapping up to the boots that have paused halfway down the set of stairs leading from level above. Shit.

"We need to run," he whispers to Leon and bursts through the door, uncaring of the loud bang it makes. Shouts erupt in the stairwell behind him, but Chris just grits his teeth, forcing himself to speed up. He rounds the corner and stumbles when Leon's legs crumple again, growling and forcing himself to keep moving. 

Leon's steps are staggering and weak, his strength visibly flagging as Chris drives them at a breakneck pace through the maze of empty, sterile hallways. He's trying to pull up the map he'd seen earlier in the back of his mind, but it's hard to know where he's going when every damn passageway looks the same. He can hear that the men are at least distantly behind them now, but Leon's breaths have turned into wheezes, and Chris fights off a wave of guilt. The anger rises again, hot and tight in his chest. He doesn't know what Ada's got planned for the building, but he hopes she brought explosives to blow it to smithereens once they escape. 

Chris pauses around the next bend out of necessity, Leon's exhaustion clear in the way he sags against Chris for support. 

"C'mon, baby," he mumurs gently. "Just a little bit farther, okay? Then we can rest."

Leon doesn't even seem to hear him, dazedly looking around the hallway like it's vaguely familiar to him. The sound of a door slamming open in the distance makes Chris grits his teeth, the sound of shouts and footsteps echoing closer. They need to go.

Leon's flagging, though, and their first few steps are already shaky and slow, Chris's strength unable to speed them up enough to escape. He thinks they're far enough away that they could at least find a space to hide, but a close-by spark of radio chatter makes anxiety flare in his gut, fingers slipping from Leon's wrist to creep towards his handgun. 

The voices grow closer still, near enough that Chris can the rustle of their equipment—only for the group to suddenly explode into sounds of shouting and battle, the thick smack of bodies hitting the floor. For a moment, Chris is worried a BOW might have escaped somewhere in the compound. 

"It's me," Ada says from around the corner, coming into view with her arms raised. 

Chris curses, relieved. Ada smirks.

"This way," she says, and sets off down the hall. Chris drags Leon along behind her for what feels like forever, until they pass through a set of double push doors to another sector of the floor, the three of them halting a few feet in. Ada turns with a sly smirk. "You have a knack for getting into trouble, Captain."

"I wonder whose fault that is." 

Ada's eye gleams, and he can tell she wants to say more, but they're both distracted by a sudden groan from Leon. He's blinking owlishly, propped against Chris's shoulder and looking marginally more awake than he has for most of the time they've been here. His blue eyes are still glassy, but his brow is knitted like he's just woken up from a nap and can't quite figure out what's going on.

"Oh, poor thing. Hello again, handsome," Ada purrs, flitting forward in Chris's peripheral vision. She plants a kiss on Leon's cheek as she reaches up to cradle his face, leaving a smudge of lipstick behind. Leon stares at her in faint confusion, leaning heavily on her hand. 

"Ada?" he croaks, the first words he's spoken since Chris had found him. He tries not to take that personally, but the sudden dopey recognition on Leon's face leaves him more than a little jealous, Ada's smug expression only fuelling the fire. "You're okay?"

"Just fine." Ada slips close to Leon's side, planting a hand on his chest and another around his back to help stabilize his wobbling. It does take some of Leon's weight off of Chris, but he has to force himself to cooperate without complaint as Ada presses her body way too close to Leon and begins to guide him towards a nearby room. She hums something else in Leon's ear, quiet enough that Chris can't catch it, and it takes all of Chris's effort not to ask her what the hell she thinks she's playing at. He's right here. She's probably trying to make him jealous, which makes it all the worse. 

They manage to shuffle Leon into a nearby room without issue, but he nearly collapses a few steps from the threshold and Chris has to manhandle him into a rolling office chair beside what looks to be a control panel of some kind. Leon slumps back like a teenager and sighs with a huff, but Chris doesn't let go until he's sure Leon won't slide right back onto the floor if he steps away. He strokes sweaty hair away from Leon's forehead to check his temperature quickly, then carefully stands to give him some space. Even then, he keeps a close eye on Leon's pale complexion, watching for side effects from whatever drugs he's on. Chris knows better than anyone the consequences of random experimental drug tests, and the last thing he needs is for Leon's condition to deteriorate into something unmanageable—and dangerous. 

"This is the main computer room," Ada says, clicking away at a keyboard nearby. "I'm accessing the security feeds so you can watch the hallways from here, and you should be able to find any other necessary information in the files." She stands tall in her pristine crimson jumpsuit, and its then that Chris notices she's also wearing fucking heels in the middle of a goddamn rescue mission—even if they're slightly thicker than a stiletto and lower to the ground, they're still impractical as all hell . He resists the urge to glare at Ada again. There's only so much glaring he can do before it feels a little childish, and he's reaching the upper limit. No matter. Chris can be a professional, thank you very much. 

"In the meantime," Ada continues, "I'll go check on our friends and make sure they're not getting too rowdy. Find us a way out, if you can." 

If he can. She probably doesn't mean it that way, but it comes out condescending. "I'll find something," Chris responds stiffly, already stepping forward to take her place at the keyboard and examine the security monitor. There are only a couple pages of cameras, which Chris thinks is strange for a facility of this size—but then again, there aren't any at all on the level Leon had been on, so maybe they just like their privacy. He can hear Ada murmur something to Leon, but it's unintelligible, and he doesn't bother looking back to watch her go.

Another monitor close to the first has a tab minimized, the little white line under the taskbar's 'files' icon catching Chris's attention. It opens to a file that says it's password protected, but… yup. Right there on the computer's frame, in scrawling script on bright, neon pink paper, are a username and password with a smiley face beside them. Chris rolls his eyes—people never learn. Chris enters the information and watches the progress bar circle, before a file pops up labelled 'Project-060', a list of timestamped documents spilling down the page.

He glances at the security camera again to make sure he's not missing any approaching enemies, then checks on Leon, who's slowly spinning aimlessly in his office chair as he stares at the ceiling. As long as he doesn't pass out, Chris supposes it isn't the worst thing he could be doing. Shaking his head, Chris turns back to the monitor and clicks the first entry, a file innocently marked 'Project_AS_001.'

The first thing he notices once the document opens is the stamp classifying it as top secret, placed in the top corner and grainy from being scanned into the computer.  He squints his eyes, cursing the fact that he doesn't have his reading glasses to make out the tiny, cramped text—

Chris gasps as the words begin to register. The first paragraph is a breakdown on the P-30 compound and its effects, the data taken straight from Umbrella's notes. Those should have all been destroyed in Africa, Chris thinks grimly, but it wouldn't be unlike Wesker to have hidden a backup somewhere for more evil scientists to use. He grits his teeth. Wesker still haunts them all from beyond the grave, he thinks grimly.

The rest of the first page is just scientific mumbo jumbo that Chris doesn't understand particularly well—the chemical mechanisms and functions of the compound on the brain, and blah blah blah. The next page is much the same, except that it describes a different drug, something labelled only as 'Activation Serum.' Most of the work there seems to be theoretical, but the section titled 'USAGE' catches Chris's eye, the words beneath it not typed up but handwritten.

Stimulation of fear centre and adrenaline release will be necessary to place the subject into the correct mindset for eliminating targets, it reads, straight to the point. The primary goal is not suggestibility but rather unhindered aggression, a more primal response of the body and mind that will be more effective in completing its task. Hysterical strength is a possibility should the right circumstances arise, enhancing the subject's natural abilities by a wide margin.

Chris frowns. Aggression? Is this some kind of thing to make BOWs meaner?

An onset of sudden, maddening fear should theoretically be enough to place the subject into a 'cornered' state, essentially activating them by turning them into an animal in a corner. Crude, but technically functional, in my own opinion, though I am aware that I have been advised to keep my innermost thoughts to myself at this time.

Chris huffs despite himself, amused. Even evil scientists have bad experiences with their coworkers. He scrolls further down the page, sobering. What exactly is the point of this serum besides making its subject suffer? The word choice and Leon's current condition suggests it's meant for humans, so maybe it's a way to turn people into aggressive zombies sans the virus?

There are several potential serums that could be used for this purpose— here, he lists the chemical names— and my colleagues have also considered the addition of a toxin to elicit sensations of pain within the subject and reduce them further to an injured and animalistic state. Of course, with operatives being so well trained to resist the panic response of the human body, there will also need to be a hypnotic agent to reduce them to their baser instincts—

Chris glances over at Leon, staring vacantly up at the ceiling and grimaces. He slips the next few lines, the prose getting repetitive, then stops.

The cyanide poison is a useless component, he reads, heart seizing as he quickly rolls the page back up. There are a few lines suggesting the possibility of an 'eliminating' toxin that make his stomach clench, but very little other information.

I think it is an unnecessary and risky stopgap, the document clarifies, that could much more easily be taken care of with a sniper or even security once the target is neutralized by the operative. The fact that its chemical makeup affects the mind-altering components is a challenge in itself, and should the timing device fail and release the toxin before the activating compounds, our operative will meet an untimely end before its intended mark does! 

Timing device? Chris's stomach turns at the sight of the word spinal implant, only for his focus to be stolen by movement in the corner of his eye. He glances over distractedly, eyebrow raising at the sight of Leon slumped in the chair. He thinks he's unconscious at first, but Leon's head lifts a moment later to reveal the pout on his lips.

"Chris?" he asks, sounding irritable. "D'you know where my gun's at?"

Chris blinks.  "Uh," he says intelligently, trying to push away the words he'd just been reading. "I'm not sure."

"I can handle myself," Leon insists, then sways in place. For a moment Chris is afraid he's about to stand up and go look for it, but he just grumbles something to himself and leans his head back against the chair. Chris glances between the computer and Leon for a moment, then lets his worry take precedence, stepping towards the office chair.

"Can I take a look at your back, baby?" he asks, to which Leon raises a quizzical eyebrow. Chris is already reaching to undo the top ties on his gown, but Leon seems to acquiesce anyway. He murmurs a reassurance and keeps his hand on Leon's collarbone to support him, peeling away the gown and running a careful touch up and down Leon's spine to check for incisions or swelling or unusual lumps. He sighs when he finds nothing, visually scanning one last time over Leon's pale back to make sure he hasn't missed a spot. They don't seem to have implanted him, thank God. 

"What's wrong?" Leon asks, snapping Chris out of his thoughts. He smiles and meets Leon's gaze while he loops the gown ties into a loose bow, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly.

"Just wanted to make sure they didn't do anything worse to you. It's alright, you're clear."

Leon frowns quizzically, but it's a testament to how disoriented he is that he doesn't even bother to ask any clarifying questions, and Chris's smile slips slightly. He turns back to the computer with a sigh, scanning the rest of the document and quickly reaching the end. He's glad to be done with it. 

The rest of the folder is full of documents named similar things, some of which seem to be little more than memos, and others that make Chris grimace at the graphic pictures included of test subjects. Most of them are dead, which makes his heart leap—fuck, he's glad he rescued Leon before they could push him too far. Ada had been right when she said even his limits would be tested by such sick experiments.

There's not a single file on BOWs, curiously enough. A moment later, Chris opens up a memo that holds the reason why, an official correspondence dated to several weeks ago with the signature of a CIA member, the printed name blacked out. Damn. This is very much still a government facility, Chris realizes with a grimace. Maybe the Family is involved, considering the fact that they're operating secretly and avoiding the white house's radar? Though, he wouldn't put it past any politician to double deal with bioweapon manufacturers. The president herself could be involved and nobody would know better, her goals hidden even from the DSO. Perhaps he's being a little melodramatic, but he's seen enough corruption to know that it can stem from anywhere.

Chris reads the memo over once again, preoccupied by trying idly to figure out whose signature approved the document until Leon clears his throat. "Chris?"

"Yeah?" 

 The sudden bang of the door slamming open has Chris ducking low behind a desk  in an instant, arms lashing out to drag Leon down with him just moments before a grenade is lobbed in their direction. Chris curses as he sees the metal canister begin to hiss out its noxious gas, kicking it away from their hiding place and coughing as it invades his lungs. Shouts echo around the room, orders to stand down and put their arms above their heads, and Chris grimaces as the clanking of armored footsteps grows closer. He only has a few moments before things get deadly, and Leon to protect on top of it. He pulls his pistol and turns—

—Only to see Leon reaching for the combat knife strapped to Chris's belt, freeing it from its sheath and rolling to the side in a movement so lithe Chris would almost think he wasn't drugged. 

"Leon!" Chris cries, lunging, but Leon has already launched himself over the table and slammed into the nearest soldier, knife flashing quicker than a snake's strike. Chris's eyes widen, mouth opening in preparation to yell at him or tackle him out of the way—but Leon's skills are nowhere near as hindered as his movements had been before they got to the security room, sharp gaze focused on his target and remarkably clear.

Chris doesn't have any time to take in the sight before another soldier is rounding the corner and aiming a rifle at his forehead. His shock dissipates in an instant as his own instincts kick in and he lashes out with a boot at the man's knee, slamming him off balance and diving forward to drive him into the desk across the aisle. He doesn't have time to think—years of combat experience more than anything else allows him to grab the man by the face and slam it hard into the table, the sickening crack of a broken nose giving Chris time to whirl around and look for more enemies as the man drops with a cry. 

His heart drops. Aside from the soldier Leon had been attacking—dead on the floor with his throat slit, bright and glistening with blood, Chris notices with a chill—the room is empty. He can vaguely make out the sounds of contact in the hallway, pausing for a moment to seize the incapacitated soldier's rifle and disarm the magazine before tossing the two parts in different directions. The man is still writhing, clutching his bleeding nose and looking stunned, so Chris turns for the door. 

He's has never been a sprinter, but he thinks he must cross the floor in record time, shoulder slamming into the doorframe as he sets himself up in a ready position and peeks out into the hallway. He blinks.

"Leon?"

In the middle of the hallway stands the man in question, his eyes wide and wild, thin medical gown slicked to his skin with the dark blood that drenches him nearly from head to toe. At his feet, three other soldiers that must have been part of the attack squad lie in various states of life, the man closest to Leon still twitching and gasping in his dying throes as he clutches at the combat knife embedded in his skull. Chris grimaces and looks over the other two, both soaked in blood and splayed on the floor like rag dolls, gaze snapping to Leon with concern.

Leon's eyes are wild as he pants for breath and staggers in place, gaze distant and cloudy. His body is still coiled in a perfect fighting stance, his skill clear in the way he poses. Even with the influence of the drugs, his muscles remember how to kill quickly and ruthlessly, which Chris supposes is exactly the point. He shudders, taking a careful step forward with his hands outstretched in a soothing gesture. He thinks back to the documents on the computer and swallows tightly as he watches Leon flinch at the movement, bloody fists curling at his sides.

Operative. 

Assassin.

"Hey, its okay. Are you hurt?" he asks aloud, stepping around the first of the dead men and looking Leon in the eye. He tries to make his body language as nonthreatening as possible just in case, but Leon seems to have finally focused on his face again, recognition lighting his clouded gaze.

"Chris?" Leon's voice sounds far away, his body swaying as the adrenaline begins to drain. His gaze tracks slowly over to meet Chris's, syrupy and confused. "What's…?"

"It's alright, baby," Chris says calmly in an attempt to ground him, creeping closer. "Do you know where you are? Look around the room."

Leon glances for a moment at the walls, then shakes his head in anguish, brows knitting. "N-no, the last thing I remember, they were… they wanted to…?" He tosses his head a second time, hands coming up to clutch at his skull in anguish. "I—Why can't I remember? Chris? I don't…"

"Hey," Chris soothes, finally close enough to place a cautious hand on Leon's shoulder and pull him into a hug when he doesn't react. "Just breathe with me, okay? Are you hurt? Is any of this blood yours?"

Leon trembles against him and gasps, a sound like a whimper escaping his lips. "No, but—th-they were—they drugged me? I don't know how long ago that was."

"They did." 

"They drugged me," Leon says again. He glances at the bodies on the floor and clutches at Chris's vest with a sharp inhale, aghast. "Did—did I do that?"

Chris doesn't say a word, just rocks their bodies together and hushes him quietly. He mumbles and whimpers to himself for a few moments longer, the sound of his desperate confusion twisting something in Chris's chest. He keeps an eye on the end of the hallway to make sure nobody else is on their way, but most of his attention is turned to the slow stroking of his hand down Leon's spine, up and down and up again the way Leon likes. 

They stand there for a while before the sound of clacking footsteps makes him freeze and jolt back to reality, head whipping around in an instant. He quickly catches sight of a familiar flash of red, sighing and slowing his turn. "Hey," he calls. He untangles himself from Leon, who seems to have lapsed into a daze again, and tucks him to his side despite the fact that he's still soaked in sticky blood that's begun to cling to Chris's clothes. He hugs against Chris's side, straightening slightly when he catches sight of Ada, but clearly isn't all that eager to let go.

Ada smirks as she draws closer, popping a hip and resting her weight on one pristine scarlet heel. "Isn't this sweet," she drawls, looking Chris and Leon up and down. "Murder and chill. Having a good snuggle over here?"

"Yes, actually," Chris says, shifting to tuck his arm around Leon's slim hips rather than curling around him, watching Ada take in the carnage. She whistles.

"Hell of a drug." 

For some reason, Chris bristles at that, sudden anger popping like a firework in the back of his head. "Wait, you knew they would do this to him?" he demands, stepping forward angrily and only pausing himself when Leon's weight holds him back. He scowls. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me?"

Ada rolls her eyes. "I did, actually, over coffee. I know it was a while ago, Redfield, but really, keep up. I only knew what I told you, and I just read the rest downstairs." She eyes the dead men again and stands up straight, arms crossing in a show of exasperation. "From the looks of things, you've figured it out just fine on your own."

"We need to blow this goddamn place sky high," Chris says bitterly. He huffs and makes himself shove down the rest of his anger before it starts to bubble up again, focusing on pushing it to the side to deal with at the gym later. He's always gotten rather irritable in the downfall of an adrenaline rush, it's just usually not a big issue when he's barking orders at his men anyways. With Ada, though… he reminds himself that he needs to cooperate. He squeezes Leon's hip and lifts his head to meet her gaze, moulding his tone into something close to civil. "Did you find a way out of here?"

Ada eyes him for a moment longer, unreadable, then grins. "I did, indeed. You're gonna love it."

Chris most certainly does not love it, his gut twisting as he eyes the tiny tunnel of ductwork a few minutes later. He has to resist the urge to curl his hands into fists, one of them still clutching Leon's hip—the last thing he needs right now is another bruise. "You can't be serious," he says to Ada instead, glaring at her where she lounges against the wall. "Do you know how loud we're going to be, climbing through all this fucking aluminum? Someone will hear us, guaranteed."

"It's a fifteen-foot path, so you don't need to worry about your claustrophobia," she says dryly, "and this is the best, and fastest way out. The duct leads directly outside, and before you ask why we can't go punch our way through the main entrance—backup is on its way, and we don't have long. I've completed my objective, and you've completed yours, so let's go."

"That… seems like a design flaw," Chris says, looking again at the small vent. It won't be until later that he notices Ada's mention of her own 'objective' and wonders what mischief she got up to while Chris and Leon were busy—but in the moment, he's too distracted by how dumb it is to have a short tunnel leading directly from outside to the heart of the facility. And the fact that there's no puzzle required to reach it. "There's never an easy escape route."

"Are you staying here with Leon, then?"

Chris sighs. "No."

Ada pushes herself off the wall and pulls a small device from one of her jumpsuit pockets, the shape of it reminiscent of a small remote, or a handheld defensive taser. He watches as she kneels near the grate and clicks a button, a bright light flaring to life at the end of it. She waves it a bit, then gestures at the bolts at the vent's four corners. "This will be bright."

That's all the warning they get before she jams the end of the device into the first screw, a bright flash and the glow of heating metal blinding Chris for a second or two. By the time he's looked away and blinked out the spots in his vision, she's melted straight through it and shifted onto the next. Chris raises an eyebrow in surprise. How the hell did she get something that small to burn that hot, and how did it melt though steel in a matter of moments? 

Spies. Always one step ahead with some bullshit gadget, James Bond style. Ada quickly takes care of the rest of them and lets the grate clatter to the ground, ducking her head to peer into the tunnel. "I'll go first, then Leon." 

Finally, something they can agree on. Chris nods and Ada flashes him a complicated smirk, elegantly shifting on the balls of her feet to tuck her small body into the opening of the vent. Chris's skin prickles at the sight of how tight the fit is for her—is he even going to be able to squeeze inside. He purses his lips. He'll have to.

"Hey, baby," he murmurs to Leon, pulling the support of his arm away. Leon doesn't sway, at least, balance finally restored a minute degree, but he does blink confusedly, eyes still glazed over. Chris is worried about him, but if backup's coming…

"Come on," Ada says as if hearing his thoughts. Then, to Leon: "Follow me, okay?"

Leon doesn't make much sign of having heard besides nodding faintly and blinking, but he goes easily when Chris guides him down to the floor, hands steady when he reaches for the lip of the vent and wiggles his way inside, bare knees pressing into the metal as he follows dutifully after Ada. His gown rides up a little as he shuffles forward, bloody fabric rustling, and Chris chokes out a shocked laugh as it slips to the side and reveals he's wearing no underwear at all. On some level, he'd been aware that there was nothing under the cloth, but this… Well, at least Chris has seen it all before. He takes a moment to appreciate the cute mole on the curve of Leon's asscheek, then mentally chides himself for being a pervert; ignoring the creaking of his own knees as he lowers himself into the opening of the vent. 

"Man, we gotta get you some clothes." 

-~-

Somehow, they make it out and to the vehicle without incident, Leon's legs lasting until he can be laid down in the backseat and Ada disappearing between one moment and the next. Chris sighs. Who knows how she's getting out of here, but that's not really his issue. "Thank you," he calls as loudly as he dares into the empty rocks, and slides into the driver's seat. There. They're done with one another for now, and as much as Chris hopes they never need to work together again, he's grateful that Ada chose to help him instead of letting Leon rot in a cell somewhere.

At least, he's feeling charitable enough to look past her flaws—until they're sitting in an off-the-books BSAA recovery room half a day later, Leon hooked up to an IV and leaned back comfortably in bed and a clean pair of scrubs, his gaze much clearer now that the drugs have run their course. He's still a little woozy, it seems, but it might just as much be from the electroshock therapy than anything else. The doctor had said he might experience mild to major memory loss regarding the facility itself and sporadic events several weeks before or after, and reminded Chris to be gentle during his recovery. As if he'd be anything else. 

"I have a question," Chris asks suddenly, a thought occuring to him. "How the hell did you end up going to that facility? There weren't any BOWs whatsoever, and I don't really get why they'd target you for their nonsense. I mean, not that you're not important, but wouldn't it make more sense for them to go for someone with more security clearance?"

Leon blinks. "Uh," he starts slowly, though his voice is clear. "I do have pretty good security clearance, actually. But I'm not sure. Ad—an informant gave me the tip off and told me it might be related to the Family and Simmons' gang of idiots, so I got permission to pursue the lead. Hunnigan and I like to check out whatever corruption we can find, I guess." He shrugs, blue eyes curious. "Why?"

"Informant?" Chris feels his face heating up. He has a sneaking suspicion that he doesn't even need to ask who. "Ada got you into this shit, didn't she." 

Leon sighs. "She's not that bad."

"She fucking got you into that situation and didn't even seem particularly concerned," Chris says, keeping his voice even. "How can you even trust her at all?"

"She cleaned up her mess. She got you to come after me," Leon says, voice hardening slightly. He sighs and softens again, slumping back against the pillows and fiddling with his IV port. "I know she's not my best friend, Chris. It's just—I've known her too long, y'know? I know how she acts, even if she always does something unexpected, and she's helping."

"She sells the viruses you're trying to stop."

"Gotta make a living, right?" Leon smirks, then shakes his head, gaze going distant. "I don't know. Are any of us really good people anymore? If she sells a virus to the highest bidder, then turns around and helps me take care of the situation, is it really so awful?"

Chris hums thoughtfully, but truthfully he's done talking about Ada. He reaches out to cup Leon's hand, focusing on his other statements instead. "You're a good person," he says confidently. "You're good for me."

Leon laughs, the sound light, and Chris smiles. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Prove it," Leon says, eyes glinting. 

Chris leans in to cup Leon's face, putting them so close he can feel Leon breathing against his own. He pitches his voice low, sweeping a thumb over Leon's cheek and relishing the way he shudders. "As you wish."

"Are you quoting The Princess Bride at me? I've seen that so many times, and let me tell you, you've got nothin' on—"

He squawks as Chris presses their mouths together and quickly turns it into a pleased groan, warm against Chris's lips. Safe. Where he should be.

Home.