Chapter Text
CHRIS, UNDERWATER FACILITY, CHINESE WATERS, JULY 2013
"NO!" Chris screams, banging on the glass of the pod as it hisses, sweeping him away to safety and Piers - there's no fear in his eyes, just a quiet resignation and the same unwavering trust he's always had when he looks at Chris. Loyal to a fault, a good man. And now he's gone too, his life lost to preserve Chris's. How many more?
Chris wants to break under the weight of it, to surrender, but if he's not leading the fight then more will die. He wanted to hand it to Piers, and in doing so signed the man's death warrant. He doesn't even fully remember who else he's lost, who else he's been responsible for and let down, but he knows, somewhere deep inside him, that it's he who gets to bear the burden of carrying on.
The patch in his hand is a reminder and a promise. To keep going, to do so alone.
His pod bobs to a stop and comms crackle, BSAA forces asking for his location as they helicopter what survivors they can out of Tatchi. But he's less concerned about his own safety - and, honestly, the civilians' - than he is about one person in particular.
"Leon." He says, and HQ doesn't have an answer. "Get me back through to DSO."
DSO? There's confusion on the other side, and then static, and then -
"He made it out." Ingrid Hunnigan's voice comes though a little choppy, but the note of relief is obvious to him, and, apparently to Leon.
"Aw, you do care!" Leon teases over the noise of helicopter blades. "Not getting rid of me that easily, Redfield. Catch you later."
Chris breathes a sigh, one tiny weight lifting off of his shoulders. "Good. I mean, uh, Claire would kill me if I didn't check." The mess that is his brain can't quite remember what Leon and Claire are to each other, but he knows it's important nonetheless.
"Right, it's about Claire." Leon's eye roll is obvious even over the comms, but Hunnigan interrupts.
"Alright, clear comms. Leon, we'll pick you up at rendezvous point Gamma. Redfield, don't make this a habit."
"Yes, ma'am." They both answer, and then Chris's comms pop again and he's back through to BSAA HQ.
The chaos of everything fades into the background as he's picked up, and he sits alone on a helicopter carrying him back towards BSAA headquarters. At least Leon's okay. Chris's head hurts, trying to put together the pieces of why he remembers Leon so easily, why his instincts say to trust him and why he was filled with raw panic when Leon said he was still in Tatchi. He gives up and leans back against the uncomfortable helicopter seat, closing his eyes.
SOMEWHERE OFF THE COAST OF CHINA, JULY 2013
Three figures, covered head-to-toe in black tactical gear pause at the edge of the sea, and one produces a sleek silver case that opens with a pneumatic hiss. They crouch over a human-sized lump on the rocky shore and extract a long syringe from the case, jabbing it into the body without hesitation. The lead agent stands back up, pressing a hand to their ear.
"Sir? We've recovered the asset. Stabilizer administered."
"Copy, Viper. Stand by for transportation."
A helicopter descends shortly, more dark-clad agents rappelling down, and busy themselves with tarps and ropes to bundle the shape up and send it back up the ropes.
In the still-unfolding chaos of the city, nobody notices the scratched Umbrella logo on the side of the chopper as it takes off to the north.
LATER, US SOIL
"Welcome back, soldier." The voice is too loud, too close, and he opens his eyes only to slam them shut again against the blinding light. "No, keep them open." It's an order, not a suggestion, and he tries to do as he's told, squinting in pain as he looks to the side.
"What- where-?" His voice isn't quite right, and - or - is it? What did his voice sound like, before?
"Status report." The voice orders again, and he snaps to attention instinctively.
He pauses, taking stock of his body, strapped to a tilted table. He looks down at his hands, eyes catching on smooth metal where he expects to see skin, right arm mostly immobilized. He clenches his fist, watching the metal undulate, almost eerie in its ripples. There's an ache deep in his right shoulder, and his vision is - wrong, cloudy. He watches, almost detachedly, as his left hand comes up to feel at his face. There are raised scars under his fingers, and he closes his right eye to find his vision clearer without it, although the spotlight is still too bright to see anything properly.
"Status: alive." The soldier responds. Is that what the voice wanted? There's a vague sense that he should be more upset - something happened. Maybe he's in shock. Maybe the injuries are new. He doesn't know, and the harder he tries to think, the more cotton fills his brain.
The voice continues, asking him questions - what's his name, what year is it, where is he - and he doesn't have answers to any of them.
I don't know, he repeats, increasingly upset. I don't know! he yells, and what feels like a shock of electricity shoots through his body. His right arm tingles, somehow, and he looks down in concerned confusion.
"Good. Get some rest." The voice's departing footsteps echo, leaving him alone as the spotlight snaps off, and he tries to keep himself awake but his body disagrees, fading out of consciousness.
The next time he wakes up is vastly different to the last, so much so that he thinks all of that before must've been a dream. He's in a hospital bed, the beeping of machines and smell of antiseptic surrounding him, but his senses are dulled - pain medication, probably? Why is the feeling of pain medication familiar when he doesn't even know who or where he is? He focuses, head aching, and squeezes his right eye closed to see better.
"You're awake, good." An unfamiliar woman enters the room, smiling at him kindly. "I'm Dr. Garcia. You were injured on an operation, and you're back in the US now. Do you remember that?"
"No." He blinks, confused. "I - I don't remember - anything?"
Her brow creases in concern. "What do you mean, anything? Can you tell me your name, what year it is?"
"No. I - I remember -" He looks down, confirming that the - dream was at least somewhat true, because his right arm is still made of metal. It moves like normal, though, as he raises it slowly and wiggles his fingers. He can feel pressure as he touches the side rail of the bed, but not the texture. "Something happened to my arm."
"That's right." She pulls a chair over and sits next to him. "You were injured, and by the time you were recovered it was too late to save it. It was touch-and-go for a bit for you in general. It's October 2013. You've been here for a few weeks now."
"Okay." He says, not sure how else to respond to something like that. "But - who am I?"
Dr. Garcia's eyes soften, and she hands him a worn wallet. "Peter Nolan." He flips it open to find a DC driver's license with that name and a face that looks familiar, but the name doesn't feel right. He stares, trying to make sense of this. "You're a US operative with the Department of Security Operations, DSO. It's a counter-bioterrorism agency."
Bioterrorism sounds familiar, and he nearly flinches at the rush of memories, undead growling around him as he takes aim - "I'm a sniper? We kill zombies?" He asks, and she nods, relieved that he seems to remember something.
"Yes, that's what they tell me. The prosthetic is experimental technology, wired into your nervous system, and should function fairly similarly to what you're used to, although sensation will be muted. My team has full confidence that you'll be able to return to your position when healed."
Right. He's still struggling to tell what feels real and what doesn't, but shooting zombies is undeniably a memory that his mind and body agree on. Maybe the rest will feel more correct with time.
"Okay." He repeats. "Uh. When can I go - home?"
She winces at the question, and he feels his heart sink. "Unfortunately, there's a bit of a complication with that. And with your memory issues - well, the short of it is that you weren't just injured but infected. C-virus. You're currently the only person we know of who's survived an enhanced C-virus infection, and until we can be sure the infection is gone you'll need to be closely monitored."
"Oh."
"The government will take care of you, don't worry. Your insurance covers all of the medical costs, and your housing will be government-provided." Dr. Garcia pats his hand kindly. "We'll get you back fighting fit as soon as possible, and as your memories return the information you have about C-virus will be invaluable."
"Right. Thanks." He nods politely, tired and lost, and she rises to leave.
"You just focus on feeling better, alright? I'll let you get some rest and check back soon."
LEON, DSO HQ, LATE 2013
"Alright, what is it this time?" Leon spins in his chair like a kid, looking to an unamused Hunnigan.
Now that the whole Simmons situation is actually over with, his and Helena's names cleared, Leon's just been waiting for the call to come in that he's being sent off somewhere else to be the good little US soldier he's supposed to be. Apparently, today's his lucky day. Or unlucky, considering the - you know, bioterrorism.
"Suspected Neo-Umbrella offshoot is operating in upstate New York." She hands him a file and he flips it open. It's sparse on details, but there's clear photos of creatures that look similar to ones he'd dealt with in China. "They want you in the lab to gather intel on the operation, undercover. The surrounding woods are suspected to be heavily monitored, so you'll be on your own for this if anything goes wrong."
Oh, because that's going to go well. "Great." He says sarcastically. "When do I leave?"
"One more thing." Hunnigan levels him with a serious look. "DSO's bringing in someone else to be on comms with you throughout this mission and likely the foreseeable future."
"What?"
"I'll still be FOS, but they have a new informant, someone with 'extensive C-virus knowledge.' You and I both know it's best not to ask further questions. His code name is Fox."
Leon hums, less than thrilled about having someone else in his ear. He works best alone, and Hunnigan's used to the way he operates. This 'Fox' sounds like a government-ordered babysitter and it's quite possible someone high up still has it out for him.
"Just - try to behave, Leon." Hunnigan sighs. "You're still on thin ice, we don't need any more reason for DSO to be paying close attention to you."
"Yeah, yeah." He snaps the file shut, information already categorized in his brain, and makes an exasperated face at her. "Seriously, I'll be good. Now when do I leave?"
FOX
Time passes weirdly in the hospital and then in the government-provided "housing" that he quietly thinks is more akin to a nicely furnished prison cell. It's located in a DSO facility, and he's not allowed outside the gates, but he does have a little private patio and all sorts of amenities, and it's not like he would have anywhere to go anyway.
His memory is still fucked - muscle memories like aiming a gun or tying his shoes are still intact, although he's had quite a lot of physical therapy to help him adapt to the new arm. He remembers how to make a bank withdrawal and how to drive a car, basic history facts and times tables and the rules of hockey games, he even remembers pieces of information about the C-virus along with the vague memory of a needle and stabbing pain in his arm. It's like someone reached into his brain and scooped out anything to do with 'Peter Nolan' and left the rest. 'Peter Nolan' still doesn't feel right.
He's started to get used to the way his reflection looks, the metal arm, the cloudiness in his right eye, the scarring - which looks less angry as it heals over, but leaves an odd pattern arching up his right side and around his shoulder. But despite adjusting to how he looks, there's still a disconnect between what he sees in the mirror and the few pictures of himself before that he's been given. For the most part, he just avoids looking in a mirror at all.
When he's given the code name Fox, it's easy to start referring to himself as such instead. Fox has a purpose - he's a government agent, he's useful, he's working towards a better world free of viruses. 'Peter' is nothing but a name and a photo on identifying documents.
Fox's first assignment comes a couple weeks after he's fully moved into his housing, where he's sure he's already annoyed the other agents assigned to the facility in his endless quest for something to do. He's settled on beating every record in the firing range, which is what he's on his way to work on again when there's a knock on his door.
"Mr. Nolan." A dark-suited man enters the room. "I'm Agent Adams - codename Viper. I was part of the team that retrieved you when your mission went wrong, and I'm happy to hear you're recovering well."
"Uh. Fox is fine." He says nervously. "It's nice to meet you. Thanks for the assist, even if I don't remember it."
"Fox, then." Adams - Viper? - He decides to go with the codename - nods and holds out a hand to shake. "No thanks necessary. We're all glad to have you back home."
Fox nods, not really sure what else to say.
"Well, I'll get to the purpose of my visit, then," Viper hands over a folder. "If you're up for it, we'd like you to assist on an assignment-"
"Yes! I mean, sorry, yes sir, I'm up for it." Fox flips the folder open, finding a piece of paper simply titled LEON S. KENNEDY with a couple of paragraphs below it, and then a series of photographs, half-completed blueprints, and files on C-virus.
"I like the enthusiasm. Agent Kennedy is one of DSO's top operatives, and he's being sent in undercover to a Neo-Umbrella facility. We're hoping you'll be able to assist him via comms while also collecting the intel that he finds and getting it back to us."
"Makes sense." Fox nods. "When do I start?"
Viper smiles, a sharp little thing. "Agent Kennedy is being dropped off tonight, so if that all sounds good to you, you can start in the morning. I think you'll work well together, so if this goes well expect to be assigned to him on future missions as well. Do you have any questions for me?"
"No, sir. All good here."
"Excellent. Report to the operations room at 0600 and we'll get you set up with a workstation."
"Yes sir." Fox resists the urge to salute - was he military, before? His body seems to remember parade rest, sharp salutes, Sir Yes Sir yelled at full volume, but from what he's seen DSO doesn't seem to operate like that. It doesn't matter. He has a new goal, now, even if he's still going to beat those shooting records in his downtime.
LEON
Leon gets dropped off in the dead of night, as is typical, and far enough away from the actual location that the helicopter won't alert anyone. They couldn't even bother giving him a bike, no, he's gotta fucking hike through zombie-infested woods in his fucking Umbrella scientist costume in case someone happens to see him. Yippee.
He stays quiet until he's through the woods and to the cabin they've designated as his home-base-safe-house, and then taps the comms.
"Hunnigan, I'm inside the cabin. Anything change while I was out there?"
There's a moment of static, and then she responds. "No change. Get some sleep, and report into the lab at 0800. Your contact is a man called Henry Ellis."
"Yes ma'am." Leon taps it again to turn off his mic and looks around the cabin. It's sparsely furnished, but it has all the essentials, including running water that might even get warm.
He sighs, digs out a clean t-shirt from the dresser, and collapses into bed after he sets an alarm on his watch.
Morning comes too soon, as always, and Leon gets his scientist outfit back on with displeasure before he radios in that he's headed to the lab.
"Good morning, Agent Kennedy." Hunnigan says with uncharacteristic formality. "Please advise on your ETA to the facility."
"Uh. Good morning to you too? I'm leaving now, should be there in 20 if the maps are to be believed."
"Good morning!" Another voice chimes in, this one masculine, cheerful, and instantly on Leon's nerves. "Um, Fox here? I'll be-"
"Helping out, yeah, they told me." Leon cuts him off, unwilling to listen to that level of excitement this early in the morning.
"Right. Sorry." Fox clears his throat and resumes in a more professional tone. "It's nice to meet you, Agent Kennedy. The maps you have are currently the most accurate that DSO has access to, so I believe your 20 minute estimate to be correct."
"Great." Leon responds flatly, already out the door and walking down the path. He's blessed with silence - for a whole five minutes.
"So, uh, how's it going?" Fox asks, and Leon huffs, frustrated.
"Let's keep comms clear, please." Hunnigan interrupts, saving Leon from having to say anything.
"Oh. Right. Sorry, they didn't give me a lot of instruction. I'm usually a sniper."
Leon doesn't respond, but he does wonder why on earth a sniper is on Leon-supervision-duty. He didn't know DSO even had snipers or any sort of specialized roles, but that could be because he's always assigned to work alone. He can use a scoped rifle decently well, although he doesn't prefer it. Of course, for this mission all he gets is a handgun, concealed beneath his lab coat.
Thankfully, Fox listens to Hunnigan and cuts the chatter, and soon enough Leon's at the doors to the laboratory. He presses his provided keycard against the reader, and as soon as it turns green and lets him in, he's striding off with false confidence.
He taps his comms, setting them to always on so that Hunnigan and Fox can hear what's happening around him, and quietly checks in. "I'm inside. Where's Ellis supposed to be?"
"Lab 4, on the lower level." Fox responds quickly, clearly eager to be of use.
"Copy." Leon responds, eyes flicking across the space as he walks towards a set of elevators, and finds a little sign to indicate Lab 4. "I see it." He's checking in more than he normally would in a mission, but if DSO is trying to keep tabs on him then he's going to try and play by their rules. Hopefully that means he'll lose the supervision shortly.
Ellis is in Lab 4 as expected, and quietly tells Leon that he can get him 15 uninterrupted minutes to access the laboratory computers, but if Leon's not fully clear by the time those 15 minutes are up, he won't be able to do anything to assist him.
Once Ellis leaves and locks the door, Leon hurries to the nearest computer. "Okay, talk to me, what am I looking for?"
"Anything on C-virus, the research being carried out here, who's funding it, if there are any similar facilities operating nearby." Fox lists off, and Leon clicks around as best he can.
"Okay. Not much here. They're - oh, okay, yeah, they're definitely doing human experimentation in this lab and the others." Leon snaps some photos on his phone and slips a USB into the computer to start downloading those files. "There is a mention here of another lab, but it doesn't say where. From the sound of it, it's close enough that they're able to work together." He finds a video file and adds it to the download without bothering to watch it.
"Five minutes." Hunnigan says coolly.
"No details on the funding. Just says Neo-Umbrella, which we already knew. I thought it would've died with Simmons, but I guess someone else took over after him." Leon sighs. There's always someone else ready to take up bioterrorism. He's disappointed but not surprised, which really encompasses the last 15 years of his life. There are only a few files left on the computer to look through, and he opens them quickly. Maps, blueprints, that's useful, and he drags them to the USB drive, and then a bunch of random personnel files. Sure, why not.
"Two minutes." Hunnigan announces. "Get out of there, Leon."
"Yes, ma'am." The download finishes, and he yanks the drive out and locks the computer, heading for the side door quickly. There's a commotion behind him, but he ignores it, striding with purpose towards the exit.
FOX
There's no real reason why he needs three computer screens and a desk all to himself just to read a couple of maps and relay three sentences of information to Agent Kennedy, but the thrill he feels at being useful outweighs the mild ridiculousness of the new work setup. Viper had said he'd be doing this again if all goes well, so hopefully he'll get to be more involved in the future.
He can tell his earlier excitement was unwelcome, so he's doing his best to keep things cool and professional as Kennedy makes his way back to the safehouse. Fox has a text file of notes of things Kennedy had mentioned out loud, but he's not sure if that's useful. He's not sure if any of it's useful, really, but the instructions were simply to gather as much information as possible.
"Okay, I'm back to the cabin." Agent Kennedy checks in, and Fox keeps quiet, allowing FOS to respond. Agent Hunnigan seems coolly competent and is clearly familiar with Kennedy.
"Copy. Unfortunately, it looks like there's a storm rolling in, so you'll have to spend the night in the cabin. Expect exfil tomorrow." She replies.
"Great." Kennedy huffs, and the comms click as he changes the setting back to push to talk. "Let me know if you've got an update, otherwise I'm going to sleep."
Hunnigan's voice sounds just in Fox's ear, now, as she cuts Kennedy's channel. "Fox, you're good to go. Thank you for the support."
"Oh, I - are you sure?" He asks. "They told me to stay, is all?"
"Kennedy's got the data, you don't need to worry about exfil. Have a good rest of your day." The comms click again before he can respond, and there's silence on his end.
Well, that's that, then. He's not sure if his performance was good enough to warrant being assigned back to Kennedy, but at least it was something beyond the monotony of his days in the hospital. He locks his computer and heads back to the operations room.
"Viper, sir?" He asks, tapping lightly on the door to the man's office.
"Come in, Fox, how's it going?"
"Agent Kennedy's back to the safehouse with the data from the lab. They said I'm good to go?"
A flash of something odd crosses Viper's face before he smiles politely. "Excellent. Well done on your first assignment. I'll be in touch once Agent Kennedy has sent over the data and perhaps you can help analyze it."
"Yes sir! Thank you." Fox, again, resists the urge to salute.
"Dismissed." Viper says, not unkindly. "Get some rest, Fox."
Rest is out of the question when he's this full of energy, so Fox heads for the gym instead. It's nearly empty, and he snags his favorite treadmill by the window, popping headphones in as he starts off at a brisk jog.
Memory tells him he usually runs outside, on a track or along a muddy path, but he's found that looking out the window is the closest he can get to replicating that feeling. It's nice to be running again at all, having finally been cleared for more vigorous exercise after weeks of PT. Speaking of -
Fox checks his watch, and yeah, he's got about 30 minutes before he's supposed to be at PT. He slows down and stops, finishing the rest of his water bottle and stretching out his legs before he heads to the showers. He'll probably end up sweaty again after, but it feels rude to show up already gross.
PT's got their own state-of-the-art setup near the gym, and he trots over in loose shorts and a tank top, running into a familiar face on the way out. Juan Davies is around his age, recovering from a GSW to the thigh, and is one of - no, the only fellow operative, thus far, who's been more than coldly polite to Fox. He's not sure he could count the man as a friend, they've spoken maybe five times, but friendly is a vast improvement over either indifferent or outright rude.
"Yo, Foxy, how's it going!" Davies fistbumps him, not even blinking when he uses the metal arm. That's another thing Fox appreciates about him.
"Not bad, not bad. Jenny kick your ass today?" He laughs, watching as Davies huffs exaggeratedly and wipes his face with a towel.
"Oh, always. Your turn, I told her not to go easy on ya."
"Good! Catch you later." Fox salutes jokingly, turning to head into PT. Jenny's wiping down the table and waves him over to go through a set of stretches while she gets set up.
When he's freed from PT, sore and predictably sweaty, Fox goes back to his own quarters for a nicer shower before dinner. Unfortunately, mealtimes thus far have not been pleasant experiences - he feels more like an unpopular middle schooler than the agent he apparently is, and he's mostly resorted to dragging a tray back to his room unless Davies is around.
Davies isn't usually around after a PT day, either, so Fox just opts to slip into the main dining hall, hurrying to get through the line without being seen. Chicken and broccoli. Again.
Back in his room and poking at the mildly unappetizing plate, Fox sighs. He's jealous of Agent Kennedy, with the freedom to be out in the field, out in the world. As is typical for his nighttime routine, he closes his eyes, trying to focus in on something, anything that will remind him of who he is and who he was.
So far, he has only snippets -
Boots in the mud, a male voice barking orders, peering down a scope at a bioweapon -
Breathe in.
Whose voice is it? Where is he?
Breathe out.
The cotton starts to creep in at the edges of his thoughts, and Fox's eyes snap open as he inhales sharply, frustrated. His left hand is at his neck, feeling for - fabric? He was wearing something - a scarf?
Scarf? He adds to the piece of paper he keeps hidden under his mattress, some instinct telling him to hide the few pieces of his identity he's been able to claw back. With that, he flops on top of the bed and lets himself drift into sleep.