Author's note: I changed Helena's background because in the files in RE6 it's mentioned she got violent toward a suspect during a murder investigation, but it's also mentioned somewhere that prior to her being in the Secret Service, she was in the CIA and the CIA has absolutely nothing to do with murder investigations whatsoever (FBI maybe but Helena wouldn't have had the time to finish army, college and FBI training to be an FBI agent before being tossed to the Secret Service), so I changed it to something that makes a lot more sense, aka she went to the police academy after army and was a cop for five minutes and from there she was moved to the Secret Service by Simmons who by then had decided to use her as his pawn. It might sound ridiculous but believe me, it's way more sensible than the alternative Capcom offered. :D


Why her and not me? Helena thought as she stood in the shower, her head hanging low, the steaming hot water pelting her back, a cascade washing over her head as well, the drops mottled with her tears as they fell along the bridge of her nose.

She would never understand why, it made no sense. Why Deborah? She'd been the good kid. The one who'd actually had a chance at life, the one who hadn't been broken down and hastily put back together, over and over again until the person that came out from that was permanently cracked and misshapen, the pieces no longer fitting together.

Why didn't I die?

Quite simply, she hadn't died because she'd been the agent, the former soldier, the President's bodyguard. If she hadn't fucked up her promotion to the DSO by letting her temper get the better of her, she wouldn't have been in the Secret Service at the time and Simmons wouldn't have had any reason to kidnap Deborah to coerce her. If she had gotten a different job altogether after getting out from the army, it wouldn't have happened. If she'd gotten a job as an EMT and gone to school like she'd meant to do after active duty it wouldn't have happened.

You fucked up something as basic as being a cop! What kind of an idiot assaults a suspect and gets herself suspended almost as soon as she began at the job! You're a failure. You could've made use of the resources the military provided, you could've at least tried, everyone else seems capable of going from combat medic to doctor or at least a nurse, but no, you couldn't manage that either. You're such a disappointment! her grandmother's voice snapped from the citadel she'd built inside Helena's mind, a myriad of demeaning and derogatory comments stored therein, ready to be fired at her at a fraction of a second's notice if given the chance.

You had to play hero. You had to beat up the suspect. You had to shoot Deborah's boyfriend's ear off and fuck up your promotion. You're pathetic.

In Helena's defense, Deborah's then-boyfriend had been an abusive dick who had pummeled Deborah so badly she'd had to go to the hospital with bruised kidneys and fractured ribs. He was lucky Helena hadn't killed him. In hindsight, she supposed she was lucky she hadn't killed him too. But she didn't find it in herself to genuinely regret doing that. She regretted everything it helped set in motion, the direction it had steered her life toward, but not the act itself. If she could go back in time, she'd kill him. That way she'd be in jail rather than compromising Deborah's safety just by being her stupid big sister.

That was all she knew how to be; initially, Deborah had been the only one small enough for her to protect. Keeping her safe had given Helena a certain sense of purpose. It had felt good to have that, a reason for her existence. Playing hero hadn't been Helena's incentive, mattering to someone and making a positive difference in their life had been.

Oh, well, yeah, sure, that turned out brilliantly, didn't it? her grandmother's voice scoffed. Helena sighed. No, it hadn't in the end, but there'd been times when she'd served her purpose.

Like that time when Deborah had gotten the brilliant idea of pouring grandma's booze down the drain because she'd believed that would be all it took to get her to stop drinking. When their grandmother found out about it, Helena was certain she'd kill the culprit.

She'd told Deborah to go to the attic and hide. Helena knew their grandmother wouldn't go up there to look. It wasn't that she wasn't capable (she was more than capable, she wasn't an invalid nor was she a frail old lady), it was just that she wouldn't be bothered, especially not if Helena would say she'd done it.

She'd taken the blame and the beating. The lacerations on her back from the belt grandmother had used to beat her with had gotten infected because there'd been no aftercare. As a reward for having the audacity to whine about being sick, Helena had gotten hit on the back of the head with that damn hairbrush. Afterward, her grandmother had dragged her into the bathroom and drawn a scalding bath, saying something about getting the wounds thoroughly cleaned.

The water felt boiling hot, and Helena imagined her skin bubbling and fizzing in the heat. Of course, it hadn't been that bad in reality, but it had felt very real to a terrified ten year old. Her grandmother had then proceeded to vigorously scrub the infected wounds with a coarse sponge. Helena winced and pressed her palm against the scars on her back, the phantom pain the memory brought still stinging her skin. The blood from the wounds had dyed the bathwater a faded shade of pink by the time they were done with the violent bath.

Unsurprisingly, that had made Helena's condition worse and she'd gotten a fever which had nearly killed her. After that, her grandmother had been more careful with the punishments; having the annoying brat die would raise questions, she couldn't have that. So, she'd stuck to milder methods of punishments (like grabbing her by the hair and dragging her over to the pantry where she'd lock her in, or pinching the soft skin under her arm between the armpit and the elbow) apart from the times she got overwhelmed by her fury and resorted to breaking out the large wooden hairbrush.

Helena still had moments when she was about to drift off and just as she was to fall asleep, she'd see the brush speeding toward her, the lacquered surface shining under the light, the decorative pattern carved onto the back of the brush getting bigger as it rushed closer. That God damn brush had been the first thing she'd burned after clearing the apartment from her grandmother's belongings after her passing. But it hadn't been enough to burn the bad memories or the nasty remarks she still had embedded deep in her mind. She doubted she'd ever be rid of them. It was the dumbest things too, things that should no longer matter to her, should no longer have the power to hurt. But they did.

You're sick.

Helena still didn't understand why her grandmother had said that. It had happened before she'd come out, so it hadn't been about that. Certainly, she'd said it numerous times afterward, in fact, that had been her favorite way of describing Helena, simply stating that she's "sick", and she'd never explained why she'd said it in the first place, what was it about Helena that supposedly made her sick. The first time she'd heard it, Helena had been rather confused because to a little kid, being sick meant you had the flu, and she hadn't felt ill, why would grandma say she was sick?

You're fat enough as it is. No one loves a fatty-patty.

A comment made when Helena had asked if they could go to McDonald's. What made it more insulting was the fact that looking back, looking at the few photos she had from that time, she could see she had not been fat. She'd been a child, she'd had the normal amount of "babyfat" all (or certainly almost all) children of that age had. And still, that one comment still remained with her. She'd heard it lurking in the back of her mind a lot recently thanks to the weight she'd gained and no amount of reasoning and assuring it wasn't even bad made it go away.

The only time the derogatory words had remained muffled in the background was when Helena had been deployed in Afghanistan and befriended a soldier named Maxima. Helena had hero-worshipped her. No, more than that, she'd loved her. Not romantically or sexually, but like one loved their brothers and sisters in arms.

Maxima was smart, she was strong and above all, she was kind and patient, a saint as far as Helena was concerned. She was the kind of a person one thought of when thinking about a soldier: honorable, guided by strong and just moral convictions, willing to sacrifice herself for the good of others. She was the kind of a woman Helena would've happily followed to hell with a smile.

And then she died too. You can't save anyone.

"It wasn't my fault!" Helena snapped out loud. What the hell more could she have done? The IED had taken out the vehicle Maxima had been in and it had been too late the moment the explosion had happened, there was nothing anyone could have done at that point. Helena had tried, truly she had. Desperately and uselessly, she'd ran to her friend, dropped to her knees and scooped up the guts, blood, bone fragments and chunks of charred flesh she could find, sand covering it all and clinging to her hands now sticky with blood as she hopelessly kept trying to tuck it all back into the upper half of her friend's torso, the only part of her that was still intact.

You can't save anyone. You're a useless waste of my son's cum!

"Stop. Just stop," Helena muttered, sucking in a shuddering breath as she tried to stop crying. It took a while longer but finally, she shut the water off and exited the shower. A while later, she slumped onto the couch, wearing her bathrobe. Sighing deeply, she stared blankly at the wall for a long time.

You know what stops it.

Her gaze wandered lower, onto the pistol in its holster on the coffee table. She'd meant to take it apart and clean it, but she had decided to put it off; like so many other things it could wait until tomorrow. Helena grabbed it and pulled it out from the holster. She weighed it in her hand, adjusted her hold on the grip and racked the slide, all such familiar movements she could've done them in her sleep. Never before had she put the barrel into her mouth, though, but there was a first time for everything.

Helena placed her front teeth into the grooves in the underside of the Picatinny rail, the fit disturbingly good. She inhaled deeply and let it out through her nose in a long exhale. The hammer made a whiny creaking noise as it drew back when Helena put more pressure on the trigger. The cold metal didn't taste as bitter as she'd expected.


Hunnigan couldn't say what had possessed her to go over, especially since Helena had obviously been avoiding her, but despite thinking she should know better, here she was. At first, she'd been bothered by the way Helena had practically ran away every time Hunnigan had tried having a conversation beyond wishing her good morning or day or evening, depending on what time of day they happened to run into each other in the agency. Then she'd figured out the mistake she'd made.

She'd assumed she and Helena had become friends practically overnight when in reality, it wasn't like Helena'd had any other choice but to get along with her while they'd been stuck in the cabin together. Thinking on it more and realizing just how obvious and stupid the whole thing was, she hadn't been able to keep from feeling like a damn fool. What sane person goes from thinking "we're colleagues" to thinking "we're friends" based on something like that? No one, as far as Hunnigan was concerned.

She hadn't stopped to think of the irony of her appearing at Helena's door in person on Christmas eve to apologize for coming on too strong. In her defense, that wasn't the only reason she'd come over, she'd also wanted to give Helena a Christmas present. She'd walked past a bookstore and noticed a copy of Jim Gaffigan's "Dad is fat" on display in the window and recalled Helena mentioning she was a fan of his work, so she'd gotten the book for her.

Hunnigan knocked again after waiting for a long while, trying to listen for any signs of life from the apartment, but it was quiet.

Maybe she's not at home, Hunnigan mused and was about to see if she could manage to fit the book through the mail slot on the door when Helena's voice finally called out.

"Hang on!"

Hunnigan did and a few moments later, Helena unlocked the door, visibly surprised to see Hunnigan.

"Hey. I, uh, I was just in the shower," she elaborated somewhat needlessly, Hunnigan had figured out as much based on the fact that Helena's hair was wet and she was dressed in a dark red bathrobe.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I should've called ahead, I'm not thinking things through these days it seems," Hunnigan apologized.

"It's fine," Helena smiled and stepped aside, gesturing toward the apartment and Hunnigan entered. Helena told her she could wait in the living room while she excused herself and disappeared into the bedroom to get dressed.

Helena's apartment was rather small, not messy but looked lived-in with haphazardly unpacked bags and items of clothing cluttering the space. The kitchenette was a narrow slit in the far back, separated from the living room by a bar counter. The couch sat a couple of feet away from it, opposite to the shelves on the other wall, the TV and accessories there, surrounded by DVDs and paperback books which flooded the shelves.

Hunnigan glanced at the coffee table and at first, didn't think anything of the handgun there, she'd learned by now that Helena liked to keep her gun near herself at all times. She noticed the barrel looked... wet? That made no sense. She was about to lean in to look closer when Helena's voice caught her attention.

"I gotta admit I'm surprised to see you," she said as she emerged from the bedroom, running her hand through her hair.
"I came to apologize."

"About what?"
"About my behavior at the Christmas party. I kind of got carried away and thought more of what was happening, I took things the wrong way, I'm sorry."

"What are you talking about?" Helena frowned.

"Well, I just assumed we'd sort of hit it off and that we were friends but I realize it was probably just because what other option did you have than to get along with me while we were stuck in the cabin, so I misunderstood, sorry about that," Hunnigan elaborated and Helena paused for a long moment, seeming to process the words. Hunnigan hoped she didn't come across like she was here guilt-tripping Helena about it, she had meant her words as they were. She took a moment to assure Helena of that now.

"No, no, you've got it wrong, I wasn't... that's not how it was, I mean... yeah, but in reverse. I was kind of keeping my distance because I didn't want to make you uncomfortable by assuming..." Helena trailed off, and Hunnigan didn't believe she was being entirely honest, but she did sound genuine about the sentiment.

"A simple misunderstanding like this is the kind of a thing terribly written and annoyingly predictable comedies are based on," Helena then laughed a little and Hunnigan smiled.
"Speaking of comedy," she said and dug into her purse. "Merry Christmas," she said and handed Helena the book.

"You didn't need to get me anything! I didn't think to get anything for you!" Helena sighed.
"You already gave me the socks, remember?"

"Well, yeah, but that was different."
"Enough, we're not arguing over this, just take the gift," Hunnigan rolled her eyes, smiling.

"Fine, but I'm getting you a present later," Helena said.
"You got any plans for the holidays?" Hunnigan then changed the subject.

"I'm not really a Christmas-person. Does getting drunk, binge-eating junk food and overdosing on whatever's good on Netflix count?" Helena inquired as she put the gift down onto the coffee table, she'd open it later.

"It totally counts."
"I'm sorry, I guess you can tell I'm not used to having guests; do you want coffee or something?" Helena then realized to ask, and Hunnigan shook her head a little.

"I can't stay, Major's waiting for me to go pick him and Seeley up."

"You guys sure seem to spend a lot of time together despite being divorced," Helena pointed out with a smirk. Hunnigan wasn't sure what she was implying exactly, perhaps that she didn't believe the marriage was really over. Or perhaps she was jealous. She did kind of sound like she was trying hard to not sound jealous.

Why would she be jealous?

"Yeah, we're the best divorced couple ever, we get along so perfectly my mother even still invites him over for Thanksgiving and Christmas, completely disregarding how I might feel about that, presenting her act as something she does for Seeley's sake, but we all know she's trying to force Major and I back together even though it's obvious to everyone except to her that we don't even want to get back together," Hunnigan spoke, pausing to inhale deeply in the middle of her mini-rant, "...so, that will be fun," she added sarcastically.

"I know I shouldn't laugh, but... I'm feeling that emotion I can't remember the word for, you know, when you're glad something bad is happening to someone else," Helena chuckled.

"You mean sadism?" Hunnigan smirked.
"No, no, the German-sounding word. I can't remember, now it's gonna bother me."

"I know. Which is why I won't tell you what it is even though I know exactly the word you're looking for. And now I'm feeling it when I think of you agonizing over not remembering it," Hunnigan said sweetly.

"You do realize I can just Google it?"
"If I had time, I'd knock out your wi-fi."

"Now who's the sadist!" Helena gasped in exaggerated horror before they both laughed.
"The word you're looking for is 'schadenfreude'. Merry Christmas," Hunnigan then said and Helena wished her the same before pulling her into a tight hug.

"Thank you. For everything," Helena said quietly into Hunnigan's shoulder and tightened her grip on her.

Hunnigan didn't know what exactly Helena was thanking her for, but she didn't question it nor was she the first to pull back from the hug. She didn't know it at the time, but her not being the first to let go changed everything.