I was trying so hard for a Thursday update but it somehow turned into Friday anyway. But it's way early this time! Please accept this slightly angsty chapter as my offering for the week.


Chapter 8 - The Professional Leaves a Calling Card

Leon is halfway through his soup and sandwich when the first rumbles sound in the distance. Peering through the window, he stares past the rain-streaked glass at the night sky beyond and the flocculent blackness looming over the coast. Only the faintest highlight of silver betrays the presence of a moon behind the roiling storm clouds. Outside the hospital, streetlights shudder in the violent winds, their amber glow pooled amorphously on slick roads that seem more water than asphalt. A jagged flash illuminates the horizon for a split second, and a short while later its accompanying thunder reaches his ears. It's a terrible time to be outdoors. His thoughts turn to Ada and he frowns, wondering where she is at the moment, hoping she's managed to take shelter from this calamitous weather.

Across the cafeteria table, the girl has lowered her fork, and is watching the downpour with a look of distress he can't quite place. "You okay?" he asks, reaching for her hand. She's trembling, her knuckles stark white against her already pale skin. Surely she's too old to be scared of thunderstorms still?

She turns to him with dolorous eyes—eyes he has seen once before, on the subject of her late mother—and swallows her trepidation just enough to speak. "I don't like storms," she whispers. "Bad things happen in them."

Thinking back to the Henriksens' files, Leon recalls with a sympathetic wince that she'd lost her dad on a wet, blustery night much like this one.

"It's gonna be alright," he reassures her. "I won't let anything happen to you."

She blinks, not entirely convinced. He, at a loss for how to console her, awkwardly drops his gaze. His eyes land on the book beside her. It's the same one he's seen her with since earlier that afternoon. "What're you reading?" Perhaps some conversation will help take her mind off her misery.

She turns the cover around to face him: Matilda, by Roald Dahl. "It's my favorite book," she mumbles, a tinge of pink returning to her pallid face.

"I haven't seen any books like that around here. Did you bring it from home?"

"Yeah. I was going to read it on the bus."

Looking at the front illustration, Leon can barely suppress his amused smirk. There's a certain Quentin Blake-ness about the little girl sitting before him, with her raggedy clothes and wild near-black hair; her scruffy appearance matches the iconic artist's loose, scrawly style to an extent that he could almost envision her as a real-life rendition of the titular character. "What's it about?" he prompts. He knows the story already, having heard it sometime in his own childhood, but getting her talking does seem to be improving her mood.

She recounts for him the tale of Matilda Wormwood, a girl of extraordinary intelligence whose talents are ignored by her family. The vehemence with which Tilda describes the Wormwood parents' neglect leads him to think she sees more in common with the book character than simply the name they share. He doesn't miss the longing in her voice when she brings up book-Matilda's kindly teacher, either. "Which part do you like the most?" he asks her once she concludes her summary.

"When she takes revenge on Miss Trunchbull," she responds, referring to the climax of the story. "But… I also think about the ending a lot." This she confesses a little shyly, as though revealing a great personal secret.

The ending, in which Matilda separates from her abusive family and is taken in by her teacher. Of course she'd be drawn to that narrative.

There's spaghetti sauce on her chin. Mumbling a quick word of notice, he picks up a napkin, and she lets him wipe her clean. When their eyes meet fleetingly, it once again impresses upon him just how much she's taken after her mother.

"Can I ask you about your family, Tilda?" he inquires, quietly appreciating the familiar warm brown of her irises, the curve of her cheeks, all the tiny ways her face projects Ada. But innate in her features is a soft expressivity, an openness to sentiment that he rarely gets to see in the emotionally restrained woman who begat her, and it is that which he finds most endearing of all.

"I guess," says Tilda, prodding noncommittally at her food.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to," he adds hastily, but she shrugs and bids him to continue.

"You can't tell anybody, though," she stipulates.

"I'll keep it between us," Leon affirms. "Does your stepfather treat you like the dad in the book?"

She's reluctant to reply at first, but after another assurance from him, mutters, "He's not… nasty like Mr. Wormwood. I mean he's never called me stupid or anything like that. But I know he doesn't want me around. He's always doing sports with my stepbrothers and making crafts in the garage with them, but he never lets me join or even just watch. He says it's not for girls. He used to put up with me because of Mom, but now…" A roar of thunder makes her flinch. "I think it's because I'm not related to them. Charlie treats me like I'm a stranger living in his house. I wasn't related to Mom and Pappa either, but that never mattered to them. I wish they were still here."

"Oh… I'm so sorry, Tilda." He offers her a clean napkin, with which she dries her eyes. "Have you always known you were adopted?"

She sniffles one last time and nods. "They told me. I guess it's kind of hard to hide it when you don't look anything like your parents."

"Right…" The photos in Tor and Janet's medical records should've tipped him off. "What about your birth parents? Do you know anything about them?"

"Not much." She purses her lip pensively. "My mom said she met my birth mother once, before I was born. She said it was her who gave me my name."

Leon nearly chokes on his soup. "I-is that so?" he splutters, grasping his water glass to wash down the burning in his throat.

"Mhm," Tilda murmurs, somehow—thankfully—oblivious to his reaction. "I wish I can meet her too, someday."

"I hope you'll get a chance to," says Leon earnestly. She responds with a bashful smile.

He swallows, his throat dry again despite the water he's just swigged. His pulse quickens as he follows up with, "What about your father?"

She thinks for a long time before speaking. "I don't know. Mom never said anything about him. Maybe my birth mother didn't tell her either."

Leon knew it was too much to hope for to begin with, but he still feels a pang of disappointment at this.

"Do you have a family, Leon?"

"No," he replies. "I live alone."

"Oh." She seems unsatisfied with his answer.

"I'm busy with my work a lot of the time," he explains. "It's a tough job, as I'm sure you saw earlier. But someone's gotta do it."

"You did save me at the canning place," Tilda acknowledges. "You and that other lady. You're like superheroes!"

Leon's face heats slightly at her compliment. "Other lady? You mean Sherry?"

She shakes her head. "Not Sherry. There was one before you came. I heard her calling to me. She told me to follow her. And then she disappeared right around when you found me."

He leans in. "What did she look like?"

"I didn't see her," she says forlornly. "It was too dark. Plus, she was always too far away. I kept running after her voice but I never saw anyone. I think she didn't want me to see her."

So he didn't hallucinate that figure in the window after all. Thanks to his and Tilda's… explosive escape through the emergency exit, he'd already suspected Ada's involvement at the cannery, and this new knowledge now just confirms it.

"Does she work with you guys too?" Tilda asks.

He regards her inquisitive stare wordlessly, torn on how to proceed. As much as he wants her to know the truth, some part of him insists he must keep her as far detached as possible from that treacherous world of bioweapons in which Ada's so deeply entrenched. How would the girl react to the revelation that she'd come so close to the mother she's always wanted to know? Would it devastate her? Would he spark in her a deadly compulsion to try and go after Ada—and have her end up in danger when her endeavors inevitably catch the attention of the wrong people?

"I don't know," he says carefully, "but whoever she was, it sounds like she was leading you out of harm's way. Maybe you have a guardian angel."

His phone pings with a new message, and he promptly checks it, anticipating an update on the case. To his surprise, it isn't from Hunnigan, nor is it even about work. The text was sent by the last person he'd expected to hear from today.

So I just got to the B.O.W. crisis zone in Maine, and word is there's a certain DSO agent on site?

A grin splits his face. Claire Redfield is easily one of Leon's favorite things about TerraSave, and a deeply valued friend outside of it. As a top administrator within the organization, she's rarely in the field these days, but luck, it seems, has coincided their schedules on one of her happy exceptions. Under Tilda's curious gaze, he quickly thumbs his answer to Claire's query.

Just that doofus Kennedy again, as usual.

"It's my friend," he tells her. "I just found out she's in the area. She's an aid worker."

"Your girlfriend?" Tilda asks, to which he denies her presumption with a titter. It isn't the first time he's had to fend off such misunderstandings about him and Claire, but the awkwardness of it all never goes away. The fact that it's her of all people asking him is just the cherry on top.

Claire messages back, but he doesn't get to read it before a call comes in. This time it is Hunnigan. "Sorry, I have to take this," he mumbles to Tilda, standing up and hurrying out of her earshot before he picks up.

"Leon, glad to see you're still kicking," says Hunnigan. "We may have a lead on that ship. Take a look at these." A series of grainy pictures pop up on his screen. "You were right about the time and location. We traced the ocean currents and came across this vessel a few hundred miles off the coast. The first image was captured at around 4pm on Monday, March 9th. Twenty-four hours later…"

"It's gone," Leon observes, squinting at last image, where only a dark blue shadow remains where the ship used to be. "Sunken?"

"Precisely. We're following its course in the days leading up to the incident to try and determine what caused it. We've also observed multiple smaller vessels approaching it, possibly exchanging supplies—we should be able to trace their names and affiliations to figure out who we're dealing with here. In the meantime, we've received some new intel on the B.O.W.s. I'm coordinating with the BSAA to pick you up from your current location. Can you be ready in half an hour?"

"…What?"

"There's combined information from both our lab and the BSAA's investigative division. It'd be a lot easier to gather everyone in the same place to disclose it all. They could use an extra hand over there too; from what I understand, things are getting pretty chaotic at their base."

Leon's heart sinks. "Guess there's no reason for me not to head over," he grumbles, glancing back toward his table at one very good reason to stay.

"Sorry, Leon. I'll put in a good word for you about getting some extra time off when this is over."

"Careful what you say. I might hold you to it," he teases. "Main entrance in half an hour?"

"That's the plan," she confirms.

"Alright. I'll be there."

Hanging up, Leon lets his dejection wash over him with a groan. Of course it'd be just his luck to get called away now. He looks over at Tilda, clumsily forking at her last scraps of spaghetti. Work has to come first; the lives and livelihoods of countless civilians may be at stake. And yet, he is so loath to abandon her… How will she cope all by herself?

Someone has to look after her.

He dials Claire's number, updating himself on her latest text beforehand. "Hey, Claire," he greets when she answers. "It's been a while. What're you up to over here? Office work getting you down?"

"Ugh, you have no idea," Claire sighs. "It's so good to take a break and work with… people for once. Regular, everyday people."

"That's a yes to dinner with you and Sherry, by the way. Sorry I couldn't reply right away. Work call."

"Busy as ever, I see," Claire chuckles. "Oh, that's right, I was talking with Sherry just a while ago. She told me what happened—"

Uh oh.

"—Is your shoulder okay?"

"Huh? Oh… yeah," he stammers, relieved she's not grilling him about his supposed illegitimate child—Sherry's discretion regarding his personal matters hasn't always been airtight, especially around Claire. "I'm fine, thanks. If it wasn't for the sling, I'd hardly notice it's injured at all."

"Don't overdo it. You're not exactly a spring chicken anymore, now are you?" She giggles when he replies with an indignant snort. "Anyway, I'm sure you didn't go through the trouble of calling me just to reply to my text. What's up?"

"Well…" He clears his throat. Broaching this topic was so much easier in his head. "I'm at the hospital with a survivor. A little girl. Her family's already evacuated to Bangor, so she's just by herself with a few other survivors—"

"They left her behind?" Claire cuts in. Her tone sends chills up his spine; someone's about to be in for a bad time.

"She was on a school trip and got separated," he explains quickly. "I was thinking to watch her tonight and reunite her with her family in the morning. Thing is, I've just been called away on some work stuff, so I can't hang around anymore, but I… I'm kind of worried for her. Do you think you could check in on her tomorrow, once everything gets moving again? Make sure she gets where she needs to go?"

"Of course," Claire agrees immediately. "I'll take care of her personally."

He gives her Tilda's name and a physical description. "Actually… would you mind keeping an eye on her a little longer while you're here? I think—" He pauses for a long moment, then continues in a hushed voice, "I'm not sure she should stay with that family anymore."

Claire, too, takes some time before she responds. "Gotcha. Don't worry, Leon, I've handled plenty of situations like hers before. I'll make sure she ends up in good hands."

"Thanks, Claire. I owe you one." With that out of the way, he can rest assured knowing she'd exercise every power at her disposal to place Tilda in a better home. "What?" he adds when he hears a nosy hum on the other end.

"You don't usually get this involved with survivors, Leon. Is there something I should know?"

Leon cringes. He should've seen this coming. "She's…the relative of someone I know," he fibs. Technically, not entirely a lie.

"I see. Well, I'm sure they'll appreciate you looking out for her," she returns, a prying note still in her voice. "I'll let you know how things go. In the meantime, take care, Leon. Don't be a stranger."

He laughs ruefully, flashing on a time he'd been an utter heel and done just that. She was truly a saint for continuing their friendship after that mishap. "I know. Hope to see you soon."

When he returns to the table, Tilda is watching him fretfully, having intuited that something isn't quite right. He resumes his seat and picks up the remainder of his sandwich, but then lowers it again; the guilt gnawing at his insides have driven away his appetite.

"I have to go," he informs her. "The BSAA wants me to help them at the rec center."

"Oh," she utters simply. Then, "Will you be back again?"

"I don't know. I'll probably be there until tomorrow at least. You might be on your way out of town by then."

The way her face crumples in dismay is heart-wrenching.

"Can't I come with you?" she pleads.

He shakes his head. "I have to work, so you wouldn't be able to stay with me. I'm sorry."

She makes a crestfallen noise in the back of her throat.

"I… I spoke with that friend of mine," he adds, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. "Her name's Claire. She should be in tomorrow once the weather lets up. I asked her to help you find your stepdad, but she can help you if you need anything else too. Here."

He retrieves a pen and a notepad from his jacket. "This is her number, in case you two have trouble finding each other," he tells her, scribbling down Claire's info.

He hesitates, then adds another contact beneath that.

"And this is my number. If you ever need someone to talk to, about anything at all—school, friends, family—heck, if you set the whole school on fire on prom night, or your dead cat comes back to life after you bury it—call me. I'd be happy to chat any time."

Her eyes brighten. "R-really?"

"Well… try not to wake me up at three in the morning or something. But yes, really." He tears out the sheet and holds it out to her. "Read this out to me, make sure you can make out my handwriting."

She does as he instructs before plucking the paper from him. "Um… Leon?"

"Yes?"

"Please… be careful."

Seeing her worry-lined face, with the storm heaving at the window and the subtext of Tor Erik Henriksen's final moments hovering between them, Leon only feels even greater remorse at having to part with her.

"I will," he vows. "Come on, I'll walk you back to Fred before I go."

Has he made the right choice in withholding his knowledge of her parentage? As nonchalant as he tried to sound during his phone call with Claire, he couldn't help imagining some hypothetical future where those "good hands" Claire mentioned belonged to him. Then reality set in, and the fantasy that had ignited him for an instant fizzled out just as fast. What kind of home could he possibly provide for Tilda? Children need nurturing and stability, not… whatever biohazardous circus has defined practically his entire adult life. Once Claire can extricate her from her stepdad, she'll be better off in a house in some suburb, with a couple who can spoil her with more love and attention than he with his merry-go-round of missions and self-destructive benders could ever hope to afford. If he were to divulge everything to her now, appeal to her desire for a blood relation, he'd only be holding her back from a potential life of warmth, and comfort, and security. A happy life.

A normal life.

She grips his hand tightly on their return journey, as though afraid of letting go. He keeps her slightly behind him, not letting her notice that the hand nestled in his sling is clenched and deathly pale. She doesn't need to know that he is afraid, too.


Man, Infinite Darkness kind of broke my brain for a while after I watched it. I think I'm finally getting past it though. It's why I didn't manage to write Claire a role in this fic until now.