RE: Inclination
A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading, and sorry for the delay in this chapter's posting. There will probably be an edit to the previous chapter. (I was on DayQuil when I wrote it, and so there's a detail or two in the flashback that need tweaking.) Also, I'm changing the rating on this story.
May 2006
There was a convenience store nearby, situated at the edge of the docks. Last minute supplies for the avid boater. Thankfully they weren't paying for anything, from the prices on the shelves it was all terribly overpriced. They liberated a cart from the collection at the front of the store, and Claire pushed it into the darkness while Leon sighted up and down the aisles carefully, looking for anything that might try to jump out at them.
TriCell.
Really. TriCell.
The thought of it put a sour taste in the back of her mouth that couldn't be attributed to the faint nausea remaining from her injury, or the reaction to the stench that permeated the closed air on the island. The evening wind had taken care of most of that, and much like reacting to passing a garbage truck, the bile had easily subsided once she'd gotten used to it.
What was TriCell to Umbrella?
Claire's mind focused on that problem. It forced out other thoughts – wondering about how Leon was at piloting a craft like the yacht, wondering how much time they would lose navigating to the location on the map, if they had enough ammo – and left in their place a cold, efficient wonder that she had never felt before.
She wondered if this was how Leon felt about situations like this. She wondered if this was the sort of autopilot that got him through the tired parts of missions, or kept him going into the office when he could just disappear. She wondered if this was the reason he couldn't quit, the switch that flipped by itself, turning off the rest.
Outside the sun was starting to go down, and the front of the store faced perpendicular to the docks, which headed out to the west off the shore. There wasn't a ton of light to sight in, but she trusted that if anyone would be good at picking the damn things out in near darkness, Leon was that man.
It would have helped if either of them had thought to bring a flashlight. The storefront had been closed, glass intact. There had been a few smudged marks on the glass to suggest the walking dead, but they were all on the outside. Probably, if there were any inside, it would be like the convenience store from earlier that morning.
In the back of her mind, like a cadence, or the rhythm of her own heartbeat, TriCell repeated. The cold feeling spread, and she couldn't feel the throb of her wound, but she knew it wasn't shock. She'd been in shock before. This wasn't numb like shock was numb. She could feel her breathing, feel her pulse, she could feel her fingers and her toes and the brush of her lashes against her eyelids when she blinked.
No, this wasn't shock.
But they did need light.
After attempting to make out the aisle markings, Claire gave up and just started peering down the aisles. It was stupid, being in a store and wanting for supplies. When she found the right one, Claire turned the car down the aisle for home supplies. There had to be flashlights, right?
He followed, wordlessly, a quiet guardian at her side. It was a little unsettling, having Leon take up that post… even though she felt herself reverting to the armed survivor mentality, when he got quiet and professional…
What was it he'd joked at her?
She was moving up from hobbyist.
Tempted to snort, Claire held it in. If there were anything in the store, it would hear her, and if it heard her, it would come looking for the maker of the noise. Then she did snort. The cart was making enough noise to give away their location. One of the wheels squeaked a little when turned, and time was more important than a silent, cruising buggy. At least it wasn't covered in anything contaminated.
Trying not to think of quarantine after this… of the tents and the blood tests… Claire pulled the cart up short next to the flashlights. She fumbled with one in the dark of the store interior until finally she got it open, and then took some batteries from a nearby sideline display.
"Hey," she said softly.
Leon turned, slightly, and she tossed him the flashlight before moving to free a second one. She dumped some extra batteries into the cart as well. If they were tooling up for an underground excursion, she wanted more than just the items in her survival pack. The lighter would eventually run out of fuel, and the flashlight would be a brighter, steadier light.
Once that was done, she turned on her flashlight, looking up at the aisle signs, and began to navigate their way towards the water. The shotgun leaned upright in the basket, and Claire put the Glock in the smaller basket section designed for seating children. If anything came up in front of her, she'd get to the gun before it could lunge.
She hoped.
No, that she was pretty confident about. The cart could be used to check most of what would be stumbling around, and if not, she could dodge and…
Well, Leon was the best backup she'd ever had, aside from Chris. She didn't need to worry. When she needed it, he was there to help.
As they were moving down an inside aisle at the end of the long rows of shelves, there was a noise of shifting. It didn't start until Claire was halfway passed the aisle, but Leon, a few steps behind her, turned towards it. Claire paused, lifting the Glock and sliding the cart to a halt, and waited for the telltale noises… a shuffle, a hiss…
There were none of those. Frowning, Claire tucked the Glock into her belt and took up the shotgun before she took a few steps backwards towards the aisle.
The noise of rushing footsteps on the aged tile of the little store was what sounded in the darkness, and a rushing grunt. Then she heard Leon's shoes shift, squeaking a little against the flooring.
It was hard to make out, even with the flashlight. A small struggle was underway, the outcome of which seemed uncertain. Leon was, by far, the better fighter, but he was also tired and convalescing from previous injuries.
Shifting and angling the flashlight, Claire tried to get a good look at whoever or whatever Leon was wrestling with. Was this person infected? Had they already turned?
The two of them were wrestling one another against the shelves, scattering chips on the linoleum when Claire cocked the shotgun. It was hard to see properly, but she could see to make a shot. Whoever… no. In this case it was best to assume the negative. Corpses that came back were whats, she reminded herself, not whos. Whatever Leon was wrestling with was bald. That made it simple. Shoot the one with no hair.
The shotgun would be messy, her brain supplied, she should switch to something more precise. She didn't want to hit Leon… but, no, he'd get out of the way.
In the otherwise quiet store, the shotgun made a loud noise. It alerted the struggler. "What the hell!" the man screamed, close to Leon's ear.
The man's attention diverted, it gave Leon the opening he needed. He elbowed the man in the stomach and shoved, sending him into the opposing shelves hard enough to knock him onto his ass. Then he pointed his gun at the man's face.
"What the hell!" the man repeated.
"You make the most interesting friends, such large vocabularies," Claire said. She still felt cold, a part of her wondered if the man was infected or… if he was clean.
Clean.
Dirty.
When did people become like that?
Probably when she felt the angry fire burn her that made her want to know. Probably the same thing that wouldn't stop repeating the name of the corporation whose logo was on the keychain Leon had taken off the zombie.
"You're telling me," Leon replied, eyes glued to the man he'd just finished wrestling with. "Who are you?"
"Oscar," he snorted.
Leon seemed intent on the man before him. Now that the action was settled down, Claire inspected the rest of the aisle, scanning it with her flashlight. Leon's had fallen, and was casting light across the strewn bags of chips. There was a shift in the beam, and Claire turned her flashlight towards it, swinging the shotgun after it.
That was when she saw the two children huddling. They were crouched almost under the shelves.
In an instant whatever had been cold and focused was shattered.
She was nineteen again, and the situation was fresh. The two children were a single little girl abandoned by her parents. There was no one else to help the girl, and there was no one coming to save anyone. No BSAA, no police, nothing.
The name pulsing in her mind faded. The memory was too strong.
Edging around behind Leon, Claire approached them, kneeling beside the children that were cowering from the fight in the aisle, and planted the butt of the shotgun against the tile so she could extend an empty hand towards them. "It's ok," she said softly.
"Do you always try to take people's guns the hard way, Oscar?" Leon's voice was stern, distrustful and disapproving. She'd heard that tone before, usually when he was having to read someone the riot act about not second guessing his decisions because of his age. Well, more appropriately, when he was recounting doing that. The only time she'd had to hear him give that particular speech to someone else in person was in Harvardville.
The man made a face. "Are you always so nosy and stuck up? Who are you, anyway?"
"Leon S. Kennedy. That's Claire Redfield." Leon hesitated, and Claire could understand why.
They had been on their way to investigate the facility they suspected was ground zero for the outbreak… and now they had civilians to get to safety. Not just this Oscar. He was a survivor, but… two 'save-me's. Children were an exception to everything, at least they were to Claire and… she thought, to Leon as well. They changed everything, and it made Claire feel a little uncomfortable. She still wasn't sure how she felt about not thinking of herself as a survivor to be extracted. When had that changed? Was it just over the last day…? Harvardville? Orkney? Munich? Had it been after the Anti-Umbrella work or before? Did she even feel like a 'save-me!' survivor on their way out of Raccoon?
No, even then it hadn't felt quite like she needed rescue. She was too active, too involved in her own escape. And she'd had someone to protect.
Sherry…
Leon's conversation with 'Oscar' faded into the background as she thought of the young girl. How old would Sherry be? Studiously, she kept her eyes away from Leon. She'd never really asked him about her, and it was something she felt guilty about. But she knew that Leon wouldn't have just given Sherry away without doing his best to know that she was safe. She trusted Leon, and she knew that he felt the same way about certain things.
Why now? Why here?
A part of her longed to have that cold, efficient part of herself surge back and take over again. She wanted the steel in her veins, the detachment of focus. It would be better, wouldn't it? It would be easier than this. Than caring.
No… it wouldn't be. But it might work for a while.
Just not now.
"What are your names?" Claire asked the children before her gently, letting her mind block out Leon's conversation as she focused. Beside the boy, who had put himself in front of the young girl physically, the twin girl smiled a little.
"He's Nicholai. I'm Emily." Her voice was soft, Claire noted. The two children were smudged and dirty, probably bruised underneath all the dirt, but otherwise looked healthy.
Claire's eyes shifted to Oscar a moment. He didn't look like their parent. Maybe, like her and Sherry, he just couldn't leave them behind. No matter what, she couldn't do it either. "Well, would you two like to come along with us?"
Oscar was looking at the children like they had grown new heads, but Leon's glare silenced the look easily. "If you have a way off, I'm going," Oscar said.
"Good," Leon replied. "You can help carry the water."