A/N: While writing for the new chapter, I have decided to update my stories to the third person, meaning that any stories currently being written will all be switched. Yes, I know that I made a whole thing about changing Optio to first person, however, you grow, experience, and learn. I came to recognize the informality and the difference in my writing when writing in the first person. I find that it is also easier for me to experience writer's block, hence me writing less and less whether it's on this site or otherwise. So expect updates to Apicem Rapax and Sequela as far as the POV. Hopefully, it will result in more frequent updates as I have found myself writing more and wanting to write more.
Leave- Claire Redfield is trying to live a normal life with her boyfriend Timothy, but a new obsession with the strange neighbor next door threatens this life.
After three months of chasing a lead that led the organization straight to nowhere, Claire had had enough of TerraSave's goose hunts. Her job had become her life, beating out everything else in importance. School was something that was a distant memory, and she'd long since stopped feeling guilty for her failure to even achieve an Associate's. Bikes were there when they were available, not something actively sought out even during her off time; she was expected to use that time to come down, socialize and live life as though she didn't possess a military-level security clearance. During her off months, all she did was come home, sleep for a few days on and off, call up Chris, and try to get back into a short groove with Tim. As soon as she'd become a civilian again, she was going to be shipped back off.
As she waited for her cab to come to its inevitable stop she scanned the comments of a YouTube video while listening to the pondering of the panel of SNN. It was good to hear them talking about something other than politics, and luckily no one had related the fight against bioterrorism to their sitting president and his policies. She adjusted the earbud that attempted to dislodge itself, paying more attention than before when the name "Ozwell E. Spencer" was uttered. She slid her thumb in a downward motion against the glass screen, returning it to the panel of anchors and correspondents that were typically at each other's throats. She was only two minutes and thirty-three seconds into the video though, so who knows how long that would last.
"It has now been four years since the death of the Umbrella Incorporated founder." Terry Bayonne announced with what could consider an air of uncertainty. Many people had refused to speak his name for a while, even after the announcement of the official removal of his name from the international list of Most Wanted. He'd become like bin Laden almost. People still questioned his status.
Then there was his cult. Followers of Umbrella had begun popping up throughout the world in small numbers. There were sects of people devoting themselves to elevating themselves to godhood that their long-dead leader had never achieved himself. Right now they weren't high on BSAA's list of priorities and so Claire didn't worry too much if Chris wasn't, but every now and then her organization did feel odd compulsions to check in on them. Right now they seemed to be more heavily concentrated in Russia for some reason, and members were flocking there in droves for what some imagined was right now nothing more than a "circle-jerk fueled by delirium." Thanks to them though, Umbrella was still alive. As Claire saw her apartment complex coming up, she reminded herself that it was not her problem right now.
Her day had been spent unpacking, and reconfiguring the apartment based on her preferences. God knows that in three months, Tim had a field day, she thought as she slid the wood-grain coffee table back to the center. When she finished up she was ready to initiate her first, true step of leave: making contact with the one person that could determine her status in the company. She logged into her work portal, and checked her laptop's webcam, ensuring that her little, black strip of paranoia wasn't still obscuring it. You never know, she thought with a great assurance that her cautiousness was necessary. She clicked on the hyperlink that read: Sessions.
As soon as the tab opened the crisp voice of a young, English woman said, "Hello Claire. You have 1 scheduled session."
A box appeared, asking if she was ready. With a quick, "Duh!" she dragged her mouse over to confirm. Immediately she was met with the gray-bearded smile of Dr. Cyrus. Claire smiled back, sitting back in her chair a bit so that her face didn't take up the whole screen. While the brunette checked her little square to make sure that she was moving on his end, she greeted him. "Hi, Dr. Cyrus."
With the most professional, lecture voice one could imagine he responded, "Hello Claire, how are you today?" His gray hair was cut short, his cheeks were sunken in a way that you just knew that he was more than handsome in his younger years, and his thin nose added to that theory that at some point, Dr. Cyrus was a statue of a man. Claire was sure that the organization knew what they were doing by hiring him to be one of the first faces that operatives saw when they came back home.
"Umm…" she started hesitantly, and she held onto that word for a while, honestly unsure of how to answer. If she was someone returning to a family, she'd be happy, but Chris was partly on when she was off and Tim was working on becoming a prestigious lawyer that demanded accolades and big cases so she returned to an empty apartment that she only had because of her partner. She just didn't feel comfortable staying with a man half of the year and possibly coming home to be put out. "It's weird," she admitted with the slightest shaking of her head.
"You'll get acclimated." The counselor grinned. "What's the first thing you did when you got home?"
"Unpacked." It was a uniform response, very expected, and the only thing that was acceptable.
He nodded and smiled just enough that this time he exposed his slight smile lines and dimples through the healthy beard. "That's good." He looked down, reading what she'd come to figure were notes. "Have you had the chance to interact with anyone?"
"Only the taxi driver." God that sounded depressing, she groaned internally, biting her lower lip before reminding herself not to.
With a nod, he put on that you-know face, preparing for a miniature lecture so that one wouldn't realize that they were being lectured. But Claire knew. "You know…"
She almost rolled her eyes. It had become a script at this point, a fidelity that did no one any favors. For her good, she needed to break the cycle. The company could say that she was predictable, and possessing a detrimental attribute could lead to the whole project being declared compromised.
"…it's easier to come back down when you have people to… remind you to come back down." He spoke the statement in an odd tone; both of them knew that it was off-script.
Yeah right, she thought to herself. Claire knew that people asked questions. She knew that people saw internal anguish and tried to convince others that they can keep a secret, that they can lean on them. In her mind, that was how people died.
"You should try making friends Claire. Or get in touch with older friends that understand." For a moment he stopped speaking, looking down briefly. She knew what was coming.
She breathed in deep, forcing happy thoughts such as coming home to something substantial on leave. "Dr. Cyrus…" she paused, looking down at her hands that she'd just realized that she was nervously wringing.
He could sense that he'd touched on something that didn't need to be disturbed. "The only way out of the woods is through them."
"I'm out of the woods," she countered with more fire behind those words than intended. "What happened was a risk that I had to take. I still did my job." Her mood had switched from nervous and unsteady to defiant and challenging, her back now straight and her brow drawn inward.
He shook his head slowly as he said rather calmly, "A risk but not an expectation. No woman should ever expect that."
The world of bioterrorism was violent and risky. It wasn't filled with the typical scientists of cinema that were afraid of being within five feet of women. It was filled with vendors, buyers, and things that you'd see in any mob feature. Things happened to women in this world that happened in any other world, in any other war. Preferring not to speak of the subject did not mean that these things didn't have to happen. Claire knew that the good doctor was wrong; women should expect it. They should have expected it so that they could be prepared to prevent it if possible. She said none of this though because it wouldn't have looked good in my file.
"Have you been having nightmares?" he asked.
Which ones, she asked herself. Her false smile had long since faded, and so she refreshed it as she thought. He more than likely was referring to the incident as he seemed to shy away from questions that invoked the names of Raccoon City, Rockfort, or even the Antarctic. Those nightmares were gone for Claire… "It's been a few weeks," she estimated, the lack of determination of the exact time quite telling in regards to how she was handling the aftermath. So far, sleeping through the night was becoming normal again, but PTSD was a tricky thing. She dreamed about zombies and Alfred for seven months straight until they stopped for maybe six weeks. Then, seemingly out of the blue, she spent eight hours running from a rifle beam, trying to save Steve… she never did. Not even in her dreams.
These sessions made her remember what she'd hidden from herself for years. Now she was face-to-face with the mangled, bruised, distorted, and bloody body of a boy that had fallen in love with her across the span of two continents.
"Where are you, Claire?" His voice seemingly came through a haze, almost muffled in the beginning.
Her façade had faded unlike the memories of Steve Burnside. To make a speedy and seemingly relevant recovery she replied, "I was just thinking about a boy I used to know." With her fake smile, she shrugged. "That's all."
"Sometimes it's easier to revert to more innocent times." He sounded pleased that he could seem like he knew what he was talking about. "You can't stay in that fantasy Claire," he warned, adjusting himself in his chair.
Why not? She asked herself. In her fantasy, they plowed their way to the Australian base. They went so far away that Alexia couldn't reach them, they radioed for rescue and she had told Chris not to come. Alexia had become his problem and they flew back to the states with more damning testimonies of Umbrella that weren't dismissed this time. Steve finished high school while Chris and Claire watched Umbrella burn to the ground as they'd watched Raccoon City do. The Redfields felt the rejoicing of newly unburdened souls and vindicated families across the country. The lid was blown on all research on bio-weaponry, and the remaining STARS members, Chris included, were decorated for their efforts. Their records were cleared of the dirt and mud that had been slung on them at the behest of a now-folded –in her fantasy and reality- Umbrella.
Their pensions were reinstated and somehow supplemented for immediate commencement of disbursements. Then, the youngest Redfield could go back to General Studies, wear too-short shorts that Chris disapproved of, and fix up choppers in hopes of one day getting it right. She'd request no hush money, no rewards, but rather a simple promise of a normal life. Throughout this fantasy, she did not mention a particular name despite it lingering somewhere in her mind. He was the one person that could tear her fantasy apart. Without his persistence, and his misguided ambition, her story could truly have a happy ending. The ending in which Claire didn't get raped.
Despite all of that, the millionth time of her reliving that fantasy, in the end, it always came shattering down around her like broken glass. Its jagged shards managed to land all around her, cutting her out of that joyous world she'd invented, and she'd fall back into that pit of reality. "I just see his eyes." she had just burst Dr. Cyrus's bubble.
The noise had become unbearable, barring Claire from getting any sleep whilst Tim snored next to her. With a huff, she threw the sheets back, not bothering to redress her oblivious partner. As she headed for her bathroom a distinct sound caught her ear and eventually her legs as she stopped dead in her tracks. There it was again. It sounded like furniture sliding across a wooden floor. She looked back at Tim one more time, resenting his normal life in which he could sleep through the bumps in the night.
With an exaggerated caution that the everyday man had the luxury of not exhibiting, she crept into the darkness of her hallway, unable to see anything in the living room. The blackout curtains served two purposes: helping to trick her brain into sleeping and giving her an advantage over intruders. On nights like tonight though, even a sliver of moonlight would have been appreciated. Though she told herself it was nothing and deep down she knew that being on leave had greatly lowered risks in her life, for some reason, this disturbed her. No one had inhabited the apartment next door since the elderly tenant, Thelma Johnson had died years ago. So why was she hearing noises coming from next door at 2:16 AM in the middle of the month?
Taking in a deep breath, she stepped into the hallway, muscles tense as she attempted to convince herself to come back down. "Claire, you're a civilian," she whispered to herself. Not a plank creaked beneath her weight as she blindly entered the front room of her apartment, feeling no presence other than her own. She felt for the light switch on the wall, uselessly checking back into the darkness of the hallway to make sure that Tim had not awoken; he would attempt to deter her with reassurances that would do nothing for Claire but make her shake her head at his naivete. These thoughts instilled determination in her, putting the force behind her finger to flick on the light switch, illuminating the living room. As she heard more furniture being moved, she crossed the room slowly, squeezing between the couch and lamp against the wall. Placing her ear to the wall, Claire steadied herself, staring down at her bare feet that had sunken into the plush, beige carpet, waiting for another sign of life on the other side.
After a minute of waiting she was chalking it up to her being out of her mind right now. Claire readied herself to push her body away from the wall, and then she heard it again. Eyes wide, she finally pushed back, taking a few steps away. That unfounded caution still present, she went to the kitchen, slowing down when she realized what she was about to do. I'm on leave, she reminded herself. That thought kept her from rushing out the door, coat rack in hand. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Claire grabbed the doorknob, colder than it would've been to the touch had her palms not been sweaty. With her other hand, she went down the row of locks, counting them along the way. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.
Claire turned her wrist, pushing the door out. After a moment of waiting, she peeked outside, and looked down the hall to the right, seeing no one come up from the elevator. Then, she heard keys jingling to the left, her view blocked by my door. Barefoot and clad in only some pajama shorts and a tank, Claire stepped onto the wooden floor of the hallway, keeping half of her body hidden by the heavy, wooden door. Then she saw it, briefly, but surely. A man in a wheelchair was being pushed through the next doorway. Clad in black, all of him was covered head to toe. The hoodie hid his face and hair, but before he was pushed inside she saw ghostly white hands, slightly marred by what appeared to be burns, gripping the arms of the chair. Before she could disappear, ashamed by the potential implications of her curiosity that was only due to a past that most knew nothing of, the man that was pushing the new tenant's head shot in her direction. Eyes black as coal attempted to shock her into place, but Claire was able to slide back into her apartment. Shaken, she shut the door so hard that she had feared that the sound echoed down the hallway, possibly waking the tenants in the other two apartments, Tim included. With an inexplicable sweat dampening the back of her neck and armpits, she quickly turned the other locks, securing the entry. Before she saw those eyes, her fear was unwarranted, but now she felt that she would become a target of sorts. Claire could only imagine how red he had become with anger at her prying, his bald head probably the same shade.
Great job, Claire, she thought, shaking her head at her own mistake. She heard movement coming from the bedroom and prepared to lie, -as usual- to the man that she thought she could live with lying to.
Day 2
She'd seen Tim off, assuring him that she'd be fine with him working so much when she had just gotten back. Companionship, the human need for it was honestly the only reason that she was with him. No matter how long she was gone, he was always there, waiting. Here he'd remain; he worked incredibly long hours, perfecting his ability to competently fulfill his duties as a corporate lawyer. Though barely above the bottom rung, he worked as though he was already at the top and he studied to aim higher than that. Their pairing was perfect in that their jobs were first above all. Despite the depressing purpose of their relationship, she was grateful that she had someone to lie down with some nights, someone to hold her. So she didn't feel bad for lying to him or holding back on what she was truly feeling.
All she felt at this moment was the leftover embarrassment from last night, so she decided to offer an apology and welcome the new neighbor. Though she felt like hell from the long day of unpacking, she knew that the best strategy after last night's incident would be to come off as normal and as approachable as possible. Lucky for her, it was fall, and the look that said, "Normal, American woman," was a pair of Uggs, leggings, an oversized shirt, and a sweeping cardigan. Dr. Cyrus suggested breaking from any on-duty trends to get back into the feel of normal life. A messy bun was now considered okay to wear about so she threw her mess of un-straightened hair up, high on top of my crown, unsecuring a few strands to subtly frame her face. With a huff, she decided that she was ready.
When she heard her door close behind her, Claire wasn't entirely sure that she wanted to do this: the right thing. Still, she had decided to go forward. She inwardly panicked as she didn't remember telling her feet to move. A lump had suddenly developed in her throat as she faced the door, and she was somehow at the ready to knock. She was now on auto-pilot. Before she could swallow down the anxiety in her throat, she gave the cop knock that she kicked herself for forgetting to leave at the airport. Suddenly, her mind was in a swirl that made her physically ill, so ill that her armpits began to sweat and for some reason itch. Just as she'd resolved to make this a game of ding-dong ditch, she heard a set of heavy footsteps. Then as the door creaked open, she stepped back, allowing space. This wasn't just a door, it was going to wind up being a portal to some unnecessary business. She just knew it.
Standing incredibly tall at about 6'5, the slender, bald man from last night with those coal, black eyes presented himself to her. He looked irate and he'd only just opened the door.
Putting her failed past as a pageant girl to work, Claire pasted on her best smile. Their initial encounter was not for a welcome, and depending on how this went he more than likely still wouldn't get one. "Hi," she said quickly, immediately realizing that it wasn't enough. "I'm Claire Redfield, I live next door."
He stood there, silently appearing to ask what that should mean to him.
"So, I just wanted to apologize for last night." She fidgeted a bit, both nervous and anxious as she would've preferred that he do the "normal" thing and tell her why he was here. She fought the urge to peek into the doorway, knowing that though being nosy was her job, it was rude in civilian life. "I'm on leave from work and I just haven't readjusted-"
"Are you military?" he interjected, his expression being one of genuine interest.
Claire shook her head no, swallowing a lump that came from the sad reminder that she really had no one outside of the organization to talk to about it. Some of its operations were in fact military, but she couldn't tell him that. She couldn't even tell Tim that.
Looking regretful for her, despite not possibly being able to know her situation, he nodded. "I met who I believe to be your boyfriend this morning. Tim?"
Arms crossed over her chest, Claire gave a small smile and a nod. "That would be him." She grew angry at this. She questioned if Tim had come over here? For what? What did they talk about? Claire, stop, she chided herself and took a deep breath; she was on leave. Tim was her boyfriend and he wasn't trying to double-cross her.
"It's no trouble," the giant assured her, a tiny smile present meant to comfort her. "I'm Walter." He extended a hand far larger than her own, which she forced herself to take without hesitation. They shook twice and both of their smiles widened. When he released his grip, he seemed to relax, taking a step back and more than likely failed to notice that he'd created the slightest view into the apartment.
Ever curious, the woman tried to remain polite, not to pry. The sound of an argument on SNN floated towards her, but she still didn't look. "So, how are you settling in so far?"
"Quite smoothly." The door had opened another bit, but she kept it together. "I guess I should ask the same of you?"
"It's been okay. Day 2 and all." Lying about normalcy had become a specialty. It was a habit that her words could so seamlessly betray her thoughts.
Innocently, he asked, "What is it that you do?" Or was it innocent?
That internal question told Claire that it was okay for her to take a tiny peek. From such a quick glance through, she only saw the shadow of a recliner. Masking her inquisitiveness, Claire responded apologetically almost, "I can't talk about my work."
He gave a nod of understanding. Behind Walter, she heard a cough. Not a normal, small, throat-clearing cough either, but a cough associated with a malady. This took his attention away from her.
This time, she could make out a figure in a dark hoodie. When she realized that Walter would probably prefer to return to the conversation, she put her smile back on just in time for him to look back at his unexpected visitor. "So what do you do, Walter?"
With a mischievous smirk, he echoed her response from just a minute ago. "I can't talk about my work."
At first, Claire giggled, unsure if he was serious or just being a wise guy. Then nothing came. Maybe it was a test, she wondered. She felt the smile falling from her face as the plausibility of a scenario played in her head. It was a cruel scenario that there'd been whispers of while on duty but why would this happen to Claire? Had she not proven that she wasn't insane? Okay, Claire… stabilize, she thought, before asking herself I'm not really on leave… am I? She attempted to shake that from her head for now. "Look, I'm sorry for last night. No one's been over here in years so…"
He cleared his throat. "No, I apologize; it was quite a ruckus- our moving in."
Stuck on the word "our," she then asked, "Oh, is it you and your wife?" Much less intrusive of an assumption.
Just as he opened his mouth to respond, there came the sound of coughing again, but this time it was not stopping. It was the kind of a struggle to breathe, the kind that made your head ache and made you feel like you'd never catch your breath. That cough caught and captured Walter's attention once again, giving Claire time and the opportunity to lean to the right so that she could see a bit more. Moving boxes lined the walls of an otherwise bare living room, save for a lamp in the corner… and that chair. As she peered further inside she noticed that the mysterious person in the chair was the person who was hacking their lungs up, but they were fighting to stay upright. Then she could see it, a blackened hand tightly gripping the arm of the chair.
It was burned. Burn marks that looked eerily fresh marred a pale hand, giving it an unsettling contrast that made it hard to look away from it. Before she knew it Claire felt my body drifting forward, drawn to find out what was going on in the apartment next door to her.
"I'm sorry!" the tall man said, bringing the would-be intruder back to the hallway. "It was nice meeting you, Claire!" With no time to stammer a few words back, the door was slammed in her face.
The barrier did not stop her from hearing footsteps, shuffling, more coughing, and a gruff voice shouting, "Just get the medicine!" Then silence. This moment felt oddly surreal and familiarly suspect. This could only lead the younger Redfield to one conclusion that she'd tried with the sum of one's might to stay away from, but there was only one explanation that could exist, that she would have preferred to exist over any other.
With a scoff into the air, Claire thought defiantly, Okay, then Cyrus… game on.