I didn't mean for either one of these to get as long as they did, and I didn't mean for there to be a second part, but eh, what can I say. I like ol' Jackie boy. we don't really know what happened to him in the Remake after OJ - I highly doubt that Uncle Sam would've let him back in to STRATCOM if he'd wanted him dead (Krauser was mentioned in the report while Leon wasn't. that's where I get a little confused on his backstory, because why let Leon back in, but not Krauser?), which has to mean he went into hiding, and probably went under cover to kidnap Ashley. I also think he wouldn't've heard of the cult if he Had been allowed back into STRATCOM, which means his hiding place would have to be somewhere close to the village. I think Capcom missed a huge opportunity to have the government as the big bad that wanted the Las Plagas to infect their top ranks, in their own warped way of fighting back against Umbrella, which is why only the top elite Soldiers were picked for OJ - to see who would fit that bill (I'm not familiar with the story past 5 lol). but that's just me, and this is getting long as it is.
started: 8/9/2023
he's confused as to what the noise is at first, jumping seven feet out of his skin from the unexpected siren. his eyes snap around the room, hunting, reaching for the knife he always keeps on his person, not relaxing at all when he spots the source.
he doesn't really know why he'd stolen a burner phone. he'd gotten it on the fourth month, just for the hell of it. just in case, he'd reasoned, even though he doesn't have anyone to call (he doubts STRATCOM would've let Leon keep his after That mission, and everyone else he'd been somewhat close to are dead thanks to them). and it's not like anyone should know what his number is, since he's supposed to be, y'know. in hiding. having people know would be kind of counter productive to the whole thing.
he stares at the phone, stunned, as it continues to ring. if he's being honest, he'd forgotten all about it; it's the first time he's heard the tune since getting it, which is a shrill, annoying little thing. it's way too loud and far too happy for its own good. his head spins in somersaults of muted panic, all kinds of scenarios playing out in his minds eye, none of which end well for him. he forces himself to take a deep breath, and think of the more logical reasons behind the disturbance.
what if it's a wrong number? maybe it's a scam caller, or an accidental dial. ... wait, that falls into the wrong number category. maybe it's a company wanting to ask questions about deals and shit? no, that goes into the spam category. okay, maybe it's a prank caller; some kid who'd punched in a random stream of numbers and ended up ringing him. what'er the odds of that happening? seven billion people plus one guy. surely there's a chance, as slim as it is.
the phone stops ringing, so he stops scrambling for who it could be. the room sinks into an unbearable silence. he doesn't break eye contact from the phone. he's so full of anxiety that he doesn't feel the beginnings of pain starting to creep through his arm.
he gives the phone one long lasting scowl, then turns away, intent on making it to the bedroom. the second he finishes his pivot, it starts to ring again. he locks up, and shoots a much deeper scowl at it, hands bunching into fists, hoping that his glare alone would be enough to make the wretched device explode.
alright, so maybe this wrong number or scammer - whoever the hell it is - is really persistent. ... or maybe, it's someone trying to get an idea on where his position is. something about how a phones signal can be pinged from local radio towers to get a rough reading on its location. maybe them calling helps speed up the process. but it's a burner, he thinks wildly. I thought burners aren't supposed to be trackable? isn't that their whole deal?
silence, as the phone chirps its thirty second song, then stops.
and starts right back up again not ten seconds later.
he bares his teeth as he snatches it from the mantel, flipping it open hard enough to almost snap the top clean off. a bundle of numbers glow on the screen, a combination he doesn't recognise. he should destroy it; lob it out the window, shatter it on the floor, do something other than answer. the noise grates at his ears, and his arm is on fire, constant, uncomfortable tingles jolting up and down the bone of his forearm that he can't tune out or ignore anymore.
but for a weak, split second, he thinks that perhaps, just maybe, the number could belong to Leon.
it's a desperate thought, born from two years of complete isolation; a stupid hope that he knows isn't possible. but he's not as strong as he'd like to be, to fight against that one in a million chance. he's been lucky so far, right? escaping from South America, still having his heavily damaged arm be functional, staying off the grid for a good two years without anyone knocking at his door with a few questions? who's to say he hasn't run out of that sick, twisted luck? god, he hasn't spoken to anyone in so long. he's sick to the back teeth of moths eating away at his sanity, his resolve, his teetering will to live, what little strength he has left, bit by bit, day by day. had this been a few months earlier, he would've been more resilient, and he would have ignored the call, chucked it out, maybe replaced it, and moved to hide in one of the bunkers to see if anything happened.
but he can't do that. not now. not when the opportunity to talk to someone, anyone - be it a guy trying to sweet talk their way into stealing his credit card, or an old woman who thinks he's her son in law - is practically screaming in his face. hell, he'd talk to a god damn robot if it meant some form of contact from the other side that wasn't his own thoughts.
he presses accept on its fifth ring, and timidly puts the device to his ear. every nerve is primed and ready to pull his hand back and chuck it as hard as physically possible, but he stays put, almost crushing the phone in his shaky grip.
he's gotten so tired of running.
'Leon S. Kennedy told me everything,' a feminine voice from the flipside half whispers, rushed and professional and definitely some kind of government worker. the comment sparks a cocktail of ancient feelings all at once; suspicion, worry, elation, concern, Leon still thinks about me? 'and I don't have time to explain everything, but I need your help, because you're the only one who can do this.' he says nothing, can say nothing, as she clacks away at a keyboard and kicks a rolling chair around, all tinny and muffled as she works. 'Leon was abducted from his Unit three days ago, and they won't allow anyone to look in to it. they're declaring him lost - M.I.A.'
'who are you?' his voice is rough and choppy. it's the first time he's properly used it since 2002. he covers the claws of a cough with his fist.
'Ingrid Hunnigan, Leon's handler.' he's in too much of a daze to unpack that information. he bows his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to will his foggy brain to work. 'I have information that he was taken to Spain, somewhere rural, still alive-'
'how did you get this number?' he doesn't mean to interrupt, but it's all too much. too much information too fast. Leon is missing? and they're not sending anyone to search? how the fuck did he slip under the radar and get shipped from America to Spain? there's no way Leon would dip so suddenly; he'd been far too deep in blackmail for Uncle Sam to allow that to happen, at least, not so soon. it makes no sense. what would anyone want Leon for? if they'd wanted him dead, why not kill him after Javier, then and there? why wait all this time? why aren't they sending anyone from his fraction to investigate? how did she even know what burner to call? is this a trick? she has to be lying.
'Leon was very persistent that I find you.' Ingrid sounds like she's smiling, which continues to throw him off. 'he knew where you'd roughly be - put in a good enough word that I've been helping you, too. finding that report was lucky, Major. it was a good idea to make a copy.' if he wasn't as strong willed, he would have fainted by now. he's been thinking that a lot recently; two years out of action kicks you out of gear by a significant amount, his only fallbacks being anxiety and panic, with no real outlet for anything else. he's finding it hard to swim back into the groove of what he once was so drastically soon.
and all this time, someone back at STRATCOM, working under Uncle Sam's eyes, has known where he's been slumbering for the last two years - had known about the report, that he'd photo copied it, someone back there had known, he wasn't as good as he thought he'd been, god they've known this entire time - and because of some doe eyed, heart on his sleeve little rookie, she's been helping to keep his ass covered from everyone for god only knows how long. she probably knows his location. she probably knows about his bunkers. she doesn't even know him past the word of a rookies mouth. she could have gained something from his murder - money, fame, a rank increase, anything. she could have turned him in from the start, but she hadn't. she. she hasn't.
he'd always reckoned that he'd been kind of a huge asshole toward his Unit, with his brutal methods of training and the constant mocking, even if it had been in good fun. he'd figured that one day, his brashness would bite him hard in the ass (and he supposes that it kind of already had. he tries not to dwell on it). never in his wildest dreams would he think about Leon, talking nice of him so much that even a fucking STRATCOM handler would aid in hiding him from her own when they're actively searching for him.
'this- for the last two years? you've known-?'
'you're an easy person to hide.' is all she says. he sags against the wall with a breathless sigh. plucky little Leon, always looking out for him, even when they haven't been in contact for two long years. even when he has nothing to give in return. he must've had some kind of lasting impact on the rookie, because it's very rare for a bond like that to form off the battlefield between an ex-Major and a trainee.
Leon was always the best kind of trainee to take under your wing; polite, determined, always striving to do better; took no shit, even from a Major (even from him), could take orders relatively well, actually listened to what you said, was quick thinking and funny and cute and witty and a dumbass, and not a weak, good for nothing grunt like half of the boys Uncle Sam sent were.
looked out for you even after you'd lost everything. even after you were a huge asshole. even after you'd become worthless. even when you're weak, and lost, and running, and broken, and scared
no, okay, wait, focus. Leon, missing. three days. not sending anyone to search. lost cause, possible M.I.A, but Ingrid said he'd been taken from his Unit, with no mention of being on a mission when it'd happened. it all screams inside job to him. even after everything Leon's done for them, has had no choice but to do, and this is how they repay him. he supposes he shouldn't be surprised at this point.
they have so much power at their disposal; they'd wiped out a bunch of people as if they were nothing more than annoying bugs in one unhesitated sweep. tools to be thrown away once the deed was done. what's one more life to end?
but why take him all the way to Spain for an execution? that didn't seem right, not when Uncle Sam's never given a shit as to where a slaughter takes place (that's the impression he gets anyway, after Operation Javier. maybe things have changed since then). no, there must be something else at play. had it been one of their own that'd took him, or an outsider? how would an outsider get into a highly guarded military base and silently take someone without anyone taking notice? why? for what reason? he knows damn well that Leon wouldn't've gone quietly, so it had to have been done by someone he'd trusted. ... unless the entire Unit was in on it, too.
what if all of STRATCOM was a part of it? the thought terrifies him.
'where in Spain?'
'somewhere remote and secluded. I'll send you the exact location.' too dangerous to say out loud goes unsaid. he sighs, and shuffles his foot. it could still be a trick. a trap, set by Uncle Sam, to finally lure him out of his little web, to tie off that loose, two year old string. better to finish someone off when they're not in a public space, as to not draw attention. Ingrid could be calling his bluff, and using Leon as bait, but. he doesn't get that feeling with her. she seems too genuine in what she's saying for everything to be a lie.
'why should I trust you?' it's not a harsh demand, though he can't keep the wariness out of his unsteady tone. there's a short pause on the other end as Ingrid weighs her answer.
'you shouldn't.' is what she settles on. 'I'm not asking you for a grand return, Major. I just want to know where-' a sharp inhale. impatient, worried taps. 'the only thing I'm asking is for you to bring him back safely, or, bring him back at all. we don't have to be the best of friends.' he taps the phone in turn. the whole situation makes his head spin as he thinks her words over.
'... why are you trusting me with this?' he asks next, straightening himself against the wall. his arm bites with full force now that the panic has subsided, enough to make his brows pinch and his right hand lightly spasm. he hears a tinny little sigh, and realises just how much Leon means to her in that moment, that sigh holding more meaning than her words ever could.
he's glad that Operation Javier hadn't sapped Leon's charm and charisma away.
'if I could, I would've gone to look for him myself. as it stands, I don't trust anyone else here. you're the safest option.' you're the only option I have, and at this point, I'm desperate, muttered between the lines.
'you're putting yourself in danger by doing this.' you're putting me at risk, he doesn't say. I don't know if I can really trust you.
she hadn't known you and she'd still kept you safe, he reminds himself. if she'd wanted you to be found, she would have snitched a long time ago.
'yeah, well.' there's anger, now. he's all too familiar with anger being spoken at him that's meant for something else. 'they should've thought of that before they took him.'
they talk for a little longer before she ends the call. within the next minute, the phone bleeps, with a short paragraph of instructions under a completely different number - where in Spain Ingrid thinks Leon is, what their codenames are (he's Eagle One, Leon is Baby Hawk, and Ingrid is Nest. cute), what he's to expect when he gets there. she assures that she will continue to cover his tracks, and suggests he get a new burner phone the second he lands in Spain.
bring firepower, the text said. anything goes. wear civilian clothing. unsure of exact threat. better to be over prepared. have scheduled a plane ticket ready for you. stay safe.
his arm is killing him. his head swims with thoughts and feelings he hasn't experienced in two solid years. a lust slowly blooms in his chest, as he tests the quiver of his bow and cleans his TMP, sharpening his beloved knife, packing away ammo and grenades and painkillers. it hits him, four hours later, as he's boarding the plane on little sleep and rereading the coordinates, that this is his first actual mission since Operation Javier. unofficial, yes, but still a mission.
a mission to save Leon. a mission that has an unknown threat. a mission where he is alone, with no Unit, and his only help is on the end of a land-line. a mission where he can finally (maybe, possibly) make use of his bow.
he can't wait for that part. to run into enemies. he wants to swing his knife again - really, truly swing it. feel it carve through flesh and slice through armour. he doesn't realise how much he's missed the thrill of battle until he runs his fingers down the curve of his blade and thinks, this is what I was made for.
it's the big break he's been craving, wanting, needing. he just wishes it wasn't at the peril of that pretty boy rookie.
