Chapter Text
It’s a dreary and boring Tuesday morning. You’re sitting in your office, listening to the rain tap rhythmically against the window, googling conspiracy theories. Honestly, you’re grasping at straws— anything to connect to the case.
Journalism— specifically when it comes to bioterrorism, is hard. Despite the fact that an entire city was destroyed in America, England has been relatively unaffected, and so is indifferent. Most of your articles have been written off as conspiracy or ignored outright by the general public— you figure the idea is too frightening for the average person to acknowledge. Easier to ignore until it’s kicking you in the face. You get it.
However, juxtaposed to the public's indifference, are the government actions. In London, close to the airport, a major BSAA hub has recently been established.Try as you might, you cannot break its seal. They’re locked down tight, and as far as your probing, you’ve never been able to find a leak. Observation, is the narrative that comes up again and again. Defence, if it comes to it.You could believe it, but something is off. There’s too many agents. Too much traffic.
More than that, you’re pretty sure that your articles are being suppressed— or at least, they have been in the past. One of them, which studied the necessity— or lack thereof, in bombing Raccoon City, including interviews from two survivors, was subsequently wiped from the internet after taking off in The New York Times. No one, even your boss, could offer an explanation. So be it. You’ll keep digging.
Which leads you to your current case in Burgundy, France. A small village; Montclair. It means clear mountain in English. A wealthy aristocrat moves there, and suddenly the village is plagued by disappearances, strange animal sightings, power outages, and, well, you suspect the literal plague— at least, a version of it. You aren’t sure.
You’re still mulling this over when the door slings open. Your boss— a meek, kind man, with mousy brown hair and green eyes, uncharacteristically barges in.
“What happened to knocking?” You say, exiting from the tabs you had open.
“No time to knock on company time,” he says, and plops into the seat in front of your desk.
You smile, fold your arms and wait for him to speak. He is one of the only people in the world you trust— he’s well meaning, and uncompromised by wealthy influences who wish for the company to push certain narratives. He has never forced you to say things you do not mean, nor investigate things you did not wish to. He’s let you sit on this dead-end case for a while now, without complaining. What more could a journalist ask for?
There has been one source of conflict, however; for over a year, you have been begging to go to Montclair, do some on-the-ground work. Each time, he has outright refused. Too dangerous, he said. Logistical nightmare. It’s been a source of endless frustration. You know something is going on there. You’re sure you could dig it up, if they would just let you go—
“…I have some good news,” he starts, and thumps a huge stack of papers onto your desk. On top, in bold letters, Montclair.
You do not let yourself get your hopes up. Picking it up, you run your finger along the corner, flicking through some of the pages. A familiar name; Arno Delacroix, catches your eye. The aristocrat. This is a compilation of all of the research you have submitted thus far.
You stare at it for a few seconds, before cautiously lifting your eyes. “…What’s going on?”
“A trip to Montclair. If you’re still interested.” He says, and despite the good news, his shoulders sag, green eyes flitting between yours, searching.
“Of course I am.” You say immediately. “But what’s the catch?”
“…The DSO has contacted me, they want to send you and one of their—“
“The DSO?!” You stand, now. “The American counter bioterrorism agency? They’re getting involved?”
“Not fully.” He shakes his head. “Looks like it’s just on their radar. They want to do some digging. At least, that’s what they’ve told me. Anyway, they want to send you down there. On the condition that one of their agents tags along.“
“…To spy?”
“On the surface, security detail for you.” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose tiredly.“…But yes, essentially, to spy. The villagers— or anyone you interview, for that matter…they might be open to a journalist, but they wouldn’t tolerate a DSO agent poking around. It also avoids diplomatic issues. It’s a win for everyone, apparently.”
You cannot help the way your stomach drops. Foolishly, for a second, you had thought that finally, finally, there had been a breakthrough. That you were being listened to. Taken seriously. You could figure out what’s happening in Montclair and bring it to the public. But the DSO— they are proposing you be used as a prop, essentially. A shield so that the real work may be done in secrecy. They will take the findings for themselves and classify it, you suspect. How disappointing.
Still, you could go. And god, have you been desperate to. You could record things, keep things. The agent will not have eyes in the back of his head. You could still make use of this.
“…Why don’t they just use any old journalist? Why me?”
“You’ve been publicly researching bioterrorism— and this village, for years. If anyone challenges the authenticity of it, or runs a background check on you, they’ll find that you’re an independent journalist. Not connected to the DSO. That’s my guess.”
“…They’ve thought of everything, huh?” You say, running your hand through your hair.
He shrugs. “I’d expect so.”
There's silence, then. You tap your finger against the chunky file, thinking.
“… You don’t have to do this, you know.” He says, leaning his elbows on the desk. “I can tell them you said no. It’s dangerous. You should think about it carefully before you-“
“I’ll do it.” You sigh. “Fuck, of course I’ll do it.”
He looks disappointed. “…You’re sure?”
You nod. “I’m sure.”
“I’ll give them a call, then. The agent is already at the BSAA in London. You’ll meet him at Heathrow airport in two days. The trip is supposed to be 5 days, but there’s wiggle room. Pack lightly— a duffel bag or backpack will do. The rest, the agent will tell you.”
“This agent…” You start, wringing your hands together. “Do you know anything about him?”
He pauses, thinking. “I can’t believe I almost forgot this part.”
“What?”
“…It’s Leon S. Kennedy.”
Silence. The rain, once a light tap, now thuds harshly against the window. “…You’re joking.”
“Deadly serious.”
“The guy who saved the president's daughter last year? Who stopped Las Plagas?”
“The one and only.”
They know something, you realise with a jolt. They know something that you don’t. There’s no way they would send him, otherwise. He’s one of their top agents. Curried favour with the president. They don’t send people like him on reconnaissance.
“…Won’t the people in Montclair know of him?”
“It’s unlikely they know what he looks like, even if they know his name. The DSO has probably considered it. I’m sure Leon will brief you fully.”
“…I guess.” You say, staring at the files again.
Your mind spins. You’re getting caught up in the details. Leon Kennedy. It’s ridiculous, and it makes you a little angry. What have they found, that you couldn’t?
“Hey.” Your boss puts his hand on yours. “Do your thing. From what I hear, you can trust this guy. Just please, stay safe.”
———————————
Two days later, you’re sitting at Gate 54, waiting for Leon. You’re wearing black cargos, paired with a black knitted jumper and a white turtleneck undershirt. Crossing your feet, you huff when the clunky walking boots get in the way. You’re used to wearing trainers, but you had been told to expect some bad weather. In the seat next to you is your navy duffel bag, which caves in at the edges— perhaps you packed too lightly. No matter.
With your MP3 player blasting music into your ears, you lean your head backwards and close your eyes. Adrenaline still courses through your veins— despite the fact that you had barely slept for the past two nights, you feel wide awake. Has Leon been feeling this way? Does he get nervous before missions? Surely, by now, it doesn’t affect him.
Speaking of which; he is not here. All you had been told was to get your ticket and go to the gate as usual, as if it were any other flight. Well, you suppose, it is any other flight. France is a popular destination, and so close to England. You want to look through your files, but there are civilians about— you worry about prying eyes. This is a commercial flight, after all. Another thing you hadn’t been expecting. The DSO spared no expense.
You’re ripped from your thoughts when someone lightly taps on your shoulder. Jolting upright, you clutch at your chest and pull your earphones out.
“Jesus,” you breathe, staring up at the man in front of you.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He says, putting his hands up.
Unfortunately, the first thing you notice is that he’s very handsome, just like the photos. He’s wearing black, loose jeans and a tight-fitting black shirt, paired with a leather jacket. He looks good.
“Leon Kennedy.” He holds out his hand. “You’re the journalist?”
You take it, and for some reason, get the urge to stand. The journalist. Bet he doesn’t even know your name. President’s golden boy, after all. You tell him, and he repeats it, sending you a nod. “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too.” You say, and sit back down.
He hovers for a moment before taking a seat next to you— or rather, two seats down. Your bag is in between you and you have no intention of removing it. He throws his arm over the back of the chair, eyeing the gate for a second before looking back at you.
“…Let me guess… you were hoping for someone less… government.”
“I knew it was you.” You say, shifting to fully face him. “You’re famous, after all.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“I would.”
Another silence. Leon looks you up and down, thinking. “…Is this the part where you tell me you work better alone?”
You let out a short, dry laugh. “Something like that.”
“Well, I won’t get in your way if you don’t get in mine.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs. “What it sounds like. We’re both professionals. You got your thing and I got mine.”
You shoot him a wry smile. Didn’t take long for him to say it, then; you could live or die, for all he cares. You’re not the president’s daughter.
“That doesn’t sound like something a security escort would say.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” he holds a hand up. “I won’t ditch you. That wouldn’t be a great start to our partnership.”
You huff, leaning backwards and crossing your arms. “I wasn’t worried about that.”
“Did I offend you?”
You stiffen for a second, shocked that he had asked you so directly. Well, since he is being direct, you should be, too.
“I don’t trust guys like you.”
“…Story of my life. Government agents don’t test well in focus groups.”
You stare at him blankly. Is he expecting a laugh?
A few seconds pass. “…I’ve read some of your works, you know.”
“What?” You sit up straight, holding his eyes. “I thought you didn’t even know my name.”
He tilts his head. “Of course I do. We’re partners.”
“Partners.” You scoff. This guy is here to snake around your back. It’s all a farce. “…What’d you read?”
“About Raccoon City. You’re one of the only journalists who sought out survivors.”
“Yeah, well. It didn’t go well. There’s not many of them.”
“…Yeah.” Leon says, and looks down.
You get the sense you misstepped. God, you’re being an asshole. You know it. You know it and you can’t stop it. But it’s not like you were intentionally trying to cut the guy down. You’ll be spending the week together, after all. He’s probably got some kind of trauma you don’t know about. Better to switch topics.
“So, tell me, Mr Golden boy,” you lean forward, shooting him a smirk to let him know it’s a joke.
He looks up, raising an eyebrow. “Golden boy?”
“Golden boy.” You nod, and he smirks a little, too. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough… what’s the plan?”