Think I need a devil
To help me get things right
Hook me up a new revolution
Cause this one is a lie
We sat around laughin’
And watched the last one die…

This sucks, the man thought as he stood outside the hotel, hugging the backs of his arms and stomping his booted feet to keep warm. I was hoping Paris would be…warmer.

The wind laughed at his preposterous thought, lashing the man’s brownish red hair into a violent frenzy and making him burrow deeper into his jacket. Cursing under his breath, he reached into the pocket of his coat, numb fingers probing around until he found a thin sheet of white paper with small writing on it. Squinting in the darkness, the man lifted the paper in front of his face, trying to keep the wind from blowing it right from his gloved hands.

The man blinked in confusion. “Every beginning is the end of another beginning,” he read aloud. “What the hell? That sounds like the paper inside my fortune cookie.”

Ooops! he realized with a start. It is! Goddamn it! What happened to that napkin he had written the room number on? The man shoved the little fortune cookie paper back into his pocket, feeling like a total dumbass, and rifled around in his jacket pocket in a vain search for that little bit of paper that held the number of refuge for him. Nothing. He checked the other pocket. Nothing. Great, he had probably blown his nose with it or something.

Now what was he going to do? Show the French concierge his fortune cookie paper? He’d be lucky if the person so much as understood English, much less spoke or read it. Well, he would just have to make his message clear with his body language. He sure as hell wasn’t going to stay out here freezing his arse off for another second!

Shoving his hands deep in his empty pockets, the man hunched his shoulders and walked towards the glass doors of the hotel, picking up speed towards the end as the wind tore at his hair with renewed vigor. He pushed through the revolving doors and entered the lobby of the hotel, the bright lights assaulting his eyes. Blinking rapidly to get his vision to adjust after being for so long in the back of a dark taxi listening as the driver talked his ear off in French, the man’s blue eyes took in the softly lit lobby, meant to look like a sanctuary for weary travelers who had spent one second too many in the biting cold outside its doors. Cheerful looking green plants and comfy-looking couches were placed to tempt the tired and exhausted. A TV mounted on the wall was rattling on in French.

Sighing with relief as his hands and nose began to defrost in the heat, the man looked around until he spotted another man behind the counter staring at him curiously.

What’s the matter with you? the man almost snapped. Haven’t you ever seen an American with chattering teeth and an icicle on his nose before?

Instead of making a bad first impression, however, the man simply strode over to the concierge, unzipping his collar as he went.

“Bonjour, Monsieur,” the concierge greeted amiably.

“Um,” the man floundered. “I don’t speak French.”

“I figured as much,” the concierge suddenly said in fluent English with a somewhat heavy accent.

The man let out a sigh of relief. “Good,” he said. “You speak English. Why didn’t you just do that in the first place instead of making me look stupid?”

The concierge raised his dark eyebrows, looking amused and annoyed at the same time. “This is France, Monsieur. We speak French here.”

The man sighed, realizing that he had probably just added to the stereotype that all Americans were rude and obnoxious. “Sorry about that, sir, but I’m just really tired.”

The concierge nodded. “Well, Monsieur, you’ve certainly come to the right place. Would you like a room for the night?”

“Um,” the man said uncertainly. “Actually, I was supposed to meet a couple of friends here. They’re Americans, too.”

“Ah,” the concierge said knowingly, pulling a paper out of a drawer and glancing at it. He lifted his dark eyes from the paper to the weary figure of the man with the windblown hair and ruddy cheeks across the counter from him. “You must be Leon S. Kennedy, I presume?” the concierge pronounced carefully, apparently making sure he had the name right.

Leon pushed at his brownish red hair as it flopped over one of his eyes. “Yeah, that’d be me. Can you tell me which rooms Chris and Claire Redfield are staying in?”

The concierge nodded. “Certainly, sir. Mr. Redfield is staying in Rm. 347.” Leon paused, as if expecting the man to continue divulging more information. When he didn’t the R.P.D. officer spoke up, “And Claire Redfield? Which room is she staying in?”

The concierge glanced at the paper. “Mr. Redfield’s room in the only one listed, Monsieur Kennedy. I’m assuming he wants you to go there first.”

Leon raised an auburn eyebrow. “Oh? Um, okay, then. Thanks, man.”

With a wave to the amused concierge, Leon strode off in the direction of the elevators, feeling his heart begin to pound with excitement. Finally, after three months, things were going to start be getting done. With him, Chris, and Claire all working together, Umbrella was finally going to pay for their crimes.

But as the elevator doors closed behind, Leon couldn’t help but wonder why only Chris’ name was listed on the concierge’s little sheet of paper. Maybe Claire’s brother was just being protective of his little sister? If Leon was Chris, then he certainly wouldn’t want any Umbrella assassins getting to Claire, but Chris’ name was more widely known that Claire’s. Well, after the explosions on the Antarctic Base and Rockfort Island, the very name “Redfield” was sure to be an anathema to Umbrella’s ears. Just flashing the name “Redfield” under Umbrella’s nose would probably be like waving a red flag in front of an angry bull. Listing either name would have been dangerous.

Maybe he wants them to think that Claire’s not with him, Leon thought as the elevator chimed. Or maybe he just doesn’t like me. Leon really didn’t think much of that scenario, though. He had talked to Chris quite a few times, over the phone and through the Internet, and the guy had seemed nice enough.

He did seem a little preoccupied the last time I talked to him, Leon acknowledged silently as he walked across the plush carpet of the third floor, looking for the numbers 347. I wonder if something’s wrong? Oh well, I’ll ask him in a few seconds.

Coming up to room 347, Leon knocked on the door with his gloved hand and waited nervously, the paranoia that had been building over the past couple of months kicking in. He was seriously beginning to think that there might be government or Umbrella agents waiting around the corner for him. Hell, there could be an entire army barracked behind this door, and he didn’t even have his trusty handgun. Damn customs.

After a moment, Leon heard heavy footsteps coming to the door and waited with a faint sense of apprehension as he imagined the person behind the door checking the peephole, having a perfect view of him even though he couldn’t see them. A moment later, he heard a lock being turned.

Although he was half-expecting to suddenly be looking down the barrel of a submachine gun, all he saw was a solidly built young man with brown spikes standing up in disarray from his head, dressed in army fatigues and peering at him with shrewd blue eyes. Examining those eyes with his own azure orbs, Leon knew instantly that he would have to be careful. This man, if he was Chris, most definitely had a gun, or maybe a whole arsenal, waiting nearby.

Leon cleared his throat, leaning to the side in order to see the man better. “Chris?” he asked uncertainly. “I’m Leon.”

Something relaxed in the elder Redfield’s image, apparently recognizing the voice. “Leon?” he repeated, a note of relief in his deep, level voice. “Good. I’ve been waiting up for you. Come in.”

Chris held the door open in a gesture of complete trust, and Leon walked in immediately, feeling exposed in the brightly lit hallway. The furniture in Chris’ room was surprisingly tasteful, but Leon supposed that anything was better than the seedy roadside motels that he had been staying in for the past months.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Chris said gratefully as he shut the door behind him. “How was your trip?”

“Hell,” Leon answered shortly, noting the fact that across the room a door led to an adjoining room. That must be Claire’s, he thought. “My nose feels like an icicle, and I couldn’t bring my handgun because of customs.”

Chris gave him a wry smile, sympathizing with how much a police officer, even a rookie one, relied on a handgun. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got plenty of guns here.”

Leon glanced at the elder Redfield and raised an eyebrow. “I’m not going to even ask how you got through customs with those.”

Chris nodded. “Wise choice.” He strode across the room to the hotel table, complete with notepad and pen. The snow white sheets of the notepad were covered with unintelligible scribbles, presumably notes from telephone calls, being that the phone was sitting nearby.

“Making plans?” Leon asked as Chris sat down at the table. Chris nodded, gesturing for Leon to take the seat across from him. The rookie R.P.D. officer did so gratefully, finally stripping his gloves off of his thawing hands and flopping into the hardwood chair with a thud, eager to rest his weary limbs.

“So, what’s the game plan?” Leon asked, the epitome of casualty as he leaned back in the chair, his leather jacket creaking as he did so.

Chris sighed and made a temple with his fingers in front of his face, pressing the tips of them to his high forehead as he stared at his notes. Leon couldn’t help but feel a bit anxious upon seeing that gesture. His father used to make a similar gesture right before he was about to drop one of his many “bombshell” news bulletins on his oldest son. It was either “Leon, we don’t have enough money to send you school here,” or “Leon, you need to help us out more with your brother. He’s heading down the wrong track…” Then finally came to big whopper, the atomic bomb that totally leveled Leon and took his world down with it, “Leon, you’re little sister’s dead. She was killed in a driveby. I’m sorry, son.”

Therefore, because of all those little things here and there, Leon absolutely positively hated it when people made that gesture.

Chris pressed the tips of his fingers against his mouth and sighed. “Look, Leon…”

Oh shit, here it comes. It has to be something about Claire…

“I need to ask you a big favor,” Chris continued, gaze never wavering from the travel weary man across from him.

“What is it?” Leon asked a little testily when the older Redfield’s voice trailed off into nothing.

If Chris was at all bother by Leon’s impatient tone, he didn’t show it. “About half an hour ago,” he began. “I received a call from Jill.”

Leon jumped. “Jill Valentine? Your fellow S.T.A.R.S. member?”

Chris nodded, pushing at his spiky hair with a gloved hand. “Yeah, she told me that she, Barry, and an ex-Umbrella mercenary named Carlos Oliveira are housed somewhere nearby. She wants me to meet them.”

Leon’s eyebrows shot up eagerly at the prospect of adding more allies to their little guerilla force. “You’re going to go, aren’t you?”

Chris nodded quickly. “Yeah, but that’s the thing.” He suddenly leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’m going to go, but I don’t want to take Claire with me.”

“You’re going to leave her behind again?” Leon asked flatly, thinking that the elder Redfield was acting a bit peculiar. But then again, he didn’t know the guy that well. And where was Claire?

Chris rubbed his face with his gloved hands. “Look,” he said with restraint. “I don’t want to leave her behind, not so soon after finding her again. It’s just that…”

Leon felt his anxiety climb a notch as he watched Chris’ brow crease with deep-seated worry. “What’s wrong?” he asked, stiffening in his seat. “Is there something wrong with Claire?”

Chris looked away and started fiddling with the discarded hotel pen, doodling on the notepad. “I don’t know,” he muttered finally. “I rescued her from the Antarctic Base mansion and we escaped just fine. She was laughing and happy to be together again. You know, just like Claire always is, confident and carefree. But I guess some sort of emotional trauma began to set in, and she started slipping away as the weeks went by. Right now, she’s extremely withdrawn and unresponsive. She just sits in her room all day and all night. I don’t even think she would eat unless I dragged her out of there three times a day for meals.” Chris shook his spiky head morosely. “I don’t know what happened.”

“Have you tried talking to her?” Leon asked anxiously, with a glance at the closed door across the room.

“Yes!” Chris exclaimed in frustration. “I’ve tried a dozen times over. She doesn’t tell me anything. And if I keep pushing the subject, she gets all huffy and standoffish. You know how Claire can be.”

“Any idea about what is wrong with her?” Leon questioned, suddenly realizing that he was sounding exactly like a police officer interrogating a civilian or suspect. Old habits die hard.

To his surprise, Chris nodded cautiously. “I have an idea. When she was running around Rockfort Island and the Antarctic Base, she wasn’t alone. She had a boy, young man really, named Steve with her.”

Jealousy, unexpected and unbidden, suddenly stung the back of Leon’s throat. “Steve?” he demanded, barely remembering to keep his voice pitched low. “Who is Steve?”

“That the one million dollar question,” Chris said dryly, twirling the pen around in his strong fingers. “I don’t know who he is or what he looks like, only that he shared all of Claire’s adventures during the time I was searching for her. When I found her, she refused to leave the island until we joined back up with him. Claire and I became separated right after that, and I told her to go after Steve. She went and…I don’t really know what happened.”

“So where’s this Steve guy?”

“He’s dead.”

Leon was shocked into silence, something that didn’t happen very often.

“When I finally met back up with Claire,” Chris explained. “I heard her crying behind a locked door. She told me, in tears and through the door, that Steve was dead. I don’t know what happened to him, but I think his death has really hit Claire hard.”

“I know how that feels,” Leon muttered, his thoughts suddenly floating on butterfly wings back to a woman with short ebony hair and chocolate brown eyes…a woman who died back in Raccoon City. He quickly pushed these thoughts away.

Chris looked at him oddly, but chose not to say anything. “Anyhow,” he said with sigh as he slumped down in his seat. “That’s why I don’t want to take her with me. I was going to ask you just to stay here with her while I go meet Jill and the others. I won’t be long.”

Leon shrugged. “That’s fine by me. I don’t mind.”

Chris nodded gratefully. “Thanks, Leon.” He rose from his chair and walked over to one of the two beds. Crouching down on the floor, his combat boots creaking as he did so, he pulled out a large suitcase from underneath the bed and opened it. But instead of pulling out an overcoat or a pair of gloves, he pulled out a Browning handgun and checked the ammo in it.

“Expecting trouble?” Leon asked skeptically, trying not to think about how much he missed his own gun.

Chris slammed the clip back into the gun with a loud snap and rose to his feet. “Not really,” he answered. “It’s just the fact that this Carlos guy used to be with Umbrella bugs me a bit. I know mercenaries aren’t really involved with the people they work for - just hired hands, but, still, they’re known for their fickle nature. Someone offers them a bigger wad of money, and they’ll turn on you in an instant.”

“Aren’t we Mr. Sunshine today?” Leon said with a somewhat bitter, wry smile. He was once again remembering a certain Umbrella agent who could have turned on him at any second, but didn’t. Instead she stood up for him until the end, gun blazing, eyes streaming, blood flowing…

Leon shook his head as if to fling the thoughts away from him; he couldn’t start thinking such things now. But as he dimly watched Chris bustle and hustle around the room, hiding weapons in his clothes, putting on his coat, and making all sorts of various preparations, he knew in his soul what he would be dreaming about tonight.

Her…Ada Wong.