Chapter Text
Billy Coen just hated the mundane. He hated when his days were so unbelievably samey. He needed change in his life, needed something, anything to look forward to.
But, well, when you’re more-or-less on the run, you have to do things you hate.
The mundane had sure found him; in the humdrum form of auto-mechanic, on-commission work.
Cars? They were easy, they always have a reason to not work,
usually follow rules, like a well-oiled machine (hah). And they usually never step out of line. Although, it was work that required a lot of brainpower; He didn’t mind the less-than-clean environment, nor the awkward positions as he lifted things.
It was work that, for the most part, he could turn his brain off, and just.. Work.
Billy let out an unwitting sigh, although gently lowering the motor gently, before moving his hand out from under it, to let it down softly, so as to not damage the vehicle.
He needed a break, he could admit when he did; the heat clung to his body too much, clinging and clenching around his throat and face, sweat beading steadily over his face.
Remember how he said he always knew when to take breaks? Well, that wasn’t fully, totally right. Billy had told himself that he would take a five minute break (at least) two hours ago. That one, famous lie that all workaholics told themselves. And now? Well, now there was no doubt that there was oil and whatnot on his face, since he would occasionally move his hand up from the alternator to rub an irritation from his face, or to scratch an itch.
Billy lets out another sigh, and with more force than he would usually do, he pushes himself back up to standing. He leans backwards a little so he can reach for the handkerchief on the nearest shelf to run it over his face, before stepping out of the garage momentarily.
He hadn’t checked his mail in.. well, lord-knows-how-long. Only just recently started getting used to using his email for updates on the work he does. So, he figures he’ll make himself busy with checking his mail, instead of just.. Lazing around, waiting for time to pass until he felt the urge to start working again.
He spent some time putting his hair up, the dark locks were-and-always-would-be long, and it seemed that, the longer his hair got, the curlier it got. Billy doesn’t mind it or anything, he just.. Kinda wishes he knew where he got it. As far as he knew, he and his cousin were the only ones in the family with curly hair.
Huh. Wonder how the kids doin nowadays, Not seen him since he turned seventeen. Billy thinks, reaching for his shoes. Although, it’s not like he could just up-and-go to Michigan to see his family, they probably think he's long gone by now, no doubt.
And that’s not even taking into account that they might not even want to see him, would they know about his death sentence? Would they care about his innocence?
Billy cursed to himself, setting the thought aside momentarily, not like I can do anything, now. He thinks the thought was supposed to comfort him; and, in a way, It did. But it was a muted comfort, as if someone had just.. Numbed an open wound instead of packing the injury. Grabbing his keys, Billy finally steps out of the garage, into the front yard; but now, the thought nestled itself deep in the back of his mind, and he couldn’t shake it off.
He knew the thought would stay in his mind, especially with how he was thinking on this. As long as he kept thinking about how he wanted to forget it, it would stay there.
It was a relatively nice day outside, all things considering. The sun was out, the temperature was cool, and there wasn’t a whole lot of wind, thankfully.
Billy, if his mind wasn’t as all over the place as it was, would’ve found it strange that none of his neighbors had waved their usual hello’s.. In fact, there was hardly anyone outside today, not that Billy fully noticed, He opens the blue-gray mailbox with his keys rushedly; making a mental note to see if he can get it repainted, as the blue of it had long-since started to fade to a mute gray.
The thin material of the envelopes and flyers is in his hand in seconds, paper rough and textured between his calloused fingers. When he’s back in his house, on his couch, he takes the time to sit and examine all the paper, since there was more than he’d expected.
Mortgage bill, electric, water.. –oh, well that’s pretty cheap for once. – Phone bi–
In a matter of seconds, time seems to slow to a halt, seconds feel like minutes, or even hours, he’s not entirely sure. But he feels like he's sinking, swimming.
Because, in his hand, is a letter.
But .. not just a letter.
It's a letter addressed to himself.
Not to Vincent Smithson. But instead, to Billy Coen.
A name he’d thought was left behind.
With trembling hands, and a gaze that shook more and more with each new breath; he tears the paper open, disregarding the envelope on the floor as quick as he could, letting it fall soundlessly as his heart pounds in his head.
With dread in his throat, pulling at his stomach, weighing down in him; he unfolds the paper to read whatever the letters' contents were..
He read it all. Out loud. Every excruciating word. Monotone.
“Dear Lieutenant Billy Coen,
It’s been a while, my friend. I wonder if you'd know who I was, if you saw me. It HAS been many years. It astonishes me that you believe this is something you can run from. Seriously, Dale’s boy, running from all his problems ? Must run in the family.”
Billy’s brows furrowed.
“Have you been to Michigan as of late, Billy? It’s colder than I remember.. The scent remains all the same, though. It’s funny, the kind of things that the back of your brain keeps in mind.
Your cousin, that little one with anger issues. The freckles.
He’s just like you. Does that scare you? It should.”
His eyes narrow.
“Listen, old pal. I don’t want to hurt him. Or the other cousin of yours.. Don’t make me hurt them, Billy.”
He could almost feel the intent behind the words. Like the use of his … his real name was a sort of power move. What did this stranger want from him? Surely, this was just… someone playing a prank.
Yeah, he thought bitterly. a prank.
A prank .. – Where someone had somehow, what? Guessed what his actual name was? Guessed that he had a cousin living in Michigan? TWO cousins in Michigan? His own fathers’ name?!
With a gulp, he reads on:
“So now, here’s how this works:
You will have a week to leave. No longer than just a week. You will be gone.
And I will know when you are.
When you leave, I will give you signs in red. You will follow those signs. And you will wait for me in a bed of trees.
And you will answer when I write. You will know it was me.If all goes well – it depends on you –, your family will be unharmed. YOU will be unharmed. And … maybe you will see that family of yours again.
I will write back soon.
– An old friend.
=)”
Billy was frozen in his seating for a while. A long, long while. What was he supposed to do? What would anyone be supposed to do if they got some strange letter claiming to not only know where they lived, but also to be actively watching him??
He remained still in his seat. Thinking.
Billy’s choice was made for him. It was the entire time. He would have to leave, and very soon.
This person would drive him crazy if he didn’t go ahead and act now. The mystery and the dread would kill him, he knew. He’d always hated being uncertain. About anything. No matter how small.
He knew he couldn't go to the police, they would see his old name, they would see that his entire life here was all smoke and mirrors.
They would know that he was supposed to be dead.
He’d quickly started to pack up. Finally dusting off an old Samsonite suitcase he’d never used. With movement that was maybe just a little too quick, he grabs and hastily folds four tees (Although, they look mostly the same, for the most part), and two jeans in a brownish-red colour, along with one pair of unpatterned sweatpants; figuring he could use the sweatpants as pajamas, or could layer them under the jeans for when it gets cold.
He reaches into the upper cabinet in his kitchen to gather some money together, picking up some beef jerky as he turns back to go to his couch and pack it all up.
He turns the light in the kitchen off, even if it doesn’t do all that much, except for darkening the woodsy interiors. He hesitates for a moment, does he shut the curtains? Nothing in his house seemed dangerous for people to see.. He's had people over, and nothing happened just yet.
Until just now, he thinks to himself with a scoff.
With a sigh, he grabs the Samsonite, putting warm pressure on his forearms for a moment to lift it up, but leaving his arm slack as he carried it. The folded-up remains of the letter in the same hand, crinkled up in his fist along with the handle.
It's strange to think about it, isn't it? He remembered the day he got this place, some warm day, everything still damp and humid from a rainstorm the other day. Billy'd gotten a pretty good deal on the home; only having to pay a fraction of the asking price, so long as he agreed to help out his left-side neighbor — and old man of around fifty-or-sixty, named Edmund — with building projects in the future. (Something he was happy to help with, but that was probably the southern in him talking.)
He remembered just how badly he'd hoped this would be his forever home, a sort of escape (or maybe redemption?) for him.
But he wasn't that lucky, he was a Coen. and they never had luck, did they?
Regardless, he heads out the door, eyes trained on the ground; vibrant, well-cared for grass, the pavement that still had that splatter of green paint from two months ago that he kept promising he'd clean up.
Billy knew he wasn't safe to stay here, not if someone from his past knew he lived here, who he was, who he used to be, who his family was. He supposed that was the point of them sending a letter, rather than walking up to his front door.
It was a cowards way out. But it still worked, didn't it?
He didn't realize how far he'd gone until he stepped into an overhead of trees, and everything went silent in the way only mother nature could. Everything looked darker in the forest, almost looking like it was already nighttime.
Billy accidentally fright himself when he steps on a twig, the weight of his boot causing the twig to crisply snap! Turning around as soon as the noise reaches his ears; Because now, there's someone behind him.
Her body language is tranquil, there's no immediate red flags that sound off in his mind; but there's just something about her that he can't quite shake; there's a strange pressure in the bottom of his throat as he manages to speak off the cuff.
"Do I know you?"
He doesn't think the stranger is very used to not getting the first word, but she hides the surprise well; the only give being that one of her dark hazel eyes narrows slightly. Billy hardly even catches it, despite being trained for this sort of thing.
"Not quite.. But people don't often travel this far out of the neighborhood with a suitcase for no reason." her voice was hushed, warm in a way that acted like a balm; calming to the nerves if not for the circumstances.
"How long have you been going under the name Vincent?"
Billy felt as if his heart stopped.
"How do you-"
"Please." Her voice tips into a slightly more desperate tone of voice; betraying her cool, calm, collective demeanor. "Just.. listen to me."
But, Billy can't bring himself to listen, too many things were happening too quickly, everything in his mind seemed to be scrambled, or scrambling. "I don't know who you are, and I need to make sure my family is saf—"
As soon as he speaks of his family, there's the distant noise of a wolf howling, Billy and the stranger pause; losing both their trains of thoughts.
A few seconds of silence pass, and the stranger takes a .. slightly softer approach. "There's … — there's a reason you're here. reason you left."
Billy stiffens in his stance, shoulders locking. His fingers tighten on the letter, not that he thinks this stranger can see the crumpled paper that well. But she does. She does see it. Her hazel-coloured eyes lower in an almost stare.
"You got a letter." She states bluntly, it's not a guess. and all Billy could do was sigh, and then nod.
"..You know about it?" Billy's voice, perhaps for the first time in years, was shaking. " 'bout who sent it?"
"I know of it. And I want to help you." The stranger starts walking, a very loose circle of steps; there's nothing bitter behind it, though, not as far as Billy can read.
"..Who are you? And what do you get out of this?"
"My name is Ada."
Steve didn't know how long it'd been since he felt the rush of fresh air. God, it was like it'd been a millennia.
Instinct was strange in that sense, wasn't it? How easy it was to forget what used to be the basics to you. Steve'd forgotten what it was like to feel the winter sun shining into his hair, adding a glow to his fuzzy, windswept ginger locks, a contrast to the stomach-churning anxiety that rolled and rolled inside of him.
He tried not to really think about what had been done to him; constant needles and injections, genetic alterations, skin tearing grotesquely into those ugly, mottled scales. But, of course, sometimes that kind of thing just.. appears in ones brain. Heaven knows he couldn't control it.
Lap dogs hardly ever could.
Like that was even a good defense, he couldn't help thinking. And he was right; he was about to hunt down two people to bring them back to the biggest monster known to science. He couldn't have controlled that, could he? What would happen to him if he just…. didn't do it?
See, that was the difference between him, and some mangy lap-mutt, controlled and brainwashed by Albert. He could choose to take as long, or as short a time as he wished. What could wesker really do about it? It wasn't like he would actually get off his ass to do it, no!
For now, Albert needed Steve to get Manuela and Sherry, he was needed. Steve couldn't help but go over the fact in his head, with a smug sneer. Even if that wasn't.. the highest ground to stand on.
He just hated to be a drag. Absolutely hated it; Almost as much as he despised the feel of the long, sinewy , half-dead grass that whipped against his skin, exposed from the holes in his already-worn-out jeans; Steve couldn't help but be reminded of Rockfort; granted, most things reminded him of rockfort; cold air, the fiery pressure in his muscles from heavy lifting and work, the sickeningly sweet stench of rot.
But, somehow, so did bravery. So did soft, curly auburn hair, hazel-blue eyes; the eyes of the best person in the world, as far as Steve's concerned. The best person in the world, who.. Steve would never see again. Lovely.
He shivers at the thought as he walks through a patch of shade, under the canopy of a tree; He knows he's getting too lost in hopeless feelings, feelings that no longer hold any weight.
Steve can feel something pulling at his heart, tugging it down and up simultaneously with jagged yanks. One side haling towards just running away from everything, starting anew, maybe changing his name, bleaching his hair — on second thought, he doesn't like the mental image that puts in his head. — anything to just have even a slice of his life before Rockfort, before his brother left, before .. — Before whatever happened between his parents.
But the other side was louder, screaming at him. Chastised how he was so docile and pliant when it came to doing the bidding of Wesker. But, if it wasn't him.. it would be someone worse.
If it wasn't him, it could be someone with the loyalty of Krauser.
If it wasn't him, it could be someone else who had nothing to lose.
At least this way, Sherry and Manuela would have semblance of safety.
At least, that's what he prayed for.
If he was gonna do the bidding of some tyrant, he at least wished said tyrant would give him clear instructions when it came to where the two were. All he'd said was that they hopped aa train that was going west. Towards forestry.
And, well, guess who was currently in said forestry? And had no luck finding them!? Well, he's got one hand, one monster arm, and is named Steve! Isn't that great?
It was even to the point where he'd almost reached some kind of town-ish area. Just.. in the middle of nowhere. Steve had to squint his eyes (hard, too.) when looking towards it, because the too-bright sun was quick to burn into his already-damaged retinas.
The little of the town that he could see, was mostly just silhouettes. But, in a flash of movement, even if it was very slight on his part, he catches a quick glance of two tall figures, one bundled up in a reddish vest, and the other a slender figure, mostly fidgeting with her front-tied hair.
'is that… them?' Steve could only faintly recall their appearances, the only time he'd seen them being when Wesker scolded them, probably right after Steve's resurrection. But they look more-or-less the same.
Steve can hear a faint voice. Deep, slight southern accent. Seeming to get unsettlingly warmer the closer Steve traipses.
"Are you two lost..? You should really get back to your parents.." The man ends his sentence with a chuckle, a chuckle that only made him sound less and less inconspicuous.
Manuela made an unsure sound, "Uh.. we're not alo—" but, she's interrupted when the man stops paying attention to look around.
What was this guy doing..?
The man reached into his pocket, taking his phone into his hand, "Look, I'm—" He pushes his glasses back up properly. "--Somethin's wrong 'ere; I'm gonna.. call the sheriff, see if he can find your par—"
And then he turns.
And looks.
Right at Steve.
He sees the man's eyebrow raise; his hand slowly raising to point loosely towards Sherry, then to Manuela, then to Steve; "..And yer..?"
Well, fuck. Steve hadn't thought that far. THINK, Steve!! Think! — Ugh, why wasn't this kind of thing his strong suit?! He can feel a knot in his stomach forming, his chest tightening, siphoning his breath, leaving his lungs to tremble.
He surely looked like an idiot. —he did, Sherry was looking at him like she thought so, at least—
He took a breath, "I…". And then he swallowed. He pressed the tip of his tongue to his front teeth, not quite making a proper 'Th' sound, but letting the sound almost float in the air like fog. Like a promise. He had to think of something that would immediately demand some sort of respect from the guy.. 'least enough to where he'd leave, and Steve could properly start a semblance of conversation.
"Dad. I'm their- yeah.-" He blurts out, immediately feeling that anxiety increase hundredfold. Because, honestly, who in their right mind would believe that!? As far as Steve could tell, he didn't look a day over seventeen!? Granted, probably the seventeen where he had demutated and was actively dying in front of the girl he liked.
He doesn't even think to glance back at Sherry or Manuela. He felt his heart race. Okay well, thats in the top three dumbest fucking things you've said, Steve.
And, to Steve's surprise, the man takes a step back, looking at him with quite a bit more disdain now. "Well," He scoffs, warmth completely gone from the accent, replaced with icy conviction. "Maybe try actually lookn' after 'em then." And then.. he just walks away.
I- … okay. Steve blinks, dumbfounded for a few seconds —although, they feel more like a few minutes—, Before turning towards the two;
"D-Do I really look that old?!"