Chapter Text
The cargo lift groaned beneath Claire Redfield’s boots as she leaned halfway inside an exposed maintenance panel with a plasma wrench clenched between her teeth. Heat rolled out from the damaged circuitry in sharp waves, turning the narrow service corridor into a furnace. Somewhere deeper in the ship, old engines vibrated through the walls with the familiar uneven rhythm she had known since childhood. Their ship had survived military patrols, asteroid debris, black market docking ports, and one unfortunate collision with a smuggling freighter that Chris still insisted had not been his fault. The cargo system, unfortunately, had not survived any of it with dignity.
“Mom!” Claude called.
Claire tightened a loose wire without looking away from the panel. “Yeah?”
“Uncle Chris said if the lift breaks again we all die.” Claude said.
“He says that every week.”
A pause.
“So we’re not dying?” Claude asked.
“Not from this” Claire answered with a soft chuckle.
Claude seemed satisfied with the answer and settled cross-legged on the metal floor with a half-disassembled navigation drone in his lap, a small screwdriver caught at the corner of his mouth in the same careless way Leon used to carry combat knives between missions, a resemblance Claire noticed every time no matter how hard she tried not to.
The boy’s blond hair kept falling into his eyes while he worked. He shoved it back impatiently, “Mom?”
“Mm-hm?”
“When’s Dad getting here?”
Claire pulled herself free from the maintenance shaft and wiped grease across the shoulder of her jacket. “Two hours if docking control stops pretending paperwork matters.”
Claude brightened at once, and the sudden shift in his expression eased something inside her despite the strain of the morning, “Can I stay longer this time?”
“We already talked about this.”
“But Dad said maybe—”
“Your father says a lot of things before checking schedules.”
Claude frowned at the broken drone in his lap, “You always say schedules.”
“That’s because adults ruin everything interesting with them.” Claire shut the maintenance panel with the side of her fist. That earned a laugh, and she nudged his shoulder before turning back to the open panel just as the ship lights flickered overhead and heavy footsteps crossed the upper walkway above them.
Chris.
Only Chris managed to sound irritated while walking, “Heard from docking control,” he called down. “Military convoy just arrived.”
Claire glanced upward immediately, “Local security?”
“Government fleet.”
The warmth drained from the corridor at once, and Claude looked between them as confusion replaced his excitement, too young to understand what military insignias meant now even if he could recognize tension the moment it entered a room. Chris descended the ladder into the maintenance bay with a data pad tucked beneath one arm, his broad frame forcing the metal steps to groan under his weight, and despite leaving the army years ago he still moved like a soldier, scars crossing his hands in pale lines beneath worn fingerless gloves.
“They’re inspecting incoming cargo traffic,” Chris said. “Nothing unusual yet.”
“Yet,” Claire repeated.
Chris shrugged once. “Election season.”
That explained enough. Ever since President Benford's death six months earlier, inspections across the inner systems had tightened under the banner of public safety, though independent crews saw the patrols for what they were—intimidation dressed in cleaner uniforms. President Graham smiled easily during interviews, yet military presence along the trade routes had doubled since inauguration week, leaving Claire with little trust for politicians or anyone promising order, because demands for order usually ended with demands for obedience.
Chris glanced toward Claude, “Your dad’s still cleared for docking.”
Claude immediately abandoned the drone and sprinted for the upper corridor.
Claire smiled despite herself, “Don’t run near the loading ramps!”
“I’m not running!”
He nearly collided with a passing mechanic before disappearing upstairs.
Chris watched him go quietly, “He’s getting taller.”
Claire snapped the toolbox shut, “Don’t start.”
“You measured him against the kitchen wall yesterday” Chris said.
“That was scientific observation” Claire replied.
“That was denial.”
She rolled her eyes and tossed the plasma wrench into the tool crate, and silence settled between them for a moment afterward.
Then Chris leaned against the wall beside her, “You okay?”
Claire understood the real question beneath it. Leon’s visits had once been routine, then complicated, and now manageable again in a way that somehow hurt more than either of the others.
“We’re fine” she answered while wiping her hands.
Chris studied her face long enough to make it annoying, “That wasn’t what I asked.”
Claire snapped the tool crate harder than necessary, “He’s Claude’s father.”
“And your ex-husband,” Chris said.
“That too.” Claire replied.
Chris folded his arms, “You still look at him like somebody stole your favorite future.”
She gave him a flat stare, “You practicing poetry now?”
“God forbid.” Chris said, raising both hands in mock surrender.
The ship intercom crackled overhead before Claire could answer.
“Docking clearance confirmed,” came the automated voice. “Military transport inbound.”
Claire inhaled slowly before climbing the ladder toward the docking platform.
The station orbiting Arcadia’s moon looked like every neutral trade hub in the outer systems: crowded, loud, and one bad decision away from decompression. Freighters drifted outside massive observation windows while fuel crews moved across loading bridges in magnetic boots. Armed security officers stood at every customs checkpoint wearing the dark silver insignia of the Federal Space Defense Army.
Claude pressed himself against the viewing rail. “That one’s Dad’s ship!” he announced proudly.
Claire followed his finger toward the approaching military shuttle, its sleek black hull marked with government insignia along the wings while engine light burned against the dark. Leon had always preferred practical ships over impressive ones. The shuttle docked with a heavy metallic thud, and moments later the loading ramp lowered.
Leon S. Kennedy descended first.
Time had altered him in restrained ways rather than dramatic ones: broader shoulders, sharper lines around the eyes, shorter hair, and a military uniform tailored well enough to conceal the exhaustion beneath it.
Claude launched himself forward before Leon reached the bottom of the ramp, “Dad!”
Leon barely had time to brace before catching him one-handed, “Hey, buddy.”
Claude wrapped himself around Leon’s neck while Leon laughed quietly against his hair. Genuine laughter. Rare enough these days that Claire almost forgot the sound.
“You got taller again?” Leon said.
“I know!” Claude answered immediately.
“You sure?” Leon asked.
“Mom measured me.” Claude confirmed.
Leon glanced toward Claire, amusement flickering briefly across his face before that familiar ease surfaced for half a second and disappeared again beneath the weight of everything standing between them now.
Claire folded her arms loosely, “He’s exaggerating by at least two centimeters.”
“That’s slander!” Claude declared.
Leon stepped closer carrying Claude against one shoulder, “Hi, Claire.”
His voice remained soft around her in ways it wasn’t around other people.
“Hi.”
There was no embrace and no awkwardness, only a distance maintained with deliberate care. Up close, Leon looked tired, faint shadows settled beneath his eyes as though he had stopped noticing them long ago.
“You fix the cargo lift?” he asked.
“...Mostly.” Claire answered.
“Meaning?” Leon asked again.
“It only sparks when insulted.”
“That’s an improvement” Leon said with a smirk.
Claude groaned dramatically, “You’re both doing it again.”
Claire blinked, “Doing what?”
“The divorced thing.”
Leon coughed into his fist to hide a laugh.
Claire stared at her son in betrayal, “What does that even mean?”
“You talk like old people.” Claude said.
“We are old people.” Leon said.
“You’re thirty-eight” Claude said flatly.
“That’s ancient in pilot years.” Leon shot back.
Claude slid down from Leon’s arms and immediately dragged him toward the docking corridor, talking at dangerous speed about drones, engines, and something Chris had apparently exploded earlier that week, though Leon slowed beside Claire before following, the space between them tightening just enough for her to catch the scent of engine oil and cold station air clinging to his uniform as he looked at her in the familiar quiet way he always did when words failed him.
“You sleeping at all?” he asked.
Claire frowned, “That’s your opening line?”
“You look tired.”
“So do you.”
Leon accepted that with a small nod, and something old settled between them—not romance so much as recognition shaped by years spent beside each other—as Claire noticed the fresh scar near his jaw at the same moment his gaze dropped briefly to the burn mark across her wrist, neither of them mentioning either one.
Leon said, “I’ll bring him back Sunday evening.”
Claire nodded once, “I know.”
Leon hesitated briefly before continuing, “Claude mentioned wanting extra days during winter rotation.”
Claire exhaled slowly, “Leon.”
“I’m asking...” he said.
Claire crossed her arms lightly, “You’re stationed three systems away.”
“I can make time.”
“That’s not the issue.” Claire replied.
He understood immediately because consistency, stability, and promises Claude would remember if broken mattered to him.
Leon glanced toward their son ahead in the corridor, “I’m trying, Claire.”
The honesty in his voice made her chest tighten painfully. “I know you are” she answered.
That almost became something larger before the station alarms sounded overhead, announcing cargo inspections and cutting the moment short.
Leon stepped back first, “I should get moving before customs decides to search military transports too.”
Claire nodded once. Claude ran back toward them long enough to hug her tightly around the waist, “Bye, Mom!”
“Behave,” Claire said.
“Nope!” Claude replied.
Leon smirked faintly.
Claire pointed at him, “That attitude comes from you.”
“Absolutely not.” Leon said innocently.
Claude grabbed Leon’s hand before either could continue, and Claire stood watching them disappear into the crowded docking terminal until Leon glanced back once before vanishing around the corner.
The inspection happened four hours later when federal officers boarded the Redfield ship without warning as dock technicians searched storage compartments for contraband shipments and undocumented passengers. Claire hated every second of it. One officer lingered too long near the family quarters while another asked unnecessary questions about Claude, and Chris stayed calm through the entire process in the dangerous way he always did before violence. Fortunately, the officers found nothing, mostly because the Redfields had spent years learning how to hide things.
The station finally cleared them near midnight. Most of the crew had already gone to sleep by then, but Claire remained awake, moving through Cargo Bay Six with a flashlight while checking the smuggling compartments inspectors had nearly discovered earlier. Chris would complain tomorrow about her handling maintenance work herself. Claire ignored the future argument before it arrived.
She crouched beside a hidden floor panel near the back wall after the motion sensor triggered again earlier that night. Probably damaged wiring. Still, she reached carefully for the release latch. The compartment door slid open. A frightened girl stared back at her from the darkness. Claire recoiled instinctively, and the girl flinched even harder. She couldn’t have been older than nineteen, with dark hair tangled across her face, a thin jacket damp from coolant condensation, and bruises circling one wrist where restraints had rubbed the skin raw. Terror sat so deeply in her expression it looked trapped there.
Claire lowered the flashlight immediately. “Easy...” she said softly.
The girl pressed herself farther against the compartment wall, “Please don’t turn me in.”
Claire stayed where she was. Years spent surviving dangerous people had taught her that fear usually arrived moments before violence. “What’s your name?” she asked quietly.
Silence.
Claire removed her gloves slowly and set them aside where the girl could see the gesture clearly, “I’m not with station security.”
The frightened girl stared at her through the darkness of the compartment, “You’re space pirates.”
Claire leaned against the edge of the hidden hatch, expression unreadable, “Depends who’s asking.”
The girl swallowed hard.
Claire noticed how exhausted she looked now that the initial shock had passed. Lips pale. Hands shaking slightly from dehydration, “How long have you been in there?”
“…Two days.”
Jesus!
Claire crouched lower, “Did you eat anything?”
The girl shook her head as Claire pulled a sealed water container from the emergency supply pack mounted to the wall and rolled it carefully across the floor, waiting while the girl hesitated briefly before snatching it up and drinking. Beyond the cargo bay, engines vibrated through the ship’s metal frame while distant voices argued over navigation routes, the familiar noise carrying the steady reassurance of safety.
The girl finally whispered, “You shouldn’t help me.”
Claire leaned against the open compartment door, “Too late.”
The girl watched her in silence for several seconds before speaking so quietly Claire almost missed it, “My father’s looking for me.”
Claire almost smiled, “Most fathers usually are.”
“No,” the girl said. “You don’t understand.”
Whatever humor had lingered disappeared from the girl’s voice, and Claire recognized the fear immediately, the same restrained terror she had heard from refugees fleeing prison colonies and galaxies destroyed during territorial wars by people powerful enough to decide afterward what version of events became truth.
Claire’s expression hardened slightly. “Who’s your father?”
The girl lowered her eyes, “General Jason.”