Summary: Two years after the events in the Arklay mountains, the Raccoon City chapter of S.T.A.R.S. officially disbanded. Down on her luck, Rebecca Chambers finds herself accepting a position as a biochemist at a new research facility. When several workers begin to go missing, however, she discovers that things are never what they seem. Billy x Rebecca.
Prologue: A Meeting in Mexico
The heat from the sun caused sweat to roll down the back of his neck, an uncomfortable sensation as the droplets slithered underneath his buttoned up collar, and he raised a sausage-like finger to tug the itchy fabric down. He felt out of place, the suit he was wearing was too small, making him feel like his arms were too long and that his considerable gut was too large. The dust in the air didn't help matters, allergic reactions causing him to sneeze and his eyes to water, making his sunburned, flushed face look even more unattractive. Thankfully, he wore dark sunglasses, so there was still a professional air about him as he sauntered up to the mostly deserted cantina.
A pair of barefooted children ran out of the place, giggling shrilly as they played tag. The man swerved around them, and the fluidity of his movements betrayed his physical stature. There was something smooth and dangerous underneath the cover of middle aged and beer bellied. Rusty muscles were still able to coil as he pushed aside a beaded curtain, surveying the area quickly and critically.
It was mostly deserted. A ceiling fan whirling above the dining tables was the only noise in the place, as older, weathered looking men nursed their drinks and the bartender soundlessly dusted out shot glasses in preparation for the night's upcoming visit. None of this caught the man's attention, not until his watery eyes rested on a man sitting at the bar all by himself.
He was younger looking, maybe in his mid twenties, with hunched over posture and a sort of listless expression. His fingers absently traced over the rim of a glass of something amber. The man exhaled sharply through his nostrils, toting a heavy briefcase as he sauntered over to the man. Wordlessly, he sat down next to him, and when the barkeep raised an eyebrow in question, he waved his hand dismissively. Silence stretched for a few seconds before a low, gravelly voice came.
"What do you want?"
The man remained collected, despite the abrasive tone, "I take it you read the note?"
A snort, "Hardly a note."
"I feel that was all that I needed to get the message across, Mr. Enrico Sanchez," the man said pleasantly, placing the briefcase on the countertop. The barkeep eyed the thing with annoyance, but a look from the younger man had him going back to dully cleaning glasses.
"I don't know what you thought to accomplish, they can't touch me here." Enrico said, still staring at the glass.
"I'll admit, fleeing the country was a smart move," the man agreed, "Plus an official statement from a member of S.T.A.R.S. reporting your death wasn't a shabby play either."
Enrico's jaw tensed for a moment, then the strain dissolved as quickly as it had appeared. The man took note of this.
"Either way, you have nothing on me besides the identity of a dead man. You're wasting your time."
The man smiled, "I have something that might pique your interest, Sanchez."
"Oh yeah?" Skepticism was so thick it would take a machete to cut through it.
"I want you to investigate this place," with an understated flair, the man unfastened the brief case, withdrawing a single manilla folder. He opened it and withdrew a file that had a black and white photograph clipped to it, "It's a research facility in the northern part of-"
"I'm not interested." He said clearly, severing the explanation, "I don't do freelance work."
The man sighed, arching his brows so the sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose, revealing his red-rimmed eyes, "I expected that you would be uncooperative, Mr. Sanchez, but you should hear what I am prepared to offer you."
He frowned but did not protest.
"Clemency."
The hand on the rim of the glass went limp, and Enrico's dark eyes darted to the man for the first time, "What?" He asked, not sure if he heard correctly.
"I'm presenting you with an opportunity to go home, Mr. Sanchez," he said lightly, placing the manilla folder down on the counter. Enrico seemed suddenly interested in its contents.
He stared at the man again, "Who are you?" Suspicion was deeper in his tone.
The man smiled with his thin lips, "My name's not important, just know that I'm a retired intelligence operative with the United States government." His thin smile stretched, "I know all about your situation, Mr. Sanchez. Every detail, and if you were to cooperate, some of those details would disappear. Of course, it would be impossible for you to reenter the country under your real name, but one false identity is as good as another."
Enrico, to his credit, didn't go slack jawed or wide eyed, instead he asked levelly, "And how do I know you're legit?"
The smile went lopsided, morphing into a smirk, "Because I'm going to offer you a new identity before you even start the job."
"That's generous," yet again skepticism.
"I have ways to eliminate that identity, should you choose to defect," he said calmly.
The man snorted, "Now you're sounding like your part," with a huff, he tossed back the contents of the amber shot glass, turning towards the man and seeming to stare straight through him, "I'll think about it."
The man nodded, leaving the manilla folder on the counter, "We'll contact you in three days, I expect an answer by then."
Enrico nodded, pushing off of his barstool, going to head back to his apartment where a crumpled up note that read Lt. Billy Coen rested comfortably on a coffee table.