Nemesis:

The Last Escape

Part One:

Training Day

Every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end.

― Seneca

Raccoon City - 2018

Late. He was so late. Late late late. There was no excuse. Leon Kennedy had none whatsoever. He was just stupid enough to fall asleep playing Red Dead Redemption 2 online (and getting griefed by some twelve year old kid in their parents basement every damn time he tried to finish a mission) and waking up with eleven minutes to get out the door to his official final interview.

Trying to get on at the Raccoon City Police Department was a bit like applying for clearance into the C.I.A. - you were more likely to get a firing squad at dawn than an interview. But he had the test scores, he had the peer reviews, he had the commendations and citations of bravery from the academy. He had what he needed to look good on paper.

The last step was looking good in person.

So he'd cut off his ponytail for a more Keith Urban style shag and added spit shine to his boots. He'd buffed up, trimmed his nose hairs, and made sure his grill was pearly white. He'd practiced interview techniques and beefed up his cop jargon to sound smart and witty.

He was ready.

And now he was late too.

Horrified, he raced down the road in his Wrangler. It was lit. It was top of the line. It had every bell and whistle you could want in it. A graduation gift from his Mom and Stepdad, he babied the black beauty as if she were an extension of his dick. He waxed and washed her religiously and drove her like she was stolen.

She paired nicely with the .50 Desert Eagle his Dad had given him the day he'd entered the academy. Arguably, the DE was the deadliest handgun in the world. He had named her "Matilda" after his Aunt who'd been the first woman to ever take him to the range as a boy and hand him a pistol that he nearly shot his foot off with.

The big gun kicked like a mule, but it blew the top off the heads of the dummies on the range in way that made his buddies jealous. It was carefully tucked into his shoulder holster as he drove like a madman toward the station. A glance at his iWatch told him he was going to get there six minutes after his scheduled interview time.

At twenty two, he was at the top of his game. If he failed here, he'd be picking up the mantel of his father and serving on the fine Boston P.D. Nothing to turn your nose up at, sure, but the call to arms in Raccoon was what he wanted. The influx of business from Umbrella Pharm was bringing the unsavory element to the city.

The growing populace was bringing crime and a need to halt it.

Here, he could eventually reach for the stars, and join the S.T.A.R.S. himself. He was S.T.A.R.S. material, he just knew it. He was dedicated and determined and loyal. He was good with teamwork and never gave up. He was top of his class and the best shot around. He was the guy who made it into S.T.A.R.S. He just was.

Nothing could ruin that for him. Nothing.

He gunned the engine on the Wrangler to prove the point and whipped the wheel into the employee garage. He snagged a spot near the back and ran for it. Good news was, he could run all night and never get winded. That's how good of shape he was in. The bad news? The elevator was down in the garage so he had to take the stairs.

He was winded after five flights of stairs that brought him into the reception area of the RPD.

It was something. It never failed to take your breath away.

The goddess high above offered her arms to the brilliant ceiling as if Michelangelo himself had painted it. The fountain was burbling and brilliant. The floors mopped and shining. An architectural marvel, she impressed even as she offered homage to Gothic revivalist designs of her civil engineers.

But there was no time today to take it all in and adore it.

He was late.

His boots squeaked as he almost slid to a stop in front of the S.T.A.R.S. office. The doors were shut - the other candidates already beyond them in the middle of a lecture led by Albert Wesker, the Captain. Horrified, he almost turned back - and a voice stopped him.

"Too late to run now, rookie. Man up and come on in."

"I was considering running for the hills actually."

"Nah. You don't look like a coward to me. It gets better, rookie, I promise. You just gotta take that first step."

He turned his head to look at her and forgot what he'd been about to say.

The long ponytail of her hair looked silky and dark beneath the beret she wore. Her face was angelic - big blue eyes and lots of lashes over porcelain skin. The uniform she wore was snug enough that it left the ample beauty of her curves on display like some kind of stripper pretending to be a cop. She had a tray of Starbucks coffees that he scrambled to take from her to hold while she reached for the door. Her name tag read: Valentine.

Well the name made sense anyway - since she stopped his heart just by looking at her. And then she turned and he couldn't help it, although he tried a little, his eyes looked right at her ass. It was a good one. Those ugly blue pants couldn't hide it. It sashayed and swayed like a torture flag sent to make dicks stand up and salute.

He blinked, horrified at the sappy thought. This was his BOSS. She was not some girl for him to oogle. Besides, hadn't the recent #MeToo movement taught him anything? It was no ok to objectify women like that anymore. Shit in a sandwich, man, this was his BOSS.

Leon cleared his throat. "I'm so sorry I'm late. Ma'am...the traffic-"

"No excuses, rookie. Captain Wesker and Chief Irons don't care about why." She paused as he passed by her and added, into his ear, "But don't worry too much...I'm always late too."

She took the tray of drinks from him and gestured with her head for him to claim a seat in the auditorium where they found themselves. He grabbed the closest one, trying to blend in as she took the four short stairs down to the podium where Albert Wesker was talking about "discipline and honor".

He took one of the coffees as Valentine handed the others to her companions - a big burly red head, a tall gangly looking fellow with a bandanna around his head, and a beefy dark haired guy with big ears. She claimed a seat beside the big earred one, whispered in his ear, and the lazy blue gaze of Big Ears turned right toward Leon where he hunkered in his seat.

Jesus.

She couldn't let him get away with it?

Flushed, embarrassed, Leon almost missed the end of the lecture until Wesker said, "...let's thank Officer Kennedy for assisting his senior staff with the coffees. Let's learn by his example please - if you see a senior staff member in need of assistance, I expect you to stop what you're doing to do so - even it means being late."

Oh shit.

Surprised, he blinked twice. She'd fallen on the sword for him. She'd told them he was late because he was helping her. Why?

Wesker added, "The final interview process is a ride along. Each of you will ride with a senior officer for the day to get a feel for the protocol, procedures, and lay of the land. This is a time to decide if the fit is right for you, for them, and for the RPD."

Leon glanced at the other three people in the auditorium: a tall girl, a small girl, and a big burly guy. A good selection of nervous rookies, admittedly. After a quiet conversation, the Big Ears nodded toward Leon and called, "Kid! You're with Valentine. Say thanks, because I was going to ask for you myself. I read your file - I think it's mostly glowing bullshit. So I was going to stick you on shit detail and put you through your paces on the obstacle course. Turns out - being a gentleman saved your ass."

He officially hated Big Ears. Leon glanced at his nametag: Redfield. Should have been Roidfield. He looked like he chowed down on creatine for breakfast. Leon was betting even his shits were lumpy with muscles.

Laughing, Valentine smacked his big arm, "Ease down, angry guy. Let's let the puppies play a little before you whack their noses."

Big Ears rolled his eyes, "Puppy is right man. The kid's so wet behind the ears he should be glistening with it."

"I'll harden him up, I promise."

Jesus. He realllllly tried not to picture her doing that. But he'd almost done it on his own looking at her ass in those stupid pants earlier.

What was his deal? It had to be nerves. He wasn't usually so spacey. He'd been around plenty of beautiful women. Staring at his boss wasn't helping anyone.

He would never survive here if he popped wood looking at her. Never. They'd probably chop it off and choke him to death with it.

That worked. The image of losing his junk and having it stuffed down his own mouth worked like a charm. He was no longer looking at her ass or thinking of her trying to get him hard.

Leon said nothing as Jill gestured with her head.

He joined her at the side and she smiled, prettily, "You need to breathe, rook. It's not that bad, I promise. Kennedy right?"

"Right." He stiffened when she patted his arm. His body, not his dick. "Leon S. Kennedy, ma'am."

She twitched her lips. "Hmm. Ease down, officer. You can lay off the ma'am stuff. I'm Jill."

He shook his head, "I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm not sure it's ok to talk to you like that."

Her big blue eyes twinkled. "Alright then. You can call me Valentine."

He nodded and cleared his throat nervously. "I'm ready and willing to serve, ma'am. I promise."

She gave him a narrow look. "No. More. Ma'am." She said it slow with a twinkle in her eyes, "Or you can go ride with Redfield."

Yikes.

He nodded, "Valentine. Got it."

"Good. Follow me." She turned and headed through the bullpen filled with eager cops. Leon hesitated. Following a ladies lead just usually wasn't his style, but in this case it was worse. He was being asked to follow that fantastic ass in those ugly pants. He hesitated for too long as she rolled her gorgeous face over her shoulder and called, "Get a move on, rookie. Unless you wanna be late for your funeral."

Yikes.

He moved.

She had him drive the squad car that they picked up at central checkout. A blonde with big tits was chewing her gum and eyeing him boredly as Jill signed the release and took the keys. In a heavy Brooklyn accent, the blonde informed him, "You're too pretty to be a cop, kid."

He opened his mouth to answer and Jill responded, "That makes two of us then, Franks."

Franks laughed, snapping the gum in her red lips. "You got that right, V. Try not to wreck this one, huh? Maybe let the rookie drive."

Rolling her eyes, Jill said over her shoulder at him, "You wreck a couple cruisers and people never forget, rookie. Remember that. You'll earn a reputation as fast as you can blink in this place."

Great.

That was good for him. He was good at everything he did. He was a top notch shot, quick of the line for puzzle work, incredible at spatial relation and witness communication. He was aces behind the wheel. He'd never so much as had a fender bender in his life (...-_-) and he was pretty much in the top one percent of the academy.

He was a shoe in.

He'd be known as Boy Wonder or something by the end of the week.

Curious, he asked, "What do they call you?"

"Depends on your department," Jill grinned and buckled up as he climbed behind the wheel, "Down in the garage - I'm Wreck-It Val. In the bullpen - I'm the Master of Unlocking. Amongst the other S.T.A.R.S. I'm the Jill Sandwich."

He blinked, twice, and she turned her head to grin at him. "Long story short - I got stuck between two enormous rednecks in a bar once after I hustled them at pool. Everyone thought I'd get my ass kicked, but I kicked the shit outta them and left them piled on top of each other in the alley behind J's Bar. Sadly for me, I didn't get a nick name like Athena or Battlesuit Bitch in Blue- oh no- because right as the squad car pulled up with the officer's on duty to take my statement...fucking Barry shouts out, "That was a close one! If they'd have double teamed you, you'd be a goner! You were almost a Jill Sandwich!" And there it was. The worst nickname in history."

Leon snorted, shaking his head as he turned left down Main Street and Jill directed him toward the call on the radio about a convenience store robbery. "...that sucks balls. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Really. It wouldn't have been such a big damn deal but Redfield's stupid ass decide to tweet that shit and make it go viral. Before I knew it, instagram was full of #jillsammich gags from every damn person in the RPD. Everyday for three weeks I got random sandwiches put on my desk with pictures of me on top of them. I finally started eating the sandwiches just to shut people up."

Impressed, Leon glanced at her, "You ate your own face?"

She winked, eyes sparkling, "I'm hardcore."

Christ. He was betting she was. Hardcore was an understatement. He was betting she was more than that in that ugly uniform.

Shaking his head, he had to laugh at himself.

Curious, Jill arched a brow, "What's so funny?"

"Just wondering if you avoided all the sexual innuendos associated with the sandwich thing."

Jill laughed and slapped his thigh companionably. "I knew you'd ask. And the answer is no. Sadly to work with cops, you have to be understanding that every day treads the line between good ol' fashioned ribbing, and sheer sexual harassment. I grew boobs at thirteen, Kennedy. I've worked side by side with men all my life. If I couldn't take it, I'd have quit a long time ago."

He nodded, enjoying her company. "You ever date anyone at work?"

Jill shook her head, snorting, "You kidding? Cops are the worst people on earth to date. Unfaithful. Slovenly. Lazy. Arrogant. All things that are great in a pal - terrible in a lover. I only date musicians if I date. And I usually don't bother. You'll figure it out pretty quick, rook, that the job takes over your life."

He figured as much, but he was ok with it. There wasn't really time in his life on a good day for girls anyway. He figured he'd hook up here and there when the need arose and focus on his career.

"Turn in here and park."

Leon rolled to a stop in the alley by the Stop 'n Go. People were scattered outside and shouting. Jill sighed and gestured with her head, "Always when you reach a crime scene, immediately check your surroundings. What do you see?"

He tilted his head, watching the crowd. "Lot of phones out, lot of people shouting and shooting video."

"Exactly. The age of a witness report is almost past, kid. Nowadays, we get a video of the assailant by somebody almost every time. Social media takes care of the rest through sharing. It's good to find bad guys, bad to protect anonymity. We had a family killed by the husband we'd stopped the first time when someone one social media let it slip that they were in a safe house in Beltane Circle. The husband went right over there and killed them plus the two cops guarding them."

Leon winced and Jill nodded. "Exactly. The internet is our friend and our worst enemy, rookie. Use it like a whore and then kick it the fuck out before it steals every last penny in your pocket." She swung out her door and Leon echoed her as they approached the store.

The shop owner, a little woman with glasses and a big belly, shouted, "Valentine! You see this!? These fucking punks broke all my top shelf bourbon and stole cigarettes. Who wrecks perfectly good liquor to steal smokes!?"

Jill patted her shoulder companionably as they moved into the over turned inside of the store. The floor was a lake of long lost bourbon and whiskey. It was a brown lpool of regret as Leon, at Jill's instruction, started among the crowd to take statements.

Jill checked security feeds and interviewed shoppers. She had a list of suspects on her pad before they even finished the first round. By lunch, they had an address on the robber.

Sighing, she mused, "Jimmy Pickles. The worst name ever for a thief."

"Or the best. I bet he's sour when we find him. You think he was sweet as a kid?"

She laughed a little, "I like the humor, rookie. Let's see how long it lasts. The good news is that in a small city like this random acts of violence don't go unnoticed. You can usually collar a suspect in a few days if they don't rabbit and run for the hills. The school shooting a few months ago was the worst."

She paused, shaking her head the memory, "I can't imagine anything worse happening in Raccoon City than all those poor dead kids at the mercy of a madman like that."

Leon nodded, steering the cruiser to the parkinglot of the apartment building for their suspect. "The janitor right?"
"Yeah. Pissed about the principle hiring a Muslim school teacher. He kept screaming that the kids were better off dead than taught by a terrorist."

"Jesus." Leon glanced at her face. A fine sprinkling had started and the air was gray and dreary. The windshield ran as if tears were falling for those dead children. "I'm sorry."

She glanced at him, scanning his face. "You're a sweet kid. How old are you?"

He shook his head, "Does it matter?"

"Can't be more than twenty right?"

"I'm twenty-two. What about you?"

Jill laughed and shook her head, "Jesus. I'm twenty-four. Why does it feel like I'm a hundred years older than you?"

Without missing a beat, Leon answered, "Because doing what you do every day takes the shine off the carrot until there's nothing left but age and mileage."

She held his gaze in the cool gray car. "Hmm. You're a smart guy, Kennedy. What'd your test scores say?"

He sighed, rolling his eyes, "...practically a genius."

She grinned and patted his knee again, "That's right. Practically a genius...let's see if you can use that genius brain to run down a thief."

They moved together through the rainy parking lot into a run down old apartment building. The Coral Gables was a flop house at the edge of Shit Street and Crap Avenue. It was little more than plaster and peeling paint. The paint was probably a leftover from the age of lead and would kill you if you ate it.

It was smeared with old grease and flecks of filth from too many cigarettes. It smelled like burnt hair and too much bleach. The floors squeaked as they crossed the cracking linoleum in shades of puce and magenta.

Jill tugged her sidearm and Leon echoed it, ranging himself at her direction beside the door as she knocked. There was a muttering of sound within 2B before the chain rattled and a small face peeped at her. "...Jimmy isn't home."

It was pretty sad that they knew the cops were there for Jimmy. Spoke volumes about the kind of life Jimmy led.

Jill nodded, "You home alone?"

"...yes." Christ, Leon thought, the kid was maybe six.

Jill nodded and asked, "Is Jimmy your brother?"

"No. He just lives here sometimes. He likes to hang out by the clock tower."

And just like that, they had their next place to check for Mr. Pickles.

"Thanks." Jill crouched a little and instructed, softly, "You keep this door locked, ok? Even if you see a badge and a uniform, you don't open this door unless your mom or dad is home with you."

The kid said, "My mom is dead. My dad is never home. It's just me...and Jimmy sometimes."

Jill nodded again and smiled, gently. "Well you keep this door closed and locked, ok? No matter what."

The little boy nodded and closed the door on her. She sighed and rose. Leon gave her a long look and finally asked, "What can we do here? Anything?"

"Nothing. He's still got the father. We can check and see if Child Protective Services has ever been called on the family. But even still, they won't do much here. Unless we find proof the father is unfit. The best case is the kid goes into the system and bounces from home to home until he hits the streets at eighteen."

"He's young. Someone would adopt him, right?"

Jill shrugged as they jogged back to the cruiser, "Maybe. There's a bunch of kids in foster homes that make a lie outta that small hope. All you can do, rookie, is try to save the ones you can. Sometimes? All you can do is nothing. And you just gotta live with the fact that you can't save everyone."

He hated that truth.

Annoyed, he climbed behind the wheel and steered toward the park where the clock tower loomed. Jill glanced at him twice as he drove and finally queried, "I see the starry eyed hope on you, kid, and I get it. I do. I know you want to serve and protect and save the world here...but it's not always in the cards. Sometimes we get there in time, but alot of times we clean up the mess when there's nothing but blood and bullets left behind. We do what we can, Kennedy, and a lot of the time we still fall short. If you're looking for instant gratification, Raccoon City won't offer that to you. It's not that kind of town. The good news? We don't forget the dead. And the small force you're trying to get on here? We don't do anything but keep on trying. If you can't handle the losses, this isn't the fight for you. But that's what this ride along is for - to help you decide what kinda cop you want to be. The kind of gives it everything he's got and loses sometimes anyway, but keeps on strapping that badge and gun on in the morning and going back at it. Or the kind who serves a small town without any real crime and considers every day a win."

She touched his shoulder as he parallel parked by the park and Leon glanced at her. Jill finished, "There's jobs like that, Kennedy. There's no shame in walking away."

He shook his head, shrugging her hand away. "I don't run."

"Ever?"

"Ever."

"What about ass deep in alligators and pinned down in the middle of a shootout?"

"Bring it."

She grinned, shaking her head at him, "What about chased down the street by hordes of aliens bent on anal probing you?"

His mouth twitched, "I guess I better learn to fart fire."

Jill grinned, volleying her eyes over his face. It was a good face. Handsome, young, and determined. She didn't see any flinching around the eyes. That would change, after a few weeks in the saddle here. But for now?

"Aim for the head, Kennedy. Some cops will say the heart. The academy tells you to aim for the heart everytime." She shook her head, "Sometimes the heart lies. Aim for the head. The body can't function without the brain."

"Roger."

She glanced at the adorable little cleft in his chin and mused, "And don't miss."

"I never miss."

Encouraged by the bravado and the arrogance, she teased, "Ever?"

He shouldered open his door and hesitated, considered the truth of it, and said it again, "Ever."

"Good. Then maybe this is the job for you after all." Impressed with him, she opened the door on her side and climbed out.

So far, she was liking Leon Kennedy. He was good at taking orders. He was good at thinking on his feet. He'd moved among witnesses and held hands, cooed, or coerced when the mood suited. He read people well. He spoke levelly and cleanly. He was handsome, his uniform well pressed, his appearance non-threatening. He was handsome, but not in a way that girls might throw themselves at him and turn him from his job. He was fit and friendly and had a good sense of humor.

She couldn't see any reason not to recommend him for the force. In fact, she mused, he'd likely be going out for S.T.A.R.S. inside of a year on the street. She could almost SMELL the ambition on him. He was a legacy officer too - his Dad had served faithfully on the 126 out of Boston for more than twenty years, so he came from the kind of stock that didn't back down from a battle.

All in all, he'd fit in well in Raccoon City.

As long as he knew how to run down a rabbit because he didn't know it yet, but Jimmy Pickles was a runner. He never came quietly. He'd take off like a shot the second he smelled cop.

Jill nodded toward the tower and said, "There's our guy, rookie. Show me what you got."

"Why?"

And Jimmy saw them. His greasy locks shivered over his filthy hoodie. He froze in the middle of buying dope from the guy on the bench in front of him and Jill called in a sing song tone, "Jiiiiimmy - don't do it."

He did it.

He let out a squeal like a cat spooked and shouted, "OINK! PIGGGGGS! Five-oh! Five-oh! RUN FOR IT!"

And he started running like he was going for the gold.

Jill laughed, glanced at Leon and gestured, "Show me whatcha got, kid. Get 'em!"

Leon laughed and paced backward, calling to her, "Alone!?"

"I'll catch up! Get that pickle!"

He laughed again and turned back, running like he'd been born to do it while his handler whistle walked his direction until the hard work was all done. Apparently he was on his own - the story of his life.

Under his breath on a laugh, he muttered, "...women."