Author's note: Um, this is rated T for violence that hasn't happened yet. There will be more to this, trust me! This isn't even the first book, yet. With that said, I'll try to introduce as little OCs as possible. I detest the RE movies with my soul, so none of those characters will show up. I mean, the last movie wasn't that bad. But... Alice just came out of the blue. Bleh. Anyways, enjoy. This will sum up what happened in the R.P.D. that goes beyond the memos seen in the Station in RE: 2 and 3. :3
September 22nd. 2:24 PM. Prologue to the nightmare.
A pair of leather shoes clacked upon the marble floor of a hallway.
A man of short stature and a plump torso walked contently down a long hallway. Paintings and other various and randomized pieces of art hung upon the white walls next to the fat man. Taking a swift left turn, the man began stroking his beard with an index finger and a thumb. He wore a brown vest, with a beige business shirt underneath, the sleeves cuffed around his wrists. To match his attire completely, he also sported brown slacks. His black leather dress shoes sparkled as if they were new. His wide cheeks twitched in the forming of a smile, his brown beard moving with it.
"Yes... finally..." the man grunted, his breathing heavy as he reached the end of the hallway. The large green door ahead of him was locked; it required a certain kind of key. He remembered that the architect for the Raccoon Police Department, or the R.P.D, was an avid gambler, liking the way poker cards looked. The fat male pulled a key from his pocket, one that had the likeness of a heart at the base of the key. Inserting it into the keyhole, and turning it, he put a meaty hand on the knob, turning it slowly. Inside was a small office, with a secret hiding place in the back. As the door creaked completely open, a chubby finger flipped a light switch. The single light bulb overhead flicked to life soon afterward. The room was now dimly lit, and more of its features could be noticed. A clutter of papers mobbed the top of a brown oak desk. A bulletin board was off to the left of the room, with requests for "Police Chief Irons". The room's walls were a tan color. The most notable feature, however, was the animal heads pasted onto the tan walls. Everything from bears, to deer, to foxes, to squirrels, and the mascot of Raccoon City, a raccoon.
"Hmm..." Brian Irons flipped through a few papers upon his messy desk, turning on a lamp that was sloppily placed atop a few yellow folders. He tossed the request from some officers down without much interest. He reclined in a leather chair behind the desk, placing his head in his hands, and gliding through his hair slowly. What was he to do? He had just narrowly escaped the Mansion Incident getting out into the public. It's a shame S.T.A.R.S, the Special Tactics and Rescue Service, had to disband. They were truly the elite among the R.P.D. He gently chuckled as he had used the S.P.F, the Select Police Force, to try and replace him. Unfortunately, there would never be another S.T.A.R.S, and Brian knew this. Umbrella was breathing down his neck. He could never be left alone anymore. Not another night of enjoying some whiskey while hunting in the Raccoon Park. No more busy afternoons of hurrying to the drug store to stock up on prescription drugs. Nope. William Birkin, the lead researcher for Umbrella in Raccoon's vicinity, had been urging him to make arrangements for a meeting in the laboratory in the basement of the R.P.D. He'd been quite passive about it, really. He only came once a month or so, only to check out the progress of his experiments. Brian opened a drawer in his oak desk, his large hands desperately grabbing a near empty bottle of liquor.
"Chief?" came a knock on the door. It was his secretary. Taking a large swig, then putting the bottle back where it was next to his Colt Python high caliber magnum, Irons rose up with a heavy grunt from his chair. He had some work to do. With a mental laugh, he opened the door. A woman only a bit shorter than himself looked at him worriedly as he stood in the doorway.
"Yes...?" Brian asked in a monotonous tone, obviously not interested in what she had to say. She let out a slight sigh, before handing him a clipboard with a stack of papers attached to it.
"Chief Irons! You've been slacking in your work! You're always in your office, and there's a ton of paperwork to file! All the officers are complaining that there isn't a lot of ammo left for them when they go out on their patrols!" she complained. Her blue business jacket and lighter blue undershirt, the colors required of all R.P.D employees, rustled stiffly as she moved her arms in frantic gestures. As Brian looked uninterestedly at the files presented before him, she gave a stomp of her blue heel, her blue skirt moving with it. Irons took his eyes off of the paper to look down at the article of clothing that only reached her knees, before she gave him an angry glare.
"Isn't that what you're for, Lisa?" Brian finally broke the silence, slamming the door without waiting for a reply. He relaxed as he heard angry clicking fading down the long hallway leading to his office. He locked the door with a click, and sat back down. His officers already knew about the missing ammo? He'd scattered ammo caches around the precinct, in an attempt to make it harder on his officers for what was to come. A ring of the blue corded telephone nearby made him jump. He forgot he even had that in his office. He opened the blinds located behind his chair, letting golden sunlight inside his gloomy retreat, picking up the incessantly ringing phone soon after.
"Hello?" Brian asked the caller.
"Yes. Um... a rookie police officer will be arriving at your police department located at East Sixty Third and Ennerdale. We're sure you were aware of this," came the dry and bland voice of a recorded messenger. Rolling his eyes, Irons adjusted his gaze to the new light emerging into his office. "We are pleased to have helped you. Goodbye." A click could be heard from the other side. Hanging up the phone with more force than intended, the fat man plopped back down in his reclining office chair once more, taking a swig from his white bottle of liquor. He pulled out the small magnum in his desk, aiming at the terrified face of a cotton stuffed raccoon.
"Say goodbye, Raccoon City," Irons whispered, pretend-firing the deadly weapon.