DISCLAIMER:

Resident Evil is owned by Capcom interactive.

BACKGROUND:

Even before the Mansion Incident, the life of Chris Redfield was not by any means a normal one. From the time he was nineteen years old, his life was fraught with difficulty. There is an old saying: "that which does not kill you can only make you stronger." Perhaps it was this simple concept that strengthened him for the extraordinary trials he would face later in life.

Or perhaps it was something else entirely.

Chapter 1: Death

They say everyone goes through a rough patch in their life at one point. Whether it's the death of a close friend or relative, being fired from a job, getting a divorce, or whatever other shit happens to people, everyone has to run through a gauntlet at one point in their life.

I went through two.

The first time was about six years ago. I hadn't yet joined the Air Force, but I was aspiring to. My parents were great. They loved me. Even when I was a fuck-up, they loved me. Raising me and my sister was their number one priority, and they never stopped reminding me of it. Aside from my sister, they were really the only ones that kept me going.

Until I got that phone call.

The first thing I remember after hearing the news was looking down at the shattered plastic that had once been my phone, not remembering how I had broken it. Neighbors probably pissed themselves when they heard all the things I started shouting. Curses I didn't even know existed. Pure emotion just spewed out of my mouth, taking whatever form it could. I had to release those feelings, somehow. That was the only way I could possibly deal with it.

My parents were dead. Both of them, dead. Gone. No way to ever get them back. Ever. Gone. Both of them. Dead. I kept saying the same things in my head over and over. I couldn't make myself believe it, no matter how many times I said it. And the worst of it hadn't even started yet.

I had to pick Claire up at her friends' house. She was only 13. Imagine: you're 13 years old, happy, have lots of friends, doing well in school, and just about everything you could ever hope would go well with your life is, and one night some asshole calls you up and tells you some truck driver turned your parents into hamburger meat. Doesn't even soften the blow for you, even though you're just a kid. If I ever find that guy, I swear I'm gonna wring his neck.

When I walked through the door, she was completely inconsolable. She couldn't even form words. She just kept crying and crying. I'd tried so hard to stop crying for her, so she wouldn't see me, so I could be strong for her, and then I show up at that place and see her there, and…I couldn't help myself. I started crying, too. I just wrapped my arms around her and cried. We stayed like that for hours. God bless that family, they just let us sit there in their living room all night, crying.

That was one of the worst rough patches of my life. It wasn't just from dealing with the loss. It was knowing they were gone, and I hadn't gotten the chance to make it up to them. I hadn't made them proud. I hadn't shown them their efforts on me weren't wasted. That's what drove me to change myself. I promised myself, for their sakes, that I'd change. I'd take both their places and raise Claire myself. When she was accounted for, I'd work up the guts to do what I'd always talked about doing: enlist in the Air Force. Make something useful of myself. And that's exactly what I did.

I started small. I stopped drinking, but I just couldn't quit smoking. Guess that's why Claire picked it up a few years later. I lectured her God knows how many times about it, but it's no use. If I can't quit, she can't. Never would've started if it wasn't for me, either.

We're best friends, her and I. Always have been. She's the one person I never wronged, the one person I cared about enough to really watch what I said and did around. In return, she modeled herself after me. Well, after my good qualities, anyway.

This was all back in ninety two. I was nineteen at the time, barely able to take care of myself, let alone a sibling without some kind of financial support. Lucky me, it was in my parent's Will that in the event of both of their deaths, I was to inherit the house and all their assets. Made things a little easier I guess. Even in death, they watched out for me.

To cover the loose ends I picked up a part-time job at a convenience store. The deal was I'd work there during the day, pick Claire up from school, bring her home and have dinner.

Actually, that was the thing. Neither of us could cook. Well, I mean, I tried a couple times at first, but the end result was usually that we'd just order out. Finally, after about three weeks of burgers, fries and pizza, Claire put her foot down.

"You've got to learn to cook for us, Chris," she told me sternly. "Seriously. This isn't healthy."

"Whaddya want me to do, sis?" I shrugged. "All I know how to make is a sandwich."

"Fine. We'll just live on sandwiches until you figure out how to work an oven."

I couldn't help but laugh at that. It wasn't quite that she sounded like an upstart little kid, far from it. It was just how...assertive she was. Here she was, a young kid telling me, her older brother and guardian, to get off my ass and do something productive. It just struck me as a little absurd. But then she's always been like that.

"Look, Claire, how 'bout this- I'll learn how to cook, but you have to do all the housework."

"Fine," she said with a young smile.

We went on like that for about two years. True to my word, I started looking over Mom's old cook books and watching cooking shows in my free time. Not the most... masculine goal I've ever set myself to, but it needed to be done. Likewise, Claire started doing all the housework and cleaning. Not saying it was an easy task, but together, we made it work.

I knew I'd never be able to convince Claire to let me leave. I had to ease her into it. I sent her off to spend a week or a weekend at a relative's house every once in awhile. She asked me, once, why I kept sending her out. "Hey," I told her, "a guy's gotta have some time to himself every once in awhile, you know?"

I'd hoped that after awhile she'd start to look forward to getting out of the house. It's not like she ever had a bad time when she left. She always came home beaming, so she must have had fun away from the house. That's what I thought at first. She told me about a year into it that the reason she was always so bubbly when she came home wasn't because she'd enjoyed her vacation, but because she was so ecstatic about coming home.

I spent a bunch of nights sitting alone in the family room after Claire was asleep, watching TV and smoking and thinking. But mostly thinking. Weighing every option. There was no way out. I had to make something of myself. They'd been so nice, so understanding, so trusting of me. They'd let me pass up College so I could go into the service, for God's sake. But I still felt responsible for Claire. I couldn't just leave her to pursue personal glory. I just couldn't do that to her.

So I just sat in the dark, taking drag after drag night after night. There was no way out.

My dad placed a hand on my shoulder. I was just standing in front of the house, staring straight ahead. Couldn't move. I jumped a little when I felt his hand gripping my shoulder.

"Missing it already, huh?" he said.

I looked down. "Yeah".

I heard him let out a deep sigh.

"This is never easy, Chris. It wasn't for me when I moved out. I never expected it would be easy for you. Actually," he said, "I hoped it wouldn't." He kind of shook my shoulder in a rough, friendly way. "If it was, that'd have to mean I went wrong by you. You know, you not being able to wait until you moved out of the house".

He let out a chuckle. I returned it.

"Trust me," I said, "that's not the case."

There was a look my dad had when he was really proud of me. It was this glow in his eyes aided with a contented smile, but there was more to it than that. Something metaphysical that I couldn't quite identify.

"Look, Chris," he said, abruptly changing his expression and looking around anxiously, "I don't want to encourage you in any way to keep smoking, but-"

He pulled out his lighter. His gold fucking lighter, our house's equivalent to The Holy Grail. He pulled it out of his pocket and furtively slipped it into my hand. My eyes must've been huge. I just held it in my hand, looking between it and him, back and forth.

"Dad, I-"

He held his hand in front of my face. I was silenced.

"Just keep it. I don't need it anymore," he said.

"But, didn't Mom get this for you when you first started dating? You protected this thing with your life," I protested.

"Did," he said. "It was a nice thing to have for awhile, but now...it's just a lighter, Chris," he shrugged. "The real reason it was so important to me had nothing to do with its function."

I glanced back down at the lighter like it was a priceless treasure. Then again, it was to me.

I slipped it into my pocket just as my Mom and Claire came out of the house, carrying the last of my stuff in cardboard boxes.

"I just know you'll do great things Chris," he said. "You know your mother and I have always supported you. You're a difficult kid to find fault in," he said. "I can't keep holding your hand through what lies ahead. Just know this." He put both arms on my shoulders and forced me to look him in the eye. "There are some decisions you'll need to make in life that'll make you feel like you can't win either way. One decision will seem like the right thing to do, though you know you'll just end up getting bitten in the end; the other will seem safer, but in the long run you know you'll regret it. Things like that. It's during those times," he said solemnly, "when you should tune out everything but your own judgment. It's those decisions that are the hardest to make, Chris. They're also the most important ones you'll ever make. Because they're the decisions that will define you as a person. Never forget, son," he said. "that no matter how hopeless a situation may seem, you can always rely on your own strength, and your own sense of right and wrong to guide you. And you must truly believe in the decisions you make. Because if you can't do that, you can't ever be sure that they were even the right decisions in the first place."

I promised Claire I'd write to her every chance I got. She promised the same. When I got on that bus, Claire's the last thing I remember seeing. I wondered if she'd be alright on her own. Some relatives of ours were gonna look after her now. It didn't matter, though. I couldn't help but worry.

The Air Force treated me pretty well. I moved up the ranks, gained the attention of my superiors. Pretty soon I was flying combat missions. I heard the same thing everywhere I went: "that's Chris Redfield," they'd say. "Son of a bitch's one of the best pilots we got." I flew…Christ…I don't know how many missions. Some were bombing runs, some were recon missions, I even had to dogfight a few times. Every time I went out, I came back without a scratch. It didn't take long for me to be promoted to Ace of my very own squad.

There was one problem I had with the Air Force, and his name was Lieutenant Bromley. He was a skinny little chickenshit that was hated by just about everyone that was forced to interact with him. Those below him despised him for being a dickless tyrant, and those above him hated him for being a kiss-ass. Me, I hate him for both of those reasons and then some.

Bromley and I clashed numerous times. He didn't like the fact that I refused to respect him, due to the simple fact that he gave, earned, and deserved, none. He once made me clean the toilets in my barracks with my toothbrush for, I shit you not, "looking at him funny". I responded the next day by getting everyone in the barracks, officers included, to just leer at him whenever they saw him. Like I said, nobody liked the bastard.

Bromley jumped at every opportunity he could find to ruin my reputation among his fellow officers. He showed constant disrespect not only for myself, but my entire squadron as well. I had to be careful not to do anything that would give him reason to have me court martialled. I knew he'd do it the first chance he got. For a couple years, everything went smoothly.

One morning, I was woken up by none other than Bromley himself. He told me to get my ass in gear and have everyone in my squad ready by 0500. I followed his orders. By 0459, we were all in the debriefing room, waiting to receive our orders. Bromley stormed in at 0505. He started cursing and growling at us, as if it was our fault his ass was five minutes late.

When we finally got down to business, he gave us the rundown. There was a Special Ops team more than fifty clicks away that had been attempting to escape a hostile area via helicopter. They had been shot down, and a new chopper was being prepped for them. Problem was, they were still relatively deep in enemy territory. Bromley was in charge of sending in air support. Of course, since it was an extremely dangerous mission with a high probability of casualties, he decided to send my squad.

Our job was to go ahead of the chopper and soften up enemy ground and air forces. We knew they were in the territory somewhere, we just didn't know exactly where they were, or how they would respond to an air assault.

The exact moment we passed into enemy territory, all hell broke loose. Our radars were jammed, and our radios were filled with static on every channel. From somewhere on the ground, guerrilla MANPADS missiles started coming at us twelve at a time. James Cooper, one of my best friends in the AF, got hit right away. A missile tore off his left wing, and he started spiraling towards the ground. I never really figured out why he didn't eject. Maybe he panicked. Maybe his equipment was messed up, and the eject button malfunctioned. I suppose I'll never find out.

A few minutes in, we spotted the downed chopper right in the center of an open plain. The Special Ops guys had absolutely no cover, and a huge cloud of black smoke was resonating from the derelict. From my plane, I could see a column of small, black shapes moving in on them. Jeeps. Troop transports. Maybe even tanks. If we didn't spring them soon, they wouldn't stand a chance.

All of a sudden, the radios cleared up. The first sound I heard was Bromley's voice.

"Redfield!" he'd screamed. "What the fuck's happening up there?"

"We've located the derelict, sir, but we've lost Bishop five and we're under heavy fire by Man-Portable Surface-To-Airs, over," I replied.

"Then deal with the damn things!" he shouted. "That's what you fucking morons are supposed to be doing- softening them up for the chopper."

"Sir, they're tossing way too much heat at us as it is. If we get close enough to start strafing, they'll tear us to pieces, over." I knew he wouldn't listen to logic, but I had to at least try to reason with him. I didn't intend to lose any more friends to Bromley's idiocy.

"Well then the whole operation's botched, now isn't it?" he responded sarcastically. "Return to base immediately. I'm recalling the chopper."

"Sir, I'm looking at the target right now. There's a column of hostiles closing in on them as I speak. If we don't get them out of there now, they won't stand a chance, over."

"If you even think about disregarding my orders Redfield," he said, "I'll see to it personally that you're stripped of your rank and given a dishonorable discharge".

There was a pause.

"Redfield?" he shouted. "Redfield, are you listening to me? Redfield!"

"I know you will, sir," I told him. "But frankly, I don't really give a shit. Over and out."

I switched off HQ's channel as soon as he began to reply. Knowing full well the consequences of my actions, I switched the radio back to my squad's channel.

"This is Bishop one," I said. "All units form on me. We're gonna have to take out that column. Bishop six, get a hold of HQ, anyone but Bromley. Explain the situation to them. Tell them to send the chopper now. Over."

"I'm hearing some pretty intense shit from HQ, Bishop one." One of my squadmates' voices came out of the radio. "The Lieutenant's pretty pissed, over."

"Let him be," I said. "Let him tell his superiors later that he ordered us to pull out and abandon those men down there, when there was still a chance they could be bailed out. Over."

I started to descend. Shit was flying at me from all directions. Adrenaline was shooting through my veins. Every sound, every flash of movement…I was aware of it. All it takes is one missile, one explosion, I kept telling myself. All it takes is one. I made damn sure that none of them hit me. I was confident my squad could do the same.

All I remember is that one minute I was descending hard and fast, focusing on every projectile that headed my way, dodging every last one of them. Then something passed over my head and dropped straight down. It was a plane, engulfed with flames. Just as it passed my own fighter, I saw the pilot eject. It didn't matter, though. The cockpit was ablaze, and he himself was on fire, even as he floated through the air on his parachute. Then the parachute caught fire, and he fell like a rock. Horrified, I scrambled for the radio.

"Bishop lance this is Bishop one," I choked out, struggling to force words from my mouth. "Everyone report in, over."

"Bishop three, standing by, over," one voice said.

"Bishop six, standing by, over," said another.

"Bishop four, standing by, over."

"Bishop seven, standing by, over."

I switched off the radio. It was Bishop two. Jenkins. My old buddy from High School that had sworn to enlist when and if I did. The best friend a guy could have. And now he was dead, because of me. Because of my orders. First Cooper, now Jenkins. Both on the same mission.

I refused to allow them to die in vain. I would either spring those poor bastards on the ground or die trying. I kept pressing downward, dodging everything that came at me. Since Jenkins' plane was completely engulfed with flames, most of the missiles opted for it instead of the rest of us. It was, after all, a much warmer target.

As we neared our targets, I began to level out. There were way more hostiles here than I'd guessed. Jeeps, trucks, assault and troop transport vehicles of all kinds. It seemed most of the SAMs had come from the surrounding hills; as soon as we neared the column the amount of missiles being launched at us seemed to decrease dramatically.

They fired at us with .30 and .50 cal machine guns. Futile, to say the least. We peppered them with machine gun fire. Dust kicked up; vehicles stopped in their tracks or drifted off-road and into ditches, others caught fire or exploded. The wind was pretty weak, so the dust cloud created by our .50 cal rounds didn't dissipate. They couldn't see us, but we could certainly see them. In a few minutes, what few hostiles remained turned and sped away . I'm not sure how they thought Soviet-made jeeps would be able to outrun one, let alone five Harrier jets. None the less, they made an effort.

We returned just in time to see the replacement chopper picking up the Special Ops guys and their pilots. We escorted them back to the airstrip with very little trouble. When we got back to base, Bromley was waiting for us, or rather me, on the runway. No sooner had the cockpit opened than he started howling insults at me. His face turned bright red and the vein on his forehead popped out.

Understand that I had just come out of an extremely dangerous mission, where I lost two of my closest friends. I'd been up since 0400. I was hungry, tired, angry, and remorseful. I was in no mood for his bullshit. So I did what anyone in my situation would do. I wound up and planted my fist right between his eyes.

Needless to say, I was way out of line and therefore subject to court-martial. I was only charged with disobeying orders; nobody had seen me strike an officer. There were nine witnesses that attested to that.

However, since a man under my command had been killed as a result of my disobeying orders the fault of his death was added to my charge. On the other hand, I had rescued three men carrying highly valuable intel and the pilot and co-pilot of their chopper. In addition, it was discovered during the investigation that Bromley had known that the area was hot- too hot for an air pick-up, though he had intentionally withheld this from his superiors. He had sent men into a suicide mission. My men. Therefore, Bromley was also subject to court-martial. I left the Air Force with an Honorable Discharge, maintaining my rank and personal honor. Bromley was expelled with a Dishonorable. He was stripped of his rank and disgraced. At the very least, I still had my pride.

At the very least.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Finally! You guys have no idea how long it took me to edit this. I had to do some major rehashing on the original version before I came out with this one (the one that makes sense). Anyway, I really appreciate constructive criticism. Or compliments. I like those, too. ;) Anyway, if you feel so inclined, just leave a review, or e-mail me. If you're just going to flame, then don't bother wasting my time and yours.

CHAPTER 2 COMING SOON!