There were times when her own preferences seemed to astound her peers.
Sucking on lemon wedges seemed to confound most, especially after biting
into the thick pulp like one would an overripe orange... shrugging aside
any further suggestion to style her hair, instilling her trademark ponytail
as the more practical and therefore partial presentation.
Then, of course, there were her cartoons.
Certainly, she enjoyed a good dramatic piece of cinema. "Lord of the Rings" became a ready favorite. Yet whenever she plopped herself down in front of the tube, it became standard to have the late night shows of cartoon network on at an almost deafening level. Chris, well aware of his sibling's customary habits of old, did nothing to dissuade this behavior. Nor did he actively participate in a shared viewing. He was more of the sports, news, and The Man Show variety.
"Cocks and jocks," as Claire fondly dubbed it. Thus, due to the differing tastes of the Redfield residence, it was agreed upon to segregate viewing areas. Chris held out for the den and adjoining kitchenette area, while Claire holed herself in the basement. Leon, in his infinite wisdom, christened the area with a dorm-style mini fridge that accommodated a six pack and a hefty dose of Hershey kisses.
Despite the onslaught of umbrella and the malignant shadow it cast over much of their minds, the Redfield home front was as much of a station point of regrouping as could be said for the small band of refugees of Raccoon City. Having returned from Europe a mere eight months prior, the Redfield siblings had set upon founding a sort of meeting point for the remainder of their small band. Granted, Portland, Or wasn't exactly the focal point of terrorist activity, nor was it swimming in intelligence leads. But both Claire and Chris had spent a great many years of comfort growing to adolescence in said house. Never mind that the ongoing maintenance was growing astronomical. Old houses, no matter how sentimental, meant old pipes, old appliances. And bills. Bills bills bills.
"Couldn't you just sell your body for a few weeks?" Leon had suggested. "Get some cash, cover your student loans, build your own methamphetamine lab?" And this coming from one self-proclaimed "ass kicker of justice" in the form of the local metropolitan police force. Yet the truth was doubly frustrating... not simply with struggling finances, but with the added futility of acquiring leads, and ascending to that crucial step to bring down the Umbrella corporation.
Meanwhile, though the occasional minor bit of news reached them through Carlos's governmental contacts, STARS became a defunct organization, and no longer carried the ability to open doors. Chris found work in security, Jill as a translator, and Barry carried a stable job back in Vancouver BC, seemingly determined to disconnect himself from any further involvement.
Leon, either truly dedicated or seemingly indifferent, continued to pursue the active life of a police officer. Though initially hesitant, he found work in suburbs of Portland, and reestablished himself a mere ten minute drive away. He made a pilgrimage to their forefront every weekend seemingly, blowing through the door with the reckless abandon of a surefooted occupant. He seemed to spend more time on Claire's couch than his own, though still conscious enough to inquire whether some trivial thing could be left overnight. Trifle things. A movie, a sweatshirt, a toothbrush for the nights when he passed out and had to rush.
He had yet to take the hint that his presence was more than welcome, if not expected. There were times when Claire would wake for class only to find a sprawled and bed-mussed Leon wedged on her worn davenport. That brought back memories of more than year ago... Leon on a different couch, a sleeping girl slumped alongside him...
A year ago.
"Jesus H. Christ," she muttered, flipping the channel from CNN's Iraqi prison abuse scandals and her beloved cartoon network. Occasionally, there would be some bullshit story linking Umbrella to some terrorist organization a half a world away; the last one had gone as far to speculate on the a possible connection that the "biological disturbance" in Raccoon City was the product of diabolical schemes hatched by Osama bin Laden. Or was it Saddam Hussein? Claire was a little foggy on whomever the media's scapegoat was that week.
After watching a good ten minutes of "Inuyasha," Claire heard the light and familiar tread of Jill's footsteps down the wooden staircase. It was close to 1am, but Jill had been working fairly irregularly of late. Still in her professional work attire which consisted of "corporate slut," executive power suit, Jill Valentine was every hot-blooded male's wet dream.
"Don't you have school tomorrow?" Her voice was reminiscent and oddly parental in tone. Claire finally turned to face her, noting that she did look much older with her hair pulled back. The glare of the tv provoked the hollows and contours of her cheekbones, almost eerily.
"Yeah, but it's a late lecture. Bio, plus a lab. I could shoot myself."
"Ooh, one of those, huh? Hope they grade on a curve."
"How do you think I passed last term?" Smirking, Jill eased onto the couch, helping herself to a bag of Doritos. Claire observed how poised she was even in relaxation. Perhaps poise wasn't the proper term... she just looked ready and alert at the drop of a hat. Or perhaps she's distracted. What the hell is she doing down here anyway? Not that she didn't mind the company, but it was Jill's custom to "greet" Chris when she returned home. Visiting the cave at one in the morning bespoke of something...different.
Then, if to further boggle her mind, the equally familiar footsteps of one Chris Redfield became apparent. This time, Claire muted the screen, perplexed and a little taken back at the sudden intrusion.
Jill, however, seemed to expect this. She delicately nibbled on another dorito, waving for him to join them on the couch.
"What the hell is this, a damn convention?" Claire maneuvered enough to let her brother's considerable form fit alongside the couch. Instead of answering, he playfully positioned himself lengthwise, with his head resting on Jill's lap and his legs dangling on Claire.
"Nah, we just wanted to see what you were up to. It's LONELY up there." Unamused, Claire pushed off his bare legs, consciously aware of how much hair he possessed. Jill chuckled, brushing off some imaginary lint on his shirt. The intimacy of the gesture unnerved Claire, but not so much that she could pin point the reason.
"She has a lecture tomorrow," Jill informed him as if it were the most vital of information.
"Oh yeah? How's that going?" Both heads looked back to the other end of the couch, focusing on the disheveled Redfield. Claire shrugged, smothering the impulse to not only return the sound, but increase the volume to undocumented levels.
"It's fine. I have a mid term on Friday, and registration for Spring term is next week." She made a silent plea for the financial aid to go over smoothly. Last time, some smug bastard had given her trouble due to the fact that she had an unverified and therefore undocumented work history in the past year. How was she supposed to explain Raccoon City, and the subsequent aftermath regarding imprisonment on a military base in god knows where, followed by an unplanned "layover" in Antarctica, and concluded by a stint in Europe for the obligatory three months.
"So you're going to be busy the next few weeks." It was a statement, and not a question. Annoyed, Claire pulled out her hair band and tossed it at him.
"Yeah, I guess. But no more than I have been the last five. What is this?" This time she eyed Jill, hoping she'd get a straight answer.
Then, as if to add fuel to the fire, the trodden steps of Leon followed suit. By this time, Claire knew that something was up. A midnight gathering of the masses could only be provoked by news... but the uninspired and lack of intensity seemed to dilute her fears. If this was something serious, wouldn't Chris have stopped flirting with Jill, or at the very least, have warranted something other than threadbare boxers and a t-shirt?
Then, of course, there were her cartoons.
Certainly, she enjoyed a good dramatic piece of cinema. "Lord of the Rings" became a ready favorite. Yet whenever she plopped herself down in front of the tube, it became standard to have the late night shows of cartoon network on at an almost deafening level. Chris, well aware of his sibling's customary habits of old, did nothing to dissuade this behavior. Nor did he actively participate in a shared viewing. He was more of the sports, news, and The Man Show variety.
"Cocks and jocks," as Claire fondly dubbed it. Thus, due to the differing tastes of the Redfield residence, it was agreed upon to segregate viewing areas. Chris held out for the den and adjoining kitchenette area, while Claire holed herself in the basement. Leon, in his infinite wisdom, christened the area with a dorm-style mini fridge that accommodated a six pack and a hefty dose of Hershey kisses.
Despite the onslaught of umbrella and the malignant shadow it cast over much of their minds, the Redfield home front was as much of a station point of regrouping as could be said for the small band of refugees of Raccoon City. Having returned from Europe a mere eight months prior, the Redfield siblings had set upon founding a sort of meeting point for the remainder of their small band. Granted, Portland, Or wasn't exactly the focal point of terrorist activity, nor was it swimming in intelligence leads. But both Claire and Chris had spent a great many years of comfort growing to adolescence in said house. Never mind that the ongoing maintenance was growing astronomical. Old houses, no matter how sentimental, meant old pipes, old appliances. And bills. Bills bills bills.
"Couldn't you just sell your body for a few weeks?" Leon had suggested. "Get some cash, cover your student loans, build your own methamphetamine lab?" And this coming from one self-proclaimed "ass kicker of justice" in the form of the local metropolitan police force. Yet the truth was doubly frustrating... not simply with struggling finances, but with the added futility of acquiring leads, and ascending to that crucial step to bring down the Umbrella corporation.
Meanwhile, though the occasional minor bit of news reached them through Carlos's governmental contacts, STARS became a defunct organization, and no longer carried the ability to open doors. Chris found work in security, Jill as a translator, and Barry carried a stable job back in Vancouver BC, seemingly determined to disconnect himself from any further involvement.
Leon, either truly dedicated or seemingly indifferent, continued to pursue the active life of a police officer. Though initially hesitant, he found work in suburbs of Portland, and reestablished himself a mere ten minute drive away. He made a pilgrimage to their forefront every weekend seemingly, blowing through the door with the reckless abandon of a surefooted occupant. He seemed to spend more time on Claire's couch than his own, though still conscious enough to inquire whether some trivial thing could be left overnight. Trifle things. A movie, a sweatshirt, a toothbrush for the nights when he passed out and had to rush.
He had yet to take the hint that his presence was more than welcome, if not expected. There were times when Claire would wake for class only to find a sprawled and bed-mussed Leon wedged on her worn davenport. That brought back memories of more than year ago... Leon on a different couch, a sleeping girl slumped alongside him...
A year ago.
"Jesus H. Christ," she muttered, flipping the channel from CNN's Iraqi prison abuse scandals and her beloved cartoon network. Occasionally, there would be some bullshit story linking Umbrella to some terrorist organization a half a world away; the last one had gone as far to speculate on the a possible connection that the "biological disturbance" in Raccoon City was the product of diabolical schemes hatched by Osama bin Laden. Or was it Saddam Hussein? Claire was a little foggy on whomever the media's scapegoat was that week.
After watching a good ten minutes of "Inuyasha," Claire heard the light and familiar tread of Jill's footsteps down the wooden staircase. It was close to 1am, but Jill had been working fairly irregularly of late. Still in her professional work attire which consisted of "corporate slut," executive power suit, Jill Valentine was every hot-blooded male's wet dream.
"Don't you have school tomorrow?" Her voice was reminiscent and oddly parental in tone. Claire finally turned to face her, noting that she did look much older with her hair pulled back. The glare of the tv provoked the hollows and contours of her cheekbones, almost eerily.
"Yeah, but it's a late lecture. Bio, plus a lab. I could shoot myself."
"Ooh, one of those, huh? Hope they grade on a curve."
"How do you think I passed last term?" Smirking, Jill eased onto the couch, helping herself to a bag of Doritos. Claire observed how poised she was even in relaxation. Perhaps poise wasn't the proper term... she just looked ready and alert at the drop of a hat. Or perhaps she's distracted. What the hell is she doing down here anyway? Not that she didn't mind the company, but it was Jill's custom to "greet" Chris when she returned home. Visiting the cave at one in the morning bespoke of something...different.
Then, if to further boggle her mind, the equally familiar footsteps of one Chris Redfield became apparent. This time, Claire muted the screen, perplexed and a little taken back at the sudden intrusion.
Jill, however, seemed to expect this. She delicately nibbled on another dorito, waving for him to join them on the couch.
"What the hell is this, a damn convention?" Claire maneuvered enough to let her brother's considerable form fit alongside the couch. Instead of answering, he playfully positioned himself lengthwise, with his head resting on Jill's lap and his legs dangling on Claire.
"Nah, we just wanted to see what you were up to. It's LONELY up there." Unamused, Claire pushed off his bare legs, consciously aware of how much hair he possessed. Jill chuckled, brushing off some imaginary lint on his shirt. The intimacy of the gesture unnerved Claire, but not so much that she could pin point the reason.
"She has a lecture tomorrow," Jill informed him as if it were the most vital of information.
"Oh yeah? How's that going?" Both heads looked back to the other end of the couch, focusing on the disheveled Redfield. Claire shrugged, smothering the impulse to not only return the sound, but increase the volume to undocumented levels.
"It's fine. I have a mid term on Friday, and registration for Spring term is next week." She made a silent plea for the financial aid to go over smoothly. Last time, some smug bastard had given her trouble due to the fact that she had an unverified and therefore undocumented work history in the past year. How was she supposed to explain Raccoon City, and the subsequent aftermath regarding imprisonment on a military base in god knows where, followed by an unplanned "layover" in Antarctica, and concluded by a stint in Europe for the obligatory three months.
"So you're going to be busy the next few weeks." It was a statement, and not a question. Annoyed, Claire pulled out her hair band and tossed it at him.
"Yeah, I guess. But no more than I have been the last five. What is this?" This time she eyed Jill, hoping she'd get a straight answer.
Then, as if to add fuel to the fire, the trodden steps of Leon followed suit. By this time, Claire knew that something was up. A midnight gathering of the masses could only be provoked by news... but the uninspired and lack of intensity seemed to dilute her fears. If this was something serious, wouldn't Chris have stopped flirting with Jill, or at the very least, have warranted something other than threadbare boxers and a t-shirt?