Coping
by:
Aoi Kusanagi
How's it look? I dunno _exactly_; but it looks like you got a flat. The stereotypical grease-monkey wipes his oil-slicked hands on a soiled rag before handing me a small yet prickly object. A thumbtack. A damned thumbtack. Seems to me someone's sabotaged yer ride. I groan as I palm the tack then threw the unnecessary thing off to the side, staring at it as it somersaults several times along the charcoal gray asphalt. No doubt the culprits were those delinquent punks from the last town I stayed in. Damn kids got on my nerves the minute I pulled into the Motel Six last night. I should have known better than to leave the car in the outdoor parking lot with them prowling the evening streets like a pack of wolves. I shouldn't have taken the West Point route rather than the Long Island route I shouldn't have accepted that job with the FBI I shouldn't have drove into Raccoon City There's no use thinking about it, I tell myself, mentally. What's done can't be undone. And besides, I have other priorities in life right now rather than to mope around with my shoulda-woulda-coulda's. I glance over my shoulder at the dark red 1996 Toyota Camry (trust me, I did _not_ pick it out) getting its fill of gasoline at the service station's pump. Starting with a certain little blonde girl. I turn back to glance at the mechanic. How long will it take to repair or replace the tire? I'm asking because the service station is one of those random types, the kinds that appear on the side of the highway after you've driven for hours, miles outside of normal civilization. The damned place is packed. There's about twelve other cars waiting in the auto-body repair shop's lot, yet there's only about 6 mechanics. Eh, it looks like this'll take _at least_ an hour, with the services unmanned around heah and all, the mechanic says with an infamous New Yawk' accent. I sigh. he adds. It's alright. I'll be waiting around here. Just come look for me when everything's done. The grease-monkey begins to step away but pauses before he's not too far away from my own departing figure. What's your name?
Alrighty then, Leon, I'll see you in an hour or so. I stuff my chilled hands into the pockets of my plain blue jeans. When I sigh out, I notice the cool vapor of my breath and finally take into consideration just how chilly an afternoon in the state of New York could be during October. Especially when I don't have a jacket on. Shit. Why did I leave it in the car? Shivering and rattling the keys in my pockets with my hands, I make my way back over to the rented car. I hurriedly open it, hop in, and slam the door shut. A smile creases my lips as I am welcomed by the car's heater. I hold my hands near the radiator to warm them while glancing to the one buckled to the passenger seat beside me. She looks like an angel. A sweet, little angel. Her hair is still golden and kept back with a headband, and her big blue eyes gleam with innocence. So what's the news? she asks me. Looks like we're gonna be waiting for at least an hour before we can hit the road towards the Big Apple again. She groans. I know Sherry, I know I wanna get out of here too. But my voice falters. Sherry is frowning gently and I can't bear to look at her when she's like that. She's been my responsibility since our departure of the horror that was Raccoon City, a town way out in the Midwest. Everywhere you went, someone or something in that town was infected with something whipped up, called the G-Virus, by the pharmaceutical giant Umbrella Corporation. To put it in light terms, the G-Virus turned anything it contaminates into a zombie; Hell, even the _crows_ were infected. Don't believe me? Try looking for Raccoon City. The government ordered the eradication of the city and the damned place was literally nuked right off the map just days after the viral outbreak. Gotta love Uncle Sam. Fresh outta police academy, my first station as a rookie was the Raccoon City Police Department. I was so excited about it, I slipped on my issued blue uniform, hopped in my carroty jeep, and drove from Chicago to Raccoon City on a tank of gas, hoping to arrive there the night before I was expected to show up. To this day, I regret showing up in that town at dusk Damn you, Umbrella. But we have to take care of business. I offer her a smile though it betrays my thoughts of that nightmare just months ago. We can't make it to New York City on a flat tire now can we? I add. I understand, she says with a nod and a little smile. Sherry is so understanding and mature. I have a niece around the same age as her, and the difference between them in terms of maturity is incredible. I don't blame her for being such, though. She was forced to grow up too soon, too fast. Having lost both her parents, William and Annette Birkin, _and_ her home, she wasn't left with much of a choice. Lucky for her, she was taken under the wing of a remarkable young woman who had escaped with us from the clutches of death within Raccoon. Claire Redfield. Around the same time I arrived in town on that unforgettable night, Claire had been looking for her older brother Chris, who was a member of the elite S.T.A.R.S squad of the Raccoon PD responsible for the unveiling of Umbrella's involvement in a mansion accident in the Arklay Mountains just on the outskirts of the town. She ended up with goose-eggs and had to escape with me. What? You think I was going to turn tail and run after I shot the first of many zombies in the forehead without looking for other survivors? Not likely. That's not what a cop does. Well a _good_ cop anyway. Chief Brian Irons not included. I find myself staring at the beautiful forestry landscape of Upstate New York ahead, on the other side of the highway. It's autumn and the trees' leaves have taken on beautiful shades of orange, gold, and dark red. Dark red. Just like Claire's hair God I miss her. After the horrific events that forced us out of the zombie-fied town, Claire, Sherry and I did not even make it out of the state when Claire announced she was going on her search for Chris again. Sherry was devastated but she understood. The score with Umbrella had to be settled. In order to do that, we had to regroup and plan out our strategy against that billion dollar corporation. Sounds like an episode of the A-Team, doesn't it? Anyway, that's a big part of the reason why Sherry and I are heading to the city that never sleeps', to settle into yet another temporary home so that I can get to have a point of contact and to plan things out for an attack against Umbrella with an old friend of mine named Ark Thompson. Last I heard, Claire arrived in Europe and immediately began her hunt for Chris, rumored to be in England with the other S.T.A.R.S members. I haven't been able to get into contact with her but I figured I'd give her my e-mail address in case something came up. I'll have to check my account when Sherry and I make it to New York. She'd better be okay I hear laughing just outside of the car and I look to see the source. A woman and a man are traipsing out of a diner located right beside the gas station. I didn't even notice it when I pulled in. And it's been literally hours since Sherry and I had breakfast at IHOP Hey Sherry. I look to her and she looks to me. You hungry?
There we go. Some enthusiasm. Maybe this hour could pass quickly. Great! Just put on your vest; it's kinda cold out there. Sherry nods and unbuckles her seatbelt so that she could slip on the magenta colored sleeveless Made in Heaven' vest Claire had given her over her white turtleneck. I motion to slip on my black leather bomber jacket but I pause. I have to put on my holster. You go on ahead and find us a seat. She doesn't argue and skitters ahead into the diner. When the coast is clear, I slip my arms into the straps of the tan colored holster and settle it comfortably on my shoulders, then I slip the jacket over it. I don't like putting on my holsters around Sherry nor do I even like letting her see the weapons I carry with me everywhere I go. It's bad enough the possibility of Umbrella agents following us is practically a damn _reality_ nowadays. Why worry her to death and remind her of it? Shutting down the car and gathering my keys and wallet, I step out and into the diner. I am greeted with the smooth sounds of Taylor Dane's vocals from a vintage jukebox, the smell of something _good_ cooking on a grill, and plenty of looks from the patrons within. Some are long enough to even be considered as stares. I suppose it's nothing bad. I mean, it's not everyday a cop working for the United States government strolls on into a diner with a skull design on the back of his black jacket like some sort of American badass. Thing is, I don't feel like a true badass. I feel more like a cross between the WWF's Undertaker and The Fonz from Happy Days. The next thing I notice is how stock, and crowded, the place appears to be. It looks like one of those 24 hour diners that appear on TV shows, with the cooking on a grill right behind a wide horizontal counter decorated with several yellow and red containers for ketchup and mustard, and with red stools for seating. Waitresses looking not too young and not too thin wear those funny looking white hats and white aprons over their neutral colored uniforms; they're there to bring food to and take orders from customers sitting in the booths along the window. I swear, I think I just strolled into the Peach Pit. Over here! Sherry calls me over from her place atop one of the red stools at the counter while patting the empty seat beside her, on her left. I step over and deposit myself into the seat, immediately taking notice of the slice of apple pie before her. No fair, you started without me! She giggles sheepishly. I'm sorry but I was too hungry to wait for too long. I ruffle her hair. It's okay kiddo. You can get anything you want. And indeed she does. Happily and without a care in the world, Sherry orders a chicken fillet sandwich, onion rings, and a tall vanilla malt. I settle down with a hamburger and fries and a coke. I watch her as we eat and share a casual conversation. For the first time since we arrived on the East Coast, she seems at peace and like a normal girl. I hope she remains that way forever, if not for a while. I can only imagine how tough life could end up being for her. So have you ever been to New York City before, Sherry? She shakes her head no. Have you? Yeah, but only twice when I was younger. An aunt of mine lived in Queens, but then she moved to a suburb in New Jersey when she divorced her husband. One of Sherry's blonde eyebrows tips upwards. Queens? Isn't that a separate city from New York City, though? she asks me. I shake a finger at her. Queens is a borough of New York City. She shoots me one of those blank stares, the kinds pets give you when they don't understand a damn thing you're talking about. Sort of like a district; New York has _five_ of them. Brooklyn, Bronx, Queens, Staten Island, and Manhattan. We'll be staying in Manhattan, I add for elucidation. Wow. I'd make a helluva geography teacher. Her mouth forms an O and she nods in understanding. I notice a speck of the tartar sauce she used for her onion rings on the corner of her mouth. I gesture to the same spot on my face so that she takes it into account and she panics—which I find amusing for some strange reason. I'll never understand females. Completely anyway—I _did_ grow up with two older sisters after all. Females panic for silly things, like a smudge on their face or a bug crawling on their sleeve. But when a tough situation arises, they're so calm and cool. Guess that's why _they're_ the ones that give birth. My chuckling continues on when I notice she has no napkins near her person. Ooh, this is _not_ funny Leon! A cute guy could be watching! she says with a pout. Oh, come on now. It's not _that_ bad. I blindly extend my arm out to the side on the counter to reach for the silver napkin holder to help her out. My fingers clasp firmly about it. It's warm and slender and—wait a minute. That's not a napkin dispenser.
I turn my head to look and realize that I've completely covered the
hand of the woman beside me with my own. Her hand is very firm yet velvety
and flawless, as if she never had a scrape or callus on them a day in her
life. It's alright, sir, the woman remarks, also pulling back her hand. She sounds cosmopolitan yet youthful, in an Angelina Jolie sort of way. And she smells good too, like vanilla or something. What's the matter with you, Kennedy? I ask myself when I tense up, feeling her eyes on me. I side-glance towards Sherry first, to see what her reaction to this is but all I see is a blonde pre-teen daintily nibbling away at an onion ring. I throw all of my caution into the wind and look to her. Casually and slowly, of course. She's a beauty. To say the least. Her silk-like hair is platinum blonde in color and much lighter than Sherry's; it's cut into flirty angled layers that frame her face and brush along her lips, throat, and clavicle. And her eyes. Man. They're bright, turquoise and _striking_. If looks can kill, then by George, this gal's a friggin' uzi. The corner of her glossed lips turn upwards some, forming a small, sheepish grin. She mouths a mute in salutation. I breathlessly respond. Damn, I must sound like a complete dork. Is she your little sister? the woman asks, in reference to the other blonde on the other side of me. Nah, she's— I pause before I can reveal anything further. Gorgeous looks or not, she could be an Umbrella spy. Or maybe I'm just paranoid? I dont know. But I know one thing: I'd be damned if I revealed anything that could endanger Sherry. Several suits, a few of them being government officials' (right) have already bugged me about her knowing too much.' And I've had my own share of enough spies She's just the daughter of an old friend of mine currently at the West Point Military Academy nearby. Good save, Leon. You should be a CIA agent. Sherry tilts her head to the side to peer over my shoulder at the woman, and gives her a cute smile and a: before she turns back to her unfinished meal. the woman responds with a slight smile. She looks to me, though not directly in the eye. She's cute.. There's a slight decrease in the width of her smile, as if she's recalling or trying to shut out a recurring memory. She averts her gaze to the digital copy of today's New York Times on the black laptop before her on the counter. I can't help but take a peek. I notice that most of the articles relate to the NYPD (not the most loved bunch in the world, mind you). Maybe she has a boyfriend or relative in the PD or something. I guess it won't hurt to ask You got a relative in the police department? I blatantly ask her. She looks a bit shocked for a minute and swiftly minimizes the web browser. Are _you_ in the police department? I don't know why I'm interrogating her like this. I just find her toointriguing. She grins a little, musing, and moves her slender digits along the laptop's tracker ball to maximize the window again. I used to be, if you could believe that. Wow. NYPD, huh? What happened? Let's just say I was relocated. To where? Is what I want to ask her. But I think I've invaded her personal space enough as it is. Sherry leans her head forward, to direct a query to the woman. Does your computer have e-mail capabilities? The woman responds to her with a nod; and Sherry nudges me with her elbow before whispering, Ask her if you can check your e-mail.
What? You DO need to check it, right? In case you-know-who might send you a message? Yeah but, I whisper back, I just can't ask a complete stranger to use her laptop Don't worry about it. The woman's announcement almost makes me leap outta my skin. She simpers while sliding her laptop across the counter towards me. Did she just wink? Or am I delirious? Thank you, I tell her. I won't be long. Take your time. She takes to stirring some sweet-smelling coffee whilst I log onto my e-mail server. There are several messages in my inbox, almost all of them from those government officials' or from Ark. I decide against reading them right then and there and I almost click on the link. But an inbox message captures my attention. It's from a salvo_rachelle@mtfac.rockfort.or.uk'. I don't know anyone from the United Kingdom, let alone a Rachelle Salvo. But it's the subject line of the message that gets to me. It simply reads: I move the mouse cursor over the link and click it. Damn, I'm almost shaking!
Sherry notices my dubious expression and tries to peer over my shoulder at the laptop monitor. What? What's wrong? Sherry, we don't have time to waste. I don't bother explaining the urgency of the e-mail Claire just sent me. But we're not done... After quickly logging out of the server and sliding the laptop back to its owner with a quick thank you, I fumble around a bit as I frantically dig into the back pocket of my jeans for my wallet. _We_ have to get to Manhattan as soon as possible! The look on her face is downright helpless. Leon, wh-what's going on? Tell me, she pleads. I slap a crisp 20 onto the counter, not bothering to wait for my change. It's Claire. She's in trouble. Sherry lets out a small gasp and hops down from her stool to put on the vest she removed during our meal. But what about the car? Is it ready? Dammit! I was so fixated on the blonde and on the emergency e-mail that I totally forgot about the car! I rush over to the diner's window and crane my head to gaze over at the repair shop's lot. The Camry is still there. With its flat. Shit. I release my frustrations and slam my fist against the frame of the door. Several of the people in the diner fall silent and stare at me but I feel too frustrated and powerless to care. Claire's out in some place called Rockfort Island Prison, trying desperately to escape with her life; and I'm stuck at a fucking service station in the Hudson Valley. Ain't life fucking grand? Excuse me. It's the voice of the generous blonde woman. I turn about-face to look to her getting up from her seat and straighten out a crease in the simple and tight wife-beater she wears beneath a black leather jacket, with some blue jeans—my kinda style. What could she possibly want now? I couldn't help but overhear, but Are you trying to get to Manhattan? she asks, recalling my slight outburst towards Sherry. I can only nod. I'm on my way there too, she says softly while she approaches the door. Perhaps I can give you a lift? I glance over my shoulder at Sherry, for her consent. She nods her head, several times. The blonde woman is already on her way out of the door when I respond to her. Sherry and I follow her towards her vehicle of choice, a sleek and silver 1998 Subaru Impreza 22B, post-haste. I guess so. But who are you? I ask her.
After releasing the alarm lock to her car via a switch on her key chain,
she looks to me with the faintest hint of a smug grin on her lips. Aya
Brea. FBI.
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