(Game
One)
Author's Notes:
Okay, okay, I know I'm too much of a perfectionist, but I simply wasn't
happy with my original work, "Resident Evil Plotline." So, I had to rework it... it was either that
or go insane, and fun as insanity is, those gray jackets they give you at the
hospital never fit right. The sleeves
are always WAY too long, and you have to tie the cuffs behind your back to keep
them out of the way. So, enjoy! I'm going to have to erase the old one to
avoid SPAM—fair warning! Oh, yeah: * *
* denotes the beginning/end of a flashback.
And by the way, seeing as I don't have a Game Cube and will probably
never be able to afford one, this is based on the original first game, not the
new release.
CAUTION: If you know every single word of either the game or the novels by Stephani Danielle Perry, you may get a little bored, but not much. My (new) story is designed to be different from the books, as well as fledge out the plot of the game, so you won't feel too much like "I've read this before—one thousand times," but don't blame me if you know the story of the game so well you get unhappy with this. Anyway, I've tried to stay away from the ideas in the novels, just borrow a few, so I hope it doesn't happen... if you're still interested after the first few chapters, keep reading, okay?
Disclaimers:
I don't own Resident Evil or anything else copyrighted mentioned within.
Chapter One
The Case
Jill Valentine was soaking in a warm bathtub full of bubbles, trying to release the stress and strain of the day. She'd poured over the case files on the cannibal murderers until her head had been ready to explode, but she'd found nothing new, and neither had the other members of S.T.A.R.S.
She shook her head, sliding down deeper in the water. The death toll was close to a dozen by now, not counting a few missing hikers who'd snuck past the police blockades in the Arklay Mountains, looking for thrills. The Raccoon Police Department had feared something along those lines might occur, ever since Raccoon Weekly had published an article about possible "monsters" in the mountain forest, and saying things like "looking for adventure? Check it out!" The three teenagers hadn't been seen in almost two weeks… and, with each passing day, Jill was afraid that when the S.T.A.R.S. did find them, they'd be just as dead as every other person who'd traveled into the mountains recently.
Jill shuddered, rubbing her arms beneath the warm water's surface. The murders were definitely the most bizarre ones she'd heard of since Charles Manson's day: bloody, mutilated bodies had been turning up, covered in multiple slashing wounds. Dead tissue had been dropped upon the victims' bodies—which was something criminal profilers called "signatures" of the perpetrators, marking each crime like a trademark—and, worst of all, every victim had been partially devoured, bite patterns formed by both human and canine jaws.
The S.T.A.R.S.—also known as the Special Tactics and Rescue Squad, an elite law enforcement unit—had been assigned to the case less than a month ago, and out of the eleven highly-capable men and women, not one extra thing had been uncovered on the criminals.
Chris Redfield, though...
Jill
sighed. Chris was probably the closest thing she had to a friend on the
S.T.A.R.S. so far; he'd been talkative since she'd made the transfer to Raccoon
City, going out of his way to make her feel welcome. He had several good
theories on the murders, and the two of them had discussed them all, hanging
out at either his apartment or hers, staying late at the station, going to the
shooting range or even out to dinner (which felt suspiciously like dating). All
of his ideas were admittedly good, but every plan he came up with had one major
flaw: Umbrella, Incorporated.
* * *
"They have to know something," Chris insisted, looking up from the files spread around Chris's kitchen table.
Jill fought back a sigh, hoping he wasn't going to start on the Umbrella Corporation again. No such luck.
"I'll bet you my next three paychecks there's someone in that organization who knows what's really going on," Chris continued.
Jill expended nearly all her will power not to stare at him like he was a mental patient in desperate need of forgotten medication. "Chris, Umbrella is the main source of prosperity in Raccoon. They supply three-fourths of the jobs. Since the murders started, people have been moving, leaving town—Umbrella's losing a lot of cash in a town they practically built themselves! If they knew ANYTHING, they would come to the police."
Chris leaned forward, staring at her earnestly. Whatever will power she had left went towards not leaning away; he was a good cop, and was becoming a great friend; she didn't want to ruin the chance at a friendly professional relationship by getting it into her head he was also pretty damned good-looking—and very single.
"Jill, listen. Remember how I told you about that mansion in the woods? It was the perfect place for the killers to hide, for their base of operations, and it's been boarded up for years—"
"Umbrella sent someone out there, Chris. Chief Irons was told it was secure, no break-ins," Jill interrupted patiently. What was he getting at?
Chris shoved a map of the blockades set up around the forest at her. "I know, Jill. But in two months, this representative from Umbrella has been the only one to enter the forest area without ending up dead or missing. Including that one cop—the guy had a gun, Jill! And this rep, this civilian from Umbrella, he moseys past the police guarding the mountain pass—who let him walk in ALONE without a second thought—then he walks straight off to the mansion three miles away, checks it all out, notes it secure, and doesn't see a goddamn thing? Jill, everyone who's gone in those woods is now dead. Unless by some chance those idiot hikers who snuck in are still in one piece. There aren't any roads; any representative from Umbrella would have been walking. And, look—the cops have been ordered to let no one past the blockade."
"So? Maybe Irons ordered him to be permitted..." Jill began, but she knew she didn't sound very convincing; Chris was finally giving her something to think about.
He shook his head, grinning, and leaned back in his chair, looking a bit satisfied that his theory was sinking in. "No. If that guy had died, it would have been on Irons' head. From a political standpoint, that would have been stupid, and politics is about the only time the moron uses his brain. Irons would have at least ordered an escort. The only other angle is this guy snuck into the woods. Which I doubt, obvious reasons—trespassing charges, killers on the loose. Either the guy's dead and Irons is keeping it a secret for his own sake, or there never was anyone representing Umbrella who went to check out that mansion."
"What if the guy is dead?" Jill wanted to know.
"Then there's no way they could know the mansion was secure. And I don't think it could have been kept from the press—cops couldn't keep their mouths shut the last three dead bodies, so why would they now? The police have strict orders not to go far enough into the woods to even have been near the house; they'd have found his corpse in the outskirts. Besides, if he's missing, Umbrella should be in an uproar. Should be reporting him gone like the hikers.
"Jill,
they KNOW something. They KNOW what's going on."
* * *
Jill
sighed again, blowing foamy bubbles onto her bathroom floor. Umbrella's lying
made no economic sense. Not that the
case made any sense at all, either. And
as far as economic intelligence... well, the mansion itself had entirely blown
that. It had been built by Lord Oswald
Spencer, one of the founders of the Umbrella corporation. Originally, it was supposed to have been a
mountainous retreat for top executives of the growing company, though there was
talk at the time it might have become the Umbrella Head Quarters. Then it had been boarded up not long after
it was finished, for no real reason besides a whim of Spencer's. Even though Umbrella could probably have
handled the loss of cash, the whole thing was about as logical financially as
the theory of Chris's...
* * *
Angela Cortez, a tall Hispanic woman, strolled into the S.T.A.R.S. office, a bunch of papers and a magazine in her hand. The Alpha Team, consisting of Joseph Frost, Brad Vickers, Barry Burton, Captain Wesker, Chris, and Jill, were the only branch of the S.T.A.R.S. on duty. "Hey, guys," Angela called.
"Doll Face," Joseph said, blowing her a kiss.
Angela promptly threw up her middle finger, scowling. Jill raised an eyebrow at Chris; Angela was typically a sweet person. "Joseph's ex," Chris whispered to her with a wink. That explained it. Joseph hit on anything that was female and human, those being his only two requirements; but Angela was probably a desirable catch for half the cops in the building. She was pretty, tough, and more competent than a lot of the police officers; the S.T.A.R.S. members—even Wesker—sometimes asked her to do research on a case, or give her advice on procedure. Barry had asked her to "keep her eyes peeled" around the case files a while back.
"I got the information you wanted," Angela told them. "On the mansion." Barry, Chris, Jill and Joseph gathered around her eagerly. Brad didn't look up; he was trying to fix the old communication system again. Wesker, however, glanced up from his desk, frowning. Chris had pitched the theory that the killers might be using the mansion as a base of operation to the captain, but Wesker hadn't bought it, and looked displeased that Chris hadn't ignored the idea as Wesker had suggested.
"It was contracted to be built by the Spencer guy back in the early to mid-sixties, yes," Angela continued, confirming what they'd already learned. "Spencer was, however, a total kook, just like the co-founder, Ashford. Probably bipolar, but I doubt people really acknowledged the disease back then, definitely not in rich, publicly-recognized people like Spencer. He was always sure the FBI was after him or something. Set up all kinds of booby traps and mechanical puzzles like the kind of bad horror film you see on Mystery Science Theatre. Even created some kind of freakily-designed exit at the back door, so no one could get out without special keys. He was going to do the same thing with the front entrances, but he closed the place up, no explanation as to why, before he could. He went off to build some facility in Europe, the Umbrella Headquarters in Paris, I think, and was rarely seen after that. Some people speculated his departure was due to the fact that the architect who built the place—George Trevor, he helped build the police station, the clock tower, and that stupid gate on the way to City Hall—and the booby traps as well, disappeared rather mysteriously. They found his corpse in a cave in the Arklay Mountains about six years later. If Spencer was as crazy as he seemed, it's no wonder. Probably wanted the only other person who knew the mansion's secrets dead, and took off when someone got too close to finding out he'd offed Trevor."
"Can you say 'Prozac'?" Jill joked.
They laughed. Wesker cleared his throat, frowning over at them still. "Anyway," Angela said hastily, "I found some floor plans of the mansion. And, Chris? I think you were right." She was whispering now, hoping that Wesker wouldn't hear. "I doubt the mansion's boarded up. I called up, and asked about the place. Something tells me there's more than meets the eye."
"Strange they'd say anything to the Raccoon City Chief of Police's personal secretary," Wesker said loudly, obviously irritated. Even Brad was paying attention now, peering at the other Alphas from beneath the communication panel.
"Ah, but I wasn't a bloody secretary, chum," she said, instantly adopting an exaggerated English accent. "I was a British realtor, looking to buy the old place for a client who admired quaint country charm and the mountains. Lady who answered the phone seemed to think she didn't really know if it was condemned or not, then. Went to get her supervisor and I hung up."
"That doesn't mean anything," Brad cut in suddenly. He flushed as all eyes turned on him. He was basically a shy, quiet, cowardly guy who didn't look as though he was brave enough to be a door-to-door salesman, let alone a member of the Alphas. "I mean, you said you were a realtor, right? Maybe... maybe she thought if she'd said it was a piece of shit, you wouldn't be interested in buying the place."
"I'm not so sure it isn't worth checking out," Chris said stubbornly. "Even if they thought she was a potential buyer, it would be a huge liability to say something contrary to what they told the cops." Barry nodded agreement. Jill thought Brad had a point, but even the suggestion that the mansion was in decent condition was worth checking out.
Brad quickly threw himself back under the communication panel, muttering about how Richard Aiken had some explaining to do on the screwed-up wires (though he sounded about as threatening as a two-year-old). "Brad's right," Wesker said, returning his sunglass-covered eyes to the mounds of paperwork lying in orderly stacks on his desk. "Realtors won't buy a condemned mansion, Angela."
She rolled her eyes as soon as she was sure he wasn't looking. (She probably got a lot of practice with that; she was, after all, Chief Irons' personal secretary.) Then she handed Chris some of the papers. "Here. Floor plans, courtesy of Architectural Digest magazine."
She
left.
* * *
Jill
hadn't noticed how long she'd been in the bathtub until the water was cold and
most of the bubbles were gone. She quickly scrubbed her hair and skin and got
out, wrapping her body in a towel. Her thoughts turned to just a few hours ago,
when the eleven S.T.A.R.S. had been confronted by that fat, asinine blowhard
who was Chief of Police.
* * *
"I think it's time to send Bravo team in," Chief Irons said. "There's no need to postpone the search; no reason we shouldn't try to find the missing hikers with another sweep, to double-check," he'd said, lifting his double chin arrogantly. "They can set down in the northeast section of the forest and search on foot."
The others were outraged. There were dozens of reasons, the others protested (especially the Alphas), why the Bravos shouldn't go traipsing about the forest alone. The Bravos consisted of Enrico Marini, Forest Speyer, Richard Aiken, Kenneth Sullivan, Edward Dewey, and Rebecca Chambers. Rebecca was only eighteen, and had never been on a field mission. Richard still hadn't fixed the communication system. Kenneth was supposed to be looking through the forensic reports, seeing if his chemical expertise could help him spot something the RPD had missed. Not to mention the number of deaths, the violent nature of the attacks, the fact that little was known about the perpetrators, and that earlier fly-bys of the area had produced no information on the missing and studies tended to show that people missing for as long as the hikers had been tended to stay missing. Irons wouldn't hear any of it, and, surprisingly enough, Wesker seemed to agree; he didn't even look pissed off. "Bravo should set down first, and they can always call in the Alphas as backup. The Alphas can do a search of their own if the less-experienced S.T.A.R.S. find nothing."
"We've already found nothing," Joseph muttered. "Several times." He didn't look any happier than the rest of them, though he'd kept insisting they still search the forest zone for the hikers, not wanting to give up. Most of the S.T.A.R.S. were in agreement that the lost group of teenagers who'd ignored the warning about the murders and snuck past the blockades set up by the Raccoon Police Department would probably be a better task at this point for the other cops; the S.T.A.R.S. were better trained for this type of case, and the search was becoming futile. There wasn't much in the way of crime in Raccoon other than the multiple murders, and the police would have much better luck on a search-and-rescue mission anyway, than on a case they'd been unable to solve or even slow in months and had done a lot of tiring work on already. The RPD wasn't going anywhere in the murders, and the S.T.A.R.S. weren't finding much else on the hikers; time to switch tasks. It was obvious to everyone but Irons. Great.
Chris tried the Umbrella mansion tactic again. "Sir, couldn't they at least start the search from the mansion? It's nearly in the center of the attacks."
Irons glared at him. Irons downright hated Chris, and it showed. Not that Chris cared. He had about as much respect for Irons as the Palestinians had for the Israelis. Irons didn't like anyone who let it show they were smarter than him, and many people had had such an opportunity. One such person was Chris.
"Umbrella gave me their word of honor it's boarded up, Redfield," he snapped. "Go babble your cloak-and-dagger theories to someone who's dumb enough to give a shit."
Irons turned and left. "'Dumb enough to give a shit'?" Chris mocked. "The guy must have a lot of problems with diarrhea, then."
They
had chuckled at the time, but Jill had definitely felt laughing wasn't a good
idea. If anything happened to the Bravos, she'd shove her S.T.A.R.S. badge up
the incompetent Chief's ass.
* * *
Jill had been blow-drying her hair when the phone rang, and had barely heard it. She switched off the hairdryer and picked it up right before the machine answered. "Hello?"
"Jill?" It was Chris. And he sounded upset. "Get your ass to the station, fifteen minutes or less."
"Uh, okay," she muttered. Then to Chris she said, "What's going on? Did I forget Brad's birthday? Cuz I really don't—"
Chris's
words made her blood run cold. "It's the Bravos, Jill. They've disappeared."
End Chapter One
Well? Whatcha think? E-mail me at raingoddess_47@hotmail.com if you don't have
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any praise, flames, comments or criticism, or even all three. Someone reviewed
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what your verdict on my fic is; I just want to write the best stories possible,
and input is what makes that happen. I'll reply to all reviews and e-mails, but
it may take me a while. Don't worry, though—I'll get back to you.
Peace, Harmony and Video Games,
Rain Child