PROLOGUE
"When I was a kid, I used to think about the kind of man I'd grow up to be…I never thought my life would turn out this way…" - Leon Kennedy
Chicago –
Great Lakes University: Department of Virology, 2016
"What are you saying here, Professor?!"
The pixie pretty face looked up from her cup of steaming java chip latte. She was grinning huge and excited. The little lab coat she wore emphasized the ageless beauty of her. She might have been fifteen, she might have been fifty. Hers was the kind of birdlike sweetness that transcended long after traditional Hollywood beauty had fled.
And her excitement was contagious.
"I'm saying I've started simulating a vaccine."
Curious, the companion to the pretty thing lifted a rueful brow. "A vaccine? When you don't even know what the virus is?"
The adorable grin on her elfish face was infectious…sort of like the virus she was studying. "Oh yeah. Haven't we met? I'm Rebecca Chambers. I'm kinda a genius."
The laughter was loud in the small lab. The gathering of people increased to stare at the plethora of data that was wheeling over the small screen. Rebecca gestured with one long, piano playing finger. "That's right, feast your eyes on the future kids. A potential vaccine for the A-Virus. Anyone want to be a test subject?"
Just like that, the gathering dissipated. Amused, she watched all the labcoats flee like the building was on fire. Even her erstwhile suitor, Roger, fled like she'd farted on him. Rebecca chuckled a little and turned back to watch the data loop and flash.
She didn't know all the pieces to the puzzle. Not yet. But she was learning it, quickly.
It was time to send off a report to the World Health Organization and inform them of the progress. It was time to let the world know that there was hope. She sent the email and sipped her latte and loved the pride that came with each minty swallow.
And she had no idea the horror that one simple email would bring down upon her.
Washington D.C.
Ground Zero, Post Explosion – 2016
"I can't find any survivors! I can't find any one! Are they all gone?!"
"I don't know! I don't know! Keep digging in the rubble! Oh my god…oh my GOD…the whole SWAT team!?"
"No. NO. Just keep looking, John ok? Keep looking."
Movement. Shifting.
The dark and the pain eased around the voices. The cold was insane. The air on his face was the first sign…that he was STILL ALIVE.
"Oh my GOD!" Hands on his face. He was being rolled over. There was a shimmer of light as his eyes flickered.
The face in his vision…beautiful. Beautiful and unfamiliar.
Someone pumping on his chest and breathing into his mouth. And the world SNAPPED as he came back into his head and his body. He gasped, bowing, and the person exclaimed in relief.
Blue and gold. The shimmer of smoke and debris and despair around her. Her voice as her hands stroked his face. "He's alive! Get the fucking medic!"
"Who is it? Swat?"
The voice blocked the halo of light from around her head and irritated his semi-conscious mind. He grunted in disapproval. The voice echoed around them now and hurt his ears. "No! Holy shit! It's Kennedy right?! Leon Kennedy?! The director of the DSO?"
"Yes." Her voice. Her hands on his face. "Leon? Can you hear me?"
His voice was gravely but there. "Yeah…yeah I can hear you."
"Ok, alright. You're alive. The bomb…it decimated everything it touched. You're alive. How?"
He was shaking. She gathered him closer to hold him still. "….hid. Took cover. Van."
And now he could see her SMILE. Her SMILE. It made him warmer. She breathed, "Yeah you did. You hid. You did that. Survivor right? Smart guy. Saved your fucking life. You're the only one to make it. I'm going to make sure you don't die, Leon Kennedy. We've never met before. But us survivors? We have a way of finding each other."
He grunted and turned his face. It slid over her throat and he could smell her. She smelled like lilacs…and light. And fire.
His voice dragged out of his chest. "Who are you?"
The press of that mouth to his ear. The press of that gold on his skin.
The pain of knowing he was the ONLY ONE LEFT. "I'm Valentine. Jill Valentine. A shitty way to meet, Mr. Kennedy. But a good day to be alive. Stick with me, and I'll make sure you stay that way."
The ONLY ONE LEFT…it chased him down into the cold as the pain took him under.
And Jill Valentine's hands on his face offered little solace.
Queretaro Region –
Mexico-
San Juan del Rio, 2016
The effervescent night sky was disrupted by the rapid thunder of helicopter blades. The clouds met the whirring strength of each slice and dissipated, offering the view of the moon glimpsed vaguely within the milky depths. The quiet dark heralded the witching hour to the curious crew aboard the reflective vessel.
There was no peace in the dead of the night for those who waited within the small chopper. There was only preparation. There was on expectation of battle. There were only tremors of fear and discomfort. Nearly all of the small fighting force within the chopper was wet behind the ears about what they faced.
All were nervous about the unknown enemy that awaited their arrival. All…but one. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been afraid of anything. It had been so long that fear was nearly as foreign to him now as the country he was currently in. The terrain beneath them was almost as much a mystery as nervous expectation. He hadn't been afraid in so long that even the word rang false on his ears.
It had been too long and he was too old to be afraid anymore.
The heavily accented voice of an eager recruit told the quiet interior who the man was. The voice of an excited puppy laden with a thick Spanish lilt, "Yo! You're Chris Redfield, yeah? The big hero? The Raccoon City guy?"
He shoulder bumped the man beside him, "This is Chris Redfield! You know?"
The other man looked over with interest. Both were so young. Chris wondered if, when added together, they would even equal him in age. They were both eager and fresh faced. The first one that had spoken to him had a snappy little grin that was part hero worship, part infectious good will.
The other was big eyed with glasses and a small mustache. Again, he speculated that they were both barely out of highschool. If either was old enough to buy a beer at a bar, he'd eat his assault rifle.
The first man added, "Any advice on killing the undead? They say you're a legend. That you killed like a thousand zombies with a handgun and a shovel."
Chris shook his head, smiling a little. His gloved hands held the assault rifle loosely. He was geared differently than the rest of the paramilitary force that was accompanying him. International red tape had prevented him from bringing his own team on the rescue mission turned snatch and grab. So he was working in conjunction with local forces to bring in the target and secure the hostages. It rankled and didn't feel promising.
The team was young, for starters, undertrained to boot and clearly untested against B.O.W.S. He was going in with a handful of babies, a few nervous nellies, and a whole lot of cannon fodder. What choice did he have? The suggestion of going in alone had gotten him shouted at from the rafters. H.Q. was itching to smack him around for even offering it.
They were already one undercover agent down. God forbid he went in alone and got himself killed. The BSAA would never live it down. The "legend" killed playing lone ranger? Leon Kennedy would laugh him off the map for it. Kennedy was the only idiot that ever seemed to go in under gunned and alone and come out smelling like roses.
Chris wore his BSAA uniform topped by a bullet proof tactical vest and gloves. The other members of the team were in full riot gear from masks to boots to shields. For all the good it would do them, he appreciated the effort.
Chris shifted a little where he sat, "Listen…" His voice was gravelly and thick, highlighted by a face lined with age and experience. It wasn't a classically handsome face. It was a heavy jaw liberally scattered with a nearly full beard, which tended to happen after a week and a half of not shaving, and the suggestion of something dark and probably ethnic in his background. The name, Redfield, was English and simple. The heritage with the name was long and boring. But somewhere, at some time, somebody not so boring had lain down with something dark and exotic and walked away with a baby. It was evidenced in his gypsy dark looks and the swirling blue of his eyes. The eyes were lovely, topped by thick long lashes and heavy flattering brows. The lines that fanned out from them put him on the far side of thirty, potentially the early side of forty, and told the story of laughter, loss, and survival as did the scars that peppered over his neck and left ear.
Beneath the gear, the body was big and muscled, hairy and hard. The scars were plenty, the battles that had bestowed them legion, and the victories earned. He'd gone in, survived, and saved the day more often than he'd lost. The losses were there, and haunted him, but he'd kept on going. He'd been down, way down, and come out the other side. He kept on going. It was how he honored the ones he'd lost.
He just kept going.
He did so now, hoping to encourage those around him to do the same. "You got family?"
The eager one beside him nodded, "You bet. Gotta wife. Sister. Overly protective mother."
Grinning a little, the eager guy got an elbow bump from his cohort and a chuckle. Chris didn't echo the smile. He nodded a little and answered that amusement, "Yeah? What we're up against here? These guys have one agenda: to see your world in their image. They don't care about your wife. Your mother. Your sister. Your fucking dog. You keep in this line of business? You're gonna have one thing happen. Just one."
The eager guy didn't look happy now. And the rest of the team was passing attention now too.
Chris finished the statement, "You're gonna come up against the question of who lives and who dies. You or all those people you love. Because you'll lose them. In this business? You'll lose every single one. So chuckle about it all you want. Talk about the legend. Laugh with your friends. But it ends with everyone you love dead. And the only thing you have left is revenge."
The other guy beside the eager one whispered, "Hijo de la chingada…why do it man?"
Chris held his nervous gaze, no flinching. "Because I've got nothing left to lose."
At the front of the chopper, the leader started talking. "We're approaching the objective. The mission parameters are clear: assist the BSAA in locating and acquiring the bioterrorist Glenn Arias."
Chris took up the charge, lifting his device in his palm to show data to the soldiers on the chopper. "Arias is a black market mass destruction weapons dealer. He'll deal it dirty, deal it quick, and to anyone who ponies up the dough. He started in guns, moved into explosives and heavy munitions, and has recently branched into bioorganic weapons or B.O.W.S. One of the BSAA's undercover agents: Cathy White and her son Zack have gone missing. Intel suggests that Arias has taken them hostage. The reason is unknown. But the objectives are clear: rescue Cathy White and grab Glenn Arias."
He shifted and rose to hold onto to the roof of the chopper. All eyes were on him now. Chris continued his briefing, steady and simple. "The BSAA sent me in to extract White. You won't find anyone with more knowledge of BOWS then me. I don't have the time or opportunity for some long lecture on the whys and wherefors here. So I'm gonna cut to the chase: aim for the head. If it's undead, if it's inhuman, if it's a dog or a frog or a fucking bunny rabbit – shoot it in the head. Disabling the brain stem is the only way to put down the walking dead. In the case of something like a hunter, or a BOW that is part man part monster, the face is still vulnerable. If there's no face? You have two choices –"
One of the female soldier's broke into his diatribe, "Run or die?"
And the chopper laughed nervously around them.
Chris nodded, stoic. "Yeah. Run or die or keep on shooting. So, maybe you have three choices. I will emphasize the importance of staying together. Don't turn your back on your team. Don't get nervous and shoot your companions. And don't go in there expecting anything human. Think of your worst nightmare, and expect that it might be in that building. Figure out that you'll be fighting for your life, and you'll just about be ready for anything."
The helicopter taxied down and landed gently in the wet grass.
The doors opened and the roar of the blades filled the air around them. The wind kicked up and tossed hair and clothing as they leaped free in pairs and threesomes. Chris took up the rear as they moved through the long dark.
The forest spilled around them in eerie shapes and sounds. A glance at his watch told him the witching hour was upon them. And in the distance, the rotting carcass of what might have once been a great mansion awaited them.
He considered it, watching the moon shimmer on the broken windows and along the peeling paint and he sighed a little. After all these years, couldn't a fucking bad guy…just once…not hide out in a creepy mansion? Just once? Was that too much to ask?
He gestured with his head and the team took up cover in the trees, watching the long two story mansion that awaited their assault.
Chris Redfield hadn't been afraid in a long time. He couldn't remember the last dose of it. Maybe it had been when Jill had gone out that window. Maybe it had been in Africa when Albert Wesker had come down those stairs. Maybe it had been when his team had gone down and turned in Edonia. Maybe. He couldn't remember anymore.
But something niggled in his throat as he looked at the specter of that mansion in the muted moonlight; something that might have suggested concern. Instinct? Or paranoia?
There was only one way to find out.
He signaled with his head and moved forward to confront that feeling. It was the only way he did things: he just kept going even when all his instincts were screaming for him to turn back.