Author's note: Forgive the slow burn. Wildfire will begin shortly. My sister proof read this for me. Thanks, butt.

chapter one

priyome
noun
/pree-YOHM/
a russian term for simple strategic devices that depend on pawn structure

Chicago, Illinois
19 September
North American BSAA biochemical research HQ; Dr Chambers' office
12:19 PM

Rebecca happily picks at her chicken Caesar salad.

She's excited to have a guest for lunch. Her tiny legs are crossed at the ankle, absently swinging back and forth beneath her desk. Opposite of her, with a chair pulled all the way up to her desk, is Chris Redfield. And Rebecca could not be more tickled about it. The ever elusive Redfield hasn't been in her life for something shameful, like eight years. They might have wound up working for the same organization but that's little more than in name only. Her department is a 'home' division, where she rarely leaves her building. That suits her just fine, thank you very much. The fewer ghouls she can meet, all the better.

Chris, on the other hand, is a crazy person that runs towards the monsters. He's very rarely stateside because of it, and as a part of heavy fire teams, he isn't the kind of field agent that collects samples and brings them to Rebecca's side of the world. She wrinkles her nose at thinking of him as 'crazy'. That joke isn't funny anymore now that he's on a mandatory leave of absence for evaluation.

Apparently Edonia had been really bad, bad enough that there was a stir in the brass over it, and then China went and had to be worse. In an entirely unRedfield-like fashion, Chris didn't bounce back. According to rumors, he hit rock bottom and made camp. Rebecca hates that the man in front of her is confirming the hearsay.

She dips her fork into her dressing on the side before stabbing a tiny diced tomato. Chris is tearing into his Philly cheesesteak, talking around a mouthful of steak and provolone.

"We should do this more often," he tells her.

Holding a hand in front of her mouth to politely talk with her mouth full, "Do what?" She pauses to swallow, noting that with a few more days to it, Chris' scruff will officially be a beard. "You, crashing through my door with a sandwich?"

He swallows, nodding to himself. "Yeah."

"Okay," she grins, hoping there's no lettuce in her teeth. "I'm down."

Rebecca considers her time post-Umbrella well spent. She finished three degrees, and landed a job that is not only in her field, but still world saving. Her salary is embarrassing for someone whose parents were teachers, but Mr and Mrs Chambers weren't at all offended when their brainiac daughter paid off their mortgage. Rebecca herself finally left her apartment in Skokie for an uptown condo on Michigan Ave. The high fashion boutiques and near-criminal prices of the area are absolutely not Rebecca's world. But it makes her feel very, very grown up.

At 5'3", she needs all the help she can get.

"Glad to hear it," he tells her, preparing for another bite. "Like you had a say."

She laughs with her smile.

Having a gorgeous place to come home to is also a pleasant distraction from the fact that that's all she's coming home to. And her kitty Beau. Almost twenty years later, and she still hasn't found The One. She has been married, though there hasn't been anyone since. As a widow, no one gives her a hard time about it. George had been wonderful, of course, but. She definitely married her best friend, not a lover. Her problem is that she carries torches. One for the train wreck in front of her.

The other for a man she survived a literal train wreck with, and probably never made it out of Arklay Forest.

Rebecca brings a thin slice of chicken up to her lips. "How are things with Claire?" she asks before biting down on her fork.

"Oh." His mouth is full, and he struggles to get the food out of the way for him to talk. She's glad she asked; he's lighting up like a Christmas tree. His eyes are almost bright blue again.

He finally manages to force the too big bite down. "She's great; so great. She's," he laughs, happy about nothing that's here. "She's great, yeah. So. Yeah."

"Good, I'm glad," she tells him and means it. "What's she doing these days?"

He blows out a breath, setting down his artery clogging sandwich before leaning back in his chair. She tries not to notice that Chris ignores his napkin in favour of his jeans. "I don't know?" he answers honestly. Rebecca tilts her head near sideways. He shrugs sheepishly and twirls his finger next to his head for the universal gesture for 'crazy'. "Things are kind of screwy right now." Dropping his big hand back in his lap, "If she's had a big assignment, I can't remember what it is.

"I do remember, however," he goes on, brushing his nose. "That she was a rock star down in Kijuju."

Rebecca's fork hangs in the air. "Claire was in Kijuju?"

"Mmhm," he nods. "She was a part of the relief efforts. She was there day and night. And." Rebecca sets down her fork with a small laugh. He's suddenly so animated, she'd hate to miss the show. "So, I'm Chris Redfield and no one can get a hold of me?" She's careful to keep her face from showing the exasperation the truth of that comment inspires. "I couldn't get a hold of her. She was just that busy."

She nods, a thought coming to mind. "She's, uhm. Psychiatry?"

"She's—no. She is…" Chris exhales through his nose in thought. "Psychology."

"Oh, okay."

"Yeah. I think it's psychology?" He shrugs, reaching for his sandwich. "Therapy of some kind, where she specializes with children." Chris holds his lunch in his hands, and it takes her a moment to realize his stare is unfocused. His eyes are completely relaxed, no point of interest. He's somewhere else—

"There weren't a lot of kids left, by the end of it."

—and it breaks her heart.

Lamely, all she can offer is, "Oh."

"Yeah." He's quiet a moment more, and then with a shaky breath he's back in the room. "So she lent her efforts to the adults, which she's perfectly good for, too."

Rebecca plucks her fork back up, determined to not let any of that darkness hang around, and smiles at him. "Right, of course."

"Yeah." Finally, he brings the sub up to take a bite. "I'm really proud of her."

"You sound like it!"

And that's a good enough note to end on, the both of them pointedly more interested in their lunches than each other. Chris is such an inspirational mess, and Rebecca will probably always find a moment to look at him with starry eyes. He's lost a lot of weight, since the last time she saw him. She's not too distraught about it, though. He had taken up weight lifting as a part of his occupational therapy for dealing with his depression, Rebecca remembers Jill telling her a long time ago.

Chris got uncomfortably large. His bicep had been bigger than her waist, and she didn't understand why there was even still crime in the world, since apparently Chris Redfield can bench press the planet. He's about half the size he was then, which is still leagues more built than anyone he'll ever come across. Rebecca knows the drop in size is probably more from a poor development of mental health, but she does appreciate that he no longer takes up half a room. Not to mention the calorie intake to maintain that size must have been heart-clenching.

"How are you?"

She blinks. For whatever reason, the question surprises her. Maybe because no one asks anymore. "I'm very good, thank you."

"Yeah?"

"Yes." Why does he have to sound like he doesn't believe her? That tone reminds her of the Spencer Estate, when he asked if she could handle herself with a gun. How unsavory. "Things are nice and quiet, I see no monsters, and I only have to use a gun during the firearm permission renewal."

Chris snorts. "Boring."

"Pft! I love it!"

"Forget it."

He reclines in his chair and they smile at one another. This is nice, she thinks. Her and Chris have always gotten along well. Whether they were stumbling around a zombie infested mansion, or pouring over days of information after blitzing to Europe ahead of Jill and Barry. They make an unsuspectingly solid team. It's these scattered instances over the years that have so much staying power to Rebecca, keeping that torch lit. When they danced (a bit awkwardly due to height differences) at her wedding, it was an old dream come true for an eighteen year old Rebecca.

Chris never settled down with anyone. He's had girlfriends over the years, girls that are always a bit younger than him (how encouraging!), but Rebecca always thought he might have been waiting around for Jill. Who always managed to be in long term relationships, somehow. Things have changed, though, between them. Well, between Jill and anyone: she's not really Jill anymore, is she?

Maybe if Rebecca wasn't such a coward she'd ask to move these lunches to dinner, at her place.

Just as Chris is finally paying attention to his napkins—in the sense that he is wadding them up into balls to sort of use them for their intended purpose—when he gets a phone call. Shoot to Thrill plays from his jeans' pocket. He tosses the crumpled napkin onto her desk with the other one, and leans back in his chair to get leverage.

"That's me," he mutters, looking at the screen.

She laughs at that. "Yeah, I guessed." An odd day, when AC/DC is her ringtone.

"Sorry," he offers, taking the call. She holds up a hand to say it's nothing, and busies herself with clearing off the trash from her desk.

"This is Chris Redfield." Plucking up his balled napkins, she drops them into her cleaned out salad bowl. She points at his sandwich wrapper for permission to toss it, and he nods without really looking at her. "—Where?" Rebecca tries to keep the crinkling of the paper minimal as she crushes it between her hands. "Is it residue from the China outbreak?"

Well. Rebecca knows it's rude to ease drop. She picks up the now full plastic bowl and sets it slowly into the trashcan next to her desk to keep quiet. So as not to disturb Chris, of course. Not listen in on his side of the conversation, that would be uncalled for.

"So, it's—" Chris sits with his elbows on the desk, one hand holding the phone against his head with the other pressing against his temple. "Right, yeah. Okay." His look of concentration changes quickly. "No, no, it's fine. I appreciate the call. I—"

He looks at her suddenly, and she can't help leaning back a bit with an expression of cautious suspicion.

"Actually, we'll take it."

"Huh?"

"Agents Redfield and Chambers, North American BSAA. …Yeah."

Her eyes bulge. "What? No!"

"Affirmati—"

"Negative!" she calls loudly. "Negative, negative!"

"Yeah, thanks, bye." He hangs up quickly as she raises her voice. Moving to return his phone to his jeans, he gives her an odd look. "Now what's your deal, Becky?"

She gapes at him. "Chris. Did you not hear me when I said I like my life quiet?"

"Did you not hear me call it boring?"

When Rebecca calls herself a coward for not pursuing Chris at any point, this is what she's afraid of. His inability to not work, to not stay still. She wants roots, to settle down. The only land in Chris' name is his cemetery plot. Which is going to get used sooner than anyone would like at the rate he's going. It's stressful and frightening, and Rebecca has an incredible amount of respect for Claire. Keeping up with him daily must be such a nightmare.

"Chris," she pleads. "I don't want to be on the front lines anymore. I worked not to be there."

Something softens all the hard lines on his face. "You think I don't know that?" he asks gently. "You won't be. It's some backwoods, barely-a-town in Russia. After China the whole continent is jumping at shadows. We're going to tell them they're being spooked out by local animals or something."

She's still frowning, though now she feels a bit bad thinking he'd be so carless with her. "What?"

"There is no infection activity on record."

"Chris—"

"It'll be just like old times," he offers with that disarming crooked grin. Poor choice.

"Our old times," and she leans forward over her desk, "was nearly being eaten by a gigantic snake."

To which he counters, "We weren't. You're welcome, by the way."

Rebecca opens her mouth, taking in a deep breath to give him some what for, but he beats her to it. "Would you rather we pull some agents out of a real crisis?" He's giving her a look she can recall very clearly from their STARS time. It makes her feel foolish, even now. "Or would you rather suit up?"

It's true enough that the China-India border is in total chaos due to a biohazard. In an absolutely shocking development, it's unrelated to Lanshiang. Rebecca herself has worked on a few samples; it's definitely a T-based virus, something resembling very early incarnations of the T-virus. It doesn't match anything that's on file currently, and she finds that bizarre. The scientist in her is intrigued. Unspliced T doesn't exist anymore. As far as anyone can tell, pure T disappeared before the CDC or WHO could get samples, and years before the BSAA existed. Umbrella's failsafes are thorough, if nothing else; no physical evidence exists within the crater the explosion leaves behind.

But the stuff from the China-India border is the closest they've ever seen to a live, raw strain of T. They know what they're looking for, thanks to the numerous documentation confiscated from Umbrella facilities after their financial collapse (That stung, by the way. All the fighting they did, the friends that were lost, and in the end, they had zero impact on Umbrella's bottom line. It simply sunk with numerous other conglomerates during the economic implosion). This stuff is close but no cigar; something just a touch stronger but a lot fresher.

The flesh and tissue aren't rotting as quickly as other T-based viruses. Luckily, most of the time the cell degeneration destroys the body to the point of immobility. Still hazardous, of course, but invaluable for eradication and clean up. Having infected that could move around for longer is not only dangerous for locals and the soldiers, but it can lead to a repeat infestation if a zombie wanders away and then back into a populated area.

"I suppose… when you put it like that," she begins to consider, but something comes to mind suddenly. "You aren't cleared for active duty, though!"

"I…" He draws the word out, like he's trying to think of a way around it. She stares at him. "…am not cleared for duty without a doctor present." A beat. "You're a doctor."

Her lips smack as they part in disbelieve. "Not that kind of doctor!"

"The paperwork doesn't say that anywhere. It just says doctor."

Chris might have gotten away with it if he hadn't made a show of looking wide eyed and innocent. Him and Kermit the Frog. He planned this, all this: dropping in out of the blue for lunch; suddenly getting a mission offer when it's impossible for him to be on the reserve roster. An all hands on deck order is in effect, but not for people like him and Jill. Rebecca would be assigned before either of them. Her eyes narrow.

She only lets him sweat for a moment, though. "Alright," she concedes, skipping over calling him out. She'll save it for later. The situation sounds a little sketchy, but hey; she is a doctor. Besides, she hasn't been on a mission since before she met George.

Setting aside her work morals is suddenly worth it, as Chris brightens immediately. Really, when he's like that, his eyes are almost like they used to be. Back when he had a desk covered in paper footballs and ignored reports that Forest would complain about whenever he came in for his shift.

"Thank you, Becky."

Her drawer closes with a loud click after she's retrieved her purse.

"You are not welcome, mister."

Author's Note: In case I failed as writer and didn't make it obvious, there is some time hopping that's done. It might get kind of of time-y wime-y, but there's always a time/date/location stamp so our heroes are easier to keep track of. I don't know you, but I'm wishing you the best. Happy Thanksgiving. We update Tuesdays.