Author's Notes: Isaac Brown is the property of ColdandShock3/Desertcross4 . Opinions about this character stated in this chapter are those of Kenny's only, and do not reflect this author's view on him. Thanks ColdandShock3 for letting me use Isaac in this story. He will contribute well. Also notice the scene that Kenny describes with Isaac is taken straight from you story.

Summers in Raccoon City are no joke. The ring of mountains surrounding the city prevents any outside breeze from blowing in, trapping the heat in town. The nights are usually cooler, but that doesn't mean it gets anywhere near cool. Today, I was dressed casually in a yellow T-shirt and black shorts for work. I decided to wear my Converse Chuck Taylor's today, but I regretted it within a few blocks of having left my apartment. Those canvas shoes don't protect the bottoms of your feet worth shit! But they look nice, I have to admit. Fortunately for me, the police department doesn't care what I wear to work. They know I'm just showing up to be their slave and as far as they're concerned, I could show up in a potato sac and they wouldn't even notice.

I'm too young to drive, but the precinct was located a few blocks south of my apartment building. I didn't even need to take the bus to get to work. Not that I would if I had to – they've been steadily increasing transit fares for a whole year now and it's at 200 what it was last summer! Anyway, precinct is seriously one of a kind. Before it actually turned into a police station, the place was an art museum. I wasn't around the city during those days, hell I don't even think I'd been born. But in the process of converting the building into what it is today, chief of police, Brian Irons, a round faced, mustached fat man of an art lover, decided to keep some of the pieces, particularly those depicting morbid scenes of death and bloodshed. The paintings still hang around the precinct today, but they are few and far between.

I walked through the tall iron gates that let me into the cobblestone courtyard of the precinct. The building hadn't lost its grandeur even after all these years. The entrance consisted of two rows of Romanesque pillars holding up a small roof, sheltering a large set of blue double doors which led into the building. In front of the pillars sat two encased light bulbs, lighting up the area at night. Just above the door way, carved right into the stone walls of the building was the acronym "RPD" and "Raccoon Police" right below that.

The courtyard extended left to a poor excuse of a garden which consisted of some grass and poorly planted trees and shrubs, ending at the side gate which is technically an emergency exit, but people use it to go in and out all the time. To the right, the courtyard sported some potted plants and an iron perimeter fence just behind those. One thing I found really cool about this place was the fact that the courtyard stretched left and right and on each side was a flight of stairs leading down, reconnecting the path just underneath the main entrance. I didn't really see much of a point for that useless feature, but it was still appealing, on an aesthetic level.

I walked through the main doors, greeted by bustling adults ruffling papers in their hands, going in and out through the numerous doors that made up the main lobby. The entrance platform was raised, and I walked down a short flight of steps onto the glistening marble floor where in front me, the Raccoon Police emblem had been painstakingly carved into the floor, at the foot of a statue of a woman sporting a water jug. Behind that was a giant oak desk, where the secretaries sat – ah, my workstation. So much room on that desk for paper pushing and filing and we only had one computer on the bloody thing.

"Good morning, Kenny," a blonde, female officer called after me from behind the desk, tucking a folder underneath her arm. Oh, I don't believe I've introduced myself yet. My name is Kenneth Feng but people just call me Kenny. It makes me feel loved.

"Hey, Rita," I said, waving to her. "You got anymore thumbprints for me to deliver to the filing room?" I headed around the desk to enter the small section of floor it encased and planted my butt in a swirling chair.

Rita shook her head and smiled. "You're lucky today. There will be none of that. But I do have a task for you that I think you'll enjoy." Rita was great. She was the one of the most talkative officers I've ever had the pleasure of meeting since starting work here, but it took me awhile to get used to her southern twang. I always thought she was speaking another language then she'd talk to me as if I understood what she was saying. Turns out it was some fucked up form of English and it really stops becoming an obstacle after you get used to it. Besides, it was an obstacle well worth overcoming because, like I said, Rita was great.

"Oh yeah, what is it?" I asked.

"You heard about those cases of the missing families in the Arklay mountains, right?" she said, lowering her voice a few notches. "Well it turns out they're sending Bravo in to check out the situation tonight."

My eyes opened wide. "They're sending the S.T.A.R.S. into action?" I'd always heard about the S.T.A.R.S. members and how experienced they were in the battlefield, how they could shoot a cap off a bottle from ten meters away, how they could kill you with their bare hands if you were armed with a gun … crazy stuff like that. I'd even gotten the opportunity to meet the S.T.A.R.S members before so you can imagine my disappointment when I discovered they looked like average Joes with personalities, not the warriors I was expecting to meet.

Rita nodded with a smile on her face. "Yeah. So I've got a few things for you to prepare for them. First of all, there's a rookie on Bravo team and this will be her first mission. She's supposedly a chemistry whiz from Raccoon University, not too much older than you. Her equipment should be arriving sometime this morning and I need you to get those delivered to Captain Wesker at the S.T.A.R.S. office upstairs the moment it arrives."

"How big is the package?"

"Oh, it shouldn't be too big," Rita said, waving it off. "It's just some first aid sprays, bandages and whatnot. Secondly, there are some firearms that need to be picked up from Kendo's Gun Shop for the mission tonight. They were sent there for customization last week and we just got word they're ready to be used, just in time for the mission. You remember the way there, right?"

"Out the side exit, right down the street, another right through an alley, around a fire escape, through a basketball court …"

"I mean the LEGAL way," she reminded sternly, "one that doesn't involve trespassing on private property.

"Yeah, I remember," I said, a little disappointed. "But do I get to go alone?"

"Of course not. You'll be accompanied by Officer Ryman."

XXXXX

I was convinced I was going to die. Oh, you may laugh at me now but if you ever get the opportunity to ride with Officer Kevin Ryman in a car, you'd understand why I felt that way. I was strapped in the passenger side of the police cruiser, my seatbelt so tight against my body I could barely breathe. But that's the way I wanted it. Careening down the quiet Raccoon City streets at eighty kilometers and hour … sorry, that's the system we use in Japan – we count in kilometers, not miles – I was surprised we didn't hit anyone, although we came close a few times. I held the passenger door with a white knuckled grip, pressing my back as hard as I could into my seat. My teeth were grinding against each other, a sheen of sweat covered my face, neck and back, and my eyes were squeezed shut as I prayed that death would come swiftly and mercifully.

"Ha!" Officer Ryman cried, brushing strands of his long brown hair away from his face. "Look at you, Kenny!" He patted me on the shoulder roughly. "Twelve years old and still scared like a baby!"

"Fifteen, actually," I corrected, though he if he noticed, he didn't act like he did.

"Let me tell ya, when you get your license, you won't be able to keep your foot off the accelerator! These police cruisers are built to take this kind of abuse, especially with the bullet-armored plating, extra coated rubber wheels …"

"Yeah, can't wait … But Officer Ryman, won't you get in trouble if you get CAUGHT!" The car swerved violently, inches before it had the chance to hit an elderly woman at a pedestrian crossing. Looking in the rearview mirror, I could see the sweet woman waving her finger at us in the most ill-mannered gesture. "I mean, a police officer speeding through suburban streets is kinda … ironic, I'd say."

"Well, you only live once so you might as well enjoy it," Officer Ryman said. "Besides, who's gonna tell the chief? You?"

"No!" I insisted. There were quite a few rats in RCSS – that's my school – and those were the kids that always got beaten up on. I have never been a rat at school, and there was no way I was going to start on my first job … volunteer job … whatever. "I was just wondering why you don't seem worried about one of your co-workers seeing you, that's all."

"Nah, it's fine!" he replied, waving my concerns off. "The boys and I watch out for each other. I mean, we do the wrong shit all the time. All the alcohol we confiscate from kids like you on the weekends, the cigarettes we take from minors, what do you think we do with them?"

"Gee," I said, scratching my head, "I always thought you just threw them away."

"We do that most of the time. But if nobody's looking, once in awhile … you can keep a secret right?"

"Yeah," I nodded, "and you don't have to finish off your sentence. I can pretty much guess what you do with all that. And don't worry, I won't tell a soul."

"That's my boy," he cheered, rubbing my hair roughly with a gloved hand.

XXXXX

Kendo's Gun Shop was a quiet store at the end of a narrow road. The road itself actually had two lanes and parking on either side was considered illegal. But most citizens parked there anyway, if they were only going to be stopping off for a few minutes. And that's exactly what Officer Ryman did, right in front of a no parking sign, no less.

I unfastened the seatbelt and got out of the car in a hurry, happy to be alive and on solid ground without some maniac behind the wheel of a battle suited police cruiser. Officer Ryman got out of the driver's seat and took out a handheld radio from its resting place where most cars have their drink holders, placing it in a leather case clipped onto his belt. We stood on the sidewalk, in front of Kendo's Gun Store. Officer Ryman headed straight for the entrance door on the right side of the building face, while I gawked at the display window, sporting all sorts of firearms. I'm not a gun whiz, but I swear they had guns of every caliber – handguns, bow guns, rifles, shotguns – and this one gun that looked like it was supposed to be held with two hands but I swear it was longer than I was tall.

"Hey, Kenny, you coming in or what!" Officer Ryman called from the entrance, holding the door open with an arm. "I can't carry all the firearms by myself, you know."

"Sorry!" I apologized, running towards the entrance to catch up with him. I was never a gun nut, but there was something about those contraptions that drew me to them. I found it amazing that a hunk of metal, screws and gun powder, when held in anyone's hands, would suddenly draw command and respect to the wielder, regardless of who they were if they were without it.

I stepped into the store and was greeted by a jolly, stocky man with a mop of brown hair caked onto his forehead with a layer of sweat. He tugged at the straps of his denim overalls with stubby hands while a huge grin spread across his round face. I swear, put a beard on him and he'd be Santa.

"Oh, well it's the Raccoon Police comin' to claim their firearms!" the man, who I assumed to be the owner of the store, said.

"It says here we've got a pick up for 10:00 am," Officer Ryman said, looking at a notepad-size sheet of blue paper he pulled from the breast pocket of his black uniform. "We're a few minutes early, but I assume they'd be ready by now, right?"

"Finished with 'em at around midnight last night," the owner replied proudly. "Ain't nothing Robert Kendo can't do with a gun!" He jabbed a stumpy thumb into his bloated chest. He then turned his attention to me. "Hey there, kiddo, you might not wanna be looking at all these dangerous weapons! You'd have to be with a guardian to come into this store."

"Relax," Officer Ryman said casually, "he's with me."

"Oh, a delinquent, eh?" Mr. Kendo said softly, elbowing Officer Ryman lightly on the ribs as he passed a wink.

"Work experience volunteer," I replied, making it obvious to Kendo I'd heard him. He pressed his lips shut and turned around, heading back behind the glass counter which proudly displayed handgun sized firearms. He bent down and we then heard some rustling and metal clanking against itself. He reappeared from under the counter with a set of heavy looking leather cased boxes, placing them gently on the counter.

Officer Ryman took the topmost box on the pile, flipped up the metal locks with ease and opened up the case, inspecting the handgun quickly and thoroughly while Kendo stood back and smiled at his handiwork. Officer Ryman took the gun out of the case and held it in his hand, as if weighing it, and suddenly took aim at nothing in particular.

"It feels the same," he commented, "only this time, I can't hear any loose parts." He looked at Kendo and nodded in approval. "We've gotta come here more often."

"You might want to check the other firearms to make sure they're in proper working order," Kendo suggested, motioning to the other cases. "I don't want to end up getting my ass sued if some malfunction I'm responsible for ends up killing someone accidentally."

XXXXX

Officer Ryman and I arrived back at the RPD in one piece. I stepped out of the car shakily, after having to endure his driving a second time around and promised myself never to step into another vehicle with him again. He popped the trunk open and we headed around to grab the firearm cases for delivery upstairs to the S.T.A.R.S. office. I wasn't looking forward to having to carry the cases up ridiculous flights of stairs. The least they could've done was install an elevator into this ancient building.

The trek to the upstairs office was no cakewalk. From the parking garage, we had to open a few doors and pass a boiler room, weapon storage – and I would've much rather dump the guns there for the S.T.A.R.S. to pick up themselves – up some stairs, past the locker room, past the office, up the emergency stairwell … oh, it was terrible and it didn't end there. The damn office was in the opposite wing of the building. Halfway up the emergency stairwell and my arms were crying bloody murder. I also forgot to mention that Officer Ryman was kind enough to hold the doors open for me but carried nothing himself.

When we got the expansive library after having crossed the second level balcony in the main hall overlooking my work desk, Officer Ryman stopped in his tracks with a look of alarm on his face. Glancing at his wristwatch, his face contorted into an expression of anger and disappointment. He grunted.

"Is there something wrong, Officer Ryman?" I asked.

"I'm going on patrol in five minutes," he said. "I almost completely forgot." He spun on his heels and prepared to head out the double doors we'd just entered through. "Do you remember the way to the S.T.A.R.S. office?"

"Yeah, don't worry about me. Don't be late for your patrol. I won't tell the chief."

"That's my boy," he said, shooting me a thumbs-up as he disappeared through the doors.

The S.T.A.R.S. office was just beyond the next room, which served as a pretty pathetic lounge with sofas and vending machines. Not having anyone to hold the doors open for me, I found myself having to use my feet to prop the doors open for me to squeeze through, all the while with my arms now threatening to rip themselves from their sockets. I huffed and puffed, telling myself it was almost over. I could feel the heat in my face and wondered how red and exhausted I must've looked – probably as red as that potted plant sitting on the ground just next to a bench. Which reminds me – the RPD was weird for having all these potted plants lying around in random places. It's kind of ironic if you think about, that a police station run by a chief who loved art depicting violence, torture and death, to keep these vibrant, multicolored plants around to brighten up the place. I heard once that they had healing qualities, but I'm sure they're for decoration more than anything.

My destination lay just around the corner. However just as I made the turn, someone else was coming around from the other side and we nearly crashed into each other. As I jerked my body to avoid a collision, the movement threw the pile of gun cases in my arms off balance. I watched in slow motion, a look of horror etched on my face as the top few cases fell off the pile and headed on a collision course with the ground. They would fire me for sure, after spending so much money getting those guns upgraded, only to have me break them. But fortunately before they could contact the floor, I saw a large form move with surprising speed, scooping the cases from midair.

It was a man who saved the guns – and my job, a man who I recognized as one of the S.T.A.R.S. members. He was tall with short brown hair cut close to his head. A white T-shirt with the S.T.A.R.S. logo embroidered on the sleeves covered a powerfully built upper body. He carried a green vest in one hand and a combat knife in the other – only now both items were on the floor, replaced by the gun cases in his hands. He looked at me and whistled.

"That was a close one, tike," he said. "Better walk slower next time, or get someone to help you, huh?"

"Sorry, Officer Redfield," I said sheepishly. He was one of the S.T.A.R.S. best and impressing Officer Chris Redfield would more than likely boost my chances of working at the Raccoon Precinct in the future – and getting paid for it, I mean.

"That's okay," he said, plopping the cases back onto the main pile I held in my hands. He patted me on the head. "Try to be more careful. It's bad enough we get officers getting hurt on the street. We don't need you injuring yourself while you're supposed to be safe in the precinct – especially when you're not even getting paid." He sent me on my way without another word and I walked with my head low. There goes my chances of working at the precinct … I was a liability to the force, huh?

XXXXX

"Whaddaya want, lackey?"

I frowned, my throat closing in on itself as I realized who was speaking. Standing in front of the S.T.A.R.S. office stood an older boy, recently having graduated from high school. He looked around my age, but I knew for a fact he was older cause the guy was actually getting paid. What was his name again … Isaac Brown – that was it. His role in the precinct was somewhat similar to mine – only he worked for the S.T.A.R.S. members and only them. From the first day I met him, there was something I didn't like, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

"I've got some equipment to drop off for Bravo," I replied, wanting to keep it short so my time spent with the guy was limited, "for their mission tonight."

"You're not going in," he said, folding his arms across his chest as he shook his head to deny me entry. "They're having a meeting in there."

"Then may I leave them with you?" I asked politely. "I've got some medicinal equipment waiting downstairs to be brought up here as well, and I can only carry so many at once. 'Sides, these are getting heavy."

Isaac shook his head condescendingly at me. "You uptown kids …"

He never stood up straight – I suppose that's a good start. His posture was always slightly hunched, his expression always kinda distant, like he never really cared about what he was saying or who he was talking to. His red hair sat in a tangled mop on his head while his clothes were strangely casual, especially for a paid professional. The officers aren't really the gossipy type, and even if they were, I doubt they'd bother leaking anything to me seeing as how at the end of the day, I answered to Chief Irons. The point is, I never heard anyone say anything about Isaac. I just didn't like the attitude he presented whenever I did come across him as we made our daily routines through the halls. And I didn't know if anyone else shared my opinion, so I just kept it to myself.

I suppose that isn't a good enough reason to dislike the guy – but how about the fact that he puts effort into making my life miserable? I'll give you a good example – on one of his first shifts, I was in the S.T.A.R.S. office delivering the doughnuts someone had placed an order for from the doughnut shop just a few blocks down the street from the station. I had a few cases to file that day at the main hall desk and was in a rush to drop the doughnuts off and return to my work station – considering the size of the precinct, it would be a long walk. Officer Redfield wanted to grab a chocolate glazed doughnut from me, but I hadn't realized he was running after me as I hurried out of the office.

Good-natured Isaac decided it would be appropriate to stick his foot out for me to trip over. Chris's doughnut went sailing from my hands, up in the air, and into Isaac's awaiting hand. And then – yes, he ATE Officer Redfield's doughnut in front of the both of us. Now, if that doesn't scream disrespect, I don't know what does. He'd blatantly disregarded any form of authority Officer Redfield had over him, any seniority I had (yes, I was a volunteer but I was more experienced than he was) and the worst part was the way he did it with the same air of indifference as he did the rest of his job. I would've decked the fucker right where he stood, I swear. He may have been older but he was my size, almost exactly. But the only problem was I actually cared about being professional, so I just dropped the issue and cleaned up in the washroom before returning to my duties.

"Yeah, it's unfortunate we're too rich to have the honor of dressing and smelling like you," I replied in the same passive tone he used. I was sick of his bullshit, and aching at the opportunity to get back at him. I figured this would've been a perfect time, as there were no authority figures present.

"You wanna make something of this?" he asked angrily, stepping up to me. Finally, that irritating, energy sucking force had vanished from his posture as his red face and clenched fists reflected an air of violence.

I took a step closer, putting us nose to nose with each other. "Touch me and I'll have the Chief and Captain Wesker fire your arrogant ass. And THEN I'll come and kick your grungy downtown ass."

"Boys!"

Isaac and I were caught completely off guard, turning around to face an angry looking young woman with brown chestnut locks reaching down to her shoulders. She was dressed in the usual S.T.A.R.S. attire which consisted of a dark blue beret, shoulder pads a shirt with the S.T.A.R.S. insignia sewed on, midnight blue combat pants and black boots.

"O…Officer Valentine," I stammered. Of all the S.T.A.R.S. members, she was the most motherly … well, I suppose being the only woman on the team helped that. I hadn't exchanged a lot of words with her, but ever since our first meeting, she'd always smile and greet me whenever we passed each other – and then tell me what a good job I was doing even though she hardly saw me work. And the part that impressed me most was that Officer Valentine actually remembered my name and referred to me by it, as opposed to Officer Redfield who stuck to condescendingly cute little nicknames like 'tike', 'kid', 'buddy', and 'champ.'

"Isaac," Officer Valentine said sternly, "I've got some more missing people cases from the main desk downstairs that need to be put away. And I need you to do them now instead of bullying your younger peers."

I smirked at him as she ordered him around sternly. "And Kenny!" Just like that, the smirk was gone from my face. "I have never seen you use such language before. I don't want to catch you talking like that again!"

"Yes, ma'am," I mumbled sheepishly. And Jill had never yelled at me the way she had like that before. So whatever I was doing, it was definitely not impressing the police force that would be reporting on my work ethic back to the school. It really wasn't fair, though. The once time I decide to give my bully a serious talking to, the nicest officer in the city walks by. And I've been known to piss off even the nicest people with my mouth. I sighed in resignation – what's done was done. And it was time for a cigarette break.