You may have noticed I've started naming my chapters now.

This chapter is quite different. There's not quite as much action per se, but it delves yet farther into Chris Redfield's personal past.

Enjoy.

Chapter 2: Revelation

I didn't come home right away. I basically spent two weeks doing what I'd always done before I joined the AF: I wandered around, drank, smoked, wallowed in self-pity. In my battered, inebriated state, my sense of logic and self-worth were severely hindered. Bromley was an incompetent asshole, and he got what he deserved. But still, what if he was on to something? What if I really was just a useless burnout? I had inadvertently caused the death of my best friend, after all. I had spent the first nineteen or so years of my life wasting it. Maybe I had just been trying too hard to prove myself by playing hero. I don't know. I just felt…lost. It was like I'd been standing on something the past few years and it just suddenly got yanked out from under me. Christ, I didn't know which way was up. I felt like life was just toying with me. Soon as I went straight, I got knocked back in the gutter. For doing the right thing.

I hadn't been this depressed when mom and dad died in that car accident. This time, what I lost was even more significant. I had tried to play it straight for the first time in my life, and I failed. I thought I failed. I knew I failed. Not only had I failed in attempting something real; I failed to reconcile with the death of my parents. I hadn't justified their deaths by doing them proud. God, I just kept repeating everything I hadn't done. Couldn't see that I had already done what I set out to do. I had depended on the success of this one endeavor to allow me to move past their deaths. I just couldn't accept that their deaths were random; there was no reason for it, no alibi. It was a random, unfortunate thing that I had absolutely no control over. I knew it. I just didn't accept it.

One night I limped home, back to my apartment. I stumbled through the door, drunk out of my mind, and collapsed on the couch. I didn't move, I didn't speak, I didn't do anything at all. Just stayed perfectly still. Felt my own weight. Laid there for awhile, thinking about my shithole of a life, oblivious to everything around me.

There was a hard yet familiar voice behind me.

"Get up asshole."

So, seeing as how I was the only asshole in the room, I stood up. It was a girl's voice, I eventually put that together.

"Turn around."

So I did. And I was face to face with my sister, for the first time in years.

"Chris!"

Her tone changed instantly. She dropped the baseball bat she'd been holding and dove for me. Wrapped her arms around my neck so hard I thought she was trying to kill me.

"I missed you so much," she said, relieved.

She let go as I groaned and collapsed. I woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and Claire's face hovering over me.

"Morning," she said sleepily. There were dark circles under her eyes and her voice was weak.

"Hey kid," I said, playfully jabbing her shoulder. "How've things been?"

"Where the hell were you?" she said sternly. "They called me weeks ago to tell me you'd be coming home".

I suddenly remembered why I felt like shit. I slapped my head, instantly regretting it.

"Ow," I said. "I mean, sorry, sis. Things…things didn't go over so hot. I needed some time to myself. To think things over."

"So I see," said Claire, picking up a half-empty whiskey bottle. She turned back to me and set the bottle on the table.

"I got discharged."

"I know. They kind of told me that over the phone."

"What'd they tell you?"

She yawned.

"They said you'd been honorably discharged and would be returning to Chicago within the week," she said. "That was over three weeks ago."

God she looked tired. She was struggling just to keep her eyes open.

"You been up all night lookin' after me sis?" I asked.

"Actually," she yawned, "two nights. Straight."

"What were you doing two nights ago?" I asked her.

"Looking for you," she smiled. She nearly dozed off right as she said it.

"I'm sorry, Claire," I said. "Truth be told I wanted to surprise you."

That made her smile. Her eyes were just open in slits now. "I appreciate the thought," she said.

I glanced down at the baseball bat.

"What exactly were you doing here last night?" I said.

"Just hanging out. I've been coming here a couple nights a week for about a month now. You've got a sweet setup in here," she said. "Guess I shoulda been checking back here more often. Would've made sense, anyway."

"How did you not recognize me when I walked in?" I asked.

She chuckled weakly. "Have you seen yourself when you're drunk?" she said. "Plus I'm not used to you with short hair. Thought you were just some bum looking for a place to stay for the night." She kind of cocked her head in a playful sort of way. "That or a crackhead."

"Speaking of crackheads," I said. "You outta get some sleep. You look like you're on something right now."

Her eyes were almost completely closed. She got up sluggishly and stretched.

"I look that bad?"

"Yes," I laughed. "Your skin's all clammy and you look like you haven't washed your hair in a month."

"I'm running on pure caffeine right now," she said. "Musta had five cups of coffee in the past three hours."

"All the more reason for you to get some sleep," I said. "Bedroom's down the hall next to the bathroom."

She said something completely incomprehensible and dragged herself to my bedroom. She turned the knob and pushed, and slammed her face on the door.

"Awgh," she said, holding her nose.

I couldn't help but laugh. "It opens the other way."

"Thanks for the tip." She opened the door and stepped through. "G'night."

"'night," I said.

I lay back down on the couch. There was a blanket over me and my jacket was draped over a chair. A man couldn't ask for a better sibling.

I reached for the bottle with one hand. The other was over my face. Just as I grasped the neck I stopped. I got up, walked over to the sink, and poured the rest of it down the drain. Then I tossed the bottle in the trash.

I looked around. She'd kept the place pretty clean, or at least cleaner than I'd left it. I frowned when I saw two cigarette butts on an ashtray.

"Still smoking, I see," I said.

I dumped out the ashtray in the sink and ran some water over the ashes. Then I pulled out a pack of smokes and lit one up for myself. I stood in the kitchen awhile. I wasn't really thinking, worrying about anything. It was a nice change. I hadn't had peace and quiet like this in a good long while.

I stood there in my apartment's sad excuse for a kitchen staring through the smoke. It was a long time before I broke my gaze on that spot on the wall, or at least seemed like a long time. After what I gathered to be an hour, I switched spots and walked over to a different spot and did the same thing. Stared through the smoke, listened to the sounds of the city outside and to my own breath.

Johnny Brooks, that was his name. I'd heard a few years back he got hit by a bus going 55 miles an hour. I remember him still. That pudgy face. That sneer. Every little annoying quality that belonged to him added up to one hell of a guy. His parents were rich; his dad was an inventor. He had made some sort of electronic device designed to improve the capabilites of sonar technology that sold for millilons. This is what I learned about people from Johnny: when you have too much money it goes to your head. It's one of those lessons you're inevitably going to learn if you live long enough, and I learned it from him.

He was rich, he was obnoxious, he loved to harass people. He was fat, but strong as hell, too. He had his own little posse of slightly less rich kids that hovered around him like damned leeches trying to suck out some of the false sense of accomplishment and glory he felt in himself. They were his friends for their own protection, because they could say they had about as much money as him, so therefore they were automatically smarter, stronger, and better people than the other, poorer masses. They kept this little gem in the back of their minds at all times, in the spot where people usually keep a sense of standard, mutual respect for others. Johnny didn't have manners, nor did he harbor any kind of respect for anyone but those whose parents had worked themselves into fortune.

He…he wasn't unique at all, not even those traits I and everyone else hated him for. There're a million jackasses around the world just like him. The one thing he has that they don't is a memory. A memory of himself, sitting on the ground and looking up, shocked, at the tall, muscular kid with long, black hair standing over him, and a little girl with a ponytail and blue jeans clutching his arm, shaking and staring at him with wide, contemptuous, triumphant eyes.

It was in the later days of August, when the kids in Chicago were winding down their summers and beginning to feel that heavy, hot stone in their guts. It's a familiar feeling every kid knows: the knowledge that summer's almost over, as is their freedom. We were walking home, Claire and I, from the ice cream store about a mile and a half away from our home. It was hot as hell out, so I had decided to treat her.

"Man," I said, "it's blazing today".

Claire remained silent. There was no need to acknowledge anything, not me speaking or a response to my question. We were content, and it was hot. That's what we both recognized, and there was no need to go any further. You get moments like those a lot, and some people mistake them for awkward silences, so they talk even though they don't need to, and they end up saying something stupid.

Sometimes, though, you get curveballs. Like what she said a few seconds later.

"I'm thinking about getting a motorcycle when I get older."

I glanced down at her. Her persona hadn't changed at all. She was calm, licking a strawberry ice cream cone, keeping pace with me. She didn't even look up.

"Really," I said a moment later. "That's cool."

"Yeah," she said. "I really like motorcycles. I think it'd be fun to have one."

"You know they cost about as much as a car though, right?"

She shrugged. "Cars are boring."

I laughed. I gave her a gentle pat on the back.

"So why do you suddenly want a motorcycle?"

She shrugged again.

"I've always wanted one. I just think they look cool. It's like riding your bike kinda, I guess, only it's way faster. And…I don't know. I just like them."

"I think I've been rubbing off on you a little too much, kiddo," I said, smiling.

I have always seen my sister as a smart, gutsy kid. More normal than me in that she followed the routine more than I did. Go to school, study, stay out of trouble, that sort of thing. She was a bit of a tomboy, but a good kid. I just didn't see her as the "biker chick" type.

"So what kind of motorcycle you thinking of getting?" I asked her. She didn't have time to respond.

She noticed it before I did: a bunch of kids heading toward us, specifically toward us. I picked faces out of them, matched them to kids I knew. Johnny and his "friends". They came out of an empty, weed-ridden lot to our right. In a second or two, they surrounded us. We stopped, and Claire stuck close to me.

"How ya doin', Redfield," Johnny said with a stupid grin on his face. He had a bag of beef jerky in one hand, a can of soda in the other. His friends were grinning and exchanging glances, as if they already knew what was going to happen.

"Hey Johnny," I said, glancing coolly around at the circle of polo-wearing pussies around us. "Just fine, now that you're here."

I made a motion for him to move right.

"Could you move over a bit? Your fat-ass shadow's keeping me cool, but it doesn't cover me all the way."

I gave him a wolfish grin. He just sneered and narrowed his eyes at me.

"So your little girlfriend wants a motorcycle, huh?" he said. He said it like it was an insult. The others were circling us, slowly. Like vultures.

Then he made a big mistake.

"Your sister's a little dyke, you know that?" he laughed. "She's more of a man than you are." The vultures cackled around us. I didn't hear the horns of distant cars or the shouts of kids playing baseball down the street. I didn't taste the ice cream in my mouth. I didn't feel the heat. I just heard the laughter. It completely enveloped my senses, consuming me.

And the day had been going so well before this.

"If you know what's good for you," I said angrily, "you'll apologize to my little sister."

They laughed even harder. It was a joke to them.

"Damn," he said, wiping his brow with his pudgy hands. "It's hot out today."

He reached for my sister's ice cream cone.

I wound up and jacked him right in the nose. He flew a few feet and landed backasswards on the ground. He hadn't realized what had happened- not right away. He looked up at me, confused. Slowly, he brought his hand to his nose. When he pulled it back, his eyes got huge. His hand was covered in blood. He looked back up at me and just stared for a few seconds. The vultures were speechless.

He stumbled back to his feet and, still wide-eyed, looked down at my sister.

"S-s-sorry."

Without another word, he turned and walked away. The rest reluctantly followed.

Claire was holding on to me tight. She was shaking a little bit. Gradually, she relaxed. She looked up at me with a young smile.

"He deserved that."

It took me a few seconds, but I smiled and laughed and nodded my head.

"Yeah he did," I said.

And we walked home together, enjoying the day as we had before, as if it had never happened. The thing is, I never heard another word from fat-ass Johnny Brooks again. He never made another snide remark about me, or my sister, or any of my friends, or really anyone, for that matter. He actually became kinda nervous. When I went into High School, he got sent to a private school somewhere in the North Shore.

It's funny, but that scene replayed itself several times in my head while I was standing around in my kitchen smoking. And each time it did, I kept hearing my mind tell me the same thing over and over again. Not in words, though. Just an idea kept popping into my head. A subtle realization of something I'd known deep down my whole life.

If nothing else, I'm good at protecting people who can't protect themselves.

My cigarette was down to the filter now. I smothered the rest of it in the ashtray and got on my coat. I went for the door, but stopped as I saw myself in the mirror. I was a mess. I hadn't shaved in more than a week and my hair was all messed up and, basically, I looked like a bum. I took my coat off and set it on a chair as I made for the bathroom. I scratched my head and turned on the light in my bathroom.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Shabby, to say the least. I ran some water over my hands and ran them through my hair. I picked up a comb and ran some water over it, then forced it through my hair. I'd forgotten how easy it is to comb your hair when it's short. I held it up and caught my own glance in the mirror. There was something in my eyes I hadn't noticed before. There was something about them…a dark, powerful, focused look. Something in me had changed.

After cleaning myself up, I turned off the bathroom light and stepped through the door. Quietly, I turned the knob of my bedroom door and eased it open. I peeked inside and saw that Claire was fast asleep, sprawled over my bed half-concealed beneath the sheets. She'd be out for awhile. I left her a note on the counter in the kitchen, then picked up my jacket and walked out the door.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This chapter didn't require NEAR the amount of editing the previous one did, but I think I like how it turned out better than the first chapter. Thanks to everyone been reading so far, and thanks to Carmel BigFace for the review on Chapter 1. :)