Next week came quickly, like he'd blinked and it was suddenly Sunday night.
He'd decided to call Alfred, mostly to discuss his interest in the Umbrella Security Force, and to get an idea of what sort of things Umbrella wanted in a candidate for the position. And he'd rather hear it from the Chief of Paramilitary himself than some secretary in HR.
The phone droned in his ear, then connected him to Alfred's unlisted extension.
"Alfred Ashford speaking," said Alfred, his voice fuzzy from modulation. His accent was pretty typical of a rich British guy.
"Hey, buddy. It's Grayson."
"Grayson! Wonderful to hear from you. Have you finally decided to return to Rockfort?"
"Not yet," Grayson said, and shook his head. "Actually had some questions."
"Questions? How quaint."
"Yeah," he said. "About the USS. What kinda qualifications does Umbrella want for that position?"
Alfred started laughing on the other line. It was a trill, effeminate laugh. "Are you serious? No, of course you're not. You? In the USS?" His laughter started winding down, and when Grayson didn't laugh with him, Alfred said, seriously, "You're serious. You want to join the USS."
"I'm not asking for kicks, Alfred. Yeah, I'm thinking about it."
"You're a butler, Grayson. Not a soldier."
"Maybe I'm tired of just being a butler, Alfred. I joined the Raccoon City Police Department."
Silence, but Grayson could hear Alfred breathing. He was listening.
"I might even join S.T.A.R.S."
"You can't just abandon your post, Grayson," Alfred said. "You're my butler. My friend."
"I'm still your friend, Alfred. That hasn't changed."
Alfred sighed, then said, "If you're honestly serious about this, then I suppose I can help. There's a silver-lining here. If you join the USS, I can give you captaincy over one of the units on Rockfort. Maybe Raval's. He's been pissing me off lately. If he wasn't so good at his bloody job, I'd have shot him by now."
"Rodrigo, right?"
"Yes, that greasy-haired sp—"
"Alfred."
"You'd asked what Umbrella's looking for in a candidate for the USS?" Alfred said, shifting the subject. Grayson heard him shuffling papers. "Minimum of a bachelor's degree in Chemistry, Biology, or other related sciences," he began. "At least six years of military or law enforcement experience. You'll be required to complete several certifications for handling and retrieving bio-hazardous materials—but needn't worry, Umbrella provides the training."
"Jesus Christ," Grayson remarked. "Are you just telling me this because you don't want me to do it?"
"No, Grayson. These are the general requirements. But I could make an exception for you, provided you complete the training on Rockfort."
"Shucks, Alfred. You're too good to me."
"I said, 'provided you complete the training on Rockfort', Grayson."
"I can do it."
"We'll see, I suppose," Alfred remarked, and Grayson heard him sip something. "I suggest you focus on the RPD, however, before worrying about the USS. I'm still extremely disappointed you're not returning to Rockfort, but I have a soft spot for you, and as such, foolishly entertain your whims."
"I'll visit soon, I promise. How's dad?"
"He's… Scott's doing all right," Alfred said.
"Not so good, huh?"
"No. He isn't."
Grayson frowned. "Right. Tell him I'll call him later, when he's feeling better."
"I'll have him ring you when he's feeling up to it," Alfred said. "I need to go, however. Did you have any other questions before I retire for the night?"
"One," Grayson said, wondering if he should even bring it up. "The Birkins. Do you know what they're up to in NEST?"
"Hardly," Alfred said. "Research isn't my area, Grayson. They don't tell me anything about the labs." He paused, then asked, "Why?"
"Just wondering," Grayson said. "That's all, honestly."
"My suggestion is to leave the Birkins to their own silly devices, Grayson. Better for everyone involved, I'm sure."
"Yeah, you're probably right. Night, Alfred—wait, one more question."
"What is it?" Alfred yawned.
"Wesker. What's he up to?"
"I have no idea," Alfred said, and he sipped whatever he was drinking again. Probably whiskey, Grayson decided; Alfred always had a nightcap. "He transferred to the intelligence division some years ago, and that particular area of the company isn't under my purview."
"Right. Thanks. That's all I wanted to ask."
"We'll chat later," Alfred said, and hung up.
Grayson put the phone on the cradle and stood, stretching. He walked over to his open window, feeling a nice breeze on his skin, watching the lights of the radio tower. His street was one of the quieter neighborhoods. Nobody was out right now, excluding some old guy walking his two Great Danes, and a young guy on roller-blades. A black sedan passed his building, blaring hip-hop music. And then it was quiet again.
Sleep hit him pretty suddenly, and he turned and wandered back to his bed, face-planting on his freshly laundered pillows. Though he could still smell the faint traces of Annette's sea-breeze shampoo.
Grayson looked at his bedside table, chin on his pillows, staring at the only picture of Alexia he'd kept where he could see it. He'd taken it in Antarctica, in her laboratory. She was thirteen-years-old and smiling, dressed in a lab-coat that was too big for her, and a black jumper dress.
"Fifteen years now?" he murmured, burying his face in the pillows again and falling asleep to the smell of the ocean.
His alarm went off at five o'clock in the morning. Grayson showered and pomaded his hair, then dressed in his uniform. The clothes were still uncomfortably stiff and tight from newness, and so was his holster and shoes; he was pretty sure he'd have some blisters by the end of the day.
He brewed some coffee and poured it into his thermos, then headed to his car. It took him twenty minutes to drive to the Raccoon City Police Department.
The department used to be a museum, which was pretty evident in its architecture; it sat somewhere between Neo-Greek and Art Deco, with a pinch of Gothic Cathedral thrown into the mix. It looked, Grayson decided, like something that belonged in Gotham City.
He drove into the parking garage behind the precinct, parked, and headed inside. To reach the lobby from here, Grayson had to pass the shooting range—he could hear people firing guns—and follow the hall past the morgue, and through an opened shutter-gate.
The lobby was huge, and smelled like wood and cleaning products. With its brown marble floors, pillars, and walls, and dark wood accents, it definitely felt and looked like something that had once been a museum. A marble statue, of a woman hoisting a flag, dominated the center of the room. Grayson figured she was supposed to represent Lady Justice, but the cops just referred to it as the goddess statue, a leftover from the station's museum days.
Grayson approached the front desk, where a bored-looking cop was scribbling something out on piece of fax paper.
"Hey, my name's Grayson Harman. I'm looking for Marvin Branagh?"
The cop looked at him. "Oh right," he said, and grinned. "You're the rookie they just hired." He pointed his pen toward a door. "West office. You'll find him in there."
"Thanks," Grayson said, and walked to the west office.
Several desks occupied the west office, where officers were leafing through reports, scribbling things on pieces of paper, picking through folders and binders in the aluminum filing cabinets. They didn't really pay him any mind as he walked through the bullpen. He felt out of place, and a little overwhelmed; all the cops in here looked pretty seasoned, and here he was, a rookie with a mild case of the nervous shakes.
A tall black guy approached him. His beard was neatly trimmed, his hair closely shaved. He stared at Grayson with intense brown eyes, his mouth a hard line. The brass bar on his collar ranked him as Lieutenant.
"Rookie," the guy said, and grinned. Grayson saw his nameplate: Marvin Branagh. He extended his hand, and Grayson shook it. "Marvin Branagh. I'm your FTO, boot."
"Nice to meet you, sir."
"Same. You got your procedure manual?"
Grayson showed him. "Right here, sir."
"Good. Better than most rookies we get," he said, and closed the folder he'd been carrying, tucking it under a thin brown arm. "We're heading out on patrol. Gonna start workin' on that radio-ear of yours, among other things. C'mon."
His first day was surprisingly eventful. They'd stopped a couple of speeders, answered a domestic disturbance, hauled a junkie out of the bathroom of a Speedy Burger. He'd also learned the art of writing a good report—succinct and clear enough that it accurately described the incidents, but didn't give attorneys any ammunition if things went to court.
It was near the end of their shift now, almost six o'clock in the evening. Grayson was used to working long hours, though; he'd often pulled twelve hours shifts while working for Alfred. Marvin quizzed him a few times on protocol as they drove back to the precinct, and to his FTO's delight, Grayson had managed to answer his questions without looking much at his procedure manual.
They parked the car in the garage. Marvin walked beside him. "You got your notebook, right?"
Grayson nodded. "And the manual."
"Don't lose either of those things. Gonna save your ass, boot."
"I hear you, Lieutenant."
"So you from around here, rookie? Don't sound it."
Grayson shook his head. "Not really from anywhere. Family was originally from New Jersey, but we moved around a lot. I lived in England for a few years."
"Yeah? You don't sound English."
"I'm not," Grayson said. "My dad's a butler by profession."
Marvin laughed. "Butler? Really?" He looked at him. "Sorry, just kinda funny. You don't really imagine anyone bein' a butler, you know? It's like… I dunno. Like someone who makes wagon wheels, or some shit."
"It's a pretty niche profession, I guess."
They walked past the shooting range, past the morgue, and through the opened shutter-gate. Back in the lobby, Marvin said, "I gotta finish some things. Good work today, rookie. Keep it up. I'll see ya tomorrow."
"Sure. See you, Lieutenant."
"Before I go," Marvin said, and smirked. "I gotta know somethin', boot. I ain't one to really involve myself in folks' personal lives, but you're datin' Jill Valentine, right?"
"Yeah."
"Woman's a firecracker," Marvin said. "Damn good cop, though. Sorry, rookie. Word just travels fast around here, you know?" He pointed at him, adding, "That's another thing you gotta remember, boot. Your personal life? Keep a tight lid on it. Unless you want everyone and the damn Chief to know 'bout it."
"Got it, sir."
"And one other thing," Marvin added. "Don't bug Sergeant Phillips with dumb questions. Woman's got enough on her plate. You got anythin' you need to ask, talk to your seniors. Got it?"
"Got it."
Marvin winked, then disappeared into the west office.
Grayson started toward the door. A new cop sat at the front-desk now, and was watching something on a portable television.
Someone grabbed his arm suddenly, and said, "Grayson. How'd it go?" Jill beamed at him. She was in her S.T.A.R.S uniform: a blue-gray waffle-knit T-shirt, dark blue fatigues, and tactical boots.
"It went well. I like Marvin. He's a cool guy."
"Marvin's a great guy," Jill agreed, and started leading him somewhere.
"Where are we going?"
"S.T.A.R.S office. I need to grab my things. Heading home. You want to come over for dinner?" She looked at him. "I mean, it's leftovers, but it's good. My mom made korokke soba. You'll love it. You like croquettes, right?"
The S.T.A.R.S office was really out of the way, near the laundry room and showers. It was a bullpen office like most of the offices in the precinct, though the desks here were highly personalized. Barry Burton's desk had a bunch of gun parts and packages from Kendo's Gun Shop; Jill's had a picture of Charlie, and several knickknacks her cousins had brought her from Japan; Chris's desk had his leather jacket, his guitar, and a bunch of alt-rock CDs spread out on it.
S.T.A.R.S, from what Grayson understood, was somewhat autonomous from the rest of the precinct. Unlike the RPD, they were privately funded through the Bright Raccoon Initiative; though they assisted the department in homicide and drug investigations. On a more specialized note, S.T.A.R.S was responsible for counter-terrorism ops, Cybersecurity, and hostage rescue. Grayson didn't really understand the need for it, but it wasn't really his business.
Jill grabbed her coat from the backrest of her chair. Brad Vickers stared at him from the communications station, frowning; his eye was still somewhat swollen, from when Grayson had punched him.
"What's he doing here, Jill?" Brad asked, impatiently tapping his pen against the computer terminal—probably a nervous habit.
"Good question," Grayson said, and looked at Jill. "I'm escorting her, I guess?"
"I'm just grabbing my things, Brad. Grayson's not gonna be here long."
"He's afraid you're gonna punch him again," Forest said, from his desk. He was sitting down, his chair leaned against the wall. His voice had a slight twang to it. "You scared, Chickenboy?"
"Fuck off, Forest," Brad said, and turned around in his chair, staring at the monitors. He made a small adjustment to his headset.
"Bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk-a!" Forest said, flapping his arms like a chicken. He laughed.
"Hey, leave him alone, man." Joseph was at his desk, practicing the vanishing quarter trick; but he couldn't get it right. "Dammit. The book makes it seem so fucking easy."
Grayson felt someone staring at him. He slowly looked over his shoulder, saw Wesker standing in the doorway of his office. His office was partitioned off from the S.T.A.R.S bullpen, in a room of frosted glass windows. A brass placard with his name was mounted to the door.
"All right. Think I got everything," Jill said, and paused. She looked over at Forest. "Where's Chris and Barry?"
"Where else? Shootin' range, gorgeous," he said, and finger-gunned in her direction. "Was gonna go down myself in a spell. Just wanted to hang around and hassle Chickenboy some first."
"Fuck off," Brad said, from the comm station—louder this time.
Jill nodded. "No surprise. They basically live down there," she said, and slipped on her coat, heading toward the door. "Come on, Grayson. I got everything."
Grayson nodded and started to follow—but Wesker suddenly grabbed his shoulder and yanked him inside his office, locking the door behind them. "Don't worry about eavesdroppers," Wesker said. "Soundproofed." He sat at his desk. He was dressed in his S.T.A.R.S uniform: a set of dark blue fatigues, and a tactical vest. His eyes were still hidden behind sunglasses. "Congratulations on surviving your first day on the force, Harman. Who'd have thought the Ashford's butler would become a cop?"
"Yeah, who'd have thought." Grayson gestured around them. "Why am I in here?" He watched Wesker's hand; he was reaching down, opening a drawer. Instinctively, Grayson reached for his gun.
"Relax," Wesker said, and took out a half-full bottle of scotch, and two glasses. "Here," he said, and poured him a drink, sliding the glass across the desk. "Take the edge off."
Grayson took the glass and stared at it.
"It's not poison," Wesker said, and sipped his scotch.
He sipped it. It wasn't poison.
"I just wanted to make sure we were still on the same page," Wesker said, his eyes unreadable behind the shades. The lenses were so dark, they almost gave the impression of the orbital sockets in a skull. "About our history," he added, helpfully.
"It's fine, it's cool. I'm not gonna say anything, Wesker."
"Good. I'd hate to tell William that his wife's sleeping with Alexia Ashford's former boy-toy," he remarked, and smiled in that mimetic way only Wesker was capable of, like he'd learned to smile from a technical manual. "I'd threaten to tell Jill, but I think we both know that would only make it easier for you."
"My personal life's none of your business, Wesker. I get it, okay? We're strangers."
Wesker sipped his scotch for a very long time. "Just a bit strange, I suppose," he said, finally. He leaned back in his chair, the thing squeaking on its pivot. "But perhaps not. You seem to have a thing for blonde scientists."
"Don't go there, Wesker. I'm serious."
"Or what?" Wesker said, and set his glass down, smiling. He leaned forward, his chair creaking loudly, and clasped his hands on the desk. "I have you by the balls, Harman."
Grayson opened his mouth, then closed it. He put his glass down.
"Exactly," Wesker said, and stood. He wasn't as tall as Grayson, but he was pretty damn close. "What's your interest in Annette Birkin?" he asked. "I'm genuinely curious."
"You're genuinely curious about her research, asshole. And before you ask, no, I don't know anything about it."
"I believe you, Harman," Wesker said, and clasped his hands behind his back. "It doesn't matter, however. Not yet anyway." He watched him, his expression unsettling in its neutrality. "I have other things I need to take care of before I begin worrying about what the Birkins are up to."
"Yeah, I'm sure. Busy guy, right?"
"Immensely," Wesker said, smoothly. He grabbed Grayson's arm and steered him toward the door. "This was a lovely chat, but I have work to do. I'll see you around, I'm sure." He unlocked the door and nudged him through, then shut it behind him. Grayson heard the lock.
"What the hell was that about?" Jill asked. She'd volunteered to be Joseph's guinea pig, who was presently practicing the coin-in-ear trick on her.
"Nothing," Grayson lied. "Captain Wesker was just welcoming me to the job."
