Author's note: Wowies. I wrote this chapter in a day. Okay, so it's not really that long but... I quite like how it turned out. It's all very... moody. I like that. I hope it comes across when you read it, too. Just keep in mind Chris' unhappy face, and dark, grubby streets strewn with litter... Raccoon really is quite a dump, isn't it? Anyway, I won't distract you with my rambling any longer. Please review if you can!

Disclaimer: I do not own Resident Evil in any shape or form. If I did, I wouldn't have Nemesis chase Carlos because he's clearly not in S.T.A.R.S...


Coffee and Gun Oil

The coffee was thick and bitter as it slid down his throat. It wasn't how he liked to drink it, but its warmth was comforting and the caffeine did just enough to take the edge off his tiredness. He was turning his lighter round in his hand as he read the morning paper, the smoothness teasing his fingers and the familiar weight a comfort to him. His scuffed packet of cigarettes lay on the table top, unopened, and the muted sounds of the old black and white television barely reached him.

Chris had passed Emmy's diner as he drove towards the motel the previous night and, on waking up famished, had decided to backtrack a little for some breakfast. It had been a little greasy and unappealing to look at, but after a day of barely eating, and a rough night in the motel, it had tasted like Heaven. The knife and forked criss-crossed over the empty plate and the serviette was scrunched up into a ball at its side. Before he had taken up his lighter, that crumpled paper had served as a crude stress ball to try to relieve some of that ever-present tension.

His belief that he could sleep through anything had been a little flawed. Maybe just an hour after he'd reached the motel, the sounds of heavy boots crashing down and racing over the floor above had jolted him awake. He'd been somewhat bleary and disorientated, but the distinct sound of gunshots had cleared his senses immediately. There had been three of them, the unmistakable popping of a handgun. Fire and return-fire. He'd been on his feet and through the door before he'd even realised what he was doing. Then he'd seen the police officer on the opposite side of the parking lot, looking up at the balcony above his room and calling the incident in. That had allowed him to breathe a little easier. After that, he had simply shuffled back to the lingering warmth of the bed and given the episode no more thought.

Of course, having already been woken once, his body was reluctant to fall back into that deep, dark sleep. Instead, he'd only caught snatches, waking and then falling again until bright, crisp sunlight forced his eyes open and dragged him from his ragged slumber. Outside the window, he had seen the escaping tendril of yellow crime scene tape whipping in the breeze. It had seemed like fate had been rubbing it in.

Regardless, he had risen and showered and ridded himself of his rough stubble until he faintly resembled the man he used to be. His eyes were still dull and darkly shadowed against his sickly, pale skin. He had been wearing himself into the ground, he could feel himself doing it, but he just couldn't seem to be able to take an objective step back. He just couldn't stop. Even now, his tired eyes were scanning the local newspaper for jobs and apartments, searching the mini-map for his next port of call. It was all he could do to keep himself going.

It's all for her...

Hearing Claire's voice had given him a sense of relief he hadn't felt in a while. It had been maybe a week since they had last spoken, and then it had only led to another argument and bitter silence. It seemed to be the way of it recently... But last night... He had called her, and he had heard the same relief in her voice that he knew she could hear in his. That had been enough to clear the air between them. She'd wanted to know all about the city he'd found himself in, and he had joked that he'd send her a postcard. Of course, she had laughed lightly at that, allowing herself to be caught up in the gentle, tired humour to hang onto whatever sense of normality remained between them.

They had talked until the quarters ran out, and he'd raised his voice over the final beeps of the phone call, telling her he loved her and that he would call again in a few days. She had responded in kind before the line severed completely and he was left with the mechanical tone filling the unwanted silence.

But it had been enough. It had been more than that to hear her say that she understood, that it was okay. He had been grateful, but he knew it was a lie. This wasn't okay for either of them. It was like being on a merry-go-round that wouldn't stop. It was just something that he found himself doing, something that had no absolution at the end of it. None that he could see anyway.

He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, crumpling the paper in his fist as he turned the page roughly. The words had stopped sinking in, had become nothing more than a monotone blur across his vision. His fingers reached up to pinch at the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as distant pressure began to throb in his skull.

"Here."

His eyes blinked open as a soft voice reached his ears. A pretty face was smiling lightly at him as another cup of coffee was set on the table at his elbow.

"You look as though you need this."

Chris pulled himself upright and started to reach for the cash in his pocket.

"On the house," she added quickly, widening her smile just a little.

Caught a little off guard, Chris stumbled for his words. He was so wrapped up in himself that he hadn't even heard her come over, and could barely think now he'd been jolted from his trance. He nodded once, and let his senses return to him before he finally offered her a small, rueful smile.

"Is it that obvious?"

The waitress tilted her head slightly, her warm eyes softening. She didn't look more than eighteen, but her eyes seemed older than her years. He guessed that working in a place like this - a small, simple diner with its basic menu and plastic tables - she'd seen many people with their many ways and problems. She'd probably talked with all of them, offering a service that cost nothing and yet was so invaluable. However, it had taken something from her. She had grown up too quickly, been exposed to the many undesirable traits of man too soon. Jaded and cynical... That's how this road ended. And it was painful to see.

"Are you just passing through, or are you staying here?" she asked, leaning forward to reach for his discarded plate.

He leaned back out of the way, unveiling the paper that he had been hunched over. Her eyes caught the page and she didn't require his answer anymore.

"There are plenty of jobs going in Raccoon," she offered, scrunching up the serviette in her fist before dropping it onto the plate. "They always want people in the factories around here, and I heard they're looking for contractors and labourers for the renovation of the art museum."

"Thanks." He stopped her before she could continue. "But I don't think I'll be staying."

He'd noticed the abrupt tone that wrapped around his words, and saw the way her smile faltered just a little. Shit. He was doing it again. He shook his head softly and gestured towards the steaming cup in front of him, forcing a smile that he hoped didn't look too fake.

"Thanks for this."

She nodded at him, that smile unfolding again and her eyes seeming just a little brighter.

"No worries," she grinned. "If you come back again, there'll be another one waiting for you."

She turned and headed back behind the counter, leaving Chris to stare after her with a confused frown on his face. He'd been wrong before. He could tell by the way she had reciprocated his smile. It had been just as fake as his. She had been jaded and cynical long before she got this job.

Chris had found that he had a natural ability to read people, to get a sense for them. It had probably stemmed from his training, and all those hours staring after Claire trying to figure out what she was thinking. And he could see that girl. She was just as broken as he was. She came to work every day with that hollow smile, eyes looking out for souls as damaged as hers. She needed that contact, needed to be able to make them smile again as she waited desperately for someone to do the same for her. And, shit, she was still just a child.

He wrapped his hands around the warm mug and brought it to his lips, dragging his eyes away from the waitress and back to his own problems. But in the back of his mind, nagging at him as he tried to clear his thoughts away, he couldn't help but wonder what the hell this city did to people.

xxxxxxxxxx

It started raining again shortly after Chris started his second cup of coffee. He waited in the cool diner a while, watching as people filed in out of the downpour before he finally grew impatient. The buzzing of ceaseless voices was starting to give him a headache and the clamour and fidgeting all around him was getting on his last nerve. He threw down a handful of notes onto the counter top, not stopping to give the waitress another look, and stepped out into the street.

It was mid-Spring, and the bitter morning chill was still clinging to him. He shrugged deeper into his suede jacket as he sidestepped and ducked his way through the busy streets. A canopy of umbrellas sheltered the streets as people weaved in and out, up and through and onwards to their destination. Chris hadn't had the presence of mind to bring one along with him, not that he particularly minded anyway. The rain wasn't as heavy as it had been last night, and in between the peaks of tall buildings he could see glimpses of blue sky fighting for dominance over the tumbling grey clouds.

The buildings themselves were what caught his attention most, though. From what he had seen so far, there didn't seem to be any recent structures around. Office blocks and shop fronts, even the apartments and the diner had a distinct retro look about them. Carvings and moulds from the fifties dominated the streets, heavy stone cladding throwing dark shadows out over the sidewalk. He'd read that Raccoon was prospering and developing quickly, but that was clearly typical, lax journalism. Either that or business propaganda.

The pharmaceutical company, Umbrella, played a big part in the economy of the city, so he'd read. They'd had a hand in the running of the local hospital and enticed many Raccoon residents onto their payroll. He could hear the cynicism in his own inner voice again. He just couldn't help but think that it was nothing more than a good marketing ploy. Sure, they were obviously giving a great deal back to the people of Raccoon City, but in the end they were a business and their annual profits could probably fund the running of the entire city itself. The locals couldn't even dream of having that much money at their disposal. And most of them probably wouldn't even know how much they were being ripped off.

Big businesses pissed him off. Law firms and banks leeched from the public, from the good, hard-working citizens who scrimped and saved just to get by. Even hospitals and their medical insurance... Who could really put a price on life?

He shook his head roughly, feeling his anger quell a little, and pushed on forward through the rain-soaked streets. The shadow of his foul mood was stalking him again. Such little things that would ordinarily just niggle him seemed to be clouding his mind completely, turning his thoughts dark and unforgiving. He was quick to snap, and it was starting to frighten him. Okay, so he'd always had a pretty short fuse, but it had never been so constant and his outbursts had never been so aggressive. He didn't like the road he was heading down but he didn't know how to stop it either. He simply just tried to ignore it, attempting to tame the beast and calm himself before he acted. But recently... It was becoming more difficult. His grip was starting to loosen.

Distracted, he brushed past someone and bumped his shoulder against theirs. He turned immediately, the apology already tumbling from his lips, but whoever he'd hit had already walked away and been swallowed up by the crowd. He stared blankly for a second, watching the scowls on a couple of people's faces as they had to make a pointed effort of walking around him.

Domestics, gun crime, depression, ignorance... What kind of city was this? What kind of people were living in this quiet suburb, being moulded in such a way?

Why did he care? He'd already made up his mind that he would be on the road again in a few days. He didn't think he could stand living in such a drab, uninviting place as this. The weather seemed to compliment the city's temperament.

Heh. Then again, wouldn't I just fit right in...

He carried on walking again, hearing the distant chiming of a clock announcing noon. Even so, he automatically glanced at his watch, a habit that he found he couldn't shake. The hands ticked by, ever constant, and he sighed and dropped his wrist back down to his side. He couldn't help but wonder what the hell he was doing there.

xxxxxxxxxx

The old, battered truck bucked and jolted its way through the pot-holed back alley. Its wheels skidded slightly over the sheen of water that sat on the oil-slicked asphalt. Scraping past a rusting dumpster, the putrid smell momentarily filling the cab, the driver pulled a sharp right and turned into a tighter space between the high-rise buildings.

Up ahead, he could see the signage of Kendo's gun shop, the proprietor propped against one wall and puffing away on a cigarette. Things were obviously a little slow this morning.

He eased the truck to a stop, calling out a greeting to the man waiting for him. A hand was thrown up in his direction, a murmur of greeting seeping through the lips still closed around the cigarette. He'd never been a smoker himself and still couldn't see the appeal of breathing in smoke and filling your lungs with tar. Of course, he was also a father and made a point of setting an example. He wouldn't smoke for his kids' sakes. They were still young but he couldn't help trying to protect them from things that were depressingly becoming commonplace amongst children.

With a bitter grunt, he dropped from the truck and walked around to the side so he could get a better view of the shop. He'd only visited it a couple of times before, after a recommendation from the chief of the Raccoon Police Department, Brian Irons. The first time they'd met, Kendo had been more than accommodating even before he'd handed over the letter of introduction Irons had insisted he take with him. He was craftsman, and a complete expert on pretty much any kind of weapon. Guns were his passion though, and he'd been pleasantly surprised when told he'd come highly recommended. He was one of those types of people who didn't need praise. They did what they did because they loved it, not to get insincere gratitude and admiration.

His face broke into a grin as he stubbed his cigarette out on the sharp brick fronting.

"Mr. Burton," he acknowledged with a nod.

Barry returned the gesture and strode over to shake his hand.

"Robert. How are things?"

"Good. Fine," he offered, glancing around with a smile at the empty street. "A little quiet, but I guess that's to be expected."

Barry frowned as he unfolded the back panel of the old pick up. "Why's that?"

Robert stepped forward to help him clear the tarpaulin from the truck, uncovering crates and black smudges of gunpowder over the wooden slats.

"Warren and Irons are really pushing for a restriction on firearms licences," he explained, no sense of distaste or disapproval in his voice. "They've been quite vocal about it recently, trying to dissuade people from littering the city with unnecessary weapons. It seems the public are taking it to heart."

Warren, the mayor of Raccoon City. Barry had heard good things about him. He'd been more than happy to complete the things he'd claimed he would during the election race. Like anyone, Barry had assumed he'd been bullshitting. But the hospital, plus the renovations of the Municipal building and the utility works... He'd really proven his worth, and his title. It was a nice change from the smarmy politicians who only saw to line their own pockets. And with what Kendo was saying about lowering gun crime, he seemed almost too good to be true.

"Is it really affecting the business that badly?" he asked, pushing aside damp cardboard boxes to make space in the back of the truck.

Robert shook his head. "It's not really walk-in trade that keeps me going. I'll do just fine without them. I've still got contracts within the town, and I trade with people in the bigger cities so it's really fine. It's just the conversations with the locals I miss."

He gave a smile and cocked his head in the direction of the shop.

"Come on. I'll give you a hand with your order. You'll want to get your truck loaded up quickly; it's fast turning into a bucket out here."

Barry gave a low laugh and followed Robert out of the rain and into the warmth of the shop. It was small and shabby; the lights dim and walls dark, closing in the already cramped space. Locked cabinets lined the walls and leaflets and gun magazines scattered the counter tops. It was organised chaos, though a place like this didn't need to be much more. Its patrons didn't pay much mind to the state of the shop so it was unnecessary for Robert to pay out for renovations or repairs. The money he made was fed back into the business, going full circle until it came back round again. Barry couldn't help but admire men like him.

That's why he was there now. If Irons gave the go ahead for a new taskforce to be set up in the city, Barry would need someone like Kendo to back him up. Sure, they were still talking about the proposal - they hadn't even laid down the basic plans to get it all up and running if they were permitted - but it didn't hurt to start making contacts early. He'd learned that years ago. And in any case, he thought that he'd still keep in touch with Kendo even if the plans never came to fruition. His was a talent and passion that seemed so rare nowadays.

Of course, that event would also lead to the uprooting of his family again. He couldn't say that his wife was really happy about moving to Raccoon, and he wasn't keen on the idea of pulling his kids out of their school but... This opportunity was too good not to take. His wife had been pleased for him, and nothing but supportive, but he could still sense the hesitation that had been nagging at her. She didn't stand in his way, but he knew she didn't want to leave either. It had been tough for all of them, but their new house and neighbours were nice, and the kids had already made new friends. It was all slowly starting to become normal. He just wasn't sure what she would think if they had no reason to stay, if the plans fell through.

He shook his head to clear the thoughts. Separating his home and work lives had always been tricky for him, especially at times where he knew something was bothering his family. He just couldn't seem to push it aside. Which, he guessed, was a good trait.

Yeah, but not if your screw up this inventory list...

His mind snapped back to the task at hand, eyes running over the crates and boxes stacked up in the storeroom where Kendo had led him. It was a typical order of munitions for his team, a kind of job interview for Kendo. It was a bitch doing the inventory by himself, but he was the interviewer, and it would be with his commendation that Kendo would land himself another contract.

"He's the paperwork," Kendo said from behind him, reaching round to pass over a folder that was as thick as a small booklet. "I managed to get a hold of everything you asked for, and even got a deal on the 9mm rounds for you. That'll drop the price a little."

Barry glanced up from the itemised list and nodded. He opened his mouth to give his thanks when the sound of a bell ringing stole his voice.

"Ah, a customer," Kendo smiled. "You'll be okay with this while I mind the shop? There's coffee in the pot over there."

Barry nodded again. "Yeah. Thanks."

Kendo stepped past him and out into the shop again, leaving him facing several packed boxes and the muted anticipation of trawling through each one. He hated this shit. It wasn't just ticking off each item from the inventory list; it was inspecting each weapon closely, looking for wear or malfunctions, test firing if necessary. A cache this size would take him a couple of hours at least. He sighed deeply and instead turned to the steaming coffee pot. Kendo was a godsend.

He could hear his voice through the paper-thin walls, talking lightly with a potential customer. The other voice was male, and young. Probably mid-twenties. He'd been through the training, he knew people. In his line of work it was a matter of life or death sometimes. To be able to read tone, to pick out a word that meant something else, to hear the words people weren't saying... These tricks had saved his life on a number of occasions. And he found them hard to shake in everyday life.

Grabbing his coffee, he tried to drown out the voices as he lowered himself onto an upturned case and started flicking through the paperwork.

Right, item number one...

xxxxxxxxxx

He turned the Glock 17 over in his hands, running his palm along the cool metal of the barrel. The grip was thick and heavy, just enough weight to control the buck of the recoil. He preferred this model to any other handgun he'd used. Something just felt right about it. More so than with the Berretta he carried now.

"Of course, as a first time buyer, the price covers a box of 9mm rounds."

Chris nodded thoughtfully. He didn't need another gun, but he couldn't resist stepping inside the shop when he'd happened upon it. Now, he found himself considering using the Beretta as part payment on this one.

"Hey, Robert. I haven't got the paperwork for the AK."

A deep, rich voice pulled him from his musings, and he looked up to see a well-built frame leaning round the door of the back room. A frown was settled on his round face, his mouth caught in a half-smile, almost apologetic.

"Shit," Kendo cursed. "It's downstairs in the office."

Chris saw him glance between himself and the newcomer before that rich voice spoke up again.

"You go," he ordered softly. "I'll keep an eye on things here for you."

There was the sound of movement, and footsteps fading away but Chris had returned his gaze the gun in his grip and didn't much care. However...

An AK-47...

Impressive weapon. This guy clearly wasn't some walk-in job. He was in the business somehow. Chris glanced up to find the man looking at him, one hand scuffing through his short, dark beard. He was propped against the display cabinet opposite him, staring intently in his direction. Chris felt a little uncomfortable under that invading gaze and shifted his weight onto his right foot as he lowered his eyes back to the Glock.

"You looking for something for protection?"

That deep, warm voice easily filled the ragged silence, forcing Chris' gaze back up. The guy pushed himself forward and crossed the space between them. He cocked his head at the gun in his hands.

"You've got taste, I'll give you that."

He was smiling, dark eyes watching for a reaction. Chris frowned a little, handing the gun over for him to inspect. He took it eagerly, turning it round and testing the weight in his hands. Chris watched him as he ejected the empty clip, slipped it back into place then checked the line of the sight. He knew what he was doing, that was for sure. For a moment, Chris wondered if he worked here, but the guy's next words told him otherwise.

"It's a custom model," he murmured, attention on the weapon rather than the young man in front of him. "Well-crafted. You gonna take it?"

He handed the Glock back to Chris who took it with a shrug.

"Not sure."

He didn't offer any more than that, suddenly feeling lost amongst the pleasantries. He wasn't even sure why he'd come in here in the first place. He just knew he felt... a little lost without a firearm at his side. It sounded stupid, he knew it. But he was so used to carrying that he couldn't help feeling a little exposed without one. He'd just been drawn in by the familiar scent of powder and gun oil. Applying for a new licence would be a pain, but the gun just felt so right in his hands.

"But from what I've seen of Raccoon already, it woundn't hurt."

That elicited a gentle laugh from the man beside him. "You're right there. I thought the same thing when I arrived, too. Name's Barry."

He held out a hand and Chris took it, feeling his palm dwarfed by the fist that covered it.

"Chris."

Barry nodded, taking a step back again to lean against the cabinet. "So from that reaction, I guess you're not a cop. But you're in the business, right?"

Chris allowed himself a small smile and dipped his head.

"I guess you could say that."

He supposed it was true. He was just... in between jobs at the moment. There was no point giving this guy his life story, and he didn't care much to spill his troubles. He gave the answer that most broadly covered his situation.

"So, you're a military man," Barry guessed, correctly - he could tell. "You in town for business or pleasure?"

Chris couldn't help feeling a little overwhelmed by Barry's honest friendliness. It was nice, he guessed, to find someone so open in a new town, but he just wasn't in the mood. He was tired and a little cold, and he didn't have the patience to keep avoiding questions he couldn't be bothered to make excuses for. He had to say he was relieved when footsteps sounded nearby and the proprietor stepped back onto the shop floor.

"Here it is," he smiled, handing over a few pieces of paper stapled together.

Barry took it and briefly raised it in the air.

"Back to work then," he muttered, heading for the storeroom. He turned and gave a warm smile. "Nice to meet you."

Chris nodded. "You too."

He didn't think he had reciprocated the smile. It didn't matter though, and he turned his attention back to the clerk who was looking at him with interest. He offered an apology for having to leave which Chris dismissed with a wave of his hand.

"So, have you decided?" Kendo asked, nodding at the Glock still resting in his hands.

Chris looked at it again before placing it down on the counter top. He shook his head softly.

"No," he answered after a pause. "I think I'll leave it. Thanks."

He didn't hear the words Kendo offered him as he left the shop. All he could think was how much it had bothered him to answer those questions. To evade the truth. To lie. And he realised, as he walked through the endless rain, that he was ashamed of himself, of the events that had led him to this point. He found himself sagging against the dripping brick wall, glancing down into his reflection in the pool of water at his feet. There was nothing but a shadow staring back at him, unfamiliar eyes and an expression of disdain.

He didn't even recognise the man.