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If anyone met Jill in the hallway just then they would have had a less than favorable impression of her mental health. She walked with her hands balled in fists, seething and stomping. She'd made a point of going to the farthest coffee pot she knew of, if only to get herself as far as possible from that moron Chris and those other assholes. Better yet, by the time she got back, she would've had a little time to clear her head.
The long trek to coffee was made longer by the requisite shuffling around for appropriate keys, gems and emblems. Deputy Director Irons had been a renowned semiologist before coming to the RPD and he'd made his particular field of study known. Although it was a royal pain, theft of office supplies was down fifty-seven percent.
Jill found the storeroom elevator key (a butterfly-shaped emerald) in her back pocket and angrily jammed it into the lock. She's a science genius, Chris had said. Only 18 and she's already done with college...
So...she must have graduated college at 14. So what? Since when was law enforcement about being book smart? Of all the brilliant people Jill had ever known, none of them had been child prodigies. No amount of education could substitute for, or pay off like old-fashioned experience.
A science genius; who gave a damn? They should hire her in the forensics lab if she's so goddamn smart, then. Beat cops had a lot of work to do, and that work wasn't about knowing stupid shit like how many molecules were in a grain of salt or whatever. College had never been in Jill's plans and she certainly didn't consider it a loss. She'd gone straight to academy, become a peacekeeper and kicked a hell of a lot of ass. Her time in Africa had made her strong, fierce, and relentless. At the end of her mission she'd been genuinely content with herself, a first in her life.
There she was, twenty-one years old and a decorated veteran from one of the hottest combat zones in the world. The Army had been eager to have her, but Jill had instead accepted a lateral transfer to a small-town Special Forces unit. It would be hard work, they told her, and it would keep her in shape until she was ready to return to the military. Drug busts and domestic violence calls would be a welcome relief after bombs and roadside grenades.
She'd first come in to Raccoon City in April, just before the springtime academy. There had been a lot of rumors about the department chief's peculiar vices, which Jill had been quick to investigate. "Don't worry," someone had told her. "You're what, twenty-two? Nah, Irons won't be interested...you're way too old."
That had been one hell of a way to start. Sure enough, Irons was a pervert; Jill had only needed to see the mustache to know something wasn't quite right. But in time Irons had earned her respect. The man was a sicko, but he was also the best goddamn politician in Raccoon. He played a mean game of hardball with the press and could scare the pants off the most seasoned prosecutors. Under Irons' leadership the RPD had secured more funding, publicity, and resources than any other local department of a comparable size. The man didn't give a damn about how his officers worked, how they dressed, or how they spent their time. All he wanted were the best results at any cost. That single-minded determination was something Jill could admire--even if it meant taking orders from a man who leered at girls in the junior department.
Irons' strange workplace had encouraged some almost as strange employees. There was Wesker, Alpha Team's hardass but sort of goofy-looking captain; burly, fatherly Barry; frat twins Brad and Joseph, and--
They'd first met on her first day in town, before academy. Jill's flight had been delayed and she'd reported to the station just seven hours ahead of her first shift. Instead of going back to her apartment she'd decided to turn in on one of the station beds. There was just one double bunk, with ratty sheets and pillows that had been patched on the sides. Jill had been resting on the bottom bunk for just a moment when he came in.
"Gee, sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to wake you up!"
Jill considered pointing out that if he hadn't woken her up before, he certainly would have now, but something about his face suggested the logic would be lost on him. He was of average height but sturdily built, like the cornfed Midwestern farmboys from the 1950s.
"Is something going on?" she asked.
"Huh? Oh, no. I'm just gonna take a nap. That okay?"
"I don't care," Jill said, closing her eyes. Then she remembered the rules of military preference; in Africa she'd be damned if she ever thought of resting in a superior officer's favorite spot. This guy didn't look like the type, but she didn't want to assume. "Unless this is yours."
The stranger clambered up to the top bunk with surprising agility, then flopped onto the bed. "Nah. The top is better anyhow. I like to pretend I'm at summer camp."
Jill began to wonder if she'd made the right career decision. Well, at least he's not Special Tactics, she thought. Unless they mean something very different by "special"...
But she soon learned he was Special Tactics, and in the following days and weeks she came to learn a lot more about him. Chris Redfield was big, friendly, and utterly unlike any man she'd ever known. He smiled too wide at absolutely anything. He said things like "what's shakin', bacon" and gave high-fives to the regular drunks in lockup. Most infuriating of all, he couldn't so much as come near a crime scene without making stupid jokes.
The jokes drove Jill up the wall. They were inappropriate, disrespectful, and not even remotely funny. What was even more bewildering was how the rest of the team didn't seem to care. No, they just put up the tape and called forensics while Chris made puns about falling pianos. No one ever gave him so much as a nudge in the ribs for it. She had finally confronted him about it. He'd just shrugged, said "It's for my sake as much as anybody else's," and that was all. Two weeks would go by before she began to understand what he meant.
It began with an afternoon phone call, never a good sign: when desk phones rang, it almost always meant somebody up top was pissed off. Chris, who spent more time in Irons' office than all the others combined, rolled his eyes melodramatically. "Anybody wanna guess what I did this time?" he grinned.
He had just picked up the receiver when his face went pale. He sat up in his chair. "He did what?!" he roared. "That stupid no-good son of a BITCH! I'll kill him! I'll--sorry. Sorry." Chris scratched his head, but he was still seething. "Okay. I want you to go to the supermarket and pick up three pints of Phish Food, all right? Two for me, one for you. Order two four-layer meat pizzas from Today's and--no, you don't have a meeting for your business class, not anymore. Listen to me. Are you listening? What's harder than cutting class?"
There was an awkward tension in the room. Alpha Team was suddenly extremely busy with their own things. Jill tried to focus on her paperwork.
"Putting it back together." A sound of agitated, uncertain sobbing came from the other end. "Right. I'm gonna drop by Blockbuster and pick up Romy and Michele's High School Reunion. I'll be there in a half-hour. Love you lots and then some. Bye."
Jill blinked, unable to process what she had just witnessed. Chris was already slinging on his bomber jacket and halfway out the door. "Sorry, Wesker. There's an emergency..."
There was a split second of tension. Wesker was famously hard-ass about letting people off; he never even gave more than one sick day at a time. Jill doubted he'd authorize Chris's leave, especially after overhearing that phone call. But Wesker simply waved.
"By all means. I wish my friends would be as considerate of their loved ones. Go."
Jill felt a lump in her throat. She'd never seen Chris look that serious about anything. His words echoed in her head. Love you lots and then some. Love you lots and then some...Chris didn't wear a wedding ring. Well, lots of people did the cohabitation thing these days. She shouldn't be so surprised. And she certainly shouldn't feel so strange. But...
The office went quiet again. Jill had a feeling the rest of the office seemed to know exactly what was going on, but she couldn't possibly ask. Everyone else looked thoughtful and a little sad except for Joseph, who looked around furtively. When no one moved to say anything, he turned straight to Wesker and said the words that perhaps everyone was thinking, but didn't dare say:
"What...you have friends?"
And so Alpha Team spent the next half-hour doing push-ups.
