Their air conditioning didn't stand a chance. Jill and Chris did their best to relax in the discomfort of their black-and-white patrol car, the intense, late-afternoon July sun baking them through the windshield and smothering humidity causing their green uniforms to stick to their skin. Jill felt a trickle of sweat work its way down the small of her back, soaking into her shirt as it reached her belt line. She took another bite of her Reuben, doing her best to keep from getting any dressing or sauerkraut on her lap. She was succeeding for the most part. Chris, however, was struggling. He'd already lost three large pieces of green pepper from his Philly cheesesteak to the floor. The man was good at a lot of things, but very few of them involved eating.

It was the Fourth of July, and STARS had been assigned to patrol to help bolster the RPD's numbers. Alpha had been out since noon, and Bravo would be taking over for them about eight that night. No one knew for sure what was going to happen. On one hand, all the potential witnesses outside late at night and the fireworks might keep their local cannibal in the woods, where all the attacks had been thus far. On the other, maybe all the commotion would do was offer a distraction or even draw him, her, or them in. Jill hoped desperately for the former.

Chris watched the crowd of people passing in front of their car through mirrored aviators. They were parked near the pop-up food stalls that had been set up for the holiday at the edge of Victory Lake Park. "Seems like half the town is out here," he mused. "Hard to believe a murder victim washed up there only last week."

"To be fair, as far as they know at this point, it was just an animal attack."

"True."

Jill wiped some dressing from the corner of her mouth. "Besides. People are good at treating things as 'business as usual.' For better or worse, that's just how people as a whole are wired."

Chris clenched his jaw a couple times, then relaxed. "Maybe that explains why I'm not a big people person."

Jill remembered some of her partner's stories from his time as a drifter after he left the Air Force. Chris didn't talk about it often. He always tried to spin them humorously, but she got the impression he wasn't really proud of that chapter. He'd been all over the country in that year or so, from Berkeley to Boston, never staying anywhere long enough to make any real connections. According to him, it was only a chance run-in with Barry that sent him down the track to working at the RPD. It wasn't until then that he'd started to reconnect with people from earlier in his life and actually make new friendships. Still, for as amiable as the big lug was and as many girlfriends as he went through, Chris didn't have a lot of close friends – at least not that he talked about. For such a seemingly simple man, he could be quite enigmatic.

With his sandwich gone and disposition cheerier, Chris fastened his seatbelt. "Ready to get back to it?"

"Yep. Let's hit the road."

His mouth twisted open into a lopsided grin as he shifted the car into drive, locking her gaze. "On the road again," he began to warble in a horrendously twangy rendition of Willie Nelson. "Just can't wait to get on the road again."

She groaned. "Shut up and drive, you dork."

Right on time, Ken and the rookie, Chambers, took over Chris and Jill's patrol route. Chris set course for the police station. Stuck at another red light in the holiday traffic, Chris had an idea.

"Y'know, if we wanted to go see the fireworks, there's still time. I know I could sure go for a hotdog."

Jill looked over at her partner, using one hand to sweep her windblown hair out of her face as they accelerated again. "I dunno. I've got a few things I still need to do at home, and we've got work early in the morning…"

"C'mon," he goaded with that grin again. "You hardly ever seem to go out. Let your hair down. Have some fun."

It was a bit weird. Chris' post-work invitations were usually less adamant, and had never involved anywhere that wasn't that greasy spoon he constantly frequented. Something about this felt different. But she begrudgingly had to admit he was right - it had been an awfully long time since she'd done anything that wasn't work, exercise, fulfilling basic human needs, or their monthly trip to the Burtons'.

She shook her head and, trying to feel out his intentions, teased, "I thought you weren't a big people person."

"That's, well… yeah," he stuttered, "but fireworks are fireworks."

Fuck it. I'll bite.

"Alright, twist my arm," Jill relented sarcastically. "But it's your turn to buy."

They made it back in time. Chris paid for a pair of hotdogs with a crumpled-up one, handing one to Jill before covering his in ketchup, mustard, relish, and onions.

With food taken care of, they meandered around in search of a good place to sit. The sun had begun to go down, and both their heads snapped up as the first firework burst over the park in a shower of blue and green. Most of the park's visitors had, by then, settled onto blankets or into camping chairs to watch the show. A dad holding his son directed the youngster's eyes with a pointed finger to the sky as another shell rocketed upwards in a twinkling streamer of light. They skirted around the edges of the crowd, trying not to block anyone's view.

"Should've thought to bring a blanket or something," Chris chided himself quietly as they picked an open patch of grass and sat. "This must be a pretty small show compared to what you're used to in Chicago."

"Yeah, but I almost prefer it that way." She realized that to almost everyone she knew here, Chris included, a lot of her past was a mystery. It wasn't that she was intentionally hiding it - she usually just didn't talk about it without a reason. But something told her now was as good a time as any, and that if there was anyone she wanted to open up more to it was Chris. So, she elaborated. "Besides, with my dad gone all the time and mom being so busy trying to keep everything in order, we never went to any of the big shows. We'd usually just watch them on the TV. It was kind of a tradition."

He turned to face her, soft understanding taking some of the usual intensity out of his eyes. "I didn't realize your dad wasn't around. Work, or...?"

"Traveling salesman, if you can believe it. Not a very good one, either. They didn't stay together for very long after I graduated high school."

Chris let out a low, airy whistle. "Latchkey kid, huh? That sounds tough." The way he looked at her, concerned, attentive - something about it made her heart beat a little bit faster. "You and your mom pretty close at least?"

Jill paused, some of her nerve gone and not sure how much she wanted to continue sharing. "Kind of. Not like it sounds like you were with your parents."

Chris nodded and was silent, staring up at the show. For a moment Jill worried she'd said something she shouldn't have. After all, it had only been a few years since Chris' parents were killed in a car accident - while he was deployed no less. She imagined it might still be a bit raw.

She decided to change the subject back to the holiday. "What did your family do for the fourth?"

He smirked, still looking up. "We tended to get our own fireworks. Living out in the middle of nowhere, usually it was just a group of local families all chipping in for whatever we could afford. Sometimes that was a lot, other times, not so much. But it was always fun. Well, until someone started a Roman candle war or accidentally set something - or someone - on fire. That happened about every other year."

"How many times were you the culprit?" she asked mockingly.

Chris scoffed. "I plead the fifth." He pulled out a cigarette then, seeing the families around and realizing he was still partially in uniform, thought better of it and put it back in the pack.

Jill looked at her partner, seeing something in him that she knew was there, but that he usually kept hidden under a layer of brash machismo. She wondered if there was some "tragic backstory" there, or just part of his shtick. Either way, it was nice to see a softer side of him. There was almost a wistfulness in the way he looked up at the firework show. She guessed he was thinking about home. As far as she knew, he hadn't been back there since taking the job with the RPD. Watching him watch the sky, the smile on his face belied by the hint of sadness in his eyes, Jill starting to feel the first hints of something towards her partner that she'd rather not entertain – something she'd felt but managed to quash a few times before.

They stayed until it seemed like near the end, talking here and there, then headed out to beat the rush as the closing salvos shot skyward. Chris had picked Jill up from her apartment and set a course across town. By that point there was hardly anyone on the roads.

"Chris?"

"Yeah?"

"You were right."

He glanced over at her. "About what?"

"It was good to just take a moment and relax. Thanks."

"Don't mention it." There was that annoying grin again.

She leaned back in the seat, watching their headlights paint the street and passing buildings in illumination as they cruised south, trying not to think too much about her partner's stupid, obnoxious, admittedly cute grin or how it gave her the same fluttery feeling as the way he had looked at her earlier.

Suddenly their radio sprung to life. The dispatcher's voice was slightly obscured by static, but still clear enough. "Any nearby units, this is dispatch. Ten-fifteen in the seven-hundred block of Park Street, over."

A civil disturbance – and that was only one, maybe two minutes from where they were. Even though they were off-duty, it wouldn't hurt to check it out. So much for relaxing.

Jill grabbed the handset. "Dispatch, Unit Forty-Three. We're nearby. What is the nature of the ten-fifteen? Over."

"Unit Forty-Three, dispatch. Neighbor reported smashing glass then screaming. In her words, it 'sounded like someone was getting murdered.' Advise ten-thirty-nine. Address is Seven-oh-five Park. Over."

Chris took a hard right, mashing down on the accelerator while flipping on the lights and sirens with one hand.

"Dispatch, Forty-Three. Ten-four. We're en route."

The dispatcher continued to radio any pertinent information as they raced west. Backup was on the way, but still a few minutes behind.

They got to the house, a small pad where the suburbs met the city. The front door was open, dim light spilling out from within. The front porch looked wet. Something was definitely wrong.

Chris killed the siren as he brought the car to a screeching halt next to the sidewalk. They got out cautiously. Alternating red and blue flashes made the scene feel eerie, even surreal. It also made it nearly impossible to see into the dark on either side of the house.

Jill tapped Chris on the shoulder then motioned that she would go around the back. He nodded and proceeded to the front, gun already out and held at low ready.

Jill quietly moved across the front yard, staying close to the fence as she got closer to give her the best view as she neared the house's back corner. Her eyes darted between her destination and a window set high in the wall next to her. A swath of the back yard was illuminated in much the same way as the front, she saw. But as she slowly worked her way around the corner with her sidearm, she realized the sliding glass door leading to the low patio was shattered inward. Jill whispered as much to Chris and continued.

Up front, she could hear him calling out to anyone who may have been inside. Then he radioed back, "Jill, there's blood all over the porch."

Fantastic.

She could hear backup arrive, their wailing sirens cutting out near simultaneously to the sound of slamming car doors. A moment later, Chris said, "They've got the front covered. The front and back doors open into the same room – we'll meet up and clear from there."

Jill acknowledged.

She could see into the living room now. It looked like there had been a struggle. A shattered pot formerly containing a ficus had spilled chunky clumps of potting soil into the carpet, intermixing with glittering shards of broken glass from the sliding door. One of the end tables had overturned, a stack of magazines and newspapers strewn out in a shallow slope from its top. The blood Chris had mentioned stained a dark track from the front door, curving in an almost perfect arc into the hallway to her right.

Chris nodded at her from the doorway, sidearm still at low ready. He slunk up to the hallway, carefully clearing it so Jill could move forward. In only a few steps she covered the distance and, getting the go ahead from her partner, set a course down the hall.

Jill cleared the first door on her right, sweeping the muzzle of her sidearm from one side of the bathroom to the other as she moved. Chris did much the same with the next door on the opposite side as she took position watching the hallway. One more door, her side. She guessed a bedroom. The blood trail disappeared into the darkness.

The flap of her flashlight pouch released its snap with a snik, and Jill brought the small light in line with her sidearm, using her left wrist to steady her shooting hand. The flashlight snapped on as she entered the room, brilliantly illuminating the gruesome scene before her. The blood and scraps of sinew and gore splattered around the room more closely resembled a dropped berry pie than the unfortunate person it had once been. Jill froze in place, stomach sinking.

"Jill? What's in there?" Chris hissed urgently.

Jill struggled to form words for a couple seconds. Finally willing her voice back, she simply said, "Call homicide."

"Eleven bodies in less than two months," Haldane grumbled, watching the gurney leaving the opposite side of the house, laden with a body bag filled with only the biggest pieces of Marta Rodriguez they had been able to recover. Edwards didn't really have a response.

Moreau was already inside, doing her thing. STARS members Redfield and Valentine, as well as the two other responding officers, were still on the scene, helping set up police tape after giving their testimony to the detectives. The two STARS especially didn't seem all that keen on talking. They were a bit shaken up. Edwards couldn't blame them.

Haldane stared down, puzzling at the trampled grass leading to the back door. The path snaking around the house was likely Jill's, but that still left a lot unaccounted for. They had been able to make out some partial tread leading to or from where the back yard met a large patch of trees, but nothing clear enough to get as much as an idea of what shoes their unknown person or persons were wearing.

The detectives headed back around to the front.

A woman that Edwards didn't recognize was just inside the edge of the crime scene, talking to one of the forensics team who had stepped out for a moment. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, dressed somewhere towards the upper end of the vague description of business casual, with a stoic expression and professional demeanor.

"Excuse me," Edwards loudly addressed her, "Who are you and why are you in our crime scene?"

She turned towards him, extending her hand to show him the bright gold eagle over a wide shield of a federal badge. "Special Agent Ada Wong, Federal Bureau of Investigations. I was sent by the Milwaukee office to aid in your investigation."

Edwards took a closer look at the badge, deciding it was real enough for now but making a mental note to have the badge number checked later.

"I don't recall hearing anything about the FBI sending help," Haldane said with a hint of suspicion.

"Really?" Special Agent Wong asked, expression souring, but just slightly. "Your chief of police called us up about a week ago to try to get someone out here. He didn't tell you?"

"I guess not." Honestly, it didn't surprise Edwards that much. Irons wasn't exactly known for his interdepartment communication skills. "Well, we'll take all the help we can get."

Wong gave a single, understanding nod. "Where do we start?"

After introductions, the trio headed back inside to see what, if anything, Moreau had found.

"I've got to warn you, this scene is one of the worst ones yet."

"I've seen my fair share of murders, detective."

"Not like this, I hope."

Deep in the patch of trees behind the late Marta Rodriguez's house, three figures crouched, safely out of sight of the throng of police.

"That was sloppy," one, the leader, growled at the other two.

"How did they get here so fast?" the one to his right asked, barely above a whisper.

The leader thought for a second. "I don't know. But that just means we need to work faster – I don't need to remind you how much of a problem it'll be if we get caught."

No one responded. They didn't need to.

One of the officers near the house shone a flashlight in their direction, starting to follow the path they'd made dragging their target away from the house. "Come on. Let's move."

Fluorescent lights buzzed loudly in Bill Rabbitson's ears as he worked, quickly typing the results of their last test into a report. It had been one in a long list of failures, at least in the conventional sense, but nonetheless they had managed to prove a few things about the virus they had been tasked to find a way to neutralize.

The virus was amazing. It forced mutations in every cell it came into contact with, including many changes Bill had never seen before nor knew the full ramifications of. If only they could experiment on something larger than a handful of cells, he wondered what more they could learn about it. But his instructions had been made explicitly clear – under no circumstances were they to do any tests on live specimens. No rats, mice, pigs, or anything of the sort. They had also relayed the urgency of finding a cure or, barring that, at the very least a vaccine. Bill wasn't sure what the rush was, or why they hadn't even given an official name to the virus, but he enjoyed the pressure and fast pace nonetheless.

The transfer had been… unusual. Bill had only actually slept at his new apartment three times in the two weeks since the move, more often than not crashing at the end of a long shift in the bunks behind the break room. Hell, he hadn't seen the sun in nearly a week. Even when he did make it home, it was dark on his drive there and dark on the way back to work. He made a mental note to call Chris the nest chance that he got.

One of the security guards knocked on the entrance to his office. "Package for ya, Bill."

Bill swiveled his chair around and took the padded, yellow envelope from him. "Thanks, Ellis."

The guard nodded. "No problem. Don't work too hard, now. Everyone else left a couple hours ago. It's Friday, y'know."

"Fridays don't mean much to me these days, but thanks. Have a good weekend, man."

"You too, whenever they let you have one." The guard turned around and headed back to complete his rounds.

Bill finished the sentence he was typing and studied the package. No return address. He wedged one finger into the sealed flap and ripped it open. Inside, there was a letter and a clear, plastic case containing a blank compact disk.

He opened the handwritten letter first.

Bill,

You don't know me, but I was a researcher at another Umbrella laboratory, near the lab you worked at last in Raccoon City. I don't have much to say that isn't in the attached files, but I will say this – there are big things at play right now behind the scenes, things they don't want getting out. Get this information to someone who can help, quickly. And be careful. They're watching all of us.

Feeling a bit of unwarranted paranoia, Bill glanced around before stopping himself, feeling ridiculous.

Cryptic sonofabitch, isn't he? Bill thought. The letter seemed like something out of a cheap spy thriller, not something an actual researcher would send. Not to mention, there were no other labs in Raccoon City. The whole thing reeked of hoax. But Bill's curiosity was piqued.

Deciding it was best not to put a disk containing what could well be a virus into his work computer, he slid it into his briefcase for later, deciding maybe Ellis had a point – maybe it was time to take a night off.

He might have overdone it. There was a dive bar a little ways down from Bill's apartment, and though their drinks tasted like ass, they were at least cheap and, most importantly, strong. His keys jangled loudly as he fumbled with the lock, finally getting it open. The door swung wide into his dark living room and he stumbled inside.

Bill collapsed into his leather chair, grasping for the remote. It was dumb, he thought, paying for cable when he was never around to watch anything. But on his salary, it was barely a drop in the bucket. The screen snapped on with a burst of static. The Late Show was just beginning, and he slept through most of it.

When he woke up a few hours later, David Letterman had been replaced by infomercials. Bill turned the TV off and tiredly rose from his chair, only then remembering the disk in his briefcase.

The computer started up with a hum, and a short while later Bill had logged in. He extracted the CD carefully from its case and inserted it into the front of the computer. After a slight delay, the disk's contents popped up on his monitor. There were about two dozen files, all .pdf's.

Bill opened the first file. It was a lab report. At the top was Umbrella's header and, among other information, the date 6/15/1993. He skimmed through, finding nothing all that interesting, though the author talked a lot about a highly mutagenic virus referred to only as "T." The next one was much the same, albeit a few months newer. He furrowed his brow. What the hell is this all about? The documents were all watermarked Classified, which worried Bill a bit, but they were no more classified than what he was working on. Then he opened the third attachment. This one was from 4/21/1998, only a couple months ago. Two lines in, his blood ran cold.

"Oh my god."

He kept reading. If this was real…

He had to warn someone.