Part I

Part I : Raccoon City

1

Three months later.

Leon Kennedy blinked awake to the dawn of the morning. The shrill eeet eeet sound of the alarm by his bedside had an effect on him similar to a shot of adrenaline. His head jerked to face the glowing red digits as he slapped the Snooze button, ending the nagging electronic noise. The warm blanket hugging him felt soft and seductive—like a fine brunette, kissing and caressing his lips. His eyes shifted and focused on the R.P.D. uniform hung over on the wall beside his door.

"First day on the job," he sighed to himself, smiling as he stretched under the cloth squirming against him. "It's about time I show how real law enforcement is done around here." He lifted his covers, revealing the chilling air of the morning. On a usual day he would of dove back into his covers and said, "Shit, it's freezing!" But today, he didn't really give a damn how cold it was.

Since it was Leon Kennedy's first day on the job.

He walked to the windowsill beside his bed and slid open the window. A gush of cold, dank, pollution-filled Raccoon City air smacked his face—and he was happy to take in as much of it as possible. It stank like Hell, but he had nothing to complain about it.

Since it was Leon Kennedy's first day on the job.

He heard his own concrete jungle at work right before his eyes—the city always had its own unique ways of drawing the tourists away. But Leon loved the city sky as much as he enjoyed the rural landscape of the luscious city—they had a sort of helpless-ness he liked, since he was a cop.

And all cops do everyday is help save lives. Leon smiled at the thought.

It was Leon Kennedy's first day on the job.

He took in a deep breath of crime and pollution, grinning at what he was soon gonna do to it. He stuck his head out the square opening and heard the sounds of the Raccoon City projects: the police sirens, the occasional gunshots, the domestic violence, the car alarms, and that annoying scream three stories below him?

What the Hell.

Leon turned his head to face the commotion below. His eyes caught four Negro men beating a helpless bald white man below. They all kicked the victim, spattering tiny white specks all over the street. The white specks were the man's teeth. His assailants all wore the latest in urban wear, which flapped and rolled through the air as if they were hung out to dry on a windy day. Every one of them reacted violently to the man's pleas by shouting racist slurs and adding more kicks to his face every time he made even the slightest movement in hopes of defending himself.

At first he wanted to run down and save the poor guy, but Leon realized the only best (and ideal) decision now was to run down and kick the guy's ass also. The white man was a Neo-Nazi—a skinhead, or what looked liked one. He was covered with tattoos of White Power slogans and had a skin-shaven head with a large swastika tattooed over it. Punks like those were the kinds Leon wished to have been wiped from the face of the planet long ago. He hated Nazis and KKK racists. He pretty much snarled at the very thought of them.

Leon pulled his head back and went to his cabinet. He slowly slid the door open and grabbed a wooden stick and his Heckler & Koch VP70. He pulled back the slide to check if the gun was to get jammed. It wasn't.

Leon headed toward the windowsill once more and drew his head out.

He stared down below. His eyes were full of amusement and personal satisfaction. With the wooden stick in his hand, he leaned over the windowsill and shouted, "Hey all you! Go finish him off with this!" He tossed the nightstick, watching it bounce and echo a faint wooden sound. Leon then cupped both hands to his mouth. "Hell Yeah! Take out his arms and legs bring me his fuckin head!"

Yep, despite the fact he was now a cop, Leon had a real wild side. Surely, if that attitude ever popped up one too many times during duty, he'd most likely never get a chance for a Cops segment. But hey, a Too Hot For TV version featuring Raccoon City's most rowdiest enforcer would be 100% welcome for Leon.

One of the assailants was a tall, muscular Cuban-looking Negro with dreadlocks. He made a fierce stare at Leon. "You shut yo mouth, white man," he said while shooting a finger. "White Muthafucka, you next in mah killing list!" he shouted at the targeted cheerful face of Leon.

Now, nowwas that a compliment?

Leon chuckled at the remark, his face smiling down at the intimidating gentleman. "You come up here" he waved his pistol across his smiling face, "and I'll pump you with enough lead to turn you to a fisherman's toy." He snatched a magazine clip and smacked it up the butt of his VP70. He glanced down at the dreadlocked fellow. The Negro stared at Leon's moves silently—with caution. Leon yanked the slide. He drew his handgun out the window and pointed straight up towards the sky. With the jerks of his index finger, he fired five shots—each drawing roaring echoes through the multiple alleys and crevices of the apartment buildings.

It was an everyday routine: either shoot the sky or never leave home.

"What, you fellow Afro-Americans thought I was really going to shoot you down!?" Leon shouted with a loud cackle. "I may be white, but I sure do have more reason behind pulling a trigger at dark skin!" He laughed, spewing forth frosted mist.

Now it was time for Evangelistic Sunrise—starring Leon Kennedy. He stretched his neck farther up from his window like a wolf howling at a full moon. He began to howl a note of spinning craziness at the dank air as he closed his eyes and spread both arms out like the preachers of Hour of Power. "I Loove You, Raccoon City! You Helped Drag My Ass Out of Welfare and Damn Minimum Wage! By God, I'll Repay You With All My Heart! With Aaall My Heart! From My Heart, Ooh Raccoon My Lovely, I Say" Leon snickered, he couldn't handle it anymore. "I Say" he continued. "GOOOOOOOOD MOORRNING, RACCOOOON CITY!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.

Not bad for Leon Kennedy's first day on the job. Not bad. Amen.

He nodded at the stunned crowd below, smiling like one maaad crazy cop he was. Surely he was one mad crazy cop; his friends had believed it as with the awe-stricken police from academy alongside them. Hell, to put it this way, Leon was more than the mad crazy cop he liked to be—he was also the good-natured officer of the kind, always pausing to put courtesy before anything, baring an immunity towards corruption (was that really so?), and eager enough to do his job the one-hundred percent all-American way (of course without having the urge to feel conceited beyond a personal doubt). And today was the day to prove if his bank of knowledge actually meant their worth.

He pulled his head in and shut the window, noticing the group below smiling as if he was tha craaziest white-boy eva laid eyes upon. One of them had his stick and continued with the skinhead. Poor Nazi boy wailed like a baby with every strike absorbed.

Leon chuckled to himself while resting his head against the window. He shook his head left to right, smiling nervously to himself. "What if he's just an innocent victim?" he said, still chuckling. This was, in fact, a first day; a first action, and a last day to screw around with the world the same patented way his name bore. He raised the window again.

They had already stopped beating him. The almost too familiar crowd stared at Leon, each sporting their own grin—especially the one with the dreadlocks.

Leon spread his arms out like a drunken Jesus Christ. "Whaddup, Kobe!" he said to the Cuban-looking Negro with dreadlocks.

Kobe laughed up at him, his body cocking around from left to right from the laughter. "Sup, Leon-man," he said without the suave Cuban accent he seemed like he would have. "Why you gotta be pullin that hard-cop shit with your lil VP70? You know who got the bigger gun." He flashed an uzi at him, smiling happily before narrowing his eyes. "And that Evangelism shit? Stupid!"

Leon grinned evilly at Kobe. "It's an adrenaline thing, Ko. That's what we do when we don't get enough sex at home. We just go crazy and shoot the skythen go thank the concrete jungles for it all."

Kobe chuckled, pointing with an extended finger. "You crazy, man. You just fuckin craaazy!" He let out a laugh while his friends smiled alongside him. "Someday them cops trainin you at academy gonna bust dat white-boy ass of yours," he sputtered a snicker, "cause you crazy as fuck!"

"Yeah, but you know today's my last day to get all fuckin craaazy,'—I gradu-ated, my brotha. This is my first day on the force, Ko, and I'm now a hard-core cop."

Kobe placed a fist to his lips as if he had an invisible blowgun. "OOh, daamn! Leon's a rookie cop!" He pointed at Leon again, laughing. "Leon's gonna try to be a cop!" He slapped a buddy beside him. "We gonna get his ass tonight!" He laughed again.

Leon smiled. "But hey," his tone had now gotten more serious. "What's all this beating going on around my complex?"

Kobe already stopped laughing. He shrugged. "We just cleanin Raccoon of all the Nazi KKK FUCKS like this one." He looked down at the moaning victim. It had already began crawling away a few inches. "Die muthafucka!" he said while kicking the beaten pulp. The Nazi moaned and coughed up intermingled layers of blood and saliva. Kobe wiped his arms as he looked back up at Leon again. "We doin it all for you, man." He smiled at him. "We cleanin' the streets."

"You just kick the living shit out of him," Leon nodded in favor to what his friend said. "But you return my stick after you're done."

He gave Leon a surprised look. "Have I ever lost your trust?"

"Yeah, you were lucky we have been long-time friends already. Here I am, pulling you out of the law on my first day! I oughta toss that nigger ass on Death Row!" Leon said without a hint of serious intention. That was his way with Kobe, nothing was taken seriously between them. And they both liked that.

Kobe beamed up at him. "Ah, fuck you man" He then shook his head, snickering to himself. "Just go to workor I'll go Rookie-Cop Killah on yo ass!"

"All right then," Leon said. He then made a pointing gesture. "Just don't be a Menace" He smiled his way back through the window. Kobe grinned and shook his head.

"First day on the job" he muttered to himself while closing the window quietly. "And I'm already a corrupted cop." He shook his head, laughing to himself. "At least it's for a better cause," he added.

And because it was Leon Kennedy's first day on the job.

2

In the moment after his recruitment to the S.T.A.R.S. units, Claire Redfield's older brother Chris told her a very important last minute message before his departure. Around this time, Claire had already gotten along well with her brother, and their close relationship as siblings transformed his departure into a rather sentimentally strong event for the both of them. This pretty much pissed her off. Pissed her off real bad.

Chris was aware that his younger sister would not be seeing him very often, so why not come up with some kind of bullshit to help keep her from missing him too much?

Because he knew he would never see her again—or so she assumed the fact was true at the moment.

"Claire," his eyes were calmly set onto a younger Claire's eyes. His hand was rested on her shoulder. "There might be a time" He stared at the sky for a minute, thinking (probably about some more B.S. he hoped she could quickly take in). "There might be a time where you, me, or whatever, can get into a situation that I just can't explain, and there might be nothing else that can help"

Claire gave her older brother a cold stare. "Chris," she said in a sisterly tone, "for God's sake, please get to the point."

He sighed onto her face, smiling. "All right, all delivered in a nice compact package for you: Whenever I'm in trouble, Claire, or just need your plain help, I'm going to page youokay?"

She looked at him questionably.

"I'll just page you this number" he took out a pen and scrawled four digits onto a piece of paper before handing it to her. It said: 3845.

"So, whenever you're in trouble" she said while staring at the numbers and implanting them into her brain. "I'm supposed to receive this page?"

"Exactly."

She looked up at him again. "But what if I'm in trouble? What would you do if I was in trouble?" She gave him a happy what-if look. "Anyway, I don't mean to be asking Jeopardy questions, Chris, but I think in the next couple years I'll be the more likely person needing your help, instead of you needing mine."

"Clairekid sister," he said with a smile before strolling around the area facing her, "there's something I'd like you to understand." He stopped in front of her, eyes locked into her eyes once again. "You know that I'm no Marvel superhero—I can't be anywhere, anytime I want. I'm a member of the Special Tactics And Rescue Squad—I mean, this is one serious job where I can't be there to help you all the time." He then gave a gleaming look at Claire's eyes. "But that doesn't mean I can always do without your help—there's always gonna be a time where I'll actually need you, so it's a good idea to be ready for any of it."

"Yeah," she said sarcastically while giving a nod, "Yeah, I feel real special now, thanks." She smiled at himher mouth quickly reclining towards a frown.

"Look, there will be moments when I'll probably be" His eyeballs shifted toward the sky as his open palms rotated in circular motions trying to come up with ideas. "in a lab full of nasty fuckin' tarantulasor maybe I'll be trapped in some creepy mansion full of zombie-freaks, only armed with a dinky pistol and knife." He shrugged. "Anything can happen to me, Claire, and sometimes I won't be able to get out of it without some help from a person like you."

Claire gave a sweet look at her brother as if he were her boyfriend. A well-masked sarcastic look. "All right Chris, I'll just keep this in mind and it will just never happen," she said while her seemingly heartwarming expression melted into a disgusted frown. Her eyes glared down at his feet as if he had slapped her for trying to be a prostitute.

A warm hand appeared over Claire's shoulder again. "No, don't you say that I won't ever need you," Chris said. "Let's just say that I'll need your help. And I'll need it a lot promise."

"Okay then, fine," she said, still looking down. "You just go away before we can get any closer as brothers and sisters, geez." She was always paranoid that one day something horrible like falling in love could happen between them. She tried cheerfully brushing her hand away to shoo him off. But her head rose to face her brother instead. She loved him, and would've shown a lot more affection if it wasn't for his ways of pissing her off. And if she weren't so pissed off, she could give him all the love and affection—below the ranks of incest, of course. Claire had no place in Jerry Springer.

Chris smiled, knowing how sarcastic his sister had become over the years. His sister could see the tall pile of pride in his eyes. "Hey, I'll see ya Claire, you just go on and kick some ass—win some Moto Cross Championship or something. Hell, go to the Summer Olympics for shooting," Chris said. "Bring home a gold medal for the family." He was showing her all of his pride for a couple of the things he had taught her. He started walking away from her. His boots shuffled the gravel beneath them, causing a rustle that sounded slushy; fading as if diminished to an echo from a faraway cave.

And a faraway cave he was headed to.

Claire couldn't seem to find a proper farewell to her most beloved brother. Deep inside, she wanted to make this moment worthwhile, but she couldn't now—he was practically disappearing from her very eyes.

What do I need to do, she thought, throw a parade with strippers from the local stripclub? She then decided to do what was really meant to be done at the moment.

Claire waved at her brother with a smile. This time the smile was intended. "Go on," she said. "See you sometimebye." How sweetto simply smile and wave, especially from a sister who, along with her blessed brother, have maintained a constant heartwarming brother to sister relationship that was just as extinct in other families as the roaring dinosaurs. A tear, growing from the flood welling up in the bottom lid of her left eye, scratched its way down the skin of Claire's cheek. It fell off the bottom of her face with the speed of a comet fading into the night sky. There, she was now being more like herself, instead of that senseless bitch the departure of her brother made her act as.

He walked away towards the darkness, vanishing with the wind—and from her life. For a moment it seemed as if Chris was to continue walking and not make any gesture to prove to Claire that his long career at Raccoon City was going to be a simple short trip after all, and she would then actually have a chance to see him more often than she had expected. Claire had simply miscalculated that judgment.

Chris turned around and gestured his goodbye. He placed two of his fingers on his lips, silently kissing it and playfully pointed to her using those same fingers. So he was going to be gone for a while. Perhaps forever.

"Bye," she whispered to herself. "And this time, I'm really going to miss you."

Her big brother then disappeared.

After a couple years of silence from him, Claire quickly began to realize that most of the "your help" crap coming from Chris that day had been bullshit. He hadn't phoned her; he hadn't paged her once; he hadn't even written her a goddamn letter. So she gave up with the possibility of seeing him. She was retaliating to a fact proven correct by doing the same thing he had done to her: lose touch. There was practically no way she could believe anything her brother could say again—she had deliberately lost interest in seeing or even helping her brother.

That is, until now

The pager belonging to Claire Redfield went off while she had her hot shower. The noise gave out a muffled, electronic dit-dit, dit-dit, dit-dit from her sink counter.

After she finished washing those 2000 body parts, her hands grabbed two towels, wrapping one around her firm breasts and the other around her waist. She walked through the fog caused by the shower and to her sink. She pulled her shoulder-length hair back with a brush; her brown hair seemed to look a bit permed at some small sections when it was wet, but overall, it was still fine and straight. She picked up her pager and glanced at the liquid crystal display. It said in computerized digits: 3845 425.

425 was Chris's code, or was his code when he last saw her. But she recognized the 3845 immediately. A clever smile appeared on her face. "So it's finally years later, Chris" she said with the smile, "that you finally decide to call me in." Her left hand slowly floated to rest on her waist as she glanced at her Motorola.

The telephone rang.

She quickly rushed toward the couch where the phone was at and picked it up. "Hello?" Claire said in her softest tone.

"RedfieldClaire Redfield," a voice rasped though the speaker. It wasn't Chris, but that particular rasp chilled her spine like piercing icicles.

"What," she said. Her eyes narrowed to dark slits.

"You remember" the voice hesitated. "What day is it today."

"Huh?!" She nearly grew unconscious.

"Yesssstoday is the deadline."

"But you told me that it was to be around next—"

"THERE ARE NO BUTS TO US! Either you do, or I slit that fucking throat of yours—now we wouldn't want that pretty neck all gushing with your blood now, do we?" The breathing whisper was creepy, sounding nearly inhuman. Methodical.

Claire took a deep breath, hearing her pulse thudding her ears. "Okay, okay, I'll do it now, but how do you want it done?"

"Today's gonna be a special day for Raccoon City—it'll be easy for you. No cops, no securitynothing to get into your way. But Claire, I have to tell yousomething truly wonderful is going to happen to Raccoonand its fuckin spectacular."

Shit, she thought, how the Hell am I going to do that while trying to find Chris? "But wait," she said, "I do all thistoday?"

"You get the stuff, Claire, and we meet you in the city tonight. You leave NOW, you hear me, my good ripe little pink peach?"

"Right." She said reluctantly. The more that voice spoke to her, the more she wanted to strangle the man who owned it.

"If you don't get it, Claire" The voice paused, letting her hear the metallic sound of a gun's hammer draw back. "You'll end up like my bitch collection hereand most likely a lot worse than that. You understand?"

"Yeah, I get it," Claire said softly to the phone harassing her.

"That's good, Claire, you learn quick. I'm sure you learned at a lot faster rate thanlet's see, Teresa and Charlie"

Claire closed her eyes, sealing them shut, as if the harder she pressed her eyelids together, the more pain she could shield away from the mention of those names.

"Stop it," she said. "Please, I'll do it but just please"

"You think Ben Stuller would like to hear you say that? I bet you were glad to see that rat fuck lying on the floor next to your buddies, didn't you?" The voice was now torturing Claire, torturing her like it did since she was forced into the Circle. It was mechanical, viciously murderous, and as if that wasn't enough, it was also relentless.

It was like that simply because Claire couldn't do anything about it. If given the chance, the owner of the voice would have found itself more than strangled, but shot and stabbed like what she already did to one of them.

"You just say one more word about them—"

"And what, Redfield? You forget about me, Claireand you forget about US. We control EVERYTHING. We see your every move, we feel you—we watch you. And as long as you do as we say, we have every right"

"Yeah, and you can just keep your every right,'" Claire said, briefly unaware this behavior can get her killed. "But to let you know, if you want me to do my job, for once justbe quiet."

The voice laughed, chuckling and eventually cackling over what Claire had said. The raspy mystery enshrouding the voice disappeared while he laughed, revealing a portion of his true voice in the malicious chortle.

"Guess Bartowen was right after allyou are one feisty woman," the voice whispered again. It was nearly frightening at how controlled the voice was. "But remem-ber, Claireor you'll end up as one of my gifts I have shown for you here"

Suddenly, on the other line, Claire heard the muffled cries of at least several women screaming—screaming at the owner of the voice closing in on them. She could make out an occasional "No" and "Please don't hurt me" from one of the women from wherever the owner of the voice kept them.

Then she heard the gunshots and the multiple screams—ear-piercing ones—

accompanying the exit of bullets from whatever pistol he had.

"Good-bye, Claire. Pleasant hunting."

A loud Click followed. He hung up. The dial tone followed, rolling through Claire's ears like a river of blood. Her anger, eventually after several seconds, resided.

She placed the phone down and started dressing. She had no idea how to find Chris now and, at the same time, pull out that duty her brother would simply shoot her for. She was a changed person from the last time he saw her: rebellious, smart, and now a law-breaker. A law-breaker that had allowed so many to die in front of her.

She emerged from her bedroom wearing thick light-red biker clothes. Unlike her biker garb, which were cut off shorter than it, the spandex-type material underneath her clothes were cut off at the arms, exposing them. The reddish vest-like garb was unzipped a third of the way, revealing more of the black, tight material. She wore very short cutoff jeans that would have revealed the whole side of her thighs if it wasn't for the same black tights running a fourth of the way down them. From most of her thighs down, the legs drawing most bar men wild were there, smiling and acting pretty.

Claire tied her hair back in a ponytail after strapping her Bowie knife upside-down on the left collarbone beside her neck. She could feel light strands of her own brown hair gently fingering the sides of her face. After taking whatever else she needed, she grabbed her black helmet and walked outside to her Harleythe morning sun had already began to burn the dusty Earth.

She sighed. "Raccoon City, a five hour drive I'm about to embark on" she strapped her helmet on, noticing the intense heat "all in this arid weatherwonderful." She stomped on the pedal, erupting the engine in rapid sputters. "Let's just hope I don't run out of gas." She twisted the handle and sailed away toward the dawn.

3

"I've already checked her name three times," Nathan Lieu said, both hands rested on his peach-fuzz head. "I guess you might have to go to Admitting down there through the double doors. I'll assure you that you'll find your mother there." He gestured toward the large opening across the lobby. It stood right beside the Gift Shop.

The man Nathan spoke to had a face flowing with the most angst and impatience he had ever seen in his life. The face grew red and got even worse at every word he said. In fact, it looked to be the color of Hawaiian Punch after Nathan tried sending him down to the Admitting Department.

"You don't understand! I must find her NOW!" The man shouted, striking both fists on the marble counter of the Lobby desk. He turned around strolling back and forth, swinging his arms as if he were laying pairs of Karate chops at invisible opponents.

Sofia looked at Nathan with serious eyes. "Should I call security?" she whispered.

Nathan shook his head. "No, just wait until he really does something threatening then I'll give you the signal, but in the meantime" he whispered while glancing at the red security buttons beside him and his partner. The buttons were under the lobby desk, which surrounded the back of the lobby like a large fortress. "You just stay put and act pretty, you Pinay princessyou got that?"

She nodded as if he were her bodyguard.

"Okay." Nathan smiled nervously.

He looked up at the man, who was still strolling about, muttering something to himself. The man was a tall, white American, around 6'2", rather average build, and had one really ugly crewcut hairstyle. He must of had his hair done at Supercuts.

Crewcut stopped right in front of the wide lobby desk. He stood there taking a deep breath. His lips fused together to form a puffing hill on his clenched mouth.

"Sir," Nathan said, his hands (and demeanor) set in a negotiating fashion, "I understand that you miss your mother very much. Although her name does not appear on our computer at this time, you will surely find her if you go to Admitt—"

"FUCK ADMITTING, YOU GOOK!" Crewcut leaned over the lobby counter, yelling at Nathan's face. The yell sent a spray of his spit all over him.. He then drew his body back so that he was standing erect in front of the desk again. "Doesn't this damn hospital understand that all the fucking information should all be here?!" He pointed a stiff finger down towards the ground. "HERE?!"

Nathan casually wiped his face. There wasn't a sign of fear in him—except his heart, which was just crazy at this moment. Nathan looked up at Crewcut's face again. "Look, we're just volunteers here—we don't even get paid to do what we do. We aren't exactly professionals in this area eitherso don't you want to speak to people that can tell you everything you need to know?"

Crewcut nodded his head. "Yeah, I really do," he said calmly.

Nathan gave him a welcoming nod. "Okay, that's good to know. Now we can settle this—"

"BUT I WANT TO KNOW EVERYTHING I WANT TO KNOW HERE! HERE, ON THE FUCKING INFORMATION DESK! NOT IN ADMITTING, YOU LITTLE SHIT—"

"Mister, do you want to see your mother?" Sofia interrupted in a demanding tone. Her voice sounded rather high-pitched and also very pleasing to hear.

Crewcut abruptly turned his head. "Yes I do, you chink bitch!"

Sofia blinked. "Then why don't you go find her." Sofia said with a harsh tone. "And don't call me a bitchbecause you know I'm not one!"

Crewcut chuckled. "I hate you lil Asiansall of you coming here and trying to take over America with your shitty brains" He gave a demented smile that looked like a sneer. "The moment I see Raccoon City full of Asians" He chuckled evilly. "Is the moment where I start killing every last one of you like roaches."

Nathan gave Crewcut a fierce stare. Even though Nathan himself was a small guy—his height being around 5'3"—that never meant crap whether or not he was hopeless in these kinds of situations.

In fact, if his spirit ever came out his height would really be 7 feet.

"Hey man," Nathan said. "Don't make this into some racial issue. We came here to make a living like your great ancestors did hundreds of years ago so don't come to us trying to mess with the way we are because certainly the Indians were the first to own this land before you hauled your ass here!" Nathan pointed at him while giving the signal. His left fist pounded the desk. He saw Sofia press the button in the corner of his left eye. Damn it, Nathan thought, I might of done that a little too obvious.

All he could hope for now was to kill some time before security arrived.

Crewcut laughed. He howled through the lobby like some wolf. Then he stopped laughing. "Man!" Crewcut said as his head made a large swooping nod. His voice now sounded rather pubescent and youngish like. "You sneaky Asians! Tell me you didn't call security!"

What a crazy, disturbed nut-case, Nathan thought. Raccoon City was already full of enough deranged lunatics—why should there be any more of them like this one?

Crewcut eventually stopped laughing. He leaned forward until his head stood a few feet away from Nathan's. An angry look appeared on his face. "Did you just signal that bitch to push the button?"

"No," Nathan said innocently.

"I know you did, you yellow bastard."

Sofia was trembling. "Maybe she's in ICUor ER! Just leave us alonewe don't know a damned thing you're saying!"

Crewcut's head abruptly turned. "Shut up," he said as his neck twisted back to face Nathan.

"Now why would I do that?" Nathan grinned. "To somebody desperately searching for his mother? Go Fuck yourself, you mama's boy." He then drew a finger at Crewcut. "And don't you talk to my partner that way!"

Oops, did he piss off poor mama's boy?

Nathan suddenly heard a metallic flicking sound. A shiny pointed object appeared from Crewcut's right hand. Nathan could feel his eyes beginning to shake as it focused.

He had a switchblade.

"Now look at me," Crewcut said. "You call PBX and tell them it was all an accident—you accidentally pressed it." He stared at Nathan with serial killer eyes. He looked like a psychotic Robert De Niro. "If you don't," he said, "then I'll go" He made a throat-slitting gesture across the neck, crackling out a kkkkk! sound.

"Hey!" Sofia cried out in a shivering voice. "Maybe she's in ERor CCU!"

Crewcut's head turned as he raised the knife over him. "Will you SHUT UP?!" he yelled. "I've already checked there!" The head turned to face Nathan again.

Sofia crossed her arms. She stared angrily at him and mouthed the word asshole with her lips.

"Do it," Crewcut said.

"Do what?" Nathan asked.

He raised the blade. "Call them now, dammit."

The phone rang. Its jittery chimes fluttered through the silent lobby.

"Don't answer it," Crewcut said.

"It might be a nurseI could then ask about your—"

"Don't you touch that phone!"

The phone drummed a second ring.

"How am I going to call PBX if the damn phone is ringing?" Nathan asked.

There was a pause to Crewcut's response. The phone hollered a third time. It now sounded annoyingly monotonous.

"All right, answer the fucking phone" Crewcut said.

Nathan picked it up. His eyes were locked onto Crewcut's. "Lobby desk, this is Nathan Lieu, how may I help you," he said, using the specific phrase Volunteer Training taught him.

"We got him through the cameras" The feminine voice of the operator whis-pered. "Security's on their way, just stay calm for a couple seconds"

"All right, I'm on my way." Nathan answered. He put the phone down in its place. He looked up at Crewcut again. "The nurses need one of us to discharge a patient," he said.

Crewcut let out a long sigh. He turned around, back facing them. His eyes did not catch the camera. It sat above, watching him like a shrewd owl.

Thank God were dealing with a stupid nut-case here, Nathan thought.

Crewcut then murmured something and turned around.

No, he spun around.

Nathan ducked under the desk. He felt the swinging blade miss the top of his head by less than an inch. To his side, he heard Sofia gasp as he rushed to pull his office chair in front of him and the desk. The chair rolled towards him, serving as a shield. Nathan Lieu, one of Washington Hospital's elite group of volunteers, sat crouched under the lobby desk while a madman bent over the counter, swiping at him left and right with a switchblade. He could already see the newspaper article—and maybe the obituary following it.

"LIAR! YOU FUCKING THOUGHT I WAS SOME DUMB-ASS, DID YOU?! DID YOU?!" Crewcut's voice roared through the wood and marble of the Lobby desk. "NOW I'M GONNA CUT YOU UP, YOU CHINK FUCKER!"

Nathan saw a flurry of white papers gliding in front of him. His swinging had caused it. He held the chair tight with both hands. God help us, he thought.

There was a dull thump from above. The sound began to cross over him. A pair of casual shoes abruptly landed in front of his frightened self and the chair. He was there, standing above, and Nathan had nothing but a chair to protect himself.

"NOW I GOTCHU, YOU LITTLE RUNT!" Crewcut shouted. His blade came down toward the backside of the chair. It rocked violently as Crewcut continually slashed at it—a portion of its plastic covering began to shred and reveal the soft cushioning underneath. Crewcut screamed in frustration, his neck churning with sinew.

He then tried jabbing at Nathan through the exposed openings. Nathan dodged the knife's rapid prodding. He moved the chair left to right, shielding every blow from reaching his skin. Another hand fused itself to the seat and tried pulling away the chair with massive jolts.

Nathan's grip was slipping.

The chair jerked back. It ricochet off the Lost & Found cabinets and the spot where Sofia sat scrunched below the desk. Crewcut stood above Nathan, knife arm drawn back. The blade came down below the desk, swiping sideways toward Nathan's face.

But Nathan wasn't there to eat it.

He already darted to the side of Crewcut's left leg like a water strider—still in crouching position. He grasped the man's knee with both hands, yanking it back as hard as he could—throwing Crewcut off balance. The left foot briefly floated off the ground as Nathan hurled the leg—and Crewcut—over several feet towards the right end of the lobby desk. It all happened within a second.

Crewcut fell over on his side—his head bouncing on the hard linoleum floor with a quiet thud. The switchblade on his right hand flipped out of his fingers and spun away.

Nathan backed a few feet. His arms and legs were in a crab position. He heard a rustling sound behind him and glanced back. Sofia was frantically rummaging through her bag. She conjured a can of pepper spray along with a stun gun. Before he knew it, she was sailing over him and onto Crewcut's squirming body.

"Eat this, you fucking asshole!" Sofia crouched over Crewcut's face and rapidly sprayed his eyes with peppered fury.

Crewcut screamed. His eyelids squirmed together, seeming to wheeze from the pain engulfing them. He wailed like an injured pig, twisting and flailing his arms trying to strike Sofia. His hands then went to rub his eyes as he shivered in a manner that looked like he was suffering from chills. "My eyes!" he cried out, scrubbing his eyes. "My eyes!"

"Oh, you like that?" she tormented him. "How bout this!" The crackling Bzzzzzz of the stun gun came to life. "Next time you call me a bitch, I'm gonna get all my friends on you! You're gonna feel pain a thousand times worse than this!" She stabbed the stun gun down Crewcut's groin and squeezed the button.

She actually drilled the damn thing into his balls.

He hollered, vibrating as if he were having convulsions. His arms and legs stuck out like popsicle sticks glued on a vibrator. Crewcut's lips jiggled as his neck stiffened, showing lines of tendon and veins. The eyeballs full of the self-defense liquid were rolled up—leaving nothing but white blankness.

Sofia pulled the tazer back from Crewcut's groin. She got up to her feet. Her lips were parted as she stood panting—her chest rising and falling.

"I think he's had enough, Sofia," Nathan said. The body was curled up like a grub. It shivered as mutilated sheets of sweat crawled all over him.

Sofia turned her head. She grinned at Nathan—the upward crease on her mouth was malicious as it was sweet. She faced Crewcut again. "Die!" Sofia screamed, kicking Crewcut's groin in rapid successions. The squirming body bounced sideways from the spot it lay. Crewcut moaned, his voice sounding like a child's muffled pleas. Nathan saw a dark patch appearing on the spot where Crewcut's now-defected penis resided.

Now was that the white shit, or the lemonade? Nathan thought.

Piss, he nodded to himself while thinking, had to beIt'd happen to me if she had also shake n baked MY balls. He stood up and noticed an elderly couple standing in front of the lobby desk. Nathan smiled as he raised an index finger. "We'll be with you in a minute," he nodded amidst Sofia's violent display.

The elderly couple both nodded dumbfoundedly. "It's all right," the old man said while smiling. Nathan had noticed that his eyes (along with his frail but charming-looking wife beside him) were seriously widened, and the light-blue pigment in his eyes showed. "We'll be moving along," he continued, and they both stared at Sofia as she constantly slammed Crewcut in the groin with her black clog-like shoes. They then strolled down to the elevators hand to hand, their faces paled with disbelief.

Nathan wrapped his arms around Sofia's waist. He picked her up and backed her away from Crewcut. She was rather petite—5'2"—but then again, she was practically Nathan's height. She calmed down after he picked her up, her rapid swinging legs slowing to pathetic efforts. Nathan could hear her soft breath puffing beside his ear.

"He's wasted," Nathan said as he placed her down on her feet. "It's over."

Sofia sighed as she gave Nathan a hug. "Yeah, I hope he never gets to use his thing again," she sighed once more, catching her breath, "My God Nate, that was hella freaky I was real scared he might of killed us or something." The arms grew tight, compressing him like a trash compactor. "Thank you for first pushing him down, I owe you one."

Nathan wheezed from beneath the tight pressure. He gave out a sound in between a whimper and a whine. "Ooh, no problem—actually, I should thank you for doin him in like that, and maybe you can try being a little softer when showin some love—I can hardly breathe" He began to smile.

Her squeeze tightened. She also smiled as her head brushed against him.

Footsteps filled the lobby. Two R.P.D. officers, along with some of the hospital security sprinted toward them. The cops had cyan-colored shirts and black pants. Security had on the usual white and black.

"Is everything all right here?" A familiar-looking cop asked the both of them.

Nathan unlocked himself from Sofia. He was amazed by the sudden appearance of the cop. "Officer Russell, what're you doing here?! Aren't you supposed to be at my school or something?"

Standing around 6'3" was Officer Russell, Irvington High School's resource officer. He held a 12-gauge shotgun by the stock-less handle. The arm holding it was speckled with small blood spots. He patted Nathan on the shoulder. "Was just called up for special duty. You all right, Nathan?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Russell glanced at Crewcut and looked back. He gave a disgusted look. "What the Hell happened here?"

"Sofi here gave him the kiss of death," Nathan said, patting her back. He saw Sofia give out the that-didn't-really-happen kind of look. He then focused his attention upon Russell again. "But hey, what's wrong with the arm?"

Russell glanced at his blood-peppered arm. "A little problem' in ER. It's a damn mess in there" He shook his head. "Christ."

"Why, what's wrong?"

"You haven't heard?" Russell looked at him in disbelief. "It's a nightmare right now. There's a recent contamination scare in Raccoonhappened early in the morning. Has the whole city in panic." His face grew pale as he stared at the floor.

"You know," Nathan said, looking at the ground. "I never knew about any of it. They just called me up here this morning for emergency." He glanced at Russell's shotgun. "That's a nice shotgun you got therearmy issue?"

Russell cocked the 12-gauge monster. A shell rolled out the top. It fell and danced on the floor, causing metallic clinks. "Yep, the Remington M870," he said while probing it with his eyes. "It's black, has that sawed-off look, and deadly."

Another R.P.D. officer tapped Russell in the back. He looked old and rugged. "This guy's in serious condition," he said. "We have to bring him to CCU or something."

Russell stared at the body. "Go toss him into the street—hospital's full," he muttered as he walked away. The rest of the security officials walked out the lobby, dragging Crewcut out the sliding door.

4

Leon parked his car in a screeching halt. Dozens of police officers crowded the streets surrounding his black and white Chevy Caprice. He caught glimpse of a wide flight of stairs ascending to the entrance of the building. Above the entrance, there was a large sign laced with gold-colored borders and that fat, nice symbol. It said:

R.P.D.

Raccoon City Police Department

The structure of the building reminded Leon of the Lincoln Memorial. The stairway-to- Heaven type of structure only served to remind him that police work was more than just plain police work: it was an all-American pride. He thought to himself: The coffee and donut stereotypes can kiss my assit's all about the American privilege of being a cop!

An obese-looking policeman passed the front of Leon's car. He had a half-eaten donut and a cup of coffee in his thick, callused hands.

"Well," he sighed, "maybe I should take that back." He then turned his head around, scanning for any more stereotypes.

Every cop within the dozen clustered groups had coffee and donuts in their hands.

"Well, well," he said to himself. "I guess today's special rookie stands out around here: he eats bagels with milk." He slipped on a pair of his finger-less black gloves, noticing the rectangular leather opening on the back of his covered hand. He smiled as he made a fist with his left hand. "Show time," he said.

The ambient sounds of policemen, sirens, footsteps, and donut munches surroun-ded Leon as he climbed the steps toward the shinin' sign. Only one thing he observed seemed to worry him. So far, he could only point out one wrong out-of-the-ordinary thing about Raccoon City. And it already began to scare him.

It was the air.

He froze amid the steps, sniffing the moist breeze of the cold morning. It was much different from when he last sniffed it earlier in the day, which smelled like nothing but garbage and car exhaust—typical in a city like this one. But this time there was something dead about the airsomething that made Leon shiver.

The air smelled evil; it smelled dead, like a rotting corpse.

He shook his head. Probably cremating lots of dead bodies today, Leon thought.

But that must be one hell of a job those guys are doing! One Hell of a job!

Leon smiled to himself as he continued his way up the steps. Nothing like a little paranoia in your head. He walked towards the entrance leading into the building.

5

The heat wasn't really so bad as Claire thought it'd be.

That is, only when you were doing over 100 in a deserted highway.

The piercing wind smashed Claire's face as she scrolled across desert dunes and cactuses of the searing morning heat. Her face felt as if a hand stretched the skin on the corners of her mouth and cheeks. But she liked it; liked it a lot.

She smiled and twisted the handle further, hearing the whir of the engine beat louder. For some strange reason, it felt as if she were beating eggs. It's probably because I'm kicking so much redneck trucker ass on this road, her thoughts grinned.

She had already passed several cars during her hard ride—none being the police unfortunately. She loved outwitting the police in these kinds of roads. It gave her a sense of wit and the only kind of satisfaction only found in winning. The Highway Patrol were her favorites—although the cars provided more challenges to her rough lifestyle. Her rough lifestyleshe smiled. When will Chris realize just how different his sweet little sister had become? Probably until he settles into retiring will he know at this rate.

But he will never know how much she had missed him. Never.

After a month following his absence, Claire had tried out several new things. Most revolved around whatever Chris had brought down to her. Whether it was the mastery of firearms, self-defense, Moto Cross Racing, and Harley Davidsons, in between those pastimes, the thought of Chris would always spring out from the very depths of her memory. The thought of him was sometimes unbearable.

"Let's just say that I'll need your help. And I'll need it a lot promise."

"Promise," he had said. "Promise." Claire could still taste her tears that night.

The thunderstorm had illuminated the dark room while she was sobbing to herself. Sobbing to her younger self a year after her brother had left. Instead of waiting to help Chris, she needed his help. She needed it right away.

Her Moto Cross team had all been slaughtered. One of the only families she ever had in her life were stacked over one another like Holocaust victims. Their blood lay splattered all over the white walls and shelves of gold trophies and curtained all over them like a finale of death. The dozens of newspaper clippings tacked on the boards were wrinkled in red. She saw her picture and a bunch of others from her team featured in the articlessmiling. Smiling in red. She was now alone to fend for herself. Chris was one of the only ones left in her life that really mattered—and he was gone. Gone away into the S.T.A.R.S.

She was not furious at Chris—never will be. She was grievingand wondering what in God's name had happened to the very life she cherished and held so close to. Her buddies Kristy, Ben, Tony, Henry, Charlie, PJ, and the rest of themthey were all dead—all ten of them.

Dead.

All dead except one.

And it wasn't Claire.

Her eyes scanned the bodies again. There was eleven in the team, including her own self; thirteen in all living in the trailer. Who was the missing member of the family? Claire's mind was numb at the moment and couldn't string her thoughts together as she normally could. Her mentality couldn't handle what was going on—it felt like her brain might surge through her eyes or something. She shook her head. But she had to fight it—keep her cool if she wanted to get anywhere from this; be tough. Her bright, sky blue eyes rolled its way toward the bodies again. The storm outside blinded the room. She saw Ben Stuller's face staring at her from the pale bluehis lips, along with his cheeks, were torn off, revealing the fine set of teeth he used to show whenever she made clever wisecracks at his so-called skills.

WHO is missingher mind clamored once more, bringing her on track again. Her eyes shifted from Kristy to Rose, then to Charlie.

A happy image of a little girl fluttered in her mind.

"Teresa!" she screamed through the darkness. She hoped for an answer.

But there was no answer. The room lit up, casting a bright cyan color on everything—especially the dark crimson oozing off the walls.

Amidst her own sobbing, she dashed frantically through the trailer, peeking in every corner and crevice for any hopes in finding Teresa. She looked in the bathroom, and even the secret hiding place she used to play hiding-go-seek with her. No luck. Needles of rain drummed the shingled roof, causing a sound similar to the crisping of plastic bags.

She heard a scream outside.

Claire twisted her head towards the shrieking sound. She pulled a large Bowie knife hanging from the wall. It was Charlie's prized possession. He had used it for his many bar fights against the "redneck bastards" predicted that he would come across—he loved that knife only second to his motorcycle.

"Charlie," she whispered. "This will be for youand the family. May everyone rest in peace." Her grip tightened as she started for the door.

Sharp raindrops smashed into her face, tickling it. She saw nothing from where the sound originated from except the street lights and the black car. The Black Limousine.

She ducked behind a bush. A tall, dark figure moved its way down toward the driveway where Claire stood several feet away. There was something he had in his hands and was dragging it.

It was Teresa.

The young ten-year-old flailed her arms around, trying to break free from the man's solid hands. She tried struggling from him like a swan attempting to escape from the zoo keeper. Her blond hair waved and bounced within the man's tight grasp. "Let me go!" her high-pitched voice cried. "Please, let me go!"

Then with a sudden movement, the man tossed the squealing little girl into the air and pulled out a silver pistol. His aim fastened toward Teresa as the forces of gravity pulled her down.

Claire stood up. "No!" she screamed. "Teresa!"

A part of the cute girl burst in sync with her quiet thud to the ground. He had shot Teresa in the forehead. The damp hair behind her head flapped as if controlled by a gust of wind. The hair was no longer blond—it was now red. Blood red.

Teresa, ten years old, a happy robust member of the family—and the last remain-der of all of them—was dead. The hole pressed through her forehead was peaceful—as Claire always remembered her to be. Like her team had been also. The blood did not gush out the gaping hole—instead, it curled and twisted its way down Teresa's face in staccato ribbons of dark red. Her still eyes stared at her. Claire held herself from bursting into tears.

Claire, can you promise me something?

Sure Teresa, tell me.

You're positive there are no monsters under my bed?

Of course not, you silly Biker Princess! There are absolutely no monsters under your bed, positive! And whatever it is, I'll always promise to you that if there were any, your good friend Claire will never, ever, ever

Ever?

ever let those monsters hurt you—promise.

Promise? Really, are you for real this time?

Have I ever lied to you?

No.

Then it's answered, kid sister, it's answered.

Teresa's brown eyes did not blink. The face was losing color, decomposing before Claire's eyes—being stripped of complexion from the thick layer of blood dripping away from her facial features. Claire held her knife tightly, almost naturally. Her sadness became her anger. She took her eyes off the girl's corpse and seized with her eyes the dark figure standing beside Teresa's body.

The man stood there, his pistol arm rested by his side—he had his back facing her. She lunged over the bushes, dashing through the rain. The sky lit up in a blue flash. The image of the man grew larger as Claire sprinted at him, knife hand ready to drive his back into the faces of Hell. Her heart exploded with energy; her teeth gritted with rage.

But the man turned around and raised his silver automatic pistol towards her forehead. He did not fire. He grinned pleasantly.

Claire stopped dead in her tracks. Her blue eyes stared down the wide tunnel of the automatic's barrel.

"Maybe I should be more fair with you," the man said while shining a pair of his teeth. "YesI should be." He then laughed, filling the air with a demonic presence. "I don't need a gun to kill a bitchall I need is a fat dick." He tossed his gun away from the reach of both of them. "Come on," he threw his fists up. "Show daddy how a pretty doll can fight with a knife."

Claire stood still, her knife poised to strike at any sudden movement.

He started prancing around as if he were shadow boxing. He threw a couple mock jabs landing a few inches from her face. "Come on, woman! What you waiting for? Show me something I'll never forget!" He then tossed another set of playful mock jabs.

Her stance was still, only choosing to move whenever he chose to encircle her and force her to keep her own distance. She was to live her own promise.

"Don't make me pull the fucking moves on you right now bitch, I'll just kill you woman, kill you like this one I just—"

She burst into a fighting stance and made a wide swipe at his arms. She saw a horizontal dark line appear from both forearms. Black slivers of liquid oozed from where the knife dug into.

The prancing figure chuckled. "Yeah, that's more like it. I like a feisty slut like you...one who will FUCKING LICK THE CUM OFF MY HARD COCK!" His sudden outburst came out uncontrollably. Claire could pretty much see the rolling waves of hate emanating from his distorted face, like shockwaves from a recent intergalactic explosion. His right hook, armed and ready to destroy, followed that burst.

Claire moved as swift as the lightning blinding them. She grabbed his right arm with both hands as her right knee launched up his groin. He winced, the facial features shifting inwards as if a Black Hole rested on the same spot his nose was and sucked his face inwards. Claire then twisted her body around one full, arched semi-circle, bringing him over her shoulder. He rolled over her back and flipped in mid-air. Suspended in air for less than a second, his body landed back-first onto the ground beside her feet.

His eyes grew wide with terror. Claire dropped to her knees and slammed the 8-inch blade down his chest. He gasped, the force so powerful it sent splotches of red gore all over her face and dripping clothes.

She stood up to her feet, staring at the Bowie's handle protruding from his chest—

and his heart. She wiped the blood from her face, which had stung her soft skin from its impact. The body twitched several times before beginning to shiver violently. Claire stared at him in the face.

He was one of Bartowen's men—the hit men. His mouth was wide open, gagging from the blood welling up his throat. Thin streams gushed from the sides of his mouth. Claire saw that his eyes, black in the lit darkness, were now staring emotionless at the sky.

She heard approaching footsteps behind herand laughter, a dark, amused kind of laugher. Her eyes narrowed.

Bartowen.

"And I never thought a woman could be so capable!" his voice erupted. It sounded as harsh and ruthless as it was with the darkness its laughter portrayed.

Claire quickly pulled out the knife from the hit man. Large goblets of warm blood splashed onto her arms. It settled for a moment before rolling away, itching her skin like scurrying ants. She turned around.

Bartowen kept his smile at her. It was as if it was permanently etched over his face. "Ah, the PMS, bitch aggression," he said warmly. He spread his arms out, showing Claire his expensive suit. His body seemed a reasonable target to cut open. He flashed a glowing grin from the shadows. "What are you waiting for, Redfield?" His eyebrows narrowed. "Do it"

Kill him, her instincts called out.

Claire's mind flared with anger. She lunged at Bartowen, the Bowie positioned so that she could just slice through his neck with one single pass.

A dark shape sprung forth from the darkness. It appeared in front of Bartowen like a specter. Claire began to stagger as she swung at the hit man with blind rage.

The jujitsu was too quick to avoid. He twisted her arm and the knife fell from her grip. Claire then suddenly found herself down on her back looking up at the tall foreboding face of the replacement killer. He then made a move so swift she barely had any idea about it. One hand grabbed her hair and jerked upward. The other hand lay floated beside the front of her face. She heard a metallic slap from one of his sleeves. A gun abruptly revealed itself from the floating darkness, and he rested its muzzle beneath her left eye. She felt the cold ringed shape of the barrel freezing the flesh below her eye.

Bartowen's stern face appeared from the side of her vision. "You know I don't want my friend here to ruin that pretty face of yours. I'm willing to let that go for you."

Claire grimaced, her eyes clenching shut. "Fuck you," she hissed at him.

Bartowen chuckled. He pulled out a match and placed the red bulb of its tip in between his front teeth and yanked at it. The match ignited, creating a bright orange dot in Claire's shiny eyes.

"I like you, Claire," he said while lighting a cigarette clenched between his lips. "I like a tough woman like you." He casually waved the flame out from the match. A steady ribbon of smoke slithered from the ebony cap set upon the wood stem.

Claire stared at the ground panting wildly. She shivered from the rain dampening her clothes. "Just sh-shoot m-me," she said, her voice starting to deteriorate into a sob. "J-Just gh-get it over with."

"I enjoyed how you took out good ol' Mariano there," Bartowen said. "Now that's entertainment, something to die for." He started to sound reassuring.

His voice reminded Claire of a character from The Godfather. But of course, every crime boss had to sound like a young Al Pacino or even a Marlon Brando every now an then. But Francis Ford Cappola's The Godfather was in fact the farthest thing from her mind at the momentshe was now sobbing before a lunatic that resembled The Godfa-ther. Not Marlon Brando or even Al Pacino, but a real godfather.

"And I'll make a deal with you" Bartowen said. "It's gonna spare you, since I see value in there. Isn't nothing like salvation in the hands of tu diablo, eh Redfield?" he chuckled before waving an arm in the air.

The cold muzzle pressed against Claire's skin disappeared. She saw the silver object zip back up the hit man's sleeve. A hidden weapon, clever.

Bartowen extended a hand. "Join me," he said, "or die. Simple, just like that."

"N-Never."

The satisfaction written all over his face abruptly erased itself. The palm he had extended towards her fell back to his side.

"Claire," he said, still retaining his calming tone, "I'd like to inform you a fact that comes with my given opportunities. For the sane mindand the minds that cherish life, it is always wise to never refuse the options I offer you." Minuscule streaks of rain touched the lit portion of his cigarette, causing it to hiss alongside his words. "Since you may not fully understand whatever I'm saying, allow me to give you the tip of the iceberg' on what happens to people who say no to me."

He raised an arm and snapped his fingers twice. The whole scene came alive.

In the rain, the trees, the Black Limo, and the darkness, dark silhouettes emerged from nowhere and stood behind Bartowen. Claire saw dozens of thin red beams appear from the trees surrounding her and the tall, burly figure. The rays of light centered over Claire and blanketed her body with glowing, ruby-colored dots.

Snipers.

A cloud of smoke burst from Bartowen's mouth. "Now, do you understand the meaning behind a person telling you Never say no to Bartowen'?"

Claire sat motionless. Her face housed no apparent emotion. She had no choice, yet she wasn't afraid of death at the same time. The old Claire, a weakening part of herself, died that very moment. She suddenly became the Claire known today: the clever, strong-willed, fearless vixen her brother had hoped her to become. She had shown herself that fear did not reside inside her heart anymore—and had murdered to prove it. Her inner intention was not to die peacefully at this moment or to even join Bartowen so she could become his slave—she simply wanted his head on a spike.

And the only way to accomplish that was to join himthen gut him like a fish.

The blue eyes shifted upward and stabbed into Bartowen's eyes—hoping to gouge them out. She let out a quiet, visually unnoticeable sigh. "Yes," she said, her sob vanishing. "Yes, count me in, Bartowen. I'd love to join you." Of course, she said that sarcastically.

Bartowen laughed. The sky lit up once again, creating a sound muffling his malicious cackle. "Wonderful, Redfield, wonderful. Now isn't that a good sign already? You are in good hands now, Claire. Welcome into the Circle!" He flicked his cigarette into the puddle. The spent tobacco product hissed like a snake.

Welcome into the Circle. Welcomeyou dirty pussy, you.

Claire sneered at her reflection in the puddle.

You are in great hands now. Pink little peach you. Welcome to the Circle.

A blaring horn slapped her awake. She was on the wrong lane. Claire sharply swerved her Harley into the right side of the road, barely missing the freighter truck by an inch.

"Watch where you're going, you bitch!" the fat trucker shouted from his window.

Claire raised her left arm and flicked a middle finger at the redneck behind her. She did that while keeping her eyes locked on the road. "Bartowen," she whispered to herself. "Bartowen." The night in the rain was the last time she ever saw him.

He was an unusual leader in crime—not the usual Mafia stereotype either—in fact, he had no affiliation with the Mafia. Bartowen was his own personality and power. His power had climbed sharply over the years, spreading through several International countries like wildfire. But fortunately, he was the only indication of his power. He worked alone in his business and never placed power to anyone except his personal hit menhis secret Gestapo—his children of death.

And if he ever died, his secret army would be finished. Just like that. Finished.

Her life did not change much following her entry into the circle. Even though she was affiliated with Bartowen and his ambitious evils, she had little, or no part in a great deal of them. Her most basic job was to keep Bartowen's plans unknown and to help in his drug smuggling enterprises whenever needed. He provided her a nice house for itand a yearly wage similar to that of a doctor or maybe even a successful lawyer. Even though she had so much money, she still chose to work at various places. She didn't enjoy spending any of Bartowen's money—it was all blood and sin. So she kept a cool about the fact that Bartowen was the asshole of the year. She would just hoped for the fucking bastard to die any time soon.

And she had wished for it every day.

Because he was responsible for the family's death. Her Moto Cross family.

She darted down the road again, doing once more over a hundred. A sign lighting through her squinted eyes said:

SPEED

LIMIT

55

Claire giggled to herself. It was nice enough that she was actually starting to feel happy again in between all of this. A dark black object appeared in the distance before her. She accelerated, noticing the heat of the engine grow more intense in between her calves. The object grew in Claire's eyes until she could make out a dark shape on a motorcycle.

The Highway Patrol!

Claire was overjoyed. She hurled her screaming Harley closer to the man on the bike. She waited for the blaring siren.

WaitIt wasn't the Highway Patrol.

Instead, she saw a rather overweight guy on a Honda. He kind of looked like the rapper E-40 from where Claire laid her eyes upon. His helmet looked extra-sized to fit the large frame he had. What you weighin, 350? Claire thought, remembering a movie she had seen a few years ago called Bad Boys.

The E-40 look-a-like turned his head around and stared at Claire through gold-rimmed glasses. Hey, he really did look like E-40.

Claire accelerated and brought her bike right beside his on the opposite lane. She noticed the man had on a navy blue shirt that said on the back in bold yellow letters: SCHOOL PATROL. Their eyes met again. Claire smiled and waved at him from the left lane, watching him smile in return.

"Hi!" she shouted under the loud motor engines. Her grip on the acceleration handle tightened. "Bye!" her voice trailed again. She then cut in front of him, zipping ahead while watching his image once again reduce into a dark shape from her rear-view mirror. She smiled. "That was mean!" Claire giggled to herself.

She loved passing people by that way with that superior motor of herseven though she did heartily regret doing it a bit. It relieved a lot of stress.

Her eyes stared at her gas meter and grew wide. She was almost out of gas— maybe a quarter of the tank left.

And she had only traveled for about an hour or twomaybe even three.

"I thought it was full—what the Hell!" she cried, then she sealed her mouth shut.

Claire then let out a sigh and kept her eyes on the road again.

"I love you, Bartowen. I love you" she said, her eyes narrowed as her mouth grew from devilish grin to bitchy sneer. Of course, she said that sarcastically.

6

There was dense chatter in the police station as Leon strolled past milling cops and nameless agents of some sorts—he had no idea who was who around this jungle he once compared to the Lincoln Memorial minutes ago. The police station was huge—roughly the size of a three-story mansion. Leon stood there amazed and looked around, his head twisting left to right systematically like a radar dish.

In the center of the large main hall sat an ivory-colored statue of a woman with a cube-like bucket resting on her right shoulder as if she were pouring water. Around the statue was a round border enclosing it into a waterless basin. To Leon it looked reminiscent of the Renaissance era. A crowd of officers passed by the statue, ignoring it— they obviously seemed to have much to do every day. He saw one fat, really ugly type of cop spit a ball of yellowish-green slime onto the statue. It rested on the woman's thigh for a moment before inching its way down, leaving a trail of shiny film like a slug.

"Thisthis statue" he heard the fellow cop mutter in a hoarse, phlegm-covered bark. "What the hell does Irons think this place isGotham City?!"

Now why spit at the property of the Raccoon City Police Department? This had its way with Leon. That cop obviously had too much crap stuck up his ass. Way too much.

Leon briskly grabbed a towel that had been left on a counter somewhere and walked up to the statue. He struck the towel across the statue's thigh from where the cop's spit had lain like a knight delivering a final blow with his sword.

Like a knight in shining armor protecting the kingdom's chivalry he was.

The towel flung around and covered the mucus mass in a split second. A faint sound of a slap reminding Leon of his earlier years of towel-whipping his ex-girlfriend's ass appeared in his ears. Of course, that was just for fun—he was no cause for domestic violence. The tip holding the slippery film lay stretched and pointed down toward the marble floor. Leon then turned to face the statue beside him while bowing his head. "Your majesty," he said, trying to sound as Shakespearean as possible, "your respect has been regained. Now I shall exact retribution upon your honor." He smiled and turned to face the hoarse-voiced cop already a few feet away. He grit his teeth.

Leon flung the towel toward the cop's head. It spun in the air, rippling as the wind currents seeped through and wrapped itself around his head like those octopuses from The Discovery Channel.

At first, the cop's covered head spun around as if he were trapped in a net. Then his hands immediately ripped the towel away from his shiny bald head and turned around, shouting to the other cops around him. Amidst the dense laughter, Leon couldn't hear anything the cop said—he just saw his lips quickly juggle and jerk around to each cop he was suspecting. He didn't notice him.

Leon laughed out loud, the sound of his laughter muffled by the intense amount of noise surrounding the main hall. "Man, am I starting to love this new job," he said to himself. "Next thing you know, I'll be hired to protect city property." He smirked.

"Umm, excuse me," a light feminine voice surprised Leon from behind. He turned around and saw a large-breasted (and rather pretty), blonde woman of about twenty. She said, "Do you know that officer you've just tossed a towel at is a highly-respected sergeant?" The expression on her face didn't seem to show any kind of angst to what he did at all.

Leon smiled nervously. After a better glimpse of her, in raw opinion, Leon now can assume that this girl was really pretty. "Well," he said while crossing his arms, "he did deface police propertyI mean come on! He deserved what he got." He chuckled while noticing the woman's generously-sized breasts.

Her breasts were large enough to fulfill a DD cup—and any man's/woman's dream along with it. It rose from her spaghetti-strapped white tank top like rising biscuits from her every breath. Thin, silky bumps of flowers and other garden ornaments ran across the peak of them as outlines of the lacy bra appeared from the spot where her finely-shaped chest lay. She smiled at him.

She really smiled at him.

"I can see you enjoy what you are seeing," she said while smiling.

Leon threw his eyes away from her breasts. He was rather surprised that he had been staring at them for a little longer than just a glance. "Whoa," he chuckled, "really, I didn't mean to stare at anythingI was just caught in a little flashback of some sort about the copmight've thought I known him if you already know what I'm saying" He smiled. It was somewhat of a white lie, but Leon knew by heart that cops had to keep private business to themselvescouldn't have no wiggling dicks and energetic cocks leaping from their pants without reason day by day anyway.

And also because it was Leon Kennedy's first day on the job.

She giggled. "All right Mr. Policeman, you can say what you want to say," she said while stepping closer, smiling seductively. "But between us, we can assume that you wanted that piece by piece," she said softly. The flat of her hand came to rest upon Leon's navy-blue bulletproof breastplate. On the armor plate, it said in large, bold white letters: R.P.D. She brought her mouth up right beside his ear. "I think you're sexy," she whispered, her warm breath softly brushing his earlobe.

Leon grinned innocently. "Heywhat about that sergeant you were telling me aboutyou know" He was trying to change the subject—he surely didn't want a Monica Lewinsky subject brought up hereit was already everywhere, and why also end up in Raccoon City?

"Oh, him," she sighed as her eyes sunk low. "He's the one that busted me for prostitution, that's all."

Leon's eyes widened. "You're a hooker?" He had been involved with numerous types in the past: women with big butts, finely-shaped hips, nice hair, sweet voices you name it, but this one was a true mystery.

Her face fell from sleazy to defensive. "Well actually, I do that part timeI'm a little more into exotic dancing and such. You have a problem with that?"

"Well of course not, I was just surprised that prostitution was legal around here," Leon said, blinking wildly. A stripper and hookerlook out Leon Kennedy, your wild side has probably met its match! His mind flashed.

"It's been legal for a long time," she said. There was something odd about her personality that Leon couldn't exactly grasp. Her eyes then began to shine. "You know, you would make a very good male prostitute. I mean it."

"Well, I haven't put much thought towards that yet," he chuckled. "Say, you know, I have much wor—"

"I was just kidding about that, you know." She then giggled. "Actually, I meant that you would make a very good mate for a prostitute." She smiled into his eyes. Seductive charm at its works.

And Leon could almost feel it working into him. And all it took was a large bust.

"Hey Leon!" a deep, familiar voice cut through the mass of noise.

Leon turned his head. He caught glimpse of a cop dressed in the usual cyan and black R.P.D. uniform that looked exactly like the actor Will Smith.

"Willie, the Hell you doin here?!" Leon said, surprised to see one of the cops from his days at the Academy.

Willie Burrow was one of Leon's buddies he had met during training at the Academy in California. He was that one enforcer that taught him the real art of firearms. Without the training of that Will Smith look-a-like, Leon couldn't surely say that he could shoot pimentos out of olives from ten meters without the assurance of his Anti-B.S. Guarantee.

"Was just pulled out from undercover for the NYPD a while ago," he said, his head starting to twist back and forth while smiling. "They just needed me herenever thought I'd see your 10-meter, pimento-poppin ass here either."

Leon extended a finger at Willie. "That's right, man. I can still do itthanks to your wise-cracking insults." He smiled.

Willie began to chuckle. "Aaah just shut the hell up," he said while his eyes shifted to rest on the woman standing beside Leon. "Nice to know you're making new friends, Leon." He tipped a chin at her. "Hey there's, Trisha."

Trisha gave him a stiff look. "Hi Will," she said coldly. Her voice seemed a lot more serious to Leon than the last time she had spoken to him minutes ago. It seemed as if she had known Willie for a while and didn't look comfortable around him either.

"So," Willie said, revealing his extra white teeth, "how's that naughty sex life of yours—or may I ask, how much you makin from that that naughty sex life?" His right palm sailed over towards her buttocks and gave it a gentle tap. Leon gawked at how her ass reacted to it—it pretty much jiggled wonderfully.

"That's sexual harassment," Trisha said as her arms folded, causing her breasts to bulge upward while her crossed forearms pressed upon them. She stared up at Willie with stiff eyes that appeared to be as solid as the facets of crystals.

Willie's tone now sounded seriously interrogative. "You grab hold of my balls everyday, Trisha, it don't matter. Now answer my question."

"How many times do I have to tell you, Will! I work in a stripclub and mak—"

"Not that answer, you know what I mean."

Her eyes shot to Leon, then back to Willie. She shook her head and sighed. "All right, I'm a thief, just one buxom little girl trying to make a living here. Dammit Will, you just ruin everything around here. Fuck."

"Now that is what I wanna hear from you!" Willie's hands were now at his hips as he bent down speaking to her. "How dare you try playin my friend off!" He was speaking in his scolding mother tone. Him and Leon used to joke about it back at the Academy.

Leon was surprised he had heard this. "A thief?" he asked Willie. "This bitch makes a living out of pulling dollar bills out of my pants?"

"That's right, my man." Willie gave a proud look. "Who you're dealin with here is Raccoon's loveliest seductress: the pick-pocketing Trisha Lockney."

Leon shifted his eyes toward Trisha. "You know, I wouldn't mind if you pulled some shlong out of my pants, but my own green bills" he waved an index finger while shaking his head, "that's out of the question lady."

Trisha stared up at Leon sweetly. How innocent. "I like you, though," she said.

Willie stepped forward and grabbed Trisha by the shoulders. "Look," he said while his eyes were locked down into hers. "Just leave this man alone. I know you may not know this, but he's gay. I mean it, girlfriend. This man is one lonely sick bastard." Trisha's eyes bugged out. Damn Willie. "You see, every single day while he's in the bathroom—"

"Willie, quit filling her head with shit," Leon thankfully interrupted for his personal sake. "He's kiddingthis black fellow here's obviously a liar," he said to Trisha while pointing jabs at Willie. That was Will's trademark, to make false assumptions about him day after day. Maybe Leon should try doing the same to Willie. See what it feels like.

He turned around and grinned at Leon. He laughed. "Go home, Trisha," Willie's tone grew serious again. "We've got much work to do around here. I think the time's right for you to find another playmate worth playin off next timeyou can go have another visit here sometime. But trust me Lockney, I'll be glad to catch you the next time while your hands are full again. And I mean that."

"I'll be more than happy also," Leon added.

Trisha stared at the both of them with the same, solid unchanging eyes. "Fine," she said while turning around and strolling towards the exit. Within a few steps from the exit, she threw a blind wave at them without looking back. "Nice meeting you assholes, bye." Leon watched as she exited the station, strutting proudly. Her ass seemed to wobble gently with every step, like firm tofu tightly wrapped under a smooth plastic bag.

Willie glanced at Leon. "Next time you be careful about love around here, there're bout as many ho's and sluts here in Raccoon City as there are in your momma's house."

"Shhh" Leon held up two fingers to shush Willie. His eyes stared down the exit where Trisha last walked through. He looked at the statue beside it. It stood peacefully at the center of the main hall, the same as before. Leon saw another cop, this time it was a rough, ill-mannered woman who might've taken one too many bullets in her tour of duty. It almost reminded him of those old grumpy Russian ladies.

She splashed a cup of coffee into the statue's face.

"Fucking sculpture," Leon heard her mutter.

Now, was today the official Pissed Off at Work Day, or what? Leon thought.

7

The locker room of the police station was about as crowded as the main hall itself. The strange thing about the whole scene as Leon observed was the hurry most of the cops were going through. All of them seemed to have that same quickened haste as if they were firemen reacting to the latest call. Leon shook his head. His day was different.

All he wanted right now was to forget most of his worries and go on with his job.

So far since his first hour or so, it seemed as if every valuable lesson (except shooting) the Academy had ever taught him began to be dubbed as worthy of being tossed out the window. Whatever they had drilled through his head about conduct of civilians (officers alike) and the cop virtue became less worthy to him; even though he didn't view those aspects as important, it still meant plenty enough worthy of wearing the badge. The philosophy Academy trained him to believe slowly diminished from within. He was quickly becoming disenchanted with the very system he was trained to uphold; being revealed of the truth instead of the euphonic reality the Academy brought along, the harsh reality it all sums up into.

And he was being revealed of this harsh reality too fast.

Could it just be with himself that is the small problem now? Or could it be the people of Raccoon? Everyone Leon met so far besides his old friends Kobe and Willie were mysterious, as though they were all connected by some kind of dark secret.

And what in the hell, if he was sure about it, was this dark secret?

"So Leon," Willie asked while packing his locker, "how you like it so far in this shithole?" He was talking casually without even looking at him.

"I can agree to call it a shithole," Leon answered while placing his duffel bag on the bench. "Actually, its becoming more of a real Hellhole already."

"Oh, so Rookie-Cop-of-the-year don't find Raccoon City fit for his job?" Willie was already smiling again. "Looks as if I'm gonna have to make you like your job, Rookie cop, Leon Kennedy." He winked at Leon while slowly licking his lips.

Leon shook his head. "You sick, man. LookI mean, I can't really call this place City of Angels,' but there's something with how the people act here that's a little different from the Academy's teaching."

Willie planted a coat into his locker. "Leo, there are two things your mind has to work on: you refer to Los Angeles as the City of Angels'—there is no other competition with that name. And also, there are a lot of differences between the people in LA and RaccoonRaccoon City just has less freaks and RuPauls struttin around. But believe me man, you'd rather meet the people down here than in LA or even New York." He had his hands up and his eyes were fixated into Leon's like a Chess mentor focused onto the latest underage whiz since Bobby Fischer. He seemed like he had a point about how the people were like. I mean, he has been here since last month, hasn't he?

"My bad, William," Leon said, his hand digging through the contents of the bag he had used since the days at the Academy. "My bad then, guess you're right about that. Must be my own problem." He sighed as his right hand reached down the bottom and caught Pamela. Yes, his baby Pam.

Willie's eyes widened. "Holy Mother of God! Leon, what the hell's that?" he asked while Leon pulled out his twin-barreled, home-modified shotgun.

"This," he said while drawing back the front hammer, causing its sweet, crunchy metallic sound that was always included with every pull of the trigger, "is my baby Pamela." He smiled evilly.

Pamela was the product of a super-shotgun Leon tried producing since his late teens. He simply fused two 12-gauge, M1100 Remingtons together, somehow molded it so a single trigger from one gun could control both guns, and then attached an extra pump-action handle below both of the original handles to support the reloading of two shells. So, simple to say, whenever he pulled the trigger, whatever he shot at would get two shells for the price of one.

"I can see why you call this thing Pamela," Willie said after examining the two large black barrels adjacent to one another, "but how did you do this? I mean shit, this is a work of art, Leo. A cosmetician would be proud."

Leon drew out a smile. "Well, took me a while to get them both working fine—but at least it works. Out of the five times I've used it, I could find nada wrong from it."

"So what'd you use it on?" Willie was simply packed with wonder from his eyes.

Leon chuckled, his head pivoting left and right while his fingers went up to scratch the back of his skull. The condensed memory of a deer's innards splashing at his face appeared. He smiled. "Never use that thing for hunting I mean damn, you'll only get back half of what your prey started out once you lay this sucker down."

"I don't think Irons is gonna approve this," Willie said while laughing to Leon's last comment. "But keep those fingers crossed" He was staring down across the surface of the black barrels—his fingers felt around the two slots on the top from where the spent shells were expelled out of. He shook his head and grinned. "Why, now I've got to get myself one of these!"

Willie Burrow was Will Smith, Leon thought.

His attention then focused back to Leon. "So how you feelin about meeting big dumb-ass Chief Irons, huh?" he asked, his arms cradling the super-shotgun.

"I dunno," Leon said as he scratched his head. "What's the fat man like?"

"I've only got one word that describes him—even the whole station agrees with your brotha, and it's D-I-C-K."

"You're saying that he's a bad Chief or what?"

"No, I mean you watch it with this guy—he'll bite your head off. Rookies to this son of a bitch are like toilet paper—he's gonna want your face licking the shit off his ass." Willie then directed his attention upon Leon's Pamela once again. Leon saw his eyes scan the perfect molding of the handle from the top, as it formed a Y in between the two shotguns and the single, manipulating trigger itself.

"So what should I do?" Leon suddenly had some bad vibes. But he wasn't afraid.

He was Leon Kennedy.

Willie kept his gaze upon Pamela. "Just watch your six, that's all," he said. "Never quite sure when he'll be checkin out that fine ass you got there, Mr. John F. Kennedy Jr."

Leon smiled. "Hey, now don't you be talking bout my ass—it's been there for one purpose: to serve and please my female freaks. One more comment Willie, and I'm gonna have to bust out that can of whoop-ass on your gettin jiggy wid it self of yours." Leon gave out a chuckle. "Next thing you know, you ain't gonna be riding—"

"Shut your mouth," Willie said harshly. "You know I can beat that white-boy ass of yours any day." He then smirked. "And I'm also the one with the big gun."

Leon threw his hands up. "I rest my case, my brotha."

8

"Sit down," the harsh voice behind the large tobacco cloud said.

Leon sat in the chair facing Brian Irons' desk. The blinds behind him were bursting with sunshine. It decorated the room—along with Leon—in black-gold stripes provided from the rays of the hot morning sun. He saw the large-framed Chief of Raccoon City Police seated on the thick, black leather chair with an overstuffed cigar in one hand. Grasped with the other hand was a chewed-up bagel frosted with cigar ash.

"I can see since this is your first day," he said while placing the bagel onto a marble-colored plate and grabbing a folder, "I'll make it simple for yousince it's a tradition for the Department to provide the most boring job for you Rookies on the first time on duty." He stared at Leon through wire-frame glasses.

In addition to being a fat, nasty-looking bastard (As Willie might have noted), Irons already seemed to spring true as being the common dick-ass motherfucker to Leon. From the way his eyes fell and rose upon him at the first glance, he could tell in a heartbeat that Irons didn't like him. Leon didn't like him either.

"I'll be much obliged to do that, Chief," Leon said as he relaxed against the seat being a little too close to Irons' impending cloud made up of smokeand probably gas from his bloated fat ass.

Irons nodded. "You see Kennedy," he rose to his feet and took slow steps back and forth parallel to the edge of his desk. It reminded Leon of Barney the Dinosaur. "Since you're a Rookie"

And since you can't run the Department well enough, Leon thought.

"you might not know about the fact regarding that recent contamination scare this morning. It's pretty serious."

"I'm aware of that, sir." Leon tried to answer, but his words did not fully sink in. Irons seemed to talk as if nothing in damn the world could interrupt his speech about what happened to Raccoon in the last few hours. Leon was fully aware of it. Although it was clear in his head, he never took any of it personalit just seemed to not have that much of a priority to discuss about before the details pertaining to his so-called duty.

"There are cops in every corner and health department of this fucking city," he said while looking across the room towards a disturbing red and black painting of a girl and a dog in the background. "We're sending all officers to help control the present situation. As you can see so far, there are new recruits called inincluding Rookies pulled from Academy like you and Regs from various precincts of major cities like New York and LAof course, they have arrived a few months back to handle other occasions unlike the one we have now." He blew out a gust of smoke. "It may sound strange, but thisthing happens to be more serious than the E. Coli food scare. And we'll be needing an extra hand if it gets any more serious." He drew the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, which Leon could see had a mustache in similar fashion to Saddam Hussein.

Leon laced his hands together and rested them on his stomach. "So what's in stor—"

"As far as problems go" the Chief went on again without interruption.

Leon sighed. Dammit Irons, when will you get to the fucking point? he thought.

"There has been an increase in various homicides in the past few monthssome increasingly grotesque in nature and others crafted by sheer insanity, as some detectives have reported." He was now staring blankly at the floor, his large head bent downward.

Leon lifted an eyebrow. He now had to hear this, even though it had nothing to do with what he was supposed to do, based on Irons' policy on the first day for Rookies. He had to keep his eyes open for any killers in this areahe always wanted to be that good cop bagging in misfits like Charles Manson and Jeffrey Dalmer.

"There are now riots occurring from across Dark Stalk Ave. and Downtown Ryuken Street, which is around that ARUKAS place, " he continued. "The city at the moment is in a state of chaos that's all I can say. It's a nightmare." His head, miraculously retaining a full head of dark hair, turned to face Leon. "Your assignment's to patrol the Northeast section—just you. I'm not going to provide you a partner or anything, it may be a fairly long drive from here because of the traffic, but it'll be easy—that's the place where nothing's going on at this point."

"Thank you, sir," Leon said bitterly. He wanted some action, but this could settle.

"Dismissed."

Leon stepped up to his feet and turned towards the door ahead of him.

"Oh, and one more thing," Irons' sullen voice abruptly appeared from behind. "Kennedy, I'll need you to come here for a second."

Leon turned around again and walked up to the police Chief's desk. He saw the folder Irons had on his desk flatly opened, gaping at him like a dead crocodile. Inside the folder he caught glimpse a picture of a serious-looking woman and on the other side, a blonde-haired maniac of a man. The woman's file beneath the picture read: ANNETTE BIRKIN, while the file of the maniac: WILLIAM BIRKIN. Looked like one happy couple.

"I've heard some stuff about you back at the Academyjust remembered it," Irons said with a contemptuous smile beginning to appear, "heard you were among the best chosen down there. I apologize if I've looked past your so-called wonderful skills."

"No damage taken." Leon said. A hypocrite, wonderful, Leon thought.

"Just remembered about your impressive use of firearms and code of conduct back from your file." Irons' stare never left Leon's eyes as his grubby fingers fondled the cigar.

Leon knew Irons was just bullshitting so he could make him do even more work. He could smell it all through the man's breath. And that breath smelled like shit along with that. Pure bullshit. So much bullshit Leon could laugh.

"Yeah, I've stirred quite a large audience back there with my olive thing." Leon chuckled blankly. He was responded by silence. The stern face was as stiff as a brick wall.

Irons swallowed, causing a lump to run down his throat. "Since you've stood out among your classmates," he continued without much further ado about anything in particular, "I'd like you to do a secondary assignment."

"Much obliged," Leon repeated a portion of his earlier phrase.

"So at around four or five," he said while shifting his eyes toward the woman's photo on the folder, "I'll want you to go investigate this woman here." He pointed at Annette's photo with the smoldering cigar tip. "Her name's Annette Birkin, wife of well-known scientist William Birkin."

Now that scientist shouldn't even be a scientist, Leon thought. With eyes like that, looks as though Mr. William Birkin could be the prime candidate for the next Dr. Frankenstein—or even Dr. Moreau. Pay me, and I wouldn't even work with the bastard.

"Since we haven't any information about her," Irons continued, his voice seemed to roughen up in a harsh, grating manner. It reminded Leon of Dennis Franz from NYPD Blue. "I want you to investigate her, ask her questions and such."

"And why am I doing this?" Leon asked. He had no idea about this whole Secondary Assignment thing; it all seemed so vague.

"For one thing, she seems to be an important witness to the source of the various murders recently happening around here. The next thing, her neighbors have recently reported of violent happenings going on in her house—especially last night. We aren't sure what the hell's happened, so I want you to check it out." He placed a cigar in his mouth and blew a cloud of smoke into Leon's face.

Leon gave a disgusted look and casually fanned the area before his face. "So you want me, a Rookie cop on his first day, to talk and interrogate with your most important source to an investigation?"

"Everybody's just damn busy today, Kennedy. You're up for it. That is" He dove back to his large black seat, hands resting behind his greasy brown hair. "Only if you're man enough to." Irons chuckled—his first sign of real amusement. The way he stressed the word "man" in his sentence seemed to amuse him.

"Got it," Leon nodded his head. He could handle anything this fat Chief could throw at him—and he was going to handle it well. He'll show what true law enforcement means to this shrine of disdain (which was Irons, nothing was going to disprove Leon of that fact). The rookie with the last name of Kennedy and a middle name of Scott was not only being cocky of what he was going to do—he was being dead sure of it. Bagging the criminals was one thing, showing his boss who he was, was something all too similar. Leon's eyes then rolled down to William's photo. It looked as though it would sneer at him. He tipped his chin toward the gazing mug shot.

"So what's with the Aryan fellow?"

The expression on Brian's face lit up as though he was presented with a bright idea.

"William Birkin—The MeatHook Mangler. He's our man of the week." Irons leaned over his desk and twisted his cigar (rather painfully) into the marble ashtray beside another dish with the exhausted bagel over it. "Within the last month, this freak of society" Irons shook his head. This wasn't a good thing, obviously. "Five counts of first-degree murder, eight counts of Arson including vandalism of public and private property, numerous charges for illegal eugenic experimentation, terrorism, and most recently" He shook his head again. "Child molestation."

"What was the child's name?"

"Sherry," the Chief said, "Sherry Birkin poor daughter of his." Irons then looked up into Leon's eyes. "Our forensics team has tracked this Birkin (William) down—we now basically have this fucker exactly pinpointed. His every move is anticipated. In fact, the FBI has even been involved in this."

"The FBI?" Leon asked with widening eyes and increased interest.

Of course, Iron's didn't hear him.

"There is a vague theory that he is responsible for the contamination in Raccoon, and we have predicted he is soon to be at the barn 6 miles from outside Raccoon City. He has also been linked to disturbing murders involving meat hooks, so we are all cautious about this nut. So far, we are awaiting his arrival so my men can pound him down." The bottom of his fist went down on the desk hard, causing the bagel on the dish to shift a little. "By the time of the horizon," he continued, "my men will have him before he can begin some new slaughterhouse' with his collection of over-sized fishing hooks."

"And what about the contamination?" Leon was now feeling hyped for his job.

"What about the contamination? I don't think it's a very big problemyou shouldn't worry about it. It's just another scare." The way Irons tried assuring Leon's safety sounded like how George Bush once tried telling his country to read his lips: no more taxes.'

"But what if it turns out real?"

Irons frowned. Leon seemed to have ticked off something in the Chief's nervous system. "Just shut up and do your job, Kennedy," he muttered in a low guttural slur.

At the Academy, Leon Scott Kennedy was as widely known for his courteous attitude as for his shooting—the Academy and life itself had taught that. Even if this sadistic, cold slab of a Chief was using him as a stress-relief tool, Leon still knew the single-most important thing he had to do was to maintain respect. He tried squirming himself to sit up straight.

Leon straightened his face and said calmly, "Chief, if I pissed you off in some way—"

Irons stood up, his hands spread out onto the desk. His darkened figure in front of the shades looked imposing as it shadowed over him. He gestured towards Leon with the hand holding the cigar. "Look, what angers me most is your wise-ass, straight-from-Academy attitude, Kennedy. I've already tried being nice but it's no use in trying to shut your stinking mouth from yappin about this shit here and that shit there. When you set foot in my Department you should understand that I don't like cops acting like question-filled fresh Rookies, do you understand me pretty boy?"

Leon was the bad-ass of all question-filled fresh Rookies, and wasn't going to let no behemoth-sized Chief stop him from doing the job his way. It was Leon's personal style. Respect for higher authority was a priority to him, but in this occasion, it was an exception. He stood up to face the tall burly Chief.

"Don't you forget that I'm here to do my job and nothing else!" he said in a mad swirl. Leon brought up a crooked finger and leveled it at Irons. "If you don't like the way I handle things around here," he said while his head slowly pivoted from right to left, "then you made a wrong decision in recruiting me, because I came from the higher crop of Academy training!"

"First, you shut up and sit down!" Irons exploded. "And that's an order!"

Leon paused for a while before falling back into his seat, his face giving out an expression of pure rebellion.

"Don't you forget that I'm the boss here!"

And also one hell of a screw up, Leon poked at Irons with his thoughts.

"I don't like the idea of pansy-ass, know-it-all cops running my Department!" he said while drawing a stiff finger. "Once you get a taste of this place you will see your flaw, Kennedy, and will grow up without being the natural shit you are now." He planted the butt of the cigar into his dirty mouth. He calmed a little after a large grey fume ignited from his lips. "You know what your problem is, Kennedy?"

"I know what your problem is," Leon said with glaring eyes. You're an idiot who can't take care of real problems—just let things slip by while you smoke that damn fucking cigar until your lungs burn out, his mind expressed.

Irons ignored what he had said (also thought) and continued on with the answer. "You're a little worm who refuses to grow—that's what you are, and if you don't straighten that attitude of yours," he paused, fidgeting with his cigar, "you can look forward to many years without promotion."

Oh, Leon will show this bastard who he really was in this jungle. He was going to be the symbol of law enforcement—unlike the stupid, sloppy officer crap Irons wanted him to be. Sure Leon had a way against strict authority, but this was out of question. To be the best, he had to work his own way, regardless of whoever tried slapping him into becoming some fucked up model from their minds. His parents had taught him that long before the Academy or even this misfit had even thought about trying.

"Are you listening to me, Kennedy?" Irons let out another batch of putrid-smelling Surgeon General's Warning fumes into his face. "Or do you have a hearing problem?"

"I'm listening," Leon said, his voice was buried somewhere between anger and frustration. "And I can hear just fine, sir." The tone he had used to say "sir" was peppered with sarcasm, as though he had been acknowledging to an evil submarine commander from a Tom Clancy novel.

"Good, now get the hell out of my face." Irons sneered at him. "Dismissed."

Leon stood to his feet and made his way towards the door. Once he was almost out, he heard Irons' grating voice again. He could now cringe at that voice.

"Oh, and one more thing, Kennedy, I want you in uniform tomorrow, do you understand?" His eyes were fastened on Leon's dark blue outfit, which were customized with armor plates on the shoulders, torso, and upper arms. "I don't need costumed misfits like you running the show around this city."

Leon turned his head 90 degrees. "Fine," he mumbled while exiting the Chief's office and making his way through the crowded investigation rooms. He was going to wear this limited-edition enforcement uniform for the next couple weeks. He smiled. Yeah, that'll make his blood pressure rise, Leon thought, piss him off some more.

He noticed the ceiling fan above him spinning frantically like a helicopter's blades. Its sound was brought down to a muted silence from all the chatter and chaos happening around him. A young woman hugging a stack of paperwork ran into Leon, causing the sheets to splash all over him in a large cascade. It fluttered onto the floor like snow.

"Whoa, my bad there," Leon said, his courtesy working back into him. "Sorry about that, Miss, let me pick that up for you."

The woman was on the floor before she struggled to her feet in stuttering movements. She stood by him panting as if she had just ran a marathon. "No, that's okay—Shoot! I have to go, just forget about it." She then cut through the crowds of officers and ran to the next room leaving the papers right beside him.

He paused, watching her disappear within the bluish fog of fellow officers and detectives. Leon shook his head. "When you gotta go, you gotta go," he said, remembering a line from Jurassic Park. He glanced at the stack of papers lying dead beside his feet.

They were nothing but white fliers probably advertising something. He crouched down low and picked up a sheet into his own hands while reading it. "Well I'll be damned," he said with some amusement. The large print read:

Umbrella Corp. Welcomes You To The Opening of A New Lab!

Come To Washington Hospital And Receive Free Beverages

Including Our Elusive Umbrella Cola!

The strangest thing about the flier was that it had already happened. It went on during April 28, while it is now already the third week of May for Leon. He shook his head again, shaking away the potential thoughts about another mystery. "Forget it, man," he said to himself, "you're worrying too much about nonsense, that's all." He tossed aside the printed sheet. It weakly floated in the air, spinning like the fan above him before sliding across the floor towards its comrades lying face-down beside the file cabinets.

"You've got more important things to do than try to figure out why such an old flier was carried by a woman looking like a secretary," he said to himself again, while tapping his temple with a finger. He then said, "That's it. She just happened to throw away some old papers, that's all." Leon's head was going in circles. The longer he seemed to have spent at Raccoon City, the more strange revelations he began to unravel.

He stood up, noticing more papers strewn about all over the floor in the room. Whatever that was going on in the station was a lot more serious than Leon thought it was. It looked like a clearance store in a mall with cops instead of products on sale and eager buyers. He made his way through the doorway and out towards the main entrance.

9

Willie howled with laughter. His head was pulled back, laughing at the blue sky above the crowded, noisy landscape. "The fucker told you to patrol the Northeast Section?!"

"Yep, that's right," Leon said grimly. "I've never been up there—what's it like?" Leon was curious, since Willie's reaction seemed to point out that his first day was simply a joke—and not a job at all. Rookie or not, Leon shouldn't be taken as a joke. Seriously.

"I'll let you find out yourself." Willie patted his shining gold badge. "Cop's honor." He laughed again.

"An honor my ass," Leon said, "you know I hate surprises, Will, just tell me."

"Cop's honor," he repeated.

"Fine," Leon said while taking steps down toward his car. Willie followed behind him. He now felt like changing the subject—everything the both of them had been talking about revolved around Rookie Leon's first day and police work surrounding it. It already began to annoy him like some stupid commercial appearing after every break. So he turned his head and decided to know more about Willie himself. "How's the fast life right now, Will Smith?" he asked with a smile.

He looked down at him with a raised eyebrow. "What you tryin to say?"

"I mean family lifeor I mean your life. Anything good or bad happen ever since teaching at the Academy?"

Willie's face suddenly shined out contentedly. He sure had something going on.

"What, Will Burrow, tell your man Leo something for a change!" Leon smiled. There was something new in his good friend's life. Something, just something.

"I'll tell you once we get to your car," he said while grinning. "I forgot to tell you this earlier, so don't you get pissed."

They made their way down the numerous steps leading toward Leon's new Chevy Caprice parked within the sea of cops and meandering people. The sky was blue and the sun stretched out bright through Raccoon's sky. So far, it seemed a nice day. The inhabitants of this industrial, but pleasantly populated city knew a fear was among their hearts, but they dismissed it as unreal and even as a joke. They had no idea what the city was transforming into. Something terrible and horrifyingly ravenous was sitting in the city's dark corner in secret, silently emerging with its large, menacing wet fangs.

Only God knew what was about to happen to Raccoon City.

"So, what were you trying to tell me," Leon said as his jagged car key crunched its way into the circular-rimmed slot on the car door.

Willie shook his head with a smile. "I swear, once I started having unprotected sex with that one fine girl I now call my fiancee," he smirked, "I knew that deep in my heart, I was shaking hands with the devil."

Leon paused. He knew better that Willie hadn't contracted STDs or anything horrible by that fact—he had a smile on his face for God's sake! So it only drew to one conclusion Leon could sniff out. Willie was having a baby. He knew it all along.

Willie was going to be a father.

"You tellin me dat mah fellow brotha heya is gonna be a fatha?" Leon said, trying to sound like a Southern Baptist Pastor. "Holy shit! Congratulations, Willie, it's great to know that you finally have balls that work."

He briefly paused with a grin and laughed. "Shut up, White Rookie boy."

"So how's fine Lorraine feeling, now that she's ready to bust out a new Will Smith clone." Leon was simply awestricken. Willie, a father? He was only 27, and it all seemed so soon for him. Surely, for a kid with Leon's features to come out crying and begging for milk—that would have to wait a while.

"My baby's fine in both meanings," he said proudly. "Lorraine's supposed to be due out in the next two monthswe're planning to have it out at Washington Hospital."

Leon had only seen Lorraine once, and that was long ago at a party held at Willie's house. Like Willie, she also bore some resemblance to a celebrity, but instead of looking like an actress, the package came in to look like the model Tyra Banks. He always won-dered how those people ever got to be looking like the rich and famous—it almost made him feel jealous. But Leon would never be overly angered of his friend for something pointless like that—he was already grateful that he was cool with someone like Willie.

And also because girls had said he sort of looked like a blonde Tom Cruise.

Leon opened his car door and leaned over the roof towards his soon-to-be-a-father friend on the opposite side. "Really," he said with a serious tone, "It's real great to know that. Man, Leo-Daddy's real proud of you, can't wait to meet your newborn."

He gave Leon a heartwarming smile from the sunshine enveloping the both of them. For a second, he nearly looked like Denzel Washington. "Thanks, you been a true friend for a long time yourself. Hey, I thank you for all of it, really."

"Ah, no need to get sentimental," Leon said while dipping his head into the car and closing the door. A metallic slap echoed from the Caprice's side, reverberating off the buildings as it dove into the crowds of people running through the streets. "Just be cool with the fact that I'll always be there to help you, that's all."

"Me too, White boy." He came up to Leon's window and held out a hand.

Leon slapped Willie's palm, clasping it, and watched his white skin against his friend's darker skin.

"Good luck on that first day," Willie said as he drew his hand back "An watch for them ho's—they bite."

"You too," Leon replied, smiling as he twisted the ignition key, hearing the rumble of the engine. "Late, my dark-skinned brotha." He tilted a chin at his buddy while backing away and sped off toward the homely Northeast section (As Willie and Irons suggested).

His radio scratched to life a few minutes later.

The voice behind the speakers sounded harsh but understandable. "HQ, this is 0214. I'm here checking over an assault of a young white male around Megafire complexes. I could be needing some backup, over."

He smiled and shook his head, laughing to himself. Oops, poor Nazi boy.

Leon accelerated his police car towards the freeway entrance. Actually, he felt a little bad about that one kid, but then again, he also felt good. He was going to be doing police work, no matter how boring it was. He let out a satisfying grin.

It was Leon Kennedy's first day on the job.