"Alright, it's very protocol, and pointless," Wesker said, "But I have to do a roll-call before we finish prep…so here goes."

Everyone in the S.T.A.R.S. Office stopped what they were doing with a heavy sigh.

"Burton, Barry" Wesker read from his dossier.

"Here."

"Frost, Joseph"

"Present."

"Redfield, Chris"

"Yup."

"Valentine, Jill"

"Here, sir."

"Vickers, Brad"

"H-H-Here." said a shaky voice from the back.

"Um, sir," Frost chimed in, "so long as your sheet is in alphabetical order, I move to have Brad's name moved up before mine, as Chicken-heart comes before Frost in any alphabet I've ever seen."

Everyone laughed but Brad….and Wesker.

"That's enough Frost; we don't need animosity before missions like this…keep it up and I will send you back to Bravo Team where you belong." Wesker replied sternly. "Alright, no sitting around, let's get packed up and to the 'copter, I want to be air-born in thirty…"

Wesker walked out of the room, leaving the Alpha Team to finish their last minute prep.

"Alright," Chris said, breaking the silence, "anyone know anything special about the Spencer Estate?"

"Well," replied Joseph, "I heard that it was built way back in the early 1900s by Umbrella's creator, and namesake for the mansion, Lord Spencer, but then he went crazy and killed everyone inside, and then himself." He laughed as he punched Brad in the arm.

"You ought to consider studying history," replied a gruff voice from the back of the room.

"Oh really, old man?" Joseph said.

Barry Burton turned around as he put on his orange jacket-vest, and placed a 9mm Beretta into the inside pocket. He stood a towering 6' 3", and was about as wide as a tank, with muscles to match. He may have been older then any of the other team members, but whatever he lacked in speed and dexterity, he made up for in strength and dependability.

"Yea, really," he said mockingly as he towered above Frost. "The Spencer Estate was built in the early 1900s for Spencer, but by a man named George Trevor. Trevor was to design it to be used as Umbrella's main HQ, but somewhere in the process of it being finished, Spencer decided to move the HQ to Europe and use the mansion for dignitaries and other Umbrella bigwigs to stay in. After it was completed rumor has it that something went very wrong with Trevor, and he abandoned his family, and supposedly roamed the halls like a maniac until he starved to death." Barry finished his sentence by slamming a new clip into his magnum revolver…a good luck piece he carried on every mission.

"Yea," said Frost, "and now his ghost roams the hallways of the mansion looking for Chicken-hearts to feast on." Joseph got up and walked out of the room cackling.

"F-F-Fuck you F-Frost." Brad said, shaking as he loaded his survival bag with supplies.

Brad wasn't new to Alpha Team, so they had gotten used to his antics, however he still hadn't gotten used to his nickname.

For a long time, the basic knowledge of the S.T.A.R.S. Team rested solely in 3 rules: NEVER disobey an order, Avoid RPD Cafeteria food at any cost, and Never get stuck in a physical altercation with Chicken-Heart Vickers as your back-up.

The only thing Brad Vickers had in common with bravado is that 4 of the 7 letters in "Bravado" spelled B-r-a-d, and that was as close as he'd ever get. It didn't take much to scare the man beyond reason, so his nerves were always on end. This never proved positive in the heat of a mission, and always ended up putting them in hot water. At one point he decided to quit the team, but Barry had been able to persuade him to stay-on as the vehicle specialist for Alpha Team which involved little, to no, field time.

"Relax," said Barry in a fatherly tone, "There are no such things as ghosts, Frost is an asshole, now finish getting ready or Wesker is going to chew our asses out!"

Brad nodded and left the room, leaving Chris, Jill and Barry to their final duties.

Barry walked over to his desk and picked up a picture with his kid and wife on it. He starred at it for about a minute, kissed the picture, and placed it back on his desk.

"Honestly, is it worth it Barry?" said Chris.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you know, risking your life everyday like this? I mean you have a family to take care of, you ought to take some time off…or reti—."

"Don't even think that word rookie," said Barry sternly.

Chris had always admired Barry. If it hadn't been for him, then Chris would never have even gotten into the S.T.A.R.S after he was kicked out of the air force. He had found out quite quickly after being discharged that very few people were looking for personal fighter-pilots nowadays, but Barry took him under his wing and brought him to Wesker who gave him this job. He owed Barry his life. To see him deal with all this responsibility on a daily basis killed Chris, he knew the man only wanted to be with his family, plus he knew what it was like to have to care for others. Chris had been watching out for his younger sister Claire for as long back as he could remember.

He turned towards his own desk and picked up her picture.

"How is she?" Jill said.

"She's doing pretty well actually," Chris responded, "I haven't heard from her in a few days though…when we get back I'll have to remember to call her."

"She's a good kid," Barry said.

"Yea, you did a great job watching out for her Chris," Jill agreed.

"Alright you two," Barry said, "Finish up what you got to do and meet us out on the helipad ASAP. Got it?"

"Yes sir," they replied in unison.

Barry walked out of the room, ducking slightly as not to hit his head on the top of the door frame.

Jill stopped and glanced around the office.

It wasn't really much of an office, as far as offices are concerned. It was more of a janitorial closet gone horribly wrong. The room was just big enough to hold a coat and gun rack, 7 desks, a screen, communication equipment, one filing cabinet, and a slightly upholstered bench that vaguely may have resembled a couch a few centuries back.

The desks were lined up 3 and 3 against each wall, with Wesker's separate and at the head of the room. The screen was behind his desk, the filing cabinet next to it. Right next to the door stood the very old coat and gun rack, and along the last open wall was the comm. equipment with the couch in front…decked out for maximum comfort. The walls were rotting away slowly, and the door creaked louder than anyone could ever imagine. If the national review panel of the S.T.A.R.S USA program were to ever visit Raccoon, there were going to be changes in order.

Jill sighed as she looked at her pictureless desk, and began rummaging through her own supplies which she began to load into her various pockets and hip-pack.

"Let's see," she thought, "Pen-flashlight, check, Ammo, check, First-Aid Spray, check, Lock pick, check, Dad, check."

Of all the items she carried, the last two were the most important. Her father had been a great thief and conman. He taught her every skill she new…every skill she needed to be an S.T.A.R.S member. However, when he was finally caught he made her promise to only use her abilities to help others, a path it was too late for him to choose. She swore that she would do just that, and used her skills to convince Wesker, that even though she was a woman, she had what it took to keep up with boys….and then some. She never left on a mission without the lock pick her dad gave her, and his picture for good luck.

"Alright," said Chris, "I'm ready when you are."

"I was born ready," Jill replied.

They gave each other a nod and ran out of room for the helipad.