Conversation taking place between 6 and 7 am:
"Is that the ocean?"
"It appears to be."
"Mmm…"
"Nah… it's a hallucination brought on by red-eye driving."
"Did we decide on taking the scenic coastal route?"
"Mmm…"
"Will you knock that off? Can you not be conscious for more than five minutes?"
"I can't help it. The gentle rocking of the car lures me to…"
"HOLY SHIT! Was that a prison rodeo!"
"Chris, I thought we were taking the 5, and then heading east. You know, because
Las Vegas is in the desert."
"But I've never seen San Francisco. I thought we could make a pit stop in Chinatown, and…"
"But that's completely out of the way! Where the hell is I-5?"
"Claire, do you have to shriek like that?"
"Jill, how could you let my moron of a brother drive us a hundred miles off course?"
"…"
"Well?"
"…He bribed me with a croissant."
"You have FOOD?"
"That's the beauty of being up front. You get to design the route, as well as designate
the pit stops. You oblivious kids get to remain in a coma back there."
"Could you at least spare us the Yanni back here?"
"It's Pure Moods!"
"Pure crap, you mean."
"I kinda like it."
whack
"Ow… was that a cigarette lighter? You're such a violent girl."
Highway 101 had one thing in its favor: it was a truly beautiful drive, especially with the
light of the sun coming up from the mountains, just barely catching the glare of the water.
However, as time would prove, it was an exceedingly slow drive, averaging a good forty
miles per hour on often windy passes and poor roads. After a time, Leon was only too willing
to take up the driving role once Chris reluctantly relinquished it. And, as habit would warrant,
Jill demanded to stop at every fruit stand from Ukiah to Santa Rosa, finally giving consent to
stop at a the obligatory McDonalds for breakfast.
Jill and Chris grabbed a seat inside, clinging to their trays in a reminiscent gesture of a long
forgotten childhood memory of cafeteria eating. Claire, having ordered the traditional egg-
Mcmuffin, glanced about to see that their driver was no where to be found.
"Where did our driver run off to?" She inquired, taking a bite of her hot, greasy sandwich.
Chris shrugged dismissively, his focus on the ability to cover every square inch of pancake with
gelatinous syrup. She smirked. "Jill will, no doubt, be proud to call you husband…she will enjoy
your OCD tendencies towards the art of pancake consumption, and your powers of observation
are unparalleled."
"I think he may be taking a call, Claire," Jill made a subtle gesture towards the outside doors.
She turned to confirm that Leon was, indeed, outside with his cell, leisurely pacing the parking
lot with a cup of coffee.
"At 8am? Jesus…that kid is ambitious…" She was about to continue on that train of thought, but
was suddenly struck by something. "Hey… by the way… I know the general gist of these
shenanigans, but you guys never really outlined the idea behind all this." She took a sip of her orange
juice, her gaze on the eerily familiar gray eyes of her brother. "I mean, you guys just plan on getting
hitched and moving back to the homestead? Are you going on a world tour, becoming carnies, and…"
"Fulfilling our grand scheme of world domination through a lucrative career in the rural entertainment
business? I knew there was a reason you were going to school." Chris took an immense bite out of
his hotcakes, chewing thoughtfully. "I don't suppose you would support the theory that we finally
realized our undying love and appreciation for each other, which has prevailed through much adversity…"
"Trials and tribulations," Jill added.
"A vortex of relentless evil and…"
"Potential sexual tension through other suitors?" Claire offered.
"HA! Not on my watch!" Chris illustrated his point by dropping his plastic spork on his well-scraped carton.
There was a time, he thought bitterly, that he would not have had any of this. The playful but often crude
banter with his sister. The warm, almost cliché domesticity that he hadn't even known he wanted. Jill
Valentine at his side; his cohort, his companion, and his best friend enmeshed in one. When they had
finally returned to the states, he was prepared to dedicate the rest of his life to grim vengeance… tracking
Wesker and seeking out the ultimate destruction of Umbrella. He had made such a promise after the
mansion in Raccoon City… that come hell or high water, come unlikely success or eventual demise,
he would annihilate Wesker and his fucked ambitions, and expose Umbrella for the deranged lunacy
that it allowed.
The problem was, he had left. And in his absence, the two people that he had thought he was protecting
were suffering. Jill had been left back in Raccoon City, defending herself with the help of Carlos. And Claire…
Claire had sought him out. Both she and Leon had stumbled upon the atrocities of Raccoon city, and had
somehow come out of there alive. Along with Sherry, no less. While he had gone to explore leads in
Europe, Claire had taken it upon herself to look for him, and once again, exposed herself to the horrors
of an organization that was the definition of soulless.
He visibly flinched when he thought about finding her there, sprawled haphazardly under some staircase
in that compound in Antarctica. Her limbs had been immobilized due to some sort of organic adhesive,
and she had not been conscious. Reflecting back, he couldn't tell what the greater emotion had been:
undiluted joy at seeing her alive, fear that she had been compromised in more ways than one, or the
familiar unrelenting fury that she had been put in that position of captivity; that she had been put in a
position of fear.
As for that Burnside kid… Claire had taken it hard. Their return in the aftermath had been an ongoing
process of grief and recovery. Of clinging fiercely to the return to a semi-normal life, where Leon and
Sherry and Jill and this collective support network were there…and yet, experiencing days when the
grief and trauma were enough to keep her bedridden for days.
But the real healer was time. Time and an outlet to share. When he had insisted on a therapist, she had
been resistant to the idea. It didn't seem to coincide with her vision of strength or resilience, damn her.
But when he had sat her down, and explained that he had been seeing a therapist, and that each in their
little circle had been seeking their own solace in either an individual or group-setting, that stubborn set
of her jaw dissipated. With her avid journal-writing, her weekly visits to a well-respected grief-specialist,
she retained her sanity. And remained his sister.
