January 22, 1999
United Kingdom
The deployment was a swift, almost cursory thing, sweeping the men from one place to another in a span of hours. It was unlike the military, with its endless jags and reams of paperwork, and closer to his time with The Company — they put a call out with the amount to be made by serving the entire tour, you returned the call hoping a sign-up spot was still available, then you showed up to the deployment hangar with your stuff at the time and date detailed. Both the Federal Bioterror Commission and Umbrella seemed similar in so many ways, in how they treated their teams and how they conducted their business, like twins who wore dissimilar clothing to be told apart but still told the same stories with their body languages and the lilts of their voices: some days Carlos would fumble into the hangar after a long night drinking or watching TV and expect to see Tyrell's intelligent face reflecting the glow of a computer screen, or hear Murphy's clucking, goading cackles floating on the dusty air. But then reality set in, like a picture sharpening from a blur, and Carlos remembered where he actually was.
They'd been told by the Captain's disembodied voice over the radio intelligence had sent reports that, under threat of investigation from the US Government, Umbrella had tried to destroy one of their European compounds: a laboratory-slash-testing ground build deep into the loamy underground between the towns of Glenshee and Blair Atholl, just east of the Grampian Mountains in Scotland. To hide evidence of one stripe of wrongdoing or another, perhaps, knowing Umbrella. No doubt an attempt to conceal the tracks of what had happened in that dug-in place, the only way they knew how — shock and overwhelming violence, their favorite tool in a box full of endless resources. There had been reports nearby of strange attacks by predators of unknown species on both people and livestock alike; shepherd children and their grazing flocks had gone missing, entire families traveling by car to go visiting to the next town over had failed to show and were reported to authorities by worried aunts and uncles. Once an explosion rocked the landscape, sending a cascade of rocks down upon a small fishing settlement on a nearby river, that was all intelligence needed to connect the dots and deploy a team.
They flew in the steely cargo bay of a military plane, all seven of them and their equipment amid tarp-covered boxes and stacks of equipment bound for some destination on their path. They packed in-between the supplies like an afterthought, goslings to be set free in the water before the mother bird was to carry on to her focus elsewhere. The flight was long and though they begun the long trek with bawdy energy and unworried banter, eventually the silence swallowed them, gradual and distracted. When Carlos peered around at their faces, he didn't see fear — he saw the cousin of anger, a simmering, hardened resentment that seated itself deep in the lines and twitches of frowns, the flutter of Kennedy's distant stare, so strange and tragic on his young face.
These weren't the faces of men wanting to ensure peace and balance, as they'd been promised; these were the faces of men wanting revenge, their fingers itching for a target from which to extract it.
Fine by him. Carlos had a few grievances of his own, and maybe a few of someone else's, he'd been waiting to air.
They'd banked and dipped and landed somewhere outside a town named Manchester, a small tan compound with a single airstrip flocking its north side like the blade of an ice skate, and then were transfered to a military helicopter by a man in dingy green flight coveralls and a pair of dark sunglasses. By the time they'd taken to the air again, Kevin was rubbing eyes puffy with fatigue and the others were falling asleep, arms crossed and heads bowed, against the heft of thick kevlar vests. Carlos should probably have slept as well, but no matter how long he closed his eyes, sleep came thin and shallow like groundwater, never sending him under for more than a few moments at a time. He watched the countryside amble by under the chugging blades, revolving shades of rocky grey and brown and stunning emerald green in patches, fingers of mist and cold moisture clinging to the landscape in a foggy caress.
"Should be around here," the pilot yelled after hours of silence, jogging a few of them back to wakefulness with startled blinks and groans, "these are the coordinates. We'll be on the ground in 15."
Below them, coming into focus in lazy semicircles, was a small village. To Carlos it looked like something out of a post card or a children's storybook, narrow paved streets lined with clusters of small single-level houses painted pale yellow and brown, modest flowerbeds hung in wooden boxes from windows, small vegetable gardens staked with care in the grass, all covered with tarps for the winter. Some space to the right was an empty wooden pen, the kind you'd store cows or horses in. Empty.
"I don't see anything weird," Kennedy said, "looks like a normal village to me."
Kevin squinted against the misty green and then frowned. "Heavy's the bioweapon guy. What you think, you see anything familiar?"
Carlos was not entirely comfortable with the pressure of being relied upon as a source of knowledge or a leader in any aspect — he preferred to defer to others' leadership whenever possible, to follow, to go with the flow. Giving orders and directing men wasn't his style. Too much responsibility for too little payoff. It however occurred to him that in this case, his expertise might be their best chance of success and survival. These men had survived Raccoon City, sure, and most of them had backgrounds that made them tougher than normal civilians — cops and ex-military. But his time with UBCS had taught him one core lesson, and that was surviving wasn't enough — you had to think like the bioweapons. You had to smoke them out, get on their trail, in their face. You were the predator now, not them, and acting like prey was sure to turn you into it.
Carlos tried to remember Captain Viktor, his lessons, imparted in bits through gravel-shakes of smoker's cough. Carlos glanced at the countryside, the town, and finally said, leaning over to squint into the distance, "It's here somewhere. Take a minute and you can smell it."
"Smell it?" Kevin made a face. "I can't smell shit except dirt and water. What's it smell like?"
"Exactly — nothin'. No people. Sometimes you can track 'em more through what's not there than what is. Look — most of these houses have chimneys. It's January, its cold. There should be smoke, car exhaust, animals… somethin'. I don't smell anything except rain and grass. So where are the people?"
Across the aisle, taking mental notes, Kennedy squinted as well, watching the countryside.
"Hiding," Kennedy said, "Trying to lay low, not attract attention."
"That's my guess," Carlos shrugged, "We'll know when we get down there."
"Wait, intel says the BW's the size of a cat." Kevin said. "How the fuck're we gonna find something that small in an entire town?"
It was anyone's guess.
The chopper hovered close to the cobblestone road and they jumped out of its open door one at a time, landing in a series of thumping boots and clattering metal. The rain fell hard and icy-cold in sheets that were almost horizontal, riding gusts of howling January wind. They arranged themselves in a formation that was becoming so familiar they tended to walk in it as well when not paying attention; Kennedy and Carlos in the back, Kevin in the center, and the four other men heading up the front and flanking the sides.
Carlos turned with his gun braced against his shoulder, sweeping for some sort of movement, and felt eyes upon him. He looked up. A small child in window to his left waved to him; he held a finger to his lips, suggested she remain silent. She returned the gesture and tiptoed away from the window. The rain had already plastered the riot of his hair down onto his forehead in a long, dark sheet, and he flipped it back, slicked out of his face.
They craned their heads, peeked in the narrow spaces between houses, until Kevin stopped, frozen in place. The driving rain beaded off of his skin, his dark red hair plastered against the side of his face. "Heavy," he said, quietly, and pointed, "Look."
Between the walls of two homes hung a web of mucous, milky white and gleaming wetly in the falling rain. Kevin walked towards it and Carlos grabbed him by the back of his collar, hauled him stumbling back. Carlos kneeled down and pulled a small decorative wooden sign out of the soil. He tossed it underhanded at the web; it hit the material and began to sizzle and blacken, curling in on itself.
"Never touch their blood, their spit, nothin'," Carlos whispered. "The shit in Raccoon City's just the tip of the iceberg, man."
"Jesus Christ," Kevin breathed.
From behind, Kennedy hustled around them, put his pack down and retrieved a set of vials and a small metal tool that looked like a butter knife. Carefully, he scooped up a hunk of the stuff as it dripped off of the wall, scraped it into the tube, and sealed it shut with a click. He put the tube back in the bag, then retrieved a small device, like a camera, and took a few photos from different angles.
Down the road, ahead by about twenty paces, one of the other men stood still as a statue, his gun readied but stuck somewhere between his side and his target. He opened his mouth and then gestured, silent, for them to join him with a wave of his glove. They moved, quietly, until it came into view.
Claws as long as one of Carlos' arms clutched the corner of a brick house, and the first thing Carlos thought of was Spider-Man, the way he clung to a wall with one hand and suspended himself off of it with his feet. The thing was the size of a large truck, black as night, a gleaming oil slick in the rain. It had no eyes that Carlos could see, but what it lacked in that it made up for in mouth: a massive set of jaws lined with serrated jigsaw teeth dripped blood and saliva in starving, draping ropes. It tore at the carcass of a cow, torn clean in half, with greedy and desperate hunger, ripping out a coil of the cow's entrails. As it moved its head, it spotted them. Its jaws began it quiver and click at them in short, spastic rhythm, like a cat chattering at a bird marked as its prey. It threw the cow's body crashing to the ground, the corpse's eyes rolled back in dead stupor.
"What the fuck…" Kennedy whispered under his breath.
"I thought it was the size of a cat?!" Kevin hissed.
"Hey, tigers are cats," said Carlos, loading the heft of grenade rounds into the barrel of his launcher, already folded open. "Look sharp, we got a dinner guest."
Somewhere far away, a fight of a different sort was brewing.
Chris paged Jill that morning 12 times, total. With a breed of something that felt like the daughter of worry and annoyance, Jill dropped a quarter into the slot of a pay phone, punched Chris' number on the silver keypad, and watched over her shoulder for the creep of the black van.
Chris picked up the phone in a great clatter, dropped it, then picked it up again. "Hello?"
"Hey, sorry, I didn't get your messages until this morning. What's going on? Are you okay?"
Chris' sighed. The silence didn't sound relieved; it was cold, pointed. Then, "Where were you last night? I was out of my mind worried about you. I heard the radio scanner, and they said it was something about Umbrella, and I thought — I thought since you just moved — where were you?"
"I'm fine," Jill said, "I'm home now. I just went out last night and I fell asleep before I saw your messages."
His confusion was palpable, like he didn't believe or accept her excuse. "I went by your apartment. I must have rang it twenty times. You didn't answer."
The circular route of this conversation was already tiring. "Yeah, I just said — I went out last night. I just got back."
"Look — can I come by so we can talk about this? There's a lot we need to discuss."
Now he wanted to make time and come over. Of course. Jill felt petty and ashamed of herself as soon as she thought it — it was completely possible that she was misreading the situation — the resentment was hard to move. It kept bubbling up, hot and consuming, around the edges as she tried to push it further down in her chest.
But this was Chris. He was owed more credit, owed more space and allowances outside of personal squabbles. He'd earned that much; they were friends, linked by something immutable and permanent. He cared about her, and she him. That was all. They needed each other, whatever form it was taking.
"Okay." Jill said. "I'll be home."
"I'll start over there. I'll be by in about 30."
Chris hung up and Jill was left staring at the receiver.
Jill changed into an outfit that fit her — jeans and a t-shirt. She hung Carlos' sweater up in her closet. The sweater was dark blue and ringed around the biceps with red and white stripes, the name Giants spelled across the chest in faded lettering that had begun to peel away from repeated washes. It was soft in the way only very old garments were, the stiffness of its stitches worn smooth by the passage of time. It looked well-loved. She would keep it here, safe, until he returned.
When Chris arrived, the first thing he did was hug her.
"I tried to get a hold of you as soon as I heard there was a shooting in the area. When intelligence said that the shooter was connected with Umbrella and that you were involved, I thought of how you just moved and I thought it couldn't have been a coincidence." He braced her arms, looked her up and down, his serious face concerned, drawn. "Are you hurt?"
Jill shook her head. "I'm okay. Can't say the same for the other guy, though."
Chris smiled at that, his eyes narrowed. "I believe it. Do you think you could remember the guy if you saw him?"
Jill remembered — pale skin, thin and stooped, greasy brown hair. "He was pretty memorable."
"Good. There are a few Umbrella operatives that have been seen in the area," he said, "here, see if you can I.D. the guy so we can track him, take him in for questioning."
Chris retrieved a sheaf of thick, glossy paper from somewhere inside the breast of his jacket, and spread a series of five printouts like playing cards and set them down. They were photos, candid, taken when people weren't aware — five men. They all looked very different, some with hair, some not, some old and paunchy, some young. Some flitted over Jill's memory in the way people with average faces do, but there were two she'd recognize anywhere: the man from the van, looking over his shoulder, his beard scrabbly and patchy, his hair unwashed. Then — Carlos, standing at a street corner, his hands tucked in the heavy wool of his jacket. Even with nothing to compare his height to but the lamppost he looked imposing and powerful — if Jill had seen just this photo, with his unimpressed squint and his strong silhouette, she'd think he was one of those professional fighters that fought in octagonal cages for money.
"Are these your targets?" She asked, her eyes fixed on the photo's grainy black-and-white print, the blacks where his eyes should have been, shadows cast under his heavy brow.
Chris looked up at her. "For now. We know they're connected to Umbrella, and we know they have intelligence that we can use. They've all been seen in the area as recently as last week."
"It's this one," Jill said, and pushed the photo of the man with the scraggly brown hair and the thin beard towards Chris. "He wasn't alone — there was a driver, and they got away." She paused, then, fingers hovering over Carlos' photo, and then pushed it to Chris as well. "I know this one. He's not who you want."
Chris furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean, you know him? Was that the driver?"
Jill took a breath, "He's my friend. He… helped me get out of Raccoon City."
The information passed in the air and seemed to wash over Chris, parting like water around a stream stone. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. "He's your what?"
"My friend," Jill repeated. "He's a good guy. Carlos. The one we talked about when I woke up. In the hospital. That's him."
"The one you were asking for?" Chris struggled with this, his face tense, and he was silent. That silence was a roiling thing, full of quiet thunder. "You didn't tell me he works for Umbrella."
"He's not with them anymore," Jill said. "He saw what they did, and he defected. He helped me—"
"Listen to yourself." Chris interrupted, and there was a sudden thread of escalation, like the pressure of a barometer falling just before a storm. "Just for one second."
Jill blinked at him, too shocked to be offended.
"Umbrella is not your friend." Chris continued. "What have you told him? Does he know where you live?"
Jill shook her head. "This didn't happen because of him. He wouldn't do that. He was their target."
"No, he wasn't — you were. He works for Umbrella, Jill. They'd do anything to get at us."
"Worked. Past tense."
"There is no past tense! They don't just let you leave, free to walk the streets. They have something on him, or…" Chris paused, "You are the last person I thought I'd have to have this conversation with. You were there in the Arklay Mansion with us. You know what they do. We worked with Wesker for years. Years. And neither of us had any idea what he was up to. How is this guy any different?"
Jill shook her head, obstinate. "It's not the same thing."
"How isn't it the same thing? They've done this before, Jill. They weasel their way in, make you trust them, and then—"
"I do know what they do, because I was also in Raccoon City. Alone." The words came fast and sharp in a bubbling eruption, but Jill didn't regret them. Chris looked hurt, taken aback. "Or rather I would have been alone if not for Carlos. I'm not an idiot. I know the implications. Maybe we should be asking what happened to you, for you to start questioning my judgment like we didn't go through the exact same thing. I trust him and I guess you're just going to have to get over that. Maybe if you were there, you would know."
"So there it is," Chris said, tone soft. "I make one mistake, and suddenly Umbrella's got you in their pocket."
Jill sputtered. "Excuse me?" Any offense over the besmirching of Carlos' character was now gone, with the prospect of her own called into question, brazen and unexpected.
"Suddenly I'm the bad guy for doing what we both agreed was right, and the guy from Umbrella is the hero? He must have really done a number on you. I know you've been going through some issues, but this is… this is beyond insane."
It hung in the air.
"That's what I am to you, then," she said, low and warning, "insane."
A pause. "It's starting to sound that way, yeah."
A rage, impotent but chilling in its sudden grip, filled Jill's body with heat that rolled off her like a stink. She could feel her cheeks burning.
Jill pointed at the door. "Get out."
Chris just shook his head. "You're going to end up dead, Jill."
Jill's arm remained extended. "Get. Out."
Chris closed his mouth, his expression tight-lipped and angry. He shook his head, slowly, an expression that said without words whatever he was thinking of saying wasn't worth it. Then he was gone, slamming the door behind him with a bang that shook the windows.
That night, Jill sat on the edge of the navy air mattress that would do for now as a bed, the stiff plastic seam around its circumference nipping into the underside of her thighs. She thought of nothing; under the weight of so many directions being pulled, so many things to worry about, so many different angles to maintain, her brain slipped into a waking sleep. Zoned out. Her eyes drifted to the closet, where the sweater hung, limp under its own weight. She would never tell him, of course — it was a kind of girlish gesture that read so weak to her own mind that she would deny until her dying day, but for want of comfort, Jill slipped the sweater off of its hanger and pulled it on. She felt a sense of security, and though she knew it was a trick of her mind, she was used to her mind playing tricks. She settled down in the warm folds of the fabric, covered herself in a blanket, and slept.
Blair Atholl, Scotland
January 29, 1999
Kevin wasn't a Rhodes scholar by any stretch of the imagination. He'd never claimed to be an intelligent man. Sure, he wasn't stupid, but he'd always caught onto things a bit slower than most around him. He'd graduated high school with a solid C average, and for lack of other prospects except doing time for the Army in the Sandbox overseas, he'd enrolled in police academy straight after graduation. He'd never thought about college or degrees or anything beyond being a cop working a beat in his hometown, trying to do some good while still sticking close to home. It suited him fine, gave him a steady paycheck and health insurance, and most important, made his family proud. He was a simple guy with simple goals. That satisfied most of them.
But while Kevin wasn't intellectually gifted or even very curious, he was still a police officer with a police officer's instincts, the preternatural tendency to connect dots between events with bits of mental string that most people didn't. And he thought he'd found one of those yarn paths in his brain, bright red and frayed.
The boys sat around a circular wooden table, its varnish long since worn off in pale streaks under years of drinks being placed and lifted from its surface. The pub was small, smaller than most in the States, shadowy and with an air of sadness and fatigue. No jukebox or stereo or anything like the places Kevin tended to haunt, just two older men, one playing what might have been a fiddle or a violin (Kevin didn't know the difference), the other singing tunes Kevin had never heard in a voice that was higher and clearer than expected. Some kind of open-mic night. This was not a place of partying but a place of reflection, of respite. The drinks were strong and more importantly free, thanks to their "heroism" for what the team had done back in the Highlands a few days past. The locals spared a few strong, strapping young farm boys to help them scout the misty mountains and rocky valleys for more of the bioweapons, of which they found blessedly zero. These people had treated them like family, put the team up in their houses and gave them food and drink and warm places to stay while they were on the hunt, collecting information and evidence. Now that the team was done and had said their goodbyes on their last night, they'd decided to let loose a bit, and mingle. And mingle Kevin intended to.
They joked and insulted each other in the cruel way brothers do between shots of Jameson and pints of dark beer, and while the atmosphere between them was lively and relieved, something seemed out of place. While the guys were laughing and cutting up, flirting with the local girls (Kennedy seemed a particular favorite of the women here with his strong chin and American-blond hair and bright blue eyes), one of them was quiet and subdued, laughing along but not jumping in and throwing tinder on the fire like he normally did.
"Hey," Kevin said, and nudged Heavy — Carlos, his Christian name was, but Kevin had never used that name past their first day together and it seemed weird to his ears — hard with his elbow. The other man blinked, looking up from his beer with a curious expression in his eyes, the same dark amber color of the bottle in his hand. He wasn't sulking, per se, but he was somewhere else. His thoughts had drifted, in and out between jokes. "You good?"
"Oh yeah," Heavy said, his baritone getting lost somewhere under the music, "just thinkin'. Sorry, not tryin' to be a drag."
"Now there's a shock," Kevin said, flipped a peanut into the air and caught it in his mouth, "thinking about what? Death, taxes?"
Heavy waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. For a man as large as he was, he took up surprisingly little social space; Kevin was used to the big strong mercenary to be the type that strutted around, chest out, like some kind of bird with its tail feathers fanned, looking for a mate. Or maybe someone smaller to peck at. The only space Heavy seemed to occupy were those between the rough edges of other people, grinding their angles down to something more pleasant and easy to be around with kind words and lighthearted jokes. His sudden pitch into silence was strange and unlike him. "Not important. Just ready to get home is all."
"Hm," Kevin nodded towards a vacant dart board hung on the wooden wall beyond. "You up for getting embarrassed?"
Heavy laughed, a chuckling sound that bordered on sarcastic. "Sure."
Kevin ordered them a line of whiskey shots, carried them back to the table behind the board, set them in a line. They both held one up, cheers-ed the glasses together with a clink, then dumped the shots back.
Just then, a girl, pretty in an accidental way with long, black hair approached Heavy from the other side, tapped him on his arm. She spoke to him in a charming, musical lilt.
"Hi," she said.
Heavy leaned back, crossed his arms, and gave her a smile. "Hi yourself."
Kevin watched. The girl asked him back to her table for a drink — she'd heard what they'd done, and she thought it was really impressive of him. She'd been watching him tonight and wanted to get to know him better, maybe spend some time together, if he wanted.
"I…" Heavy tilted his head, and his smile turned into something polite, perfunctory. "Look, that's real nice of you, and I appreciate it, but I got a…" he stopped himself, then said, "I shouldn't. Sorry."
Kevin looked at him, askance, as if he'd just turned down a thousand-dollar payday.
The girl nodded, her expression quieted. "Of course. Lucky girl. If you change your mind, I'll be here a while longer." Then went back the way she came.
"Okay," Heavy said, watched her walk away, "thanks."
"How the fuck do you do that?" Kevin said, and lobbed a practice dart against the board, which landed somewhere on the outer ring.
"Do what? Vigorously cockblock myself?"
"They approach you. I've never seen you mack on a single woman in my life, but I've seen the opposite plenty of times."
Heavy laughed again in a sarcastic, disbelieving way. "You haven't been around me long, is all. Seems like they're more interested when you're not, sometimes. Let 'em think its their idea."
Kevin thought about this. "Not happening. I don't have that kind of self-control."
Heavy just shook his head, aimed a dart with one eye squeezed shut, and threw. It got closer than Kevin's, but not exactly a bulls-eye. He made a sort of dismissive noise, and stood back for Kevin to take a shot.
The lead-in was perfect.
"So…" Kevin said, and launched another dart, "You never told me about this girl you're seeing. What's she look like?"
Heavy puffed breath through pursed lips. "Man, she's so fuckin' beautiful. Hard to describe."
"Well, try. Paint me a mental image there, Picasso." Beautiful, not hot or gorgeous or a number of other terms that flagged as desire rather than emotion… beautiful was what he went for first. Kevin thought it strange, after some of the conversations they'd had surrounding these topics.
The other man started to speak and then stopped a few times, as if struggling to put it into words. "She's a white girl, a brunette," he said, "short hair, 'bout down to here. But it works on her, like, frames everything, you know?" Kevin struggled to picture a girl with short hair that he'd prefer over long hair, but didn't say as much. "She's got the dark hair, and these eyes that stand out," he started, "like nothin' I've ever seen. Suck you right in."
"Hmm," Kevin said, "body, 1-10?"
Heavy gave him a look, wide-eyed, then just nodded.
"Damn, like that?"
"Whatever you're thinking, it's exactly like that."
Everything was lining up. Kevin nodded, a mental image starting to confirm to a certain shape, well-worn in his brain. "So what does she do? You know?"
Heavy took a breath in, as if he was considering whether or not to tell. "She was a cop," he said, "in Raccoon City. Some special team they had, like a riot squad."
Kevin rubbed the bottom of his face to hide his smile. He'd gotten it in one. "And you said her name was… Jennifer?"
"Jill," Heavy corrected, tossing back another shot.
"Ahhh," Kevin said, "Jill… Valentine, right?"
Heavy looked at him then, his eyebrows furrowed. "I didn't tell you her last name. Did I?" He said.
Kevin shoved him with playful excitement. "You and Jill fuckin' Valentine?! You lucky piece of shit," He said, in a hissed whisper.
Heavy looked around, as if unsure anyone else was listening. "What, you know her?"
"Oh my God you fuckin' mook, Raccoon City had like five people in it. Everyone who worked at the damn RPD knows Jill Valentine. She's who you went out with?"
"Uh… yeah. We got out together. Wait a fuckin' second, you know Jill?"
"Of course I know fucking Jill Valentine, idiot. And I said went out, not got out. So you guys are… like, seeing seeing each other?"
Heavy paused. "What is this, eighth grade?" Then, "I dunno, man. I think, maybe… kind of?"
"Did you…"
Heavy gave him a look of warning, then, and said nothing more.
"You did."
"You gotta get that information somewhere else, man."
"YOU DID. Jesus fucking Christ, are you serious?! You have to tell me about it."
"Sounds like someone might have a crush, huh?"
"You kidding? There was one point I would have sucked her dad's dick just to see where she came from."
Heavy laughed at that, sudden and wheezing, like it had caught his breath somewhere on the way out. "God damnit, the fuck's wrong with you, man? Ugh."
"Come on, just gimme the Clif notes."
"Nope," Heavy said, with finality that was light, sure, but final all the same. "Not happenin'."
So talking about sex was out. Kevin took another approach.
"Sounds like you really dig her."
He softened, then, just a touch, hesitated before he threw his dart. "She's amazing. Like nobody I've ever met before."
"I didn't get to know her that good, how so?" That was a lie, but whatever. For this, he needed precious little prompting to spill his guts.
"She's so fucking smart, man. Smart, and brave, and… I dunno. She's got this real sweet side too. You knew her, I don't gotta tell you."
Smart and brave didn't read to Kevin like attractive qualities in a woman; it was like saying someone could read or could speak English. Okay, so what?
But from the look on the larger man's face, thoughtful and a touch dreamy, they were for him. There were definitely feelings involved. From his side, at least. That wasn't new or even novel — Valentine had no end of male admirers, suitors, whatever you wanted to call them. She'd never given any of them the time of day, of course, but male interest in her ranged from casual crushes to dudes considering leaving their wives if she'd agreed to it. She never had: she was too concerned with her job, with being taken seriously, and seemed to resent the male attention, ignored it the best she could. Eventually, perhaps protecting their egos, they had assumed she was a lesbian — because of course, if a woman wasn't interested in their dick, she had to be — and the attention waned to a dull roar. Then she had joined STARS, and suddenly she was out of reach, cocooned by a protective layer of dangerous, insular people, and was summarily forgotten.
Of course, unless it came to Redfield. Well, Redfield and Vickers. Those were two totally different stories with two totally different outcomes, one unrequited and one... not. Probably. But everybody knew.
Kevin considered warning him. He considered telling him to be cautious. She was a passive heartbreaker, getting close with men without realizing what they wanted from her, and then leaving them wanting, grasping at the air where she stood. If Chris was still around and kicking somewhere, it was completely possible that this was a fool's errand — maybe Heavy was even her guy on the side and had no idea. Whatever. He didn't seem to care, so Kevin decided he shouldn't, either. But he'd been so happy this last month, and now it made sense. Whatever was going on, it was good for him, so it was good for Kevin, too. No need to fuck it up for him.
It was then Kevin realized that Heavy wasn't just his teammate, he was his friend. He was concerned about him, happy when he was happy, and wanted what was best for him. Heavy noticed some change on his face, and asked, with a smile, "Are you drunk?"
Kevin just laughed. "Shut up, dickhead. Gimme that dart, I'll show you who's drunk."
February 1, 1999
Washington, D.C.
When Carlos returned from Europe, so looking forward to some actual American food and not endless piles of sausages and gravy and mashed potatoes and beer, his apartment seemed odd, somehow. Empty. More empty than normal.
He dropped his bag beside the door and kicked off his boots, flopped onto his couch and let out a loud breath. It was Sunday, and they had the rest of the day off. He lifted his hips and cracked his poor, beleaguered spine, kicked one socked foot up onto the arm of the couch. Alone with his thoughts, Carlos simply existed for a few blessed, peaceful moments, one arm draped over his forehead. He considered keeping his phone off for the rest of the weekend, but knew that he couldn't — work might try to grab him again, Kevin might need bailing out, and…
Then there was Jill.
Carlos didn't know what kind of thing this was — it was mutating from day to day, changing, and he hadn't quite gotten the feel for what was appropriate and what was not. This stretched beyond propriety; now that the seal was broken, there were things tumbling out of him that he wasn't sure how to stuff back inside once he caught them. What Carlos did know is he didn't want to scare her off or come on too strong. To fuck it up. He didn't want to be one of those guys that assumed now she belonged to him, or that because they'd slept together that meant something other than sleeping together. Truly, he was the one on the other side of this, normally, able to compartmentalize physical things and emotional things as completely separate entities. So he figured he'd just do what he did, be cool, and let things unfold how they unfolded with no expectations, with the fool's confidence that he'd be able to do so at all.
He thought about calling her, then wondered if that'd be too desperate — hey I just got back from a warzone and the first thing I do is call you haha no I'm totally cool haha so what's up girl? Yeah fucking right. But if he waited too long maybe that'd read as disinterest. Maybe…
Carlos sighed and then cursed at himself. This was completely unlike him. He knew why — his brain was convinced there were some stakes that were higher than normal and it was making him nervous, making him act out of character, shaky and tense. Maybe some kind of PTSD or something. That wasn't entirely out of the question, now that he thought about it.
Then, he remembered his own words — You know, caring about someone's not such a bad thing that you gotta hide it.
Carlos released a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding.
"Y'know what," he mumbled to himself, sat up in one great rush, "I'm just gonna do what I think is right, and if she doesn't like it, then…"
He dialed Jill's number, and drummed his fingers on one of his thighs as it rang. On the third buzz, she picked up.
"Hello?"
"Hey," he said, putting forth his best effort to sound breezy, upbeat, "you said you wanted a call when I got back in town, and we just rolled in a few hours ago. How you been?"
"Hey!" Her voice sounded relieved, happy, like he could hear her smiling through the phone. "Hey, it's good to hear from you! How did it go?"
"Went good," he said, "really good, the guys are an amazing team. Uh… funny story actually, one of them said he worked with you, at one point."
"Oh? From the RPD?" Excitement, tensed like a bowstring. "Who is it, what's his name?"
"Kevin. Kevin… Ryman?"
"Holy shit," Jill breathed, "he made it out?"
"Yeah. Was he a huge dumbfuck when you worked with him, too?"
Jill laughed at that, clear and long. "Oh god, the dumbest. But he was a really good cop. Great guy, too. Man, that's such good news. I thought we all…" she trailed off. "Wow."
Carlos smiled. He picked at a stray, loose thread on the knee of his pants.
The words bounced around, as if restraining them made him physically uncomfortable, and he decided to just let them out and see where the chips fell. "So… can I see you soon? I got a lot to tell you about."
There was silence, a soft shuffle, and then she said, "I'd like that. We can talk about what you saw. Maybe go and eat something you like, this time."
Whatever tension had taken hold in Carlos' chest released, and he let out a breath. "You thinkin' Friday?"
"Friday's perfect."
February 4, 1999
Carlos and Jill had made plans to meet up on Friday, when their schedules permitted. On Wednesday evening there was a ring on her intercom, and when she asked who it was, silence. Jill eyed it, suspicious. She walked down to the front door and there stood Carlos, alone at the base of the steps, watching the traffic as he waited, the rain beading on his coat in clear little drops, his dark hair shining, plastered against the skin of his face, his neck.
"Hey," Jill said, surprised, and walked down the steps towards him. A brief clench of panic squeezed her chest. "Did I miss the day we planned? I thought we said Friday, I'm so sorry."
Carlos messed with his hair, sopping wet, tried to flop it out of his face. "Hey," he said, then, "We said Friday, but…"
Jill blinked up at him, and waited for him to finish. "But what?" She said, with a confused smile.
"I just wanted to see you," he said, "I won't take much of your time. Its just been a while, and I was away, and… Friday's still a few days from now. So… here I am." He winced, a little. "Is that okay? Sounded better in my head."
It was a thing that, if anyone else had done it, she might have been annoyed, maybe even put off. But his naked sincerity shellacked over that gap between what he meant and what she perceived, smoothing them to an agreeable shine. Given the fact they'd been separated over the last few weeks, and of all the things he could busy himself with, he made time for her... it wasn't read as an intrusion. It was unexpectedly sweet, considerate, maybe even flattering.
"Of course it's okay," Jill said, reached out for his hands. He took them, pulled her into a hug, one arm around her waist, his other hand on the back of her head. She leaned her head on his shoulder. "How do you feel?"
"Better now."
Jill didn't respond, but nestled in closer, squeezed tighter.
Down the street, far enough away he wasn't visible from where he watched in the driver's seat of his car, Chris Redfield was doing what was known as stewing. He sat by himself, agitating in a toxic sludge of a few different emotions, chief of which was betrayal. Not romantic betrayal; those things seldom occurred to him these days, all the visceral water of his emotions having been wrung out already, overcome with so much tragedy and regret that none was left for dalliances or affairs. But an all-encompassing spiritual betrayal, a wonder at how they could have been so fucking stupid — both of them. She, for what was currently in front of his eyes, and he, for thinking that Jill had an understanding of what needed to be done. Had a clear idea of who was an ally and who was an enemy. That they were cut from the same cloth. Wesker had betrayed them, once, and now here was Jill, courting the same beast, allowing it in, despite having being bitten by it before.
Chris studied the line of the man's profile, the broad pack of his shoulders, the thickness of his legs, strong like tree trunks even in casual clothing. The size of his hands against her, like bear's paws. Jill was resourceful and quick and slippery as a minnow, but in close quarters… she'd have no chance against him if — no, when — he decided to wrap those hands around the slender curve of her throat; or even if he decided to love-tap her in the face, or maybe come up behind her and wrap one of those arms around her neck until her brain died from lack of air, her face purple while she hit at him with progressively flagging strength. It would be over. Every time they were alone, she was at risk. One of the last STARS, like a fluffy white hen in an empty coop, looking at the fox's smiling, giggling face and thinking those laughs were for her. That somehow she'd overcome the instincts of the obligate carnivore.
And she didn't see it.
But Chris did. He saw it very well, in fact.
Chris ground his teeth together, his jaws straining as he watched her pull away from the man, put one of her hands on his face. He said something and she smiled, then he bent down and kissed her. Jill didn't move away, didn't seem shocked — when he pulled back, she followed him, tugging him down to her by the lapels of his jacket. He tipped over and caught his balance against her and they both laughed, a scene that seemed so innocent, but Chris knew better.
Your friend, he thought, and as the rain drove in plinking musical notes against the roof of his car, the blistering anger became his friend, so much more palatable than confusion, so much more welcoming than heartbreak, so much more understandable than despair. Your fucking friend.
They weren't the same at all. They never had been.
Chris started the engine of his car and drove away. He had seen enough.