Disclaimer: I do not own the Resident Evil series or the characters, I am just a fan who likes to write the kind of stories I like to read. I know it's a bit derivative, but any constructive comments appreciated!!!

Chapter 3 Know your enemy

Chris Redfield sat at a simple wooden desk in a sparsely furnished room with no windows. A tall grey filing cabinet was situated to the right of a heavyset door. The cream coloured walls were bare, except for a yellowing black and white photograph preserved within a wooden picture frame. The photograph was cut from a newspaper, and the faded headline 'Raccoon City Welcomes the S.T.A.R.S!' was just visible. The photograph was of a group people, all smiling as though one of their number had just told a particularly funny joke. They were dressed in gun metal grey combat trousers and fitted white t-shirts. The acronym 'S.T.A.R.S' emblazoned on the sleeve of their t-shirts was clearly visible. Situated at the front of the group was a particularly tall man with neat blond hair and sunglasses. The near-sneer of a smile and the seemingly arrogant pose implied this man was the leader of the group. The small text directly underneath the photograph revealed his identity - Albert Wesker. Standing to Wesker's immediate right was a younger version of the Chris Redfield. His face was line-free, his dark brown eyes shone with exhilaration. His lips were parted slightly as though in mid-sentence.

There were now small flecks of grey in Chris's hair, visible only when his hair caught the fluorescence of the strip light that lit the room with a sickly yellow glow. He was reading a file on the laptop sat on the desk in front of him. Scattered across the table were a number of black and white photographs. He picked up one of the photographs and examined the image of a woman and two small children, their dead, decaying bodies lying on a wooden floor. The woman's lips were curled in a silent scream. Her hands, now gripped with rigor mortis, were like claws held up in front of her, probably in one last desperate attempt to fend off her attacker. Her eyes were black marbles, dead but preserving the terror of her final moments. The children were so badly mutilated that Chris couldn't determine their sex. They were small, probably around six years old. Maybe they were twins. One of the children was clinging to the woman's leg with its left hand. The child's right arm was missing, and in its place was a twisted mat of muscle and sinew bound by dark congealed blood. Chris delicately placed the photograph down on the table. He picked up another. This was the image of a man, probably young, although his features were obscured by the deep bloody gashes across his face and neck. He was lying on his back in a cruciform position next to the driver's side of a car. His arched back preserved his agony, even in death. His shirt was torn open, revealing deep wounds that looked like they had been made by an animal with powerful claws. The car door was closed, although the driver's window was smashed and bloody. It appeared as though the young man was dragged from the car. He obviously put up a fight, but he lost.

Chris had seen these images, and countless others like them, many times over the last five years but he still felt revulsion, and he still felt pain. He was a soldier, and a very good one, but he could never quite build that wall that would isolate his emotions from the horrors around him. Chris's greatest weakness would always be the fact that he cared.

His concentration was broken suddenly by a rap on the door. He closed the laptop and quickly gathered the photographs, placing them in a brown card folder. The door opened and Leon Kennedy walked into the room. He was a tall man with an athletic build and a confident stride, although the way he was clenching and unclenching his fists suggested something was troubling him.

''Leon. You okay?''

''Hey, Chris. Can we talk?''

''I think I know what this is about. Look, I know how you feel but…''

Leon put up his hands in a pose of mock surrender.

''I haven't come to argue.'' He smiled as he gently shook his head. ''But do you think that leaving her overnight is the best thing to do? Don't you think we may be giving her more time to embellish her story?''

''I think she's already got her 'story'. The time is for me Leon. I've got to tell you the truth - I'm not sure how to handle this yet.'' Chris replied.

Darkness suddenly passed over Leon's face, his brilliant blue eyes becoming a dull shade of grey. ''Her being here makes me nervous.''

Chris took a deep breath, his chest expanding noticeably as he filled his lungs with air. ''What concerns me the most is how she found us so easily.'' He looked down at his desk and glanced at the closed folder containing the gruesome black and white images. ''We might have to move again.''

Leon nodded in silent agreement. Ever since the virtual elimination of the S.T.A.R.S following the events in the Arklay Mountains and Raccoon City back in 1998, they had all but ceased to exist. There was an enormous public backlash against the squad, mainly concerning their inability to rescue people from the city before it became overrun with the un-dead. The public never really got to hear the full story, but it angered Chris to know that they held the S.T.A.R.S as much accountable for the catastrophe as Umbrella. That is why, at first, Chris was reluctant to recreate the team, even if they were to act in secret. He did what he could on his own to fight Umbrella, and Albert Wesker, but he was soon overwhelmed.

''I think we need to find out exactly what she knows about us.'' Leon said.

''Whatever she knows, they know.'' Chris retorted. ''The question is, who exactly are 'they'?''

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Chris stood in the clean white bathroom. He was only wearing shorts, his clothes were now folded neatly on a wooden chair situated to the left of a bed in the adjoining room. He was leaning against a white basin and staring at himself in the mirror attached to the front of a medicine cabinet. He suddenly came out of his reverie and splashed his face with cold water. He reached to the side of the sink for a hand towel and patted his face dry. Staring once again at his reflection, he noticed the red outline of a circular scar on his chest. The wound had healed but the scar would never disappear. He traced the scar with the fingers of his right hand. He was suddenly attacked by the memory of intense pain.

''Jill'' he whispered.

He closed his eyes, fighting the memory.