Prologue;; Shadows

24th September, 1999

The first indication of things going right for the lazy, lank haired college student was the second hand that was clicking away towards the twelve. His eyes were unfocused, his body lounged back in the chair and his mind on things that did not include the higher level resit for Religious, Philosophical and Moral Studies at Racoon University. The teacher, a middle aged, slightly balding bespectacled man called Peter Jenkins, was normally the science teacher, specialising in biochemistry. Today, he was the stand in for Professor Dean Watt, who had come down with an illness after his exotic trip to – you guessed it – the Arkly Forest. Mr. Watt wasn't the adventurous type; he normally stayed in his classroom and sent students to get stock refills rather than do it himself. He had gone up to a cabin in the Arkly Forest with his friends and had come down early, complaining that a rabid dog had bitten him.

The lank haired student watched the clock with earnest as the second hand tittered by twelve and kept going. His mouth hung open and he stared in out raged at the time-keeping appliance and swore loudly, his highly noticeable British accent giving sway to a "Oh, fuck this for a game of cards," before his hand slapped to his mouth and he ducked his head. Jenkins sighed lightly as he closed the book in front of him and looked up at the second row, staring right at him. He tried to ease his five foot ten frame of one hundred and eighty pounds into the shadows to ill effect and Jenkins got out a – "Chapman, see me after class," – before the noisy, and usually welcomed, sound of the school bell cut over his voice.

Over the din he managed to shout out the Fall break homework exercise before he slumped back into Watt's chair and watched the students pack and file out excitably. Michael Chapman remained seated, playing with a silver pen and staring gloomily at his books. He slowly packed them away, stuffed them into his duffle bag and ruffled his shaggy brown locks. Beside him was his best friend Alan Stagg, who patted his shoulder sympathetically and said, "I'll meet you outside, bro." Stagg got up and snatched up his bag, scratching his black hair lightly as he waited for two giggling female students to vacate their desks and squeezed outside. Michael got to his feet and swung his bag over his shoulder. He stepped towards the desk and stood before it, his legs together and his arms straight by his sides. He wasn't hunched over or slouching, which Jenkins was unused to with his own students.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" He asked with a tone that mixed respect, boredom and exasperation, as he raised his blue eyes to meet Peter's green ones. Peter nodded and finished packing away his things, tidying the desk up before he got to his feet.

"I don't condone that language," he said slowly, "but considering it's the last day of school, and your, uh, situation, I'm willing to let it slip." Jenkins hoped this would brighten the mood of the English student, but his face screwed up and his manner changed. He kept that army stance up though, which just made Jenkins slightly more tired of the school.

"I don't need any special treatment, sir. My father died, not me," he said coolly, trying to hide the rage below his face. Jenkins nodded and opened a draw, removing a white sheet of paper, with another typed sheet stapled in the top right hand corner. It was just a strip, bearing the capital sans serif typed font 'I will not swear in class' and Michael took it with a nod. "A hundred I take it?"

Jenkins nodded and waved the young Brit away, who stuffed the paper into his bag and slipped out the class, waving down Alan who was engaged in a conversation with the wild haired Aaron and the dark eyed Stuart. Aaron and Stuart were best friends, but no one really understood why. Aaron was the captain of the school's soccer team, he was smart, popular and easy going. He had amazing physique that most guys would kill for, and a thick mane of shaggy but perfectly conditioned black hair that most girls would die for. On the other hand, Stuart was an orphan from Wisconsin who didn't get on with anyone, and that included the teachers. He kept a close group of friends, and spent most of his time thinking up ridiculous conspiracy theories to amuse those friends with. He was slim, tall and just a little pale, his face honed and his eyes darker than the others. Aaron swore that they looked black most days.

Michael grinned as he slid between his friends and poked Aaron in the stomach as he took in a breath to continue with whatever rant it was he was going off on. Aaron loved to rant. He would make an argument out of anything, from the current political system to the grass being green. He doubled over and punched Michael back, hitting him square on the tricep, before all four students scurried out of the university.

Aaron stood at the top of the stairs and took in a deep breath, leaning back and stretching out his arms. Mimicking Michael from before, Stuart leaned in and poked Aaron hard in the stomach causing the soccer captain to almost fall from his perch. He caught Stuart fleeing down the steps and with a great cry of "FIEND!" set after him, scaring away a group of girls, a flock of pigeons and a very disturbed ally cat. Michael leaned against the gates and watched Stuart being chased by Aaron all around, darting between cars and running past people who were getting into cars, or heading towards the gates. Alan looked over at his friend and grinned.

"So, how are things going with Jenna?" Alan was a normally relaxed easy going kinda guy, but the minute one of his friends got involved with a girl – or a guy in some suspected cases of Stuart's – he was all over the scene like Sherlock Holmes on the Hound Of the Baskervilles. Michael shrugged lightly and scooped up a few pebbles from the ground, hoping them over a garbage can and splashing them into a puddle on it's over side.

"Beats me, she's not answered her phone," Michael mumbled back, his eyes fixed on the bin. Alan patted his arm sympathetically as Stuart ran by cackling somewhat evilly, Aaron following him raging with a huge mud stain on his pristine white muscle shirt and looked at his friends with a deep sigh.

"There's always Stuart," he said with a meaningful sigh. Michael turned his head around a little to look at Alan, an eyebrow raised as he tossed one of the smaller pebbles at his friend's nose. It missed its target and hit Alan's forehead, who wiped away an imaginary speck of dirt and shot Michael a look of distaste.

"Yeah, right," the Brit responded, "I'd rather go for the creepy Chinese girl," he said with a pout, thinking about how cold the girl had been to him in the library. He had told Alan that she was vampire and needed to be fed garlic, but Alan just slapped him upside the head and pushed him into the English class, muttering about his friends 'idiot thoughts'.

"I'm pretty sure she's Japanese, actually. Suzuki… isn't that the name of some car company or something?" Alan questioned, looking upwards at the light sky. Michael shot him a degrading look and punched his arm playfully, nearly knocking the slimmer man off his feet.

"Only the greatest in sport motorcycling," he smirked back with a grin on his face, "Man, I really wanna get a hold of the GSX down at Ben's garage. I wonder if he's selling it?" Michael grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder again, Alan copying him as the two headed through the gate, waving farewell to Aaron and Stuart as the two playful students got onto the waiting bus. Alan and Michael walked along the paved sidewalks, their respective heads bobbing along as Alan hummed something under his breath.

Alan was part of a rising band that had started at the University and was basically led by Alan and the snappy Haylee Lancaster, who fancied herself as a bit of a biker chic. To be honest, that was the only reason Michael had even bothered finding out her name. Any girl that knew a thing about bikes, drove them and took care of them was basically his idea of the dream woman. Of course that fact that she was a insufferable man-hater made things hard. Michael constantly got into argument with her which normally resulted in him storming off and taking his rage out on the bullet ridden practice dummies in their back yard.

Michael had been a normal kid up until a few years ago. He was of mixed British origins; his father was an Englishman and a soldier, and his mother was an Irish protestant. They had divorced because Michael's mother couldn't handle her husband being away for so long. They had moved to Ireland when Michael was still only a kid and he had grown up in Ireland.

Growing up in Ireland in the eighties wasn't the safest place that was for sure. So the young Michael quickly learned to look out for himself. He was a fighter, be it bare fist or with a weapon and he was fuelled mostly by a desire to get away from Ireland. In the early nineties, he got his wish. He was only around thirteen or so when his mum was killed, a car bomb exploded and she was dead on the scene. It was then that the hulking John Chapman picked him up and took him to Scotland, where he was based.

There, things improved. From thirteen to eighteen, over a space of five years he had changed so much. He got away from the constant fighting and growing up in Glasgow had an almost positive impact on him. He got into a genre of music his dad called 'mullet rock' and began worshiping the greats like Hendrix and Bonham, being a huge fan of both Jimi and Led Zeppelin.

His time in Scotland was better spent than that in Ireland, and he went to gig's up and down the country, getting more and more involved in heavy metal, growing out his hair and playing drums. It was when his dad got moved to Racoon City that things started to get complicated. Michael was growing tired of constantly being moved about and in less than a month of being in Racoon, he moved in with his almost instantly formed college buddy Alan Stagg and the two were renting out some apartment above Kendo's gunshop. He was staying put, he had told his father, and no one was ever moving him again.

"Hello!? Earth to Tommy?" Michael snapped his eyes away from the sidewalk and looked up at his friend, only breaking his thoughts at the nickname Alan had used. 'Tommy Atkins' and 'Johnny Doughboy' were the nicknames the two used for one another, which were the generic names of the British and American soldiers respectively. Tommy and Johnny were stupid nicknames, but for some odd reason they stuck in the minds of the young adults.

"Huh? Oh, right, we're here," Michael responded with a sigh. Alan nodded and pushed open the front door to Kendo's gunshop, waving to Robert Kendo as they walked in. Normally, Rob wouldn't let two kids stay in the apartment above his shop, but Alan was family and he vouched for Michael. Rob's brother, Joe, was Alan's brother-in-law, and that basically made Alan family in the wonderful world of the Kendo's.

The two teens stepped across the heaps of mouldy old gun magazines and Rob let them past the counter. The old side door outback was rusted shut, but he was going to take a blowtorch to it soon and just have the whole thing replaced. It was better than interrupting customers when the two came in. Although, for once they had shown up when no one was in.

As the two climbed the stairs chattering aimlessly about the goings on of the school, Rob snapped his fingers and yelled out for Michael. He leaned up between the balusters and handed the kid a white envelope, as well as a large brown-wrapped parcel. Michael took them with a hint of surprise on his face and he and Alan departed to their shared room.

As the two sat down on the bed, Alan ripped open the white envelope and stuffed the letter into Michael's hands, who read over it, frowned, read over it again and dropped it onto the bed. Without missing a beat Alan lifted it and inspected it.

Dear Mister Chapman,

We have reason to believe that your father's will was lost with his personal belongings over-seas. Due to this course of action, all of his belongings will pass automatically for his next of kin as indicated on his personal file. This person is you. You will receive the money that he had in his bank account, as well as the life insurance he took out. His assets are currently frozen and will be transferred into your own bank account at Raccoon City Bank. His personal effects that survived the crash are included in the parcel.

Colonel Roy Mustang,

101st Parachute Division

Alan looked up to tell Michael to open the box but he already was. He ripped off the brown parcel tape and paused for a moment before pulling open the box. Inside was a variety of things, some from the crash and others from his locker. Michael's fingers first found the silver, slightly marred, dogtags with his father's name, division and other details stamped onto them. Instantly he pulled them around his neck and kissed them lightly, dropping his head into a box. Alan remained respectfully quiet, looking at the dogtags hanging next to his friends silver crucifix.

Then he was off again, searching through the other belongings. This included a set of keys for his dad's old '67 Chevy Impala and a black wallet, with thirty dollars and sixty cents, as well as a single French Frank, a 30 Deutschmark and a fifty pence piece. There was also an old photograph of a younger John and Leslie, holding onto a little baby boy in blue. On the back of the picture was scrawled 'John, Leslie and baby Micheal, 1981'.

Alan tensed for a moment. Normally when someone used Micheal's Polish grandfather's name instead of the English version of the name, he would get angry and usually rude. He didn't like the Polish version of Michael, and normally let people off for calling him the English version of the name, but he was best suited when people referred to him as Tommy, Chapman or just Chap. That was another inside joke and Alan and his. He was partly called Chap for the British use of the word and partly because he once wore only a pair of tight black leather chaps and a black cowboy hat to a school dance and did the mamba with the school's nurse on the day before her retirement.

After more sifting through the box they found an iconic badge, the St. Andrews Cross and the St. George's cross flags, the respective flags of Scotland and England, crossed over and an army patch of his battalion, the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment. At the very bottom of the box, under various letters to and from home, there was an old, fully functioning Colt Peacemaker. Alan let out an exasperated sigh and wondered how much Kendo would pay for that gun.

He watched his friend, almost religiously, flick open the swing out cylinder and check the crane. He ran his thumb along it and sighed almost in delight. It was in damn near perfect condition. He also noted that the gun had been extended to accept eight rounds instead of the usual six. Flicking it closed he replaced it in the box, not touching the bullets inside. He then stuffed the box under his bed and pushed a finger to his lips.

"Don't tell Rob. He'd probably kill me during the night for it," he joked, making Alan snicker lightly. Alan looked over at the clock and sighed, pushing himself off of Michael's bed, wandering over to his own, slumping down on it and looking over at his friend. He seemed to have cheered up, and Alan let a small smile grace his own lips for that fact.

Michael was great fun and all but when he got into a mood he always brought Alan down with him. He picked up the phone and dialled in the number for their favourite pizza joint, and the two turned on the T.V. After getting no answer to the pizza place, Alan reached under his bed and produced a packet of potato chips, tossing them over at Michael and striking him in the head, as he pulled out one for himself. Smirking at his friend's reaction he turned up to look at the news and noted that the first big match of the season was on tomorrow, right here in Racoon.

Looks like the night was gonna be a fun one.

A/N: I apologize for the randomness of this chapter. It does jump a bit, from the University to the shop and everything, things are explained as well as I like, but it's just the prologue, set to introduce two of our main characters. The name might give you some troubles – Micheal is the English form of the Polish name Mikhail. Considering Mikhail Victor is one of the UBCS members in Biohazard 3, I decided to revert to the English spelling of the name.

Yeah, the Tommy thing is actually a joke I share with a friend of mine, but that's beside the point. Tommy was the name of that the German's shouted across No Man's Land during the First World War to get the attention of a random British solider. 'Johnny Doughboy' was a term for the American soldiers during the same war, though it's been used since the Mexican-American War of 1846. The colt has no real influence on the story, nor will John Chapman after this. It's merely a way to arm at least one of the characters for their trip to Racoon Mall, where the length of this story will take place, perhaps starting about four chapters in.

The only other point of interest I could add to this will be that the main characters of the story – Michael, Alan and Aaron – are going to the gig for a heavy metal band called Last Man Standing and the fic will run along the same time line. If you've not read the fic by the same name, by the talented Escape The Shadows, I suggest you drop what you're doing right now, and do so. Seriously, even if you're about to save the world, or destroy depending on your dress sense, go ahead and read it. It's deep, inspiring and really awesome.

Well, that about wraps it up for my first author notes. But since I love clichés a lot, I'll say please leave a review, just to see if you guys'll actually do me any favours :P

P.S; I'm not great on American terminology, being British, so I should warn you some things I come away with may confuse those of you who aren't British.

For one thing, the whole Mom Vs. Mum thing. Well, Mom sounds like a plastic woman from a cheap 1950's ad, so it will be typed as Mum. Or occasionally mother.

Pants vs. trousers. Trousers are what you guys refer to as pants, and to us, pants are underpants, or underwear for a guy.

Umm. That's it I think. Yeah, so just clearing that up to prevent any confusion.