Leon? A Word, Please?

by Tani2

Leon and Claire help Chris and Jill move into their new home. Bothered by how his sister interacts with her best friend, Chris decides it's time to have a man-to-man. What he learns is more than he bargained for. L/C & C/J. Complete! For real this time!

6. Chapter 5: Brothers in Arms

Leon? A Word, Please?

Author: Tani2

Genre: Romance

Rating: M for explicit sexual content, mature themes, violence, and language. You have been warned.

Timeline: Six months after the conclusion of the events of RE5

Synopsis: Leon and Claire help Chris and Jill move into their new home. Bothered by how his sister interacts with her best friend, Chris decides it's time to have a man-to-man. What he learns is more than he bargained for. Pairings are Leon/Claire and Chris/Jill

Disclaimer: I do not own Resident Evil or any of the RE characters in this story, nor did I profit from their use in this work of fiction. My purpose is one of philosophical fulfillment: I write, therefore, I am. All other characters are my creations.

Author's Notes: Huh. Guess my muse found herself some action inspiration after all. Must be because she made me see The Expendables this summer. Awful movie. I loved it!

So, we're taking a break from the smut for one chapter for some good old fashioned RE violence and espionage. Nothing like sneaking around Umbrella facilities to get the blood boiling. By the way. There's use of a foreign language in this chapter . . . English. That's right, not American . . . English. And vulgar English slang, at that. Hope you can understand it all if you're from the States. If you're from England, I hope my grammar was okay. But since it's mostly vulgar, I think you'll grant me a pass.

~ Tani

P.S. All sign language is underlined.

---

CHAPTER 5: Brothers-in-Arms

Washington, D.C.: an office in Secret Service Headquarters

RING!

Leon sighed and picked up the receiver on his office phone. "Agent Kennedy."

"Hi, Handsome." A sultry female voice drifted out of the phone earpiece.

"Claire?"

"Uh huh."

He smiled. "Hey, Baby. How are you?"

"I'm okay. Holding up, you know?"

He sighed. "Yeah. I heard what happened to Jill. I'm so sorry I missed the memorial."

She smiled sadly. "It's okay, Sweetheart. Everyone knows you would have been there. You tried to get back from Tunisia."

"Thanks for understanding, Claire. I really did try. I hope Chris knows that. I mean, I adored Jill."

"Oh, Chris knows. All he said about you during the ceremony was that he wished you were there. Then he made me call you to see if you were okay. When you didn't answer the first couple times we called, he liked to have a fit."

Leon smiled. "Well, it's nice to be loved."

"Yeah. So anyway, Leon. I actually called for a specific reason. I have a favor to ask."

"What can I do you for?"

She giggled. "Don't make a promise you can't keep, Super Spy. You can't do me for a while yet. We're both too busy to visit each other." He chuckled. "Just teasing. Anyway, could you check on my brother for me? When I called him yesterday, he sounded . . . strange. You live close to each other, so it should be easier for you than it would be for me. And I already used up all my vacation time with TerraSave on Jill's memorial if I want the holidays off."

Leon leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, no problem. Ark said he and Bruce saw him a few nights ago coming out of a bar here in D.C. He said Chris looked wasted. To be honest, I was gonna check in on him anyway."

She sighed in relief. "Thanks, Baby. You're a great boyfriend."

This time, he smiled sadly. "No, if I were a great boyfriend, I'd have seen you some time in the last two years. I can't believe that I haven't physically been in the same place as you since we . . . reconciled two weeks after Harvardville."

She shook her head, even though he couldn't see her. "Sweetheart, we've both been busy since our . . . reconciliation." She giggled as memories of that night made her think naughty thoughts. "It's not just you who hasn't been available. But it's enough for me that we talk almost everyday."

He sighed. "It's not enough for me."

"Aw. That's sweet, Baby. Maybe I can get down to D.C. to visit you over Christmas and New Year's. I still haven't been to your condo. And I wanna meet Honey."

He smiled. "Maybe. Since you can get away from work, maybe I'll just have to find a way to come visit you instead . . . and before Christmas. Bruce and Fong can watch Honey for me. Besides, she's the jealous type. She tried to bite Emily the last time she visited."

Claire smiled. "Don't tease me, Leon."

"I'm not!" he said with a grin. "It's a promise. I will come see you. Okay?"

She closed her eyes, knowing it was a bad idea to believe him again. He'd made the promise to visit her before over the last two years, but there always seemed to be an outbreak to attend to, or an official to protect. That was the problem with dating the star quarterback of the Secret Service team. She wasn't the only one who needed him.

She sighed in defeat. "Okay, Leon. If you can make it, I'll be waiting." In the end, she knew that she'd wait for him forever if necessary.

He smiled and opened his desk drawer. He took out a file and opened it on his lap. He stared at the photos inside. "Okay, Claire. I'll see you before Christmas. I have to go. Be careful out there, Baby."

"You, too."

"Always."

She made a kissing sound into the receiver. "Miss you."

He smiled. "I miss you, too."

"Bye, Leon."

"Bye, Baby."

They both hung up.

---

A phone rang, and a man with light brown hair and light blue eyes answered. "Agent McGivern speaking," he said with a poorly hidden Southern twang.

"Hey, Dead Aim. What's up?"

"Kennedy! You ol' sack o' cow pies! Is that you?"

"Yeah, man. How you been, Bruce? How's married life?"

"Aww, married life's great. Fong's pregnant with our second."

"Get outta here! Really? But I thought she said no more after she had such a painful labor with Mei-Ling. Your daughter's only two. Can't believe you convinced her to have another so soon."

"Yeah well, life sometimes throws a curve ball. This one was unplanned, but Fong's mellow about it. Plus she wants to give me a son, so it works out."

"It's a boy?"

"Yup. Bruce, Jr. He's due next summer."

"Awesome. Congratulations."

"Yeah. Nice to know the McGivern name'll carry on for at least one more generation." Bruce leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. "So, what's goin' on, Leon? Somethin' tells me this ain't just a social call."

"No, it's not actually. I was calling about Chris."

Bruce smiled. "Yeah, I reckoned I'd be hearin' from ya sooner or later. Whatcha need to know, Amigo?"

"What bar did you and Ark see him coming out of? Ark's out on assignment, and I want to go take care of this now. It's got Claire pretty upset."

Bruce chuckled. "Terry's Pub. Over on Dupont Circle."

Leon sighed. If Chris was there, he was good and drunk by now. Terry was a great guy, but his answer to all of life's problems was to encourage a guy to drink until he couldn't remember the problems anymore.

"Thanks, Bruce. Give my love to Fong and little Mei."

"Will do, Amigo. And watch yer ass with the big guy. He's even bigger'an I remember and he weren't none too friendly to me an' Ark when we offered 'im a ride home."

"Understood. Take it easy."

"You, too. And say 'hi' to that pretty li'l redhead o' yours for me."

"Will do. Oh! One last thing?"

"Yup?"

"Can you watch my cat for me over the holidays? I'm gonna try to get out to Cumberland to visit Claire."

Bruce sighed dejectedly. He hated letting down a friend. "No can do, Leon. Cat poop's got critters in it that pregnant women can't be around. Could make my son sick in the womb."

"Oh! Oh, well never mind. Sorry I asked, man."

"No problem, Amigo. Sorry I couldn't help. Try Rebecca. She loves cats."

"Okay. I'll do that. Thanks again, Bruce."

"Take it easy, Leon."

Both men hung up. Leon sighed. Bruce and Ark were the only Umbrella survivors who knew about Claire and Leon's relationship. Bruce was the polar opposite of Ark, so Leon didn't even need to ask if he'd told anyone, as he knew no one kept a secret better than McGivern. But Ark was another story. He still couldn't believe his best friend had only told Bruce in all these years.

'I'm shocked the whole affair hasn't been made into a movie of the week by now,' he mused to himself.

Leon got up from his desk, stretched, and grabbed his suit jacket from off the back of his chair. He put it on, and then picked up his briefcase. He placed the file folder he'd been looking at while on the phone with Claire inside his bag. He went to the coat hook behind his office door, and grabbed his long black winter coat. He put it on, picked up his briefcase, and headed out to find Chris. Talking to Rebecca about Honey would have to wait.

---

Leon Kennedy walked into a dark, smoky drinking establishment at about two in the afternoon. The bartender nodded at him as Leon walked up to the bar.

"Hey, Terry."

"Leon! Well if it isn't my favorite Irish Catholic government agent! How's it hanging?" the red-haired barman asked in a thick Irish brogue.

"To the left." Terry chuckled at the deadpan manner in which Leon delivered that dirty bit of T.M.I. "Where is he?"

Terry, knowing exactly to whom Leon was referring, pointed to a lone table in a particularly dark corner of the bar. Leon had gotten drunk on more than one occasion and relayed to Terry his feelings about Claire. Terry never said a word when Leon and Chris came into the bar together about Leon's relationship with his friend's sister. And it was a good thing, because now Chris often came into Terry's without Leon.

Leon's gaze followed Terry's finger. He could just make out a hulking form hunched over the table, a large half-empty bottle of something brown stood in easy reach of the figure's hand.

Leon sighed. "Does he even have a glass with that bottle?" Terry's eyes were sad as he shook his head 'no'. Leon closed his eyes, took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. This was not going to be easy.

He thanked Terry, bought a glass of Guinness, and made his way over to the small table in the corner . . . over to Chris.

"Hey, Bro."

"Hrmm?"

"Chris. Look at me. It's Leon. It's your bro."

Chris lifted his head and turned a pair of bleary, blood-shot bluish-gray eyes on the blond agent. Leon was taken aback for a moment. They were Claire's eyes. It was always so weird for him to see the eyes he loved so much on a man's face.

"Kenn'dy?" Chris slurred, drawing Leon out of his musings of Claire and back to the situation at hand.

"Yeah, Man. It's Kennedy."

Chris sat up and looked around the room in confusion. "How . . . . Where'm I?"

"Terry's."

Chris looked over at the bar, saw the ginger-haired Irishman behind it, and nodded. "Oh. Righ'." He turned towards his bottle. He grabbed it, opened it, and upended it at his lips. Leon could now see clearly that it was Michael Collins Irish whiskey that Chris was taking to the head. That was some seriously hard stuff.

"I really wish you wouldn't do that, Chris."

Chris drank for a few more seconds, slammed the bottle back onto the table, and frowned at Leon. "An' I really wis' you woul' min'yer own bussth'ness."

"Chris. Please. I need to talk to you."

"Go 'way, Rookie!"

Leon sighed. "Stop calling me that. Look, I know I missed the memorial ceremony. Claire said you'd asked about me. I'm sorry for not being there. I tried my best to get home. But I was stuck in an outbreak in north Africa with no exit strategy. I called Claire like I always do to say good-bye in case I didn't make it. She said there'd been an emergency and that I needed to get home right away. She wouldn't tell me what happened on the phone, but I immediately started to make my way home anyway. Then I lost my communicator. She said you tried calling me before I got a new one and that you were worried when I didn't answer. I'm so sorry I worried you. I heard about Jill while I was trying to escape. I got back as soon as I could. When I arrived in D.C., Ark and Carlos told me I'd already missed the memorial. And Ark told me that he and Bruce had seen you coming out of here . . . plastered." Leon dragged over an empty chair and sat down beside his friend. "Chris, talk to me. What you're doing to yourself isn't healthy. You'll be no good to the BSAA like this."

"FUCK THE BSAA!" Chris shouted, then he muttered, "They killed my Jilly."

"No, Jill sacrificed herself to save you. It wasn't the . . . ."

Chris reached out and pushed Leon hard. The younger man's chair scooted several feet away from Chris's table, and Leon had to jump quickly to his feet so that he didn't fall over with the chair. Terry's eyes widened, as did the eyes of the three men as inebriated as Chris who were also midday bar patrons. Terry started to come around the bar, but Leon put up a hand to halt him.

"You alright, Leon?" Terry asked hesitantly.

"Yeah. I'm good. Trust me, that was a love tap coming from Chris." He cautiously moved his chair closer and sat down. "Chris . . . Chris . . . CHRISTOPHER! I AM TALKING TO YOU!" Chris looked at Leon again, frown still well in place. "Look, I know how you feel. When I thought Claire died in that explosion in Harvardville . . . . God! I can't even describe to you how I felt. Now, knowing what it felt like to lose her, I don't know what I would do if something happened to her for real." Chris's eyes narrowed, but Leon didn't notice. "But you gotta stop this. If not for your own well-being, do it for your Claire-Bear."

"Whadda you know 'bout Claire?" Chris asked suspiciously.

"I know she's worried about you. She asked me to check on you."

Chris stared at Leon angrily for a while. Leon finally recognized the fury in his friend's face for what it was. And it was a good thing, too. A moment later, Chris shot a fist in Leon's direction. The more sober of the two men quickly subdued the more intoxicated.

"Chris! What the hell's gotten into you?"

"You stay th'fuck 'way fr'm my sister!"

"Why? What did I do?"

"You know!"

"No, I don't know!"

"You . . . you . . . wha- . . . wha' was I sayin', Leon?"

Leon sighed. His friend was gone. There was no use reasoning with him when he was like this. "Sit down, Chris. I'll be right back." Chris sat without any further argument while Leon went back over to the bar. "Terry give me a pitcher of water, a glass, and a big cup of black coffee."

"One pitcher of water and one Irish coffee."

Leon rolled his eyes. "No, one black coffee, Smartass. Chris has had enough Irish whiskey for one day."

Terry chuckled. "Just checking to see if you're keeping on your toes, Kennedy."

"Yeah, yeah." Leon went back to the table. A minute later, Terry brought over a tray with what Leon had requested. He sat the pitcher, glass, and mug between Chris and Leon, and went back to the bar. Leon poured a tall glass of water. He placed it in front of Chris and sighed.

'This might take a while,' he thought. He put in a call to Hunnigan. "I'm taking the rest of the day off." He smiled sadly at his 'Bro'. "Family emergency," he told her.

---

After forcing caffeine and fluids down his throat for over an hour, and several trips to the rest room, Chris Redfield was feeling pretty sober. Shitty, and hung-over, but he was at least thinking clearly.

"Alright. I'm not drunk anymore. Now, what do you want?" he asked testily.

"Two things."

"Fine. Name them then get out."

Leon smirked. "First, I want you to tell your sister you're alright. Rumors of your behavior have gotten back to her in Cumberland, and they're upsetting her." He pulled his cell out of his pocket, dialed a number, and then held the phone out to Chris. "Here."

Chris sighed and took the phone. Claire picked up after three rings.

"Leon?" Chris didn't say anything at first. He closed his eyes and sighed. She sounded so worried. He would never upset her on purpose. He didn't know what to say having done it by accident. Before he could get a word out though, she spoke again, sounding even more concerned . . . but not for him. "Leon? Sweetheart? What's wrong? Why aren't you answering me?"

Chris made a strange face. 'Sweetheart?' He looked at Leon out the corner of his eye. His friend was sipping a cup of coffee of his own. Chris rolled his eyes and shook his head. 'Their damn partnership again. Get your head outta the gutter, Redfield. It's not like that, and you know it. Claire just wishes it were.' He turned his attention back to the phone. "Hey, Claire-Bear."

"Chris? Hi! I . . . um, wait. What are you doing with Leon's phone?"

"Rookie came to visit me. Said I should call and check in with you."

She smiled. "Is he there?"

"Yeah, he's here."

"Okay. How are you, Big Brother?"

"I'm alright. How are you?"

"Worried about my brother."

He sighed. "I'm sorry. I really am okay."

"No, you're drunk. You're slurring your words."

Chris winced. "Uh . . . sorry. I was just throwing a few back."

She sighed heavily. "In the middle of the day, Chris?"

He ran a hand over his buzzcut. "Um. Yes."

Claire sighed. "Christopher Michael Redfield . . . do you think you are honoring Jillian's memory by drinking yourself to death? Huh? You think she sacrificed her life to save yours so you could throw it away a few weeks later?"

"But Claire . . ."

Leon sputtered his coffee when he suddenly heard Claire's shouted reply coming out of his phone. "NO 'BUTS', GODAMMIT! NOW YOU GET YOUR SORRY ASS TO VISIT ME IN MARYLAND BEFORE GROUNDHOG'S DAY! AND YOU BETTER BE HERE! 'CAUSE IF I HAVE TO COME ALL THE WAY DOWN TO D.C. JUST TO FIND YOUR SORRY ASS, I'M RIPPING YOUR BALLS OFF AND YOU WON'T SEE THEM AGAIN FOR SIX MORE WEEKS OF WINTER!"

Chris frowned at Leon, who had started to laugh. "Fine. Before Groundhog's Day. I promise."

"Good. Now, I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Okay. Put Leon on."

Chris handed Leon the phone, mouthed the word 'traitor' and slapped the chuckling Secret Service agent in the back of the head. Leon shrugged and took the phone. "Claire?"

"Hi, Leon. I just wanted to say thank you for finding him and trying to sober him up. He's not baseline, but I imagine he was probably much worse when you found him."

"Yeah, he was pretty fucked up."

She smiled sadly. "Yeah. He does this when his world falls apart. He did it when our parents died. He was only nineteen, but he emptied our dad's liquor cabinet in under three days. He ended up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. He did it again when he was dishonorably discharged from the Air Force three years later, and he told me he did it after the original Spencer Mansion encounter where all the S.T.A.R.S. operatives were killed and Wesker proved to be the traitor who sent them all to their deaths. You know, up until then, Chris looked up to Wesker." She sighed. "I'm not surprised he's doing it again. I think Chris was in love with Jill. He was afraid to lose what they already had, so he never pursued it. But he said something at the memorial that made me think he regrets that now."

Leon studied Chris, who was nursing a glass of water and a bitter scowl. "I see. Well, I guess I know how that feels."

Claire giggled. "Tell me about it." She whispered, "Can Chris hear me?"

"No."

"Then let me tell you what I intend to do to you if you come and visit me over Christmas."

"When, not if."

"That remains to be seen, Agent Kennedy."

He sighed then changed the subject. He knew he'd promised before and broken his word. He was determined not to do that again. "What were you saying you wanted to do?"

Leon stared at Chris and tried to gauge whether his friend could read on his face the nature of his conversation with the man's little sister. Claire's descriptions were beyond graphic, and by the time she was done, Leon was sporting a fairly large hard-on. Leon balanced the cell phone between his ear and his shoulder and removed his overcoat. He sat the coat in his lap, hoping his Claire-induced excitement would eventually pass.

Chris smirked at Leon as he watched his friend getting more comfortable. He snickered and whispered, "She can talk, can't she?"

Leon smirked but didn't answer him. Instead, he cut Claire off in the midst of a rather vivid description of how flexible she could be when she really wanted. "Listen, Claire. I gotta go."

She chuckled seductively. "Aww. Am I being too hard-on you?"

"More than you know."

"Mmm. Thanks for the imagery. You might want to hide that from my brother, though."

"Way ahead of you."

She giggled again. "That's my hero."

Leon's face split in a warm smile. God, he loved this woman. "I'll talk to you later, Claire. And don't worry. I'll make sure he gets home safely. "

"I know you will. Bye, Baby. I can't wait to see you."

"Same here. Bye, Claire."

Leon hit the END button and turned to face Chris. Chris was smirking. "She's got you wrapped around her little finger and you're not even a couple. Pretty pathetic, Rookie. Woman shouldn't exert that much control over a man she's not even banging."

Leon smirked and shook his head. Chris was a fine one to talk. Look at the control Jill had over him from the grave. He sighed. He certainly wasn't going to say something that insensitive out loud. Still, he refused to be the butt of Chris's jokes . . . especially since he actually was banging Claire. Not that he planned to say that out loud either.

"Claire is a close friend, Musclehead. She asked me to check on her brother, and I have." Leon reached under the table and grabbed his briefcase. He opened it and pulled out the same file he'd been reading earlier in his office while on the phone with Claire. "Now, for the second thing I want from you." He placed the file in front of Chris.

Chris looked confused. He stared down at the file folder, stamped with the seal of the President of the United States, marked confidential, and addressed to the attention of Special Agent Leon S. Kennedy. "What is this?"

Leon drained the last of his coffee before answering. "Open it and see."

Chris did so, quietly reading the contents to himself while Leon spoke to Ingrid Hunnigan on his replacement communicator. She called with a question regarding the paperwork Leon had just completed before Claire had called his office.

After about ten minutes, Leon ended his transmission to Hunnigan, and Chris looked up at him with an expression of awe. "Is this information sound?"

Leon nodded. "It's golden."

Chris looked at two photos paper-clipped to the inside of the folder. "And the target? Can you guarantee your ability to acquire this target?"

"Yes. Under the right circumstances, I can guarantee the safe recovery of the target." He folded his hands on the table, taking as passive a posture and body language as he could muster. It had been his experience that convincing someone to help you was damn near impossible if you carried yourself with too much confidence. "Chris, I have a proposition for you. The President is backing this mission personally, as a favor to me. I have the latest technology and weaponry at my disposal. But I can't do it alone. This mission is a two-man job. With your help though, I know it can be done."

Chris stared at Leon for a little while, but then his eyes looked sad. "Take Ark."

Leon shook his head. "Ark's out of the country on assignment."

"Then take Bruce."

Leon sighed. "I don't want Thompson, and I don't want McGivern. And before you say it, I don't want Olivera or Coen, either. And Burton's retired from active service and is only doing computer espionage. That's how we got this intel, by the way . . . from Barry. Plus, he doesn't trust working with me in the field ever since he did that mission on that cruise ship. Did he tell you about that?" Chris nodded and sighed. Barry had told him repeatedly not to trust Leon. "Apparently, there was a B.O.W. posing as me onboard. It tried to kill him as they were escaping. It actually did kill that little girl he'd rescued. Uh, Lucia I think her name was. His oldest daughter was her age at the time. Barry's kind of eyeballed me funny ever since, even though I keep telling him I was never there and never worked for that anti-terrorist unit he moonlighted with." Leon shook his head. How long had that thing pretended to be him with Barry's group? He sighed. At least six months. No wonder Barry didn't trust him. He probably thought he was still a doppelganger. "Look, it doesn't matter anyway. For this mission, I need the best. I need a Redfield."

"Then take Claire."

Leon frowned. "That's not even close to funny. Claire may be awesome, but she's also still a civilian. I'd never intentionally take your sister into danger."

Chris sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. Sorry about that." He stared down at his hands for a while, and then spoke. "Leon, I appreciate that your high opinion of me hasn't faltered since the . . . the accident . . . with Jill, really I do, but I'm not the best. My recent track record proves it . . . that I'm not only far from being the best, but that I'll only get you or the target killed . . . or both. I'm sure that'll go over great with Claire."

Leon smiled. "Claire doesn't know about this." Chris looked up at Leon again, shocked. "Look, Chris. Things have sometimes been . . . difficult in my . . . what do you always call it? Oh yeah . . . my 'partnership' with your sister. This mission is something I need to do to make things right between us. To make things right for her. It's a big part of the reason I'm so securely wrapped around her little finger. I have regrets . . . about this."

"This had nothing to do with you, Leon. Claire and the target just . . ."

"I know. Claire and the target share a bond that I . . . that I can never . . . well . . . ." He sighed. "Look, I just want her to be happy. Maybe if I had been there like I told her I would, the target wouldn't have been taken from her. We've always thought the target was dead, but Barry's intel shows the target to be very much alive. If I can acquire the target unharmed, I think your sister and I may be able to have closure on our past issues. Move on with our lives."

Chris smiled sadly at his friend. Did Leon have a thing for Claire? He knew Claire had a thing for him, but he never thought it was mutual. As far as he was concerned, Leon was hung up on Ada, and was probably fucking Angela. This certainly was an interesting development. He smirked. And was Leon jealous of the relationship Claire had shared with the target? He decided to test his theory. Chris stared at Leon for a while, then he looked down at the photos and touched the face in the older, more faded of the two. He sighed. "So young in this one." He then picked up the more recent picture. "And so well-built and attractive now."

Leon rolled his eyes. "No shit. I'm not so thrilled about that."

Chris looked up at Leon, and then started to laugh. Leon was not happy at all about how the target had matured. He was sure it would put a smile on Claire's face, but her best friend sure wasn't liking it. Chris was right. Leon was jealous. He obviously cared about the girl a lot. He didn't like being second best in her heart, but he was still willing to risk his life to reunite them. 'At least this ought to be interesting when these three get together in the same room.'

Leon gave a chuckling Christopher his middle finger and said, "So what do you say, Bro? You in?"

Chris looked down at the photos, then thought about how Leon was right that this would make his sister happy. Finally, he looked at his brother-in-arms, his sister's best friend. He'd been such a big part of Claire's life, and had kept her safe more than once. He'd always wanted to do something for Leon to show him how much he appreciated his role in the life of his closest living relative. And in this case, he could help his sister, too. Win-win situation.

Chris poured a glass of water, downed the whole thing, and slammed his glass on the table.

"Okay, Rookie. I'm in."

---

Just outside a small Austrian town four kilometers east of the German border

A bright yellow customized H2 hummer with flames on the hood, mud on the tires and Guns n' Roses blaring on the suped up sound system barreled down the road toward a small Austrian hamlet. Drunken singing to the tune of "Paradise City" split the quiet air around the sleepy little town. Only about one hundred people lived there at that time, and all of them could hear the obnoxious music of their unwanted visitors. It had become a common occurrence. English speaking tourists were always visiting their town, much to the displeasure of the residents.

As the loud rock song ended, the driver of the hummer howled. He was a tall man wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt with red inner lining, the name and logo of the Arsenal Football Club, one of England's most popular soccer teams, emblazoned across his chest. His hair was covered by a red bandana tied Hulk Hogan style on top of his head.

The man riding shotgun was a couple inches shorter than his companion, but still respectably tall as English chaps went. He was wearing a V-neck sweatshirt and a backwards baseball cap, both in aubergine, and both with the emblem for Oxford University's rugby team and the name of the school spelled out in white. When his friend let loose with a howl, he just laughed and took a swig of the last of his beer.

"Oy! Those Yanks sure can warble a tune, eh?" he asked his friend before helping himself to another pint of Beamish Stout from the keg the pair were keeping in the back of the hummer. He let the froth settle and then drank half the pint in one go.

The driver chuckled. "That they can, Mate." He looked up out the top of the windscreen when he heard a loud sound overhead. It looked like a military helicopter with U.S. flags. "They make right smart choppers, too."

His friend sputtered his drink. Unlike in America where 'chopper' only meant helicopter, motorcycle, or teeth, in England, it was also one of the many vulgar slang words the British used to describe a man's penis. "Chopper!" the man in the passenger seat laughed. "You like American choppers, Mate?"

His friend chuckled. "Stifle it, Git!" He looked at the helicopter again. It had slowed down considerably. "Looks like they're planning on doin' a bit o' abbin'." 'Abbing' was a British slang word derived from the German word 'abseilen' which means 'to rope down'. What was usually called 'rappelling' in American English was referred to as 'abseiling' or 'abbing' in the Queen's English. Sure enough, the American helicopter stopped in a hover over an open field and two men, one blond and one brunette, rappelled down from the chopper and ran off into the forest. Both men were heavily armed.

"Cor!" the shorter man muttered. "Whaddya reckon they're on about?"

"Dunno, Mate. Dunno as I much care." The driver kept along the road and gave the helicopter and its American passengers only one moment more as the focus of their conversation. "S'pose the dad o' that pretty li'l bird you were chattin' up back in Munich might come after you wit' a gun like that one."

The shorter man made a rude sound. "Pretty my arse! She was all fur coat an' no knickers, Mate! Aviation blonde! Dunno why I was so taken! I musta been cabbaged! Bleedin' beer goggles!"

"You do fancy th'amber nectar." He nodded toward the remains of the pint his friend was holding.

"Always beer o'clock in my reckonin'."

"Yeah. Right, Mate." He took a very curvy turn in silence, and then started in on his friend about the German girl again. "Now then . . . why're you havin' an eppy about that bird, Old Chap? Callin' her all fur coat an' no knickers. Sounds like a cop-out, Mate . . . like someone's all mouth and no trousers. You call 'er an Aviation blonde with a black box, but I ken only ways you could know that is if you had a peek at 'er bearded clam. Maybe tried at givin' 'er an Aussie kiss, Mate? Eh? You and that bit o' rough make the beast wit' two backs? Part her curtains wit' yer bayonet, did you? Beat your bollocks on biffon's bridge?" He laughed harder and harder with each statement.

The shorter man frowned at his friend and held up two fingers. "Put that in yer mouth and trousers, ya bloody wanker! I weren't nowhere near that hairy axe wound! I mighta fed the pony, flicked the bean a bit, and she mighta gobbled me Hampton wick and happy sack, but I don't get a lob on over slags like her!"

Although the gesture he used commonly represents 'victory' or peace in America, that's not what it means to the British. His friend's face distorted with rage.

"Shut yer cake-hole, ya tosser! Don't you flash the V's at me, Mate! Yer mother ate me baby gravy and gave me a back scuttle!"

The shorter man looked genuinely distressed by the comment. "Hey, you're a bad egg for that! Don't talk about me mum that way. Mum loves you like a son."

The taller man gave a little snort of laughter. "Sorry, Mate. Didn't mean ta get on yer wick."

"Awright then."

"No hard feelings, Mate." He turned down a dirt road. "So . . . you saw that bird in the nuddy, did you?"

His friend rolled his eyes. "Yah, little good it did. She got aled up on alcopops. Ended up chattin' down the white telephone." He shook his head in disgust. "Stupid cow. Now, enough about that bag."

"More like baghead," the taller man replied. "She tried to sell me gak three times." They looked at each other seriously for a moment, and then both men started to laugh at their vulgar, drunken exchange at the expense of the vulgar, drunken, drug addict the shorter one had supposedly picked up the day before. "Or bag o' bones!"

"Ha! Right you are, Boyo! Barely had no chesticles, that one!" They laughed even harder. "Not like that French lass you was dancin' wit' in Deauville, Mate! She was bang-tidy, awright."

"Yeah, but she had a bloke already."

"That barcode you trompsed in the pub?"

"Yah. That's him."

"Ha! You kicked seven shades o' shite outta him. Wanker thought he was a fighter just 'cause he was wearin' a Newcastle United jersey! Bloody Barcodes always think they're bruisers!"

"Shoulda kept his yap shut. I told 'im like I told 'er, it was just a dance. Not my fault she were gaggin' for it. He shouldn'ta come at me all Bertie big bollocks. He hadda face like a bag o' spanners anyway. Couldn't keep a bird like that one for long."

"Agreed, Mate," the shorter man replied with a chuckle. He paused to pour himself another pint. "So, didya let 'er get 'er dannies on yer dangly-bits, then?"

He smirked. "Maybe a bit."

His friend laughed loudly. "That's me Mate, innit!" he shouted. "How'd you manage?"

"She were like the bird you got on wit'. Really into the devil's dandruff, that one. Got 'er a fix o' nose candy and ecky. Was easy-peasy wit' ol' yo-yo knickers after that."

"Cheeky bastard! She had a set o' diddies like a dead heat in a zeppelin race!" The shorter man put his pint between his knees and held his hands up in front of his chest to mimic a woman's large breasts.

"Funny you should mention that," his friend replied. "Seein' as she took me on a diddy ride."

"Ha! Bloody brilliant! Got yerself a tit wank, what? She give a bit o' the easy pink, too?"

"Easy pink and difficult brown. Got her beak on me barse and banjo string, too."

"Bollocks! Pull the other one, Mate! You mighta got yer tally soaked in fanny batter, maybe she even licked your bell-end, but I don't ken you got yer end away!"

"Oy! It's true! You know she were an Essex Girl! You got eyes like a shithouse rat! I gave 'er back end me love length in the loo!"

They continued laughing at their shared male bravado and insulting exchange on the forms and vices of the women they'd met and been intimate with on their backpacking trip across Europe, as well as the ease with which they'd beaten up the men who'd argued with them, over women or football. Suddenly, the hummer stopped short.

"Oy!" the passenger shouted. "Why'd ya slam on th' anchors? You spilt me lager!"

"Look, Mate! See? It's like I told ya!"

The shorter man looked out the window and then began to laugh. "They got ankle-biters in this town?" The taller man nodded. "Cor! That's just vulgar!" he laughed.

They were now stopped in front of one of the four signs that displayed the name of the proud little Austrian town they'd set out to visit.

FUCKING

In German, 'Fucking' is pronounced in such a way as to rhyme with the English word 'looking', but the spelling, not the pronunciation was why Fucking, Austria was such a popular attraction to English-speaking drunken college students and backpackers. And when they came, they were there to 'honor' the more vulgar pronunciation of the word's spelling. As imitation is considered the highest form of flattery, it is needless to say the many security cameras around Fucking meant to protect the town's signs had caught visitors to their quiet city engaging in some interesting acts.

No wonder the Fuckingers hated English-speaking tourists so much. They rarely just came to enjoy the countryside.

The two English-speakers currently annoying the locals tumbled out of their hummer, rolling with laughter. For the next few minutes, they posed in front of the sign, took pictures of each other humping the sign, and then took a joint photo, placing an expensive camera with a timer on the hood of their military-inspired vehicle, so they could both be in the rest of the photos. The video cameras that monitored the signs to deter tourists from vandalism caught a brief video of the taller of the two men pretending to hump the shorter man from behind when he bent down to get a water bottle out of his backpack. The shorter of the two men immediately tackled the other man to the ground and began throttling his friend. The taller friend just laughed until he had tears in his eyes.

Eventually, the two men got up from the ground and walked back to their vehicle.

"Where'd you nick this Chelsea tractor? It's got some real muscle. I thought you were still trollin' about in that old banger."

"Nah. Sold it to some bloke in Cornwall a month back. Got an Archer for it."

"Good show, Old Man! Well, I like the ghetto blaster. Best way to listen to American rock music while breakin' the sound barrier."

"Petrolhead."

"Damn right!" the shorter man laughed. "Now, drop the hammer this time. You drive like my nan!"

"Bollocks!"

"What is it, Mate?"

"Gotta take a fuckin' piss!" the taller man said. "You made me laugh so hard I almost wet meself!"

"Belt yer yap, ya old cocker!" his friend laughed. "Think I saw a farmhouse over that way." The shorter man pointed east. "I should leave you there too, bleedin' git."

"Oh, you're just narked because the whole bloody town o' Fucking's got video o' me 'fucking' you up the arse.

The two tourists got back into their vehicle, and tore out onto the road again. They made a very uncoordinated beeline for the farm in question. The town's constable watched them tear past several of the town's surveillance cameras. He sighed. It was like watching a video on how to get a D.U.I.

And why not? They had gone through almost an entire keg of beer just for the Fucking cameras alone.

The humvee sped up the dirt road towards the farmhouse, this time blasting Black Sabbath's 'Iron Man'. When they reached the front of the building, they jumped out of their vehicle and put on their packs.

"Right then," the taller man said. "Let's have ourselves a butchers what's goin' on in there." They walked up the path to the house, but before they had made it within twenty meters of the structure, they were confronted by a man in faded blue coveralls, and a flannel shirt who came racing out of the front door. The man was yelling something at them in German.

"What the blazes is 'e on about?" the shorter man asked the taller.

"Dunno Deutsch, Mate. Beats the hell outta me."

"I should for what you done by that sign. Next time you try that I'll blow off in your face."

"Stop bein' a wee girl. Little bang never hurt ya. And if you float an air biscuit anywhere near my face, I'll box yer ears."

The shorter man punched the taller in the arm. "Box that, ya tosser!" They walked up to the Austrian man, both of them towering over him. "Ya got a khazi me mate can use?" the shorter tourist asked.

"You are American?"

"Bite your tongue!" the taller man exclaimed irritably. "What are ya blinkered? Ya think every man who speaks English is a bloody Yank?"

"That's right! Don't you know the Queen's English when you 'ear it?"

The Austrian man frowned and narrowed his eyes. British hooligan tourists again. They were like cockroaches. He sighed. "We have none of this cozy you ask for, English. You go now."

"Cozy? You 'ear that, Ian?" the shorter friend asked.

Ian laughed. "So I did, James. So I did." Ian, the taller man, strode over to the local. "Now look 'ere, my man. I mean to 'ave meself a Jimmy. I can do it inside or I can drop me Alans right 'ere, Mate! Now, where's yer lavvy?"

"No, lobbies, English! Go! Go away!"

"Don't get shirty!" yelled James, the shorter of the two trespassers. "He's just lookin' ta siphon the python."

"No! English, go away! You always do bad here! You make sex at road sign! You steal sign, and you always loud and stupid!"

"Cor! What's this tosser wafflin' on about?" James asked Ian in confusion.

"Ever since the days o' Hitler, Brits been nickin' their street signs."

James frowned at the farmer. "Oy! Ya stupid twat! We ain't knocked off yer sign. We left 'er right where we found 'er! Me mate just wants to use the shitter!"

"No! No sheeter! You go now, English!" the man yelled.

"Don't throw a wobbly, Mate! Fine! We'll clear off!" Ian said.

"Go!"

"We're going!" James argued. "Quit yer whingin'!"

The Austrian native went back inside the farmhouse and slammed the door.

"I thought you hadda waz, Mate," James said to Ian.

"I do. Burstin', Boyo." Ian walked over to the side of the house and unzipped his pants. "I warned 'im."

James started to laugh. "Blimy! What a cracking idea! I think I'll have a wee, too!"

James stood by Ian's side, and both men began to relieve themselves of the by-product of all the beer they'd drank that day. Both men were laughing heartily as they urinated on the side of the Austrian farmhouse.

Suddenly, a military helicopter with markings indicating the United States Department of Homeland Security flew overhead. Three figures in black jumped out of the aircraft this time, and deployed parachutes. When they landed they began yelling military jargon in American English. One of them had a Hispanic accent, one had a Southern accent, and the last one said almost nothing. He was the biggest though, and he had no sleeves. There was a huge tattoo down one of his arms.

"I'll be jiggered! More Yanks! What d'ya reckon that's about, Mate?" Ian asked James.

"Bugger all if I know. It's rainin' buzzcuts today." They watched yet another group of U.S. soldiers run off into the trees.

"Ah well, back to business." Ian wrote his name in the snow by the side of the house. James chuckled as he read the pee monogram. Ian finished and shook off the last drops of urine. James wasn't even close to done. Ian raised a brow as his friend continued to relieve himself for almost a minute.

James shrugged. "Shouldn'ta drank that last couple pints so quick."

Suddenly, five men with guns appeared behind the two friends. The gunmen were all wearing black jumpsuits with no discernible identification except for a small patch on the left chest that was shaped like an octagon with red and white alternating wedges. The guns were trained on both the trespassers, as the guards began yelling at them in German.

"Bollocks!" Ian muttered. "Should we leg it, Mate?"

James shook his head vigorously. "Nah, Ian. They're narked about something." James finally gave his penis a shake and put it away. He then spoke to the men who surrounded them. "Look 'ere, Gents. We're sorry. If you want us to, we'll just go and let you finish what you're doin'. We'll come back some other time."

When the two friends tried to walk back to their vehicle, they heard the sound of several guns being cocked. They looked at each other and raised their hands.

The guards yelled something at them in German. "I guess they want us to stay," Ian muttered.

Ian looked frightened, but James just appeared to be annoyed. "Keep yer pecker up, Mate," he offered as encouragement to his friend.

Ian made a rude noise. "That's what got me into this pickle in the first place. What I get for gettin' meself arse over tits. Thanks to me stupid todger, this holiday's gone all to cock."

The farmer from before came out of the house again. He walked up to the two men and smiled evilly. "I told you to leave," he said with an American accent.

"Are you a Yank? I thought you was local!" James shouted. "This is barmy! What the hell's goin' on?"

"Your worst nightmare," the 'farmer' replied. "Care to beg me for your lives, you Limey cretins?"

The two captives snickered at the man. 'American' was not the only thing they detected in his accent. This man was a very effeminate homosexual if ever there was one. The 'farmer' signaled at his men to bring the prisoners inside. As he signaled with a rather limp wrist, the two Brits laughed even more.

"He's camp as a row o' pink tents, that one," Ian muttered to his friend.

"He's queer as a nine bob note!" James replied.

They both chuckled. The 'farmer' turned to face them wearing an angry scowl. "You still haven't answered my question. Will you beg me for your life, Englishmen?"

The shorter man's chuckles died out. "Nah, Mate. No arse-lickers here." He watched how the man paced back and forth in what was supposed to be an intimidating stride, but really was just a slightly effeminate stroll. James continued, "Although, I think I see at least one arse-bandit." The two men finally fell out laughing, only held upright by the men who restrained them.

"No suck ups, then?" the 'farmer' asked angrily.

"You 'ear that, James? He wants you to suck 'im up!" They laughed so hard there were tears in their eyes.

"Sorry, but I'd rather clutch a wank mag and do no one else but Rosie Palm and 'er five sisters for the rest o' me life afore goin' for a ride up yer marmite motorway, Nancy-boy!"

"Fine then! If you will not be beggars, how about traitors?"

Ian sputtered a laugh. "Did he say 'beggars' or 'buggers', Mate?" James laughed so hard he started to cough.

"Shut up! You think that's funny? Well, how funny do you find this? What if I said the first one to ask to go free, we'll let go . . . and then only the other will die!"

James pulled to his feet and dragged his captors closer to the 'farmer'. He then spat in the man's face. "You're a daftie if you reckon we'd do that!"

Ian struggled against the men holding him, too. "Get knotted, ya fudge-nudger!" he added to James's protests. "We been bezzy mates since nursery school! I won't be doin' the dirty on me mate fer the likes o' you!"

"Fine then. Death for both of you it is. Come along." He turned away from them dismissively and began walking toward the house. "It's a shame, really. You're both such attractive specimens." He looked back and eyed them both up and down hungrily. "Such a waste."

"Uh . . . could ya quit lookin' at us like you want us to gobble yer meat, Farmer Fudge-Packer?"

"Yah. We don't eat meat. We're vagitarians." Both men started to chuckle again.

"Very funny, British scum! But I'll be the one with the last laugh! When Erik is done with you, you'll wish the worst of this were letting us fuck you!" He smiled evilly at them. "Perhaps in the next life, you will know to stay clear of Umbrella research facilities."

Ian and James looked confused. "What're you rabbitin' on about? You do experiments with umbrellas 'ere?"

"It's been tickin' it down that much in Austria? I mean, it's a bit damp, yes, but I haven't seen a rain or snow cloud since we got 'ere. Brolly science sounds daft to me, Mate."

The 'farmer' frowned at them again, assuming they were teasing him like before. But when he noticed their expressions, he realized that they were serious. He sighed. "Stupid, ignorant, drunken English tourists."

The two backpackers were forced to wear their satchels, and escorted inside the house at gunpoint. Imagine their surprise when they found not the unassuming interior of a dilapidated farmhouse, but rather a white tiled modern military facility.

Ian's and James's jaws dropped.

"Bugger," Ian muttered. "We're up the swanny, Mate."

"Yah. We're shagged."

The phony farmer turned to one of the uniformed men. He said something to the man in German, then finished with, "We'll take them to the laboratory. Dr. Weissmuller hasn't had a fresh research volunteer in weeks. Call him and tell him we've got two for him. These idiot tourists will do nicely. They're both already in excellent shape. They must be athletes. Considering their behavior on surveillance videos throughout their journey here, no one will wonder what happened to them. Clearly, they were a Darwin Award waiting to happen."

"Aye, sir," the man in uniform replied in English but with a thick German accent.

The farmer turned to Ian and James and smiled. "And now for the two of you . . . ."

"Hey, horses for courses, Mate! If you want us to go, we'll go!" Ian assured.

"Yeah! We was just pissin' around, Old Man!" Ian frowned at James, as that reminder of why they were now in the stew wasn't likely to help their cause. James winced a bit. "Sorry, Mate. Poor phrasing. But ya gotta know we meant no harm!"

"It's a bit late for that, Smartass. I told you to leave before. But now, since Christopher Redfield and Leon S. Kennedy have been spotted rappelling into the area around this property with a team of American soldiers identified to possibly be Carlos Olivera, Bruce McGivern, and William Coen, we have no time to play games with the likes of you." He turned to the guard standing closest to him. "Use the tazer, then you and your men carry them down to the doctor's exam rooms."

That said, the 'farmer' went through a door to the side of the hallway and disappeared through it.

The man who spoke to the farmer walked up to the two unfortunate young men and had his soldiers remove their backpacks. They set each pack on the ground. Ian and James immediately put their hands back up.

As the guards began to lead the two prisoners to the end of the hall, the sound of gunshots could be heard in the distance outside the farmhouse.

"Scheisse!" the head guard shouted. He pulled his radio, depressed the signal button, and yelled into it. "They are only a handful of American soldiers! Kill them!"

There were more sounds of fighting outside as Ian and James were led to a metal door with a keypad and a card swipe. The commanding guard pulled out a white card from his pocket. He entered a ten digit number into the keypad. He was just about to swipe the card when there was a crackle and a whine from his radio. A moment later, a frantic Austrian voice came screeching out of the communicator, begging in broken English for the lieutenant to answer.

"Lieftenant, sir! The Americans are dead! Repeat! We have fatally wounded targets identified by surveillance as Kennedy and Redfield! Their team has fled!"

"Good work, Hans! Return to the compound."

"But, sir . . . ."

"Now, Hans!"

"Sir, please! Is important!"

The lieutenant sighed. "Fine. What is it?"

"The Americans we killed, they were not Kennedy or Redfield!"

"WHAT? But that is impossible. We have intelligence that the two agents who pose the greatest threat to Umbrella's goals would be attacking this compound. Video surveillance has them abseilling into Fucking and then running off into the forest that surrounds this compound."

"Yes, but men from helicopter not them. Men from helicopter were doubles! Look like them, wear uniforms with their names, but not them! Real Kennedy and Redfield coming a different way!"

The lieutenant frowned. Two men, one tall and blond, one taller and brunette. He suddenly had a bad feeling.

Suddenly, he heard music coming from the direction of the outside of the farmhouse. A whisper of 'let the bodies hit the floor' repeated a few times. It suddenly became loud, blasting the way the rock music had been doing earlier when the British tourists . . . pulled . . . up . . . .

"Nein," he muttered before swallowing past the lump that had just formed in his throat. He slowly turned to face his prisoners, and found himself staring down the barrels of two Sig Sauer P226 pistols.

"Hand over the card," 'Ian' ordered, his face deadly serious, his accent now American.

The lieutenant's hand shook as he handed the card to his former brunette prisoner, now captor, over the bodies of his men. All their throats had been slit, and their weapons lay in two neat piles on the floor near the two packs. These two foreigners had silently murdered six of his men, all of whom had guns, with a pair of small knives that must have been hidden on their persons, and then quietly divvied up the weapons. All in under a minute. More importantly, they both reeked of alcohol. What was their reaction time like when they were sober?

The radio blared to life again. "Sir! Fucking constable just call! They in big yellow jeep car! They taked pictures by west side Fucking sign! Video match pictures in Umbrella database!"

'James' smirked and said, also in an American accent, "Tell him we're here, and we'll kill you." He took off his backwards baseball cap and tossed it on the floor before pushing his freed dirty blond fringe back from where it had just fallen into his face.

'Ian' tapped the radio with a Glock equipped with a silencer that he'd just pulled out of his pack. "Tell him to keep searching outside for Kennedy and Redfield. We're only gonna tell you once."

The lieutenant frowned. "Never."

Quicker than lightning, 'Ian' threw a small dagger he'd hidden in his palm right between the man's eyes.

'James' chuckled. "Not like we didn't warn him," he said.

'Ian' smirked as 'James' picked up the radio from the dead unit leader. He cleared his throat, pressed the on button, and shouted into the radio in German using a very accurate impersonation of the lieutenant's voice. The junior Umbrella operative said he would do as told and disconnected their signal.

The two 'Brits' began to check the status of their spoils. They each pulled a white body armor suit from their bags. They re-dressed and armed themselves in white, including helmets that would fit tight to their faces. 'Ian' removed his red bandana before putting on his helmet. His hair was a brown buzz cut underneath.

They also pulled out guns that had been custom crafted out of steel sheathed in white fiberglass. They stowed all the weapons they'd confiscated from the dead guards in their packs. Then they took off their casual clothing, down to their underwear and packed that away as well. They dressed in the battle armor and helmets, holstered all the white guns, and each sheathed three large white daggers. 'James' spoke into his communicator within the helmet that completely hid his face.

"Check one, two. Please copy, 'Ian'."

"Copy that, 'James'. Check one, two."

"Copy that."

"You sure there's no cameras on this level?" 'Ian' asked his comrade.

"Affirmative," 'James' replied. "This lot were supposed to guard the door, so there was no need for cameras by the entryway."

"Understood." 'Ian' strapped a pure white collapsible baton to his belt. "Can't believe you had the battle gear custom made in white," 'Ian' said into his communicator while pulling on pure white gloves.

'James' shrugged. "It's their own fault for being so predictable, always making their labs out of everything white they could find at Home Depot." Ian chuckled. "This just happens to be what camo looks like in an Umbrella lab."

They each tucked a white handcannon into a shoulder holster. They then pulled out a pure white semi-automatic assault rifle each and walked toward the infamous door to the lower levels. Lower levels that undoubtedly held a lab. A lab that reportedly housed their target.

"The average human will still be able to see us."

"Yeah, but maybe not until it's too late. That split second can make all the difference sometimes. You know that. Camouflage isn't supposed to make you invisible, just harder to see. And besides, it's not humans we're wearing this for."

'Ian' nodded in understanding. It certainly hadn't helped things in the past charging into Umbrella's facilities full of zombies and monsters in black and gray uniforms that didn't protect the head. Now their battle suits would protect them, and the helmets dampened sound, whence the communicators. They could still be heard if they spoke above a normal speaking volume, but they could whisper softly and be fairly well muted. They weren't completely invisible or totally silent, but they were pretty damn close. And at least the security cameras wouldn't clearly be able to make them out as they moved through the facility.

"Right, then. Let's gen up, Mate," 'Ian' said with a chuckle, once again speaking in an urban British accent.

'James' rolled his eyes at 'Ian' from under his helmet. "Knock it off, Bro. We're in. You can drop the cockney speak already. We're not gonna 'gen up'. We're going to infiltrate the lab and to procure the target." 'James' had already followed his own instructions, speaking with his native northern Ohio accent.

'Ian' chuckled at his friend's annoyance, but began speaking with his usual Connecticut native vernacular as per the request of 'James'. "Yeah, yeah, Party Poop. It worked, didn't it?"

"Shockingly, yes. This was a real stroke of genius on your part," 'James' said with a smirk. "Awfully nice of them to escort us in like this."

"Wasn't it though?" They both laughed.

Both men chuckled as 'Ian' entered the ten-digit number he had memorized from when the late lieutenant entered it, and then used the keycard he'd taken from the now dead lieutenant on the door's card-swipe. The red light by the door went out, and the bulb beside it flashed green. 'James', aka Leon S. Kennedy, opened the door for 'Ian', aka Christopher Redfield.

"After you, Bro."

"Why, thank you, Agent Kennedy."

"A pleasure, Agent Redfield." They both chuckled as they entered an elevator. "This is going over smoother than I anticipated."

"Oh, ye of little faith. You asked for my help, so trust I'll deliver."

"No, I had faith in you. I just didn't believe this crazy plan of yours would work. Big difference," Leon said sarcastically, causing his fellow operative to laugh. Leon pushed the only button available in the elevator. The door closed and the car began to descend underground. "I mean seriously, Christopher . . . 'let's just pull up to the front door and knock' I believe is how you put it in the briefing?"

"Yes, and send in two decoys with a more traditionally military appearance to stir things up." He sighed. "Wasn't in the plan that they should get themselves killed in our names though."

"I know. But they shouldn't have gotten so close to the house. Just close enough to be identified as us. That was their orders." Leon shook his head. "I guess I didn't train them well enough."

Chris patted Leon on the shoulder. "Don't put that on yourself. I know how you are about training new agents. It wasn't you. They just got overzealous about being on a mission with the great Agent Kennedy and the great Agent Redfield and got themselves dealt a bad hand. Not your fault they acted like star-struck fanboys in cosplay costumes instead of like well-trained soldiers."

Leon shook his head in amusement. "You and your fucking anime." He knew Chris was baiting him, just like he did when he announced their British tourist aliases to be 'James Bond' and 'Ian Fleming'. Leon being a poor man's James Bond was a running joke between the Redfield siblings. "Anyway, at least the other three doubles got away. Now then, great Agent Redfield, how'd you know about the whole sign stealing business?"

Chris started to laugh. "I was stationed in Germany back in my Air Force days. Made friends with a Brit named Nigel Wallace, on account of Redfield being a British name. He told me about how the town has four signs at the four roads that lead into Fucking. Well, once when we were drunk, we headed across the border and stole all four signs in one night. We're the reason they put up the surveillance cameras."

Leon sputtered out a laugh and had to lean against his friend for support. Finally, he gasped out between chuckles, "You're so fucking stupid!"

Chris laughed as well. "I'll have to show you my half of the spoils. I've got two signs at my place in D.C. You can have one if you want, as a souvenir of today."

"Awesome. Now then . . . game faces on."

Chris nodded. Both men shouldered their rifles as the elevator car slowed to a halt. The door slowly opened on a long, empty white hallway.

Leon pointed his gun left and right, then exited the elevator. Chris did the same. They darted quietly down the hallway, light on their feet and almost silent as they moved, despite their heavy cache of weaponry. At the other end of the hallway was another door. Chris used the key pad and swiped the card again. This time, the door opened on a staircase. They took the stairs down four flights, and stopped outside the stairway exit door. The door had a round window so they could see that the coast was clear. They went in through the door at the fourth sub-basement level and closed the door behind them with a soft click.

There were ten doors on each side of the corridor, all with small round windows at eye level. Leon looked into the first window. He put up his hand and used sign language to tell Chris that it was an empty office. Chris looked in through the window of the door across the hall from the office. He signed, "Office . . . one guard."

Leon nodded. They proceeded down the hall, peering in through each window and signing to each other what was inside. In the end, they passed twelve offices, two storage spaces, five examination rooms, and a staff lounge with snack machines. In the twenty total rooms, there were nine guards and six scientists scattered throughout. In three of the examination rooms, there were two women and a little boy of about six or seven, all of whom were being given physical exams. All three were bound with ropes on their wrists and were crying and pleading in German for freedom.

At the end of the hallway, Leon and Chris used the keycard and card swipe. They entered another elevator and pressed for the sub-sub-basement on level D7. They were calm as they rode down below ground, but they both knew that the level they were about to enter was no cakewalk. It was where this facility kept its bio-organic weapons. It was also where their target was being held. After all, for all intents and purposes, the target was a B.O.W. too, just a weaker one with maintenance of normal human intelligence after reaching adulthood, if their source was to be believed.

And their source was infallible. Their source was Barry Burton.

As they stood in the second unmonitored elevator, they were free to speak aloud again. "Well, this is it," Leon said. "Whatever happens, Chris, I want you to know that I appreciate that you came with me on this mission."

"Not a problem, Bro. Thanks for giving me something important to do. Maybe if we can get through this mission alive . . . well, then I suppose I might reconsider and stay with the BSAA after all."

Leon smiled and clapped his brother-in-arms on the shoulder. "We'll make it out alive. I have every faith that you'll have my back."

Chris looked at Leon through his helmet goggles. He thought of what it would be like if he didn't have Leon's back well enough . . . if he lost him the way he'd lost Jill. He thought of how his sister would feel just like he does now. Leon was to Claire as Jill was to Chris. He knew that Claire had strong feelings for the agent. He suspected Leon might feel some sort of attraction for her, but he doubted he felt the same way for her as she felt for him. Still, he knew his friend would do anything for his sister. This mission was proof enough of that. 'If something happens to Leon today . . . if I fail to protect him, it will destroy my Claire-Bear.' He looked at the elevator display with determination. D3 . . . D4 . . . D5 . . . .

"We're almost there," Leon commented.

"Leon?"

"Yeah?"

"On my life, I will get you out of here alive."

Leon turned toward his friend. "Chris, if I come home without you, Claire will fucking kill me." Chris chuckled. "Stop being such a downer," Leon continued. "We'll both be going home today, and the target will be with us."

Leon turned to face front again. Chris did the same. Beneath his helmet, he was smiling. "Maybe the three of us can grab a beer together." Chris could just feel Leon's hard, heated glare on the side of his face, even though he couldn't see his friend's expression through their armor. Chris taunted him some more, just for kicks. "Target's about old enough to drink by now, you know."

"Yeah, I know," Leon gritted out.

Chris smirked. "Think Claire will notice how much older the target looks? I mean, they'll have so much more to talk about now that they're both adults."

Leon punched the side of his friend's helmet. "Don't be a dick, Chris." Chris chuckled and apologized half-heartedly.

The elevator doors opened. The hallway before them was much wider and longer, still white-walled like the upper levels, but there was no exit across from the elevator. It was a dead end. There were a total of six doors lining the corridor this time, three on each side, but no windows were present to look inside any of them. There were only plaques above the doors to indicate what was inside.

Chris read the plaque over the first door on the left. "G tyrant," he signed to Leon.

Leon read the door across from it. "T-Veronica tyrant," he signed to Chris.

Chris frowned. "Do you think the charges we set will kill them both?"

Leon shook his head. "The explosion will likely just free them."

Chris sighed in disgust. They were going to have to take a personal hand in killing the tyrants. Barry hadn't known about such powerful B.O.W.'s being on the premises. They certainly weren't in his intelligence file on the facility.

"Okay. G first or T-Veronica first?" Chris signed.

Leon shrugged. "Flip a coin."

Chris flipped the bird instead, and Leon had to fight not to laugh out loud.

Leon pointed to the left, to the door that led to the G tyrant. "Alphabetical," he signed.

Chris nodded. He used the key card on the door and Leon pulled it open quickly. He was surprised to find not a tyrant, but a stairway. He and Chris started down the stairs, with Chris taking point. At the bottom of seven flights, there was a large set of blast doors. Both men shouldered their rifles. They each took a calming breath, and then Leon punched the 'open door' control. A roar sounded from behind the door. The two men rolled under the door before it could open all the way, and then Chris hit the CLOSE DOOR control inside.

They immediately got back-to-back and trained their weapons around the room. It was a huge space, with animal bones and blood littered everywhere. Fortunately, the walls were still white enough for their camouflage to be at least partially effective.

Unfortunately, their enemy already had its oversized eye on them, so their camo didn't actually matter.

The G tyrant charged toward them from the nest of bones it had made in one corner of the room. Chris clasped his hands together and bent down. Leon put one foot on Chris's hands. Chris stared the monster down. "Wait for it . . . . Wait for it . . . . Now!" Chris launched Leon backwards into the air before diving out of the creature's path. Leon flipped over the monster's head and emptied his automatic rifle into its large eye while upside-down in mid-air. The giant eye popped in an explosion of pink and white goo. The tyrant roared in pain and stumbled backwards.

Leon dropped the empty gun while falling towards the ground. He landed on his hands then flipped onto his feet. The tyrant charged at him before he could stand up, but Chris ran up behind the creature and pumped its back full of hot lead from his semi-automatic. The monster turned and growled at him.

The tyrant swiped an arm at Chris, knocking him back several yards. Chris crashed into the blast door. He groaned and rolled to his feet. He stumbled off blindly to the side.

"Chris!"

Leon had spotted the tyrant charging at his friend again. Another hit like that first one would kill him. Leon pulled his handcannon, ran between Chris and the creature, and blasted the tyrant in the face until his gun clicked empty. The behemoth fell to the ground, unmoving.

Chris leaned back against the wall. "Ow," he muttered.

"You alright, Man?"

"Yeah. I'll be fine. But I'm gonna sue that bus driver that hit me."

Leon chuckled and clapped his friend on the left side of his back. Chris winced. "Oops. Sorry."

The BSAA's finest nodded. "Come on. Let's get the hell outta here. We still got the Veronica tyrant to take care of."

Leon gave a curt nod. The two men started for the door. They looked back over their shoulders at the monster. It was apparently dead. But Leon knew better. He held a hand up to stop Chris from opening the blast doors.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't like it. I've seen these fucking things come back to life too many times for comfort."

Chris rubbed his sore left shoulder. He was pretty sure his clavicle was fractured. "So what do you want to do?"

Leon pulled off his helmet and gave Chris a sly smile. "Come on. I got an idea."

"That should do it," Chris said as he got to his feet. "And for the record, you need therapy. This is a pretty sick thing to do to someone, even if that someone is a tyrant."

Leon chuckled and stood up from where he'd been kneeling on the floor. "Yeah, yeah, Party Poop." He mocked Chris's earlier statement to him. "You won't be saying that when it works."

Chris chuckled. "Yeah, it'll work alright . . . like lighting a candle with a flamethrower."

They went out through the blast door and closed it. They climbed the stairs quickly and then waited three flights up. After about a minute, they felt a rumble under their feet. Leon and Chris went back down the stairs. Chris opened the blast door again. A noxious plume of smoke drifted out, causing both men to cough.

When the smoke cleared, Leon hacked a bit, then said, "See? *cough cough* It worked."

Chris looked through the dark fumes and then started to laugh, also coughing intermittently.

It had worked indeed.

The two agents had set five charges each with ten minutes on their timers then cut gouges into the flesh of the creature with their huge military blades. They shoved the ten bombs into the holes they had made all over the tyrant's body, and finally sealed the holes with duct tape.

There wasn't enough of the tyrant left to fill a bucket, and the walls were now a very interesting shade of red and black.

"Seriously," Chris chuckled. "You got issues, Bro."

Leon smirked. "Well, that's not news. Hunnigan's been saying that for years."

They both laughed as they went up the stairs to the outer white hallway. They closed the door with the 'G tyrant' plaque, and it locked behind them. Chris looked up at the 'T-Veronica tyrant' plaque and sighed. "Well, time to get the other half of my ass kicked off," Chris signed.

Leon smirked. "I can go it alone if you want."

Chris shook his head. "I am not giving you all the glory, Rookie."

Leon smiled. "Come on, then."

Chris nodded and unlocked the door. This time, Leon took point on the way down the seven flights of stairs.

---

Twenty minutes later, Leon exited the T-Veronica tyrant's cell and limped to the next door. His right ankle was sprained pretty badly, but at least it didn't seem to be broken. That was more than he could say for his friend's clavicle. If it wasn't broken before, it certainly was now. Chris said he could hear the snap when the giant mutated bear had landed on him.

Apparently, the original human host of this T-Veronica inoculation was into koalas. Leon had almost suffocated in that damn pouch. "Thank you for pulling me out of that thing. I was running out of air fast," he signed to Chris.

Chris patted Leon on the back with his good arm. "We are even," he signed, having to spell the words out one letter at a time since he could only use one hand. Chris's arm was now in a makeshift sling that Leon had fashioned. Leon had also wrapped his ankle to stabilize it. It wouldn't do them or the target any good if he couldn't run.

There was another rumble under their feet. This time, they didn't even bother to go back and look. Chris had definitely killed it. The explosion was just so the body wouldn't be salvageable to Umbrella's scientists.

They each walked to the next door on the left and right of the corridor, the middle doors.

Chris signed to Leon, "What is a Plaga?"

Leon abruptly looked up at Chris's plaque. He frowned darkly and thought briefly of Ada Wong's head on a stake. "You do not want to know," he signed to Chris. Leon turned back over to the door he himself was standing in front of. "What in the world is a Majini?"

Chris shrugged. "Never heard of it. Think the blast will kill these B.O.W.'s?"

Leon cocked his head in thought. "It will kill the Plagas for sure, but I do not know what a Majini is." He took the keycard from Chris and unlocked the door in front of him. He peaked inside at the Majini, and then quickly withdrew his head and slammed the door. He nodded. "They look pretty horrible, but are still just the size of men."

Chris nodded. They each set a charge. Leon unlocked his door, opened it a crack, tossed in the bomb, and closed it again. He passed the key card back to Chris, and he did the same.

They proceeded to the last set of doors to the sound of a rumble behind the two doors they'd just closed.

Leon read the plaque before him. He cringed.

Chris read the plaque in front of him. He tapped Leon's shoulder frantically. Then signed to him when he got his attention.

"Look."

Leon followed Chris's finger to where it pointed at the plaque above his head. The younger agent sighed in relief.

"Pay dirt," he signed. "But look over here."

Chris followed Leon to the other door. Leon couldn't see it, but his friend's eyes were like saucers behind his helmet. "Okay," Chris signed. "So, now we have two targets."

Leon smiled and patted his friend gingerly on the uninjured shoulder. "I knew you would have my back."

Chris pulled a small handheld device out of one of his side pockets. He wired it to the lock on the door in front of him. He turned to see that Leon was doing the same on the door in front of him. The two door locks clicked open at the same time.

"Why did we not use the key card again?" Leon signed.

Chris took his arm out of his sling to answer in a longer string of signs. "Colonel Klink upstairs was just a grunt. He had access to the bio-organic weapons, but not the targets. They are the virus source materials, and too important to be trusted to a lowly lieutenant. If we used his card, it would have been denied and we would have caused the alarm to sound. We do not want to raise attention to ourselves, especially now that we are both injured. The best way to do this is in and out like the wind."

Leon nodded. "That is why I am glad you are here."

Chris smiled behind his helmet and repositioned his arm into the sling. He opened his door as Leon opened the other. Leon walked into the room and then limped back out quickly. He closed the door abruptly, his hand shaking.

"You OK?"

"Yes. I just hope that the primary target looks better than the secondary target."

"Primary target intact," Chris signed in response.

Leon sighed in relief. 'Well that's one more nightmare I'll be having for the rest of my life,' he thought to himself. He walked into the room that Chris had just entered. He smiled sadly when he saw the primary target. He closed the door behind him, having gotten intelligence that there was a one minute delay on open doors in the sub-basement of this Umbrella facility. After that, the alarm would sound.

Leon and Chris both took off their helmets. They stared at the cryogenic stasis tube before them. In a tall, silver cylinder with a glass front, a young naked adult floated, sleeping in suspension. There was a gurney off to the side of the tube with four restraints and rumpled bed sheets. Apparently, the target had gone into stasis unwillingly.

The file did not do the target justice. The young Umbrella captive had grown to be very attractive and almost perfectly formed over the years. They were still pretty short, but it didn't matter. Additional height could not have made the target more attractive. The target would already waylay the opposite sex as is. Although the target had an Umbrella virus dormant in their system, they had grown up from adolescence to adulthood with only just above normal human abilities, if the intel was accurate. And again, the informant was Barry Burton.

Chris shook himself from his awe of how their target had changed, going to the controls, and punching in the release code on the console. Leon got into position on the opposite side of the console. Chris used his teeth to pull off his right glove, while Leon removed his left. Both men were wearing a tighter latex glove underneath. Each glove had fingerprints formed into the tips. Leon's fingertips now reflected the prints of Dr. Erik Weissmuller, a left-handed scientist working for Umbrella who was also scientific director of this facility. Chris's fingertips were now graced by the prints of his right-handed former commander, Albert Wesker.

The two men counted down from five to one. After one, each man slammed his hand down on a fingerprint scanner and then pulled an adjacent lever. A green light flashed on the tank that held the target.

It had worked.

Leon continued to just watch in awe as the cold green fluid that engulfed the target began to drain away. Chris put a flash drive into the Umbrella computer and hacked the facility's files. Once he'd downloaded ten flash drives worth of intel, he returned to Leon's side.

"I can't believe it, Chris," Leon said, speaking aloud for the first time since they'd fought the T-Veronica tyrant a few minutes before. "After all these years of searching. We found the target." He shook his head. "I never thought I'd really be able to do this for Claire."

Chris smiled and patted Leon on the shoulder. "Set the charges. We're shutting this place down."

Leon nodded and began doing as Chris said.

While his Bro was busy, Chris wrapped the target in the sheet from the gurney and lifted the groggy, confused young adult over his good shoulder. He figured that no matter which side Leon tried to carry the target, it would have hurt his ankle to do so. They couldn't afford for him to be any slower. Besides, it was better that the one of them with two good shooting arms take point.

Once Leon had set the charges, they left the room. Leon went across the hall, looked in the other room at the secondary target, and sighed sadly. He walked in and took the necklace from around the dead young adult's neck. He walked to the door and tossed five charges into the room behind him. He looked down at the necklace for a moment, finally sighing and pocketing it. 'For Claire,' he thought. He looked back at the secondary target again. 'I'm sorry I couldn't save you,' he mused. 'Rest in peace.' He set another charge, placed it on the target's chest, crossed the target's arms so the bomb was held in both hands, and then closed the door behind him.

"That is a waste of bombs," Chris signed.

Leon shook his head. "Indulge me. I am insuring that an old friend gets to rest in peace."

"And the necklace?"

"I promised Claire that I would let her know what happened to the primary and secondary targets if I ever found them, no matter in what condition I found them."

Chris nodded. "Hurry up then."

Once the charges were all set, Leon and Chris, with their initial target in tow, made their way to the elevator. They rode it up to the level with the twenty doors. Once they exited the elevator, Leon bashed in the controls with the butt of his handcannon.

The two intruders put silencers on their guns. Next, they placed electronic locking mechanisms on all the doors except the ones with the scientists and Umbrella test subjects, so that none of the guards inside could escape. They took the three remaining rooms one by one. They shot the scientists in the head, and each of the three captives thanked them in tearful German. The two soldiers nodded and shushed the freed captives.

After leaving a few "gifts" for the soldiers locked in the other rooms, they made their way to the first elevator they had ridden, and took it up to ground level. They got off the elevator and broke the controls again. Leon took clothes for the target out of his bag and helped the target get dressed while Chris left another little present from each of them on the floor by the dead guards. Leon shouldered his own pack and grabbed the strap of Christopher's. Then the three Umbrella fugitives left the house, with the three freed hostages and the target in tow. Outside, they got into their hummer after Leon checked it for any traps or tampering. The two Austrian women and the target were placed in the back. The two injured heroes jumped in the front, and buckled themselves in. The little boy fell asleep curled up on Leon's lap. Chris gunned the engine, slammed his foot on the gas pedal, and raced quickly away from the house.

---

The 'farmer' and the scientist were lying naked together in a bedroom on the second floor of the three-story farmhouse. Erik Weissmuller had found working for Umbrella to be the only way he could still practice anatomy and virology once the university in Germany that he once worked for found out about his taste in more . . . masculine lovers.

"Erik, I'm going to get something to drink. Can I bring you anything?"

"No, but I hope you are ready for more when you return," Erik replied in a very proper German accent.

The 'farmer' smiled. He pulled on his boxers and padded down the stairs. He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a tall glass of carrot juice.

As he left the kitchen, he absently took the route that sent him through the front hallway of the house. When he walked through the door, he was shocked to find the seven men he'd left with the two English prisoners dead. He dropped his glass. Suddenly, the sound of screaming guards could be heard through the radios of all the dead men. They were the guards he knew to be stationed in the lower levels. They were screaming about being trapped in the rooms they were in. They were shouting about bombs duct taped to the windows on the outside of the doors they were trapped behind. They were screaming that time was almost up.

All of a sudden, the 'farmer' recognized a soft sound repeating as a background noise to the guards screaming. He searched the floor for the sound. Finally, he came to two small backpacks, which were of a similar style to the ones the British tourists had been carrying, only these one were pure white. He opened the zipper on one of the bags and looked inside.

This was indeed the source of the sound he'd heard . . . the beeping sound.

On several small timers with blocks of something clay-colored wired to them, was a countdown:

00:06 . . . . 00:05 . . . . 00:04 . . . . 00:03 . . . . 00:02 . . . . 00:01 . . . .

He closed his eyes. "Erik," he whispered.

'00:01' was the last thing he would ever see.

---

When the hummer reached the German border, an explosion rocked the earth beneath its tires, probably because most of the blast was underground. Still a decent sized cloud of dust and flames still shot up into the sky at their backs.

Leon and Chris looked into the back of the jeep. The target was asleep.

"Mission accomplished," Chris said while driving toward the American Embassy in Munich. They had already dropped off the three missing Fuckingers with the constable. He was furious with the Umbrella researchers, but Leon and Chris flashed their badges and said it had been dealt with, and warned him that there would be an explosion.

"Yeah," Leon replied. "And I couldn't have done it without your planning. Thanks, Bro."

Chris smirked and pulled up onto the road that led to Munich. "My pleasure."

They were silent for a few minutes, until Leon spoke again. "Chris?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't ever tell Claire the things I said about women and homosexuals as James."

"Oh . . . oh, God no! And don't ever tell her the things I said as Ian! Half of TerraSave is gay! She'd kill us!"

They nodded in agreement.

Neither man noticed the target smile a little in the depths of slumber.

---

Chris and Leon were both wool-gathering, reliving the memories of that day. They eventually smiled fraternally at each other and tapped water bottles in a toast.

"Seriously, Chris. Thanks for helping me on that mission."

Chris smiled. "No, thanks to you, Leon . . . for giving me something to do other than mourn Jill, lift weights, and be drunk."

Leon chuckled. "You were so wasted."

Chris rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Now, get on with the story about you and Claire. I mean, not that I haven't enjoyed strolling down memory lane with you, but what's this have to do with you and Claire's most recent hoorah?"

Leon smiled. "Everything."

---

Author's Notes: Thanks for indulging me. I've always wanted to use the town of Fucking, Austria in a story. It's pretty hilarious to someone as immature as I can be. Oh! And please excuse the rather liberal smattering of vulgar British slang, misogyny, and homophobia. Since drunken testosterone driven British hooligans tend to be the vandals that visit Fucking the most according to Wikipedia, I wrote Leon and Chris's cover story that way. And I know Brits aren't all like that. But those are the kind of Brits I needed Leon and Chris to be for the sake of my story. So, apologies to my British readers. And one love to my homosexual readers, but gay people can be villains, too. I thought the under story of how Erik Weissmuller was actually a German scientist who joined Umbrella because he was persecuted in his prior academic position in Germany for being gay was interesting. Sort of like selling your soul to the devil just to be able to live and be happy. So, no offense intended. They're not villains because they're gay. They're just villains. And clearly in love. In the farmer's last moments, his final thoughts were of his partner.

By the way, and as an explanation, the reason Chris and Leon were in character as Ian and James the entire time (other than my attempt at a little twist) is that Fucking has a lot of surveillance cameras, and my addition to that is that Umbrella has also hooked them up to detect sound. According to the internet, the town paid for the cameras to help catch tourists in the act of stealing signs or having sex in front of the signs. I thought it would be a nice touch to have the people of Fucking be unaware that Umbrella was monitoring their cameras. And the fictional constable was not a villain, by the way. He thought the farm was an innocent government sanctioned research facility. It was patriotism to Austria that caused him to cooperate with them in my story. Don't want to offend the Fuckingers any more than English speaking folks already have. ;-)

In any event, I hope this chapter was exciting enough and worth a laugh or two, and if there's anything in it that you don't understand . . . look it up like I did. LOL! No, really, being as I'm from Jersey myself (New Jersey in America, not Jersey in the English Channel), I had to look most of these terms up, too. Although my penchant for Jason Statham, Vinnie Jones, and Guy Ritchie movies certainly didn't hurt. If you want, there's a great British to American dictionary at this link (sorry, have to spell it out - the website keeps deleting the link):

"www" dot "peevish" dot "co" dot "uk" slash "slang" (no quotation marks in web address)

I think everything I used is in there. This was a great help to me in the writing process. And for those who don't know, "schiesse" is German for "shit", and "nein" is German for "no". Hope that helps, too.

Ta for now, Mates! See you in Chapter 6!