Chapter Text
Rebecca stood by the vending machine, glancing at her watch before retrieving a can of cola.
She’d made excellent time since Bravo Team leader Enrico Marini had called her at home and ordered her to report to the station. Not even twenty minutes—a commendable feat, considering she’d thrown together a sandwich and run a comb through her hair before heading out. It was a little over three miles from her uncle’s house, where she was staying, to the precinct. Looking back, she was glad she’d taken the tram and skated the rest of the way on her inline skates. It helped her avoid the worst of the evening traffic. Since the 10 PM curfew had been imposed, Raccoon City’s nightlife had exploded.
The briefing was set for 8:30. She still had about ten minutes. Rebecca just needed a moment to catch her breath. She sat on a nearby bench and rested the black file folder containing copies of her new teammates’ personnel files on her lap.
Three days ago, she’d passed her exam and stress test. Chief Irons had assigned her to Bravo Team just yesterday. Since Marini’s call, she’d been a bundle of nerves. Excitement and the fear of screwing up battled for control. After all, this was her first official briefing. She flipped through the files again, trying to memorize the faces that went with the passport photos. Aside from Captain Marini, she hadn’t met any of them in person.
Finally, she set the folder aside and closed her eyes. The nearby fan sent out a pleasant breeze as it rotated. Rebecca took a deep breath, switched off her Walkman, and pulled down her headphones. The sounds of the station filled her ears—the chatter, the footsteps, the constant motion. The whole place was buzzing. During her brief visits, she’d already noticed how many officers were overworked, and just as many civilians were agitated. It might not have been the norm, but ever since the string of murders began, everyone was on edge.
She popped open the can of cola and took a sip. For the past five weeks, she’d been putting in up to twelve hours a day on training, then studying at night for her exams. With the current crisis, the chief had fast-tracked everything, and it was taking its toll. Rebecca could feel it now—how tired she really was.
Of course, she’d have preferred if things had gone according to plan. Finish basic training, have time to prep for the written exam, get properly oriented with the new team, maybe even earn some extra certifications. Extra shooting practice would’ve been nice. She still struggled with moving targets. But given the circumstances, that was just wishful thinking. The chief had made it clear from their very first meeting what she was in for. The situation in the city left no room for the usual process. And at her age, she was lucky to get a shot at S.T.A.R.S. at all, thanks only to her stellar record at the university.
'Special Tactics and Rescue Service, S.T.A.R.S. for short. Split into Alpha and Bravo teams. The RPD’s SWAT unit, specially trained in various fields, deployed primarily against the rising crime rate in Raccoon City and the surrounding counties.'
She could still hear Irons’ enthusiastic voice in her head. Then she yawned.
The station was huge, and she still had trouble finding her way around sometimes. The building was strange—lots of twisting hallways, oddly placed rooms. But despite the confusion, it had its charm. Large mosaic tiles, dark wood paneling, murals and frescoes, and so many windows. Through her research, she’d learned the place had once been an art museum, and before that, a city archive.
Thanks to the building’s age, the constant opening of new departments, and the reshuffling of spaces, renovations were always going on somewhere. It added to the sense of disorder.
Rebecca checked her watch again, slung her heavy backpack over one shoulder, and walked the last few yards to the briefing room.
But instead of Chief Irons and her new team, she found only a few other RPD officers.
»Excuse me, but—« she began.
The tall, lanky man at the chalkboard cut her off. »S.T.A.R.S. Bravo meeting’s upstairs. Chief Irons’ office.«
Rebecca smiled awkwardly.
»I’m sorry,« she said quickly, and pulled the double doors shut behind her.
She needed to think. The chief’s office was in the East Wing, on the opposite side of the building. Rebecca cursed under her breath and headed down the corridor. She grabbed the clipboard with the room assignments the chief had given her two days earlier, trying to make sense of the crossed-out, half-erased, or taped-over labels. If she kept going and turned left, she’d pass the darkroom and could take the stairs up. That would bring her back to the main hall. She could also loop back through reception or cut through the West Office, but with so many civilians inside, she preferred the upper-floor route.
Rebecca rounded the corner—
And ran straight into someone.
The collision sent her staggering back a step, and her folder slipped from her grasp. Papers, notes, and paperclips scattered across the floor. She dropped to her knees to gather them, glancing at the person she’d bumped into.
The woman knelt too and smiled as she helped collect the papers.
»Sorry about that!«
She handed Rebecca a few pages.
Rebecca took them and stuffed them into the folder.
»It was my fault too.«
The woman picked up the clipboard and gave it a quick glance. »New here?«
Rebecca nodded.
»Okay, then here’s a free tip for nearly knocking you out. Don’t waste time wondering why on earth a police station has a clock tower. I still don’t know. But you’ll get used to it.«
She laughed.
»Yeah… maybe. Someday,« Rebecca said, mostly to herself.
The woman’s gaze flicked to Rebecca’s visitor badge clipped to her backpack strap. She hadn’t gotten her ID or uniform yet.
»Well, good luck, Rebecca. See you around.«
Rebecca smiled back. »Thanks.«
Now she was definitely going to be late.
***
Chris parked his Jeep between two other cars and got out. The underground garage was cool, and he welcomed the relief, even though the familiar smell of damp and mold clung to the air. No matter how hot the summers got in this region, the old basement never completely dried out. Winter was even worse.
He locked the Jeep, slung his denim jacket over his shoulder, and headed for the firing range.
When he stepped into the adjoining hallway, he stopped short at the mess blocking half the passage. Bags of dog food stood among packed crates filled with leashes, harnesses, muzzles, blankets, collars, bowls, and brushes. Other boxes held training gear; vests, arm and leg guards, and equipment for portable search and obstacle exercises. The larger pieces like rails, poles, supports, and folded tunnels, leaned against the wall.
A moment later, Tony from K-9 rounded the corner, another crate under one arm.
»Hey,« he greeted Chris.
Chris nodded. »If I'd known you were still prepping for tomorrow, I would've lent a hand.«
Tony set down the crate and gave him a look.
»Ah, don't worry about it, kid.«
Tony was pushing fifty and called all the younger guys 'kid'. Chris had gotten used to it.
Tony checked his watch, then planted his hands on his hips. »Didn't you clock out already?«
Chris shrugged. »You know how it is.«
»Yeah, they always find some poor fool for the crap jobs after hours. And here I am.«
He smirked but then hesitated. His tone shifted, more serious. »Don't tell me it's another body.«
Chris nodded. There was truth in that. If there was one thing he'd seen enough of in recent weeks, it was torn-up, half-eaten corpses.
One of the dogs started barking. A second later, two more joined in. Tony gave a sharp whistle, and the barking died down.
»They know something's up,« he muttered.
»Sure. But it's still the same stinking basement. Once they figure that out, they'll settle down again.«
Chris clapped him on the shoulder. »No idea how long I'll be tied up upstairs. But if you need help later—«
Tony nodded and headed back toward the kennels.
Chris continued on, past the firing range and up the stairs to the next floor. The hallway above was brightly lit. One of the windows was open, and a few moths flitted around the fluorescent lights. The break room door stood ajar, the murmur of the TV spilling out. He moved down the corridor toward the main hall, passing one of the large open-plan offices. The air was thick with tension, conversations low and hurried. The closer he got to the entrance area, the more civilians he saw—people waiting, complaining, demanding answers.
And there, mingling with the crowd near the reception desk, stood Ben Bertolucci.
Of course he was. Chris groaned inwardly the moment their eyes met.
»Redfield!« Ben called out, pushing through the waiting civilians. »Been waiting here for twenty minutes. Your press officer's a no-show.«
Chris kept walking, rubbing a hand over his face.
»Ben... mornings are for coffee and compliments. Not for ambush interviews.«
Ben blinked, thrown for a second. »It's night.«
»Exactly.«
Ben hesitated for a moment, realizing he'd been had, then hurried to catch up. Chris didn't slow down.
He’d brushed him off more times than he could count since this all started. It was practically routine by now. Ben wasn't local; Chris remembered hearing he came from Chicago—or maybe Boston. The guy changed his story every other week. A big-city freelancer chasing the kind of scoop that would land him a national byline. The kind who could smell blood in the water. Chris respected persistence. Hell, he had it himself. But tonight wasn't the night.
Ben kept pace, voice low and urgent. »Come on, man. You've gotta give me something. The city's scared. People deserve to know what's going on.«
Chris exhaled through his nose, his jaw tight.
»Ben, you know I can't comment on an ongoing investigation. I can't help you.«
But Ben wasn't giving up. »Off the record? Something about those bodies? More disappearances? You S.T.A.R.S. guys are in the thick of it. You've seen what's really going on, haven't you?«
They reached the big fire shutter. Chris stopped, looked at him with deadpan calm, and said nothing.
Ben kept going. »Maybe one detail? A hint? I won't print it if you say so.«
»Okay,« Chris said at last. He hit the emergency switch, and the heavy door began to lower.
Ben looked briefly puzzled but curiosity got the better of him.
»Yeah?«
Chris folded his arms. »But this didn't come from me.«
Ben leaned in, ready, eyes flicking between Chris and the lowering shutter.
Chris didn’t answer. He waited a little bit longer, then ducked under the gap—low enough to slip through, high enough he didn’t even have to rush.
Ben realized too late to follow. »Seriously, Redfield? Damn it!«
His voice echoed as the shutter clattered down the last bit and thudded shut.
At the reception desk, Marsha had left her chair. She'd worked nights here longer than Chris cared to remember, and she shook her head at him, clearly angry.
»Chris! You know Security Room's gonna be here in two minutes complaining all his warning lights went off again.«
Chris grinned as he kept walking. »Tell him I said hi, Marsha—and that it really was an emergency, I swear.«