Chapter Text
The quintessential time to visit Raccoon City is during the autumn: minimal precipitation, manageable temperatures, and virtually no humidity. If that's not reason enough, It’s time for Fall Fest in the downtown shopping district where businesses set up stands and sponsor fall themed activities for the public. Chalkboard sidewalk signs, most with poorly drawn jack o'lanterns on them, stand outside of clothing stores addressing the upcoming festival associated sales. Starting September 1st, any building with customers has a large, insulated dispenser full of hot cider. Homemade flyers by garage bands can be found throughout the alleys and streets of RC advertising as the opening acts for the outdoor concert series in Racoon Park. Cafes put out extra outdoor seating to accommodate the high demand to sit amongst the changing leaves. The sense of seasonal excitement is nothing short of electric, and riding your motorcycle through town is the best way to view the rising action.
At least, that’s in Claire Redfield’s humble opinion.
By forsaking personal motorcycle safety habits and allowing some open skin to have the mid-September wind go against it, she feels the crispness of what standing still in a month will feel like. She got a fast pass to what everyone is eagerly anticipating and it makes her giddy. Regardless of the little reasons, Claire enjoys taking her sweet time getting to the RPD every Friday evening. Her casual, long coast down Racoon and Central St. is the first delight of her favorite part of the week: spending the weekend with her snot-nose older brother, Chris.
She can afford to take her time getting to the station, summer schedules are still in action so Chris’s patrol doesn't end until 9. When she eventually does get to the station after perusing the streets, there are normally one or two officers by the employee parking lot smoking cigarettes. She’ll join them for a quick puff and make them childishly pinky swear not to tell anyone. It’s all routine as her thick-soled biker boots smack against the marble floor of the RPD.
The first half hour of waiting in the lobby for Chris consists of her trying to be productive with schoolwork, only for the sweet taste of scholastic freedom to be too overwhelming. She goes on to socialize with the officers on break, the receptionists, or any child being dragged by their parents to the station for some boring adult business.
Presently, Claire had her elbow on the desk. She leaned over it while ranting to the receptionist, who couldn’t care less what was being said.
“So then she was like, ‘No Claire, I don’t care if you can do all the cute things my mechanic does by yourself. You’re a sophomore, Mark is a senior,’ as if because he’s two years ahead of me makes him a better rider, like god dammit Elza I doubt the dude even knows how to check his fucking tire pressure.”
Claire realized some fun words slipped out of her mouth and quickly looked around the lobby to see if there were any children near to hear her vulgarity. Thankfully to her, it was just occupied by some friendly officers on their break who were already personally familiar with her loud demeanor.
“Anyway, so now I guess Mark is going to-”
“Claire Redfield?”
Claire perked up and peeked over her shoulder before fully turning to see a similarly statured woman in front of her. Stature, however, is where the similarities ended. She wished she had taken a can of Pledge to her dull leather boots before leaving the house.
A sharp, mahogany brown bob swung to a stop, framing a set of icicle grey eyes, carefully brushed with mascara. The sky blue strapless top, black mini skirt, and cardigan casually slung around her waist made her stand out in the RPD like a iceberg in the ocean. She wasn’t dressed as a receptionist or an officer; the woman was straight out of a trendy fashion magazine. Despite the attire, she held her shoulders back, had a muscular figure and visible scars. The way she carried herself gave away to Claire this had to be the most powerful woman in the RPD's arsenal.
“Yeah?”
“My name’s Jill Valentine; your brother is on the S.T.A.R.S Alpha team with me. I've been hoping our paths would eventually cross,” her hand extended.
Claire lit up. She finally had a face to the name. To say Chris mentioned a “Jill Valentine” to her over the phone was an understatement. The ever-militant, yet kind young woman that sat next to him at work was a certain topic of every conversation. She never divulged anything of her past, which made her all the more alluring. It was a celebration every time he got the chronic beret-wearer to break composure and laugh. Claire now understood why Chris never stopped talking.
She excitedly met Jill’s neatly manicured hand with her clunky, gloved one.
“I've been dying to meet you too; Chris never shuts up about you," Claire laughed at Jill's sudden break in eye contact, "How did you know who I was?”
“Your brother has a strip of photos from a photo booth taped to the side of his computer, and he never stops talking about his baby sister to the team.” Jill smiled shortly at Claire’s scrunched face, “I knew it had to be you by the motorcycle gear. Despite expecting red hair like in the photo, the dip dye is surprisingly flattering. It suits you.”
Claire immediately faltered. She carefully ran her hand through her fuchsia tipped ponytail, as if reminding herself it was still there. “Thank you,” she replied softly.
Jill lightened her posture and tried her best to appear less intimidating.
“You should come up to the S.T.A.R.S. office with me.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, come on. Captain is in a meeting with Irons, so you should be safe for now. I'm sure Chris has told you about him; he runs a tight ship, but I think we can manage a stowaway.”
The tomboy in pink started fiddling with the strap of her glove.
Jill got a little quieter, “ I don’t know what Chris has told you about the guys, but they aren’t the stone hard stereotype of a military troop. It’s really just a bunch of retards who happen to be the best of the best.”
“No no, it’s not that he’s said bad things, actually the opposite. I’m just having a horrible day.”
Truth be told, she wanted desperately to meet the team. She’d heard countless stories from Chris about their missions and daily escapades. These were his cool friends whose relayed actions always had her in stitches.
Sprouting a grin, Claire said, “You know what, Jill? Going up to the office would probably make me feel way better. This is just what I need and really, how much worse can my day get? Lead the way.”
As the ladies neared the office, chit chatting about nothing, Claire couldn’t help but notice the numerous plaques on the walls. Most were of laminated newspaper articles, their titles ranged from “S.T.A.R.S. Formation To Combat City-Wide Crime Wave” to “The Raccoon City Renaissance: Small Businesses Flood Back To The Once Lawless Land.” Jill followed Claire’s eyes and stopped walking.
“Pretty impressive, isn’t it?”
“It... should be impossible to clean out a city like that, and in under a year too? ”
“Under normal circumstances, yes, but with the best of the best and a great leader,” the lady in blue motioned to a group photo in front of a helicopter, “ anything is possible.”
Claire couldn’t find any words to follow up Jill, she just smiled in admiration and suggested they continue up. Before entering the S.T.A.R.S office hallway, she looked back at the wall of recent history with a final glance.
Upon Jill opening the office door, it was a sensory overload. The room smelled like cups of forgotten Folgers and sweat, accompanied by notes of printer ink, peppermint candy, smoke, and Jill’s perfume. In the middle of the room, a dehumidifier was blaring an unattractive noise that was equally as enjoyable as the stuffiness it failed to get rid of. It’s loud buzzing was rivaled only by the radio in the corner blasting Bruce Springsteen’s Dancing in the Dark. There was clutter everywhere. Stacks of paper covered any flat plane that could be utilized; the favorite seemed to be the floor. The walls weren’t safe from the chaos either, the numerous awards and medals were neighbored by a Back to the Future Part III poster and a mounted big mouth bass. The icing on the cake were two throwing darts lodged in the ceiling. All confined into a 12x16 room. For such a special group of people, it was funny the S.T.A.R.S. were given, what Claire would artfully describe as, a glorified broom closet with a cubby for guns.
“Gentlemen, we have a long awaited visitor.”
Brad spins his seat to face Jill, “Pamela Anderson!”
“No you creep, it’s-”
“Our lil’ baby cub, Claire-bear,” said a gruff voice. The owner of the voice, a burly, bearded man, walked over and swept up the girl in a hug.
Claire growled at the use of her least favorite nickname, “Barry, put me down or I will tell Polly what her birthday present is next time I babysit.”
This proved effective as Barry Burton let go and her small pair of biker boots thudded onto the carpet. As she tried to get away, he ruffled her hair and she stuck her tongue out at him.
After a quick introduction with Brad, Claire walked over to Joseph.
“You’re Joe right? I’ve heard so many funny stories about you. I’m Claire.”
“Oh, I know you. You’re the reason Chris doesn’t keep booze around the house.”
The room went silent. Claire’s mouth opened like she was about to say something, but instead she clenched her jaw and her gaze dropped to her gloves. Jill’s eyes fully glaciated, glaring at Joseph like he had just used the outdated military term for coffee that starts with 11th month and ends with Romeo’s lover. Barry inhaled and began to stand up.
“What? I’m only jerkin’ her chain a little!” His delivery was cheerful, but Claire could still sense passive aggression woven in his voice.
“I, um-“
“Claire, are you thirsty,” Jill interrupted, “We have coffee, and tea that tastes like coffee.”
Barry laughed, “Dear god, Jill, she’s been here for five minutes and you’re already tryin' to kill the poor girl?” Still chuckling, he shot a glance at Joseph indicating he would be getting an earful after Claire left.
Thankful for the change in subject, Claire gave a shaky smile to Jill as she walked over and inspected the stained coffee pot for evidence of any lethal properties.
“It's like petro, Claire. It’s completely undrinkable,” Barry answered her silent question, “Well, to everyone except The Captain, but he doesn’t count.”
“Why doesn’t he count?” Claire kicked herself for sounding so eager for an answer. Way to sound desperate to be in the know.
Brad glanced at the door before whispering, “You see, The Captain isn’t actually human.”
Jill crossed her arms across her chest, “He is very human. He just has a tolerance for the extremely displeasurable.”
“Hmph, that explains why my brother still has a job,” Claire quipped. She did a fist pump internally for being so smooth and earning some giggles.
After a pause Barry yawned, “That talk of coffee made me realize how much I need some. Moira loves the macarons from this little shop on Oak street and dammit if their coffee isn’t the best I’ve had durin' my time in Raccoon.”
Before he could say anything else, Jill brightened slightly.
“You aren’t talking about Sigourney’s, are you?”
After Barry’s nod of confirmation she said, “That’s right across the street from my apartment, the owner is a sweet old French woman. Her Swiss hot chocolate is heavenly.”
By now, Joseph and Brad had joined Barry in yawning every other second. Seeing an opportunity, Claire asked if anyone had a notepad and pen. Once Brad supplied her, she asked everyone for their orders.
“Claire, you’re joking right? It will take you almost an hour to walk there.”
“Oh, I’m not joking, nor am I walking,” the ponytailed brunette dangled her bike keys in front of the group.
“You can carry not only one cup off coffee, but five on a motorcycle?” Joseph snorted.
Ignoring him, Claire clicked the pen, “Barry, you still take your coffee with toffee nut flavoring, right?”
Barry looked aghast, “No way! No way young lady, I will not have you be somethin' for public services to scrape off of Main Street.”
“Okay, so Jill, you like the Swiss hot chocolate,” Claire absentmindedly said as she wrote.
Brad shyly asked, “Could I get a coffee with two packs of sugar?”
“Adding it to the list as we speak.”
“Vickers, don’t encourage her!”
“Ah! I’m sorry!”
“Barry, I’m a big girl. I know how to take care of myself, especially on a bike. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think it was safe.”
Claire knew that Barry knew the last part was a complete lie, but he deeply inhaled and nodded his head. He accepted he wasn’t going to win an argument over what Claire was and wasn’t capable of with her precious Ducati.
“Joseph,” Claire forced a smile, “What would you like?”
“Black with some sugar.”
“Great. I’ll get a hot chocolate for Chris too. Last call, are there any more requests?”
“Maybe we should get something for Wesker? Every week he comes in more crazy than usual after his meeting with Irons. Perhaps this peace offering will satisfy the beast long enough for us to get through the night without being screamed at,” Brad stuttered.
Jill rolled her eyes as Joseph eagerly agreed.
“Okay,” Claire took a moment to digest how horrible their captain sounded, “judging by his love for coffee that tastes like motor oil, I'm going to assume he takes it black.”
“Yeah, and ask em’ to burn it too.”
“Frost, this is why you need a peace offerin' in the first place,” said Barry.
Claire shoved the paper in her pocket, and grabbed her helmet and goggles from by her knapsack. She looked at the time and said, “I’ll be back within 30 minutes and if I’m late, you won’t have to pay me back. Proof that I used my bike.” Barry went to object, but she was out the door before he could get out a word.
The click of the door closing was the spark to her mischievous smirk. She could still salvage the day. Between the unreasonable drama with Elza and the uncalled for comment by Joseph, Claire felt herself slowly losing it. She needed to get to her bike. The requirement of being completely in the moment and not having the opportunity to be distracted by such stupid encounters was her way of letting things go, whether it be a bad test score or breakup, or her unfair motorcycle club president, or her brother’s strangely rude best friend.
The ride there wasn’t anything special. Claire had been right with her calculations, she’d only need to turn in one direction the entire ride back. The coffee carriers would be easy to place on the engine within the confinements of her thighs and upper body. The drink stoppers would prevent any spilling in the event she leaned too far into a turn and if needed, she had her bungee cords for total support. Her plan was full proof.
Sigourney's was everything Claire eagerly expected, a quaint Parisian cafe. Barry’s opinion on their coffee seemed to be a popular one; the line consisted of a wide variety of demographics and extended out the glass door. She left her bike to join the fellow caffeine cravers. Once in place, she took out the paper and glanced over everyone’s orders again, ending with “burnt black coffee.” Captain Albert Wesker was a name that bubbled up to the surface of conversations with Chris every once in a while. Claire never really gave him much thought, aside from his funny first name. She giggled under her breath. Although, It hadn’t escaped her how peculiar it was, for not only a man to rock Ray-Bans every waking moment, but also for a team of special operatives to have their captain treat them like they’re cadets in initial training. Despite his idiosyncrasies, she wondered what he’d be like when she finally got to meet him. Would he still be sour after meeting with Irons? Would he be okay with her being in the office in general? Would he treat her differently compared to his men? How would he react to her getting him coffee? What would he look like? Would he be-
Someone whistled behind her and she turned to see a businessman on his cell phone. Before he continued speaking, he eyed Claire’s front up to complete his experience and winked, “I’m sorry Ron, I got distracted. What were you saying?”
Claire took a deep breath as she turned back around. If there was one thing she hated boys doing, it was catcalling. But there was no need for verbal dramatics, nor bloodshed. Her boot tapped the sidewalk to the mantra, “Keep your cool, keep your cool, keep your cool,” long enough for her to be next in line to order and the message to be adequately hammered into her psyche. A lively old man took her extensive order from behind the counter and when she reached for her wallet, the obnoxious casanova in back of her put his hand on her shoulder.
“And I’ll have a double shot, sir,” he turned toward Claire and flashed his overly bleached teeth.
Again, rubber soles began to rapidly keep time against the ground. In the most gracious tone she could muster, Claire said, “That’s very kind of you, but I’ve got my own drinks covered.” She shrugged off his hand and pushed aside the platinum card being extended towards the register. Both the old man and the charmer looked like they were about to protest her declining the offer, but the impatient sounds of a toddler in need of a cookie saved her the argument. After paying and walking away to wait for the drinks, the biker babe’s boot bounced off of the stone floor aggressively, struggling to keep a proper beat for her internal chant. There must have been an obscure coffee god in South America she could pray for to make the beans brew faster. Perhaps she should pray to the French government that the Swiss chocolate melts quicker without burning in the pan? Would they accept a blood sacrifice? She’d guillotine Mr. Penny Loafers for authenticity.
Despite the elaborate planning, no crusade was needed. All seven of her cups were ready before she could find a large razor. Once they were arranged to her liking, Claire put on her helmet and balanced the carrier out the door. She had the bike started and ready to throttle, lightly, when Sigourney’s gave her a parting gift.
Looking her over again he teasingly scolded, “Dear, you should have let me pay for that.”
Claire bit her tongue before drenching her voice in flirtation, “Maybe next time I will let you pay, that is if you go and get me the napkins I forgot inside. Try to get me one with your number on it.”
The man grinned, “I knew you’d break, Sweetheart. Be right back.”
Not even waiting for the door of the cafe to close behind him, Claire, carefully, flew into the fading light of day.
Down a couple blocks, a man sat silently in his car engaged in a grueling staring contest with the dashboard.
A tick; for the first time in years he caught himself unconsciously portraying his discomfort. In retaliation, Albert Wesker closed his hand around the bottom of his steering wheel.
This wouldn’t be the first time personal motives had clouded his judgement either. All too reminiscent of an interrogation he conducted in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco. He had his accomplice creatively take a pair of pliers to a man when he refused to divulge the whereabouts of stolen confidential documents from the Sacramento Umbrella branch. Turns out, the man wasn’t in disguise, he was just homeless. Wesker wouldn’t allow himself that subjectively-caused percent error again. Or so he thought. Yet again, here he was straying from the carefully concocted plan because something from his past made a cameo.
He snickered, “One day this is going to get me killed.”
The Jaguar's interior gave no reply, just a silent invitation to open the glove box.
Taking a deep breath, he leaned over and dug out the owner’s manual to his previous car, flipping it open to the table of contents to find the emergencies section. The subtlety was astounding. Sure enough, in horrific penmanship was a phone number written deep within the crevice of a page about brake failure.
(4 1 7) 1 9 1 - 5 2 0 6
The day was still fresh when his old partner jotted it down, showing him the cheap burner phone it belonged to. These actions followed the verbal showdown of the century.
"There will be a day when you’ll need this number, you’ll go months or years without using it but keep it with you until that day comes."
It hit him like a brick; it had been five years since he claimed to have hated William Birkin.
“Come on you dirty blonde abomination, answer your phone,” he muttered with the ringing car phone to his ear. He caught himself tapping his finger again and quickly made a fist.
But of course, the call went unanswered. There was once a time when Will would pick up on the first ring, and Wesker wished it was still then. He redialed three times prior to giving up. It was an urgent matter, but continuing to waste his car battery would be pointless. Dr. Birkin would have to wait until later that night for his world to be rocked, and technically, Wesker was still on the clock as S.T.A.R.S. captain. There wouldn’t have been much time to spare anyway, he was due back from his meeting with the always congenial, Chief Irons. Just the thought of the walking chromosomal anomaly made him wrinkle his nose.
The captain had moved to the Jaguar's trunk, reorganizing papers, when his reflexes kicked at the blare of a crude tea kettle.
Tires.
Wesker jolted up before he could stop himself and knocked the back of his head on the lid. Inhaling sharply, he picked his fallen sunglasses off of his papers and slammed the trunk shut to see a red motorcycle attempting to reduce its speed. As it skidded to a stop in a spot across the parking lot, he caught the color of flaming, lithium chloride. It scorched the tips of her helmet hair. He was going to ignore her until he saw what she was carrying. Seven cups of coffee, on a motorcycle. Was she trying to kill someone? He made a beeline to the girl who was fumbling, trying to get something off the ground before kicking her tire in frustration. The ditz in pink turned and jumped with an “eep” as she came face-to-face with the previously unnoticed presence. It brought a smirk to his face; he needed some stress relief and it was about to be delivered. Despite her tinted goggles, he could tell she was squinting in annoyance. Had she a free hand, it would be placed on her jutted hip.
He asked, with his debonair factor cranked to the max, “And just what do you think you’re doing?”
Claire couldn’t believe her luck.
Great. Another snooty businessman had entered the fray and even had the balls to wear sunglasses at night. When would she be granted mercy?
“Why does it matter to you,” she deadpanned.
There was something more to this man than the previous hostile encounters she’d had during the day. His thin smile perpetually alluded he knew something you didn’t. It should have been terror inducing, but she wasn’t fazed at this point by any warning signs. She was rapidly reaching the end of her rope, but dammit if she wasn’t clinging. The bastard David Bowie doppelganger looked like he could sue her for every penny she had.
Knock-off Stardust’s smirk widened to the point of looking wicked, “Young lady, do you know who I am?”
Claire’s mouth went slack before it evolving into a spiteful frown. She couldn’t help herself; fuck her bank account.
“I couldn’t care less you entitled prick. I don’t care what big business your daddy runs, leave me alone.”
Much to her dismay, he did not. The mysterious man in black kept in casual stride with her as she made her way through the doors and into the main hall.
“Do you know how many people you just endangered?”
“I was in complete control.”
“You could have caused a serious accident.”
“Yes, ‘could have.’ Listen Johnny Bravo, I don’t know who you think you are, but I honestly don’t care anyway. I’ve got coffee to deliver to some actually important people. Just take you and your stupid, slicked back, crusty hair somewhere else.”
With that comment, he quit trying to reason with the young woman; her fate had been sealed and Wesker wished he could see her face when she found the well earned ticket on her racing cowl. Before he made his way back to the parking lot, he curiously watched as she continued to walk. Almost everyone smiled and said something to the arrogant girl; a rookie even held the door to the west hallway for her. It was as if Miss America had graced the station. Wesker couldn’t help but wonder how he had never noticed her before, seeing that she was apparently such a prominent figure in his playground. Visually it shouldn’t have been hard. She could land a plane with her clothing choices alone. Chuckling and shaking his head, he left to hopefully ruin her day.
Claire felt wonderful. She really needed to let off some steam and what a perfect way to do so. Seriously, who did that guy think he was? An all black outfit and spooking her by sneaking up behind her without making a sound? He was lucky she didn’t instinctively whip her drinks at his painfully perfect mug.
The door to the S.T.A.R.S. office was closed, so she had to knock on it with her helmeted head. Claire was greeted with whatever emotion was the amalgamation of relived and flabbergasted. Jill instantly helped her with the comical load of coffee in her hands and after freeing her them, Claire explained she needed to retrieve her keys that she dropped on the pavement despite trying to hide them under her tire.
Not two minutes after Claire bolted to get her keys, Wesker walked in having gone through the evidence room as a shortcut.
“Are we such good company as to have you visit during your day off, Valentine?”
“Good evening Captain, I just came to retrieve one of my case files.”
“And you had the forethought to bring us coffee; you truly are a saint.”
“Actually sir, I’m afraid the coffee isn’t my doing.”
The posh brunette handed the captain his coffee. When he saw the logo on the cup in his hand, his brows pinched before a malicious grin grew on his face. All of the present S.T.A.R.S. became increasingly alarmed as Wesker reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of familiar keys. After taking a sip of coffee and relishing in the horrified faces of his subordinates, he plainly asked, “And who might be the pretty, little, thing I just gave a ticket?”
Brad looked as if he was going to vomit up his drink, Joseph was smirking, and Barry and Jill exchanged equally concerned glances. Before Jill could try and defuse the situation, the office door was ripped open with the simultaneous seething of, “We need to find that fucking dick in the turtleneck.”
All eyes focused on the red-faced figure in the door. Her lips were violently pursed and the fist clenching her ticket was quivering. It took less than a second for the inferno in her eyes to die upon noticing her target idling next to Jill; motor-oil-black coffee in hand.
In the most steady tone she could hold, Jill said, “Captain Wesker, meet Claire Redfield.”
And thus, it all clicked for him. He could have kicked himself for not realizing the obvious immediately. The beloved red motorcycle, the crudely dyed hair, the prickly attitude, the daredevil tendencies: all discussed at length between Chris Redfield and the others. For God’s sake, she even had her brother’s Air Force training knife strapped to her shoulder. So this was the elusive Miss Redfield, his best marksman’s sister. What a pleasure.
She, however, was thrown for a loop. This was Captain Wesker? Claire was under the notion he would be some middle aged pastry addict with a body to prove it. Okay, the last part came into question earlier when she came to understand just how competent S.T.A.R.S. was, but the man in front of her was so young! How was he their leader when he couldn’t be a few years older than her brother? Not that young people couldn't be as competent in the workforce as their older counterparts, oh how she hated when people made that assumption, but with the almost incomprehensible success of the team… It was just super startling.
Equally so that he had given her a ticket and that she had been so rude. Claire was mortified. Did she just get Chris fired? The familiar feeling of a lead weight in her stomach took over. It was her dear old friend, Guilt.
With introductions out of the way, Wesker walked over to the door and held it in, what she could only assume as, mocking chivalry.
“If you would please come with me into the hallway, Miss Redfield,” he donned the same smug expression she had seen in the parking lot, but this time it utterly terrified her. “And do grab your drink, this could be a while.”
Claire briskly made her way to grab her cup off of Jill’s desk. Everyone, even Joseph, was giving her looks of pity. Brad mouthed, “run,” and Jill elbowed him in the side, trying to give Claire a reassuring smile. It looked painfully unnatural on her face. Barry looked like he was ready to intervene as Claire walked past Wesker, but he was stopped when Wesker simply said, “Don’t worry Burton, she’s in good hands,” and shut the door. The comment did little to quell the bearded man’s concern.
The biker girl didn’t even have a chance to face the captain.
He began, “So you’re the lovely Claire Redfield.”
She met her own gaze in his almost-reflective glasses. They were no longer goofy to her, but more intimidating than gravel or wet pavement under her tires. Instead of crumbling, Claire channeled all of her anger from throughout the day and built up her defenses. She could be scared and ashamed later. Right now, she needed to get her bike back and make sure Chris didn’t lose his job. The sense of urgency seriously triggered her fight, flight, fawn, or freeze.
“And you’re the infamous Captain Wesker,” she remarked.
“You’re brother talks about me?” After a nod, he continued, “Please don’t believe everything you hear, Dearheart. I’ll also ask you refrain from calling me Captain; there’s no need for formalities from you.”
“I’ll also ask you don’t call me pet names,” Claire immediately bit her tongue and cursed not swallowing her pride. They weren’t even a couple sentences in and she was failing at being diplomatic. For once in her life, she needed to be a kiss-ass, whether she liked it or not. After shortly looking down at the ticket still in her hand and sighing, she began to concoct her apology. It wasn't even about the ticket at this point; she just wanted everything to be okay. As she went to start speaking, he put his pointer finger up in front of her face.
“Now listen, little girl. I let you have your fun downstairs, but this is serious. You just endangered countless civilians for a couple cups of coffee and to show off.”
The patronizing name had been the first strike of flint against steel, dangerously teasing a room with a gas leak. Still she was desperate to make amends, no matter how much he ticked her off.
“But sir, I swear I wouldn’t intentionally put anyone in harm's way. I’m a very experienced rider and I took as many safety precautions as I could. I’m really sor-”
“I couldn’t care less if your name was Evel Knievel,” Wesker pulled her keys out of his pocket and dangled them just out of her reach like a sandbox bully, “say goodbye to your precious bike, Dearheart.”
Second strike. No spark yet, but the danger was eminent. It took all of her willpower not to start tapping her foot. Claire couldn’t show weakness or he’d pounce.
Still composed she asked, “This is the thanks I get for buying you coffee after an apparently crappy meeting?”
“I don’t recall ever asking for such a favor, Dearheart.”
Strike.
“It’s called being nice, Captain.”
He grinned, slowly starting to circle her as if she were prey.
“I don’t remembering earning said kindness from you either. I am aware, however, of your,” he gesticulated, “flirtatious reputation.” It rewarded him a slip in her stern face before immediately returning to its prior expression.
Strike.
“Are you suggesting that I did this as some sort of conquest? Or that I would somehow try and charm my way out of this ticket? Because either way, you're totally mistaken.”
“After experiencing your arrogance downstairs, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Claire stepped into his circular path.
“I’m not the arrogant one here. The man wearing sunglasses at night, while bullying a college student, is.”
“Ah, yes. A law enforcement official doing their job because a selfish, snippy brat couldn’t help but impress her older brother’s coworkers is considered bullying. You must be incredibly sheltered if you sincerely believe that. I also hope you didn’t believe I would punish Chris over your pathetic behavior either. I am a professional after all.”
Strike. Strike. Boom.
“There is nothing professional about you,” Claire said disgustedly, “You’re a complete piece of shit for teasing me when I’m only trying to explain myself and if this is how you treat a someone you just met, I feel fucking pity for anyone that you have a relationship with.”
Silence.
On the outside she looked as pissed as ever, but on the inside she was ready to curl up and die. The captain’s face went blank and Claire was certain she just lost the right to live. Instead of retaliating, he grabbed her hand and slapped her keys into it.
“Thank you for your input, Miss Redfield.”
Wesker retreated through the office door, leaving a shell shocked and absolutely defeated Claire in the hallway. She was ready to open the window and dolphin dive 45 feet down onto the asphalt.
As she truly considered opening the window, Chris, accompanied by some other teammates, turned the corner. He excitedly ran over to her, ready to introduce her to all his friends but faltered at her 1,000 meter stare. Claire looked up at him with glassy eyes and shoved her cold coffee cup into his hand.
“I’ll meet you at home.”
And she ran. The keys and ticket weighing heavy in her palm.