Chapter Text
It was 1949 in Raccoon City a city on the brink post World War 2. Disruption from war has allowed the 3 headed hell hound of corruption crime and murder to take hold - jaws firmly locked around the ankles of Lady Justice. Her sword lacking in conviction to slay the beast it's toxin unhindered slowly coursing through admininstering a steady rot. It isn't a perfect world the ravages of war saw to that, juxtaposed to the seemingly mundane agricultural outskirts lay Downtown Raccoon City. Downtown - the dark seedy grimy existence of a chaotic world the true den of iniquity - a literal latrine it contrasted markedly to it's neighbouring city of Tall Oaks; who experienced a steep reduction in crime and unprecedented prosperity thanks to in no part to the tireless efforts of a young Mayor - Mayor Graham. The young elect vowed to clean his city for it to not suffer the same fate as his neighbours and thus he implemented a zero tolerance policy to crime. It seems to be working.
In the sordid heart of Downtown fortunes can be made by a system of loopholes simplified to make the small hop from the just to the unjust, a transparent temptation all but the most morally steadfast of officials eschew. Embezzlement being the favourite form of this get rich scheme. With no funds available for the upkeep and investment of infrastucture; establishments such as the health sector and law enforcement, these pillars in the community eroded therefore witnessing a rapid and steady decay all the way down to their foundations. The aftermath of the second World War was defined by broken people who returned to a land where no one talked or to share their experience with. Raccoon City didn't care about what worry or pain the individual might be carrying. All she cared about was the mighty Dollar with the intention of more lining her pockets, if you had none to spare you would be chewed out and left to roam her unforgiving streets with no real sense of purpose or goals this was the reality she provided for her citizens to sink or swim. The unstable run around unchallenged the genuine do-gooders get a knife to the back for their troubles, gunshots regularly echo around it's troubled streets, the arsonists frequently provide an alternate source of lighting to it's dimly lit alleys. This was the jungle, with no protection for the weak the old and infirm, the vulnerable were often beaten to death right outside their homes, as was the rules of the jungle - money suffering and death the immutable triade of this town, the only viable currency here everything inbetween was irrelevent.
Amongst the dust and debris under the blanketing smog of Downtown stood a lone dark figure in black. The figure stood in deep contemplation, conducting an investigation for possible evidence and clues gathering what he can from the decomposing body behind a hastily constructed cordone, it is a race against time to collect any lasting viable leads. Dead bodies are an altogether familiar sight Downtown with services stretched to their limits, mortuaries are forced to stack cadavers like cheap cuts of meat at the local unsanitory butcher shop, the locals often ponder if that line has already been skewed.
Enter one Detective Chris Redfield - one of the many private investigators who call Raccoon City their home drawn to the disorder the endless disarray and the danger presiding, providing the eventual promise of death - not wanting to swallow a bullet they sought alternate means, Downtown was all to willing to provide.
A large intimidating man a dark and brooding figure clad in a black trench coat, a black 3 piece suit and his favourite black fedora he was known to the locals simply as "The man in Black", he issued the iron justice and unconditional aid the remaining law abiding citizens sought from the officials of this god forsaken city but could never attain. Conversely he also gained a reputation amongst Raccoon Citys' underground as simply a man you didn't want to fuck with - a veteran of the war he knew how to fight armed and unarmed; highly proficient in the art of dealing death he has often practiced his craft far more often than what he would have liked. More often than not Downtown leaves him no option but to unholster his trusty 5 chamber Smith & Wesson 36 to deliver his own brand of street justice. The horrors of war has left him despondent and nihilistic the worst aspects of human nature in full exihibition for him to witness, with it gradually snuffing out that small flickering flame of hope, he has found solace in the bottom of a bottle - just anything to take away that regret at pushing that button. However despite being dispirited he is a man of great principle, morals stubbornly continued to shine through, his strong sense of justice remained intact albeit a glimmer, just enough to keep the all consuming shadow of guilt and self doubt from devouring him completely.
(What the hell am I still doing here!? I see way too much of this shit already so much so I can no longer distinguish the line between this life and hell. More and more I find myself wondering if it's still worth fighting for.
Stop kidding yourself Redfield you wanted this you don't know how to live any other way you chose this path.
Even so the more I want to push away the more it reels me back in like a junkie trying to recapture that feeling from the first hit - I'm so tired of it all. God damn it where's that flask....I need a drink!)
The detective knelt down inspecting the decomposing mutilated body of a young woman before him, not an unfamiliar sight in these streets. The body naked lying on her back deep slashes cut across each limb her curly black medium lenght hair matted with dirt and rain covering her face. Chris took his pen using it to move the sodden matted strands revealing a chelsea grin sliced across the pixie like features of the young lady. Eyes gouged out leaving two incarnadine cavities half filled with rain creating a dirty crimson pool, an audible sound of water filling a small cup can be heard near the sockets - as the rain filled the orifice it appeared as if she was weeping - weeping blood like those Virgin Mary Statues however there is no sanctity in this. Chris pauses for a slight moment to ponder what could have lead to her demise to what kind of person she was to what potential was snuffed out in such a gruesome and unceremonious fashion. The detective shook his head rapidly in an attempt to purge such thoughts from setting in he does not need any more memories to add to his grief.
(This is the third time this week the calling card of a serial killer on the loose. Last thing I need is another crazy in a town full of screwballs it's a gift that just keeps on giving.
No......but you're different aren't ya?
You take your time hunting your victims they all share the same curly black hair - a slayer of young women. Why do you feel the need to take away their eyes is it to stop their judging gaze peering into your soul? What don't you want them to see?
Do you have any semblence of guilt when taking their lives?
It appears like you do.......
Why do you slash their faces like that? Do you want them to smile at your handywork? To be proud.....to see them carrying your mark into the afterlife?
What are your motives........I still dont know - thrill of the hunt, revenge, sick gratification, acting as god, art? What ever it is you are one sick fuck I've seen some shit in my time but this.....seriously this?
Life is cheap in this town but to take it in this manner is unforgivable.
You take your time when killing, they are your canvas and this is your art. There will come a time when you slip up and you will they always do and when you do I'll be there, I promise you I will be there, then you will see what it's like to be at the wrong end of the whipping stick - you will be my canvas and you will be my masterpiece.)
Lamenting the dark thoughts that started to creep into his mind Chris took out a cigarette to calm his nerves one of his many vices, but as he was about to light the stick the heavens chasmed an almighty deluge making the simple act of lighting the cigarette all but impossible. Meanwhile a small crowd started to gather around the body a newfound macabre curio they can gawp at with slack jawed fervour. With further investigation proving to be difficult amongst a gathering crowd he resigned to a brief sketch and hastily scribbled notes. With a huff he took that as his cue to head back to his office to piece together his gathered clues and evidence. Besides he needs a drink.
Right in the heart of the red light district of Downtown lay Detective Redfield's small office, sandwiched between a sleazy motel and a greasy Chinese take away he strategically set up in the middle of Downtown as a way to stay in the fulcrum a finger on the pulse of the corrupted heart of the city. Ironically the red light district was one of the safer places in town despite attracting the many undesirables from far and wide. The promise of cheap thrills, a cheap lay and cheap drugs proving far too much of a temptation, however the crime rate remained surprisingly low despite containing all these combustible elements in such close quarters. Perhaps it was the mere presence of "The man in black" the fear of violent retribution he promised should someone foolishly step out of line....who knows?!
Chris entered his choky little office greeted with the smell of stale smoke with papers stacked high an ineffiecient ceiling fan permanently kept on whirring in the background. There was large metal filing cabinets on either walls with a cork crazy wall next to the front door, frosted glass so he can see any silhouette who may dare enter, the door directly facing a large wooden 3 drawer desk. The desk housed a seldom used Royal 10 typewriter as he preferred to write, various papers and post it notes scattered randomly a cut glass ashtray brimming with cig butts, a bakelite black dial telephone complete with a green glass banker's lamp. The dark venetian blinds hung a skew admitting a triangular kaleidoscopic light from the neon outside the office, it hummed with a quiet yet noticeable electrical buzz emitted from the hanging neon signs of the neighbouring businesses. The most important tool of the trade as Chris would attest was housed on the top drawer of the desk it was his favourite brand of libation I.W. Harper 15 year old straight bourbon whiskey. Chris grabbed the bottle from the top draw reaching in to pull out a glass tumbler pouring himself a four finger measure of the dark amber fluid, he had a half a bottle left from his earloer efforts his aim was to finish the bottle tonight as it was New Year's Eve a new decade dawned.
Taking a large swig he looked over his notes and made his way over to the crazy wall exhibiting various scribbles, pictures, photos and strings to mark connections - they were pointing to 2 prominent people of Raccoon City, who Chris highly suspected were the supposed culprits to the grisly murders. The industrialist Oswell E Spencer and the current chief of police Brian Irons, his gut feeling veered more toward the chief Brian Irons as due to Spencer's advanced age it would have made the task of over powering young healthy women an exceptionally difficult task. There was talk amongst the prostitutes and brothel workers of the red light district that Irons regularly visited the brothels and parlours of downtown, far too frequently just for mere coincendence, however these were hearsay and conjecture he needed more evidence. Chris felt rage bubbling from his stomach again he took a red marker drew an "X" and jabbed a small knife in the forehead of Chief Iron's picture. Once he made a hunch he was usually right and his gut was telling him to take out the Chief of police to stop these murders.
(Some go to church and think about fishing others go fishing and think about God. The net is closing in you son of bitch, I only need one more piece, that's all I need to solve this little riddle of yours. I'll be the one to iron the creases in this shirt and if you haven't noticed there's no good dry cleaners around these parts.
I'm the anti christ Irons and you've caught me in a vendetta kinda mood. Tell the angels upon high you've never seen evil so singularly personified as in the face of the man who's about to kill you.)
(Calm it Redfield you're getting angry again, be calm and patient - no one can catch fish in anger. It's new year's eve drink up. That's enough detective work for this evening. So if you excuse me I have to reacquaint my love affair with lady liquor and she's percolating, waiting to to see me.
Here's to another shitty decade Redfield hurray for me! Throw me a bone god will ya?! Just this once...Just this once. First things first though I need to get outta this goddamn monkey suit!)
It was 10:00 p.m. with a new year looming Chris decided to usher in the decade the only way he knows how - completely and utterly FUBAR. Having settled on his desk chair finishing his first half bottle he reached into the second draw, pulling out his reserve bottle of Bourbon pouring himself another 4 finger measure. Leaning back into his chair lighting a cigarette pressing the white stick between his lips taking a large drag and blowing a large cloud of smoke. Chris looked around his small office and proceeded to let out a sigh, trying to stop the pang of sadness and loneliness seeping into his heart, he always used alcohol as an antidote to these emotions, emotions he deemed as an affliction. The way the booze envelops his mind and body the way it acts as armour protecting him from harm he likes the way it helps him forget about his present and his past. The festive season seems to have this effect on him during this time of the year he wonders why at the age of 35 he is still alone left solitary in his grief without a soul to talk to. Sure he had his younger sister Claire who he is sure would listen but he didn't want to burden her with his grievances she has her own issues to deal with being an army medic. He often lamented the course his life has taken he often wondered if his life would have taken an altogether different route had he not obeyed chain of command and not pressed that button. He took of his tie and suit jacket unbottoning the top 3 of his shirt he figured if he was going to get wasted best get wasted in comfort.
(Year after year i'm met with the same bullshit....the same shit but with a different smell.....will anyone actually care if I bought the farm. What is this life, It's like quicksand the more I try to get out the more I sink in. It has all my hopes it has all my dreams and the only way this shit is going to end is if I.......I-I-I.)
(Hold up Redfield you still have a job to do.
Put the peashooter down.
For now........but understand this when you feel like life isn't getting any better, it's hard to try and think differently. That's just the way it is. Prove me wrong......)