Chapter Text
During a time of peaceful bliss, your life fell under the curse of a tragic virus outbreak. You lived in Raccoon City before it was ravaged by Umbrella's biggest mistake, effectively orphaning you at the brink of adulthood. You were one of few who managed to escape the zombie-ridden city before the missile struck and eliminated all living things within it. After struggling for an education, you chose to enlist in a special forces branch in the bustling area of Detroit, Michigan. Unfortunately, the work was strenuous and strict, forcing an early and rowdy independent like you to end up quitting after just two years. However, the laughable training you received opened small opportunities for revenue.
In cities all across the midwestern United States, you took up mercenary work jumping from government-level infiltrations to quick side-street eliminations. The roles you played weren't significant, but they paid. After four more years of this, you chose to settle into the familiar environment of constant bustle in the city of Chicago. It wasn't too big nor too small, but a perfect size for a constant string of mercenary work that wouldn't wind up ending your life too soon. Assisting infantile bank robberies, assassinating an ex because someone was far too bitter, selling information to the BSAA or CPD after busting small drug and bio weapon manufacturers─simple jobs like that.
It wasn't easy to press forward from that traumatic stain on your life's canvas, but you found new brushes to paint on it with. The only issue was that your paint was still the same color: an inky black and a sterile white. What could possibly bring colored paint back into the painting when there was no berry to harvest it from? No store built to purchase it from? Lacking such drive, your life meant nothing yet everything to you. You convinced yourself you were fine with one day dying, yet you fight everyday to stay alive. Such a linear path had drained you of any purpose to curve it into a driven direction; that is to say, everything felt purposeless.
Thus, mercenary work kept your paint from drying. You constantly moved the brush, blending the only two neutral colors given on your palette. You lived and breathed off of the risk taken everyday. One job after the other that would threaten your life was your lifeblood.
- ♤ -
It was now April of 2006. The year finally swept away it's colder climates and invited in the constant showers with fluctuating temperatures. Although you owned a vehicle, walking was quicker than the stifling Chicago traffic. Rain-soaked and tired, you quietly trudged through the desaturated streets, taking the typical morning route. Reaching the corner at an intersection, you rounded it and darted into a coffee shop, catching the door as someone vacated with their steaming cup. The bell attached to it chimed as you pulled it open again.
The warmth from the shop seeped into your bones, fishing out the cold you accumulated from getting soaked. It was a slow day, with a few people scattered throughout the small wooden tables. Warm-colored lights illuminated the brick walls and their abstract paintings, offering a cozy feel.
Spotting an empty isolated table in the corner, you pulled out a chair and sat, placing your satchel with a laptop delicately on the chair next to you. There was a stack of napkins and a small tin filled with sweeteners for coffee on each table. The one in front of you had an irritating crookedness, so you discreetly inched them toward the middle of the table.
Taking out a book for show, you read a few lines dismissively, then glanced up and watched the other three patrons sitting in the coffee shop. An opportunity could arise at any moment. After all, this was the place to be.
The opportunity came when a man opened the door, triggering the bell to chime. He wore jeans and a flannel, with his black hair combed into a modest curve around his head. He looked like a rural father─combat boots, belt, and a cheery charm in his eye.
He stood by the door a moment, turning his body as he observed his surroundings, a small smile rounding out his face. Finally, he turned to look at you, and you met his gaze, tapping your table with a finger.
The man strode confidently to a table on your right, sitting and turning the chair to face away from you and instead out to the middle of the coffee shop. His greased black hair shining in the dim cafe was all you could stare at.
“What work do you have for me?” You asked quietly, tearing your eyes away from the back of his head so as to not stare at the man.
He murmured, “Small infiltration job. Pharmaceutical company. Down by Memphis.”
“You know that's far, especially for my work.”
He was quiet for a moment, then tilted his head in your direction. “Eight thousand dollars. You'll be one of three people who will enter the building and gather information and eliminate threats and witnesses. We have scouts who can feed you intel along the way and guide you.”
You sighed. “Such a small team and small price for what sounds like a big mission. Ten thousand dollars.”
The man was silent once more, then gracefully set a napkin on top of the stack in the middle of his table and stood. He cast an approving beam from his gaze at you and walked through the door, gone like the whispers of a ghost. The only sign of his exit was the chipper “dingaling!” of the door.
Standing, you too make your leave, slipping a hand over the napkin he placed and tucking it into your side pocket. The bell chimed yet again.
Tracing the cracks in the glistening, wet concrete, you trudge through the streets yet again, ducking into an open alleyway after ensuring nobody was around. You snatch the napkin from your pocket and quickly scan over it, examining the words written neatly in a dark blue pen.
INFILTRATION OF NATURA'S DOCUMENT AND LEGAL BRANCH LOCATED IN MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE. TUESDAY AT 7 PM, MEET AT THE LOCAL BAR “CHARLIE'S” AND ORDER A SHOT OF EVERCLEAR.
Natura, you pondered. A quick swipe on your phone screen and you typed in the name, searching for any information that might interest you. According to several news articles and court rulings, that company dealt with selling natural medicines extracted from foreign resources, especially from regions in Asia and Africa. It conquered several legal cases after dealing with patrons who either used the medication incorrectly, or fell victim to its unknown effects. You clicked off your phone and looked at the napkin once more. Clearly, this job would be much easier than anticipated, and the group who organized the infiltration is seeking information, not drugs. Why else would one go after Natura's legal building and not the distribution building?
Furthermore, if such a drug would kill or mutate consumers to such a degree, how did the company evade any consequence?
You shook your head and just stifled a small smile. Why does it matter? This is a job to be paid for. If it is for some company that has hardly had its name uttered by the people of the world, why should it prove to be dangerous to infiltrate?
Pocketing the phone and napkin in a side pocket, you quietly slipped back out of the alley and strode through the streets, continuing with the day like any average Chicago resident.