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There was something strange about the rookie.
Don’t get him wrong, the kid was nice enough—the west office was more than happy to have him, and no one really had any complaints about his performance. A bit reserved and unobtrusive than one would expect of a new recruit, but in a place so steeped in politics like the Raccoon Police Department, that could only be a good thing.
It also wasn't that the rookie, at 21, was pretty young to get hired on recommendation. No, the rookie's youth was a different kind of problem altogether.
With a baby face like that? Chris wouldn't be surprised if the kid got ID'd every time he tried to buy alcohol. Honestly, it was unsurprising to see that Rita and the rest of the West Office was more diligent with rookie duty this time around.
No, whatever made the rookie strange was hard to put to words. But maybe it could be connected to the fact that Lieutenant Marvin Branagh, known hardass on greenies, was ready to cash in some favors to get the rookie some field training with S.T.A.R.S. a mere 8 weeks in.
“—hard-pressed to approve this request, Lieutenant.” Captain Wesker’s tone was unreadable, but it was not disapproving. “Officer Kennedy’s academy records certainly suggest that he has potential, but S.T.A.R.S. deals with more than a rookie police officer may be equipped to handle. Especially one so inexperienced.”
From his place eavesdropping by his desk, Chris was just able to make out what they were saying. The frosted window of the captain’s office showed nothing but silhouettes that left Chris feeling like this would be a game of charades.
“I’m not recommending him to join S.T.A.R.S. Not yet, anyway.” reasoned Marvin. One of the few who could talk to Captain Albert Wesker like a normal person. “But I don’t make it a habit to waste everyone’s time.”
A thoughtful pause. “You’ve already made a decision.”
Marvin sighed, “When I asked what he’d like to do in the future, he said he wanted to be in a position that could change outcomes.”
“He could do that just as well with the other divisions.”
“And have him stuck behind a desk, wasting away his potential? Look, this kid is special. He’s sharp, intelligent, resourceful, and more mature than half the men in this place. And you know people like him, Wesker. They get restless.”
Marvin moved to put something on Wesker’s desk. A file?
“The Lynn valley child emasculations.” Wesker’s tone was impassive, but there was a question beneath it.
Chris had heard of that case.
It was before S.T.A.R.S. was formed, so he didn’t know a lot of the details, but cases that involved children tended to linger no matter the status of investigation. Three mutilated bodies of little boys found around Lynn Valley at the northern outskirts of Raccoon city.
If he remembered correctly, they caught the guy responsible for it. Riccardo Sosa, died in prison under suspicious circumstances. Chris would bet someone in that place found out what the guy was charged with and took that as an excuse.
“They found two more bodies,” Marvin continued. “Boys, aged 8 and 10. Found floating along Mendez river, downstream from Arklay mountains. Both were maimed before bleeding out and getting dumped into the river. Before that, there were missing persons reports of two more boys of the same age group. One more that is recent. But with how many missing persons reports this city has seen, we need more time to sort through the records.”
“Missing organs?”
“We were considering organ trafficking,” the lieutenant agreed. “Part of the reason why it’s remained unsolved for a while. But autopsy reports say that the organs would have been unusable when they were extracted.”
Which could only mean it was something else. Organ trafficking hadn’t been at the top of the list of priorities for S.T.A.R.S., but some of the drug syndicates they’ve cracked down on had been part of bigger crime rings that dabbled in it. No rest for the wicked, they said, and the way these syndicates kept breaking off and spreading out felt like a neverending chase that S.T.A.R.S. was expected to put a stop to.
Just as Chris’s own mind threatened to ruminate on how much of a cesspool Raccoon City could be, Wesker spoke up, “What has this got to do with Officer Kennedy?”
Chris blinked out of his stupor to catch Marvin’s silhouette shift.
“Six days ago, Officer Kennedy was assigned to help transfer some of the old cases down into the archives and apparently found something interesting,” explained Marvin, the emphasis on ‘interesting’ both exasperated and fond. “Yesterday he gave me these files and a detailed report on his findings, connecting the Lynn Valley murders, the then suspected organ trafficking victims, the missing boys, and a fucking cult sniffing around Raccoon city.
“They call themselves the Superior Universal Lineament. Thinks that children are demonic and instruments of a false god. They have a fucking book, Wesker, filled with their blasphemous ideas. What kind of God demonizes children?” There was an undercurrent of anger that made the normally calm lieutenant’s words sharper.
Rustling pages, a loaded silence settling between the two men and their eavesdropper. Chris spun a pen between his fingers, careful not to make too much noise lest the captain and lieutenant remember they weren’t alone and that the office door remained ajar.
‘What cruel God lets His people die?’ the thought crossed his mind before he dismissed it.
He’d never been much for religion, even before their parents' death and Chris had to step in to care for his little sister, but the military had its fair share of religious men. Police Lieutenant Marvin Branagh, he knew, was a practicing Christian who valued the safety of his family. Shit, didn’t he have a kid?
Eventually, Wesker said, “This is a solid case.”
Chris actually paused at that, thrown by the undercurrent of approval conveyed in those five words. It was rare for the captain to hint at positive regard, often too condescending and treated others like they were beneath him, so this was quite the praise.
But towards a rookie? The most anyone outside their unit got was not-dislike, if Wesker even noticed them at all.
“Man,” muttered Chris, crossing his arms and slumping back in his seat. “Jill would never believe me.”
He tuned back in to his eavesdropping in time to hear Marvin appeal, “He managed to do all of this over the weekend.” Unsanctioned, went unsaid, but Marvin could be surprisingly laid back when it came to protocol as long as it didn’t cause harm. “I know this kid could do more if given the right means.”
“And our team has the best resources RPD has to offer.” It was a statement rather than a question. Then he added wryly, “Including someone to keep the rookie out of trouble.”
Marvin sighed at having his intentions found out. “I’d rest better knowing someone’s there to watch his back, but I stand by what I said.”
“I see.” Wesker paused, and for a moment Chris thought he would outright reject Marvin, but he continued with, “S.T.A.R.S. will be assuming control of the investigation going forward.”
For Wesker, that practically counted as approval and Chris started pondering over this seriously.
S.T.A.R.S. taking over investigations usually falls under two categories. Most common was that it was deemed too dangerous for the usual police to handle—situations that fall under terrorism, organized crime, large-scale trafficking, and the likes that require armed force. Other times it would be at the behest of their benefactors, namely the Mayor, Umbrella Corp., and Chief Irons.
A third category existed, though it was rare enough that only those who worked closely with Captain Wesker ever noticed it: when an aspect of a case actually managed to intrigue him.
‘Poor rookie,’ Chris thought in sympathy, ‘now Wesker’s going to expect so much from you.’
New recruits are generally advised to fly under Wesker’s (and the Chief’s) radar.
Once Wesker set his expectations, failing to reach it meant you lost any and all chances you had in getting into Wesker’s good side. Fail it badly enough and RPD will be one less officer. He’d seen it happen before and he hoped the rookie would be able to keep up well enough until Wesker loses interest.
The rest of their conversation was something Chris lost track of, distracted as he was and their voices having faded into low murmurs. The next thing he knew, Marvin was leaving the S.T.A.R.S. office with the same lack of fanfare he entered with.
The moment the door closed behind the lieutenant, Wesker intoned sharply, “I assume you were listening to all of that, Chris.”
At the mention of his name, Chris was startled enough to hit his knee under his desk. Muttering a soft curse as he soothed the sore spot, he called out, “Yeah, kinda hard not to.”
No more need for Wesker’s say so, he heard the unspoken order. Chris stood up and made his way to the captain’s office with only some minor grumbling. Unspoken was his least favorite type of orders and he tended to ignore them, but just this once, curiosity overpowered the knee-jerk refusal to do what he was told.
Inside, Wesker lounged back in his high-backed chair, one elbow propped on the wooden surface of the desk, fingers drumming idly as he regarded the files. Aviator glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, making his impassive expression even more inscrutable.
Chris stood at attention before his captain, though he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander down the manila folders innocently stacked on the desk.
They were of varying thickness, all unlabelled as far as Chris could see. Right on top was the thickest file, the one Wesker was considering with such focus. He read a couple of lines, the page displaying a forensic report about one of the boys, before Wesker slid a couple of pages into Chris’s eyesight.
Dr. Anthony Ferreira, one read, male, age 35. Rheumatologist, Raccoon General Hospital.
Dr. Cesar Brand, another declared, male, age 38. Internist, Raccoon General Hospital.
Valentine Andreas, a separate one was tagged, female, age 36. Founder and spiritual leader.
They were suspect profiles, Chris realized as he skimmed down the detailed text. Physical description, occupation, affiliates, other places of business. What the fuck?
The look on his face must have been quite expressive as Wesker merely tapped a rather thick manila folder to bring it to Chris’s attention. Taking it as his cue, Chris grabbed the file and was stunned to find witness statements and photocopies of letters that more or less implicate the three suspects in if not the murders, then at least the missing persons. Certainly, it will be enough to start an investigation.
‘Or,’ Chris flipped through the pages faster, eyes snagging on a short but existing surveillance report, ‘maybe even a rescue op.’
Chris had never been one to enjoy the detective work involved in building up a case, too used to being sent out on the field and after action debriefs, but he could admire the thoroughness that he was seeing.
Was this really done by one guy?
A rookie?
“What the fuck?” he reiterated to reality.
Wesker’s face didn’t change, but he didn’t reprimand Chris for the crass language like he usually would have outside of an op. Instead, he asked, “What do you know of Officer Kennedy?”
Still gobsmacked, Chris answered with an absentminded shrug, “The rookie? Not much. Came from the police academy, started working in the RPD under Marvin about two months ago, a bad case of baby face. Only complaint I’ve heard was that he’s too quiet and sullen, but Jill thinks he’s just, uh, shy.”
Wesker tilted his head, eyebrow raised. “I would have assumed you’d be all over the new recruit by now.”
Chris shrugged. “Been busy.”
Wesker didn’t seem convinced but let it slide. “In any case, you will be tasked to assess Officer Leon Kennedy to see if he is fit to join S.T.A.R.S.” Then, as if to annoy Chris, he tacked on, “Given your shared trait of recklessly going off on your own, I expect you would find common ground.”
Indignant, Chris huffed, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I want your assessment report on the rookie before this investigation reaches a conclusion.” Wesker’s tone booked no room for argument.
“You want me to babysit?” Chris threw in just to be contrary.
Wesker shrugged—if you could call the smooth, calculated motion that. “By all means, refer to it as you want.”
Truth be told, Chris wasn’t really against it. Having someone to officially scope out as a potential recruit was rare in itself because of how selective Wesker tended to be. S.T.A.R.S. was not understaffed by any means, but the demands placed upon them made any new member welcomed.
But with Chris Redfield, whose role in the team was practically Wesker’s second in command if he wasn’t a risk for insubordination, being assigned to the task? This was either his punishment or Wesker was absolutely certain that things will go Marvin’s way.
And that got him curious.
In his time with the RPD, Chris had seen his fair share of officers—either rookies or transfers—getting their bearings in the department. Some thrived, most middled, and an unfortunate some tanked.
None of them quietly made waves like this.
Like a fucking tsunami, Chris chortled internally. To get the attention of Captain Albert Wesker of all people. Quite the achievement, but also concerning.
Wesker was not a nice man by any stretch of the word. He dished out orders and criticism with a sharp tongue, not caring to spare anyone’s feelings or opinions. He’d left drug lords in tears while they begged to be imprisoned, and kept the entire RPD walking on eggshells in his presence. The S.T.A.R.S. unit handled doses of his intensity well enough, but Chris suspects it’s because most of them had military backgrounds.
But a baby rookie who hasn’t even been on active duty for a year?
Well, that made the decision for him.
It wasn’t until a couple of days later—after more evidence was gathered, decisions made for the direction of the Lynn Valley case and an official briefing was held—that Chris had the opportunity to approach the rookie.
He’d gone down to the shooting range to clear his head, images of the boys’s tortured bodies lodged in the back of his skull.
The involvement of children tended to make gruesome crimes even more haunting, and Chris was relieved to hear that Bravo team will be in charge for the apprehension of Andreas’s cult and the rescue of any potential victim. Alpha team will remain on standby if the situation escalates, but they weren’t expecting it to.
The range was clear of anyone else when he arrived. It was an odd hour, most officers that would have used it were outside doing patrols or on their break. Chris chose to use the booth reserved for S.T.A.R.S. members anyway—the one farthest from the entrance with a target mechanism rigged up by Barry and Joseph that was definitely not regulation standard, but Wesker hadn’t said anything so they’re taking it as the captain’s implicit approval.
Practicing with firearms wasn’t his first choice to unwind. He knew for sure that Barry and Jill would be blowing off steam in the gym, and normally he would have gone with them, but he probably wouldn’t be good company in the mats like this. He could also do without the peanut gallery of testosterone filled men.
So the gun range it was.
Since he wasn’t here for a challenge, just a way to get out of his head, he didn’t need any of the extended options for a moving target. Just plain old static marksmanship.
Stance, grip, sight. Controlled breathing. Fire.
Handling the recoil was a welcomed ache that grounded him. Reloading as familiar as breathing.
He was in the middle of his third round when his ears picked up the muffled gunshots that didn’t belong to him. Briefly, he paused in consideration before choosing to focus back on his target. It was probably another officer anyway. By the time he had to switch rounds, everything else fell into the background.
It was while he was waiting for his target to reach arm’s length and switching from the standard RPD issue handgun to his custom beretta that Chris decided to scan the room. Another officer has indeed occupied one of the booths.
For a moment, Chris watched. The gun for sure wasn’t standard issue. It didn’t look familiar, and he had a hard time pinpointing whose personal sidearm it could be. Whoever they were, they confidently handled it well.
He peered over, trying to catch a glimpse at who the owner could be.
Dirty blonde hair toeing the line of regulation length, baby face contorted in concentration as blue eyes remain trained on the target.
For a guy who could get lost in the crowd, the rookie sure was recognizable.
Watching him right now, Chris was once again struck by how much Kennedy reminded him of his own little sister.
It was a thought that he’d had since he first laid eyes on the rookie—something about him felt far too young for a career as dangerous as law enforcement.
Which shouldn’t make much sense. He’d seen younger recruits in the military, but bright-eyed certainly wasn’t a word he’d use to describe Leon Kennedy. Instead, the rookie held the look of someone who carried his share of burdens and would fight the world with bloody teeth bared if he had to.
Chris did his best to raise Claire in the absence of their parents, but he couldn’t always be there to fight her battles for her. Not as much as he liked, not as much as he needed to. But Claire had been stubborn as a child, scrappy as a pre-teen, and driven as a teenager.
Leon Kennedy looked like a reflection of Claire if she had been alone to deal with everything. Too young, too wary.
It felt a little bit like a slap in the face.
Chris didn’t want to admit to avoiding the rookie, but he knew he’d been friendlier to new recruits before. Fucking Wesker clocked it.
Heaving a sigh, Chris yanked his target down and ignored the soft rip when it came free. He folded it into a tight little square before jamming it into his pocket, then collected the unused ammunition and tucked his gun back into its holster.
Double-checking that he didn’t leave anything in the booth, Chris walked over to observe the rookie at a better vantage point.
His stance was—not bad, but it was so stiff Chris winced at every shot fired. The Alpha team pointman didn’t really understand what was wrong at first. It looked like the rookie was going for a modified Weaver and technically, he was doing everything right. He just didn’t seem comfortable. No, not that word. Settled?
Waiting until the rookie finished his round before coming closer, Chris spared a glance at the target and felt his eyebrows raise in surprise at the cluster of bullet holes near the X and some scattered at the 9 ring, with one straying right at the line before the 8 ring.
Well damn. Awkward ass stance or not, that was some impressive accuracy.
Chris reached over to give the rookie’s shoulder a tap. The rookie exhaled through his nose, turned towards Chris and tugged his ear protection down. Chris mirrored the motion, secure now that he wouldn’t get undue tinnitus just because he enjoyed getting the jump on others.
For a moment, they just stared at one another. The rookie tilted his head in question, somehow coming across as petulant.
Was he– was that a serious face? Solemn? Frowning?
Holy shit.
The pretty boy baby face with whatever that expression was supposed to be?
Maybe West Office had the right idea.
“Hey, uh,” Flustered and smacking down the intrusive urge to pat the rookie’s head, Chris blurted out, “Your back.” And like an idiot, he forgot to finish his sentence.
Focus, Chris. That wasn’t a pout. The rookie wasn’t pouting and it didn’t look like it suited him despite being a grown man.
The rookie frowned, fingers nimbly swapping his gun’s magazine without looking. “What about my back?”
“Is there something wrong with it? Old injury, maybe?” Now that he’d had some time to analyze it, that might be what was bothering Chris about the rookie’s posture. “You look like you’re being careful with it.”
“Oh,” The rookie blinked, absorbing what Chris said, and straightened his back while easing the tension in his shoulders. Something like realization dawned on his face. “Huh… no, actually. I don’t.”
“Yeah, well, better watch out for that then,” Chris gently tapped the rookie’s back, between his shoulder blades, and tried to imitate how the rookie took aim with his gun to demonstrate. “I didn’t realize it earlier, but you tend to hunch over like this and keep the rest of your upper body stiff. Might wanna relax that a bit.”
Chris watched the rookie stare down at his gun in contemplation, and the S.T.A.R.S. pointman noted the VP70M along its barrel. An H&K, common enough that he probably should have recognized it. An older model, then, well-maintained in the way sentimental pieces are.
His inspection was interrupted when the rookie suddenly took aim at the target, the movement so swift and fluid that Chris blinked and—
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The shots reverberated through the indoor space, echoing between the walls to culminate into dull ringing as his ears coped with the sound.
Luckily, Chris was used to hearing gunfire and the pistol wasn’t too loud. Still, he grimaced and muttered, “Geez, give a guy a warning.”
The only response he got was a neutral hum. Kind of an asshole move but whatever.
At least the rookie took his advice and adjusted his stance appropriately. It still looked off, but his shoulders weren’t as tense and he did seem more at ease.
Inspecting the target, Chris whistled, impressed by the three new holes that grazed the X. If he had such a good aim now, how would the rookie measure with moving targets? Maybe he should have asked Wesker about those academy records.
Chris half expected the rookie to make more of a show out of it, maybe fish for praise as anyone in his position would have. Instead, the younger man gave the faintest twitch of a smile, pleased as if he’d simply met his own expectations.
An overachiever, huh?
“Great shot. I’m Chris Redfield, by the way,” he belatedly introduced himself, “I know we’ve been introduced before, but I think this is the first time we actually talked.”
A strange look crossed the rookie’s face before it smoothed into—no, fuck that’s not a pout—a neutral frown that seemed to be his default expression. The rookie rolled his shoulder and put down his firearm. “Leon Kennedy. Don’t worry about it.”
Chris gave a sheepish grin, suddenly guilty. “Yeah, sorry about taking this long to really welcome you to Raccoon City. So. Welcome to the RPD, rookie!” Seeing the pinched look on the rookie’s face, Chris decided to spare both of them from his poor attempt at covering his ass. “By the way, I heard you were the one who built up the Lynn Valley case.”
The rookie took his time to holster his gun and press the button to recall his target before looking at Chris quizzically. “Yeah?”
“You know Marvin sent it on to Captain Wesker,” said Chris, crossing his arms as he watched the rookie unclip his target only to snap his gaze towards Chris. “So S.T.A.R.S. is now handling it.”
This was the first time the rookie actually met his gaze, and Chris couldn’t help but think that for all that the rookie reminded him of Claire, the intensity behind that blue gaze was far, far colder than it had any right to be.
“S.T.A.R.S.?”
“Uh, yeah,” Chris cleared his throat before continuing. “Captain Wesker assigned the Bravo team for field response. They’ll be scouting out the coordinates included in your report before moving in. Technically, I shouldn’t be telling this to you but I figured you’d appreciate an update on the case you’ve worked on.” This much information wouldn't get him in trouble with Wesker anyway. When the rookie remained stoic, Chris reassured him, “Don’t worry, Marini and his team are good. They’ll take care of it.”
Finally, after a pause, the rookie grunted and stashed his target away into a rolled up tube. “I see.”
The break in eye contact made Chris let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
“I’ve seen the files,” Chris pushed the weird moment aside, opting to continue their conversation. He genuinely wanted the rookie—Kennedy, now that they’d formally met—to know that he did a great job. “I won’t bad-mouth anyone, but most in the RPD wouldn't have bothered with reopening a closed case. You did. That kind of work—that’s what makes a difference.”
Kennedy shrugged. “Guess I’m just not good at leaving things alone.”
The deflection wasn’t expected. And this wasn’t sheepishness or faked humility like so many had shown Chris before when he gave out praise. It was blunt, a statement of fact.
Not to be arrogant but when a member of an elite team said you did a good job, people tended to be pleased to have their ego stroked. Chris never cared about it, knowing that great work needs to be recognized anyway. He was never shy about giving credit where it was due.
Or maybe he was starting to grow too comfortable in his position.
Was he becoming arrogant?
He hoped not. Wesker was already too much smugness for everyone to handle.
Chris shook away his errant thoughts. “Well, don’t lose that.” He scanned the rookie, trying to get a sense of the kid that convinced Marvin to go out of his way and ask a favor from Albert Wesker of all people. “Even if everybody tries to convince you to.”
Kennedy was an unusually hard person to read. Lips pulled tight into a neutral line, brow puckered in a faint frown. The smooth cheeks and remaining boyish roundness of his jaw were at odds with his flinty, shuttered gaze.
For a moment, it looked like he might say something.
Instead, he gave a noncommittal, “Thanks, Redfield,” before turning to leave.
Just like that.
“...Right,” Chris muttered to the empty room.
This might take more work than he’d first thought.