A few notes before we begin….

I don't own Resident Evil, clearly. If I did, I would be the richest bitch I know. I would be sitting in my 3 tiered kidney shaped pool filled with Jello (maybe green) sipping Mai Tais, munching on Reese's Pieces (unconcerned about the spread of my thighs as a result seeing as I'd have the best trainer in the world to help me fix it) and plotting the deaths of all the bitches who wronged me in the past. I wouldn't be writing this fic, fumbling around in life trying to pay my frickin bills and wishing, just for a moment, that I DID own it.

On another note, there are really no OC's in this story. I realize some people hate them (Brooke and Megan) and so I will attempt to create a tale without them and without any sex o f any kind. (GASP) but maybe a little implied romance in parts. The places our friends travel are entirely fictitious. The rainforest, the town and so forth. So that way I don't step on any toes of those who are native to the areas in question.

A fair warning, I may hint at lots of things through out the telling of this fictional sojourn. I may also completely lose the focus of the story and go off on tangents without point or purpose.

That being said….

ONE: Enter the Hero…exit the other one.

NAME: CHRIS REDFIELD

AGE: 35

HEIGHT: 6'1"

WEIGHT: 212 lbs.

OCCUPATION: Asskicker

The dead were coming for him. He was surrounded on all fronts, dying, bleeding from both legs and a particularly nasty bite on his shoulder. He was tired and hungry, broken and beaten, and down to his last few bullets. His team had long since abandoned him, leaving him to the nebulous wasteland of nothingness, forsaking him for brighter promises and greener pastures.

Chris Redfield was about to make his last stand. His arms tightened, his fingers flexed, he mustered all of his resolve from the pit of his stomach and faced down the shambling horde as they made their wickedly fast way toward his hunched form. There was nothing between him and eternity but three bullets and a slew of curse words dragged from his ticked off mouth.

He made the count down in his head…one…two….faster they came with each moment…faster….thre---

The phone on his hip began to ring, blasting Get outta my dreams, Get into my car by the fabulous Billy Ocean across the room. It was so inappropriate it might have been funny.

Cursing, Chris hit the pause button Left for Dead, tossed the X-Box controller onto the couch next to him and grabbed up his phone. It was one of those Blackberry doohickies that Claire had bought for him on his birthday. He really didn't need it. He didn't text or IM or whatever the hell the kids were doing these days but she'd insisted he needed to "move with the times."

Her face had said quite clearly that he was "acting his age." Whatever the hell that meant when he'd asked her what was wrong with his old phone. It received calls, it sent calls, so what if he'd taped it back together eight times over the six years he'd had it? It did its job and if there was one thing you learned in the Redfield household, it was waste not, want not.

Searching for the answer button, Chris cursed again to see it was indeed his little sis calling.

Didn't she have anything better to do on Wednesday afternoon then call him? Likely she'd begin talking about whatever tattooed dude she was currently seeing. The last one, Rico, had had more piercings then a tribal shaman and less brains then a turnip.

"Yo." He stated clearly, pretty sure he'd answered the phone correctly.

"Hey dude." Claire intoned happily, " Busy?"

"Well I kinda was," he replied, shifting on the couch to toss his bare feet out in front of him, "Whatcha want?" No sense telling her he was playing X-Box. She was already convinced he was an introverted loser who seemed to refuse to go out in public and mingle with the mouth breathers. He kind of was but not for the reasons she speculated.

Both Claire and Jill had tried countless times to get him out amongst the masses since Raccoon City. But unless he was tracking leads about Wesker or mopping up massacres made by Umbrella (even capable of destruction in the last throes of its exisistence) he was much interested in social functions. He liked to use the line, "I'm too old for that shit." When invited to parties or some such nutty places with people congregated and attempted to get laid.

It wasn't that he was afraid to mingle. Nope. He just didn't care to. Life would be full of opportunities to marry and birth brats when he was finished with destroying Wesker. Until then he was content to take fat paychecks from the government to play superhero and play video games. Not that that was ALL he did. He did occasionally (six times a week) hit the home gym in his basement to work out.

In fact, since Raccoon, he'd put on sixty pounds (fifty of it muscle, ten of it beer) and made quite a name for himself as a hired gun for the good guys. Claire had made Terminator jokes at his expense quite frequently in the last ten years but she didn't realize that to fight Albert "Superfreak" Wesker, you HAD to be big.

It was kind of his obsession.

He could hear noise on Claire's end of the phone. People milling around, type writers (keyboards Chris. NO ONE uses typewriters anymore; really), the hum drum sounds of office work. "I need your help."

And she sounded serious.

Chris sat up a little straighter. "You okay?"

There was a delighted little laugh on her end. "You're sweet bro. Really. But I'm fine. The problem is that Sherry isn't."

Chris wracked his nugget for a minute trying to remember Sherry. Skinny little blonde kid? The one Claire had brought around to Thanksgiving and Christmas after Raccoon City a decade earlier. After Sherry had gone to live with her Aunt in Idaho, he hadn't seen much of the kid.

"What's she gotta be now….twenty?"

"Twenty one." Claire said quietly. "Chris…something's happened. Somebody found out about her. They know she's Birkin's daughter…she was at Juliard, at school. But no one's seen her in over two weeks."

He was getting his boots on as she spoke, lacing them and already plotting what he'd need in his head.

"Any clues?"

This is where Claire fell unusually quiet. Chris had to prod her to answer.

"Claire? What is it?"

"That's the weird part. The really weird part. There was a note. On her desk at school. A love letter, or so her room mate thought. She thought nothing of it. It said for Sherry to come and meet him for a midnight rendezvous… "

She wasn't finished. She was stalling. Why?

"Spit it out Claire. What else?"

"The note…it was signed Albie."

And there you had it. THIS was why he was being called. Albie. Albert Wesker. Fucker. Freak.

"Son of a bitch." That too. Chris stood, grasping his keys off the kitchen counter. "I'm on my way."

So that was the game that freak was playing. Years of dancing around each other. Wesker with his taunting little messages and clues. A step ahead of Chris at every fucking turn. Was this his end game? To lure Chris into a wild goose chase over a girl he barely knew? Or had it been to lure CLAIRE and guarantee that Chris would follow?

Chris cranked over the engine of his Honda DN-01 and gunned it, shooting off down the street like a black phantom. The motorcycle had been his first real gift to himself in ten years. It was a crossover (which pleased his eco-friendly sister) and faster then a two dollar tramp with a ten dollar tip (which pleased him).

He was headed to the head quarters of the BSAA (Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance). It masqueraded as a conspiracy theory newspaper and doubled as, you guessed, the last stand between terrorists and the rest of the free world.

They'd been trying to get him to sign on for years. He'd been reluctant, unwilling to put his time, his faith, or his skill in a hire power (look how corrupt STARS had been). But he was guessing they'd use the temptation of Wesker as the final nail in his coffin to get him to join. Claire had signed up years ago. She was mostly an ambassador, not a fighter, sent in to smooth the waters for foreign dignitaries and diplomats.

He'd freelanced plenty for the BSAA, was on good terms with the head of the outfit Barry Burton, and knew Jill and her erstwhile companion Carlos Oliveira (idiot) were in it as well.

In fact, he knew Leon Kennedy was a member. (He'd joined not long after some crazy fucking mission where he'd rescued the Presidents daughter. Chris still wasn't sure what the fuck the government was thinking sending one dude in alone.)

For the most part, he liked Kennedy. He and Claire were buddies and he'd saved her life in Raccoon. Not to mention the guy was a freaking hoot when he was drunk (upper class yuppy prep goes bad).

Chris had to pass three security check points just to be cleared into the inner portion of the building. A full body scan, a weapons check, an ocular scan and then a voice print analysis cleared him into the inner sanctum.

People milled around doing their daily routines. A few gophers were carrying trays full of expensive coffee (what was wrong with good old Folgers?) and manila folders and carts with mail.

A few lingered around a water cooler regaling each other with tales of last nights episode of Lost. (Chris didn't watch this show. He found the idea of people stuck together in extreme circumstances with unrealistic bad guys to just be ludicrous…)

The office at the end of a row of cubicles granted him glances of geeks playing Street Fighter and other games on their PC's as he passed.

The door opened and gave him three pairs of concerned eyes.

NAME: CLAIRE REDFIELD

AGE: 29

HEIGHT: 5'5"

WEIGHT: WOULDN'T YOU LIKE TO KNOW?

OCCUPATION: Nagging sister

One pair was the duplicate blue of his own. Claire had gotten their mother's Irish good looks. Pretty soft features with robin's blue eyes and shiny red hair. She was slim and graceful and always made Chris feel like a hulking beast by comparison.

Chris had always been graced with their father's dark features (minus the blue eyes). He was darker haired, darker skinned then his sister, and (thank god) hairier. He usually had a five o'clock shadow by eight a.m. Claire was constantly telling him to shave his chest when they went swimming. (You look like a Yeti!) Which was so not true. He was 35 fucking years old. OF COURSE, he had body hair. He actually thought it was an attractive amount on his upper chest and his happy trail. If he'd actually been a yeti he would have waxed. Maybe.

NAME: BARRY BURTON

AGE: OLD

HEIGHT: TALL

WEIGHT: 250 +

OCCUPATION: HMFIC (Head mother fucker in charge)

The other pair of eyes on him belonged Barry Burton. Barry was tall and built like a brick shithouse with just a little suggestion of a spare tire around his middle that told the tale of his forty plus years. Barry and Claire shared that red haired, Irish gene that sorta made them resemble father and daughter.

The last pair of eyes Chris didn't recognize. Though he wasn't complaining. It was a nice pair of eyes. Doe brown, intelligent and judging, softened by a sweep of dark hair and set in a high cheekboned, aristocratic face the color of coffee with three creams.

He could appreciate the slim, athletic body encased in tank top and jeans. And really appreciate the butt he glimpsed in those jeans when she turned to pour herself some coffee. Black coffee, he noted, none of that frappe latte crap.

Claire came around the desk, "That was fast."

With a shrug, Chris accepted her brief embrace. "So tell me the rest of it."

Barry motioned to the chair in front of his desk, "Seat?"

"Pass," Chris answered, crossing his arms over his chest (with some difficulty seeing as his arms and chest were huge with muscle) "Spill it."

Stalling, Barry said, "You gotten bigger since last I saw you?"

"Probably. Out with it Burton. What else?"

Claire gestured to Barry to let her speak, "We decrypted the letter left in Sherry's dorm room and the clues seemed quite clearly to point to Tatla Makan rainforest. It implied she was being held prisoner somewhere outside of the village of Gisan."

Great. The fucking rainforest. Super. Somewhere in South America little Sherry Birkin was in trouble. And Chris would likely have to go there and sweat his nuts off trying to find Albert Wesker...no wait…to find HER.

"You've had this intel for three weeks and done nothing about it until now?" Did he sound as outraged as he felt? But wait, there was that look on Claire's face that said there was more bad news coming.

Barry spoke up before she could answer, "We sent Kennedy."

Chris's eyes went through his hair.

"He missed his last two scheduled check in's."

Great. GREAT. Super. Fantastic.

"So you want me to rescue the hero too huh?"

What WAS it with these people? They send one guy AGAIN to do the job. Sadly for them, he apparently wasn't living up to his name this time.

NAME: LEON S. (what the hell does the S. stand for?) KENNEDY

AGE: 31

HEIGHT: PUNY

WEIGHT: PATHETIC

OCCUPATION: DAMSEL IN DISTRESS

Claire looked concerned for her erstwhile comrade. Chris on the other hand stated the obvious, "Maybe he's running for his life. It happens when you're ALL ALONE surrounded by hostiles."

Barry rolled his eyes. "Whatever .The point is, the BSAA has decided to send in an evac team."

"You mean me?"

"I mean you…and Sheva." Barry gestured to the girl delicately sipping coffee beside him.

Chris put out a hand for shaking. Sheva cocked a brow and smirked, shaking his hand.

"Sheva Alomar," She intoned and, yep, that accent capped the package. She was hot. He was enough of a guy to admit it. "I'm with the BSAA attachment in the Congo."

NAME: SHEVA ALOMAR

AGE: TOO YOUNG FOR CHRIS

HEIGHT: 5'7"

WEIGHT: 115 lbs

OCCUPATION: COMPLICATED LOVE INTEREST

The BSAA had attachments in the African Congo? Interesting. Not relevant. But interesting.

"What about Jill? She and I have worked missions together plenty of times. No offense, "He said offhandedly to Sheva, "But we know each other's ins and outs."

Barry coughed and smirked.

Claire looked away.

Did everyone think he and Jill had been together? Lord. You take two attractive people, put them in extreme circumstances, have them face mortal danger, get their adrenaline pumping and people just ASSUME you were intimate.

They hadn't been. Not that it mattered. But they were just friends.

Sheva nodded briefly. "I understand. But Valentine is on assignment in the Congo. She can't be pulled. So you're stuck with me."

Chris shrugged. "Whatever. When do we leave?"

Barry gathered the pile of papers on his desk. "After you read this."

Ugh. He hated the briefing part of any mission. Legal mumbo jumbo and jargon that didn't do much more then confuse him. He was mostly a simple man. Point and shoot.

Chris took the papers. "Alright. I'll be ready in an hour. Get the chopper ready."

He turned to go and Claire grabbed his arm. "Bro, this is dangerous. Really dangerous. You know it's a trap right?"

He looked down into her sweet face. His baby sister. She was the reason he carried the lucky penny in his wallet.

"Yeah. I know. I have to go Claire. It's been a long time coming."

Claire nodded sadly. "Yes. I want to come with you."

He was already shaking his head. "No. You're not combat trained. No way. I couldn't do my job worrying about you. You stay here and do…whatever it is you do so well. Promise?"

She didn't like it. Not at all. He saw the Redfield pigheadedness written all over her face.

"Promise Claire. Or I won't go."

Through gritted teeth, she muttered, "I promise…jerk."

He kissed her forehead. "Good girl." And his eyes turned to Sheva, "You ready for this?"

She had a fantastic smile. Nice white teeth. "Yep."

"Good."

The door thunked closed on his exit, signaling the start of another adventure. He was halfway to the elevator to take him to the equipment room when he realized he'd forgotten to shut off the X-box. Now his character was undoubtedly dead, eaten alive by the undead. With a curse, he hit the button for the bottom floor.