Based on the urban legend, "Aren't You Glad You Didn't Turn on the Light?!"

A/N: It really didn't mean to turn out this way…it just kind of…did…lol. So, as you can see from the description, this is a Wesker x Chris thing, but only in later chapters. So, enjoy now, yaoi later!

Warning: Character Death, language, gore, and later yaoi

Pairing: Wesker x Chris

Disclaimer: All characters and places used are property of Capcom. They are not mine.

--

It was late.

As Chris hurried across the dimly lit courtyard of the Raccoon City Police Department, he shivered. Not from the cold though. He shivered in anxiousness…it what seemed to be worry…

You've got to stop watching those horror movies with Barry; you dumb ass…Chris mentally scolded himself. He played idly with the papers in his hands, wishing that he could get to the door faster and out of the sticky July night. The small pathway lights, erected in the flowerbeds, provided a small amount of light, but nowhere near enough for Chris to feel 'safe'. He had always had a childish fear of the dark.

Getting out of the courtyard, Chris followed the tan bricked walkway up to the RPD front door. He felt the anxious worry rise into his stomach and butterfly around, telling him to leave this place. The large motion sensing floodlights, mounted on both sides of the police station roof clicked on abruptly, making the brunette jump and nearly hyperventilate.

"Damn it Chris, you're not four!" he whispered firmly to himself, seizing the handle of the Department's door. Then, he paused. The worry was now gnawing at his innards, similar to how a lion would gnaw at its prey's bones. To appease his worry, he looked over his shoulder…

And, oh…oh god…there was a man, standing right there, on the RPD sidewalk, wearing a…trench coat? A long detective looking hat overshadowed his features. His hands were neatly tucked into his coat pockets and he was innocently tapping his toe on the walk. His form, basking in one of the few streetlights of Raccoon City, seemed to be oozing mystery and evil out of all of his pores. He nonchalantly waved at Chris and began to walk slowly away.

"Hey!" Chris yelled, spinning around. "Wait!"

But then, the S.T.A.R.S member blinked, and the trench-coated man was gone.

Ohmigod, Ohmigod, Ohmigod – Chris's mind was running in every different direction possible. His blue eyes widened and his breath quickened, but he was a S.T.A.R.S. member, and they weren't psyched out by anything. He just had to keep telling himself that…Slowly; Chris mentally began to count down from 100, an old meditation trick that his friend Jill had taught him, saying that it relieved stress and worry. He shut his eyes.

Ninety-nine. Breath.

Ninety-eight. Breath.

Ninety-seven. Breath.

Ninety-six. Breath.

Ninety-five. Breath.

Ninety-four…

Chris opened his eyes. No one was there – no animal, no cars, and no man in an ominous coat.

"I need to lay off the sugar," the man said to himself jokingly. He smiled at his own antics and grasped the door to the station once more, pulling it open.

As Chris disappeared into the station, a bush rustled, and a man in a tan trench coat laughed insanely.

--

The empty halls of the station echoed with every step Chris took.

My Jesus, can this be anymore freaked up? Chris thought to himself as he pushed open the door with large red letters that read AUTHORIZED PERSONAL ONLY. Looking down at the papers in his sweaty palms, the brunette's mind began to wander. Easy, easy job Chris. All you have to do is put these papers in front of Vickers door and leave. Then you can stop freaking yourself out and go home and go to bed. Then you can pretend that this whole thing was just a…just a bad misunderstanding and that you didn't see a…gho-man in a long trench coat. Yeah, stupid me…ghosts don't exist… Chris laughed softly to himself.

He eyed all of the name plaques on the hickory colored doors as he passed them.

Mine.

Wesker's.

Barry's.

Forrest's.

Ken's.

Jill's.

Joseph's.

Then, finally,

Here it is…Brad's.

Smiling to himself, Chris bent down to slide the papers under Brad (Chickenheart as Forrest enjoyed to call him) Vickers's door…when he herd…movement? From the other side. Chris glanced at the door handle timidly. His hand, against his mind's will, reached for the door. Slowly, he tried it…

It creaked open in an intimidating manner, as if beckoning Chris to come inside. Curiosity got the better of the S.T.A.R.S. member as he peeked his head into Vickers's office.

"Hello?" he murmured into the inky blackness.

Nothing.

Trying to listen, Chris couldn't even pick up a miniscule movement. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the man could see nothing out of the ordinary in Vickers's office – pictures, food wrappers, a poster, CD's, his computer…nothing abnormal.

Except for the body on the desk.

OH GOD. That's…BRAD! His mind screamed at himself to leave, to check on Vickers's, to call for help, to – The body moved up, then down…then up again, then down… He was breathing.

"Jesus, Vickers's you almost gave me…" Chris rolled his eyes, picking up the papers on the floor. Not wanting to disturb Brad's sleep, the brunette placed the forms on the desk, next to his head.

Brad whimpered in his sleep, "Nngh…C-Chris…"

Startled, Chris had to remind himself that his co-worker was merely having a bad dream and that he was in it. This was nothing serious.

Chris half-smirked. "Sleep tight, Vickers's. Don't let the bed bugs bite." And with that, he turned to leave, shutting the door behind him, leaving Brad in the ferociously choking darkness.

--

The next morning, Chris woke up to the shrill shrieking of his home phone. Groggy and disoriented, he fumbled out of bed – only in a pair of plaid boxers – and to his kitchen. As soon as he placed his hand on the phone, the ringing stopped and his annoying voicemail kicked in.

Hey, you've reached Chris. Clearly, I'm not –

"Hello?" Chris slurred into the phone.

"Redfield."

Recognizing the voice instantly, Chris cleared his throat. "Good morning, Captain Wesker. To what do I owe-"

"No need for the formalities, Chris." Wesker intruded," Please get to the station, ASAP."

Chris narrowed his eyebrows, sensing a tone that was foreign to his blonde captain – fear, bordered with disgust and worry. "Yes sir!" he replied hastily.

"Thank you…Chris…" and with that, the conversation abruptly ended.

Gently returning the sleek, wireless phone to its cradle, Chris bolted for his room throwing on the first thing that he saw. A baggy, white wife-beater tucked into jeans with an orange sleeveless vest over the top and black ratty converse was Chris's ensemble. Not exactly 'uniform' at the RPD, but it would have to suffice until he had found out what had unnerved his usually calm captain.

Running back out of his room, Chris grabbed the keys to his Hyundai Sonata and an apple. He bit into the red fruit as he fled from the back door, locking it as he went. With lightning speed, the brunette leapt to his car and flew into the driver's seat.

With the station on his mind, Chris started up the car, revved the engine quite theatrically, and backed out of the driveway.

--

As he pulled into the police station Chris couldn't help but wonder why the hell there were so many cops on duty today. Then, the thought clicked in his brain…

Something must have happened at the station. He thought frantically. He navigated his black car towards the employee-parking garage as his mind raced to think of answers.

Someone must have gotten hurt, someone must have had a medical emergency, someone's held hostage, someone's gone senile, someone's snapped, someone's dead… Chris pulled into a spot that read, RESERVED FOR ALPHA S.T.A.R.S. in bold lettering and killed the engine. Removing his keys, Chris exited his vehicle and let out a breath he was unsure he was holding.

Picking up the apple core in his cup holder, he shut and locked his car, running for the station.

--

Inside the station, Chris was in awe.

Forensic scientists littered the halls of the RPD like cockroaches along with news reporters from almost every local station.

"Chris!"

The man turned to see Barry waving him over with one bear like hand. Jogging with a nervous smile, Chris approached his bearded friend.

"What's up, man?" he mumbled, looking at all of the people in the usually quiet station.

"Were you in the station last night, Chris?" Barry said, cutting to the chase.

"Um…yeah…why?" Chris ran a hand through his un-brushed bed head.

"Oh Christ…" The man said, sloppily stroking his red-ish beard.

"Is something the matter?" The small brunette stuttered.

Barry roughly seized Chris's upper arms, forcing the two men to lock eyes. "You weren't in Vickers's office…were you, kid?"

"Yeah, I was!" Chris cried out as Barry tightened his hold.

"What was going on when you were here? Anything unusual? Any suspicious people?" he growled.

"Brad was sleeping. I was just dropping off mission papers to him…And, I saw a dude in a trench coat outside of the station." Chris said, unhappily squirming. "Let go of me, please!"

"He didn't do anything to you, and you didn't turn on any lights, right?" Barry demanded.

"No! NO! I didn't, now let me go!" Chris whined.

"Barry." a cool yet exhausted voice snapped. "Release him. He's safe. He's okay."

Reluctantly, Barry did as he was told. "Yes, Captain Wesker." he said, dropping his hands.

Giving Chris a once-over, Barry sheepishly smiled, "Sorry if they bruise, kid." he said, referring to Chris's arms. "I just…had to make sure that it wouldn't happen to you too…"

"What happened to me?" Chris asked, confused.

"Chris," Wesker appeared next to the brunette, lightly squeezing his shoulder in support. "Brad Vickers's is dead."

--

DUN, DUN, DAH! A cliffhanger, oh noes!

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Chapter 2 soon!