Two weeks into December, and Daniel had settled into a new kind of normal. Most of his injuries had faded by then, barring the few actual wounds he still carried, but even those were manageable. More than that, he’d managed to carve out the time to get all of his new equipment set up, catalogued, and stored away properly, including the sizable and shockingly heavy industrial press. The reloading machine had proven to be a miracle worker, and all he needed now were primers to keep it running at full pace. It was churning out several hundred rounds a day, the process deliberate rather than fast, but slower was better anyway, since it cut down on mistakes.
He’d also made it a point to get back onto the training cycle with both the Kendos and John, the former glad to see him hale and hearty after his trip, with the elder brother already having a stack of new books set aside for him to work through, more on fabrication than anything else. It was interesting in its own way, and mastering the art of gunsmithing remained high on his list, especially after seeing what the Survivalist could accomplish on his own. Joseph had been especially interested in seeing what had been done to his Jericho, now that he had his hands on it, the modifications simple enough that he sussed out the details without any real effort but interested all the same in the direction Daniel had taken it, even if he cautioned against using the high-power rounds. It had made for a decent couple of afternoons, all said.
John, on the other hand, hadn’t even bothered with a ‘how do you do.’ He’d dropped Daniel straight into a full-contact refresher after missing a couple of weeks, delivering a thorough tenderizing in the process. Daniel hadn’t complained, because there was nothing to complain about. He’d asked for it, and John was nothing if not accommodating of that fact. Still, in the months since he’d begun, he’d been seeing improvement. Not to the point that John would call it proficient, but he wasn’t immediately hitting the mat in every exchange anymore. The weapons drills had increased as well, split between Daniel’s own study and John’s direct instruction. He hadn’t had much call for melee in the field, but that was never the point of it. The point was to train out that instinctive flinch reflex, to get him thinking reflexively and planning on the move. In that respect, the training had been brutally effective.
It still didn’t make getting kicked in the bruises hurt any less. Or punched in the jaw. Or having a thumb dug into one of his cuts. Toughness training, John had called it. Not learning to ignore the pain, really, but learning to think through it. It wasn’t deliberate, not exactly, John wasn’t targeting his aches and injuries on purpose, but Daniel had almost lost his lunch a few times from some well-placed knees or elbows. And while the man was as stern-faced as a statue, he had offered Daniel a few practical tips on managing those injuries after each session. It was a strange duality in his trainer’s attitude. John demanded excellence and diligence, and once Daniel had proven he was in it for the long haul, the lessons had begun to shift from general tutelage toward something closer to an apprenticeship.
Outside of that, he’d been back at the shooting club, to the enthusiasm of the others. He’d been missed by the surly bunch over the holiday, and he was one of them, so they said. Chris had been there, as well as Barry, and surprisingly Jill had shown up too. All three were just as welcoming as ever, but Daniel noticed that Barry seemed to have something on his mind. He said it was nothing, just pondering Christmas gifts for the young’uns. Daniel wasn’t sure he believed it, but he didn’t have much time to dwell on it before he was swept away by the other two STARS into an impromptu shooting contest to see if he’d gotten rusty during his weeks of enforced downtime. He hadn’t, though that didn’t stop the two of them from trouncing him up and down the range anyway.
Chris, in particular, seemed especially enthused, dropping hints and small corrections to improve Daniel’s numbers and tighten his aim, and it wasn’t hard to see why. Wesker had filled his head with the idea that Daniel might be STARS material, and Chris clearly wanted to see it come to fruition. Kevin had been oddly absent over the last few weeks, but Daniel couldn’t blame him, especially after Albert made the effort to humiliate him over Thanksgiving. In his place were a couple of youngbloods, RPD hopefuls trying to make names for themselves.
Despite all of it, though, it still felt like falling into a holding pattern. The echoes of his talk with Rebecca had persisted through the weeks, and even in moments of levity, it felt like something fundamental had shifted. He wasn’t surprised. He couldn’t be. He’d given her the barest of bare minimums, and it had sent ripples through the trust she placed in him. But what else could he do? It wasn’t simply a matter of extraordinary circumstances needing commensurate evidence. That was only part of it.
She’d been open about her view of things, her skepticism, her worries, her concerns, and most of all her fears. She hadn’t tried to hide any of it. The two of them had talked several more times since then, each conversation long and meandering, each one ending without either of them finding an answer for the other. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t noticed her watching him from the corner of her eye, her face drawn tight in thought as she tried to see what he saw, even while he knew it was impossible to explain.
Taking her with him on the next incident was both the best and most repulsive solution he could imagine. Seeing was believing in a way no picture, file, or stack of notes ever could be. It would also put her at an insane level of risk, and he only had one set of armor and one complete loadout. He still had some platinum coins left, which gave him options, but it was still a lot. He would be exposing her, and exposing himself, both in very different ways. There would be no room left for doubt about what he was or what he was doing. It would be all or nothing. At the same time, leaving her in the dark about what was coming felt equally unacceptable. He would be damned if she walked into the Mansion with nothing but a soft vest and a handgun. He would burn the forest down with the Mansion in it before he allowed that.
If she had to go, then she would. He refused to believe in destiny, because if he did, then he’d been doomed from the start. That refusal didn’t stop the reality of things from settling in. If she were called to action, she would act. It was her position in STARS, but it was also her pride. This was what she’d been training for, knowingly or not. Being there to support her was the least he could do, and she deserved to know the truth no matter how conflicted he felt about it. But if he was going to take her with him, then he needed to be certain she was prepared. That meant putting his cards on the table and trusting her to trust him in return.
Until the Survivalist brought him his next target, the question was moot. Trust had to be earned, and showing her everything, the how, the gear, the hideout, the weapons, all of it, before he could reliably have her at his side was too great a risk. She wanted what was best for him. She cared about him. And he already knew how unhinged he’d sounded just talking about even the most mundane parts of it. So it would wait, until the last possible moment, until he was ready to move. Then he would ask her to trust him, and he would show her. Because as terrible as it was to risk her exposure, if he had her on his side, maybe, just maybe, he could finally manage the win he so desperately needed.
000
Rebecca sighed quietly to herself as she left for her latest bout of training. She’d moved into the intermediate skills courses, mostly weapons, investigations, and her own unique sections of battlefield medicine and field chemistry, which had her working with Ken more often than not. Dr. Sullivan was like her, a civilian recruit, but one who’d thrown his whole self into the role. The man was a wealth of knowledge, of experience, and working with him was a genuine pleasure. The man was incredibly solid and understanding, and unlike some of the others, treated her like a peer instead of the team little sister.
He wasn’t unlike Danny in that regard, if with a different wavelength to him. The man was wholly focused on his work, almost to the exclusion of all others, and was a quiet sort, even if he could shout with the best of them when he needed to. She had a lot of respect for him, not that she didn’t respect the rest of STARS, but there was something different to the man. Mostly in that, like her, he had completed a number of degrees even before joining the unit, and had done so against the wishes of his family. Though that was years ago, before she’d gotten out of her tweens, and he didn’t talk about it much.
Still, that made him scarily observant.
“What’s eating you, Rebecca?” His deep voice ripped her from her thoughts, making her jerk up in surprise.
“Wha-?” She stumbled, before stabbing herself in the finger with the needle in the other. “Fuck! Damn, ow, ow ow ow…” She grabbed her hand, watching the blood well up from the tiny wound.
“Case in point.” He said, as she grabbed a small bandage for her finger. “You’ve been half here all day. What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing, really. Just thinking about some things.” She said, clearly not interested in delving further. Ken held up his hands in surrender.
“Have it your way. Just try to keep your eyes on target huh? Don’t wanna add any more new holes you don’t want.” he laughed, as he stood up and examined her training dummy. Stitch training was something they both had to keep current on, and double checking each other was just par for the course.
“Looks good from here, Chambers. Big improvement over last week, even if you decided to add a few extra.” He laughed, making Rebecca roll her eyes and slug him in the shoulder.
“Shaddup, Sullivan. It wasn’t that bad.” She said, staring at her finger, before changing the subject. “I’m just glad we finished up before Chris or Forest were sent down to pick us up. Captain Wesker has been practically buzzing about getting those new guns in. Much as he can be anyway.”
“I admit, it’s rare to see him so pleased with himself. He really got one over on Irons. You know how much of a skinflint the chief can be when it’s not about his art restoration projects.” Ken laughed as they packed up. “We’re getting the first shipment in, but supposedly the whole force is getting an armory upgrade.”
“Yeah, Barry was talking about it. He was a little torn on it, the guy loves his H&K. He was worried that they were going to phase out the MP5s for this new P90s but I guess we’re keeping both?” Rebecca shrugged. “Not sure what the deal is.”
“I was just surprised they went with a PDW over something like an SBR. Most of the big city SWAT units on the coast want something with a little more oomph. I guess the Captain saw something that impressed him enough to go the other way.” Ken said as he housed his bag over his shoulder, and grabbed Rebecca’s too, to her mild protest, but he was unmoved. “What did Barry say?”
“Overengineered and untested, but seemed to have some decent performance specs. He loves those MP5s and the handful of M4s we have too much to give it a lot of attention though. Decent armor pen for the weight, though, according to him, so there’s that. Not sure why we’d need that though. Most crooks aren’t rocking body armor.” Rebecca shrugged as they made their way out of the basement, past the kennels, leaving the small medical office behind.
“Huh. You’d think he’d talk to the Captain about it if he had any real complaints. Did he?” Ken asked, and Rebecca had no idea.
Coming up, they spotted Kevin headed on his way down. Rebecca waved, and Ken gave him a nod, but the man just kept walking, a sour look on his face. The two watched him as he headed back down towards the range, before sharing a look.
“What crawled up his ass?” Ken asked, after a moment. “Because that definitely felt like the guy was runnin’ hot.”
“Chris said he bombed out on the latest STARS certs. He’s been kinda pissy about it, I guess.” She distinctly didn’t mention that the attitude started after Wesker dropped his offer on Danny, something she wasn’t terribly happy with. He needed a job, she knew, but this wasn’t what he needed. More stress, on top of everything else? It was a powderkeg. One she’d quietly argued against, and one that, thankfully, he didn’t seem interested in to begin with.
“And he thinks storming around like he got a bone to pick is gonna get him any credit?” Ken snorted, shaking his head. “This was what, his fourth time in?”
“Yeah, and I didn’t see the file, but apparently it’s not a skills thing. Jill talks about it sometimes, but she says it’s his attitude. That and he has something in his file, though I don’t know what.”
“And neither should you.” He said, nudging her with his shoulder. “Down that road lies damnation, Chambers. I don’t need to be the steward to tell you that’s not a hole you wanna peer in, no matter what the station gossips might think. And I am, so you don’t need to go down that road.”
“I know, I know. I just… look, I’m the new girl. Six months isn’t a lot of time, and I’ve been kinda… insulated from things, but even I’ve started to notice some odd undercurrents. I just don’t want to get, you know, caught up in something.” She said, glancing away as Ken hummed.
“Look, I get what you’re saying, but the best move when it comes to office politics is to not play. But… I can see that you’re not gonna accept that.” Ken sighed, as he paused, the two of them by the corner break room, thankfully empty. “Look, if you gotta know, yes, there has been some hinky shit going on for a while, between Irons and Wesker. Neither of them like the other and that trickles down, and just being in STARS makes you a target. You remember all that outreach bullshit he had you doing when you first came in? That was Irons showing Wesker he could boss around people in the unit.”
“I remember that. I didn’t… think all that much of it but…” Rebecca said, as her face scrunched up a bit.
“That was just collateral, I’m sorry to say. You’re not in the main pipeline, but I heard stories about people getting their cases dropped or reassigned, getting shuffled around, getting put on shit duty despite having the chops to be working bigger cases, all of it career stalling, or like with Ryman, career ending.” Ken sighed, and rubbed his chin awkwardly. “Irons plays it fast and loose with his favorites, and the only one who can push back is the Captain. But that don’t mean much, since the Mayor listens to Irons first, and Raccoon only got one big dog, you feel me?”
Rebecca nodded, as the two continued up towards the second floor. It sure sounded corrupt to her, but it was so… mundane. After a bit, she asked, quietly, “Do you think there’s more to it? The games, I mean.”
“Hell, your guess is as good as mine, Chambers.” Ken chuckled. “That said, between the reassignments and all the construction going around, god only knows where half those case files wind up. They moved the damn records room six times since I got started here. They’re still finding random lost files all over the place.” He grinned, ruefully. “It’s a damn wonder anything gets done around here. Anyway, after you.”
Ken held the door open to the STARS office just in time for the Captain to break open the first of the crates revealing a dozen matte black, compact SMGs. The rest of the afternoon came from the two of them giving a seminar on the guns, but Rebecca found herself tuning them out as she rolled what Ken had told her over in her head, one piece at a time.
000
Alyssa would be the first to admit she wasn’t a huge fan of the woods any more, all things considered anyway. She used to really like hiking too, but that was ruined as well after the Nightmare before Thanksgiving had properly traumatized her. Still, she had to admit, the spot Daniel had picked had privacy, and unless Umbrella had figured out how to wire up the trees, completely detached from the pervasive surveillance network that the city boasted. And wasn’t that a bit of a shocker? Once she started paying attention to it, she began to realize just how many corner and traffic cams the city had sprouted up. She didn’t know much about the nature of how that sort of thing was handled, but the panopticon that the city had put up reminded her more of when she was in Beijing in the early 90s doing a semester abroad.
So she didn’t blame the looming man of mystery his paranoia. It was a good thing she trusted him though, because there wasn’t anyone around to hear her scream if he had… ill intentions towards her. That perked up a small smile even as she quietly told herself to amp it down a little. Admittedly the whole spy aesthetic did something for her, plus he literally saved her life, so she wouldn’t really be against it, but he’d made it clear he wasn’t really interested in that. She didn’t blame him, because he practically had “All Business” tattooed to his forehead when they met last, and his messages to her had been terse, to say the least. Not mean, or anything, but short, to the point, and if anything, handled with the same kind of distance she usually kept from her sources herself.
Still, today was an auspicious day, to be sure. She’d finally managed to run down something she’d promised him weeks ago, now sitting in the back of her car in a hardened case. Initially she’d been shocked to find out that he hadn’t been using anything to actually record the things he’d been seeing, outside of taking databases and files. He had made some good points, here and there, and in truth she didn’t blame him for his hesitance, given how shoddy a lot of the more current devices were on the market. He’d needed something specialized, something he could mount, that wouldn’t break and wouldn’t catch and wouldn’t leave a handle on his body that could be used to jerk him around, that also needed good picture and the ability to work in bad lighting before he would even consider it. Nothing she knew of would meet that list of requirements, which meant she needed to go outside the usual channels.
She had hoped to find something using her contacts, but instead she wound up finding a person instead, who built highly customized and purpose-built equipment. They were pretty exclusive, serving a niche of a niche, only really communicating though email and were apparently very private otherwise. The only way she was able to even find out about them was through a connection of a connection that knew a producer who worked with a lot of nature documentary stuff, that called for weird or specific types of equipment. On the upside, they also didn’t ask a lot of questions, took payment in cash transfer, and worked quickly once they were paid.
The end result was the size of a cigarette pack, the edges rounded down to prevent snagging, and made with a reinforced snap-clip case meant for impact recording. It ran a reinforced cable to a recording deck about the size of a small lunchbox that would store both video and images on a DVD-ROM. It used an automatically adjusting low-light/high-light lens system to take good pictures in areas with mixed or no lighting. The recording deck could also hook into another system using a display line spliced into a connector Daniel had given her when she told him about what she’d found, to show what the camera was seeing. It was perfect for what he described needing, and for the low low price of seven grand it was his.
She was jolted out of her thoughts when she heard his SUV pull up. Turning from the view, she watched him trundle out of the car, the tall, broad figure cutting an imposing silhouette against the fading sun.
“Alyssa, good to see you.” The words were delivered in the same matter-of-fact tone as he handled all of their interactions, but he was consistent like that. Coming up his eyes crested across the backdrop of the city. “You have something for me?”
“Yeah. That camera came in, with all the bells and whistles you asked for. I’ve got it in a case in my trunk.” She opened, as the two made their way to the sporty suburban she’d come in.
“And the quality? You’re the expert, here. Will it hold up?” He asked, as the trunk popped open and he found himself looking at a shiny aluminum case that reminded him of those banded boxed camcorders came in. Which made sense, as he flicked the latches, given it’s cargo. The compact device stared back up at him, the recording unit and the cables neatly bundled up next to it, along with a dozen silvery CDs set in an inlay.
“Yeah. There’s a spec booklet tucked in there with all the details, but both the camera and the deck are reinforced enough to handle a few direct hits. That said, I probably would avoid shooting at it.” She joked, but he just nodded, which left her feeling a bit flat. “It’s exactly what you paid for.”
“I hope so. Damn thing was expensive enough.” He snorted, and it was almost out of character to hear him using more than that flat monotone of his. “Are you sure this is going to be worth it, though? It’s a little late to take it back, but…”
“We talked about this Daniel, to exhaustion. I know you have your doubts, but there are ways to ensure the veracity of whatever you record. You have to trust me there.” Alyssa sighed as she trod over this well-traveled road. “That’s just the nature of the game. Nobody believes everything they see, but quantity is a quality all its own. Having this, combined with the files, as well as whatever else you can find may not be enough to sell to a court, but in the right ear it can get things moving.”
“You mean your friend in the Army? That investigator you talked about?” He asked, as he picked the heavy case up like it weighed nothing. “You really think he’ll listen?” To her, went unsaid, which was a fair, if harsh, criticism, but she had faith.
“I do, if we can bring him enough to work with. I’ll admit that things between us are a little strained, but I’ve known him since grade school. If anyone will listen, he will.” She said, sounding more confident than she felt. “He’s in CDI. Umbrella has billions in military contracts, and the Army is detached enough from the political apparatus that they might be willing to go the distance, if they have enough evidence to pursue it.”
“And you think he will?” Daniel asked, glancing at her. She nodded.
“Jack was always a straight shooter, and he wasn’t the kind of person to just give up once he got his teeth into something. But step one is getting to that point.” Alyssa sighed, feeling the chill of the December weather start sinking in. “The more we can put on the table the harder it is to dismiss. There are things you just can’t fake, not without the kind of setup that would put Hollywood to shame, and you know as well as I do just how real things can get. I have to believe that it would be convincing enough to my friend too.”
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“Hm.” Daniel grunted, but accepted the logic. “You’re the expert. What about the rest, though? I know you said you had some other contacts you could reach out to. What’s happening there?”
“That’s… less good. A lot of people heard about my… issues, so people are pretty wary about calling me back. It’s not that big a circle, but I’m going to keep chipping away at it. It’s still early days, and I know that at least a few people on my shortlist will at least listen.” She snorted, “If only to see if they can get into my pants. Again.”
“I see.” Was all he said to that. “Just don’t take unnecessary risks. You have my number if you need help, but it could be… awkward if something happens, and keep your gun on you.”
“Oh trust me, that’s not a problem.” She said, patting her shoulder holster. “I can handle myself, Daniel. I used to hit up some pretty sketchy places back when I was still a rising star looking for stories. But thanks.” She added on, at the end, and he gave her a nod.
After that the conversation died, and Daniel left not long after, with a promise to keep her apprised of anything he might find out from there. There was a lot going on, and the holiday just slowed everything down, but Alyssa had a good feeling nonetheless. If they could get something real for her to take to her CDI contact, Jack might be able to get them some real help, maybe some real resources too. Daniel had his doubts, but the man was perpetually dour, a cynic if she ever saw one, but he had to trust her. If nothing else, this was the one thing she was good at, and she had all the motivation in the world to take Umbrella and burn it to the ground in every way she could.
000
The range at Kendo’s was quiet, Daniel running his drills like he always did, falling into the familiar rhythm of draw, sight, squeeze, reset. It was the closest thing he had to meditation some days, a narrow strip of peace he could rely on when he felt like the world was closing in on him. He let the repetition carry him, mind narrowing to fundamentals, until the door at the back of the range opened. The sound cut cleanly through his focus, sharp enough to pull his attention away from the target.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw Barry step inside, his range bag slung over one shoulder, posture a little heavier than usual. Daniel gave the older man a brief wave. Barry didn’t return it right away, already distracted as he dug through his duffel, rummaging for his ear protection with the absentminded focus of someone whose thoughts were elsewhere. It wasn’t hurried or careless, just slightly off, and Daniel clocked it without comment. He finished his string, exhaled, and set his pistol down on the bench, clearing the lane and giving Barry the space to settle in.
“Hey Barry. Been a while.” Danny said, as the big bear of a STARS officer took the booth next to him. “How’ve you been holding up?” The question was casual, but he watched Barry as he asked it, noting the way the man moved through familiar motions with an almost frustrated focus. Barry glanced over briefly while pulling out a Colt Python, his chosen hobby gun, followed by a box of .357. The revolver sat heavy and familiar in his hands, a familiar, comfortable thing that he was holding almost protectively, and Daniel waited while he finished setting himself up.
“I’ve been okay. Busy with the family, enjoying the season, the usual.” The older man said, a bit evasively, his attention drifting back toward the target as if the paper silhouette offered an easier focus than the conversation beside him. He thumbed cartridges into the cylinder one by one, movements steady but just a touch more deliberate than they needed to be. “We missed you at the shooting club, the last couple of weeks. Chris’s been asking after you.” The words were casual on the surface, but there was a quiet weight to them, the sort of check-in that made it clear his absence hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“Ah, yeah. Been a bit down with the winter blues. I’ve been trying not to infect anyone else with it.” Daniel said, and Barry gave him a side-eyed look. Daniel rolled his shoulders once, a small, habitual movement that spoke to lingering tension more than the words did. “But I’m feeling more into it. Just needed to work through some things.” He left it at that, and turned his attention back toward the lane for a moment.
“I know that feeling.” Barry nodded as he lifted his gun, stance settling into something practiced and automatic. Six rounds cracked out in quick succession, the grouping tight and centered in the torso of the body-sized target. He lowered the revolver and checked it out of habit, the cylinder clicking softly as he reloaded. “I’ve been out of sorts too, lately. Been finding out some stuff.” He hesitated just long enough to be noticeable. “It’s been… you know, complicated.”
Daniel blinked as he caught the shift in Barry’s tone, the casual edge falling away into something heavier. He turned slightly toward him, attention pulled fully off the target now, his grip loosening just a touch on the pistol as he let the muzzle dip. “Complicated? How so, if you don’t mind me asking. Because that sounded heavy.”
“It is.” Barry didn’t look at him right away. He focused on the revolver instead, easing cartridges into the cylinder with careful precision, one after the other, as though the act of reloading helped him order his thoughts. “I don’t really know how to explain it, Dan. You ever realize that some of the people you know aren’t quite who you thought they were?” The question hung there, pointed without being direct, and Barry snapped the cylinder shut with a muted click.
Daniel chewed on that as he sent a few more of his own rounds downrange. His rhythm was off now, shots pulling wider than before, and he scowled faintly at the target as if it had personally offended him. Barry didn’t rush to fill the silence. He let it stretch, watching Daniel out of the corner of his eye.
“I’m not… unfamiliar, Barry,” Daniel said at last, voice measured. “Is it bad?” He glanced back as Barry raised his revolver again and sent a neat cluster through the head of his target, the contrast between their groupings impossible to miss.
“I don’t know yet.” Barry lowered the gun and finally turned to look at him, his expression tight, unreadable. “Jury’s still out, while I think about some things.” He held Daniel’s gaze a moment longer than necessary. “What would you do, if you found out, say, Rebecca was hiding things from you? Not like she was cheating, or something like that, but that some of the things you knew about her just… stopped adding up?”
Daniel exhaled through his nose and looked back at his target, jaw tightening. “I don’t know, Barry. I think I’d want to find out why she was hiding things first, before I started casting judgements.” He paused, then added, quieter but no less firm, “People are entitled to their secrets, you know? Sometimes people have good reasons for keeping secrets.”
“You think so? Even if it puts the people around them in danger?” Barry asked, turning fully toward Daniel now, posture squaring as his expression hardened. The question wasn’t rhetorical anymore, not with the way he held Daniel’s gaze. “Even if it gets them hurt, and gets the people around them hurt in the process?” He let the words hang there, heavy and deliberate, as if weighing Daniel’s reaction more than the answer itself.
“Are you trying to say something, Barry?” Daniel asked as he turned to look at the broad man, the movement slow and controlled. “Because it really sounds like you’re trying to make a point.” Gone was the friendly tone now, replaced by a flat edge of irritation as he stared hard at the STARS armorer. Barry drew in a breath, his mouth opening as if he were finally going to answer directly, when the door to the range slammed open and cut the moment short.
Both turned as Kevin Ryman sauntered in, an angry, flustered look etched deep across his flushed features. The shift was immediate and jarring, the brittle tension between Barry and Daniel snapping out of existence as Kevin’s presence filled the space. He dropped his bag with a heavy thud, the sound echoing off the concrete, then looked up and spotted them. His mouth twisted, and he snorted, the sound sharp with irritation.
“Great. You’re here.” He said, already fishing through his kit with more force than necessary, movements clipped and impatient. The words landed wrong, loaded with something personal and ugly. Daniel felt the spike of it immediately, heat without context, and for a moment he was genuinely caught off guard. His interactions with Kevin had always been rare, passing, forgettable. This wasn’t casual disdain. This was directed.
“The fuck does that mean, Ryman?” Daniel asked, more annoyed than offended, irritation flaring in response to the naked hostility. “You got some issue with me too?”
Barry’s eyes widened a fraction as Kevin froze mid-motion, his shoulders bunching tight as if he’d been braced for impact. The goggles slipped from his hand and clattered against the concrete floor like a gunshot. Kevin slowly lifted his head and stared right back at Daniel, expression hard and unblinking, whatever had been simmering beneath the surface now fully exposed.
“Do I have a problem with you, Carter? I dunno, should I?” Kevin shot back, voice already loud enough to carry, words slurring just enough at the edges to give him away. “Seems like everybody fuckin’ loves you, don’t they?” He closed the distance as he spoke, boots scuffing against the concrete, breath hot and sharp. “That prick Wesker seems to wanna suck your cock almost as much as Becky does, all while I get fucked up the ass.”
He kept moving as he talked, crowding Daniel’s space, and when he got close enough Barry caught the unmistakable tang of something strong on his breath. Not overwhelming, but there, riding underneath the anger. Kevin’s face was flushed, eyes glassy in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline.
“I was the one trying to get into STARS!” Kevin went on, volume climbing as the words spilled out faster. “I spent months training. I applied four times. Busted my ass. And the day I get rejected, that blond jackass goes and shoots you an invite?” He jabbed a finger toward Daniel’s chest, close enough to brush fabric. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Daniel blinked, genuinely stunned by the tirade from a man he barely interacted with on a regular basis. The whiplash was immediate. The simmering argument with Barry vanished from his mind as Kevin squared up in front of him, anger raw and unfocused. For a heartbeat, Daniel was just trying to process what had been said. Then the mention of Rebecca landed, sharp and ugly, and whatever confusion he’d been feeling burned away in an instant.
Barry moved without thinking, stepping in with his hands raised, trying to wedge himself between them. “Kevin, hey. That’s enough,” he started, but Ryman shoved him aside with a careless forearm, sending him off balance as his glare stayed locked on Daniel.
“I don’t know what your issue is with me,” Daniel said, voice low and suddenly flat, the change in him immediate and unmistakable. “Or with getting rejected from STARS. Or whatever bullshit you’ve built up in your head about any of this.” He took a single step forward, just enough to reclaim his space. “But you will keep Becca's name out of your mouth, or I will take it out, Ryman.”
Kevin answered with a harsh, barking laugh, the sound loud and ugly in the enclosed space, more drunk bravado than genuine humor. It carried a sharp edge, the kind that came from disbelief curdling into offense, as if Daniel drawing that boundary had short-circuited whatever thin restraint Kevin still had left. His shoulders rolled once, loose and aggressive, posture shifting from bluster into something more openly predatory.
“You and what army, civvie? You think you can take me?” he sneered, stepping forward as Barry moved in again, hands coming up instinctively as he tried to put himself between them. The situation was spiraling fast, faster than Barry could track. He’d meant to talk to Daniel, to push him a little, to force a hard conversation maybe, but things had gone off the rails completely.
Now all he could do was watch as everything started sliding sideways. Kevin stared at Daniel with open hate, chest puffed up and fists balled, his stance sloppy but dangerous, and all it took was a second, a moment's distraction on Barry's part, the smallest of small shifts, and it all went tumbling down.
He glanced away for half a second, checking his footing, making sure he wouldn’t get knocked over in the scuffle he was trying to prevent. That was all it took. Kevin’s fist came up out of nowhere and slammed into Barry’s jaw with a sharp, concussive crack.
The world lurched as Barry hit the ground, stunned, ears ringing. Even through the haze he had enough presence of mind to look up in time to see Kevin swing again, this time driving a heavy punch straight into Daniel’s face. The impact snapped Daniel’s head to the side and sent a fine spray of blood spattering across the wall. Kevin wound up for another haymaker, all momentum and rage, and Barry forced himself back onto his feet, knowing he was already too late to stop what was coming.
Daniel took the sucker punch without staggering, the hit cracking across his face as his body reacted on instinct. His shoulder rolled, bleeding off part of the force as his arm came up reflexively, deflecting Kevin’s second, sloppier swing just enough to throw it off center. The shift was immediate and decisive. One arm snapped up and locked Kevin’s limb in the crook of his elbow while his other hand clamped down on the wrist, grip iron-tight.
Daniel stepped in, his leg sliding behind Kevin’s ankle and hooking it cleanly. With a sharp twist he took Kevin’s balance, the motion coiling the man backward like a spring pulled too far. Kevin started to yell, to shout something unintelligible, but the sound cut off as Daniel torqued the trapped arm another few degrees. The joints ground together, then gave way with a resounding crack that echoed through the range. Kevin’s arm tore free of its socket, his elbow bending grotesquely the wrong way.
His scream barely had time to register before Daniel’s free hand seized the back of Kevin’s head and drove it straight down into the concrete. The impact left the drunken man limp and groaning, consciousness slipping as blood smeared across the floor. Daniel was already shifting for the follow-up, body coiled and efficient, when a pair of arms wrapped around his torso from behind.
“He’s down, he’s down! Let him go, Daniel! You won!” Barry shouted into his ear, hauling back with everything he had. He recognized it instantly. LINE. Brutal, efficient, unmistakable. He’d taught it once, years ago, and watching Daniel deploy it now was like seeing a machine switch on. One second a civilian, the next something else entirely. Barry moved fast, faster than he’d thought himself capable of, cutting off the knee strike he knew was coming, the one that would have shattered Kevin’s neck outright. Relief hit him only when he felt Daniel finally yield and let himself be pulled away.
That ended the night for all of them. Kendo was furious when he arrived on the range floor, voice sharp and uncompromising as he took stock of the damage and the man groaning on the concrete. His anger wasn’t aimed at Barry or Daniel, not once the story was laid out in full, but it burned hot all the same. Kevin was banned on the spot, no discussion, no second chances, as paramedics loaded him onto a stretcher and hauled him away with his arm splinted and his temper finally spent. The range was shut down early, targets left hanging and brass left where it had fallen, the air thick with the sense that something fundamental had just gone very wrong.
Rebecca arrived soon after, pulled in under the pretense of checking on an injury, though she needed no explanation once she saw Daniel’s face. She was all quiet efficiency, hands gentle but firm as she examined the swelling along his cheek and the split skin at his lip. Daniel barely noticed the sting, his attention fixed on her instead, grounding himself in the simple fact of her presence. They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to. The look she gave him carried concern, questions, and fear all tangled together. Whatever words might have come later were set aside, deferred by the weight of what had just happened. The video from the range cameras and Barry's own testimony was enough to send Daniel home with only a polite request to come in to talk to someone after the fact. There wasn't any question that he'd been defending himself, even if he'd gone a little overboard, nobody was in a rush to point it out.
For Barry, the night dragged on long after everyone else had gone. He sat alone with the paperwork, jaw throbbing beneath a pack of ice as he stared at the incident report and tried to decide how to put any of it into clean, official language. There was no ambiguity about fault, not legally, not ethically, but that didn’t make it feel any better. This wasn’t Kevin’s first alcohol-fueled incident, but it was easily the worst, and Barry couldn’t shake the sense that he’d been standing too close to the blast when it finally went off. By the time he finished with the responding officers and headed out into the cold, all he could do was replay the evening in his head and wonder how a conversation he’d meant to have had spiraled into something this tragic.
000
Wesker, Irons, and Ken Sullivan all listened quietly as Barry reported the fight at the Kendo range the night prior, each of them passing through a slow, visible progression of reactions as the details stacked up. Disbelief gave way to irritation, then to something heavier and more resigned. Two Internal Affairs detectives had been present at the start, sitting stiffly along the wall with notepads in hand, but a single look from Irons had been enough to send them quietly excusing themselves, the door closing behind them and leaving the four men alone in the chief’s office.
The examination that followed had been tense and methodical. Barry walked them through the sequence of events step by step, from Ryman’s arrival to the escalation and eventual use of force, referencing timestamps from the range footage and the preliminary statements taken on scene. Ken had objected more than once, pushing back on phrasing, implications, and what he clearly saw as the department hanging Kevin out to dry. In the end, however, there was no arguing with the evidence. Video, medical reports, and toxicology all pointed in the same direction. Whatever discomfort remained was framed by the decision Kevin had made, and all of them knew how this was going to end.
“Just what we needed.” Irons mumbled, his face buried in his hands for a moment before he dragged them down over his cheeks, wiping away the patina of sweat that seemed permanently clamped to him. The report lay open on his desk, pages already smudged where his fingers had lingered too long. “Do you know if this… Daniel Carter is looking to press charges?” he asked, squinting down at the name as if it were personally offensive.
“I do not, sir.” Barry replied immediately, posture straightening as if the question itself demanded formality. “He wasn’t particularly interested in speaking to any of the responding officers at the scene, and with the video evidence it was clear he wasn’t at fault. Combined with my own testimony, there wasn’t much to clarify. Once Officer Chambers checked him over he was released.” He hesitated just long enough to choose his words. “But it wouldn’t surprise me. Officer Ryman was… out of line, to say the least.”
Irons let out a low, frustrated groan and leaned back heavily in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. “Shit. And this is the worst possible time for this kind of scandal, too, with the mayoral election coming up.” He rubbed at his temples, already running numbers and headlines in his head. Ken stood nearby, hands clasped around his binder, watching the exchange with a pinched expression. He had always hated this part of the job, the part where the ethics collided with politics and optics, and staring at the mess in front of them, he found himself with nothing useful to add. He hated playing the Devil's advocate, and this devil was one that kept haunting him.
“Perhaps I can talk to him. We have something of a rapport, he and I.” Wesker said, his tone measured and deliberately neutral. “If nothing else, we might be able to mitigate some of the damage.” He remained stone-faced as ever, hands folded loosely in front of him. “Though let us be clear. I am not going to pressure him if he does decide to hang Ryman. That man has been digging his own grave for years.”
“Now hold on-” Ken said, bristling as he straightened, instinctively moving to defend his shrinking corner of the situation, but Irons lifted a hand without even looking at him, cutting the objection off before it could gather momentum.
“Ken, I understand your position,” Irons said, his voice firm and final, the tone of a man already done debating. “But with the video evidence, Officer Burton’s testimony, and the tox screen results we got back from the hospital, it’s clear Officer Ryman was heavily intoxicated and unequivocally in the wrong.” He tapped the report with a thick finger. “This is what, the third time? And this time he assaulted two people, one of them a superior officer. That’s his third strike, when there shouldn’t have been a second.”
Ken let out a long, tired breath. “Then I can see I’m not going to be of much use here.” He gathered up his binder, movements slow and resigned, eyes flicking briefly to Wesker before dropping away again. Wesker watched him go with something that might have passed for sympathy, aware of how little room men like Ken had when the department decided to protect itself. With a small, dismissive wave, Wesker also excused Burton, leaving him alone with Irons as the office door shut once more.
“Jesus, I don’t even know how that idiot is still on the force.” Irons sighed, and Wesker pointedly didn’t mention that it was his own shuffling of the records system that caused the IA case to fall apart when some important records wound up lost the last time this happened. “Do you think you can get him to keep quiet about this? I don’t want to deal with Warren’s whining about another police scandal right on the eve of his reelection bid. We still need him in the big seat, if only because he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
“It could get expensive.” Wesker said casually as he leaned back, fingers steepled as if they were discussing a routine budget line rather than the fallout of a near-fatal altercation. “Silence always is.”
Irons snorted, rubbing a hand across his face as if trying to wipe the entire problem away. “We have insurance for a reason, Captain. Besides, you know why we don’t want the kind of scrutiny this crap could bring down on the department.” He gestured vaguely at the walls around them, at the building, the institution itself. “One bad headline turns into ten, and suddenly every asshole with a camera wants to know what else we’re hiding.”
There was a vein of truth to the words, Wesker had to admit. Increased public attention was the exact opposite of what they wanted, especially now. That said, he knew Daniel Carter as a shrewd man, someone who understood leverage and timing. Convincing him to take a quiet settlement instead of a public fight wouldn’t be particularly difficult. It would just require framing it correctly. Still, even as the pieces fell neatly into place, one unresolved variable remained.
“And what of Ryman?” Wesker asked, tilting his head slightly as he looked back to Irons. The chief rolled his eyes, already reaching for the inevitable.
“Fuck him. We’ll give him the option to resign, and if he doesn’t? Fire him. If you can keep Carter from pressing charges then the whole thing goes away. He gets a payout from the blue lotto, Warren gets to happily ply his bullshit and nobody crawls up my ass about this.” Irons waved, as he fished out a bottle and a single glass from a drawer. “I’m sure you can see yourself out.”
Wesker snorted as he shut the door behind him, letting Irons drink himself into a stupor. It was only eleven in the morning, but the chief was barely cogent most of the time as it was. He wondered if Irons was even aware how similar he was to the object of his ire. Likely not, he thought to himself. That would require being able to self-reflect, and Irons wouldn’t know what he was looking at if he was staring into a mirror.
Still, he had to admit that things had played out delightfully. He hadn’t expected Ryman to implode so perfectly, and there was something borderline orgasmic in seeing the pieces all fall together. Just rubbing in the fact that STARS was looking for someone still in front of the volatile man was enough to send him self-destructing, and Kevin hadn’t been at all subtle about his crush on Chambers even before then, so losing out twice to someone he barely knew had burned the man up.
Of course, it wasn’t just that. Wesker had been strategically dropping hints and rumors about Ryman for a while, long before the eponymous Thanksgiving dinner ever took place. A ‘lost’ file surfacing at just the wrong moment, an overheard conversation allowed to travel a little farther than it should have, and suddenly Kevin’s drinking problem was the newest piece of station gossip making the rounds. It spread fast, the way ugly truths always did, each retelling roughening the edges until the story barely needed embellishment.
Then there was the incident with the patrol car, wrapped neatly around a power line and written off as bad luck instead of what it really was. Add to that the citation for getting caught pissing on the side of a building like some belligerent drunk with a badge, and the picture practically painted itself. Each misstep fed the next, pressure compounding until Ryman had nowhere left to bleed it off. All of it together was enough to make him spiral hard and fast, like a particularly unwanted turd disappearing down the toilet, flushed by his own inability to keep his shit together.
And why? Because Wesker didn’t like him. It really was that simple. Ryman was irritating, loud, and perpetually grasping, and his relentless attempts to claw his way into STARS had long since crossed from ambition into nuisance. That alone was enough to sour Wesker’s opinion, but the fact that Ryman had managed to turn himself into such a spectacular spectacle was pure indulgence. Watching him unravel had been a pleasure, and what a sight it had been.
Ryman had been taken apart by none other than Daniel himself, and Wesker had watched it like poetry in motion. He could almost hear the crack of bone in his mind’s eye, feel the precision and inevitability of it, and it was genuinely a shame that Barry had intervened when he did. The show had been that entertaining, a rare moment where violence resolved itself cleanly and decisively. Never mind that Ryman was, by all accounts, a talented, possibly even gifted fighter with significant training and experience. That only made the dismantling more satisfying, and raised a far more interesting question in Wesker’s mind. Just where, exactly, had Daniel Carter learned to move like that?
Wesker recognized the fighting style, to be sure. He himself was trained in it, among a dozen others, but to get that level of reflex and instinct, to be that effective, no… Daniel had to have been given an extensive, focused education. But where? Oh, with every answer he managed to glean, he found himself with two more questions and he had to admit he was having fun with it. Eventually he’d find out the truth of the good Mr. Carter, but until then, he’d need to come up with a good reward for giving him such a delightful memory, and Wesker was nothing if not generous, especially with other people’s money.
