Chapter Text
Raccoon City Police Academy was nothing but a total mess today. Chief Irons was up on the stage, sweating through his pristine dress uniform and droning on about honor, sacrifice and the thin blue line. You stood at the back of the room, your back pressed against the wall, arms crossed tightly over your chest.
You weren't wearing a fancy dress. You were in your standard instructor clothes: black tactical boots, black leather jacket, black shirt, black tactical pants and hair pulled back into a high ponytail. You didn't do ceremonies like these. The one and only reason you were here was because attendance was mandatory and because you wanted to get a look at the fresh meat before they had a chance to mess up your shooting range.
"Ya look like you're plotting a murder," a voice mumbled next to you, followed by a paper cup of terrible academy coffee that was nudged into your field of vision. Ethan slid into the empty space on the wall next to you.
Unlike you, Ethan actually looked approachable. He used to do systems engineering before he ended up here teaching technical defense and honestly, his easy-going vibe usually drove you nuts. But you put up with him. You tolerated his ass. Mostly because he never took your attitude personally and he always knew exactly when you needed coffee.
"I'm not plotting a murder," you murmured, taking a sip. "I'm practicing my resting face. If I smile, the rookies think I'm weak. If I look like this, they stay three feet away from me at all times."
Ethan huffed a quiet laugh, looking out over the sea of new uniforms sitting in the auditorium seats. "Well, it's working. Half of them looked really terrified when they walked past you." He paused, his gaze shifting towards the front rows. "I think a few might actually survive your classes this semester. There's some real potential in this batch."
"Potential just means they haven't failed yet," you replied dryly.
Up on stage, Irons was finally wrapping up his boring speech as he welcomed the Raccoon City Police Academy Class of 2000. His speech was followed by a round of applause. The new cadets stood up in unison, turning around to head out towards the orientation halls. That was when you saw him.
He was hard to miss, honestly. Amidst a crowd of buzzcuts and nervous, sweating rookies, this kid stood out like a sore thumb. His uniform looked like it had been tailored just for him. There was not a single wrinkle and every button was perfectly lined up. But it was his hair that caught your eye first: a floppy, side-parted curtain of dirty blonde that absolutely broke standard regulations, but somehow he was totally pulling it off.
"Ah," Ethan said, noticing where your eyes were locked. "Cadet Kennedy. Top of his criminal justice class, high marks in physical conditioning. Chief Irons has been bragging about recruiting him for weeks."
"Kennedy," you repeated, the name tasting bittersweet on your tongue. You watched the kid pause to help another rookie who had dropped their folders, offering a bright, perfect smile as he handed the papers back. "He's gonna be a nightmare," you muttered, setting your coffee cup down on a nearby ledge.
"Oh lord, give the kid a break," Ethan joked, nudging your shoulder as he started to walk towards the exit. "He hasn't even stepped onto your range yet."
Before you could even try to slip out the back of the auditorium, Irons' eyes locked onto yours and he started walking right towards you. Ethan just gave you a sympathetic "you're on your own" salute and melted right into the crowd of retreating rookies. "Traitor," you mumbled to yourself as you watched him leave.
"A word, please," Irons spoke as he approached.
"Chief," you said, keeping your voice flat. He looked you up and down, clearly disapproving of your attire, but he knew better than to comment on it. Instead, he launched right into his favorite annual script.
"We have some exceptional recruits in this cycle," he started. "Specifically, Cadet Kennedy. The department put a lot of funding into securing him and the city council is watching. I need him sharp. But more importantly, I need him motivated."
You took a slow sip of your terrible coffee. "He'll be motivated if he wants to pass," you shrugged.
"You know exactly what I mean," Irons narrowed his eyes, his tone dropping into that fake fatherly cadence that always made you want to reach for your sidearm. "Let's dial back the... hostility this semester, okay? Be polite. Be encouraging. We're building community leaders here, not stormtroopers. I don't want to hear any complaints about your teaching methods before midterm."
It was the same boring bureaucratic warning speech he gave you every single year. Be nice. Smile more. Don't break the expensive new toys. He didn't really care about making them good cops, he only cared about the academy looking good in the press.
"I am always polite, Chief," you lied, giving him a fake polite smile. "I'll treat him and everyone else with the exact amount of respect their performance earns them."
Irons grunted, not entirely satisfied but knowing he wouldn't get a better promise out of you. "Just... keep a leash on it, Winslow. Kennedy is the future of this department," he said, heading off to go shake hands with some city officials.
You watched him go, your artificial smile dropping instantly. You looked back towards the hallway where the golden boy had disappeared. If Chief Irons thought you were going to baby his new favorite pet just to keep the paperwork clean, he really hadn't been paying attention for the last five years.
You saw someone to your left. There was a guy holding an orientation packet, his eyes darting between your tactical boots and your face. He looked like he was deciding whether to ask for directions or run for his life. You stood there, arms crossed.
"Are you lost, Cadet, or are you just blocking the exit?" you asked, your voice flat and completely devoid of warmth.
The kid visibly jumped, his posture going stiff. "N-no, ma'am. I mean Instructor L/N, ma'am!" he stammered, his voice shaking.
"Then spit it out. I don't have all day," you replied.
"I just... I wanted to ask about the advanced marksmanship seminar," he squeaked, his eyes locked on the wall behind you, terrified of making direct eye contact. "The brochure said it was restricted to second-year recruits, but I thought... I hoped—"
"You hoped wrong," you cut him off, not even letting him finish the sentence. "Advanced marksmanship is for people who can actually hold a weapon without sweating through their shirt. Right now, you look like you're about to faint. Go find your homeroom."
"Yes, ma'am! Sorry, ma'am!" he said, scrambling down the hallway, nearly tripping over his own boots in his rush to get away from you. You let out a breathy huff through your nose. Pathetic. If a little verbal friction from an instructor was enough to make his soul leave his body, he wouldn't last a day in a real precinct. As you watched the scrawny kid scramble away, you noticed someone standing at the intersection of the corridor, taking in the whole exchange.
Leon was leaning against the lockers with a duffel bag slung over one broad shoulder. He'd obviously seen you completely shatter his classmate's confidence, but instead of looking intimidated, his brow was slightly furrowed, his blue eyes tracking you with a mix of curiosity and disapproval. You didn't break eye contact. You stared right back, letting your gaze linger on his face before giving him a slow, mocking tilt of your head.
Your turn tomorrow, rookie. You shook your head, tearing your eyes away from him and headed towards the faculty wing. You had better things to do than stand in a hallway playing staring contests with a rookie who thought he was in a movie.
Your office was exactly how you liked it: small, windowless and zero clutter. The desk was buried under a stack of remedial exams from the class that had just graduated and frankly, reading their terrible essays on municipal law was the exact opposite of a good time. You dropped into your chair, pulled a red pen from the drawer and got to work.
For the next four hours, you bled all over the papers with red ink, crossing out entire paragraphs of absolute nonsense. No, Cadet Johnson, you cannot use lethal force on a shoplifter just because they ran away. No, Cadet Stevens, Miranda rights are not optional if you want the confession to stick. It was mind-numbing, frustrating work. By the time you finally capped your pen, the digital clock on your desk read 6:45 PM.
The academy was a ghost town now. The orientation crowds had cleared out hours ago; the rookies were sent to their dorms to unpack, polish their gear, and pray they didn't fail their first real week. You stretched your arms over your head, hearing your spine pop, and decided to call it a day. You grabbed your jacket and bag, then locked your office door behind you. You walked down the concrete steps towards the faculty parking lot, digging your truck keys out of your pocket.
The moment you unlocked the front door of your apartment and stepped inside, a black and white tuxedo cat was already waiting for you on the rug. "Hey, Whiskers," you murmured, dropping your bag on the floor. Whiskers let out a loud meow, immediately rubbing his face against your tactical boots. He was the only creature in this city who wasn't intimidated by you, mostly because he knew you were the keeper of his wet food.
You kicked off your boots, tossed your keys onto the counter and pulled out your phone. Cooking was entirely out of the question tonight. You dialed the local Chinese place down the street and ordered your usual. While you waited for the delivery, you stripped out of your clothes and stepped into the bathroom to take a nice hot shower. You leaned your head against the tiles, closing your eyes, completely shutting out the thought of rookies and lesson plans.
By the time you got out, wrapped in an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, the food had arrived. You popped open a can of wet food for Whiskers and set it down on his mat. "There you go, buddy. Don't eat it too fast," you mumbled, hoping he would listen. But he ignored you and immediately inhaled it like he hadn't been fed in a week.
You took your takeout box to the couch, turning on the TV just for some background noise and ate straight from the container. Once the food was gone, you cleaned up the kitchen and poured yourself a glass of red wine. You took your time with it, sitting in the quiet living room, letting the alcohol relax you a bit. When the glass was empty, you shut off the remaining lights, checked the locks on the front door and headed into the bedroom.
Whiskers followed close behind, his paws silent on the hardwood. The moment you climbed under the covers, he hopped onto the mattress, doing a few circles before curling up right against your shins. "Goodnight, buddy," you said, petting him one last time before drifting off to sleep.
The aggressive sound of your alarm tore through the quiet bedroom at exactly 6:00 AM. You wanted to groan and hit the snooze button, but you forced yourself out of bed. At the foot of the bed, Whiskers gave a soft chirp, offended that his personal heating pad was moving. You stood up, stretching your arms over your head, and walked into the bathroom, splashing freezing water onto your face to lock yourself into instructor mode.
You pulled your hair back into a high ponytail, making sure not a single strand was out of place, and slipped into a fresh pair of tactical clothes. By 6:20 AM, you were pouring a cup of black coffee, grabbing your truck keys, and giving Whiskers a quick scratch behind the ears. "Don't you dare destroy the couch," you warned him.
Twenty minutes later, you were pulling into the academy parking lot. Groups of terrified-looking rookies were already standing around in their new uniforms, clutching their binders like they were shields. You stepped out of your truck, slamming the door shut. As you walked towards the main building, your eyes instinctively scanned the crowd. It didn't take long to find him.
Cadet Kennedy was standing near the statue in the center courtyard, talking to some guy from his squad. Even at this ungodly hour, his hair was perfectly styled and his uniform looked immaculate. He looked well-rested and eager. He must've felt someone watching him because his head turned, his blue eyes locking onto you as you climbed the concrete steps. You didn't break stride and you didn't give him a single sign of recognition. You just kept walking, ready to show the golden boy exactly what kind of hell he'd just signed up for.
"Mornin'," Ethan's voice cut through the break room. He was leaning against the counter with a smug grin plastered across his face, watching you aggressively stir a packet of sugar into your coffee. "You look especially thrilled to be alive today."
You paused and glared at him. "If you're trying to test my patience before the sun is even fully up, Ethan, it's working," you said, your voice deadpan.
He just chuckled, completely unbothered and took a sip from his own mug. "I'm just sayin' that a little smile wouldn't kill ya. It's the first day of the semester. Try showin' a little warmth so the new kids don't think you eat glass for breakfast."
"Are you making fun of me, Winters?" You stepped closer, crossing your arms over your tactical vest. "Do you want your ass kicked at 7 am sharp? Because I will gladly clear my schedule for fifteen minutes to hand it to you."
Ethan raised his free hand in surrender, but the amused smirk didn't leave his face. "Hey, no violence before the first bell. It's against HR policy. Besides, I need my hands intact to teach computer forensics later."
"Pity," you murmured, heading for the door, having absolutely none of his cheerful attitude today. "It would've been the highlight of my morning."
"Good luck out there, captain sunshine!" he called out after you. You ignored him, pushing open the double doors that led out to the main courtyard. The distant chatter of the rookies instantly died down the second they saw you step onto the pavement.
There were 32 rookies in the class. You stood at the podium, but you didn't introduce yourself with a slideshow or a warm welcome. "I'm Instructor L/N," you said. "I mainly handle tactical defense and firearms proficiency. If you pass my classes, you might actually survive a week on the streets out there. If you fail, you'll be looking for a new career path. I don't give extra credit, I don't tolerate excuses and I don't care who your daddy is. Any questions before we start?"
A hand shot up in the third row. It was a brunette girl with an eager expression. "Ma'am, what's your background before coming to the academy?"
"Eight years SWAT, three years in military intelligence," you replied flatly. "Next question."
Another hand went up, a few seats down from Kennedy. A chubby kid who looked like he'd already broken a sweat just sitting down. "Um, Instructor Winslow? What happens if we forget our physical training uniform on a drill day?"
You stared at him. You let your head tilt just a fraction, your face completely expressionless. "If you forget your uniform, Cadet, you will be authorized to complete the four-mile tactical obstacle course in your underwear," you said, keeping your tone deadly serious. "And if you get a sunburn or a rash, I will personally cite you for destruction of government property. Any other brilliant inquiries?"
A few muffled coughs echoed through the room as the kid's face turned embarrassingly red. Beside him, you noticed Cadet Kennedy's jaw twitch, his lips pressing together tightly as if he was trying to strangle a laugh.
"Good," you said, tapping the smartboard behind you to bring up the first slide. "Open your manuals to chapter one. Let's see how many of you can actually read at a college level."
For the next two hours, the only sounds in the room were the scratching of pens, flipping of pages and your flat voice breaking down lethal force protocols. You didn't sugarcoat a single thing. You painted pictures of worst-case scenarios — the kind of gritty and ugly street reality that the academy's glossy recruitment brochures conveniently forgot to mention.
"Alright, that's enough theory for one morning," you said. "We're moving to the indoor range. You have exactly seven minutes to change into your tactical gear and line up at firing points one through twelve. If you are even one second late, the doors lock and you can spend the afternoon explaining to Chief Irons why you're already failing my course. Move."
The classroom instantly erupted into chaos. Chairs scraped loudly against the floor, bags were zipped shut at lightning speed and a rush of footsteps headed straight for the locker rooms. By the time you walked down the basement corridor and pushed through the heavy soundproof double doors of the firing range, the atmosphere was completely different.
On the metal table in front of each cadet laid a standard 9mm Beretta. You walked to the front of the room, picked up your own weapon and held it up. "Before you even think about putting a bullet in a magazine, you need to understand the tool in your hand," you barked. "This is a machine, not a toy. It doesn't care about your feelings and it doesn't care who you point it at. If you respect it, it saves your life. If you don't, it takes one."
You locked the slide back, showing the empty chamber. "First rule of the range and the rest of your lives: every weapon is always loaded. I don't care if you just watched me clear it. You treat it like it's live."
For the next twenty minutes, you broke down the anatomy of the firearm. You explained the firing pin, the recoil spring, the feeding ramp and exactly how the mechanical sequence worked from the moment the primer was struck.
"Now, field stripping," you commanded. "Watch me."
Your fingers moved quickly, out of muscle memory. You hit the release button, flipped the lever and slid the receiver right off the frame. In less than five seconds, the Beretta was completely stripped down on the table in front of you — frame, slide, barrel and recoil spring guide assembly all laid out.
"You dismantle it to clean it, to clear a malfunction and to know your weapon inside and out," you said, looking up at the wide-eyed faces. "Mantle it back. Line up the lugs, compress the spring, slide it, lock it." The weapon was whole again in a blink. "You have three minutes to do exactly what I just did. If you lose a spring, you fail. Start now."
You paced down the rows, your eyes tracking the movement of their hands. For most of them, it was a total disaster. Over half the class had palms slick with sweat, their fingers shaking so badly against the metal that components were slipping from their grips. You watched someone in the back nearly launch his recoil spring across the room, catching it at the last second with a worried-sick face.
A few of them actually managed to pull it off, though. A handful of recruits with military backgrounds or families on the force managed to keep their heads down, their hands remaining steady enough to finish the task within the time limit. They were competent, sure, but nothing special. Then there was Leon.
You stopped a few feet behind his lane, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He wasn't struggling at all. He looked more like an experienced officer than a kid on his first day of academy training. He lined up everything and slid the whole thing back together in a matter of seconds. He racked the slide twice to function-check the weapon, then set it down.
"Nice one, Kennedy," you said, your voice completely flat. Nothing more. No smile, no head nod, no validation. You turned on your heel and walked right past him to the front of the room, leaving him standing there. "Time's up," you barked at the rest of the room. "If your weapon is still in pieces, step away from the bench. You just earned yourself an F."
"Instructor? Sir, I mean, ma'am?" the voice came from firing point seven. Slowly, you turned your head. It was a transfer cadet from out of state, some guy named Sullivan who clearly hadn't received the memo about how things worked in your classroom. He was gripping his half-assembled gun, looking at you with a pleading expression.
"I was just wondering... if maybe you could be a little nicer?" he blurted out. "Like... just a little less intense? I think it'd really help us not be so nervous. Everyone's hands are shaking and it's kind of hard to focus with you staring us down like you're about to arrest us."
The entire range went dead silent. The audacity of the request threw you completely off guard. Nobody dared to ask you to be nicer. Nobody. And certainly not because they wanted a safe space to handle an actual weapon.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ethan, who had just slipped into the back of the room to observe, hastily cover his mouth with his clipboard, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Even Leon's head snapped over, his blue eyes wide with a mix of shock and disbelief at his classmate's suicidal bravery.
"Sullivan, right?" you asked, keeping your voice low.
"Y-yes, ma'am," he stammered.
"You really think some criminal on the street is going to be nice to you?" you stepped closer, forcing him to lock eyes with you. "Do you think a suspect with a loaded weapon is going to dial down their intensity so your hands don't shake? Do you think the world is going to pause and give you a moment to calm your nerves before a fight?"
"No, ma'am."
"Excellent, because if you can't handle me looking at you while you assemble a piece of aluminum, you sure as hell can't handle a stress situation in an alleyway at two in the morning." You leaned in just a fraction more, letting the coldness of your tone sink in. "I am not here to manage your anxiety. I am here to ensure you don't accidentally shoot your partner or yourself. If you want nice, go knock on the engineering wing and ask Instructor Winters for a hug. Am I making myself crystal clear?"
"Yes, Instructor," he squeaked.
"Good." You swept your eyes over the rest of the class. "Load your magazines. Five rounds. And if your hands are still shaking, you better find a way to stop them before you pull that trigger."
Today was going to be an exceptionally long day.