Chapter Text
B.S.A.A
Stands for Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance. Fully backed by the United Nations. An organization that started with eleven members now has reached into the thousands within a decade.
That's how the recruiter explained it. An ever growing force in which you had joined.
You had first spotted the booth setup in the soldier center while walking to a morning *TAPS class. "B.S.A.A we need you!" written on a flag that hung in front of the table, in big bold lettering. You've passed the table a few times heading to your classes. Before you know it you were in front of a man in a blue polo, tan khakis asking him a plethora questions about benefits, paycheck and what exactly what the organization stood for.
That day you signed up. And when the recruiter saw your file. He was ecstatic. The big bold stamp that said "Priority" on your B.S.A.A submission folder was sent up to his higher ups the same day.
"We always welcome those coming from Special Forces." Is what he said. ",signing up is the easy part, the evaluation period is difficult."
You had to go through a 30 day testing period to even be approved. Your commander had signed off on the needed paperwork and before you know it you were sent off upstate to be put through physical exams, B.S.A.A *PT testing, and qualify for a in person tactical evaluation- grading your knowledge out in the field but also how well you handle pressure.
You passed with flying colors.
You remember sitting down one night, looking out your window admiring the stars while drinking a cold beer, a week before making your final transition from one service to another. Before you had made this choice, you thought you would be done with this life. Of strict schedules, uniforms, and the comfort voices of higher up barking orders. You got comfortable with it all. And now you found yourself being drawn to the same place. Yet you know it will be unlike your time in the army.
But you had your reason to join. Starting over. It wasn’t so much of a whim, you like to think. At least that's what you told yourself all those months ago when standing in front of that table for the first time.
You had thought about them. Your mind having drifted to a place you always made an effort to shove down. You were forever plagued with the pain of a team that was lost to the unknown horrors that man had birthed. And how angry everyone made you when it got swept under the rug, and deemed you unfit to serve. What a long two years it's been. You fought, got legal involved. Yet still lost. How alone you were…and still are.
But now you could make a difference. Fight the long battle against the monstrosity of the world. With an organization that said they give a fuck. You want to believe they do. Want to believe you still held on to hope. You could at least give yourself a purpose to a life that has been nothing but unfair.
Two recruits sat on either side of you as conversation filled the room. The topic quickly shifted to the size of the B.S.A.A. facility, and you admitted how surprised your group had been during the tour before the guide had deposited the three of you in a small briefing room without a word to why.
Training grounds, barracks, shooting ranges, a small shop down the road, and even an airfield nearby. The entire complex was enclosed by high fences and guarded by a main gate. This facility reminds you more of a miniature military base. You bet that it would take you less than 20 minutes to run from one end of the base to the other.
Then we heard the door open. The causal chatter stopped. All at once, your small group had straightened your backs more when seeing who it was that entered.
You'd heard the stories before. During evaluation, a couple of recruits you'd gotten friendly with had told you all about him, a man that was a founder of this organization who held the role of Captain of one of the most elite, high speed units here. They said his endurance seemed endless, that he never stopped until the mission was complete, and that his strength was something else entirely. Looking at him now, you finally understood what they meant. The muscles stretching beneath his shirt certainly helped sell the image.
You sat quietly waiting for the man to speak. Not wanting to be the first to break the silence. You kept your hands in your lap as the man stood at the front of the room. His arms crossed over his chest as he scanned each recruit with the kind of focus that made you feel like he was already measuring whether you'd make it through the first week.
You noticed how the overhead lights cast shadows down onto the discolored scars which litter his exposed forearm.
"Welcome to the B.S.A.A., I’m Captain Redfield," His voice steady. "You're here because someone thought you had potential. Don't make them regret it." Uncrossed his arms. He begins to circle the table, eyeing each and everyone of you.
"This isn't training anymore. Tomorrow you start real work. You'll be given today for in-processing, right there in your welcome folders is a checklist with all the stations.” He stops on the opposed side of you. He places his arms on top of the table, leans in forward.
“Rookies, let's get one thing straight, bioterrorism doesn't care if you're ready. You all better understand the kind of work this is. The only person who will have your back here won't always be your brothers and sisters in arms, but yourself. " His gaze moved slowly across the row of recruits before stopping briefly on you. "Questions?"
The room stayed silent.
Chris nodded once. "Good. Dismissed."
You watch the man turn right back out of the room. The recruits were left staring at each other.
"Well then..." You finally spoke.
The other two recruits chuckle, breaking the lingering tension in the air, because sure enough that's not what you had expected to enter the room. Guess you he's not the kind of guy that likes to waste time. There are a handful of units you could be assigned too, crossing your fingers it wasn't with him.
Eventually you all leave the meeting room, parting ways. Supply was first on the list for you. New uniforms and equipment were needed to be issued. Basically *CIF.
Medical was next, then armory for weapons assignment. You'll have to stop by your barracks room to drop off the new equipment before ending your day with meeting your leadership. Room B-10. Sure, offices were over on the south wing of this massive maze of a building.
Supply took longer than expected. Even with no lines the supply clerk was taking her sweet time handing out tactical vests, boots, communication devices, and uniforms. You stuffed all of it into the duffle bag, thankful that one was assigned to you. Most of the equipment you saw, other than the helmet and boots were still sealed in packaging.
After receiving everything, the clerk marked her rank and signature on your in-processing sheet before moving on to medical bay.
The hallways smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee when first entering the south wing. A few agents passed by without sparing a glance at you. There was an air about them. You noticed how they moved differently, longer strides, moving with a sense of purpose despite not being in the field. Most noticeable was the stress indicators on their faces, the lines and wrinkles. And you're sure age wasn't the culprit.
Medical went quickly. ‘Thank god’ you thought.
The nurse there took your blood pressure, one look at your charts said you were up to date on vaccinations, and ended with a simple vision test.
"Read this line for me." She would call out. In no time the nurse handed over your form with a stamped signature without any further comment.
The armory was last.
The west wing housed most of the training facilities with a main running track, a gym, a shooting range tucked behind the building, and the armory. It was the largest section of the complex, second only to the barracks across the street. Which was conveniently connected with a skywalk.
You walk through the open door, sign above the frame that says ‘Armory’. The sides covered in smaller signs warning about trespassing and only authorized personnel are allowed.
Upon entering you saw rows of weapons lined the walls behind reinforced glass. An older man with graying hair sat behind the counter reviewing paperwork.
"Name, rank and unit," he said without looking up.
You gave your name before answering ,"...Lieutenant, unsigned."
His pen stopped mid-stroke. He glanced up briefly before pulling a clipboard from the side.
"Your papers." He simply held out his hand, silently asking for your documents
"Here."
The older man took the folder from you and flipped it open. His eyes moved lazily down the pages, scanning each document.
His eyebrows rose slightly.
"Well, I'll be." He glanced up at you. "Alpha Squad. Redfield's unit."
A faint chuckle escaped him as he returned his attention to the paperwork.
"Did you say Redfield unit?" But your question went ignored.
"They ought to start informing recruits about their assignments beforehand. Would save a lot of confusion." He tapped the folder.
"I didn't think to check.” You took the folder back, tucking it underneath your arm. And readjusting the duffle bag on your other arm.
"You're not the first rookie to had walk in here without realizing where they're ending up. Redfield doesn't take just anyone. You better be ready" He turned toward the storage lockers.
Placing the duffle bag you had gotten from supply down on the ground. The heavy bag hitting the floor with a thud.
"I'm aware.. I'm ready to face anything thrown at me." It was true, you've thought about it plenty of times, about the kind of missions you'll have to face. But for you, nothing would convince you to back out.
Still, there was one detail you were particularly curious about. "What kind of weapons does my unit get?" You rub your hands together as excitement builds. You sure love a good rifle. M70 or a classic M16. Who knows.
He pulled a keyring from his belt and unlocked the reinforced door.
"Redfield's unit uses whatever gets the job done," he said. "Standard issue is an AR-15 platform. Modified for reliability in field conditions." He pulled out a rifle and placed it on the counter. "You'll also carry a sidearm. Glock 19." Another case appeared beside the rifle.
He glanced at your expression. "Not fancy enough for you?" His tone was dry. He pushed his clipboard into your hands.
"Sign here."
Taking the clip board you quickly sign your name. Clearing both weapons, you first strap in your holster around your hip then swing the AR sling around your shoulders
"It’d do."
Footsteps echoed from the hallway outside.
Captain Redfield appeared in the doorway. He leaned against the frame with his arms crossed, watching silently as the armorer placed his clipboard down.
You wondered what he was doing here.
It was only moments ago when you found out he was going to be your direct line of leadership. You're sure others would have felt honored to work alongside him.
You weren't sure that's how you feel about it.
You certainly respect the man. Having built a reputation that even those in selection would whisper about. It was easy to see why people looked up to him.
However respect was easy to give, trust was a completely different thing.
But can you blame yourself for being hesitant? You spend the last two years being looked at like some problem that wouldn't shut up. Having been pushed aside, treated like you were crazy by the same people you used to call your brothers and sisters in arms. Even those who you called mentors became silent the day you came back from deployment.
"Psychological deterioration" The doctors wrote down. You don't even remember going through any screening.
And with the government quickly coming down to cover it all up. You were left with no one willing to stand by your side.
So standing here now, assigned to one of the most respected units in the organization, you felt something rise in your chest.
Would it be different this time?
"I know the enemy doesn't care too much about what bullet is going to be the thing that kills it." You let out a light laugh.
"Shame though, it would have been nice to get issued a Colt 1860 Army." You shift your leg, parts of the AR digging into your side. It hardly bothered you.
The older man's expression softened slightly. He leaned back against the counter.
"Colt 1860," he repeated. " Single-action percussion revolver. Reliable for its time." He glanced toward the rows of weapons behind him. "Mine's a Winchester Model 1873. Had it since before I joined the service. Still fires clean."
Chris shifted his weight against the doorframe. His arms remained crossed as he watched the exchange. His gaze moved briefly to the rifle before settling back on you.
"Finish up," Chris said. His voice cut through the conversation. "And follow me, I'll need to fill you in, rookie. Then you're free for the rest of the day."
He turned and walked back into the hallway without waiting for a response.
The armory officer gave you a pitiful sigh. "Don't need nothing for you, you have a personal safe in your barracks room. If you plan on taking leave, come back here and I'll store your weapons."
He waves his head, shooing you out the door.
"Better not keep him waiting, newbie."