Chris Redfield lay on his back beneath Police Cruiser 7, wrench in hand, squinting at the undercarriage that had been making that god-awful grinding noise for three days straight. Some random spark of inspiration and free time made him want to do this today in the middle of the afternoon.

Should've been a mechanic, he thought, wiping sweat from his brow with a greasy forearm. Better pay, fewer psychos with guns.

The smell of motor oil mixed with that perpetual dampness that came with being two floors underground. Somewhere above, muffled voices echoed through the station—probably Marvin chewing out another rookie. Down here, it was just Chris and the steady drip-drip-drip of a leaking coolant line he'd have to deal with next.

S.T.A.R.S. Alpha Team. Elite special operations. And here he was, playing grease monkey because the motor pool guys called in sick.

Footsteps echoed across the garage floor but Chris didn't bother sliding out. Half his body was wedged under the chassis, and his shoulders were already screaming.

"Hey," he called out, voice bouncing off concrete walls. "Can you hand me that socket wrench? The three-quarter inch. Should be on the cart."