Puh!
Pure brute force tore through fascia, ripped muscle, snapped cervical vertebrae. A fountain of red, murky with shredded flesh, sprayed across the rubble.
The headless, misshapen giant toppled forward. Its massive, bony, blade-like hands—flesh and bone twisted into monstrous claws—slumped limply. Thud. Its knees buckled, collapsing it onto the ground.
Standing behind the corpse, a black-armored figure held the dripping head aloft.
On the heavy chest plate of his exoskeleton, a BSAA emblem gleamed beside the Militech logo.
…
Click, click, click—
Flashes popped in rapid sequence.
"Perfect!"
From the flat-bellied multi-role helicopter, a BSAA combat photographer leaned out of the open side door, long-lens Militech camera trained on the anti-biohazard battle below.
"Sir, you're the BSAA's own superhero, I swear. This set could win the Pulitzer in May."
"They probably can't publish R-rated gore shots," another BSAA operator chuckled while manning the M2 heavy machine gun, hammering at roaming zombies.
"Then make it an internal record. Half-mosaic it. HQ always uses these for anti-BOW PR. And hey, Chris is their poster boy. Seeing us work this hard should loosen Congress' purse strings."
Hearing the chatter in his earpiece, Chris Redfield felt little emotion.
Plop.
The huge, gray-white head—with broken jawbones—hit the dirt. Segments of grotesquely overgrown spine dangled from the base, writhing faintly.
Shing! Chris drew his custom combat knife, severed the fleshy tendrils still wrapped around his "Carnage" shotgun, reloaded with an armor-piercing dragon's-breath round, and boom!—the twisted head burst apart, blood and bone splattering far.
"Open comms. Keep looking for survivors. Eyes open when you're doing the cleanup. I don't want to sign any of your death notices," he said evenly.
"Ooo-rah!"
Bang, bang, bang!
The helicopter dropped to just two and a half stories off the ground. Seven or eight BSAA troopers, clad in lighter Militech prototype exoskeletons than Chris', jumped out fully armed.
Gunfire and explosions intensified in the village.
"A rough but reliable senior. Chris, you know they call you 'Blackhand' now?" Jill's bright voice teased over the radio.
"Let them. It's our job to train rookies who won't fear BOWs. Once they survive the 'first kill'…"
He moved forward.
Puh! A reeking blur shot from a gap in the rubble, a worm-like proboscis stabbing toward his visor.
Chris tilted his head aside.
On his HUD, his lab-grade Militech [Motion Detector] and [Rangefinder] tracked the incoming speed, movement, and attack trajectory—projecting it clearly on his night-vision lenses.
A Licker.
This Licker was an upgraded iteration—larger, stronger, faster than the ones in Raccoon City.
But…
Without Umbrella's scum, was there always another bunch ready to wade in?
Cursing under his breath, Chris grabbed the Licker's proboscis with his metal prosthetic right hand. Artificial muscle cabling worked in sync with the exoskeleton's pistons and hydraulics. Wham! He yanked the creature clean out, collapsing a crumbling mud wall in the process. Amid the tumbling rubble, Chris swung it around in a brutal arc and slammed it into a wrecked Humvee.
That Humvee had been destroyed when a Tyrant ambushed U.S. SOF troops entering the village.
Crunch! The deformed vehicle tilted on one wheel from the force.
Then—thud!—Chris closed in, the Licker's proboscis still coiled on his arm, and drove his fist into its exposed, blood-slick brain. Again and again, until the swollen tissue was nothing but pulp and blood sprayed in all directions.
From the heavy gunship's cockpit—
"Showing off, is he?" Brad muttered, shaking his head. "Hey, Jill, Chris is getting more violent by the day."
"Just the way I like it," Jill replied with a feral grin, sighting down her mounted M82A1 anti-materiel rifle.
"Right… You two and your endless will-they-won't-they—"
"Shut it, Brad! Fly the damn chopper!"
"Okay, okay…"
…
Ten minutes later.
Gunfire faded.
Chris stood, blade in hand, surrounded by shattered corpses. Seeing Brad flash the 'Area Clear' and 'No Hostiles Detected' signals, Chris wiped his combat knife and locked the "Carnage" shotgun into its exoskeleton mount.
He glanced at the mauled remains of several U.S. soldiers, uniforms still faintly recognizable, and silently traced a cross over his chest. "Rest in peace."
Whup-whup…
Brad brought the heavy helicopter lower. "All done! Chris, we've got a few bitten grunts—we need to get them to Bagram Air Base ASAP."
"Chris, time to go," Jill called from the side hatch, waving.
"Understood."
Once the other operatives had boarded, Chris crouched on a rooftop and leapt. The exoskeleton's thrusters flared midair, venting gas to stabilize his landing inside the cabin.
"Wow, cool, sir," one BSAA trooper said, reaching out a hand.
Chris wasn't above camaraderie—he slapped palms with each of them.
"When do we get exosuits like yours? Thrusters, grapples, magnetic gloves… wall-running, double jumps…" one asked eagerly.
Chris didn't answer, only sighed faintly.
He looked down at the [EX0-1] combat exoskeleton clinging to him. According to Militech CEO Vela Adelheid Russell, his was a lab-grade custom build with prototype features stripped from the standard (and heavily downgraded) production models.
It was locked to his biometrics and cyberware signatures—no one else could use it.
The tech on it was clearly priceless. Why give something so valuable to him? Just to test it and collect combat data?
Sigh…
The old debt wasn't even repaid, and now there was a new one.
This wasn't some luxury or indulgence—it was a tool of immense value to the global anti-biohazard effort. Could he really say no to it?
"Don't even think about it, rookies. Even if you had one, you couldn't handle it. Just be glad you've got the standard exoskeletons—they're already better than most get. If Militech weren't BSAA's direct sponsor and logistics supplier, we'd probably be treated like regular Marines," Brad's voice came from the cockpit.
"Outside of SEALs and Delta, every special forces unit in the military is waiting to get these. The Pentagon's still hesitating—they can't commit to such a massive rollout yet. Too new, too cutting-edge… We're basically tier-one testers for reliability and stability," Brad went on, bantering with the rookies.
Chris dropped into a seat beside Jill.
Psh.
He unclipped the respirator seal on his helmet and pulled it off, revealing a face that had grown harder, more battle-scarred.
"Something on your mind?"
Jill handed him a bottle of Militech electrolyte water.
"You can always tell."
Twisting the cap, Chris took a long swig. "The variety of B.O.W.s showing up in Afghanistan… it's not normal."
"You mean…" Jill thought it through. "Old Umbrella hands? After the Caucasus op, there's only… that fugitive Spencer?"
"I'm not sure. But whoever's behind it wasn't low-ranking in Umbrella. I can't put my finger on it, but I've got a bad feeling…"
Whaa—
Suddenly, stirring music boomed from the helicopter's cabin speakers, laced with the murmur of a crowd.
"Brad, what now…" Jill said irritably.
"Didn't want you two to be bored. And hey, it's Militech's first Strategic Expo—don't you want to see? Vela Adelheid's hosting. Our biggest patron, 21st-century patent queen, the 'Vicious Queen' every petty socialite in America hates, richest unmarried woman in the world…"
Chris lifted his head thoughtfully.
He looked to the built-in display on the bulkhead—
The Militech logo spun, scattered, then reassembled.
A sweeping aerial shot of the San Francisco Bay Area appeared. A world away from Afghanistan's hellscape—bright spring sunlight, smooth futuristic structures, fortress-like complexes, grand geometric pavilions spread across an industrial park, throngs of visitors moving between them in bustling streams.
The camera shifted, gliding into a vast, domed luxury hall.
Zoom in—surrounded by black-suited bodyguards, armed security, and uniformed police, a striking blonde woman entered. Militech CEO Vela was speaking with a sharply dressed, slicked-back, high-foreheaded older white man, his hairline gleaming under the venue lights.
Chris had seen him at the White House.
If he wasn't mistaken—that was the President's National Security Advisor.
...
San Francisco Bay Area.
East Bay.
The first Militech Strategic Expo.
Inside and outside the venue, crowds bustled shoulder to shoulder.
Security was thick—uniformed police and private guards posted at every corner.
The main venue for this year's Expo was a square building, surrounded by neatly manicured greenery, flowerbeds, and fountains. Compared to the various sub-venues for Militech's diverse divisions—each with its own dazzling, futuristic style—this one looked plain. For the world's leading high-tech defense firm, the exterior seemed almost underwhelming: reinforced concrete, marble, and plaster, built in a new-classical style.
Its only visual flourish came from the thick round stone columns at the entrance and the massive wall screens—broadcasting half-length images of Militech CEO Vela Adelheid Russell, Expo news, sponsor ads, and holographic projections.
Old and new. Tradition and novelty. Classical and sci-fi. Somehow, the clashing styles merged seamlessly into an imposing blend that was both material and ethereal.
Even if you didn't understand it—you had to admit it looked impressive.
"Wow, cool," a buzz-cut white teen said from under one of the plaza's giant retractable parasols, part of a group from a Militech-run charitable welfare home.
"Hey, Sherry, your mom works for Militech, right? Is she at Militech HQ here in San Francisco?" he asked, glancing from the main hall's heavy facade to the blonde girl behind him.
She stood with her head lowered, studying a small card—black with gold trim, inlaid with crimson filigree on silver.
"I'm not really sure."
Clutching the ornate card, Sherry shook her head. "Maybe, maybe not."
"Huh?" the boy said in surprise. "Then why'd you come to San Francisco? If your mom's not here… You planning to use that card to meet Militech's CEO and ask her for help?"
"Idiot!" Sherry poked him in annoyance. They'd met at the Militech welfare school.
"I don't have to meet her. It's not like I'm some disaster magnet from a Hollywood movie. Can't I just try my luck? Besides, it's the Expo—don't you want to see it?"
She pointed at the massive screen on the main hall's facade.
"I have my reasons for coming. Hah… thanks to the War on Terror turning into a war against biohazards. You saw the Afghanistan news, right? My mum… never mind. Just know she works in that field. Her leave was canceled—she's busy now."
Onscreen: the announcement that a White House senior official, the President's National Security Advisor, would appear at the Militech Expo.
"Oh," the boy muttered, eyes on the screen. "National Security Advisor?"
That was a big deal.
Derek C. Simmons…
Sherry mouthed the name quietly.
She had met him before.
Her mother worked in a classified department under his command.
Whether her mum worked for Militech's Vela or for the White House's Simmons—or exactly what she did—Sherry didn't know, and didn't ask. She'd learned early, from a childhood shadowed by dangerous realities, that some questions weren't meant to be asked. And her mother, Annette, would never volunteer the answers.
Sherry never called her mother unless necessary—every time Annette phoned, she sounded utterly exhausted. Better not to distract or worry her.
But Militech…
The top-tier T-virus vaccines, serums, and suppressants all came from Militech. Her mother was a virology specialist. With the U.S. military's failures in Afghanistan, Simmons—National Security Advisor—would surely seek deeper cooperation with Militech, especially in anti-BOW operations and next-gen viral suppressants. Her mother would almost certainly attend the follow-up meetings.
As she tucked the business card safely away, a wave of commotion rippled through the venue. Crowds funneled toward a focal point. Black-suited bodyguards, armed security, and uniformed police moved en masse. Under the shouts of reporters and a blizzard of camera flashes, a motorcade of polished black security sedans rolled up to the red carpet extending from the side entrance.
At the center—a stretch Cadillac. A bodyguard opened the door, and out stepped a blonde beauty. Removing her sunglasses, she waved with poised elegance to the press, Militech supporters, and fans.
Vela Adelheid Russell.
Sherry's classmates whistled and cheered—for them, she was the benefactor who funded their welfare home.
But Sherry's eyes locked instead on the high-foreheaded, slicked-back older white man stepping from another stretch Cadillac.
Simmons.
Her gaze swept the motorcade.
At last—
From a more modest security sedan, Annette emerged, speaking with an academic-looking blonde woman.
Sherry lit up. She pulled her Militech V23Gs phone from her bag, tapped the only pinned contact, and pressed call.
Beep…
"Sherry?"
"Mummy! I see you—I'm here—"
Annette paused mid-step, phone to her ear, eyes scanning. "Sherry…"
Spotting her daughter under the giant parasol column, Annette smiled warmly—the sight of Sherry's health and happiness melting away her fatigue.
She hung up and turned to her colleague. "Sorry, Radames, excuse me—my daughter's here. Probably came with the Militech welfare school group for the Expo. Please let Simmons know."
"Mm." The blonde woman glanced toward the plaza, spotting the waving girl, and nodded.
"Thanks."
Annette cleared the local Militech security and SFPD line, striding quickly to Sherry. The accompanying teacher recognized her and didn't interfere.
After a hug, Annette straightened Sherry's collar, glancing at the boy beside her—just now, her daughter had waved while patting his shoulder familiarly.
"Hey, Sherry, aren't you going to introduce me? This classmate is…"
"Uh…"
Before Sherry could speak, the buzz-cut boy rubbed the back of his head shyly. "No need for her to. I'll do it. Hello, ma'am—I'm Jake Muller."
…
On the red carpet—
"Quite the feast, Vela," Simmons remarked.
"I don't pop champagne halfway through, Advisor. Let's see the results before calling it a success," Vela replied as she mounted the marble steps.
"Then I'll be watching… hm, Carla?"
A blonde woman in a sheath dress, scholarly in bearing, approached and whispered in his ear.
"…Annette? I see. Since it's the Expo, let her spend the day with her daughter. The meeting starts tomorrow."
Catching Vela's curious glance, Simmons smiled and explained Annette's situation, then gestured. "This is Carla Radames—brilliant virologist and one of my top people."
"Ms. Russell."
Carla inclined her head.
Vela returned the gesture, a flicker of intrigue in her eyes.
"Ms. Radames, I hope this Expo gives you an enjoyable week."
They exchanged polite nods.
"Please."
"Please."
As Vela strode into the private entrance beside Simmons, their easy camaraderie on full display, Carla's smile faded. She lowered her head slightly, one hand curling into a brief, tense fist before relaxing.
Past the marble hall, they entered the VIP reception lounge—a lofty space with a commanding view of the vast T-shaped stage and towering LCD screen at the venue's center. Lighting rigs, projection gear, audio systems—everywhere, the tools of a major production.
Rebecca Chambers of the BSAA tech division sat near the front. State and city officials. Pentagon brass. Industry rivals—defense, biotech, PMCs, Silicon Valley tech firms. Major media.
A true constellation of power.
"Advisor Simmons, Ms. Russell…"
An elderly voice—firm, resonant—cut in as an old man in a suit, gentleman's cane in hand, entered. Time had etched deep lines in his face, hair and beard white, but his posture still strong.
"Morgan Lansdale."