An elderly man in a sharp suit carried a gold-tipped cane—the sort of refined accessory only old-school gentlemen brought out when leaving home. He walked forward with upright poise.
"Ms. Russell."
He raised his right hand, brushing his temple lightly with thumb, index, and middle fingers before bringing it to his chest in a stately bourgeois gesture.
His manner was pure classic English gentleman, his bearing sharp and dignified. A dense, well-trimmed salt-and-pepper beard framed his face, and with those cold gray eyes and aquiline nose, he was the picture of a traditional, hardline hawk.
With such a courteous and deliberate approach, Vela had no reason to make an enemy without cause. Besides, this former Defense Intelligence Agency man—now National Biopreparedness Director for the United States—was no small player.
Though thanks to the butterfly effect Vela had set in motion, his current influence was far less than in the original timeline.
Back then, in 2001, with the War on Terror driving global tensions and the spread of bioterrorism, he rode the wave of public opinion to hold not only his current post, but also the top job at the Federal Bioterrorism Commission (FBC), an agency he had personally pushed to create.
But in this timeline, the BSAA had been founded almost immediately after the Raccoon City incident in 1998, funded directly by the federal government—and boasting a national hero worthy of any headline. With overlapping duties, it was unclear if the FBC would ever exist here.
"'Silver Fox' Lansdale. I've long heard of you."
Matching his old-world courtesy, Vela extended her right hand—wrapped in a sheer black silk glove embroidered with crimson thorned roses.
Naturally, not for a handshake.
She stood on the steps leading down to the venue's central stage, while Lansdale waited a step below, cane under his left arm. He lifted her hand and enacted a formal kiss-on-hand gesture.
Nearby, Simmons arched a brow.
Lansdale had done his homework. He knew Vela disliked indiscriminate hugging, and clearly had something to ask of her. This gesture—more intimate than a handshake—was deliberate.
They were at the main hall of the Militech Strategic Expo, surrounded by media. Click-click-click—flashes fired in rapid bursts. This scene was certain to appear in mainstream coverage. Lansdale was burnishing his own profile.
Given his recent moves in Washington, and with the 2002 midterms looming—when certain posts would change hands—Simmons could guess exactly what Lansdale was after: the BSAA Bioterrorism Defense and Evaluation Committee chairmanship.
Old fox. Knows just when to make his play…
…
At least it wasn't the full British, French, or German kiss-on-hand—just the gesture, lips not touching her glove.
Vela's expression didn't shift as she withdrew her hand.
"Enjoy the event, Mr. Lansdale."
When he straightened, she nodded to Simmons and continued toward the stage.
Lansdale was hardly the first.
Courting from federal bureaucrats was something she was used to.
In the 21st century, as Militech surged ahead—filing patents, turning new tech into successful products—the CEO was naturally in the spotlight.
Especially in an election year. Beyond the BSAA, which Militech directly funded, many federal legislators—quietly or openly—hoped for her public endorsement.
Elections were about making voters know your name, and remember it.
This was why, in parliamentary democracies, officials so often appeared in public with celebrities, socialites, and stars. Without name recognition and visibility, no matter how sound, noble, or universal your platform, it would go nowhere—unknown and wasted.
Step, step—
Descending the carpeted stairs leading to the central stage, Vela parted ways with Simmons. He and Lansdale followed ushers to their designated seats.
Before the stage, rows of high-backed chairs with a sleek, futuristic look stretched across the floor. Each chair's right armrest bore a high-frame-rate, high-definition LCD screen and a miniature projector. In the worlds of Cyberpunk or Call of Duty, such things might seem commonplace—but in 2002's Resident Evil reality, this was pure science fiction.
Those with invitations to the Militech Strategic Expo's main venue eagerly explored the touchscreens and holographic displays.
The LCDs offered searchable information on the Expo's themes and sub-venue schedules. The holograms rendered the entire Expo grounds in scale miniature—blurry in fine detail, but zoomable in and out. For people of the early 21st century, it was an entirely novel experience.
"Oh my God!"
Gasps rippled through the audience.
Rustle…
"Impressive," Simmons murmured, manipulating the holographic Expo model.
"Military industry, bionics, pharmaceuticals… electronics, semiconductors, drones, AI… nuclear research and cleanup, renewable energy… ICT… security, military contracting… streaming media… entertainment…"
Behind Simmons, scholar and researcher Carla Radames felt it even more keenly.
Overwhelmingly so.
Like moonlight against fireflies.
Vela's presence and achievements were like a blazing star, exerting an unmatched pressure on ambitious scientists everywhere.
Lowering her gaze, Carla exhaled slowly. She flicked through the touchscreen menu as if testing its responsiveness, skimming the list of sub-venues Militech had previewed.
"A Da Vinci-level polymath…" she murmured. "Simmons' work needs her. She's indispensable."
"No."
Her fingertip paused on the Pharmaceuticals category.
Opening it, she stopped at one entry:
—Biological Virus Prevention and Treatment—
"At least here, I won't lose to you… Simmons needs me just as much."
Elsewhere, among the Pentagon officers and related personnel, Lansdale set his cane beside his seat.
"Scientist, capitalist, politician… and something of a warrior's steel. Strange, unreadable."
Enlarging the holographic model, he leaned on the armrest, eyes fixed on the central stage.
"A genius to be feared."
In the BSAA section, short-haired, doll-faced Rebecca Chambers spotted Vela heading toward the backstage control room.
"Look, it's Ms. Vela Adelheid! Yes—the Expo's about to start! I can't wait!" she told her colleague, excitement bubbling like a fan meeting her idol.
Her idol wasn't a pop star—it was an academic luminary.
Further back, in the seats for socialites and civic groups, a striking Asian woman with a naturally alluring maturity in her features stepped quietly into place under an usher's guidance. Her sleek black bob brushed her shoulders. Removing her sunglasses revealed deep brown eyes.
"An extraordinary achievement," she murmured.
After arriving in San Francisco, what she had seen along the way—combined with bits of insider gossip and urban legend gleaned through special channels—left her quietly impressed.
As she toyed with the seat's holographic projection model, she murmured to herself so softly only she could hear, "San Francisco has practically become Militech's San Francisco. Wesker… I doubt you can compete with her."
...
"Tricell, you're still far from being a real competitor… So, Chief, have you nailed down the backgrounds of those fools posting on forums and planning to disrupt the Expo, and the backers funding them?"
Backstage in the control room, before the official start of the Expo, Vela was meeting with the white SFPD chief.
Meeting—with all the weight that implied.
Just as Umbrella had done in Raccoon City, Militech was driving its roots deep into the San Francisco Bay Area—and California as a whole.
This particular chief had been promoted from deputy with Militech's backing, his interests tightly bound to the company. His eldest son worked in Militech's engineering oversight department. His younger son, a disabled veteran fitted with cybernetic limbs, was now employed in Militech's security division.
The SFPD had enjoyed a comfortable existence for years with Militech at its back.
San Francisco Bay Area—Militech's global HQ's direct sphere of influence.
Long before the city's problems with smash-and-grab thefts, vagrancy, illegal immigration, and radicalized identity politics became extreme, Vela had sponsored a young state assemblyman from a California district to introduce a proposal called the "Create a Civilized America" initiative. It urged the state legislature to take stronger measures to improve public safety.
Riding the momentum of the War on Terror and the war against bioterrorism, multiple city and county governments backed it. The state passed the bill and tilted policy in its favor.
Using San Francisco as a pilot program, they hit gangs and crime hubs with heavy measures.
Crack down on organized crime, hunt down traffickers and killers!
Even hiding in impoverished neighborhoods was no shield—under the pretext of building a comprehensive anti-bioterror preparedness system, they would bulldoze your safe havens.
With Militech's military contractors, security staff, and bodyguards saturating the Bay Area's surrounding cities, the gangs' survival space shrank drastically. Many of society's refuse chose to pack up and leave.
By 2002, San Francisco had been rated by the U.S. Travel Bureau as one of the most civilized and safest cities in America.
And with Militech's high-tech industrial cluster effect, large numbers of highly educated, old-school middle-class families—and immigrants—were concentrating here.
Los Angeles, meanwhile, was still Los Angeles—home to Hollywood, budding multiculturalism… and worsening crime. Word was there were more foreign faces in the mix these days, and public safety had plummeted. The mayor was reportedly in talks with Militech Security; once his legislative package and funding request cleared the city council, he planned to order Militech public safety support.
Back to the point.
"This… Ms., interstate political donations and scattered cash contributions are tricky to trace," the SFPD chief said uneasily.
"Never mind. If we have to play by the rules, catching them out will just mean dragging it through the mud," Vela replied. "Which groups are showing their heads?"
"Primarily extreme environmentalist groups—the Earth Liberation Front (ELF) and Animal Liberation Front (ALF)," the chief confirmed.
"It's them…"
Vela's expression soured as if she'd stepped in something unpleasant.
Old acquaintances.
It wasn't the first time they'd slammed Militech on social media.
After all, at the turn of the century, no construction project in America was bigger—or noisier—than Militech's.
Never mind the smaller projects—just the major ones included land reclamation for artificial islands in the Bay, construction of the Expo itself, new phases of the industrial park, and soon, the groundbreaking for Militech's new global HQ.
Because of the Expo's breakout effect, many fringe groups saw it as a platform to push their own agendas.
The ELF was a prime example.
They'd repeatedly set fires and bombed labs, pharmaceutical plants, and factories. Their slogans openly challenged Militech: "Wreck their Earth-killing Expo" and "If you build it, we'll burn it." They blamed Militech's expansion for environmental damage and deforestation.
Closing the SFPD chief's investigation file, Vela said flatly, "Clean it up."
"Yes, I'll see them arrested—"
"No."
Vela shook her head. "I don't have time to play their game. Working with the courts only serves their purpose."
A corporation of Militech's size suing them would only amplify their notoriety, spreading their message to more idiots. Vela was done playing nice.
Her reach was strong enough now that the old trick—building a private prison to stick them in—needed upgrading. For these loudmouths with proven "accomplishments" and the intent to burn the Expo, expecting nothing more than a prison sentence if caught, it was time for a corporation to act like a corporation.
Time for measures outside the rules.
Measures that inspired fear…
"Then, ma'am, you mean—"
"Dump them in the Bay as landfill."
She gave him a sidelong glance. "I'm done playing house with them."
"Yes, ma'am!"
Under that deep indigo gaze, the SFPD chief instinctively lowered his head.
"Bob. Clean it up."
Checking the time—nearly her cue—Vela rose, gave the white chief an encouraging pat on the shoulder, and stepped out of the soundproof control room.
"…"
Exhaling, Bob didn't hesitate long.
As the official Vela herself had placed, his family, his leverage, his career, and his future were all in her hands. He knew—it was time to prove loyalty for real.
He pulled his radio, switched to a secure frequency.
"They usually strike at night. Confirm their hideouts. Authorized to apprehend. Don't bring them back to the station."
"Eco-terrorists are still terrorists. Cuff them, break their legs, drown them in the nearest toilet if you grab them in a bathroom. Burn the bodies and mix the ashes into the landfill for the artificial island. Clean the tails."
...
Beep beep.
[Red Queen: No anomalies, ma'am.]
"Good. Keep watching."
Adjusting her appearance, Vela stepped onto the internal lift platform beneath the stage.
She checked the digital clock.
USA Pacific Daylight Time, 2002/03/27, 9:59 a.m. (UTC-08:00).
Beep.
09:59 → 10:00.
Clang!
The house lights went dark.
Everyone understood—the Militech Strategic Expo had begun.
The giant T-shaped stage's backdrop wall and the ceiling light bands flared to life. In midair, a holographic Militech logo assembled, then slowly dimmed.
Swish!
The full backdrop lit.
Sleek, sci-fi black background with flowing red data streams.
[2002, Militech Archives.]
No host. No opening speech. Instead, a metallic, synthesized female voice.
[System loading…]
A progress bar scrolled across the giant display.
[Damn! We will never forget.]
The red frame faded, replaced by a subdued interlude.
The screen returned—now in black and white.
An aerial view, distant at first, then drawing closer.
Ruins. War-torn, destroyed cities. Crowds torn by life and death. Hordes of walking corpses. Twisted monsters. The mushroom cloud of a nuclear blast.
Raccoon City.
Here, the synthesized female voice went silent, replaced by—
"There are things we can never forget…"
"Memories that must be engraved deep in our minds until the day we die."
"Where were you when it happened?"
"September 1998—a crisis tried to destroy our lives. A group tried to plunge the world into darkness."
Different voices spoke each line—real people.
Guests in the audience could see, via prompts on their seat's projector, that they were all Militech M.S.F. members who had taken part in the 1998 Raccoon City rescue mission.
"At the time, it felt like we would never find a way out."
"But we did. We faced ourselves. Together, we found the way."
The music swelled.
On the giant display, the scenes shifted.
Survivors receiving aid. Radiation exclusion zones established. A bioweapon defense and radiation research center built outside the ruins of Raccoon City. Free distribution of supplies. Inoculation with T-virus immunity vaccines…
"We will always remember. We face ourselves. We do not run. We are here. When you feel vulnerable, we will protect you. When you suffer pain, we will heal you. When chaos comes, we will bring order."
"Stability. Safety. A chance to start over."
[Who are we?]
The synthesized female voice returned.
"We are the inheritors of Umbrella's original vision—to extend human life and enhance human capability."
"Never forget."
"We are Militech—the pioneers who move ever forward."
Countless voices, speaking as one.
The image froze. Militech's gold-framed "V" logo reappeared.
Clap, clap—clap, clap—
Thunderous applause.
Simmons, Carla, Lansdale, Rebecca Chambers—every guest present rose to their feet, clapping.
After ten seconds or so, as the applause ebbed, the black background with red data streams returned.
[#2 After the turmoil, rebirth—We, Militech.]
The synthesized voice spoke again.
Clang!
A bright spotlight snapped on, illuminating the empty center of the stage.
Vrrrm… vrrrm…
The sound of machinery engaging.
Clack-clack.
Like a steel rose blooming, an elegant figure emerged into view, stepping into the spotlight.
With a perfectly measured, serene smile, Vela extended her hand and said:
"Welcome to the First Militech Strategic Expo."