"Blood for blood. Tooth for tooth."
"I hope they have the skill and luck to survive the same methods we'll use against them."
Vela sat gracefully on a single armchair, hands clasped in front of her, legs elegantly crossed.
…
It was we, not I.
By saying it, she included him—informing him, making him a co-conspirator along with the Family organization. Simmons made no move to refuse.
"All right."
After a moment's thought, he nodded in agreement.
His support was no surprise to Vela. America had plenty of precedent for this.
Before events truly unfolded, it was hard for anyone to think outside the norms of their own era. To Simmons, perhaps this was little different from the Lincoln assassination, the Kennedy brothers, or the brutal DuPont-style corporate feuds.
The only difference was that with Militech's high-tech support, the revival of such "old traditions" might unfold far faster, more spectacularly—and perhaps more covertly. But to the level of military sabotage or outright corporate warfare? Few would believe it.
And Simmons himself was already an activist hawk.
In the original timeline, when the president planned to reveal the truth of Raccoon City, Simmons deemed it a threat to national order, predicting nationwide riots. To "protect world order," he used the C-virus to assassinate the president, triggering the Tall Oaks bioterror outbreak—turning the president into a zombie.
…A bit extreme.
Vela even had contingency plans in case Simmons found her countermeasures too "gentle" or "conservative" and decided to escalate.
Fortunately, in 2002 Simmons was riding high and showed no sign of such madness.
Not that she would reveal any of these thoughts.
"Oh?"
Shifting slightly, Vela leaned on her right hand, fingers against her cheek, her tailored uniform tracing the curve of her slim waist. One eyebrow lifted. "Not planning to ask?"
"I trust your ability."
Simmons knew full well—pressing for details was for subordinates, not for allies and confidants.
Setting down his empty coffee cup, he asked, "If I had to ask—how far do you plan to go?"
"Principle of reciprocity."
Vela smiled elegantly.
"Correct."
He nodded, satisfied with her cautious restraint.
Then he stepped up from the sunken courtyard into the main room. Placing his empty cup neatly on a tray at the coffee bar, he returned to the living area, unzipped his briefcase, and pulled out several Pentagon military procurement contracts requiring customization for specific war scenarios.
"In a hurry?"
Vela approached.
"Timing. I need to brief President Graham on your Expo. Between nine and eleven, I've got two meetings—the Pentagon's Afghanistan war council and my own National Security closed video conference. I'll have to excuse myself."
"The role of National Security Advisor doesn't sound easy."
"Endless meetings, the media throwing mud and spinning lies, partisan sniping… If you could, would you ever consider trying it yourself?"
Simmons' question carried weight.
"Perhaps. For now, I'm not interested."
As if hearing the answer he expected, Simmons said no more.
Simmons hefted his briefcase before leaving—inside, an array of military procurement contracts, industrial electronics hardware and software deals, ICT infrastructure agreements… After the Expo's opening, such tasks no longer required the CEO's direct attention. Each pavilion's heads and professional managers would handle the sales.
The bag was packed to bursting—literally heavy with opportunity.
"Best of luck, Vela. I look forward to seeing what new achievements you unveil at the second Expo," Simmons said before departing.
Whir.
The titanium pneumatic door slid shut.
Vela drew her gaze back from the door.
Simmons' current poise and charm brought to mind an imperfect comparison—
Shijianguo Emperor, before he seized the throne.
Her eyes shifted to the coffee table.
There lay the military contracts Simmons had placed there.
She picked up the topmost one.
—[Mass-Produced Conventional Weapons of Mass Destruction—Aerial Bombs, Rockets, Medium- and Short-Range Missiles]—
The value of this single contract was in the tens of billions. Vela could only marvel again—war made the defense industry's profits outstrip even printing money.
Clearly, this was for the Afghan War. The specifications aimed for maximum lethality in high-altitude, arid, mountainous terrain.
The Pentagon's generals had clearly suffered a humiliating setback in Afghanistan and were now ready to strike back—so much so that even corruption was momentarily on hold. In 2002, with the echoes of the Gulf War still fading, America's "heavenly soldiers" still had that pride to reclaim lost ground.
Rustle.
Vela flipped through the contracts.
—[5,000 Military Multi-Role Drones]—
—[Standard Exoskeleton Infantry Combat Systems—for 1 U.S. Army Infantry Division]—
—[New Anti–T-Virus Suppressants]—
—[50,000 Integrated Infantry Squad Weapons Systems]—
The pie was enormous—but these would need to pass field trials and acceptance by the U.S. Joint Command in Afghanistan.
Tap, tap…
"Trials, is it…" Vela murmured, fingers drumming the table.
"Go."
If they were willing to buy, she was willing to sell.
If Militech secured the entire package, profits of tens of billions would be easy—plus long-term service contracts, added-value revenue, and plenty of extra opportunities.
And…
She picked up the [Standard Exoskeleton Infantry Combat System] contract.
"If mass-deployed…"
To maintain Militech Security's long-term edge and maximize returns, a little "blade work" was necessary. The [EXO] prototype's performance was frankly overkill for 2002.
Thinking it through, Vela stacked the contracts neatly, tapping them lightly against her palm.
"Hah… Selling missiles to U.S. bases in the Afghan desert—it feels familiar somehow… But it's a perfect chance to deflect suspicion."
Her tone cooled. "Red Queen, connect to MSS forces."
"Notify 'Reaper' and 'She-Wolf.' Time to work—USS-style."
[Red Queen: Yes, ma'am.]
…
Half a month later.
"Welcome to today's CNN News. Just hours ago, the Director of the DOJ's Antitrust Division was killed when stray bullets struck during a police-involved shooting near a restaurant in his neighborhood…"
...
In the suburban resort town within the jurisdiction, a golf club sat nestled among quiet streets.
On the street, beneath a neon-lit advertisement for the Militech San Francisco Expo, a dignified blonde woman with indigo eyes filled the big screen.
"Ah—!"
From the crowd's chatter came a sudden shriek.
Gunfire.
Da-da-da!
Bullets smashed into the pristine white wall, sending gray-white fragments flying.
Moments later, the shaky camera caught a speeding car barreling into the golf club's lobby. Boom! Fire erupted, blindingly hot, shattering doors and windows in an explosive wave.
Pedestrians on the sidewalk were knocked flat by the blast.
At the heart of the explosion—collapsed buildings, a shattered lobby—red mist and blood sprayed, bits of flesh hurled into the air, heavily pixelated.
In the corner of the frame—
Rustle…
Dust, rubble, and water from burst underground pipes fell and sprayed, painting the beautiful woman's portrait on the billboard with a dim shadow.
As if her light had faded.
Click.
The footage stopped and zoomed out.
"At 4 p.m. on April 23, a vicious suicide car bombing struck an upscale golf club outside New York. It's reported that the FTC commissioner advocating stronger counterterrorism measures, along with several Wall Street elites, had recently arrived for social and legislative discussions…"
At the news desk, the San Francisco Chronicle's online anchor reported gravely.
"Our field reporters are on-site. Casualties are still under investigation, but think tanks and commentators call it a premeditated assassination. This is the sixth such attack on public officials this April alone…"
In mid-broadcast, the anchor glanced aside—new urgent news had just arrived.
A few seconds later, she looked directly into the camera.
"Just now, the Islamic group Qaeda, active in Central Asia and the Middle East, claimed responsibility for the attack via their Telegram channel."
...
Beep-beep. [#2002/4/23, 11:36 a.m.]
Militech Special Aircraft 001.
CEO front-cabin office.
"Not a bad way to die."
Blue light washed over Vela's face, her cool beauty tinged with satisfaction. Leaning back in her executive chair, one hand resting on the desk, she watched the constantly updating holo-feed—internal and external reports alike.
Among them, Militech's MSS rapid-response unit's April operations and results scrolled by in sequence—
#2002/4/13.
[Condolences: Respected Senate DP leader passes away.]
"...Due to age and frailty, the vice-chairman choked on an apple at dinner, lost consciousness, collapsed, and suffered widespread organ damage from oxygen deprivation. Despite rescue efforts, he passed away. At this turbulent time in our counterterror struggle, we have lost a great elder."
—Washington Post.
#4/15.
[Oppose patent barriers—oppose 21st-century high-tech trusts!]
"Beware! Beware the expansion of Militech, the megacorporate trust..."
—Wall Street Journal.
#4/18.
[Beware a new wave of prejudice and discrimination.]
"A minority congressman who once publicly criticized Militech-led Silicon Valley high-tech firms for merit-only hiring, alleging they ignored inequality, now claims he's received death threats after calling for diversity reforms and more environmental and animal welfare funding."
—Black Caucus.
#4/21
[Strange Deaths!]
"Is this a conspiracy? Could the successive deaths of the Antitrust Division director—an FTC member responsible for enforcing multiple antitrust laws—be linked to the rise and rapid expansion of high-tech monopoly enterprises like Militech in the 21st century?"
—An obscure third-rate political commentary site.
#4/22
[Another Terrorist Attack—What Has Happened to USA Security? This is terrorism's provocation to the free world! Join us to crush any hostile acts against the USA and its people, and bring evil to justice!]
—Pentagon Recruitment Office.
[Militech CEO Vela Adelheid Russell has arrived at Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan.]
—Los Angeles Times.
...
When a man dies, his politics die with him—dead men have no time to investigate or vote.
One could say the M.S.S.'s "pest control operations" had been highly effective.
Vela wasn't surprised.
M.S.S., or USS.
Umbrella's former elite enforcers.
The legendary "Reaper" HUNK had been one of them.
In Umbrella's day, the USS served not only as an elite bioweapon disaster response force, but also as the company's executioners—protecting corporate assets or erasing any evidence detrimental to their employer.
After Umbrella's collapse, its "rightful spiritual heir" Vela took them in, mixing them with her own forces and instilling a CCCP/KGB-style obedience to authority under Militech's chain of command. They were reorganized and expanded.
Now, they served as Vela's personal armed unit.
Their rank and pay matched the elite Maximum Force Tactical Division within Militech Security Forces.
The difference: M.S.F. excelled in large-scale assaults and multi-branch coordinated operations, while M.S.S. specialized in intelligence gathering, behind-enemy-lines sabotage, and small-unit decapitation strikes.
Assassinating political enemies, arranging accidents—such work was second nature to them.
With Militech's cutting-edge weaponry and high-efficiency strategic and tactical intelligence backing them, their lethality was unmatched.
Take this attack on the FTC, for example.
Infused with a hint of KGB methodology, the reorganized M.S.S. delivered a performance that even impressed Vela.
After 9/11, America's global War on Terror had inflicted heavy losses on many extremist groups in the Middle East and Central Asia. Retaliation was inevitable.
Vela and Militech were on their hit list.
Since late 2001, Militech Security in the San Francisco Bay Area had arrested or killed more than ten Middle Eastern suspects plotting attacks on Militech facilities.
M.S.S. used this to their advantage—leveraging Militech's surveillance and intelligence network to snare a new batch of suicide operatives sent to North America to spread fear.
Using Militech's high-level connections, they easily tracked the movements of certain Capitol Hill enemies preparing to move against Militech. When those targets gathered at the golf club for a meeting, the M.S.S. timed it perfectly—stuffing a drugged suicide operative into a prepped remote-controlled car bomb.
And off it went.
One FTC member killed was a staunch hawk in the War on Terror, a politician close to old-guard military-industrial firms, repeatedly urging Congress to pass bills increasing military spending.
Such a figure dying in a terrorist reprisal was perfectly logical.
Still—
"Enough."
Tap, tap.
Drumming her index finger on the desk, Vela made her judgment.
Too much of a good thing is still too much.
And this had all happened in less than a month.
First, the Antitrust Division director dies, caught in the crossfire of a police shooting. Then, a senior senator hostile to Vela dies unexpectedly over a trivial domestic mishap. Next, an FTC commissioner intent on launching an antitrust probe into Militech perishes in a terrorist reprisal.
Then come the others: a social activist who criticized Militech receives death threats at home; a Wall Street elite, shadowed by career troubles, takes his own life…
M.S.S. had done well at mixing self-incrimination with false flags—truth and lies, fact and fiction, all jumbled together.
Some deaths disguised as external incidents. Some staged as personal causes.
Some assassinations succeeded; others deliberately failed.
They even quietly opened the back door, letting Middle Eastern extremists slip into certain lawmakers' neighborhoods, bullets whizzing past their foreheads to scare them—followed by staged shootouts with local police. Then Militech Security would arrive for the grand finale, eliminating or capturing the "terrorists."
The methods were a hodgepodge—messy, seemingly unrelated, without clear logic.
Yet giants like Militech still profited, and some of the dead had indeed opposed—or planned to oppose—Vela.
But after this latest car bombing, the noise was too loud. Even if the White House had been slow to react before, now, for the sake of appearances, national entry lockdown was inevitable. Continuing under such scrutiny would be too blatant.
Quietly slip into the village—don't fire the gun.
Watching the news anchor drone on about the latest "car bomb" attack, Vela shook her head, gaze shifting from the screen to the window. The jet was already descending, following tower signals for landing. Her mind had moved on to other matters.
Beep.
As the landing jolted softly, Vela raised her eyes and opened an encrypted channel.
Before thinking about next steps, she needed to reward those who had earned it.
"Well done, HUNK, Rupert, Nikolai. Collect your pay and bonuses, and report to the officer's resort in Alaska. I won't disturb you—enjoy your leave, my M.S.S. elites."
[[Alpha Squad] HUNK: Roger.]
[[Delta Squad] Rupert: Thank you, Boss.]
[[Beta Squad] Nikolai: Yes.]
Replies came almost instantly.
Smiling faintly, Vela cut the line and stood, looking through the one-way window as the jet rolled to a stop under tow at the U.S. base. Outside, beside the airstair truck, a dense crowd was waiting.
Knock, knock.
"Come in."
Creak—
"Ma'am, we've arrived. The generals are waiting."
A security officer stepped in quietly.
Vela nodded, and before leaving her seat, she tapped a button on her console. A signal was sent.
Beep.
A faint blue flash before the screen went dark.
[Received]
[Recipient: Militech Counter-Intelligence Division — Top Encryption]
How best to dodge suspicion?
Answer: Make yourself look like a victim, just like the deceased.
A good trick never gets old.
And why had nothing happened to her?
Because she had Militech's elite semi-cybernetic bodyguard team.
Billionaires, politicians—tempted yet? Then place your order with Militech now! The top security team to protect you and your family from terror threats. Limited supply—first come, first served!
But first… sell some missiles.
Adjusting the Militech-logo pin on her lapel, Vela stepped out of the front-cabin office.
...
At the edge of the runway, Chris, Jill, Brad, and other BSAA members watched the massive, custom-fitted, twin-engine Boeing 777 private jet—with the Militech logo on its tail—come in for landing.
"This setup's almost presidential…"
Leaning against a Humvee, Brad watched the Militech CEO's private jet descend, followed by military transports landing before and after it.
Ahead of the jet's arrival, a fully armed Militech Security detail in exoskeleton armor had already landed and taken position.
Beside them stood several hulking machines—unmanned mechs.
Two meters tall, broad upper limbs, spider-like multi-legged tracked lower limbs. A large circular tank on the back, rocket pods on the shoulders, and rotary cannons embedded in sharp forward limbs—armor plating flush together, lined up in formation.
The nearby generals and soldiers stole glances. Judging purely by appearance, the contractor's force looked sharper than the regular army.
"Makes sense. In today's unstable world, people trying to kidnap her aren't fewer than those aiming at the president," Chris said, arms crossed, the matte-black bulk of his cybernetic right arm drawing stares.
"True enough—kidnap her and you've got money, houses… the works."
Then—click—black-suited bodyguards, armed security, and Militech sales execs descended the airstair. Tap, tap—a fair-haired young woman stepped into Afghanistan's harsh sunlight.
She looked about twenty-something, well-proportioned, strikingly beautiful—but the disciplined aura and white-and-gold Militech uniform muted any hint of youthful frivolity.
"Afghanistan."
Resting her hand briefly on the warm airstair rail, Vela looked out past the base's high walls and barbed wire—mountains, mountains, and more mountains.
Barren.
"Pity there's no oil. Resource-wise, no better than Iraq."
Oil was more than energy.
One glance was enough for her to kill any thought of investing in Afghanistan.
Better to wait for the 2003 Iraq War.
With waning interest, Vela descended the steps, her hard heels ringing sharply on metal.
"General."
"Ms. Russell."
A U.S. Army four-star in desert camo stepped forward to shake her hand.
"On behalf of the boys, thank you for your support," he said warmly. "Of course, if your company could expand prosthetic limb availability, that would be even better."
"Naturally—that's why I'm here. Win-win cooperation drives positive development."
Vela smiled gracefully.
"In a few years, as full prosthetic technology matures, with new processes and materials breakthroughs lowering costs, America will bid farewell to disability. I like to think this is one of the missions God gave me in this life."
First get those procurement contracts signed—want the unmanned mechs? Place the order and full prosthetic rollout won't be a problem.
Prosthetics restored missing limbs. They weren't cybernetics—no tactical enhancements or performance boosts.
The general caught her nuance but didn't mind.
Capitalism—perfectly normal.
As long as Militech kept its integrity and avoided shoddy goods, it was a win on the procurement ledger.
"Please." He stepped aside in welcome. "It's already noon—the weapons demo can wait until the afternoon. I imagine the troops' menu will be a new experience for you."
He gestured toward another runway where Militech missile components were being unloaded.
"Then I'll gladly accept," Vela replied, glancing toward the section flying the BSAA flag. Her eyes lit up, her lips curved, and after a polite nod to the general, she headed that way.
The onlookers traded puzzled glances.
Chris Redfield?
They knew the rumors: the lone-wolf hero who had moved Vela Adelheid with his courage and evidence, earning her respect; badly wounded in one mission, saved at enormous expense with prototype lab-grade cybernetics.
Even the four-star followed curiously.
Unlikely story—but gossip was gossip.
"Hey, Chris, look—" Brad nudged him, grinning, only to get a boot to the backside from Jill.
"Shove off, Brad, you ass." She flashed him a discreet middle finger.
"Haa…"
Seeing Vela approach, Jill's mind eased.
She trusted Chris's character, and Vela's emotional detachment was legendary. Someone so rational? No chance.
She believed this was admiration, friendship.
"Mr. Redfield, long time no see. Care to join me for lunch?"
The anti-biohazard hero, medal recipient, BSAA ace, America's first cybernetically enhanced operative—modern RoboCop—Chris's strong features twisted into a wry grimace.
Debt collector's here.