Resident Evil
Present.
Over half an hour had passed since the attack on Vela.
Thanks to the media frenzy, the news—dubbed the 421 Bagram Attack—was spreading globally at an astonishing pace.
[Respected viewers, this is the Associated Press. We have just received shocking news. Moments ago, at approximately 3:47 p.m. Afghanistan time on April 21, 2002, in the outskirts of the Bagram Air Base and satellite training ground, Militech founder, billionaire, and world-renowned scientist Vela Adelheid Russell was the target of a premeditated assassination attempt by unknown assailants…]
—Militech Group Chairwoman and CEO Attacked!—
Shortly after 4 p.m., nearly every major news outlet worldwide had pinned the bold red headline at the very top of their front pages.
"Breaking news: U.S. tech and defense industry giant Vela Russell, shortly after signing a new large-scale arms procurement deal with the Pentagon and U.S. Central Command, has been attacked in Afghanistan…" —New York Times.
"Does the attack on visionary entrepreneur Vela Russell suggest that the string of terrorist incidents across the U.S. this April will escalate further?"
"Will this dark, unsettling atmosphere of fear continue to intensify?" —Wall Street Journal.
"We do not yet know if this incident is linked to Militech Group's newly secured defense procurement contract with the Pentagon."
"According to political analysts, it is likely that extremist groups based in the Middle East and Central Asia carried out the attack as retaliation for Militech's arms sales, aiming to warn, intimidate, or even abduct Vela." —Washington Post.
"Retaliation!!!" —San Francisco Chronicle.
...
Meanwhile, deep inside a cavern in the Paropamisus Mountains—
"Useless!"
Bang!
Like a fired shell, a man's body was sent flying, smashing through a barrier. He traced an arc through the vast, dim cavern before slamming into a reinforced concrete platform.
Stacks of supply crates toppled, spilling bottles, cans, and assorted provisions across the floor.
"Your people—you didn't control them. You let some half-crazed idiot fake orders and take an entire team to carry out his flawed, suicidal revenge. Should I call that loyalty to the company, or sheer stupidity? Pathetic. If you can't handle something so trivial, what use are you to me?"
Thud.
Heavy footsteps echoed as Albert Wesker emerged from the room, voice cold as ice.
In his right hand, he held a man by the throat.
The man's legs kicked helplessly, shoes flying off as Wesker dragged him across the floor, his breath coming in strangled gasps. Judging by his attire, he was a mid-to-high-ranking manager within Tricell.
Crack!
Wesker snapped the neck of the Charikar City operations head with brutal ease, letting the lifeless body drop before turning toward another figure—the commander of Tricell's private military force—slumped before a collapsed stack of crates, blood trickling from his nose and mouth, groaning in pain.
"…Cough… You're just a stray dog from Umbrella. You have no authority to fire me, let alone to kill—"
Before he could finish, Wesker raised a hand—squelch!—a gloved finger punched through the commander's right eyeball.
Listening to the screams, the yellow, slit-pupiled eyes beneath Wesker's sunglasses glowed faintly red.
He smiled—a cruel, merciless smile.
"You fool—you have no idea how big of a mess your people caused."
Wesker's gloved finger drove into the unlucky commander's visual pathway—from retina to occipital lobe—stirring inside the eye socket. "Unfortunately, your incompetence means you're not even worthy to serve as a host for new virus experiments—to join the ranks of glorious evolution."
"You're fired."
With that, he curled his finger inside the man's brain, reducing tissue to pulp. Bloodied glove bursting through the intact other eye, he hooked the nasal bone like a ring and yanked.
Crack—splurt.
Like a broken faucet, fragments of bone, blood, and brain matter dripped and sprayed across the floor.
Around them, Tricell employees, mercenaries, and Umbrella's 'dark legacy' researchers held their breath.
Gulp—
In the silence, someone audibly swallowed and stepped back.
"Move the experimental samples and data."
Dropping the flesh and bone in his hand, Wesker wiped his glove clean, then ordered coldly, "Because of these idiots, we're pulling out of Afghanistan."
"Clean it up."
With a sweep of his coat, he turned toward the control room.
"Useless… but at least somewhat informative…"
At the central console, Wesker's expression shifted to something graver as blue light from the display flickered across his face.
Bang, bang.
The choppy footage showed a hillside, explosions blooming as thick smoke billowed upward.
It was the only usable video the rogue Charikar field team had sent back—recorded on Militech-issue police-market body cams, transmitted wirelessly.
The delay came from passing through the Charikar receiver station.
From the shooter's elevated position, the camera caught U.S. Army vehicles erupting into action after the first shot, their ferocious counterattack pounding the hilltop's crude fighting positions with a hail of bullets. Blood mist burst at intervals.
"F—! Who… fired the… shot?!"
"Intel's wrong… Recon's blown… Pull back—"
The audio was poor—distorted, fragmented—but the sound of rounds punching into flesh came through, followed by two pained grunts and collapsing figures. The lens tilted skyward.
A man in desert ghillie gear entered frame, firing down the slope, shouting wildly: "Get back! No surrender—anyone retreats dies!"
As he ranted, a large-caliber round struck from below, punching through his neck and spraying blood mist. A fist-sized hole opened where his neck met his shoulder, his head lolling before the body toppled.
The lens went crimson.
Dust from nearby blasts engulfed the view. Gradually, nothing remained visible—until a final thunderous detonation cut the feed entirely.
Static. Snow.
Wesker frowned at the flickering mosaic on screen.
Strange. The botched 'suicidal revenge' smelled wrong—full of holes—yet somehow plausible.
A Militech self-orchestrated incident to shift blame for its shady role in the 'North America April Terror Chain' and redirect public outrage?
Based on the profit chain, yes.
But logically—and considering Militech's worsening external environment—there was also a strong chance it was engineered by other political or corporate forces.
The suspects were many—Umbrella loyalists still clinging to Spencer's vision, terrorist groups hostile to Militech's provision of advanced weaponry to the USA, certain Anglo-Saxon power blocs unwilling to let a conservative German like Vela claim too much of the pie, military and political entities playing shadow games, and old-guard defense contractors suffering massive global losses…
A single force could have acted alone, but multiple groups turning a blind eye—or quietly encouraging it—was far more likely.
The avenger's background was self-explanatory. According to Tricell HR evaluations, he was an extremist. Such a man could never be linked directly to Militech.
And why now, of all times?
"Because of Vela Russell?"
Wesker muttered the name with mixed feelings.
The records showed the man who had forged orders for his suicidal revenge was a junkie and alcoholic.
His indulgence before his 'renewed purpose' had ravaged his body. After joining Tricell's private military, he had to rely on constant chemical enhancement just to maintain performance.
His body was already falling apart.
Medical reports showed that once he passed his physical prime, complications like muscle atrophy, nerve damage, infections, organ failure, and accelerated aging would cripple him. He'd be discarded.
He couldn't wait. With the chance to strike at Militech before him—and the CEO in Afghanistan—he made his desperate play.
Wesker recalled—William Birkin had once done much the same.
Because of Vela, he could relate even more.
Running through every moment since faking his death to leave Umbrella, emotions—anger, jealousy, humiliation—boiled up unbidden.
Though he hated to admit it, Vela outclassed him in every way.
Even when he killed Oswell E. Spencer in the old family estate, the dying man's last words, after being run through the heart, were—
"William was defective. You… might be barely acceptable. But my dream—if it had been Vela, she would have succeeded…"
Vela, again!
Even though she had never spared him a thought—likely didn't even know he existed—her mere actions and their ripple effects had repeatedly forced him to yield.
"…But."
So be it!
The power to become a god—he had already taken that from Spencer.
His goal was to end humanity's current form, catalyzing a new, superior race through viral evolution, then using them to build his ideal world—with himself as god.
He expected the process of forcing the old humanity to evolve would be difficult.
That was no surprise.
For a dream as grand as becoming a god, challenges were inevitable—and the harder the challenge, the sweeter the victory.
The BSAA, Jill, Chris—mere appetizers. The true challenge lay in massive military-political entities like Militech, and titans like Vela who commanded them.
Staring at the cluttered reports across his split-screen displays, Wesker's mind wandered.
The power he held was still far from enough. He needed more preparation. Spencer had hinted before his death of an old mentor of his—living in seclusion in a village in Eastern Europe…
Fine. Dead horse or not, it was worth a try. He would go.
After a long silence, when the base evacuation was complete, a Tricell employee cautiously called out to him. Wesker pulled out his phone and dialed a number he hadn't used in a long time.
Not his usual Tricell asset, Excella Gionne.
But—
Alex Wesker.
Wesker looked up at the screen, where the news showed a blonde woman safely boarding her plane.
"This will be the last time I run. I swear."
...
Elsewhere—
The 421 Bagram Attack news had already gone global, and while still at Bagram Air Base, Vela was setting the next stage.
Standing at the edge of the runway where her Boeing 777 and its escort fighters were parked, Vela clasped her hands behind her back, wearing the cold silence of an assassination target as she watched.
"My apologies, Ms. Russell."
The Central Command general had hurried back from the training range, mopping sweat from his brow.
Honestly, when he first heard Vela had been attacked, he'd been stunned.
Others at the Pentagon might gloat or see this as a pretext for more unrestrained operations in Afghanistan—but as the one directly responsible, he knew the White House and the entire country would be tearing into him. One misstep and his political career would be over.
"I promise I'll dispatch the best fighter escort squadron, armed with our latest air-to-air missiles, to ensure you return to the U.S. safely."
"Thank you, General."
Vela glanced at his mix of irritation and apology, nodding slightly.
"Enough said. This doesn't affect our friendship. Everyone knows how difficult sweeping operations in Afghanistan are. I just hope—there won't be a second time."
Her tone carried a trace of impatience, though she kept it within polite bounds.
The general took no offense. "I promise," he said gravely.
"Let's hope so."
With that, Vela turned to Chris—who had been standing like a sentinel at her side—and gave him a nod of thanks before walking toward the boarding stairs.
Chris watched her ascend, arms crossed.
He had his answer now.
Vela hadn't injected herself with any virus…
Of course. Geniuses like her were proud—they wouldn't trust someone else's creation so easily.
"Biological components…"
He murmured the term—another piece of Militech vocabulary he'd learned from her.
Thump, thump.
Boarding the plane, waving off encouraging shouts from American soldiers at the edge, Vela paused at the cabin door to glance back at the ever-expanding Bagram Base.
"Next time I come, it'll be for an audit."
In the name of the White House.
The silent thought.
She turned, stepping inside, her lips curling into a faint, serene smile.
Heading straight for the private office in the forward cabin, she shrugged off her coat and dropped onto the sofa, leaning lazily against the armrest. As she switched on the news broadcast, her gaze drifted to the gleaming window panel.
Her indigo eyes flickered.
Gloop…
The light on the glass seemed to ripple like water, concentric circles spreading as four hazy, distorted silhouettes slowly emerged.