[Resident Evil]
San Francisco Bay Area — East Bay.
"Militech!"
"We Rise!"
...
The rhythmic chants, the whistles, and the squeaking of sneakers against the polished floor echoed throughout Militech Arena in Oakland.
In the VIP section along the inner court, Vela sat elegantly in a striking, Militech-style skirt suit, holding an iced cola in one hand and a messy, sauce-laden American hot dog in the other—eating while enjoying a real ball game.
Surrounding her were serious, professionally equipped, and heavily armed bodyguards, as well as members of the Golden State Warriors management team and NBA officials.
Some nearby spectators recognized the world's richest woman, but most simply greeted her respectfully. After all, Vela was a capitalist, not a celebrity—she never marketed herself through entertainment. The people who could afford courtside VIP seats were mostly upper-middle-class professionals, more reserved by nature. Besides, with the game already underway, no one wanted to cause a scene by screaming or stealing attention.
"Miss Russell, Commissioner Stern and I are delighted to welcome you into the NBA family," said Adam Silver, the NBA's Senior Executive Officer, smiling as he leaned forward slightly. "Thank you for your generosity and active participation—your involvement brings new energy to the league."
"Thank you," Vela replied with a polite smile. "It's an honor to own an NBA team."
Indeed, since her last visit to Los Angeles—attending Drake C. Simmons' campaign fundraising gala and watching a game at the Staples Center—Vela had taken Simmons' suggestion to heart: to counter discrimination accusations through public, community-level engagement in sports and entertainment.
After returning, she announced, under Militech's corporate banner, a sponsorship deal for the Golden State Warriors' home arena.
Later, she directly purchased the Warriors franchise from Chris Cohan, and during the offseason, she oversaw a complete renovation—from foundation to facilities—transforming it into a state-of-the-art sports complex.
By midseason of the NBA 2004–2005 season, the Warriors officially returned home to the newly rebuilt Oakland Arena, now renamed Militech Arena.
And today—April 15th, 2004—marked the last game of the regular season.
"Defense!"
"Let's go!"
Soon, as the second quarter ended and the whistle blew for halftime, upbeat pop music filled the air. Cheerleaders in dazzling outfits took the court, pom-poms waving as they began their routine.
Even Vela couldn't help but glance over, eyes narrowing slightly.
Hmm. Youthful energy—undeniably dynamic.
Then, the giant LED display at the center of the arena suddenly switched to a live feed of Vela chatting with the Warriors management and NBA officials. The moment her face appeared onscreen, the entire crowd erupted in whistles and cheers.
Having chosen a courtside seat rather than the more private and secure VIP suite, Vela clearly had no intention of hiding her presence. Standing with a graceful smile, she waved to the audience, drawing thunderous applause.
Media reporters, who had been barely restraining themselves, immediately swarmed forward.
Before they could shout their questions, the team's mascot—Thunder, a masked, muscular man with lightning-bolt headgear—started a playful chant, urging her toward the court. Unable to refuse the enthusiasm, Vela smiled helplessly and stepped forward.
Of course, this was part of her plan.
After all, this was America—the land where entertainment is religion.
Unlike the traditionalist factions of Arasaka or the formal hierarchy of Militech and New America, here in the U.S., any public figure worth their name had to endure being playfully mocked now and then.
"Boss!"
The Warriors' coaching staff and players on the bench immediately stood at attention as their top boss—who also happened to be the world's most powerful arms manufacturer—approached.
Vela nodded in acknowledgment, gesturing for them to stay focused on their tactics and rest during the break.
Taking the microphone from an usher, she walked forward a few steps. Facing the cameras and the packed stands, she swept her gaze over the crowd before speaking in a clear, resonant tone:
"Good evening, Warriors fans. I'm Vela Adelheid—"
Before she could finish, chants broke out from the crowd: "Shoot one! Shoot one! Shoot one!"
She blinked, then shrugged lightly. "Okay."
Effortlessly catching the basketball tossed by Thunder, she spun it once in her hand. Pacing across the logo zone, she asked with a grin, "One-point, two-point, or three-point shot?"
"Free throw!" / "Two points!" / "Shoot a three!"
Different shouts echoed from the stands.
Vela raised a hand to quiet the crowd, waiting until the noise subsided before turning the tables with a small smile. "At such a grand event, how could we not have a little wager? How about this—if I make the free throw, tonight's expenses are on me!"
"Whoa!"
"And if I make a two-pointer? Then the opening game of next season here at Militech Arena—also on me."
"Whoa!!"
"And if it's a three—"
"Don't do a three-pointer! Miss Russell, take the free throw—you hold the ball with both hands like this—" / "Free throw my ass! Get in the paint and throw a hook shot!" / "Shut up! Where's your spirit? Go for the hardest shot! What if she makes it?"
Interrupted mid-sentence, Vela didn't seem the least bit annoyed. Instead, she smiled at the roaring sea of spectators, their enthusiasm lighting up the arena.
She strolled toward the baseline, and amidst calls like, "Hey, Russell, let your bodyguard take the shot!" and "Try one of each!", she casually tossed the powered-off microphone back to Thunder, the mascot—and, without warning, turned and threw the ball.
It wasn't toward the closer basket.
But the one across the entire court.
Thump! The ball bounced off the backboard, spun around the rim—and dropped in.
A full-court three-pointer.
For a second, the entire arena froze in disbelief. Then—eruption. Thousands of fans leapt to their feet, cheering wildly.
With that single throw, all the tabloids whining about "corporate meddling in the NBA" were silenced. Let's see their bosses try that—infect them with a bio-virus and they still wouldn't make the shot!
Placing two fingers to her temple, Vela extended them forward like a salute before taking the microphone again, tapping it once to test it.
"As promised," she said calmly, "tonight's expenses are on me. Same goes for next season's opening game. And as for that three-pointer..." She drew out the words with a playful tone, her gaze sweeping to the Warriors bench. "If we make the playoffs—no matter how far we go—every fan in this arena drinks and eats on me."
"WOOO!!!"
The crowd went wild.
Except, of course, for the Warriors' coaching staff and players—whose smiles were now frozen under the weight of sudden pressure.
Boss... are you serious? We were a bottom-tier team last season!
Vela was perfectly serious—and perfectly strategic.
She wasn't there to show off her basketball skills. She was there to win hearts.
Besides, when she said she'd "cover expenses," she wasn't offering free tickets—just food and drinks. A small price to pay for massive PR value. As for how far the Warriors could go in the playoffs... that wasn't her concern. She just needed a way to connect with voters and citizens naturally—to share in their joy. Sports were simply one of many tools.
And judging by the crowd's energy tonight, it was working beautifully.
Perhaps next—American football, baseball, hockey... even European soccer. She could easily form a sports empire of her own. Profit wasn't the goal—public influence was. Promoting cyberware technology, especially in the Paralympic and rehabilitation sectors, was among her top priorities. She aimed to make cybernetic prosthetics mainstream in competitive disabled sports.
And, of course, this also served to deflect discrimination accusations.
Vela didn't fear such accusations—she simply found them tedious.
If they could be eased, all the better.
See? I'm not prejudiced. I simply uphold merit: the capable rise, the average yield, the incompetent fall. Owning a team in a league dominated by Black athletes was proof enough.
"I wish everyone a wonderful evening. Life is a feast—eat and drink your fill, but please, don't waste it."
"Let's go, Warriors." After handing the microphone back to the staff, Vela walked to the bench, exchanged a few words with the head coach, and encouraged the players. Then, breaking through a wall of cheering fans, she returned to her seat.
Moments later, the third quarter began.
With their home crowd roaring like a storm, the Warriors surged with unstoppable momentum.
The visiting Kings fought hard—but fell short.
At the final buzzer, the arena exploded again. The Warriors had done it—they were back in the playoffs for the first time in a decade, clinching the 8th seed in the Western Conference.
It wasn't a spectacular record, but it was expected. After all, Vela was rich—but not that rich. The team she had bought midseason was still in rebuilding mode, filled with journeyman players. Without cybernetic augmentation, their performance was perfectly normal.
Sipping her iced cola, Vela smiled. "Not bad." The game had been intense, physical—a throwback to the 90s' iron-blooded style, with fair officiating and no dirty fouls.
All in all—a solid night.
Her gaze drifted to Adam Silver's shining bald head. Business league indeed... She clicked her tongue softly. Ever since her acquisition, NBA Commissioner David Stern had sent quiet assurances: nothing rigged, but favorable draft odds could be arranged. The rest was up to her.
That night, Vela returned to her luxurious San Francisco estate.
...
In her bedroom, freshly showered, she reclined on the bed with her PDA, scrolling through live footage recorded by her contracted PMC units during recent combat operations.
Biochemical warfare... it really is perfect for urban combat, guerrilla operations, and counter-insurgency, she murmured as her fingers paused over footage of a new type of Licker tearing through enemies with terrifying speed.
Just hours ago, she had been watching a basketball game, smiling before thousands—a picture of peace and prosperity.
Now, she stared at the horrors of biochemical warfare.
What a dissonant world, she thought.
...
Meanwhile, in the Middle East—Iraq.
The Iraq War (2003.3.20) had dragged on for over a year.
As the security situation worsened and B.O.W. weapons continued to surface, the BSAA organization was now preparing to intervene.