[Resident Evil]
Middle East — Iraq.
Airspace near the Sunni Triangle.
Buzz... buzz...
The sky was a flawless blue. A modified Lockheed Martin C-130J 'Hercules' transport plane bearing the BSAA insignia roared across the sky.
Inside the cabin, designed to carry between 64 and 92 personnel, nearly every seat was occupied. BSAA operatives, clad in full tactical gear with backpacks and weapons, were taking what little downtime they could to relax.
Some chatted in small groups, others tended to their gear, hummed songs, ate, drank, or scrolled through their devices—a microcosm of soldiers at rest, finding brief peace amid chaos.
At the front of the cabin, near the cockpit, sat the command section—more spacious than the rest. There, arms crossed, leaning back with eyes closed as if napping, was the hero of Raccoon City, recipient of the Public Safety Medal of Valor, founder and ace operative of the BSAA, and Militech's cyberware ambassador—Chris Redfield.
Before him on the folding table lay an open file folder. The slightly crumpled page bore the heading: "Iraq–Fallujah Biohazard Incident Assessment Report."
Around him, his comrades were busy with their own affairs, careful not to disturb him.
A woman with her brown hair tied in a short ponytail—Jill Valentine—noticed and sighed softly. She closed the folder gently and was just about to drape a blanket over Chris.
Suddenly—"Nice! Great shot!"
A few loud voices broke out.
Chris stirred from his light sleep. Sitting up, he looked toward Jill, who was holding the blanket midair. Pausing briefly, he took it from her and said, "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Jill replied dryly, then turned her head, one eyebrow raised. "Brad, what are you up to again?"
The short-haired white man in desert camouflage shrugged, his expression sheepish.
Several other BSAA agents nearby seemed to be peering at something on his screen.
"Watching a game?" Jill frowned. "What game?"
"Basketball."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously!" Brad Vickers protested, lifting the Militech-branded laptop from the folding table and bringing it over to the old S.T.A.R.S. veterans.
On the screen was a news website—one of Militech's subsidiaries. Without even searching, the headline in the Sports & Pan-American Entertainment section read: "Vela Adelheid Russell: I'll Cover the Bill!"
Click. Load. The video began to play—a roaring basketball arena, whistles and cheers echoing as the fair-skinned, striking CEO of Militech sank a long-range three-pointer.
"She can play basketball?" Jill leaned forward, surprised.
"Holy cow, that's how rich people unwind? Paying the tab for twenty thousand people—and for multiple games?" Brad laughed, clicking his tongue. "Man, those poor basketball boys must be under so much pressure."
Jill's gaze drifted to the Warriors players on the bench, their forced smiles full of barely concealed confusion. She chuckled. "All Vela has to do is throw money at things, but those guys have to worry about a lot more."
The commotion quickly drew the attention of the others. Soon, the once-quiet cabin was filled with relaxed chatter.
"How far do you think the Warriors can go this season?"
"Hey, just making the playoffs is a win. Bay Area fans get to enjoy four guaranteed feasts."
"What if they pull off an eighth-seed miracle? From what I read, they've stayed pretty healthy this season."
"I heard the team's new medical staff are backed by Militech—they can get appointments at the San Francisco Medical Service Center anytime. Say what you want, but Militech's healthcare service—aside from being expensive—is top-notch. Too bad, because of Umbrella, they're not expanding that division right now."
"Not bad Wi-Fi either. Militech's airborne module works great."
Though the BSAA operated under both the U.S. Federal Government and the United Nations, it was still only a semi-militarized enforcement agency, not a formal army. Discipline wasn't overly rigid.
The easy banter even drew Chris' attention. He closed his folder, set it aside, and leaned in to see what all the fuss was about.
He'd already read the report—there wasn't much more to glean from it. A short break wouldn't hurt.
Learning how to relax amid constant deployment—that was a soldier's survival skill.
"Here." Seeing that Chris had stopped working, Jill smiled and tossed him a bottle of soda.
Pop. Twisting the cap open, he took a swig. While drinking, he patted Brad on the shoulder, signaling him to change the page.
Brad shrugged and swiped the touchpad, returning to the news homepage.
Chris leaned forward beside him, scanning through the headlines one by one.
As expected of a Militech-owned media subsidiary, the site was neatly categorized, far more convenient and modern-looking than traditional newspapers. The UI design had a polished, futuristic feel that left its competitors behind.
Filtering out the celebrity gossip and entertainment chatter, Chris focused on the sections that mattered to him—politics, current affairs, finance, military, and technology.
Then, his gaze stopped on a political headline:
"A New Century of Bipartisanship? President Graham May Invite Mr. Drake C. Simmons as His Running Mate!"
The cover photo showed the sitting president shaking hands with Simmons in the White House.
Simmons, one of the driving forces behind the BSAA's establishment, was a prominent anti-bioterrorism hawk. His rise was good news. Hopefully, he'll be able to curb the worsening global biohazard crisis... Chris thought silently.
He scrolled further down.
"Militech's Russell Summoned Again—Another Federal Antitrust Hearing! How Many Is This Now? Legitimate Oversight or Thinly Veiled Suppression?"
Below the headline were several photos of Vela attending previous hearings.
Jill couldn't help but shake her head with a faint laugh. "Honestly, I admire her. From the House to the Senate, from the Judiciary Committee to the FTC—she must be immune to public questioning by now."
"Maybe," Chris said quietly, eyes narrowing slightly. "After all, she's too rich. Militech's just too big—its growth in new tech sectors has been way too fast, too aggressive."
The eternal struggle between corporate giants and regulators.
Lost in thought, his gaze moved down again.
"Alcatraz Prison Reopens!"
"Now owned by Militech's Pan-American Corrections Corporation—which already collaborates with three federal penitentiary systems, half the U.S. states, and over a dozen city administrations—the newly expanded and rebuilt Alcatraz facility has passed all inspections and officially resumed operations."
"The Veil Finally Lifted! Militech's Gift to the World—Jurassic Park!"
"After years of speculation, Militech's massive theme park in North Bay, San Francisco, has been revealed: centered around environmental restoration, ecological revitalization, and the genetic resurrection of dinosaurs, this project aims to achieve a triple-win strategy of sustainable development, corporate profit, and enhanced quality of life."
"Militech's New Global Headquarters Nears Completion!"
"3,500 feet tall, 226 floors, 1,066 meters in height—the skyscraper rising from the steel jungle of the Bay Area in just two years will mark a new milestone in human architectural history. Powered by Militech Engineering innovations, including advanced tower cranes, automated building platforms, flexible welding robots, and intelligent construction systems, the future of infrastructure is already here."
"SFPD Arsenal Upgraded."
"To counter the worsening global bioterror threats and better protect Bay Area citizens, the San Francisco Police Department, with city council approval, has procured armored vehicles, armed helicopters, multipurpose aircraft, and exoskeletons for police use—all from Militech."
"Pentagon Signs $45 Billion Contract with Militech for Avionics and Radar System Upgrades Across Active Air Force Fleets."
"Militech Interactive Secures Licensing Deal with ASCAP for Online Music Catalog."
"Militech Orbital Air Successfully Launches Starlink Satellites."
"Militech Industries Acquires Todd Pacific Shipyards."
"Militech Electronics Unveils Next-Gen Smartphone."
...
There were simply too many stories about Vela and Militech.
Even with algorithmic filtering, prioritization updates, and manual curation meant to tone things down, it was nearly impossible for Militech to stay off the front page.
A popular saying had emerged among California journalists: If you're not reporting what Militech announces, you're not doing journalism.
Small wonder Congress had factions desperately calling to dismantle Militech, invoking the Standard Oil precedent.
For Militech's competitors, the corporation was a towering, tentacled Cthulhu—terrifying to behold.
Whether it would succeed or collapse, who could say? Chris didn't know.
He only knew that if Militech ever imploded—if Vela ever developed the same kind of dark ambition as Oswell E. Spencer—the consequences would make the destruction of Raccoon City look trivial by comparison.
After a moment of quiet reflection, Chris rubbed his temples and stood up. Turning his head, he asked, "You bring your handheld?"
"Right here." After rummaging through his pack, Brad pulled out two portable consoles and handed them over.
Chris blinked. Two? But noticing Brad's expectant glance, he simply nodded in thanks, turned, and offered one to Jill, who was sitting nearby cleaning her weapon. "Want to relax for a bit?"
"Of course." Jill's eyes softened with a small smile. "After spending every day fighting the undead or glaring at B.O.W.s, I'm about ready to lose it."
The two sat down and linked up, skipping the latest popular FPS titles in favor of a cute, cartoonish co-op platformer.
Watching the BSAA's battle-hardened pair happily mashing buttons together, Brad grinned knowingly. Sliding his laptop aside, he grabbed a soda, logged into Militech Interactive's video platform, and resumed watching clips.
Unfortunately, moments of peace never lasted long.
Ding-dong!
"Approaching Balad Air Base. Strap in and prepare for landing, folks," came the pilot's voice over the intercom.
...
At the same time—Balad Air Base, approximately 64 kilometers north of Baghdad.
Beside the runway, under a sunshade canopy, a young white man with a sharp 'W'-shaped jawline and flowing brown-blond hair idly twirled a combat knife in his hand. His training shirt bore the Militech logo.
"Chris, Jill, Brad... all survivors of the Raccoon City Police Department," he murmured as the incoming C-130J descended with a screeching roar. Sliding the knife back into its sheath, he recalled the mission briefing. "First the joint operation in Fallujah... and then Spain, huh?" He sighed quietly. It seemed the company had plans to groom him into the next Chris Redfield.
"Hey, Leon!"
The call came from a middle-aged man in a BSAA jacket nearby. Leon turned, gave a short wave, and jogged over.
Time to meet them.
The ramp lowered with a mechanical whine, and soldiers began disembarking—dozens of them, gear clanking, boots thudding.
Leon's sharp eyes immediately found the man he was looking for among the crowd—broad-shouldered, powerfully built, and with a gleaming black cybernetic right arm.
"Chris... the Blackhand."