Tap, tap—the sound of countless footsteps echoed through the hall.
Surrounded by her entourage, Vela stepped into Militech's Center for Disease Control and Prevention Research Institute in the San Francisco Bay Area. As she walked down the bright, transparent corridor, she spoke with the facility's administrative head about recent projects.
It was sunset—closing hour.
Employees of Militech Group were clocking out, leaving their workstations in small groups, chatting cheerfully as they exited. When some noticed Vela, they froze momentarily before stepping aside respectfully, bowing their heads.
Knowledge commands respect; wealth brings influence. Control the ballot base, and you control power—and power is the foundation of all things. Especially in the highly capitalist societies of the Western world, that is the truth.
Don't think America lacks hierarchy or authoritarianism—it's simply more subtle, not as blatant as Arasaka.
Since Vela's rise, everything she had accomplished—cyberware, automation, telecommunications, infrastructure, military technology, drones—had earned her widespread acclaim and countless supporters. Her reputation grew daily, though not everyone welcomed it.
A newly hired Ivy League graduate stood still, eyes bright with excitement—clearly an academic admirer.
Veteran employees who had witnessed both Umbrella's collapse and Militech's ascent walked tall, pride written all over their faces.
Even contracted laborers from California agencies couldn't help but straighten their backs when they thought of Militech's wealth and cutting-edge technology. After all, Militech paid well, paid promptly, and offered generous perks—like discounts at Militech Department Stores.
It was only a pity that certain lucrative industries, such as bioengineering, remained off-limits due to Militech's historical ties to Umbrella. Conflicts of interest had to be avoided.
In the beginning, Militech's pharmaceutical and medical hardware divisions mostly inherited Umbrella's legacy projects. Though these fields had seen rapid development in recent years—with swift iteration in product design and production technology—expansion remained restricted. Essentially, Militech was carving intricate patterns into an old foundation, leaving vast markets to the Global Pharmaceutical Federation, led by TRICELL.
For old bio-researchers, that was frustrating.
William Birkin. Fucking hell!
Now, supervirus and B.O.W. research were forbidden. The institute had long since partnered with the military, focusing on vaccines, serums, and consumer-grade bio-restorative medicine. Sigh... Such were the times—unpredictable and cruel.
Was flesh truly weaker than steel now?
"Boss!"
"Miss Russell."
"Salute, Executive Officer."
Vela nodded, smiling as she waved to the employees.
Her eyes swept the surroundings, observing every expression. The faint blue Geass-like glimmer in her gaze flickered briefly before fading. She had already taken stock of the situation—secure. There might be spies in the institute, but no assassins.
"Where's Dr. Chambers?" she asked.
"Likely still working overtime," the head replied. "Two days ago, the USAF Central Command and the BSAA Middle East Division jointly sent an inquiry and new samples of a viral infection case. They requested technical support from our institute."
Soon, the group entered the facility's inner core, passing through layers of security gates and biometric locks until they reached [Dr. Chambers' Personal Laboratory]. Vela dismissed her entourage.
Beep.
Identity verified. With a soft electronic chime, the heavy door slowly opened.
"Hey, Rebecca," Vela greeted as she stepped inside, spotting the slender figure in a white lab coat, intently building a viral model on her workstation. "How's life here at the institute? Comfortable?"
"Chairman Russell."
Seeing her senior and confidant, Vela, Rebecca Chambers lifted her head. Her blue eyes lit up, and she stood quickly.
"Comfortable," she said cheerfully, stretching lazily. "Thanks to you offering me this opportunity—a rookie with her own state-of-the-art lab. I really can't complain... though it does get a bit dull sometimes."
"Don't belittle yourself."
Vela studied the young woman before her—still in her lab coat, now more composed and graceful than when they had first met. Smiling faintly, she said, "With your talent, the world is open to you. I merely recognized brilliance when I saw it."
Nearly six years had passed since then. Rebecca Chambers—the youngest member of S.T.A.R.S.—had matured greatly since her youthful, naive days. Now, she radiated intellect and quiet confidence.
After the Raccoon City Incident, with a recommendation letter from Vela, Rebecca had returned to university for further study. Now, holding a Ph.D. in Molecular Biology, she had grown a bit taller. Her short brown hair framed her face neatly, and she wore red-framed glasses. Beneath her lab coat, she sported a Silicon Valley-style knit shirt with a tie. Though her facial features still carried traces of youthful softness, she radiated a crisp, professional air.
Getting back to the topic at hand, Vela glanced at the touchscreens beside the workstation—displaying viral models and comparative datasets—and asked thoughtfully, "So this is it? The new T-Virus variant?"
"Tsk. Never a moment's peace. The Middle East strategy is stirring up trouble again, just as expected."
Rebecca made no comment.
Militech's Middle Eastern strategy likely involved carving out a share of Iraq's interests—topics she preferred not to discuss. That was Washington's political game, and their justifications were always "reasonable."
Instead, she removed her glasses, walked over to the mini-bar in her private lab, and pulled out two corrugated cups. Turning on the coffee machine, she filled them both, added sugar cubes, and brought them back. Handing one to Vela, she said, "The situation's getting worse. Violent attacks are happening everywhere. So far, around Baghdad—especially in Fallujah—there've been at least twenty incidents."
Fallujah, located about 69 kilometers west of Iraq's capital, Baghdad, with a population of around 300,000, served as a vital transportation hub connecting Baghdad, Ramadi, and Jordan.
Taking the cup, Vela thanked her, sipped a few mouthfuls, and asked, "So this is the vaccine simulation environment? I see the computational chemistry system running. Looks like progress is fast—my little Rebecca."
"Mhm." Rebecca's lips curved in a pleased, proud smile. "From this infection sample, I extracted gene fragments different from the old T-Virus strain. They seem to originate from a type of parasite. I'm attempting to suppress this engineered virus."
"The instruments have improved a lot over the years, and with guidance from the experienced veterans in the institute, it won't take long to create a prototype."
Indeed, it was almost poetic—Rebecca never expected that one day she'd be collaborating with former Umbrella researchers to study virology, conducting anti-biochemical virus research, and even developing new pharmaceuticals from byproducts of the process.
Truly, it proved the saying: a weapon itself is neither good nor evil—what matters is who wields it.
Clap, clap!
After hearing Rebecca's analysis, Vela clapped. "Good. That's the best news I've heard lately."
"Go ahead and do it. The FDA will fast-track approval for clinical testing. The frontlines are pushing hard—don't keep the generals waiting."
Then, Vela patted the young woman's shoulder—the same young woman who stood with one hand on her hip and her nose playfully tilted up, clearly waiting for praise.
"Your bonus will be added to your salary. I'll send you to the Alaska resort for a few days to relax. Remember—work hard, rest well."
"If you run into any obstacles, contact me immediately."
"Oh, and one more thing—send me the vaccine development log. Good luck."
Finishing her coffee, Vela set the empty cup on the desk, left a small stack of colorful tickets, waved her hand, and departed without a backward glance—leaving behind the fading sound of high heels on polished tile.
Watching her elegant senior's figure disappear beyond the closing door, Rebecca grinned. "Hehe." She happily sat down again.
Being recognized by her idol—doing work that perfectly aligned with her passion and skills, helping her former S.T.A.R.S. teammates, and saving lives—was everything she could ever want.
"Huh?"
Rolling her chair back to the workstation, she set down her coffee and glanced at the stack of colorful papers Vela had left behind. "Season tickets?"
They were indeed season tickets for Bay Area home teams across all four major American sports leagues: the NBA's Golden State Warriors, the NFL's 49ers, the MLB's Giants, and the NHL's San Jose Sharks.
"Is Miss Russell planning to become a cross-continental super sports investor, covering North America's Big Four and European football too?" she murmured with amusement.
...
Night fell, and the Bay Area lit up with countless city lights.
Her heels tapping lightly on the tiled floor, Vela exited the research institute and paused briefly at the main steps.
Recruiting Rebecca—yes, that had been the right move. Her eyes narrowed slightly.
Viruses? B.O.W.s? Whoever wanted to play with that filth could have it. As for Vela—she wouldn't touch it. At least not publicly, and not personally.
Let others research it. She would simply "righteously" harvest the results afterward. Wasn't that far more efficient?
Sherry Birkin, Annette Birkin, Jake Muller, Manuela Hidalgo, Carla Radames, Albert Wesker... There were far too many "second-generation virus inheritors"—and even original "tools" from the first generation—working tirelessly, endlessly enriching her viral archive.
On the other hand, there were plenty of other matters consuming Vela's time and energy.
Just the key tasks for today and tomorrow alone included:
Her meeting with the "Silver Fox," Morgan Lansdale; negotiations with Los Angeles city officials regarding a police support contract; responding to a joint letter from civil rights groups questioning whether Militech's preferential treatment for military, police, and federal employees—while neglecting marginalized populations—constituted discrimination or conflict of interest; and, of course, the routine East Coast consortium meeting with old-money conglomerates to divide up Iraq's postwar resources.
...Well, she had other business to attend to.
Especially those last two items—one required endless talking, the other endless work. Since she had chosen North America as Militech's foundation, she had to adapt to the local ecosystem. All kinds of parasitic leeches needed to be dealt with, and if there was war profit to be made, Vela wasn't about to miss out.
The large-scale wars at the turn of the century had each offered their own opportunities. The 1991 Gulf War had been too early—Vela was still a student back then. The 1999 Kosovo War came at an awkward time: the Raccoon City Incident had just ended in September–October 1998, and she was busy severing ties with Umbrella, lobbying politicians, managing damage control, and solidifying Militech's foundation.
By the time the War on Terror began in 2001, Vela finally had the money, manpower, and advanced industrial capacity to participate.
Unfortunately, Afghanistan had been nothing but stale leftovers—a graveyard of empires filled with fierce tribes, corruption, and impassable terrain. A worthless pit for investors.
A chicken rib—tasteless to eat, but a pity to throw away.
So Vela limited her operations there to selling supplies and offering on-base trauma teams, private retail, and weapons exhibition services—while rejecting all invitations to direct investment.
The 2003 Iraq War, however—also known as the Second Gulf War—was different.
That was a feast.
And Vela was very much at the table, investing heavily.
True, Iraq had its own debuffs like Afghanistan—but unlike that barren wasteland, Iraq was rich with oil, strategically positioned in the heart of the Middle East, and blessed with convenient transport routes.
The restriction of sea access had ceased to matter ever since Kuwait's restoration with U.S. and coalition support in the previous century. For Militech, that was no obstacle at all.
Would Kuwait really dare to block one of the U.S. Department of Defense's prime contractors—Militech—from flying through its airspace or using its ports?
Not a chance.