After passing through security, Ada Wong strolled leisurely along the central axis of the exhibition hall, her eyes alight with curiosity. She moved unhurriedly through the crowd, which buzzed with excitement over the grand opening of Jurassic Park, taking in the lifelike 3D holographic projections, dynamic posters, and interactive EL panels displaying information on resurrected dinosaurs.
Corythosaurus, Gallimimus, Coelophysis, Triceratops...
Large and small, carnivorous, herbivorous, omnivorous—each species clearly categorized.
The hall was bustling, the air alive with chatter and excitement, technology dazzling at every turn.
But the most eye-catching displays, curiously enough, weren't the dinosaurs themselves—but Militech's newest industrial and security technologies.
"Anurognathus, a tiny pterosaur from the Late Jurassic period. Adults reached a body length of approximately nine centimeters..." A clear, synthetic female voice echoed through the crowded gallery, reaching Ada's ears.
Visitors nearby paused to listen—Ada among them.
She looked toward the sound. There stood a service robot shaped like a smiling attendant, positioned before a life-sized holographic projection of a Pteranodon. The robot was enthusiastically explaining fun paleontological facts to families with children.
As it spoke, the robot—essentially a mechanical frame encased in a cartoonish outer shell—extended its hand. Though the motion was a little stiff, a green glow shimmered to life above its palm, shaping into the small, folded-wing, bright-green form of an Anurognathus. Its broad, frog-like mouth and large, glossy eyes gave it a distinctly amphibian charm.
It even chirped—whether simulated or real audio was hard to tell.
"Wow!"
"Whoa!"
"Oh!"
Children and parents gasped in delight.
Watching the robot kneel and extend the projection toward the kids, Ada's lips curved faintly. The light blush on her face and the subtle smile made her look as graceful as ever.
Now this is how it should be.
She never expected technological progress to remain pure or untouched by misuse—but at least its purpose should lean toward bettering the world.
Perhaps she lived in the shadows, a spy who dealt in secrets and dirty work—but who said a spy couldn't appreciate something good when she saw it?
At that moment, a rising commotion drew her attention.
"Please make way! Please make way...!" came a high-pitched synthetic child's voice.
Whirrrr—
Several cylindrical cleaning robots rolled along the walkway, heading toward the source of a blinking green signal light.
Their route planning and obstacle avoidance systems were impressive—they moved with fluid precision, neatly sidestepping people and objects.
Ada, intrigued, followed them.
Soon she realized what had happened—a child had dropped his ice cream.
The corridor opened into a wide, bright lounge hall. High ceilings and futuristic geometric architecture gave the space an almost cathedral-like grandeur.
At its center, a massive holographic projector played Jurassic Park's promotional reel. Light refracted through multiple lenses, casting a vivid illusion of life—dinosaurs roaring, running, and spreading their wings to the delighted cheers of children.
Along the hall's perimeter stood sleek cafés, fast food stands, bars, and teahouses, all designed with a futuristic aesthetic.
Why "futuristic"? Because aside from the Militech security personnel in exoskeletons and several staff members wearing Militech-style uniforms, all other workers—servers, clerks, hosts—were robots. Their craftsmanship was detailed, their movements precise.
It exuded the unmistakable confidence—and arrogance—of Militech's technological empire.
Many visitors were snapping photos.
Whirr, whirr! At the ice cream counter, the cylindrical cleaning bots diligently spun their circular cloth pads, scrubbing the floor spotless.
Nearby, a chubby boy with bright, innocent eyes—the very picture of untainted youth—sniffled miserably, licking the empty cone that had once held his ice cream. His parents were apologetically speaking with a staff member.
Ada cast a brief glance at the fully armed Militech guards and the surveillance cameras embedded in the walls. Then, expressionless, she turned away and headed toward the coffee bar.
After waiting in line for a short while, she said, "One espresso."
"Please wait, ma'am," replied the robotic barista—a torso without legs, fixed to the counter, its head and upper arms seamlessly integrated into a single streamlined unit. Its mechanical arms moved quickly and efficiently, beginning the coffee preparation with precise motions.
Hmm, Ada thought, the AI voice interface has quite the magnetic tone.
"Your coffee." Moments later, she reached out and took the corrugated cup of espresso from the robotic server.
While waiting for Vela's arrival, Ada found a nearby seat and sat down elegantly. As the Jurassic Park promotional reel played with surprisingly high production quality, she sipped her coffee and pondered Albert Wesker's latest assignment: how to obtain the dinosaur DNA prime sample.
Committing a crime in San Francisco wasn't exactly ideal—especially when the offended party was Militech, the Northern California warlord.
Tricky.
Her thoughts, however, were soon interrupted by the murmured complaints of a newly arrived group of "colleagues"—protesters and dissenters.
"Oh damn! How dare that arrogant woman, Vela A. Russell, defy nature—reviving dinosaurs and claiming them for profit?"
"Dinosaurs don't belong to Militech or any one person—they belong to nature, to the whole world!"
"Isn't Jurassic Park just an animal circus? They're using these creatures as tools for money, treating them like criminals, even pointing guns at them! Just look at the security here—those cold-blooded bastards will shoot any disobedient dinosaur... Militech is violating animal rights!"
...
"Oh." Hearing the escalating debate behind her, Ada sighed, rubbing her temple with faint amusement.
Forget it. She'd wait for Vela's press conference before thinking further.
Without a word, she rose and walked away.
Not my concern.
She was a fake reporter, not a sociologist, biologist, or lawyer. Such debates over ethics and philosophy had never interested her. She preferred to keep her distance.
Besides—
Ada glanced subtly over her shoulder.
Years in espionage had sharpened her instincts. She could tell, even from afar, that many of the loudest voices in that crowd weren't true idealists or scientists. She could smell it—the mix of Eastern media, long-time anti-Militech advocacy groups, and their affiliated influencers.
Sure, there were a few genuine idealists and risk analysts, but most of them? Paid agitators. Trouble for hire.
Whether it worked or not didn't matter—as long as Militech and Vela couldn't get their job done smoothly.
The dirty game of capital.
Tap, tap.
Carrying her coffee, Ada passed by a family of three heading to their seats. Then, her peripheral vision caught something familiar—and she stopped mid-step, eyes narrowing.
Annette Birkin?
That family—two adults, two children—one of the adults, a woman around 35 to 40, looked unmistakably like Annette Birkin. The boy she didn't recognize, but the girl—she was about the right age. Sherry Birkin.
"Has Vela really loosened surveillance on the Birkin family this much?" Ada thought.
Others might not recognize them—but she certainly did.
Five and a half years ago, in Raccoon City, that nearly botched mission still lingered in her mind. William Birkin had been blown to pieces by Vela's private forces, Annette captured. Ada had found nothing in the ruins of the Raccoon City underground lab—the place had been picked clean. In the end, she had survived only by posing as an Umbrella employee's girlfriend to infiltrate the police station, where she finally located Sherry and retrieved the necklace containing the G-virus sample.
She remembered the Birkins all too well.
From what she later gathered through indirect conversations with Simmons, Annette had been transferred to his custody, while Sherry, as a "Raccoon City survivor orphan," was placed under the care of a Militech welfare institute.
Nearly six years later, it seemed both mother and daughter had regained Vela's trust.
Is Vela not afraid of the Birkins' revenge? Or perhaps—by now—she simply didn't care.
The arrogance of the powerful. A kind of indifference born of absolute confidence.
Still, Ada thought, that arrogance might be useful.
The status of "Raccoon City survivor" and "widow of a deceased Umbrella researcher" could be a useful angle to exploit—and it wasn't even fake. Her steps quickened.
...
"Sherry, what's wrong?"
Returning with three cups of coffee, Annette turned and frowned. Her daughter looked distracted.
"Nothing. I thought I saw someone." Sherry gazed into the crowd, searching for the red-clad woman who had just brushed past her. Her expression softened into nostalgia, and she sat silently for a long moment.
"Jake?" Annette turned to the crew-cut young man beside her.
The boy—Jake—shook his head.
That figure looked so familiar. Where had he seen her before?...
Then Sherry's eyes widened.
Red coat... 1998... Raccoon City Police Department... that woman who kept teasing Leon—and stole my necklace when we escaped? Could it be her?
Uncertain, Sherry's hand tightened around her coffee.
...
At the same time, at the exhibition hall's east entrance—
A motorcade rolled in under the flash of countless cameras.
Click! The car door opened. Vela stepped out, setting aside the Los Angeles Police Support Contract in her hand.
Prehistoric DNA and hybrid dinosaur B.O.W.s... The bio-enhancement enthusiasts and flesh-modification fanatics would surely be thrilled.
With that thought, Vela smiled faintly and strode into the venue.
—
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