Beep... beep...
Chris was on the move.
"Tsk. Chris is cooperating with Umbrella—returning to Raccoon City to take down Umbrella... and Jill will probably join in too. I wonder what those other S.T.A.R.S. survivors will think when they see Chris showing up with an Umbrella strike team to rescue them. What a surreal image."
Vela stood before a one-way floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the industrial park below.
Sunlight spilled down, dancing on countless metallic surfaces. Rows of modern industrial buildings sat in orderly, clean-cut blocks. Trucks bearing the Umbrella logo moved along predetermined paths, weaving through the complex like silver ribbons.
A convoy of heavy-duty multifunctional transport trucks rolled out from the underground garage of the U.S.F. Guard Division training base, speeding toward the inland region—Colorado.
Arms folded, fingers resting lightly on her cheek, Vela silently watched the U.S.F. convoy until it vanished from view.
"A carnival indeed."
She murmured, turned, and activated the projection screen. Sitting down, she leaned back in her chair, watching as real-time surveillance feeds from Raccoon City slowly loaded onto the display. She picked up the integrated phone handset and began dialing.
The Raccoon City incident was nothing less than a carnival.
A feast born from Umbrella's downfall—a feast where everyone else would get a full plate.
Before the scandal, Umbrella had enjoyed the reputation of a pristine, globally dominant monopoly. Their pharmaceuticals, medical devices, and tech reserves were all top-tier.
But Vela never believed for a second that others weren't eyeing them.
Especially before she joined and began steering Umbrella's transformation, the company's real revenue came from hidden sectors—advanced military tech, life sciences, bioweapons. Secret projects unfit for daylight.
Normally, every major player had skeletons in their closets. Nobody exposed anybody else. But now that Umbrella had stepped on its own landmine, could rivals—like their chief competitor Tricell—really resist the urge to pounce?
And counting on Wall Street's bloodsuckers or Washington's politicians to bail them out? You'd be better off trusting me—Vela—and Yahweh himself. Just send money!
Now, Vela would be joining the feast.
What's that? You say Vela is part of Umbrella?
Not for long.
From now on, address her properly: Chairwoman and CEO of Militech!
"Hello, Mr. Simmons—interested in investing in Militech?"
...
While Vela was busy executing her "jump ship" plan—negotiating with Washington on how best to cut ties and carve up Umbrella—in the United Kingdom, within the hidden fortress of the Spencer family:
"Master, the viral outbreak in Raccoon City is escalating rapidly. The city's water supply and sewer systems have been contaminated with the T-virus. The situation is no longer controllable. The U.S.S. recovery operation on the 22nd has completely failed. Alpha Team has been out of contact for over 48 hours—likely wiped out."
"William Birkin—the treacherous backstabber—has injected himself with the G-virus and turned into a bio-monster, rampaging through the underground labs. Numerous incomplete or sealed BOW specimens have escaped into the city."
"Our inhibitors and neutralizers were designed for the T-virus. Their effectiveness on the G-virus is entirely unknown. The pressure from the White House and public opinion is immense."
The old Spencer family butler delivered the report with a faint tremble in his voice.
In modern society, a viral leak of this scale leading to a full-blown biohazard... was utterly unprecedented—and terrifying.
Even as a longtime butler in service to the Spencer family, he couldn't suppress the instinct to recoil.
Umbrella might be massive—its pharmaceuticals division alone worth hundreds of billions—but if Raccoon City's guilt was confirmed, its fate was sealed. International backlash, government sanctions, forced delistings, corporate dismantling...
Oswell E. Spencer sat in a high-tech wheelchair—a gift from Vela, Director of the Black Umbrella Division. He raised a frail, withered hand, his tone indifferent as if he hadn't heard the butler's hesitation:
"Has the U.B.C.S. unit deployed?"
"They deployed early."
The butler's professionalism was impeccable. He instantly masked his emotions.
"The first wave is expected to reach Raccoon City by tonight."
"If this can't be avoided, then we'll make the most of it—advance the research. Haven't they always said their products lacked live testing opportunities?"
Spencer lifted his aged, sun-deprived face, deeply wrinkled and mottled with liver spots. A glint of savage madness flashed in his pale blue eyes.
If he couldn't stand again—if death was fast approaching—what value remained in Umbrella, a company born of his quest for immortality?
"Deploy everything to Raccoon City. Collect mutation and combat data. Perhaps mature BOW prototypes and bioweapon research might still impress Washington."
Raccoon City was already lost. How much worse could it get?
From the sidelines, the butler saw it clearly: Spencer's mind had decayed. Once sharp and decisive, now he was driven by obsession and the decay of age.
"Yes, sir."
He couldn't say no.
After relaying a secret directive to Umbrella's Paris HQ, the butler returned, hesitation evident.
"Master, Director Russell of Umbrella USA has harshly criticized our handling of Raccoon City during board meetings. If we keep delaying... she might push for a full corporate split."
"Delay."
Spencer's feelings about Vela were complicated.
If she had been just another executive, daring to challenge him like that—he'd have had the U.S.S. put eight rounds in her back and call it suicide.
Unfortunately... he couldn't.
At least not yet.
Her expertise in cybernetics, her natural genius—especially after Birkin's downfall—made her indispensable.
Besides, Vela was not easy to kill. Her bodyguard team and the U.S.F. Guard Division contained elite Eastern European veterans—survivors of the '91 collapse—many ex-KGB or former Ministry of the Interior. As good as the U.S.S., if not better.
Add to that her immense patent portfolio, her profits, her youth, and the wide base of internal support she commanded—she made too much money and had too many allies.
"Just now, our informant in the California Division reported—Director Russell may have discovered our secrets in Raccoon City."
The butler paused, then added, "She's also begun deliberately investigating the company's buried history..."
"Who?!"
Now Spencer finally reacted.
In the past, he trusted Vela not just for her abilities.
She was young. Too young. She had joined late, and her faction was new—an outsider. There was no way she knew the rotten secrets buried deep in Umbrella's past.
She also had no interest in virology. She'd focused entirely on her field, leading Umbrella's transformation.
Spencer had never even considered the possibility that she might discover the past.
Those secrets were older than she was.
So... what had tipped her off? What did Vela know?
"It was one of the mansion survivors—Chris Redfield, formerly of Raccoon City's S.T.A.R.S. He infiltrated the industrial park, posing as an employee. Director Russell suspected William Birkin might be moving behind the scenes, so she met with him..."
"All this because of some nobody?! Isn't this Wesker's jurisdiction? He's a total fail—cough cough—"
Spencer nearly choked in rage. William Birkin had already been flirting with U.S. military brass. Traitor.
"Where is he?! Kill him. Wipe out all the S.T.A.R.S. survivors. Eliminate every loose end!"
Butler: "Director Russell didn't fully believe his story. She sent a team to verify—he's been tasked with returning to Raccoon City to collect evidence."
"Then have our people erase the evidence in Raccoon City! Blame Birkin for everything! Stall for as long as possible—cough cough—"
The butler hurried to bring him water and cough medicine, then took his leave.
...
After taking the medicine, Spencer felt better. In silence, he watched televised reports of the horrific outbreak in Raccoon City.
Eventually, he wheeled himself to the window of his ancient castle. Through the old crystal panes, his clouded eyes gazed at the swaying forest beyond.
"...Why do you look down on virology? If it were you, with your brilliance, you could surely help me... There's still a chance..."
...
1998/9/25.
Raccoon City.
Under grim skies and blaring sirens, the once-lit city had plunged into chaos. Collapsing, burning buildings. Traffic jams turned to car graveyards. Emergency broadcasts. Screaming citizens. Inhuman wails...
Perhaps even the heavens had had enough. Thunder cracked deafeningly as lightning split the sky, washing the night in a ghastly white. Rain poured steadily, soaking the ruined streets.
In a small apartment, strange files, maps, and photographs blanketed the walls.
Jill Valentine jolted awake from the eerie creaking of something skeletal.
She shot upright, grabbed the pistol from her nightstand, and scanned the room—tense, alert.
A few seconds later, with the help of a dim table lamp, she recognized her surroundings and exhaled in relief.
This was her rented flat in Raccoon City.
On the walls were two months' worth of evidence she'd collected: illegal bioresearch by Umbrella, documents on the T-virus—the true culprit behind the zombie outbreak.
The radio blared news snippets. Umbrella assuring citizens they had things under control. The city government urging home isolation. One program blamed Umbrella. Another whitewashed it.
Jill laced up her boots and walked to the wall of documents, tearing off a note.
"Damn it... Umbrella caused this, yet the entire city has to pay the price. Every night gets worse. In a few more days, I'll leave the city with these files, just as Chris and I planned."
She read through it—an observation log from her tracking of the virus outbreak.
"Fucking T-virus."
She had thought the mansion nightmare was over. She couldn't have been more wrong.
Raccoon City was now a hellscape, cursed by that virus. Just yesterday, during a supply run, she'd witnessed the collapse firsthand. And the moment she heard the term "cannibal sickness," she knew—it was the T-virus.
Ring ring ring—
The phone?
"Who could be calling?"
She followed the sound, picked up the chunky Motorola landline phone.
Beep.
"Hello? This is Jill—"
"Jill, are you alright?"
"Chris? It's you?"
Jill lit up with relief. "I thought you were in Europe! Did you find definitive evidence of Umbrella's illegal research?"
"No—long story short, listen to me. Now. Right now—gather everything you've got. Every file, every piece of evidence. Arm yourself and secure basic protection. I've returned from Europe. I left from San Francisco and I'm en route to Raccoon City..."
"Your location—Jill, it might be compromised. Umbrella is moving to destroy all evidence in the city. You might be one of their targets. Just relocate for now. Head west. I'll be entering from the west with an Umbrella unit—we'll rendezvous there."
"Wait—what? You're with Umbrella?"
Jill's voice shot up.
"It's not what it sounds like! I'm with an Umbrella unit, but not the one from Raccoon City—"
"That makes a difference?!"
"Just—Jill, trust me. Please. Move. Be safe. Do it now."
Click. The call ended.
Jill stared at the phone.
"Chris, what the hell are you doing..."
Though confused, years of trust forged in S.T.A.R.S. kicked in. Jill acted.
She tore down the files, photographs, copies, film reels—stuffing it all into a duffel bag. Then she checked her phone, police-issue shotgun, and ammo.
Knock knock.
The knock froze her.
She hadn't ordered takeout. S.T.A.R.S. teammates were mostly out of town. Her police coworkers were likely swamped in chaos.
Chris's warning echoed—Umbrella's hit squad.
Jill's eyes narrowed. She chambered a shell in the shotgun and slung her pack. Quietly, she approached.
Knock knock. Knock knock.
Persistent.
Then came the sound of tools scraping the lock.
Click.
The door creaked open.
Jill, hidden to the side, tensed like a spring.
The first thing that came through—was a gun barrel.
Jill fired.
"Umbrella bastards!"
Bang!
The black-clad figure, marked with a red-and-white umbrella logo, crumpled.
Then—Ratatatatata—
Gunfire erupted.
...
Meanwhile, Raccoon City—Western District.
A convoy of heavy-duty multi-purpose transport trucks barreled through the rain and pulled up at a gas station.
BOOM!
A staggering figure, hunched over a mutilated corpse, had its upper body blown apart and flung aside.
"It's spread even here..."
Chris, fully geared, stepped down and eyed the gnawed remains with disgust. He pumped another round into its skull.
He exchanged a look with the U.S.F. Mobile Unit behind him, then slipped on his helmet.
"We're in Raccoon City. Operation begins now."