Vela looked up, gazing at the city's end.
September 28th, 5:55 AM.
Rumble...
Flames, smoke, thunderous explosions…
After hours of continuous firebombing—clearing old stock in a methodical carpet-bombing campaign—the assault ceased.
The once-overwhelming chorus of undead howls across Raccoon City had largely vanished. Now the city was engulfed in an apocalyptic blaze. The searing heat from the inferno merged with localized air currents from the Arklay Mountains, forming a crimson tide of fire—sky and earth dyed red.
Umbrella's chemical plant, sales offices, Raccoon HQ tower, general hospital, power station, sewage plant, waste treatment facilities—every suspected viral outbreak site was reduced to rubble and ash.
And this… was just the appetizer.
Five minutes later—FWOOOOM—!
A dazzling fireball with a long tail screeched through the sky and slammed into the burning heart of Raccoon City.
It was as if thousands of suns had ignited at once. The entire city center was instantly consumed by an expanding, monstrous fireball. Everything was vaporized.
The broadcast signal violently distorted—white static, sound cuts, and visual flicker—until a red-and-black mushroom cloud billowed skyward in total silence.
Vela turned her head.
It was over.
With support from Pentagon generals, Simmons' proposal, and her own additions, the plan was executed: first, a suppressant-loaded artificial rain to dilute the T-virus and weaken infected organisms; second, striking a deal with the Air Force to help them burn through old incendiary bomb stockpiles; and finally, this—the true conclusion that reassured Washington's elite.
"Vaporization nuke. Not bad," she murmured.
She'd reviewed the Pentagon's documents. This was a new military-grade vaporization nuclear device—delivering the destructive force of a standard nuclear bomb, but with minimal radioactive fallout.
Tch. Beyond the barely-functional electromagnetic cannons suitable for individual use, the military sure hoarded plenty of high-tech marvels…
Rising to her feet, Vela stepped away from the massive screen in Militech Tower's reception hall and walked outside.
Raccoon City was gone. Thanks to her defection, Umbrella's crimes were publicly exposed—earlier and more decisively than in the original timeline. Sanctions and asset freezes against Umbrella rolled out globally like dominoes—even African nations dared seize Umbrella's holdings.
Soon, with Umbrella's collapse, biohazard incidents worldwide would only escalate.
Vela had a growing suspicion: the Raccoon City incident and Umbrella's downfall acted as a trigger—like a proliferation order for B.O.W.s.
With Umbrella toppled, all manner of groups—claiming to hold its legacy or simply scavenging its tech—would rise like mushrooms after a storm.
One day, B.O.W.s would appear in a black market; the next, in the hands of terrorists or cartel leaders; soon after, viral tech would find its way into rebel factions or unstable governments...
All she could say was—well done, Spencer. Across the world, on some island or hidden in a backwater, he'd built viral research labs everywhere. Anyone with the will to search could dig something up.
Umbrella's collapse was now inevitable.
Everyone kicks a collapsing wall. The Global Pharmaceutical Consortium had already moved to expel Umbrella and was actively courting Vela, hoping Militech would take Umbrella's place.
The Global Pharmaceutical Consortium—a collective of the world's leading pharmaceutical companies. Umbrella was once a board member. Past tense.
Vela didn't intend to interfere much.
William Birkin could attest: Vela Adelheid Russell had never been fond of excessive viral research.
She planned to sell something else instead—
Security and military contracting services.
This security—naturally—would include biohazard containment and emergency response.
The greater the chaos, the higher the price of fish.
Whoosh—
As Vela exited Militech Tower, her appearance immediately stirred a frenzy among the press. Reporters surged toward her.
She calmly walked to the podium. Behind her, the newly installed giant LED wall displayed scenes from the Raccoon City operation—footage of suppressant rain, carpet bombings, the nuclear detonation—looping endlessly.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I must deliver this painful announcement. According to the frontline assessments from M.S.F. and U.B.C.S., and upon deliberation between the President and Congress, the military conducted a sterilization strike on Raccoon City at 6 a.m. today to prevent the T-virus from spreading across America. However, this operation has also resulted in the complete erasure of Raccoon City from the Earth."
"This is, without question, a tragedy. There's no time for prolonged mourning or sorrow. We must remember this bitter lesson—and never allow such a disaster to happen again."
Her tone sincere and emotionally charged, Vela declared righteously, subtly highlighting her carefully applied fatigue makeup from the night before:
"Though I now serve as Chief Executive Officer of Militech, I will never forget—I was once a member of Umbrella. That is a mistake I will spend my life atoning for."
"I hereby announce the founding of the Biohazard Defense and Radiological Pollution Research Center, headquartered in Raccoon City. I will not allow Raccoon City to become Colorado's eternal scar."
Truth revealed.
Heh. Post-nuclear city reconstruction—this was Arasaka's specialty.
Vela could proudly claim: no one understood radiological remediation better than her. Give it a year or two, roll out some staged results. While Militech would shoulder the bulk of it—framed as Vela's contribution to society—Colorado and the federal government would be obligated to provide funding.
And with some cosmetic oversight, she could freely report whatever expenses she wanted.
Pure profit.
...
One hour later—White House.
"Advisor Simmons."
"Executor Russell."
Vela met Simmons in the Office of the Assistant for National Security Affairs. After sitting down, Simmons began, "Miss Vela, I must commend your ambition and sense of responsibility. I wish you great success in your upcoming research."
The praise was genuine.
Though he was the one who first proposed nuking Raccoon City, Simmons considered himself a peacekeeper—just an extreme and aggressive one. A domestic city reduced to nuclear ruins weighed on him. This wasn't like a test range in Nevada.
If this were a game, Vela's speech an hour ago had hit Simmons right in the emotional sweet spot—his favorability rose again.
"Just trying to ease my conscience a little," Vela replied.
Simmons chuckled, pouring her a glass of apple cider as they continued discussing post-Raccoon City matters.
"Vela," he said thoughtfully, "how do we prevent another Raccoon City from happening? How do we prepare for it?"
Ding.
Vela paused, then took out a metal cigarette case. Simmons nodded approvingly.
Click—fsshh.
A bright flame flared as Vela lit a slim ladies' cigarette between two elegant fingers, took a drag, and answered:
"Understand them—to prevent them."
"Oh?"
Simmons leaned in with interest. "Do tell."
"Form a Strategic Biohazard Prevention Division. Use the old playbook—recruit from Umbrella's former 'White' and 'Blue' division personnel. In exchange for long-term federal service, offer leniency for their crimes. They're usable, but must be watched carefully. I'm sure the White House already has a contingency plan."
"Of course. I knew I couldn't keep it from you."
Then Simmons extended the offer:
"Vela, would you be interested in helping found a national bio-terror defense organization?"
"No interest."
Tch. This was a test—to see if she had any interest in super-viruses.
Vela took a sip of apple cider and shook her head without enthusiasm. "Technical support, custom gear—come to me. I'll help however I can. But... my research is at a critical phase. The next generation of enhanced prosthetics—I don't have time."
"..."
Simmons chuckled silently. Fair enough.
Asking Vela to head a bio-terror defense organization—whether private or governmental—was pointless. She had her own career, her own passions. A true genius.
They were strategic allies. Nothing more.
"However..." Vela shifted her tone. "Your idea gave me a thought—there's someone you might be interested in."
As if unaware Simmons had developed a growing interest in super-viruses, she offered the suggestion strictly from an ally's perspective.
"If you're establishing a bio-terror defense organization, you'll need top-tier virologists."
"And your recommendation is...?"
"Annette Birkin."
...
Washington. Militech Tower.
A small room.
"Mommy... Daddy..."
Curled up on a sofa, the little girl murmured in her sleep. Her cheeks were already streaked with dried tears.
Blonde hair, blue eyes. A pale woman with long hair gently stroked the girl's back with tender care.
"Sherry... Sherry, don't cry. Mommy's here."
Creaaak.
Thud thud—
"Annette Birkin, Executor Russell wants to see you."
A security officer opened the door. The loud noise startled the girl awake, and she immediately shrank behind her mother in fear. Half her face peeked out, eyes filled with terror as she stared at the heavily armed "thugs."
"Annette Birkin... I thought she was dead. Not quite on William's level, but a rare virology talent nonetheless."
A stranger's voice.
"Merely convenient, nothing more. I'm not petty enough to take it out on William's widow... Though, it seems this family all has a problem with me," came Vela's voice.
A shadow fell over Annette.
"Annette Birkin, I bear no ill will toward your family. But now, you're being offered a chance. A chance to disappear—cut ties with William Birkin, raise Sherry in peace, and serve the Federation."
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