Resident Evil
Clack.
Having finished reading, Vela tossed the folder—stamped with both the Pentagon and U.S. Army insignia—onto the coffee table. Leaning back in her high-backed chair, she rested her right elbow on the desk, propping her cheek with her palm, eyes fixed thoughtfully on the crystalline holographic display before her.
No manual commands were needed. Inherited from her Umbrella legacy, the super AI Red Queen had already pulled up and displayed on-screen the locations of this month's U.S. military encounters with biochemical attacks in the Afghan theater, along with BOW sighting data.
From Kabul, the Afghan capital, to the southern stronghold of Kandahar, and across the Hindu Kush mountains—black Saraph biohazard icons dotted the map.
Opening the attached files revealed photo after photo of slain U.S. soldiers. Their bodies were mangled, flesh torn as if gnawed, so outright dismbered.
"Hunters, Lickers, T-103 Tyrants… or improved iterations… proliferating mutations… parasites—Nesis-Alpha strain, perhaps… And the 160th SOAR's Operation Anaconda losses are severe indeed…" Vela murmured.
The Afghan campaign had begun smoothly under the U.S. military's lavish saturation strikes—naval bombardnt, air force bombing runs, armored assaults. But once it shifted into security and sweep operations, casualties spiked.
High command opted for decapitation strikes—taking out the leadership of Afghan terrorist supporters. Recon led them to Gardez Mountain, and the decision was made to launch Operation Anaconda to purge the area.
By original estimates from the Afghan garrison command, Operation Anaconda was supposed to be a small-scale battle wrapped up within three days. Instead, it dragged on for more than half a month, with fierce fighting in the first two weeks.
Just when SOF troops thought they had broken the enemy's will—reporting back and splitting forces to hunt down stragglers in the mountains—biochemical disaster erupted in silence.
Soone released the T-virus.
Tid to perfection, large numbers of BOWs were unleashed just as U.S. forces split up to pursue. Infected corpses followed. The result was imdiate collapse.
Especially without prior warning, when the brother-in-arms beside you suddenly turned into a zombie trying to tear you apart—whether you killed him or he bit you—the blow to morale was devastating.
Though the 1998 Raccoon City disaster was long since in the textbooks, between then and 2002, biohazards had largely remained contained to smaller outbreaks—handled by the BSAA, specialized CBRN units, or select elite military detachnts.
Regular special forces, even if briefed, still fumbled when the nightmare unfolded before their eyes.
This Afghan War biohazard had been orchestrated with precision—maximizing ti, terrain, and human factors—delivering a sucker punch to U.S. forces in the environnt most favorable to BOW performance.
In its wake, the supposedly waning, even "eradicated" biohazard threat once again dominated global headlines.
The BSAA's legendary anti-biohazard hero had already deployed.
"There's always soone willing to take the most roundabout shortcut…" Vela's gaze drifted across the on-screen battle intel as she idly spun her automatic pen.
The sheer numbers, density, and variety of BOW stock on display…
Umbrella's fall had left Militech feasting well enough—but there was no way she could consu it all.
Umbrella's "fundantalist" Spencer faction—once intending to use their Caucasus base as a ga-changing trump card—had seen that site eradicated less than a year ago by her M.S.F. forces working in concert with the BSAA. Even if bio-weapon legacies and virus tech had leaked or resurfaced, recreating them would take significant ti and money.
This was unlikely to be so lucky outsider stumbling across lost assets, salvaging leftovers, or a rogue low-level Umbrella researcher pocketing resources. More likely, it was soone from division managent level or higher.
Tch! Seriously, Umbrella's global habit of building research labs and BOW storage depots—who did they learn that from? So of those warehouses' locations were probably unknown even to an aging Spencer himself.
"Heh. With Oswell E. Spencer dead, every monster and snake cos crawling out." Vela allowed herself a rare, self-mocking smile.
She was probably the most prominent of them all—only she'd gone "legit" and now hunted the other monsters.
With Spencer's death, the last of Umbrella's founding elders was gone. The old Umbrella had perished, but its legacy, its obsession with super-viruses, and its warped eugenics creed had spread wide. Afghanistan's chaos was only the beginning.
Vela was picky about her als. Others were not.
Organic bio-weapons—no matter how foul—could still fill bellies.
"Who could it be?"
Leaning forward, she tapped her pen against the desk, fingers interlaced beneath her nose as she studied the screen.
In sync with her thoughts, the Red Queen, appearing as a little girl in a red dress, pulled up data on Umbrella remnants: Oswell Spencer, Albert Wesker, Alex Wesker, Morpheus D. Duvall (forr Atlantic Research Institute Director), Brandon Bailey (forr Africa Research Director), Christine Henry (forr Blue Umbrella Director), Jackson Cortlandt (forr White Umbrella Director), and others.
Split-screen, categorized, complete with images—neat and precise.
This Red Queen had been custom-programd and trained by Vela herself, built on Umbrella's Red Umbrella division tech but refined using Arasaka's Cyberpunk-era AI systems.
Efficient.
The rules to limit uncontrolled AI learning and prevent betrayal went without saying. Any company with a private internal network, post–DataKrash and AI disasters, had to master such basics.
Truth was, Cyberpunk gacorps had AI tech every bit as advanced—only their AI application environnt had been devastated by that one catastrophic net disaster.
Yes, Rache Bartmoss, she ant you—you damned genius, arrogant bastard, obsessive fool!
Each curse felt deserved.
The more Vela used a logic-based super-AI like this, the more she understood why NetWatch and every infosec pro ground their teeth at the ntion of Bartmoss.
She felt it in her bones, cursing on behalf of the "herself" in Arasaka who couldn't use true strong AI.
Her gaze returned to the "war criminals" on-screen, finally settling on one face: blonde hair, blue eyes, short slicked-back cut, white suit—a striking, glamorous woman.
Alex Wesker.
"Abandoning the fully equipped research base on Sonido Totokada Island, vanishing into thin air… Alex has discarded the now-useless old Spencer."
Vela shook her head.
Thanks to her incommunicable "future sight," even incomplete intel could be woven together into a likely picture of events.
Reviewing Alex's record, Vela pulled up a brief file on Sabiti Island, in forr CCCP territory: a massive research team, mining companies reopening the island's resources… industrial revival, the benevolent savior woman…
"Hiding away in seclusion? Seems the debut of the T-Abyss virus is only a matter of ti."
Snap.
At Vela's finger-flick, the Red Queen obediently closed Alex's file.
Her gaze shifted to the man in sunglasses—Albert Wesker.
"Albert Wesker, now tied to TRICELL. Interesting… is the spread of BOWs in the Middle East and Central Asian black markets their handiwork?"
With current intel, she couldn't confirm if the Afghan chaos was Wesker's way of demonstrating the virus's profitability to his new employers.
After all, the post–9/11 global instability, the spread of extremist ideologies—this environnt was fertile ground for small-scale, high-impact weapons like biohazards to attract new buyers.
In this world's biohazard ga, there were too many suspects to count.
Vela's eyes moved down the Red Queen's list of other possible suppliers capable of delivering BOWs at this scale.
Morpheus.
This effeminate, striking white-haired man had been a high-level Umbrella employee. After his dismissal, he'd been a constant source of trouble—leading rcenaries to seize Umbrella assets, attempting to restart the Atlantic Research Institute.
The BSAA was hunting him.
Brandon.
Dr. Marcus's student, Spencer's right-hand man, forr Africa Research Director, and founder of the black-glove "Consortium" that profited from bio-weapon trade.
Before Vela's Militech quietly took over and reorganized the Africa facility, he seed to have foreseen Spencer's downfall, fled early, and took all research data with him.
Perhaps because they'd once worked in the sa company, and he wasn't like William Birkin with his pathological pride, Brandon had thoughtfully avoided triggering the facility's self-destruct, nor did he destroy the Sonnentreppe flowers in the Dubai underground ruins.
It was as if to say:
You take your road, I'll take mine. I know you'll be interested in these flowers, so I've saved them for you. Let go.
Vela hadn't sent M.S.F. forces after him.
If he'd escaped cleanly and survived the global manhunt after Raccoon City, then post–9/11, with his network built from years at the Africa facility, he was second only to Wesker in capability.
As for the two forr Umbrella departnt directors—Blue and White—Vela knew they'd linked with the U.S. governnt before the 21st century, going fully legitimate. Much of their staff had moved into the BSAA or directly under the U.S. President's black-budget agencies.
"Now it's murky inside and out."
Amused, Vela brushed her forehead, fingers grazing the twin golden cybernetic grooves running vertically along her temples—decorative, but housing comm relays to sync thought and issue commands to the Red Queen.
Premium hardware, imported from the Cyberpunk side.
As the only biohazard-side manufacturer of cyberware, of course the CEO had to wear her own products—it was the perfect trust signal, installed after a hearing on reliability. She didn't mind.
She picked up the folder again, flipping it open.
—Operation Anaconda—
Lower half.
Plans for a "once-and-for-all" eradication…
Her expression shifted—first wry, then brows knit, eyes downcast, and finally a thin, cold smile.
Clack.
The hollow posturing in those pages wasn't worth another glance. She shut the Pentagon's situation and bid docunts.
Even without the biohazard ss, the Afghan War wasn't sothing the Pentagon's brass could bark orders and settle. As part of the ruling class herself, she knew too well the true nature of certain senators.
The war's goal was never purely to conquer Afghanistan—it was to use it as a vehicle to launder tax revenue from the U.S. and Europe back into the hands of the transnational security elite. That was the real target.
And now… so in the Pentagon clearly had their eyes on her profits.
A faint, dangerous glint passed through her eyes.
Knock knock knock!
Right on cue, the office door.
"Co in," Vela said.
The Red Queen smiled sweetly, helpfully dimming and blurring the projection.
Her secretary stepped in with a small bow, voice soft: "Ms. Russell, the exposition is about to begin."
"Mhm, one mont."
Vela waved, signaling the Red Queen to lock the office terminal, and stood, adjusting her outfit.
Grabbing the golden V-shaped Militech pin from her desk, she fastened it to her collar and strode out.
Pentagon demands for Militech support in Afghanistan could wait.
First—the inaugural Militech Strategic Expo.
She would preside.
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