Cyberpunk: Infinite Progress Begins with Arasaka Chapter 27: Raccoon City Carnival, Begins

Umbrella Industrial Park, California U.S.F. Guard Division Training Base.

"Hey! Let go of ! This is kidnapping! I'm a police officer—"

A woman in plainclothes, face obscured by a black hood, was being dragged inside by two black-clad Umbrella guards. Judging by her voice, she was still quite young.

"Rebecca? Hey—let her go!"

The struggling woman froze when she heard that familiar voice. Her tone imdiately shifted to delight.

"Chris? Is that you?" She was just about to ask more when—

"Enough. Unbind her. Remove the hood."

Shff.

With that, the hood ca off. Her world flooded with light again.

Huff— She took a deep breath and looked up, eyes adjusting, finally focusing on the figure across from her.

"Rebecca."

Seeing her disheveled but clearly unhard, Chris's tense heart relaxed—only for it to tighten again monts later.

"What is the aning of this?"

"Forgive the rough treatnt of our guest. I apologize on behalf of my subordinates—but the security protocol was necessary. How about so water first?"

Without directly answering Chris, Vela leaned casually against a workbench cluttered with tactical gear. Wearing a high-end dark-toned tech-uniform, she smiled politely and lifted a bottle of mineral water, tossing it toward Rebecca.

Instinctively catching it, Rebecca glanced at the refined blonde woman before her, then at the guard beside her who was now unlocking her cuffs. She nodded blankly. "Th-thank you."

So cute.

Rebecca Chambers.

Vela took her ti examining the youngest mber of Raccoon City's S.T.A.R.S., barely eighteen years old.

Petite build, just barely curvy. Short brown tomboy-cut hair, perfectly styled. A clean, youthful face with a tinge of inexperience. Set into that small face were bright blue eyes—currently blinking like a startled deer under Vela's openly curious gaze.

Ah... the scent of soone just stepping into adulthood. So pure, so student-like.

"Let introduce mys—"

"Vela Adelheid Russell. Inventor. Genius. Pioneer in bionic human engineering. Prodigy chanical developer. Youngest executive and regional director in Umbrella. Youngest billionaire in the USA by patent royalties. Washington's elite list of innovative high-tech talent. Lead investor in intelligent control systems, advanced semiconductors, and electronic information sectors..."

Rebecca rattled it all off like a chant, lightning-fast, her expression sowhere between fangirl and devoted admirer.

"Senior Russell, you've always been soone I admired and looked up to in my studies."

Vela raised an eyebrow. "You're from Berkeley—?"

"No, not a Berkeley student. I just heard about your achievents and managed to attend so classes there as an exchange auditor. My major is chemistry, with electives in pharmacology..."

"Stop. Drink your water. Then tell why you both ca to see ."

Vela tapped her fingers against the table and shot Rebecca a steady look, reeling the conversation back on track.

Now things made sense—why Chris ca to her. Her staged "defection" and genius persona had clearly left an impression. Rebecca, influenced by that image, might be the key driver.

"Alright, Rebecca. This isn't a college social event. And it's definitely not an Umbrella recruiting seminar."

Chris had his arms crossed, wearing a grim expression. The team's usual sunshine was fan-girling at the worst possible ti—and he was absolutely exasperated.

Chris had full confidence in Rebecca's professional competence. Though freshly graduated, her excellence in chemistry had already earned her recognition from the police force and a spot in S.T.A.R.S.—a clear testant to her abilities.

That said, her lack of field experience—and her pure-hearted university girl nature—ant she often acted unpredictably and impulsively. That part gave Chris constant headaches.

"Chris, since Director Russell is here, that ans... it worked?"

Completely unfazed by her earlier rough handling, Rebecca swiftly composed herself and got to the point.

Chris folded his arms and nodded. "More or less."

"Then, when are we going to expose Umbrella's cris in Raccoon City? Uh—Director Russell, I an the old Umbrella in Raccoon City."

"I know."

Still leaning on the workbench, Vela clicked her mouse, and a projector cast the materials gathered by the S.T.A.R.S. survivors onto the wall—grueso hidden footage and photos.

"Because it's not enough."

She didn't look back.

"How do I know you're not so bait set by William Birkin—that stubborn middle-aged has-been? Why should I take your word? I don't even know you. You're just so alleged distant cousin."

Birkin was already dood—but Chris and his team didn't know that. It didn't stop Vela from using his na as both excuse and shield.

"We... that... we'll..."

Rebecca stumbled, at a loss for how to explain.

"I'll bring you solid evidence. You'd better keep your word."

Chris stepped in front of Rebecca protectively, his tone flat as iron, eyes just as resolute.

"Naturally."

Their exchange left Rebecca confused. "Wait—what do you an? Chris, what are you going to do?"

"Return to Raccoon City. Retrieve key evidence."

"What?!"

Rebecca's mouth opened slightly. After a mont, she pieced it together and lifted her head.

"Then I'll go too—when do we leave—"

"No. You'll stay here."

Vela cut in suddenly. She turned sideways and cast a sidelong glance at Rebecca.

"Just as he doesn't trust —I don't trust you. Call it collateral, or insurance. Interpret it however you like. What if you're playing ?"

As she spoke—thump thump!

Several fully ard guards began to close in around Rebecca. And Vela wasn't done.

"Mr. Redfield—you have a sister, don't you? Claire, was it..."

"F*ck you! If you touch Claire, I'll kill you myself!"

Bang!

Chris kicked over a folding chair in fury, making a move toward Vela—only to be instantly restrained by guards, who pinned him down. Click click click—dark gun barrels cocked and leveled at his head.

"Mr. Redfield, you of all people should understand—my precautions are reasonable. Bring back the evidence. If it turns out you're truly survivors and victims of Birkin's experints—I'll compensate you. Generously. I might even recruit you into Umbrella."

Word by word, Vela stepped toward him.

"No—if what you say is true, then I will personally bury Umbrella. I'll restructure the company under a new na—and my door will always be open to you."

She stopped before him, raising her hand amid the razor-edge tension from her guards.

"...."

Face dark with rage, Chris clenched his fist—then, finally, let it go.

"Tch. I don't care about your compensation. Just keep your word."

He understood. The more cautious Vela was, the more likely she'd truly expose the truth afterward. If she trusted him too easily, he'd have been the one doubting her motives.

With a faint smile, Vela gestured for the security team to stand down, then extended a hand and personally helped Chris to his feet.

"Then it's official. Our cooperation begins. Good luck."

"..."

Chris was surprised by her strength but said nothing. "When do I leave?"

"Not yet. William Birkin's blunder is going to stir up the old factions and stubborn board mbers. I'll raise it during the next session. I also need ti to prepare with Washington—to give your mission proper cover."

A convenient excuse.

She paused, then pointed first at Chris, then at the table where his gear—handgun, knife—had been placed.

"And take a proper set of equipnt. Looking like that? I don't want to be accused of trying to silence you."

Her look was... sharp.

But Chris couldn't argue.

With the kind of logistical support and weapon access Vela was offering, he'd be a fool to refuse. Just look at the U.S.F. Guard Division under Umbrella California.

"Now—ti for training. As a survivor of real biohazard combat, teach my people how to deal with Birkin's ss. You know the nuances. Make it fast."

Surrounded by black-clad guards, Vela's elegant silhouette disappeared behind the door. Click. The room sealed.

Rebecca blinked a few tis. She and Chris exchanged glances. Then she looked around at the brawny n in the room.

That's when she noticed—the place looked like a luxury-plus version of the S.T.A.R.S. operations prep room: projectors, annotated flowcharts, a spread-out map of Raccoon City…

And every Umbrella operative in the room had a notebook—clearly mid-briefing before she'd been brought in.

"Training?"

"Exactly. You're just in ti. Since we have field experience from that damned mansion—and you're more ticulous than —I want your help. Highlight what we need to look out for when dealing with the undead."

The situation was what it was. Might as well commit.

Chris led Rebecca to the whiteboard, pointing out the table he'd created.

Teaching Umbrella personnel how to fight bio-weapons felt strange—but not wrong.

If anything, it made Vela look better. She treated her people like assets, not cannon fodder. Unlike in Raccoon City, where even the researchers were disposable.

Compared to that bastard William Birkin, this overbearing, sharp-witted woman—the textbook image of a D.C. elite and corporate mogul—was leagues better.

"I'll say it again. You must destroy their brain tissue. Aim for the head. Blow their skulls apart. No room for doubt or second-guessing..."

...

1998/9/24.

Morning.

Indoor firing range.

Bang! Bang bang bang—

White smoke curled from the barrel of a prototype assault rifle.

Wearing an Umbrella training undersuit, Chris lowered his earmuffs. Click click click—his handling of the rifle was textbook as he cleared the chamber and checked the magazine.

These past few days at Umbrella's facility, aside from compiling his experience into manuals, he'd spent every spare mont familiarizing himself with Umbrella's yet-to-be-released firearms.

Since it was Vela supplying them, he made full use.

"Amazing, Chris... doesn't your arm get tired?"

Clack clack—a tal target slid back for scoring.

Rebecca clapped as she saw the tight cluster of dents around the chest and head.

"Not too bad."

Chris set aside the prototype assault rifle—code-nad Ajax (Militech M251s Ajax)—then donned his earmuffs again, picked up a WMA "Minami 10" submachine gun, checked the chamber, loaded up, took aim—

Rat-a-tat-tat! Clang clang! The target rang cleanly under the burst fire.

Next ca tests with other firearms: the WCAA combat shotgun firing slug rounds, the WSA automatic pistol, the Nowaki, the Tamayura...

Huff...

Chris lined up the weapons he'd tested, carefully inspecting each killing tool forged from special alloys or engineering-grade plastics.

Objectively—he had to admit it—Umbrella's craftsmanship was top-tier. The firearms felt like works of art. Every detail reflected elite manufacturing.

But while he paused, heavier bursts of gunfire erupted from across the facility.

That was the Umbrella combat team's training range. The noise was intense—far louder than his test firing. All heavy firepower.

Chris nodded firmly. "They're definitely ex-military."

"Russians," Rebecca added. "While you were busy testing guns, I talked with so of them. Nothing confidential—they really are Russians. A lot of them fought in Afghanistan."

"Private military... I know it's common internationally, but it's not a good thing."

Having served in the Air Force, Chris's sense of national loyalty and justice instinctively rejected the idea.

As he and Rebecca stood in silence, mulling it over—

"Hey, Chris! Orders just ca in from the Director. We're moving out—sothing's happened!"

A broad-shouldered man in a dark combat suit called out in thickly accented Russian-English.

Chris's instincts kicked in. He dashed from the range, bursting into the operations prep room—only to see a cluster of Umbrella security officers gathered around a flat-screen TV.

A breaking news alert from Raccoon City, Colorado, was on the air:

"Yesterday, the northern district of Raccoon City reported what appears to be a sudden outbreak of a severe and highly infectious disease. Incidents of patients violently coughing blood—along with disturbing 'cannibalistic' behavior—are increasing rapidly. Reports suggest victims develop an intense craving for raw flesh. City hospital admissions are surging. Residents are advised to..."

The reporter spoke fast, clearly under pressure. The footage behind them showed chaos in the northern districts: fires, looting, rioting.

"Protestors are now pointing fingers at Raccoon City's largest company—Umbrella—alleging a viral leak from one of its biodical labs triggered this crisis..."

"At present, Umbrella's Raccoon City chief researcher, Dr. William Birkin, is reportedly missing..."

"Fuck! That's the sa goddamned virus from the mansion..."

Chris shoved his way through a wall of towering, fully-armored, high-tech guards, eyes locked on the screen.

"...Jill... dammit! Shit—get to Russell! I have to move now!"

He turned, heading for his gear locker.

Donning specially made anti-puncture, anti-bite combat armor—fitted with biotric ID and glow markings—Chris equipped himself.

Just then, the prep room's intercom blared to life.

Vela's voice rang out—angry, tense, almost panicked.

"U.S.F. Mobile Guard Units—Teams 4, 5, and 6—you're moving out with Chris."

"William Birkin, that bastard—can't even handle losing? Has he gone full lunatic, trying to drag everyone down with him?! And the board... just how much of my funding did they reallocate without telling ?!"

"Deploy now! Get to Raccoon City before the board wipes the evidence. Dig up every secret. Effective imdiately, I declare Umbrella California and Umbrella USA officially detached from Paris HQ. If you face an ergency, act independently. Mission first. No need to report."

"Chris—go do what you believe is right."