Resident Evil.
2001/9/11.
Evening.
Woooo—
Blaring and urgent, the air raid sirens wailed across the entire San Francisco tropolitan area.
"…Today, our fellow citizens, our way of life, our freedom, were attacked in a series of deliberate and barbaric acts of terrorism. The victims were traveling on planes or were…"
Radio stations, TV channels, and online dia all simultaneously suspended their regular entertainnt programming. Replacing it was the image of a middle-aged white man seated in the Oval Office of the White House—the President.
The Commander-in-Chief spoke in a dry, heavy voice about the tragedy that had just unfolded in New York.
The 9/11 attacks.
"…God bless Arica."
Militech Tower, CEO office level. After dinner, Vela sat on a sofa in the central atrium near the express elevator, sipping coffee and watching the news.
On the multi-screen video wall, the President's address quickly concluded.
The split-screen visuals were automatically switched by AI, juxtaposing footage of the collapsing Twin Towers and the Pentagon being struck by a passenger jet with live coverage of the ongoing rescue efforts.
Shattered building debris, roaring flas, thick billowing smoke…
"Phew..."
It had happened roughly when Vela expected, though the timing was about half a day late, the flight numbers were different, and the targets seed slightly altered—
"Damn it, don't tell they're coming for San Francisco too..."
Whoosh! Standing up from the couch, Vela furrowed her brows and walked to the edge of the atrium, landscaped with lush greenery.
Through the crystal-clear, bulletproof floor-to-ceiling glass, she looked toward the southeast of San Francisco's financial district, where the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge linked to the city of Oakland.
In the streets, hundreds of SFPD patrol cars scread past in overlapping siren waves. At the major traffic arteries and Bay Bridge hub, SWAT, U.S. Marshals, state police, county sheriffs, FBI, K9 units, and National Guard troops were already in full alert.
Every private security, fire, and dical service provider in the city—including Militech—had been mobilized.
The entire San Francisco–Oakland–Berkeley troplex was bracing for a possible follow-up terrorist attack.
Just monts ago, at Oakland Airport, five suspects involved in the 9/11 attacks were captured on an ergency-landed flight!
It was the fourth hijacked plane from the 9/11 event.
In the original tiline, that flight should have been forced to crash in Pennsylvania due to passenger resistance. But here it had appeared in California!
At first, Vela had been genuinely shocked.
Was it because of her?
Did Spencer or so remnants of Umbrella funnel money to a certain Middle Eastern "Base" organization?
Or more accurately—was this just a small butterfly effect caused by Militech's actions?
Skipping both Washington and New York to co crash into California—were they targeting sowhere in San Francisco, perhaps the iconic Golden Gate Bridge?
But after digging into the full details, Vela couldn't help but laugh aloud.
Well now, wasn't this sothing?
There was no doubt the plane had been hijacked. The five suspects—dark-skinned, intense-browed Middle Eastern n—definitely intended to fly the aircraft to Washington and crash into the White House. Unfortunately for them, they'd picked the wrong flight: the route was bound for San Francisco.
And among the passengers were nurous Militech employees returning from vacation.
Several were M.S.F. operatives—many of them were disabled veterans from the U.S. military, now enhanced with the latest generation of cybernetic implants after joining Militech.
When the hijackers made their move, the cockpit was breached, and the plane began to jolt violently—M.S.F. soldiers returning from vacation recognized the signs imdiately. They also noticed the suspicious behavior of those Middle Eastern-looking passengers.
And then… it was over.
Faced with the ruthless and precise action of the M.S.F. soldiers, two hijackers standing guard were knocked to the ground before they could react. The remaining three, trying to seize the cockpit, were dragged back and had their shoulders dislocated before getting thoroughly beaten.
At that mont, flight attendants were still frozen in fear, and the pilot and co-pilot were shouting "Mayday!" into the radio.
So curious passengers managed to record the scene.
Though not always clear or well-angled, a number of images and short videos quickly circulated online.
Compared to the explosions, fires, cries, and devastation at the other three crash sites, Oakland Airport beca a symbol of safety and survival. Aside from a few crew mbers who sustained minor injuries during the struggle—and a stabbed co-pilot—the landing was virtually casualty-free.
As for the five hijackers? Every single one of them was hauled out with dislocated shoulders, black eyes, and swollen, pig-like faces, then handed over to waiting FBI agents at the airport.
Later that evening, Vela received a round of gratitude calls—from the mayor of San Francisco, the governor of California, the Speaker of the House, and Simmons, among other political figures.
They praised the bravery and excellence of Vela's M.S.F. security forces for defending citizens and upholding the cause of freedom and democracy. They spoke of dals and honors for her and the personnel involved in the incident.
Not long after, major airlines like Arican Airlines and United Airlines—reeling from the impact of 9/11—reached out to Vela.
They wanted to subscribe to Militech's corporate security services and requested specially assigned air marshals from Militech to be stationed on their flights.
Indeed—disaster profiteering, warti profiteering. For a massive proto–military-industrial complex like hers, even passive involvent ant swift financial gain.
Vela couldn't help but reflect:
The very first shot of the War on Terror had barely echoed, and orders were already landing at her doorstep.
"Ms. Russell, the press conference is about to begin."
A secretary arrived at the central lounge area, speaking softly.
Vela nodded, turned, and adjusted her Militech-tech style business uniform before walking toward the express elevator flanked by her secretary and internal bodyguards.
There was no way she could remain silent about sothing as monuntal as 9/11.
Counter-terrorism was now the prevailing trend. She had to issue a condemnation. So charitable donations were inevitable. She needed to present Militech's commitnt to social responsibility.
And this was also a pri opportunity to legally expand corporate authority.
"Contact our partner policy firms and think tanks. Propose legislation to Congress about establishing military ergency response centers in major cities. If our employees hadn't happened to be on that plane, could it have crashed into a skyscraper in San Francisco? How can we prevent such things in the future…"
"Get in touch with the NRA and the Veterans Association. Militech's security division will increase recruitnt specifically for corporate security response services..."
Why specifically for corporate services?
Because Vela didn't want these newly hired U.S. veteran roughnecks flooding into the M.S.F. ranks.
She had no intention of compromising M.S.F.'s command culture with a sudden influx of authoritarian-minded U.S. ex-military types.
Quality over quantity.
Deep within her soul, Vela's hidden mories reminded her that indiscriminate recruitnt and chaotic expansion ca at a price.
Just look at Boeing, still a titan in the modern era despite everything.
In 1997, Boeing completed its historic rger with McDonnell Douglas, effectively becoming the unrivaled first son of the United States aerospace industry. But from Vela's future-inford perspective, the deal had all the sinister beauty of S.H.I.E.L.D. rging with Hydra in the infamous Operation Paperclip.
From that point forward, Boeing's product quality steadily declined. Once known as the reliable Queen of the Skies, the company spiraled toward the nickna of "crash magnet" and "little prince of disasters."
It wasn't like Boeing acquired McDonnell Douglas—it felt more like McDonnell (once known for frequent aviation failures) had possessed Boeing from the inside.
That's exactly why, while Vela continued reorganizing and acquiring Umbrella's forr global factories, equipnt, and personnel, she kept them far from her personally founded "Black Umbrella" division—the very core of Militech's current business line.
Instead, she let the old Umbrella operations continue producing civilian dical goods and select military supplies. To the outside world, this rely looked like Militech's dical departnt—unassuming enough to participate in global pharmaceutical alliances.
The Boeing cautionary tale had taught Vela: rgers and expansions must be done with care.
Still, she couldn't just ignore the olive branch extended by the aviation industry giants. So, temporary expansion it was.
Let U.S. veterans be as free-spirited as they like—so long as they were capable and passed training to serve as air marshals, they could be hired on short-term contracts. With a gig that paid well, they surely wouldn't say no.
"Inform the Marketing Departnt to design a new recruitnt campaign. I've got a feeling this is only the beginning. Our products and capacity are nowhere near enough to absorb the Arican public's burning rage..."
...
The next day, Vela boarded a private jet to Washington.
San Francisco, Militech dical Services Center.
"Chris, I think you'll be discharged soon. Militech and the higher-ups have already prepared a press event for your return to the public eye."
In his hospital room, Chris—saddened and angry over the 9/11 attacks—looked up at the sound of the familiar voice. It was Jill and Barry.
Both of them pulled up folding chairs with solemn faces.
Just yesterday at noon, they'd been celebrating, eating and drinking their fill. By the afternoon, they were napping—only to be woken by chaos: sothing huge had happened in Arica.
The word from BSAA's North Arica HQ in Washington was clear. The White House and Congress were gearing up for war.
Chris, being BSAA's ace, was expected to return to duty. Militech's dical center had confird his excellent recovery, and his physical evaluation data had passed all benchmarks.
In the face of bioterror threats, there was no telling whether terrorists might panic and turn to the black market for BOWs and viral agents. The military urgently needed elite squads with anti-BOW and biohazard experience to stabilize operations and share expertise.
"How big is this going to get?" Chris asked.
"See for yourself." Jill reached out for the remote on the coffee table and turned on the TV.
Beep.
Channel after channel still replayed coverage of the 9/11 attacks. Soon, she found Militech's official news feed.
It featured the M.S.F. operatives who had saved the fourth hijacked flight—Chris recognized them. Though unable to leave the hospital, he had been keeping up with the news closely.
Behind the M.S.F. agents, Militech employees, and U.S. military recruiters, a curtain was drawn open to reveal a massive projection screen.
It displayed the Star-Spangled Banner, the California state flag, the San Francisco city flag, and the Militech logo—all waving, bathed in the golden glow of the sunset.
Crystal-clear, ultra-HD.
A stirring orchestral score played.
"Arica, Our Holand."
The narrator's voice rose with emotional cadence:
"She is prosperous. Free. Democratic. But soone tried to destroy all of that. They declared war on us!"
"Terrorist attacks."
Snap! The image shifted.
The Twin Towers collapsing. Smoke choking the Pentagon. Survivors at Oakland Airport crying tears of joy after escaping death.
"This is nothing new—it happens every day around the world."
"Just like what happened today in New York, in Washington—tomorrow, it could be your ho. Unless—"
A swell of stirring music played.
"Unless you make the most important decision of your life!" The M.S.F. operatives raised their fists to their chests in unison. "Prove to everyone that you have the strength and courage to pursue freedom."
"Answer the call of the Federal military—or choose to join..."
"The Militech family."
"Beco a force for global peace. Eliminate terrorism. Let the light of freedom and democracy shine on all."
Leave it to Militech to lead the global trend—the recruitnt ad was cutting-edge.
Chris stared, a bit stunned, but the ssage from Militech and Washington was clear: military expansion was underway!
"This is Militech ramping up arms production and staffing while also helping Washington stir up montum. She must have gotten firm confirmation—this war could be just as large and long-lasting as Vietnam..." Barry muttered a curse.
"Damn world's getting chaotic again..."
"Sigh."
Chris exhaled deeply and glanced down at his powerful cybernetic right arm. Umbrella's last base was gone. He had just begun planning to spend so peaceful days with Claire after discharge—and maybe even confess his feelings to Jill...
But war.
Damn war. Damn bioterror attacks. Damn terrorism!
Once the fighting starts, it's a double-edged sword. No one truly wins…
...
"Ghouls"
Tokyo, 14th Nakano Ward.
"Huff... Huff... Damn it, the Doves are still chasing us! Baka, what the hell do they get out of killing us?! Ever since coming to the 14th Ward, she's slaughtered so many of us!"
In a pitch-black alley with no surveillance caras, thud thud! echoed panicked footsteps. A group limped and sprinted into another street, rushing toward an abandoned factory in the distance.
If they could just make it inside—there was a tunnel underground—they'd be safe! The leaders' kagune-flushed eyes were now bloodshot with desperation.
"Killing you… does co with benefits. Many of them." Bang!
With a gunshot that echoed through the alley and a voice as cool and arrogant as it was faint, the trailing "person" was obliterated—along with the tentacle-like organ of flesh that had burst from his lower back.
A spiked bullet, soaked in gore, had pierced through him. As the others tried to dodge, the shot erupted again with a soft bang, bursting like thorny flesh brambles to seal the escape route.
From behind, tap tap.
"Just like war—whether low or high intensity, anti-terror, law enforcent, attrition, or full-scale—it's always a tonic for the military-industrial complex." Her tone was quiet, almost to herself.
Wearing black slacks, a white lab coat, a tie, and carrying a white briefcase, a statuesque, elegant blonde woman stopped walking.
"Just like your kakuhou—so valuable for my research and career advancent. Compared to a few of them, I've still got a ways to go, haven't I?"
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