Vela's train of thought didn't last long—beep beep. It was the notification sound for a new file. She looked toward the virtual panel interface on her desk.
[Prototype Trauma Unit TT-133: Currently performing emergency rescue for client Mr. Chris Redfield. Condition stabilized.]
Beep.
Her slender fingertips slid across the highly digitized touchscreen desk. The military-grade topographic maps of the Caucasus region were flicked aside.
Clack-clack. From the ceiling dome above her desk, the embedded holographic image projector, image sensor, and structuring instrument slowly descended, sketching a new display before Vela's eyes.
A semi-enclosed room decorated in red, white, and green.
Chris, his face covered in blood, lay unconscious on the operating table. A severed arm, fractured leg bones with hairline cracks, internal bleeding, and multiple contusions and abrasions across his body. The entire right side of his body was severely burned.
It was even more brutal than Vela had expected.
A respirator, blood transfusion pack, cardiac monitor, and other basic life support systems were already in use, with various tubes being inserted one by one into Chris by Trauma Division medics.
Especially when they cut off the charred combat suit and began wiping down his body with saline and medical towels to remove foreign objects—half-cooked pale flesh peeled away with it, bloody and horrifying.
She could almost smell grilled meat.
Ahem. Vegetarian tonight. Half a day of fasting.
"Chris the Black Hand and Black Leg, huh... not bad. At least you didn't become a sledgehammer."
The frown on her face eased slightly. After witnessing the extent of Chris's injuries with her own eyes, Vela leaned her chin on one hand and lightly tapped the armrest. A full strategic plan for product packaging and marketing had already formed in her mind.
Saving him was a given. But how he would be saved, to what extent, and what happened in the process—that was all up to her.
The cyber era was coming. Cybernetic implants had to evolve from the 0 and 1st-generation prosthetics into the new 1st and 2nd generations with enhanced functionality.
The former—0 and 1st-generation cybernetic implants—were the current mainstream products sold by Vela's military science company. These allowed patients with severe injuries to still function in daily work.
Although real-world operation and sensation were slightly inferior to natural limbs, they were still well received.
The latter—the new 1st generation—included products Vela was preparing for large-scale release: reinforced spines and joints for laborers, implants that enhanced load-bearing capacity, and tools with miniaturized motion detectors and rangefinders.
But it wasn't enough.
While steadily advancing cybernetic implant technology in the Resident Evil world, Militech needed not only affordable, mass-marketable products—but also high-end custom goods.
The kind that cost a fortune, with prices that made ordinary folks tremble and made the rich fall in love at first sight. Items that let carnivores bask in self-admiration and flaunt their identity and status.
The 2nd generation—the so-called "lab-grade" series—was what Vela was now preparing for them.
Though such technology was already widespread in the Cyberpunk world, it didn't stop Vela from selling it here at astronomical "4th-gen luxury" prices.
Cybernetic muscles that could surpass human limits in strength and power, dermal tech with a degree of resistance... all capable of attracting certain demographics. Even to the point that some customers might choose to remove their original flesh voluntarily to install true cybernetic limbs.
"And you will be the first semi-cybernetic human."
Vela looked at the unconscious Chris on the screen.
Beep.
Ending the surgical monitoring feed for Chris, Vela then bundled the [Caucasus - Emergency Support Operation] file and selectively sent Chris's current status, along with battlefield images and real-time clips recorded by the M.S.F. unit, to the company's marketing department.
Marketing—this was their specialty.
Very soon, headlines like "Hero of Raccoon City," "Public Safety Medal Recipient," and "Anti-Terror Elite—Mr. Chris Redfield Severely Injured in Caucasus Bioterror Operation at BSAA Frontline" would flood the eyes of the American public.
After the right amount of waiting and buildup...
Once public sentiment had been stirred and awareness of the situation had spread—
That would be military science's moment for a century-defining marketing performance.
The reborn Chris would "return from the dead" to public attention. Without a doubt, every detail of this semi-cybernetic man would become the focus of relentless media investigation and fascination.
And now, Vela's task was cleanup.
To fulfill the anti-terror security contract, respond to the SOS from Chris and the BSAA, and suppress and purge the bioterror crisis in the Caucasus region.
As everyone knew, Militech was both a defense contractor and a private security company. The services it offered covered everything—from uniformed security, personal bodyguards, household protection, to corporate mercenaries and custom contracts.
Chris hiring their services in a private capacity and commissioning Militech security was fully in line with international law and standard procedures—perfectly legitimate.
With the authorities of the various small states in the Caucasus region placated, and as long as things didn't go too far, Militech's armed forces could move largely unimpeded.
Russia, in response, would tighten border security but wouldn't go as far as open opposition.
After all, the BSAA, established at the end of 1998, was a UN-certified global organization, with Eastern European branches in Moscow and Saint Petersburg. Militech, on the other hand, was a private international enterprise with numerous weapons showrooms and tech product stores throughout Russia.
Objecting to the North American BSAA's aggressive intervention in the Caucasus wasn't the same as rejecting the BSAA or Militech entirely.
The BSAA North American HQ had been formed in the White House. And even in 2001, no matter how pro-American Russia might seem, they would never allow U.S. forces near their own borders. The Caucasus bordered their Eastern European heartland—it wasn't comparable to the Bering Strait border between Siberia and Alaska.
A small task force and Militech PMCs under a civilian cover—that was Russia's limit.
And unless something unexpected happened, BSAA's Eastern European branch, under Russian influence, was likely already en route to the Caucasus...
Click. Picking up the integrated encrypted service phone, Vela issued her instructions.
"Eliminate the remaining Umbrella bases in the Caucasus before the BSAA Eastern Europe team arrives."
"Sergei, that loyal dog, is probably holed up in the Caucasus base. Two T-A.L.O.S. Tyrants... at least. Probably more... This auxiliary village—the scale of the base feels off. Tch, just how much of my budget did they embezzle during the time I was founding the 'Black Umbrella' unit, using the board's blind spots as cover..."
...
Caucasus Mountains, a village housing a large logistics warehouse.
Amidst a violent explosion, rotor blades whirred. The armed helicopter stabilized in a low hover, continuously strafing with gunfire. Rocket pods hissed and spat blazing trails, autocannons roared thunderously…
Boom!Boom!
Accompanying the white-and-green-uniformed Prototype Trauma Unit were the Maximum Force Tactical Division—purely offensive troops, the most elite force under Militech's M.S.F.
Right before the eyes of the surviving BSAA operatives, they leapt directly from their flying transport—still hovering three stories above the ground.
They hit the ground hard—and without injury.
Each held a massive, matte-finished metal weapon that looked absurdly large for urban CQB.
With a few casual swings, they smashed the heads of zombies around the landing zone barehanded—then, bang!bang!bang!
Large-caliber. Controlled bursts. A deep, faintly electrical crack to the shots.
Jill, who had been moving to coordinate with the others, widened her eyes. She saw with her own eyes two Hunters, which had managed to avoid the autocannon sweep in a narrow alley, leap out—only to be torn in half by a single shot each. One blast sent a corpse flying three or four meters, limbs and blood spraying everywhere.
"Holy shit, Jill—is that powered armor?!"
Brad's voice came from nearby.
"Militech's made exoskeletons combat-ready!!"
Only then did Jill see clearly. The M.S.F. unit from Militech, aside from the dark-toned full-body combat suits, heavy ballistic armor, and tech-enhanced helmets she'd seen before in Raccoon City, now wore an additional metallic framework.
Support braces for arms, legs, and backs—rugged but carrying a heavy industrial aesthetic. Exposed pistons, miniature motors, and hydraulic systems.
While Jill and Brad were still observing, a cry for help rang out from a building beside their path forward.
Crash! The MaxTac[1] soldier moved faster. He slammed the door open with his shoulder. Inside, a BSAA operative clutched his bleeding abdomen and coughed up blood in the corner, desperately calling for help.
He had his body pressed tightly against the rear door. From the other side came hoarse screeches, and a pale hand had already reached through the gap.
"Step aside."
The MaxTac soldier spoke briefly—then fired.
The brilliant muzzle flash blazed through the dim room.
The heavy round's sheer kinetic force blew a hole in the wooden door.
The zombie on the other side flopped backward, crashing into several of its companions. Blood sprayed in thick spurts. One shot, multiple kills—bones cracked and shattered, pieces flung everywhere. One chunk even flew more than ten meters.
"Inject him."
A MaxTac soldier handed Jill several pneumatic injectors. "T-Virus antiserum."
Then he turned and left—smashing the head of a zombie dog that lunged out from the corner. It splattered against the wall like a smashed watermelon. He rejoined the other Maximum Force Tactical Division members to continue sweeping the village.
"That strength... so this is the power of the exoskeleton. If only the BSAA could get outfitted too..." Brad muttered with a hint of envy.
"Stop dreaming. Help me find the rest of the survivors—we've suffered heavy losses."
Jill didn't dwell on Militech's equipment upgrades. After injecting the wounded comrade with antiserum, she helped him up. Brad quickly focused, standing guard.
In less than half a minute, as they stepped outside—
The town was already engulfed in billowing smoke. Flames dyed the sky red.
BOOOOMMMMM—!!
A cruise missile launched from a sleek new Militech high-speed helicopter, bearing their logo, shot straight into the cursed logistics warehouse. A second later—massive explosion.
Looking up, they saw the warehouse walls split open. Smoke and fire burst outward in a torrent.
The Maximum Force Tactical Division operatives surged forward like ghosts. Though heavily armored, they moved with frightening speed—leaping and weaving between buildings.
They were killing machines—spraying bullets in torrents one moment, then pulverizing skulls with bare fists the next. Then, just as quickly, they vanished into the warehouse now set ablaze with incendiaries.
Zombies and B.O.W.s—howling or screaming, who could tell—echoed amid the gunfire, explosions, and dismemberment.
Soon, as the gunfire dwindled, Jill and Brad reached the M.S.F. medics while supporting their injured comrade—only to see four more teammates already lying on makeshift stretchers, evidently rescued by Militech.
Among them—
"Barry! You old bastard, you're alive!"
Brad exclaimed in surprise.
"Cough—damn brat, watch your mouth. I didn't expect that thing to launch a missile from beyond line-of-sight… nearly got me." Barry, his head wrapped in bandages, raised his severely shortened left arm.
"Too bad about Mike and Mullen. Those two were solid. Just one second too slow, and they're gone." He sighed.
Jill and Brad fell silent.
Surrounded by Militech Maximum Force Tactical Division soldiers and Trauma Team medics, they finally had a moment to breathe—and grieve.
"Chris was taken for emergency treatment by Militech," Jill said. "Barry, I plan to stay. Militech's here. If we don't wipe out Umbrella's bastards—"
Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a glint—camera lens!
Following the reflection, she saw it: under the eaves of a partially collapsed building near Militech's emergency station, a functioning surveillance camera.
"Shit!" Jill raised her gun to shoot.
But a hand like an iron clamp stopped her.
"Stand down, Miss Jill Valentine. We need a communication channel."
"What?! Communicate? With Umbrella psychos?!"
"I understand your anger. But please, miss—stay calm."
As the MaxTac soldier forced down Jill's weapon, several soldiers carrying metal crates approached. They extracted a clearly high-grade instrument and set it before the camera.
The setup process immediately drew everyone's attention.
Once calibrated, a Militech technician at the folding table pressed their earpiece and reported, "Commander. Ready."
Vmmm...
The 3D holographic projector came online. Blue-white data streams outlined a figure—soon, a tall, radiant urban woman flickered into existence amid the ruined village.
"Vladimir, or Spencer... long time no see. You recognize me, don't you?"
The woman immediately turned toward the camera.
"You wretched parasites. Now tell me—how much of my funding did you embezzle?"
[1] Maximum Force Tactical Division