Sergei Vladimir was dead.
Dead smoothly.
A bland, uneventful, ordinary kind of smooth.
Turned into a mass of bloody pulp, his half-mutated, half-unfinished corpse still steaming with misty blood vapor as it collapsed.
...
Vela tapped the holographic touchscreen projection before her. Beep.
She closed the summary interface of the photos and live footage recorded by the Maximum Force Tactical Division during their assault on the underground base of the chemical plant.
The rest of the operation was routine: copy the experiment data stored at the Caucasus base, extract U.M.F-013 "Red Queen"—which contained nearly the full historical archive of Umbrella's old Red, White, and Blue divisions—harvest real-world combat parameters from the Talos Project, eliminate the bio-terror threat at the Caucasus facility…
None of it required her attention.
"Umbrella, from this point on, is history."
Eyes narrowing slightly, Vela sighed lightly in reflection.
Sergei and the Caucasus base had been Spencer's final gambit—his last credible lifeline. The remaining double-crossing collaborators would scatter like rats once they'd drained the old fossil of his last drop of value.
Spencer, a skeleton in a grave.
A decrepit relic dreaming of a comeback—rebuilding a second Caucasus base was no longer possible.
Neither resources nor the external environment would grant him that opportunity. With Vela accelerating events, Umbrella in this timeline was being dismantled even faster and more thoroughly than in the original. BSAA operatives around the world were hunting him down.
According to communications logs preserved by the Red Queen, Alex Wesker had already received Spencer's full investment—meaning the old man's final retirement fund was being wrung dry. He was now useless. Completely and utterly useless.
Keeping an enemy who was both uncontrollable and no longer valuable had never been Vela's style.
She had already decided to put a full stop to Umbrella's history.
A final reunion for the founding trio—Spencer, Ashford, and Marcus.
"Albert Wesker… he's in the Caucasus, isn't he..."
Soon, the corner of Vela's lips curved into a wicked smirk.
"Thank you all for your outstanding contributions to the anti-bioterror effort. I promise, Militech will have you back on your feet, good as new." She turned to the surviving BSAA members, including Barry.
"Cough… Thank you, Ms. Russell, for your generosity."
Barry forced himself to stand, despite his discomfort. Chris was out cold, Jill and Brad were elsewhere—so as the oldest and most senior BSAA member present, Barry Burton had to represent.
It'd be foolish to turn down a good offer. Everyone knew Militech was the industry leader in artificial organs, prosthetics, and cybernetics. If their CEO said you'd be restored to full capacity, then you would be.
Besides, no matter what else—manners first. With a mega-rich CEO like Vela, a good mood might just mean wiping their entire medical bill clean.
"Mm."
Vela didn't show much outward emotion. Lightly, she nodded at Barry, the M.S.F. technicians, and the MaxTac commander in turn.
Buzz— the projection dissolved and vanished.
...
"So this guy's the Umbrella nutcase named Sergei?"
Underground in the Caucasus base, Jill and Brad followed the second wave of Militech troops through a sleek, futuristic corridor: bright blue-white light tubes lined the walls, thin laser strips flickering intermittently.
Entering the central control room, the first thing they saw was a grotesque corpse collapsed near the operations console.
Mutated, yet not fully transformed—Spencer's bloated cadaver looked especially horrifying under the dim lighting.
Half his white hair had fallen out, the ocean-blue military coat hung on him like torn rags, and one foot had burst from its boot, swollen with overgrown flesh. His face was twisted, half-covered with living, thorn-like tendrils of muscle. His jaws were stretched wide by a circular organ like a grotesque gag.
Splorch—
Without hesitation, Jill vented her fury with three shots to the corpse's head. Bullets pierced the skull, shredding his brain into slurry. The gag organ burst open, and thick, sticky blood oozed from the revolting fleshy tumor.
"He got off easy. He should've faced trial and a death sentence."
Brad had the urge to empty a few rounds too, but paused when armed Militech mercs looked his way.
"Go ahead. Just a death row scumbag. We're not the government—no red tape to worry about."
The approaching MaxTac squad captain handed over a case. "BSAA, right? Regretfully, it resisted. So we executed it. Standard protocol—minimize risks. But the body's yours. Burn it, destroy it, take your pick."
Jill and Brad exchanged looks before accepting the case. Click! It opened to reveal thermite charges, standard T-virus inhibitor sprays, lipid solvents, and high-concentration disinfectants… handy virus-killing tools.
Militech's anti-BOW decontamination kits were essentials for any organization dealing with bioterror threats.
"Thanks."
Before the words even finished, ping—Jill yanked the ring from a thermite charge and tossed it onto Sergei's corpse. Fwoosh! Chemical fire roared to life, engulfing the massive pile of flesh.
Jill handed another to Brad.
"For our fallen and wounded BSAA comrades—go to hell, you Umbrella bastard!" he growled, throwing another charge. The blaze intensified.
Seeing this, the Militech crew sweeping the area turned their attention back to cleanup.
"Regroup."
...
"Militech."
Snow fell like drifting feathers, blanketing the jagged ridgelines of the Caucasus in a silvery sheen. The mountain ranges twisted like giant silver dragons across the horizon.
On a remote, flat ridge, a man in tattered clothing hid quietly in the storm, evading recon drones.
"...So that's it? Vladimir is dead... seems you weren't the victor you claimed to be."
After a long silence, the man tore off his rags, exposing large scabbed-over patches of skin and wounds still squirming as they healed.
His voice, cold and mocking with a strange undercurrent of emotion, whispered at his lips.
He was watching the remains of a vast chemical plant—now engulfed in fire and explosions.
Militech air units patrolled overhead. Within the compound, gunfire echoed in waves. Multi-role transport helicopters had landed, and personnel were moving metal crates of various sizes.
"Vela Adelheid..."
Albert Wesker murmured the name.
He knew full well—trying to harvest Umbrella's leftovers was no longer an option. Someone had beaten him to it, better prepared, with more people, more power.
"The mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind." Too bad he never qualified to be the oriole.
Even as an evolved "new human," taking on Militech—a massive national defense contractor—alone was laughable.
Wesker didn't see Vela as a bitter enemy.
On the contrary, he harbored a deep, hidden dread and envy toward her.
Especially—
When he fought Talos, Sergei had taunted him endlessly, speaking as though everything was within his grasp, as if the outcome were already decided.
The moment Militech's mercenary forces arrived, Sergei's bravado was instantly shattered—he had to abandon Wesker and focus all his efforts on dealing with them.
He had been so haughty toward Wesker, but against Vela, he responded with absolute caution, even retreating immediately…
That stark contrast gave Wesker a visceral understanding of the pressure his old friend William Birkin must have felt when facing Alexia—and later, Vela.
He suddenly understood William's frustration.
But, "William, I won't become you. I'll carry your will forward. Watch me—one day, I'll surpass them all."
Wesker removed his shattered sunglasses, revealing amber eyes tinged with red. In the snowstorm, they looked especially terrifying.
They were proof he had forsaken his humanity.
To be renowned or to be forgotten—
For him, anonymity had never been an option.
"Tricell."
Analyzing Vela's past, her methods and meteoric rise had deeply inspired Wesker. He decided to follow her example.
Just as he turned away from the Caucasus, ready to depart and begin building his own power base—ring ring ring.
"Wesker speaking." He pulled the satellite phone from the tactical pouch at his waist.
"Good news—we've found traces of Alex Wesker," came the deep voice on the other end. "She seems to have been urgently summoned by someone important. Our informant stumbled on it by chance. She's being tracked now. Seems you've gained something here in the Caucasus..."
"Understood." Click.
Wesker lowered the satellite phone.
Someone could still issue orders to Alex Wesker, another product of the Wesker Project—especially at this critical moment. That meant Spencer was panicking over the Caucasus loss.
An unexpected gift.
Removing his sunglasses, a cruel smile formed on his scarred and shadowed face.
"Spencer."
...
Three months later.
North America, Militech Medical Services Center, San Francisco.
BSAA recovery ward.
Single room.
"Hey, Chris. I came to see you."
Brad entered the sleek, high-tech hospital room with a fruit basket in one hand and a bouquet of white carnations in the other, smiling at the man lying against the bed.
"Brad?"
Stirring from a light nap, sensation returned to Chris's body. He opened his eyes and raised a matte-black arm that shimmered faintly with a metallic sheen, rubbing his unkempt hair as he yawned.
"How much longer do I have to stay here? I'm starting to rust..."
"Don't they have a saying? Something like 'a hundred days to heal torn muscles and broken bones.' Chris, if it weren't for Militech's prosthetics tech advancing so fast in recent years, we might've been visiting your grave. You've only been in bed a hundred days and already look this good—you should be grateful."
Brad set down the fruit and flowers, pulled over a folding chair, and sat by the bed. Then he took out a handheld console from his pocket.
"You looked bored, so I bought you something. A new Militech model. I don't really get these, but they're popular with younger people. It should help kill time."
Taking the console, Chris sat up and swung his legs off the bed, revealing his right leg—also replaced with a prosthetic. No, by now, it could be called a proper cybernetic limb. Black metal, visible under the hospital gown, he slipped on slippers and sat opposite Brad, giving the device a few glances before quickly losing interest.
"Where are Jill and Barry?" he asked.
"Oh-ho, Chris, you're recovering fast! Looks like you'll be back on duty in no time." It was Barry, entering the room with unlit cigar dangling from his lips, arms loaded with food containers.
Chris noticed the skin along Barry's left upper arm. The contour of artificial flesh, the unnatural lines around his nails and joints—clearly, it was a prosthetic covered in synthetic skin.
Noticing Chris's gaze, Barry simply chuckled.
He placed the food containers on the room's coffee table and sighed, "Militech's prosthetics tech really is something else. Damn, it actually feels better than my original arm."
"That's probably because your arm had hidden damage from your SEAL days. Anyway, unless absolutely necessary, I'd never replace a healthy limb with a prosthetic… That's insane. I don't get those people who went crazy after Militech released the latest generation prosthetics."
It was Jill.
She walked in carrying a box filled with ice packs, flipping open the lid and shaking a few chilled low-alcohol drinks. Chris was still a patient, and she wasn't some wild party type—low-proof would suffice.
"Chris, I brought someone else along too." With a gentle smile, Jill stepped aside to reveal the person behind her.
"Chris!"
A young woman in a red jacket rushed in joyfully, circling Chris and inspecting him from head to toe. She grabbed his matte-black cybernetic arm, poked at his right side, and even tried lifting his pant leg…
"Claire?"
Caught off guard by his little sister's overly curious behavior, Chris quickly scooped her up and moved her aside, scowling, "What are you doing here?"
"I graduated, duh. And Chris, do you even know how worried I was when the news broke that you'd been critically injured in the Caucasus mission?! They said half your body was blown apart! I wanted to see you, but I wasn't allowed… I thought…"
Claire's voice began to choke.
"...I'm sorry, Claire. There won't be a nex—" Chris paused. "But I had to do it. It's my duty. My mission."
"Okay."
Claire's uncharacteristic calm caught him off guard. Her sudden agreement set off alarm bells in Chris's mind—his sister wouldn't just accept that so easily…
"You have your mission, and I have my duty. I've joined the BSAA. You can't stop me," she declared.
Barely had the words left her mouth—"No way!" Chris shot to his feet. "Do you know how dangerous this is? Who gave you permission?!"
"Deputy Secretary Simmons and Executive Officer Russell!"
"What?!"
...
Meanwhile, downtown San Francisco, Militech Tower.
[Executive Officer, the medical center's physical evaluation report shows that Mr. Chris Redfield has recovered well. Integration with his right arm and leg prosthetics is excellent. Spinal reinforcement, joint enhancements, dense bone implants, motion detectors, rangefinders—all are stable.]
[Mr. Redfield will be ready to appear at the press conference within a week.]
In the CEO's office, crimson data lines from the ceiling projectors wove together to sculpt a glowing red-edged figure: a young girl's holographic avatar with delicate, sweet features. Her emotionless voice reported to the pale-gold-haired woman seated at the spacious desk.
"Mm." Nodding, Vela slid away the virtual interface displaying the Marketing Department's report and took a sip of her tea. "Perfect timing."
With Umbrella completely destroyed, recent months had seen a temporary dip in global bioterror incidents and BOW trafficking. But Vela wasn't concerned that Chris would have nothing to do post-recovery.
After all—
She glanced at the timestamp on the screen: 2001/9/11.
Barring the unexpected, the curtain on the War on Terror would rise today—or tomorrow, or the day after.
Bioterror or human terror—both required a response. And once conflict ignited, demand for functional and enhanced prosthetic implants would explode.
The era of cybernetic implants—born of her Militech—was about to receive its greatest catalyst!