Bang!
A sudden explosion burst out with a blinding flash of white light, followed by startled exclamations from the soldiers. Amid the noise, when the Pentagon general turned his eyes back toward her, Vela smiled and temporarily shelved her thoughts on Raccoon City.
For now.
At the moment, her money-making plan—and latching onto the Pentagon's interests—were far more urgent.
"General, you and your team have real talent. You figured out a new use for the civilian drone so quickly."
Clap clap—Vela gently applauded as she stepped forward with a compliment.
Just now, after watching the Umbrella drone operators demonstrate their skills, a few soldiers were suddenly inspired. They loaded a flashbang into the drone's detachable undercarriage mount and flew it through the 'U'-shaped underground testing tunnel behind a wall—successfully air-dropping it for a direct hit.
Yes, the flashbang was also manufactured by Umbrella.
Vela understood very well the importance of both hard work and building connections.
Umbrella was already a high-tech medical and quasi-defense enterprise. After she took over as Director of the newly formed Black Umbrella division, that trend only accelerated.
In recent years, Vela had done everything in her power to shift the focus of Umbrella's North America California Division—under her leadership—toward the military-industrial sector, even while continuing in prosthetics, intelligent control, semiconductors, and electronic information.
With backing from Derek C. Simmons, and after obtaining official industry certification from the Pentagon and the Department of Justice, her Umbrella USA California division wasn't waiting on large-scale production or even whether high-tech next-gen weapons from Arasaka and the Cyberpunk world were in full swing.
First, set the foundation and claim the territory.
Ammunition of all calibers, flashbangs, gas grenades, smoke bombs...
Technically simple but strategically essential.
By improving on Cyberpunk world experience and tech specs—and leveraging Umbrella's existing power—Vela quickly entered the California market.
Local police departments, firing ranges, shooting competition organizers, rifle associations, veterans' associations—she supplied them all. Practically giving the stuff away. Profit wasn't the goal; with her drone, smart control, semiconductor, and Gen-0 prosthetic markets to fall back on, her California branch would earn the money elsewhere.
Claim the ground first—then open the gates.
While the American soldiers chattered, the tech sergeant who had quickly learned to operate the drone stepped over to the general and said with meaning:
"Umbrella's tech reserve is strong. This consumer-grade drone works just fine as a solo recon tool. And..."
"Its future upgrade potential is enormous—whether fitted with controlled explosives for air-dropped strikes, or converted into kamikaze drones."
The general nodded. Whatever Umbrella's original design intent, these drones had clear tactical promise once modified.
As long as drone tech kept advancing, the potential was easy to envision.
"Field feedback on the last batches of recon drones was very positive. The Chief of Staff is paying close attention to this new class of battlefield gear."
The general extended his hand, giving Vela a brief handshake.
"Dr. Russell, as expected of a renowned expert in intelligent control and human engineering. In just a few short years, you've achieved such iteration."
He paused, then probed cautiously: "Doctor, the military environment is far more demanding than civilian use. It requires even more rigorous adaptation for the field. Perhaps... you could help our military refine this lovely little thing further?"
Where there's civilian use—there's military use.
Anyone who made it to a general in the USA knew the game.
Vela had already laid out a spread of drone attachments for him. With a few minor upgrades, they were practically combat-ready.
"Also, selling semi-tactical items like this to the general public in large quantities—won't that risk them falling into criminal hands and endangering public safety and social stability?"
Vela smiled faintly.
That question again. How many products sold in the United States are truly 100% safe? Probably none—ever. What, are we going to start banning everything?
Vela brushed the issue aside with lines like "the hypothetical conditions are insufficient," "Umbrella has no such intent," "please trust our principles and bottom line," and "we have faith in law enforcement agencies."
In short: to be discussed.
That meant more research, more deliberation, more comparisons, more weighing of pros and cons, more observation, more time to wait and see. Delay upon delay upon delay.
OK—topic closed.
The group continued their factory tour, Q&A style, with the mood lightening once again.
"If I recall correctly, isn't your company's last surviving founder British?"
It seemed like an offhand remark, made just as they finished inspecting the large aerial drone production bay. The general, half-listening to a guide explaining tech specs, turned toward Vela with a sudden question.
"Chairman Spencer is indeed British nobility."
Vela paused in her step but quickly caught the subtext, answering calmly.
"But I grew up in the U.S., my Black Umbrella division operates in the U.S., and the majority of my employees are American citizens. In the future, even more Umbrella industrial parks will rise—not just in California, but in other states as well."
Seemingly satisfied, the general let out a light chuckle, a smile forming on his slightly plump face.
"If Dr. Russell is at the helm, Umbrella is sure to go far."
Vela's lips curved into a small smile. "I'll take that as a blessing."
...
The tour ended.
The Pentagon placed a comprehensive order for Umbrella California's entire drone product lineup.
Consumer-grade, competition-grade, professional-grade, large flight platforms—all of it. True to the Pentagon's reputation for deep pockets, every category was ordered in triple digits. And this was just the 1998 trial phase of adopting drones.
Unlike earlier test batches, this was a long-term cooperation agreement.
Recurring mass orders every year, even increasing annually. The deal would be presented in year-end congressional consultations and included as a separate item in the defense budget report.
Everyone was pleased.
Vela personally escorted the Pentagon group out of the industrial park. Umbrella staff then guided them to a partnered hotel for accommodations—plenty of good food and drink. After all, people were people—no one was really that busy. A little entertainment before returning to D.C. wouldn't hurt.
Tap. Tap.
Back in her office at the industrial park, Vela sat tapping her fingers absently against the contract and certification docs from the Pentagon order. The polished smile on her face slowly faded.
"As expected, the prosthetics industry is too tightly intertwined with semiconductors, intelligent systems, and electronics. Not only has Umbrella drawn the attention of the antitrust bureau, even Washington—being conjoined 'father and son' with the Brits—can't sit still."
Umbrella was the global leader in the medical field. Washington had tolerated that.
But now, Vela had created the Black Umbrella division.
Its responsibilities covered prosthetics, smart control, weapons manufacturing, semiconductors, and electronics—each a leading field globally. The scale had visibly exploded in recent years, and the bureaucrats in Washington were growing uneasy.
If it weren't for the fact that Umbrella was internally divided into the "Four Umbrellas," with clearly defined factions—and backed by powerful political lobbying and legal teams—Spencer himself would have been hauled in, wheelchair and all, to attend antitrust hearings.
The more successful Vela became, the more determined Washington would be to break up Umbrella. At the very least, they wanted to split Umbrella USA off.
It was inevitable.
Even Derek C. Simmons could only stall, not stop it. In fact, he was probably all for the split.
"Jumping ship"—that was happening this year.
Vela furrowed her brow slightly and leaned back in her executive chair, adjusting her posture for comfort. Her graceful legs stretched out as she unfolded a freshly delivered copy of the Colorado State newspaper.
In one corner of the newspaper, tucked in among less conspicuous text, it read: "Serial killings reported in Raccoon City. RPD (Raccoon City Police Department) pledges to eradicate this Satanic cult..."
September 20, 1998.
Outdated news, without question. Suppressed under Umbrella's pressure.
"It's close." A strange rush of tension and urgency welled up in Vela's chest. She gently massaged her temples.
The time to break away from Umbrella had come.
This wasn't Arasaka. Oswell E. Spencer, that decrepit old man, was no longer of any use.
Over the years, Vela had already repaid Spencer and the Umbrella board far more than they had ever invested in her.
"Nurtured by them"? Not really. She wasn't some product of the Project W—just a naturally emerging wild genius who happened to join Umbrella.
Whatever they put in, she had returned several times over—tenfold, even.
Even judged by Western ideals of personal freedom—or Eastern concepts of loyalty—Vela's decision to go independent or switch sides was beyond reproach.
Especially given Umbrella's own shady dealings: the T-virus program, the G-virus, BOW bioweapons... and the imminent Raccoon City biohazard. She had a thousand justifiable reasons to walk away.
From the moment she entered Umbrella, Vela had been planning her escape.
Whether in board meetings or private product launches, she never hesitated to criticize the company's unlimited investment into virology and unethical biological research. She called out their poor strategic choices and argued openly that the company's priorities were outdated and irrationally clinging to impractical medical fantasies.
After years of making her stance clear, anyone paying attention to Umbrella knew this:
Director Vela of the Black Umbrella division was a genius, a driving force behind the company's transition and expansion—and also the most outspoken critic of the board's outdated strategic path.
Sure, some senior staff within Umbrella privately grumbled too—but Vela could make money.
And no one argues with profits.
So, they just let her be.
In fact, many internal Umbrella personnel had begun shifting toward her camp. After some thought, many admitted—damn... she kind of has a point.
Just how many resources had the company sunk into forbidden virus research? And how much of that had turned a profit?
If not for the post-Cold War influx of unemployed Eastern European officers in 1991, who just happened to be stable T-virus hosts, their virology programs might still have produced nothing.
By contrast, Vela's vision of mechanical ascension—cybernetic immortality—seemed much more plausible.
Maybe immortality was far off, but extending life and preserving health through cybernetic limbs and artificial organs? Tangible, marketable, real.
A large number of former virology supporters had quietly defected to Vela's Black Umbrella faction.
And Spencer?
Still watching.
Maybe, in his youth, Spencer had been a ruthless but brilliant strategist. But now? Obsessed with immortality, the old man had lost his mind.
Vela knew Spencer's true nature.
Don't be fooled by his dominance in the boardroom, his global empire, or the illusion of some grand, hidden masterplan.
At the core, it was all so... petty. He built this whole empire just to keep himself alive.
That's why he backed Vela's prosthetics program.
That's why he also supported William Birkin's T and G virus projects.
He even used the money Vela earned to plug the financial black hole that was Birkin's lab. Partly due to sunk costs, partly because Birkin had him hooked on dreams and theories—and partly because Spencer was just too far gone.
Tap... tap...
Vela's fingers tapped lightly on her desk. Her thoughts finally landed on the red-and-white umbrella logo in the corner.
Most likely, this year—that symbol would be wiped away by her own hand.
"The Umbrella name will be toxic once everything goes down... ah, got it."
A flash of inspiration lit up in Vela's mind. A slight smile curled at her lips as she pulled out a notebook and some colored markers from her drawer.
Scratch scratch.
MILITECH.
Alongside it, a new logo took form: a yellow-striped V-shaped design embedded in a black square background.
"Militech."
As she spoke the name, a piercing glint flashed in Vela's eyes.
Vehicle manufacturing plants had to be operational as soon as possible. Arasaka's, Militech's—whichever. Securing outdated models wouldn't be difficult for someone in her position as a high-ranking Arasaka security official.
The prosthetics industry also needed rapid iteration.
Currently, the implants she designed and brought to market mainly served to replace lost or damaged limbs and organs—arms, legs, artificial heart valves, spinal vertebrae. These were life-saving devices, restoring patients to functional lives after major trauma.
In Cyberpunk terminology, these were considered Generation 0 cyberware.
Vela needed to manufacture true first-generation components—then second-gen, even third-gen—to arm her private bodyguards.
At the same time, she had to accelerate the absorption of Umbrella's private military forces—ideally acquiring several U.S.S. special ops teams. As for the U.S.F. Guard Division, she'd already begun integrating them long ago.
Arasaka-grade weapons were already in limited production, and Vela had equipped her U.S.F. guards with them.
Her thoughts surged.
As she contemplated how to extract even more value from the crumbling Umbrella infrastructure—
Knock knock...
"Come in."
"Director Russell, there's a man who wishes to see you. He says he has important information to deliver—critical information, concerning internal matters of the company."
Her secretary entered with a strange expression, clearly uncertain.
"Huh?"
Vela blinked.
"What's his name?"
"He says... his name is Chris Redfield."