In just half a day, Vela's directives were swiftly implemented.
M.S.F., which had inherited and retained the efficient, centralized command style of the pre-1991 CCCP and KGB, operated with exceptional speed. After receiving the largest group of survivors from the Raccoon City Police Department, the M.S.F. outpost on Raccoon Avenue in the west began a systematic withdrawal, personnel steadily exiting the urban area.
Under Vela's oversight, the Umbrella pharmaceutical plant in Colorado immediately began working overtime once they received the T-virus suppressant batches transferred by M.S.F. The first set of special weather modification rockets loaded with suppressants had already arrived in Raccoon City's outskirts.
Rescue helicopters bearing the MILITECH name and the new black-and-yellow logo—featuring a nested V-shape within a square—hovered over the city, broadcasting announcements that the "Raccoon City Emergency Sterilization Operation" had been approved by both houses of Congress and signed into effect by the President.
Numerous mainstream media outlets in the USA had been invited to witness the devastation from aboard Militech's rescue helicopters.
The live broadcasts showed it all: burning buildings, abandoned vehicles, mangled corpses, roaming hordes of the undead...
Many of the voices that had fiercely protested Congress's plan to nuke domestic soil fell silent. Especially among Colorado's own citizens, the shift was dramatic—public opinion flipped from protests to marches of support.
What they thought had been exaggerated was now horrifyingly real—and still getting worse.
Better to annihilate such abominations with a nuclear strike than risk them escaping.
Naturally, Vela seized this golden opportunity for propaganda. Aerial footage showed M.S.F. soldiers escorting survivors out of Raccoon City—some carrying children, others saving civilians from zombies...
U.B.C.S. members, despite still wearing Umbrella's red-and-white logo, were seen injured and fighting tirelessly against bioterror threats. Online, voices began to emerge defending Umbrella, claiming it wasn't entirely evil.
Of course, Vela would never admit that the first such posts had originated from California-based IP addresses.
The results were immediate: the criticism directed at Washington and the White House gradually faded.
A former senior classmate of Vela's—now Speaker of the House—sent her a discreet "thumbs up." Even Simmons, the originator of the "nuclear sterilization" plan, expressed his gratitude.
Vela's efforts to deflect blame also significantly eased the pressure on Simmons.
...
Vrrrr... vrrrr...
Midnight, September 27th.
The engines of transport vehicles and the whistling roar of special rain-modification rockets had echoed across the landscape for over thirty minutes. At the Militech evacuation point on Arklay Scenic Drive in the city's west, Chris stood silently in the rain, listening to the howling wind.
All around him: the sobs of rescued civilians, the CDC staff shouting commands, the blaring of sirens as state police kept order, the roar of vehicles as the National Guard reinforced the blockade...
"Chris."
Wearing a raincoat, Claire approached. Her pretty face, brave but weary, was full of concern.
"I'm fine, Claire."
Chris removed his helmet and turned sideways. Two straight days and nights of battle had left his hair disheveled, beard unshaven, eyes sunken, face pale, and lips chapped. There was a blankness in his gaze—he looked utterly drained.
"You really need to sleep!" Claire insisted.
"Forget it, Claire—you won't convince him," Jill said as she walked over. Now out of her M.S.F. protective gear and wearing a raincoat, she carried a bottle of mineral water, which she tossed toward Chris. "He's just going to say, 'I've made it this far, no point in stopping now.'"
Chris forced a smile and caught the bottle, his gaze still fixed on Raccoon City.
Above, rescue helicopters circled, their floodlights and markers flashing.
Below, the city lay in darkness—its power grid shut down for safety.
"I wanted to see it one last time. The city I devoted the first half of my life to..." she said.
Boom!
The weather modification rockets' catalysts activated. Already overcast skies began to churn, and with a deafening peal of thunder, lightning turned the pitch-black night into stark white.
Drip-drop...
Rain beat against the vehicle canopies with a growing patter, splashing across the asphalt, its tempo rapid and intense, washing over the streets.
Letting the cold rain strike his face, Chris inhaled deeply. Whether it was psychological or just fatigue, he felt as though he could actually smell the T-virus suppressant in the air.
An M.S.F. unit commander approached and relayed, "Chris Redfield, Executor Russell would like to speak with you."
Chris turned, nodded, and followed him toward the interior of the evacuation zone.
Claire and Jill exchanged a glance. "Is it true? That he risked everything just to see her? He almost got killed by Umbrella's guards..." With full power and connectivity restored at the evacuation site, Claire had already learned just how famous her brother had become.
"Probably."
Chris replied with a bitter tone. Fame was the last thing he wanted.
The reporters were relentless. That's why he was still wearing M.S.F. gear—to avoid being recognized.
"It's been a while, Mr. Redfield."
When Chris entered the M.S.F. command room at the evac site, a large LCD screen lit up with the image of Vela Adelheid Russell—statuesque, imposing, radiant. She turned her head, her gaze locking onto him.
Yes—statuesque and imposing. That was the feeling Vela Adelheid always gave Chris.
Impeccably dressed, always formal and stern, her speech refined and mannered, entirely devoid of flirtation or seduction.
"Executor Russell..."
"Just call me Vela. I think this cooperation has earned us the right to be friends."
Vela leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, fingers interlaced under her chin, eyes glinting, a smile on her lips.
"I will keep my promise. Militech's doors are always open to you. Property in San Francisco, Washington, New York, Los Angeles—equivalent to what you'd earn in 25 years of S.T.A.R.S. salary..."
"Enough."
Chris cut her off. "I told you—I don't want any reward. I only want Umbrella to pay the price for what it's done."
Vela didn't seem offended.
"That's who you are. And I'm who I am. I want to give it to you. Don't reject it so quickly. It's not pity, and it's not charity. It's equivalent compensation for 25 years of service. Your sister is still in college—I'll handle her student loans. Do you have plans for further education yourself?"
That last question wasn't directed at Chris. It was aimed at Claire, who had just entered the room.
"Huh? Me?"
She pointed at herself in surprise.
"Yes. Any school you want to go to—I can write a letter of recommendation."
As she spoke, Vela turned to look back at Chris. He was visibly torn. He didn't mind suffering himself—but he couldn't bear to see Claire suffer too.
Their parents were gone. They had grown up depending on each other. Both made it to college, but Chris still hadn't paid off his own student loans. Money was always tight. Getting Claire into a better school had always been his dream.
Without giving him time to think, Vela continued bluntly:
"Before October 1st, I'll send someone to escort you to Washington. The President will receive you at the White House and award you a medal. It's what you deserve."
"Claire, take your brother to rest."
Still unaware of the full picture and with no time to process the flood of information, Claire looked around at the M.S.F. soldiers watching her, then at the screen where Vela, wearing an elegant and faint smile, clearly wished to move on to other matters. At Vela's suggestion, she chose to support her brother and lead him out to rest.
"Get some proper rest, Chris."
Vela watched the siblings' backs as they disappeared through the doorway. "Now then, let's discuss the terms of your contracts... U.S.S."
Her cold gaze turned toward the eight people standing silently in the corner of the room:
Six members of the U.S.S. Delta Squad, their Umbrella insignias now torn off.
And two members of Alpha Squad—clad in solid black tactical gear, Kevlar helmets, and fly-eyed gas masks with glowing red lenses.
Vela focused on the one standing at the front.
"I've heard a lot about you, Mr. HUNK."
...
"Chris, that was Vela Adelheid? The one you said was convinced to expose Umbrella's crimes with us?"
Jill looked genuinely surprised. "Hey, that woman looks tough as nails... but Militech, huh? Are you sure you don't want to work for her? RPD's gone anyway." She nudged Chris with her elbow, teasing.
"No. She and I—we're not the same. It's not that I dislike her... it's just, she puts a lot of pressure on me."
"Pressure, huh... yeah, she is intense," Claire added. "Feels like she's stricter than the old-school principal at my university."
As their voices faded into the distance—
Sigh...
Leon sat glumly on an empty ammo crate.
"This... isn't what I thought my first day on the job would be like..."
He looked up at the rain-drenched silhouette of Raccoon City. RPD was gone. Where was he supposed to work now?
"You're still young. You can apply to another precinct."
It was Chief Marvin, handing Leon a cup of hot coffee as he sat beside him.
"After a crisis like this, I don't think the federal government will just sit on their hands. They'll definitely form new response agencies. Folks with real combat experience—like us—might actually get priority."
Marvin glanced at Leon's youthful face.
"But if you don't want to keep living this kind of life, you could change paths. Just like..."
He tilted his head toward the edges of the evac site, where fully armed M.S.F. soldiers wielded futuristic, unreleased tech.
...
Late night, Washington, D.C.
Formerly Umbrella, now Militech Division HQ.
Vela had just finished a remote video conference. Lost in thought, she entered her private office.
Sleep? Not a chance. Her building had to be brightly lit, bustling with overnight activity.
Raccoon City was still suffering. As one of the principal figures involved, she needed to look anxious. Grieving.
She slumped lazily into her executive chair and stretched.
"Hm?"
Her eyes caught a glance of her polished wooden desk. She snapped to alertness.
Her energy level was too high. She didn't look like someone exhausted from all-nighters or devastated over the suffering of Raccoon City's residents.
Commit to the role.
"Tch, better call the makeup artist—get that sleep-deprived look... or maybe I should learn to do it myself?"