1998/9/25.
Evening.
"Mom—huff... huff... Mom, I can't run anymore!"
Through the rain, two figures—one tall, one short—staggered through the fully congested streets of Raccoon City and onto the outer Arklay Mountains. Drenched, they trudged through the muddy roadside, running with difficulty.
"Not yet, sweetie—faster! You can do it! We have to get far away from here!"
The smaller figure stumbled several times, nearly falling, only to be lifted again by her mother. Rain-soaked golden hair clung to the woman's cheeks as water streamed down her face. Gasping, drenched from head to toe, she looked back at the fading lights of Raccoon City, fear etched deep on her face.
"They've gone mad. Everyone's gone mad!"
Back there, through the sheets of rain, twisted shadows swayed, interspersed with ghastly moans.
The woman clutched her daughter's hand tightly and pressed on, but their pace slowed. In the dark and stormy night, their figures looked impossibly small—as if the storm might swallow them at any moment.
Eventually, a puddle tripped the girl. Her mother knelt to help, trying to lift her again, but she was exhausted. The chill from their soaked clothes and the strain of escaping the city had drained her completely. Her breathing grew more labored.
Roar.
And then, from behind them, that bone-chilling growl returned.
Drawing closer, a figure of blood and gore emerged—reaching with a pale hand and gaping maw.
"God help us..."
The woman's face went pale with despair, but she still instinctively shielded her daughter.
Suddenly—
Bang!
Muzzle flash lit the rain. Flesh burst apart.
Clunk.
A bright flashlight beam swept toward them. Once it located the mother and child, the light softened.
The woman could finally see clearly.
A tall figure approached—his arms marked with glowing stripes. Dressed in full dark combat gear, armored boots, ballistic vest with plate inserts, a filtered mask under a fully sealed helmet with triple-lens night vision.
He lowered his massive rifle, crouched, and extended a hand.
The little girl blinked at the glowing U.S.F letters on his chest.
Cradling the girl in one arm, he helped the mother to her feet and led them to a roadside service station fifty meters away.
"Apologies, but we need to check. Any bites or scratches?"
Beneath a makeshift rain shelter, the U.S.F. soldier carefully scanned their limbs, neck, and torso with a flashlight. Once he confirmed there were no wounds, he wrapped them in foil thermal blankets.
Only then did the woman realize the station was surrounded by seven heavy transport trucks. Some had opened into RV-like temporary shelters.
Others like her, wrapped in the same blankets, sat dazed against the walls.
Heavily armed personnel moved up and down, unloading and assembling monitors, CPUs, med kits, ammo crates, M2 heavy machine guns, M134 miniguns, autocannons, multi-barrel rocket launchers, and gear she couldn't name.
Gunfire rang out in short bursts.
Snipers with suppressed rifles perched on truck roofs, picking off zombies in the distance.
"Umbrella security... but that logo?"
As a Raccoon City native, she knew Umbrella well.
These were clearly their personnel—each wore the familiar red-and-white umbrella logo. But what was that black-and-yellow square pattern on their shoulder armor?
MILITECH.
"Militech...?"
She whispered the words.
But she quickly pushed those unnecessary thoughts aside, hugging her daughter tightly.
She had already lost her husband—he had stayed behind to cover their escape and was overwhelmed by the "cannibal sickness" victims.
Now, she only wanted to keep her child safe.
"The National Guard is expected to arrive within 12 to 24 hours. When they do, you'll be safely evacuated."
A U.S.F. soldier watching over the survivors handed her a bottle of water and some food.
"Thank you."
From a distance at the entrance to Raccoon Avenue, Chris stood watching everything, his expression unreadable beneath his helmet. He turned away slowly.
"The ones who should really answer for this aren't the grunts. It's people like William Birkin—Umbrella's top brass."
"And he will answer," Vela's voice replied through the comms.
"It was his arrogance and stubbornness that ruined everything."
Chris didn't respond to that. Instead, he looked at a recessed display screen on the side of a transport truck. On it, Vela appeared—seated with her hands calmly placed on the table, pristine, polished, and composed.
"Things have reached this point. You believe me now, right?" Chris asked.
"I do. The agreement stands. Once you bring the evidence out of Raccoon City, I'll publicly resign from Umbrella and lead the California Division—and Umbrella USA—out from under Paris HQ's control."
"I'll also testify before Congress. I'll denounce Spencer and William Birkin. They hid the company's history from me and lied to my face. I'll make them pay. Good luck."
"Let's hope so."
Chris stepped out of view.
The evacuation point had been established. He walked to the front of the truck, waved at the U.S.F. driver, and then picked up speed, making his way on foot into the wreckage-clogged Raccoon Avenue.
U.S.F. soldiers clearing stragglers nearby fell in behind him, forming up swiftly and advancing with him toward the city interior.
As part of the support team, the U.S.F. driver parked the vehicle across the road and deployed stabilizers.
Bzzz... bzzz...
Waterproofed recon drones launched into the air under operator control. Inside the truck, gun ports slid open and M2 heavy machine gunners loaded up. Support teams moved to higher ground, methodically establishing fire positions.
...
Umbrella Industrial Park, San Francisco—Director's Office.
Vela sat before a massive split-screen monitor. A top-down map of Raccoon City occupied the center, with glowing green dots and vehicle outlines representing her U.S.F. Mobile Units.
Though technically a few generations behind and not yet fully mature, the downgraded tactical terminal system she'd installed gave her enough range and feedback to monitor and command operations in real time—right from her comfortable seat.
She was getting a taste of what it was like to be Arasaka.
Because she couldn't—and wouldn't—go to Raccoon City herself.
The wise don't stand beneath crumbling walls.
She was the Director, not a front-line grunt. Too many people depended on her to stay alive. Like the U.S.F. troops themselves—if they died, it'd be on her to handle the pensions, the families, everything.
Most of all... Vela feared death.
William Birkin, now a G-mutant, was still loose in Raccoon City. What if he saw her and snapped?
She knew her own limits well. Over the years, she'd developed a habit of baiting Birkin, constantly provoking him.
He probably hated her.
With that in mind, it wouldn't be surprising if Washington ended up blaming her for part of Birkin's downfall.
She chuckled dryly and shook her head, shifting her gaze back to her U.S.F. forces.
"Too bad the feedback's slow, marking is off, and there's no clean first-person view... If only the vehicle factory were operational. No aerial units, no mechs, even the weapons are lacking. This 'riot suppression task force' doesn't feel very riot-suppressive..."
It was admittedly odd to see M2s—ancient relics—resurface amid so many old Arasaka, Militech, and even Nokota models. But whatever.
Vela couldn't produce smart weapons or personal railguns yet. She'd use what worked.
And there was a reason the M2 heavy machine gun remained a U.S. military staple for generations.
"Have PR repackage these Raccoon City mission clips."
She glanced again at the delayed feed of her U.S.F. task force rescuing survivors in Raccoon City's west.
Picking up the phone, she gave her office secretary a new directive.
"This clip—last-minute rescue of a mother and daughter from a zombie's jaws. The angles, the lighting... and that shot of the little girl looking up—perfect."
Since she was leaving Umbrella behind, she needed to showcase a different brand of leadership for her new California Umbrella: one of commitment, integrity, and honor. The old Umbrella had none of those. But hers?
Hers had all three.
Even just a little.
"Director, drones have spotted multiple European HQ transport helicopters. HQ forces have entered Raccoon City."
As Vela was distracted, reviewing footage from the U.S.F. survivor rescue op, the voice of 4th Squad Captain Andrelov pulled her back to focus. On-screen, drone footage panned across several choppers bearing the Umbrella logo, hovering over a downtown rooftop.
They'd apparently offloaded something and were now lifting off.
"Hunters? Tyrants? Some other unit? Their schedule moved up—this is a bigger deployment than expected. Spencer must've caught wind of my moves."
After thinking for a second, Vela picked up the mic and changed comm channels.
"Heighten alert levels. This is likely B.O.W.s from Paris HQ. As of now, we are in a hostile posture toward Paris HQ. Repeat—hostile posture."
She paused.
"Mr. Redfield... your partner may be in danger."
...
A few minutes earlier.
"Umbrella scum!"
Jill Valentine's voice tore through the silence of her apartment as she fired a 12-gauge round.
With a scream, the first man through the breached door took a full blast to the face. He fell back, blood spraying, finger spasming on the trigger as his weapon sprayed wildly.
"Fuck! Take cover!"
"That S.T.A.R.S. bitch is inside!"
Behind him, the U.U.T.U. soldiers—Umbrella's cleanup unit—laid down a dense net of fire. Submachine guns and rifles shredded the doorway. Splinters and stuffing erupted from furniture and walls.
Jill had already rolled to cover behind a structural wall after that first shot. She instinctively tightened her grip on the backpack.
Chris had warned her—Umbrella was out to destroy all evidence. She had to protect—
Two soldiers appeared in her peripheral vision, tossing in two round objects.
Grenades.
No time to think.
Jill dove for the half-open bathroom door.
BOOM!
The blast shook the room. Shrapnel flew.
Curled tightly behind the doorframe, Jill ignored the ringing in her ears, pulled two flashbangs from her belt, bit out the pins, tossed one, and then sprang to her feet.
BANG!
As the flash went off, she rolled out of the bathroom.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
Screams followed—some hadn't ducked in time.
With one hand, Jill continued to pepper the doorway with shotgun fire, while the other released the last flashbang's pin and lobbed it outside. Without any intention to drag the fight out, she kicked open the living room window and leapt onto the metal fire escape.
"She's escaping! After her!"
Ratatatat!
Ratatatat!
Bullets sparked off the rusted rungs of the fire escape. Jill didn't pause to breathe, diving toward the wall's blind spot below.
Thunk.
The trash pile cushioned her fall. Jill tumbled forward, hissing from the scrape across her shoulder blade.
"Ugh... damn it." Gritting her teeth against the searing pain, she forced herself to ignore the stench of decay as she sprinted into the alley.
ROAR!
A middle-aged zombie woman, drawn by the gunfire and scent of blood, lunged at her from the shadows.
BLAM!
Jill sidestepped and blasted its head into pulp.
Compared to treacherous people, mindless zombies were easy.
"She's in the alley!"
Shit!
The shouts behind her made Jill's face harden. Even now, with the city a hellhole, Umbrella still wanted her dead.
And across the street, more zombies—seven, maybe eight—shambled toward her.
Cornered.
Just then—CLACK!—a side door flew open.
"This way!"
A disheveled man yanked Jill inside.
CLANG! The door slammed shut.
"Thanks—"
Jill's gratitude froze as she spotted the Umbrella patch on his shoulder. Her voice snapped like a whip:
"You Umbrella bastard!"
"Whoa, easy! I did just save your life."
The man, dressed like a mercenary and clearly not regular military, raised his hands.
"I'm Carlos, U.B.C.S."
"What's the difference?"
"At the very least, I'm not with them. We were deployed to help civilians." Carlos shrugged. "Didn't expect it to be this bad, though... It's a total mess."
BANG BANG! The door shuddered with impacts.
"This isn't the place to talk. We've got to move. I only came this way 'cause I saw those guys sneaking around. Had no idea they were trying to kill you. Lady, what did you do to piss them off this much?"
"Save the jokes!"
Jill snapped. "If anyone's pissed off the world, it's your damn Umbrella."
"That's above my paygrade. I'm just a merc."
Carlos jogged ahead, voice dry and self-deprecating. "Like a dog fetching a frisbee—who asks why it does it?"
Jill fell silent.
After a moment, she reconsidered something Chris had said.
"Want to come with me? I'm heading west. An Umbrella unit's supposed to meet me there."
"Huh?"
Carlos blinked.
Wait, what?
Didn't she just get attacked by Umbrella's black ops unit? She didn't trust him a minute ago. Now she's saying another Umbrella unit is coming to help?
What is going on?
Infighting... inside Umbrella?
DUM DUM—
Still stunned, Carlos rushed to the far door and threw it open—
"Shit!"
Before Jill could react, he tackled her to the ground.
WHOOSH—BOOM!
A rocket screamed past and exploded inside. The entire room blew apart in a blast of fire and debris. Smoke and dust filled the air as fragments rained down.
"Cough—cough—what the hell was that?!"
Carlos rolled to his feet, staring in shock.
Across the street, a towering figure in a black cloak lowered a rocket launcher. Its face—faceless, wrapped in dark bandages—turned toward them.
Or toward Jill.
THUMP!
Another hulking monster landed from a rooftop, crushing a sedan beneath its weight. It let out a guttural roar, distorted words barely audible:
"S.T.A.R.S... evidence... destroy..."
THUD THUD—!
It charged like a tank.
"Lady, what the hell did you do?!"
"Shit—don't just stare! That's Umbrella's bioweapon—run!"
Jill bolted. Over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of the monster's grotesquely exposed heart.
Wait—what was that?
A tiny drone with a spinning propeller dropped onto the creature.
Then—BOOM!
A fiery explosion erupted. The air compressed, then blasted outward with force.
Jill staggered back from the shockwave, eyes wide.
Another drone hovered, emitting a voice.
"Jill? Is that you, Jill?"
"Chris?!"