Just as Vela departed for the White House, news broke that the House of Representatives had passed her proposed bill to "Sanction and Freeze All Umbrella Activities and Mandate Reorganization."
Moments later, footage of her standing with lawmakers beneath the Statue of Freedom on Capitol Hill, speaking confidently into the cameras, was broadcast worldwide.
Denver, Colorado. Inside a hidden safehouse tucked within a luxury downtown apartment complex, the glow of a television flickered in the dim room, casting shifting blue light as it aired news of the federal sanctions against Umbrella.
A tall man, clad in a dark navy shirt with a shoulder holster over it, wearing sunglasses and slicked-back blond hair, sat silently, watching the screen.
Among the aging, balding men and severe-looking matronly types, her youthful silhouette stood out.
High-end dark uniform with crimson tech-like patterns. A strikingly symmetrical, almost doll-like face. Shoulder-length cascading light-gold waves. And those unforgettable indigo eyes.
"...Spencer, trapped by your own web. A woman like Vela Adelheid could never be controlled or exploited by someone like you."
Albert Wesker sneered.
He couldn't say for certain how much Vela had known about Umbrella's secret bio-research and B.O.W. development. After all, she had never directly involved herself with virology or played dirty. That was fact. But the pride, the disdain in her demeanor—those weren't acts.
From a few indirect encounters, distant observations, Wesker had sensed it.
He and that woman—in some ways, they were the same kind of people.
Wesker admitted: in the past, he had felt envy, even jealousy and inferiority, at her meteoric rise and monumental achievements.
"William... in the end, you lost."
Buzz.
Wesker stared at the censored images of the deformed creature shown on screen, captioned in bold: "William Birkin, Chief Virologist of Umbrella, Architect of the Raccoon City Incident."
His fist clenched. A vein bulged on his temple, then vanished.
Within Umbrella, William Birkin had been one of his few real friends.
When Wesker had staged his death by injecting a variant of the Progenitor Virus, it was William who had mixed and administered it.
He knew that William had been driven nearly insane over the years by the pressure brought on by Vela.
Personal ambition. Peer ridicule. A fading career within the company. Wesker had long suspected that William's contact with high-ranking U.S. military officials—possibly in preparation to defect—was no coincidence.
The result, however, was clear. William had lost, utterly and completely.
Vela hadn't even acknowledged him.
Spencer had made the move.
And judging by the news, Vela had likely been courting Washington and the Pentagon for quite some time.
Even if William had succeeded, Wesker doubted his friend could have stood against her.
Yes, the military wanted B.O.W.s and bioweapons. But compared to the clear, profitable roadmap Vela had laid out—cybernetic implants, AI drone tech, the electronic warfare sector, and commercially viable next-gen arms—William's tech was severely limited.
Now, with the world's first Class-A biohazard outbreak on his hands, the military severed all ties with William immediately, siding with Vela and her narrative in Congress, pinning every last blame on William.
The Pentagon: William Birkin? Never heard of him! We'd never risk upsetting Ms. Russell.
Soon after, Wesker even saw reports of William's alma mater removing him from their Hall of Fame and revoking his diploma. Several private hospitals announced they were terminating all collaborative contracts with him.
"Rest in peace, William. I won't repeat your mistakes..."
Even blurred by heavy mosaic, Wesker instantly recognized the grotesquely deformed human form on the screen. He knew—his friend had died the moment he injected himself with the G-virus.
Beep-beep...
A text alert cut short Wesker's solemn moment. He picked up his phone. Caller: Ada Wong.
Beep.
Call connected.
Wesker asked, "Do you have it?"
"No progress yet."
A low, slightly raspy female voice came through the speaker.
"You never told me the internal conflict inside Umbrella was this insane. Vela Adelheid's U.S.F., Paris HQ's U.T.S., the clueless U.B.C.S. still rescuing people, Spencer's U.S.S., the Raccoon Police Department, and the military's special forces—it's chaos. There are way more B.O.W.s deployed and experimental creatures loose from the labs than you estimated... it's too messy. I haven't had a chance to reach the underground lab."
"William Birkin's turned into some monster. He's roaming the school zone, apparently looking for his daughter. He ran into special forces, and a firefight broke out. Nearby corpse hordes are converging on the city. I can't approach the secondary target either."
"..."
Wesker listened quietly, then said in a low tone, "That's your problem to solve. I chose you because of the risk. Double pay. Don't disappoint me."
"I'll try. I'm working on infiltrating the Raccoon Police. They're gathering survivors. I might get close to the second target that way."
"Then move fast, Ada. Vela Adelheid is in Washington. The moment she confirms retrieval of the evidence and evacuation of survivors and military units, once the Pentagon deems Raccoon City unsalvageable... they'll sterilize it."
Click.
Call ended.
"Before Vela Adelheid can mobilize more troops... no. There's no time. I still can't expose myself..."
Wesker set down the phone and turned his attention to the computer screen. Using the backdoor left by William, he accessed the Raccoon City underground lab surveillance system.
...
Raccoon City.
Southeastern district, Raccoon Junior High School.
ROAR—! Horrific chewing noises and non-human howls of pain echoed through the empty halls.
Tap, tap...
Light footsteps near a pile of crashed vehicles, followed by groans and hushed swearing.
"Fuck, fuck! Umbrella U.S.S. bastards!"
"Enough. Keep your voice down. We lost this round. Their gear... damn it, when did our U.S. special forces gear fall behind?"
"Same goes for you. Shut it. Fleur is dead. You want to lure that William Birkin freak back here? We're all screwed."
A group of U.S. soldiers in urban camo and tactical vests stumbled into an abandoned house. They pulled the curtains, munched on ration bars, treated their wounds, and sorted through their remaining ammo.
They had losses. The mood was grim.
"Captain, any word from command?"
As squad leader Jeddingham set down his comms headset in the corner, his team couldn't help but ask.
Their situation was dire. Their first encounter with the U.S.S. had gone terribly. Worse, it drew in the mutated William Birkin, who was now prowling the vicinity.
Gunfire had stirred up the local undead. Zombies were roaming nearby.
They were pinned here by the U.S.S. Any further noise would get them sniped on the spot.
If it were just combat, they could handle it. But fighting while that giant one-eyed freak lurked? One surprise attack and they could all die.
"Ma'am, I hope your strategy works..."
Still in communication with command, the squad leader's expression was twisted and conflicted after muting his mic. If the call hadn't come from the White House, he would have cursed them out.
He turned around. "Orders received. We're to move west along Raccoon Avenue."
The squad's African-American virology specialist immediately burst out, "Move? That freak with the giant eyeball is parked right at the junior high on the Raccoon split! No heavy weapons? We're walking into a slaughter!"
"Command offered us a less-than-ideal alternative."
"Which is?"
"Either we sit here and wait to die, or..."
The squad leader's gaze drifted toward the room's radio. Prolonging the stalemate wasn't an option. He grit his teeth.
"We try it. We're Echo Six! We don't get rescued by corporate security!"
He laid out the plan.
His teammates stared at him like he'd lost his mind.
"Using sound to lure it away? Who came up with this crap? What kind of sound? His wife? His kid?" The team medic—a bald, gruff fat guy—was quick to mock.
"Maybe an old rival."
The commander grabbed the radio and tuned it.
"Execute the plan. You cross to the other side of the street and wait for my signal. I'll draw that thing away."
He signaled the team to move, then crouched and made his way along the wall toward the junior high.
One small mercy: the mutated William Birkin attacked indiscriminately. Even zombies.
The street was littered with viscera and splattered blood.
"Help me..."
Near the school entrance, the monster's hoarse, guttural call echoed through the building like something choking on a fish bone.
ROAR—!
A moment later, it shifted to an inhuman howl.
The school entrance was packed with wrecked cars, each smeared with blood and stripped bones. The squad leader scanned the wrecks and chose a sturdy one with the window down.
He turned the radio volume to max.
Huff...
Drawing a deep breath, he positioned himself to sprint, then hit the radio switch and hurled it into the car.
Thunk-thunk—!
Then he ran. Sprinting full-tilt, he waved madly at his team to take cover and retreat west along Raccoon Avenue.
The radio crackled.
A cold, composed female voice rang out:
"Dr. William Birkin. Long time no see. Looks like you failed again."
Loud. Echoing in the stillness near the school entrance, it was thunderous.
BOOM—!
A metallic screech and a shrill whine followed as steel slammed into the gate railing. Even the brick walls on either side trembled. A deluge of howls shattered the silence.
ROAR—!
"Vela Adelheid Russell... all your fault! Kill you! Because of you... KILL YOU!"
A lopsided, grotesque form emerged beside the car blaring the voice.
His shredded white lab coat was soaked in blood. His grotesquely swollen body strained the fabric, over two meters tall. His right shoulder burst open with a giant eyeball, and his grotesque right arm no longer resembled anything human.
"Ugly as hell, William Birk—"
"DIE!!"
The head of what remained of William Birkin, now shifted toward his left chest and shoulder, screamed. Bloodshot eyes, nearly overtaken by mutating flesh, flashed red with murderous fury. He swung his steel pipe.
WHAM!
The car crumpled instantly. Glass shattered into powder.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
One hit. Two. Three. The pipe bent and broke. He kept smashing with his fists. No one knew how many blows. The car was wrecked, the radio crushed. Vela's voice cut out. The vehicle was now a mangled lump of metal.
"Damn, that's some next-level grudge."
Birkin kept hammering the wreck. Echo Squad slipped past the school and into the eastern entry of Raccoon Avenue.
Hearing the rhythmic destruction and the monster bellowing Vela's name even in his mutated state, Squad Leader Jeddingham felt a chill.
"Echo Six reporting. We've entered Raccoon Avenue. Over."
...
White House, Situation Room.
Click.
Lowering her headset, Vela glanced at the silent room full of people.
Raising an eyebrow, she said, "What are you all staring at me for?"