September 26th, afternoon.
The constant sound of gunfire and sporadic explosions remained the theme of Raccoon City.
"Fire."
Bang!
The gunshot rang out, and the brilliant flash of fire seemed especially blinding under the overcast evening sky.
Blood splattered everywhere. William Birkin—no, to be precise, the G-creature—its torso spun weakly in the air for a few rotations before crashing heavily to the ground.
Dr. Birkin's head had already been crushed into his chest by mutated flesh and covered with layers of muscle membrane, devoured and digested by G's body.
Roar—!
It let out a roar. The enormous eyeball on its right arm, filled with bloodshot veins, locked fiercely onto the source of the gunfire. In response, at the wound where its body had been split in two, new flesh sprouts—resembling foul-smelling blood and entrails—intertwined with exposed bone shards, entangling, fusing, and swelling.
Visibly, the creature's form became even more grotesque.
The G-creature's previously severed upper and lower halves merged back together. Its frame swelled again, muscles bulging, and sharp bone spikes pierced through its spine, forming twisted, elongated appendages. It slithered along the ground, top-heavy and monstrous—no longer resembling anything human.
Clang!
A shell casing dropped. The soldier who had pulled the trigger ejected the spent round and loaded another.
On the rooftop of a high-rise, stacked with unopened weapon crates still bearing the red-and-white umbrella logo, a Delta officer lowered his binoculars. With a heavy tone, he spoke to the surrounding private military contractors:
"You chose it as a demo platform, U.S.F. You'd better hope you don't screw this up. We absolutely cannot let this kind of monster escape Raccoon City..."
"Naturally. But please refer to us as M.S.F. The name U.S.F is a thing of the past."
The M.S.F. commander crossed his arms and spoke proudly.
Umbrella. Militech. Now that legitimacy had been secured, their designation had changed from U.S.F. to M.S.F.—Militech Special Forces.
"We at Militech came precisely for this. This reusable, recoilless infantry cannon is just the appetizer. Watch closely—this is the future of recoilless advanced weaponry."
As he spoke, the monster—its hands and feet already transforming—suddenly leaped, smashing cracks into the concrete beneath it.
Ferocious and ugly. In a close-quarters skirmish, encountering such a beast would mean total annihilation, even for fully armed Delta or SEAL teams. But—
This was a modern military firepower encampment.
Bang!
Tremendous kinetic force slammed into the G-creature's body. Neither its thickened keratinized flesh nor its multiplying bones could withstand the blast.
Its further enlarged eyeball on the right arm burst apart on impact. The mutated claw-arm exploded into a cloud of blood mist. The G-creature, disoriented, slammed violently into a building wall. With a muffled crash, rubble and dust flew as it plummeted, smashing hard onto the ground below.
"In the past, to ensure a single shot hit its mark, they had to consider every variable that could affect trajectory. But now, with integrated observation helmets, target data and magnified images are inputted, and with advanced optical scopes and ballistic compensators, deviation is automatically calculated."
As the M.S.F. commander explained, at a rooftop sniper position, two former Umbrella—now Militech—M.S.F. soldiers, wearing sleek integrated helmets, expressionlessly pulled the oversized triggers of their weapons once again.
With two thunderous blasts—
Tungsten spike rounds tore through the air at astonishing speed, slamming into the fallen G-creature. One round struck the G's mutated head; the other pierced the remnants of what was once unmistakably William Birkin's head, still bearing traces of yellowed hair.
At the moment of impact, the ground beneath the G-creature seemed struck by a giant hammer, instantly shattering. The force of the bullet left a deep, scorched hole in its body, surrounded by layers of cracked, torn flesh.
"This is a prototype electromagnetic weapon. While it's still far from being light enough for individual soldiers to carry, it's sufficient for now."
"Next is a demonstration of the long-range stability and sustained fire capability of the Militech Type-1 Heavy Machine Gun. It uses 0.70 caliber programmable, fin-stabilized, discarding sabot armor-piercing rounds. As long as you can spot the target, the effective range exceeds 4,000 meters..."
Bang bang bang bang—
"From 300 to 10 meters, we'll demonstrate the Ajax Type-1 Assault Rifle, Defender Type-1 Light Machine Gun, and Tactician Type-1 Shotgun in succession."
...
"Unbelievable..."
Drip.
In the dim cable car tunnel, a red-dressed Asian woman with short black hair under an Umbrella researcher's white lab coat crouched and jumped down from the lift platform, entering the underground lab built by Umbrella for William Birkin's virus research. She found the entrance security station in total disarray.
The once-clean steel structure was covered in dents, with broken ceiling panels dangling exposed sparking cables, hissing and crackling, while a shriveled warning alarm continued to drone.
"No wonder they call her the genius who would lead Umbrella's transformation into an arms conglomerate—what incredible muzzle energy..."
The half-mutilated remains of what was once a B.O.W. clung to the wall, its head and torso riddled with massive scorched holes from some unknown advanced weapon. Even the deeply embedded pipelines within the wall had been severely damaged. The splattered blood had stained the entire surface.
The lights flickered.
Everywhere along the way, the cracked walls were riddled with bullet holes. The lingering scent of gunpowder hung in the air. Spent large-caliber shell casings, shattered glass, and bits of mutated B.O.W. flesh littered the deck floor, leaving barely a place to step.
Mixed with the smells of disinfectant, rotting flesh, and scorched corpses, the stench made the woman slightly nauseous.
She continued forward, her pointed heels kicking aside a few yellow shell casings.
"Thoroughly cleaned up."
The Asian woman entered the underground lab's security monitoring room and quickly scanned the space. As expected, not a single surveillance camera remained intact.
That woman, Vela Adelheid Russell, or rather, the M.S.F. now—really hadn't left her even a drop of soup.
There was no need to go further down to confirm—she could already guess that the virus samples and research data below had all been thoroughly taken.
She had waited at the lab entrance for some time and had seen with her own eyes the heavily armed M.S.F. soldiers descend, followed by intense gunfire and explosions. Eventually, they returned with bundles of military-grade sealed metal crates.
Except for a handful of surviving researchers, even William Birkin's partner, Annette Birkin, had been forcibly taken by them. During the scuffle, Annette had struggled and cursed, insisting she wanted to save the mutated Dr. Birkin. She was silenced with a rifle butt and a tranquilizer, then carried away.
"Tsk tsk... such a lack of appreciation for beauty."
Pulling out her personal phone, the woman made a call.
"Primary target failed. The underground lab was completely cleared by the M.S.F. I made it in safely, but the self-destruct sequence has already been activated—I don't have time to scavenge further..."
"As expected, that woman deployed even more M.S.F. units after formally severing ties with Umbrella. Some were for rescue efforts, but most came to flex their strength. Umbrella's U.B.C.S. has already surrendered en masse. The U.S.S. and U.S. Special Forces engagement has also been forced into a ceasefire and withdrawal under their suppression."
"Our only remaining chance is with the secondary target—Sherry Birkin."
"Or perhaps I should go collect the corpse—mutated William Birkin seems to have been used by that woman as a showcase for weapons. I'm seeing heavy firepower being transferred toward the school district... Oh? The 28th? Raccoon City will be reduced to ashes? Alright, understood."
"Two days—that's enough."
With that, she ended the call. The woman in red took off her Umbrella researcher coat, glanced at the warning lights now flaring across the underground facility, returned to the lift platform, and pulled a grappling gun from her belt, aiming it at the arching structure of the tunnel ceiling.
Whizz—
The woman in red soared upward.
Only the empty underground lab remained, accompanied by the increasingly urgent warning sirens.
...
M.S.F. Western Outpost.
After a night and half a day of clearing operations at Umbrella's Raccoon City HQ and the city's general hospital, Chris dragged his exhausted body back to the outpost to restock ammunition.
"Chris Redfield. Congratulations—well done."
That was the greeting he received the moment he returned.
"What?"
From the evening of the 25th, Chris had been engaged in continuous combat in Raccoon City—fighting zombies, retrieving evidence of Umbrella's crimes, rescuing survivors. Not resting even a minute, he yanked off his helmet and gulped mineral water, confused.
Why are you all looking at me like that?
Even the survivors—pale and dazed when rescued—lifted their heads and gave him sincere smiles and heartfelt thanks.
"Where's Captain Andreilov?"
He looked around, dropping his backpack.
It was filled with documents and evidence he'd gathered from administrative offices in various Umbrella and city emergency facilities.
Just like the past day and a half, every time he returned to resupply and switch out barrels, he brought back loads of evidence—proof of human experimentation, proof they knew the water supply was contaminated.
Chris seemed tireless, wholly devoted to the task, never resting, never paying attention to anything else.
"He led a team out to search for more survivors. The Executive Officer has changed the mission objective."
The M.S.F. squad leader at the outpost took Chris's pack with practiced ease, weighed it, and said with a sigh, "Redfield, congratulations. You've succeeded—you're now a federal hero."
"???"
As Chris looked increasingly baffled, the squad leader handed him a portable tablet, displaying:
"All Umbrella activities declared illegal. Congress passes a sanction and freeze bill against Umbrella. Director Vela Adelheid Russell's initiative to restructure Umbrella's California branch and USA region has been officially legalized!!"
Chris snatched the tablet and sat on an ammo crate, watching the recording of Vela speaking at Capitol Hill—especially the part where she publicly shared his experience with the entire nation, even the world. His emotions were a swirl of complexity.
Vela hadn't altered or embellished anything he had done, but something still felt... off. He couldn't say exactly what.
And this wave of praise and recognition? Fame was never what he wanted.
Chris thought of his fallen comrades.
"At least... it worked, right? Those Umbrella bastards in the Paris HQ will pay..."
He couldn't hold it in. Whether from fatigue or something else, his eyes grew moist.
Then, setting the tablet aside, Chris rubbed his eyes, as if doing so could relieve both physical and mental exhaustion. Two seconds later, he opened his bloodshot eyes, stood up, and began chewing a compressed ration bar as he resumed checking his gear.
"There was enough evidence to get the House and Senate to pass it. You might even get a medal... Hey, where are you going?"
"To finish the mission."
Chris finished resupplying. He loaded a grenade launcher, slung a light portable rocket launcher over his shoulder, and jumped down from the outpost position, not looking back as he said:
"I don't trust them. Umbrella still has a chance to flip the narrative. And didn't your Director say it herself? Search and rescue for survivors. I'm a former S.T.A.R.S. member—that's my job."
Damn. This guy was like a war god.
The M.S.F. squad commander at the outpost was struck with newfound respect.
This guy was the real deal—not some manufactured hero hyped up by media spin.
After all, M.S.F. was a private military force. They strictly followed protocol. They tried to save people, sure, but not at the cost of their own lives. They weren't Trauma Team. They could fight for days, yes—but there was no need. Rotating rest was critical to maintain combat effectiveness and prevent casualties.
"Hey, Redfield, take this. It might help."
Chris turned and caught it.
"What's this?" he asked, inspecting the green-and-white item in his hand—it looked like an asthma inhaler.
"MaxDoc Type-1. Think of it as a variant of a combat stimulant. Experimental, not ready for public release yet. It's designed to effectively reduce fatigue."
"Thanks."
With that, Chris joined the freshly rested M.S.F. rescue squad and set out again.
The section of Raccoon Avenue connecting to West Arklay Scenic Drive had already been cleared several times. The road was wide, flanked by rectangular buildings—perfect for setting up a kill zone. A single M2 heavy machine gun positioned at the right vantage point could lock down most of the street.
A few scattered zombies stumbled out from the nearby alleys, but none were a threat. Chris sidestepped an attacking zombie with practiced ease and blew its head to bits with a single shot.
He didn't bother with the rest—his M.S.F. squad handled them efficiently.
Along the way: collided vehicles, collapsed buildings, mangled corpses—the remains of last night's M.S.F.-assisted sweep of large-scale B.O.W\.s and mutated bio-creatures still faintly visible.
Ruined.
Cratered surfaces, burn marks everywhere, and large, dark pools of sludge. There were Nemeses, T-103 Tyrants, zombie dogs, skinned Lickers, and lizard-like Hunters...
"There'll be a few rainfalls tonight—artificial rain mixed with T-virus suppressants... Director's moving fast."
"We have to evacuate Raccoon City by the evening of the 27th. Director—no, we should say Executor now—Executor Russell's directive: by 6 PM on the 27th, the military will begin carpet bombing Raccoon City. By 6 AM on the 28th, a nuclear warhead will be dropped..."
"Heh, not unexpected. With how Raccoon City looks now, might as well go straight to nukes..."
"Tch. North America's gonna take a nuke, huh?"
As they crossed from the side streets and left Raccoon Avenue, the M.S.F. soldiers chatted casually but remained alert.
Their tone lacked any sentimentality about the looming nuclear strike on Raccoon City.
Listening to his comrades—battle companions through the night—Chris found himself irritated.
They held no reverence for their own homeland, yet they had immense respect for Director Vela. It didn't sit right with him.
Umbrella...
Just then—"Hold up, Redfield."
The M.S.F. soldier carrying the squad's comms gear cut off Chris's train of thought. "Message from Valentine. Do you have a sister named Claire?"
"Claire?"
Chris's tone instantly turned anxious. "What happened to her? Where is she?!"
"Seems like your sister somehow got into Raccoon City. We don't know how she slipped past the National Guard's blockade, but don't worry. Jill Valentine and Carlos's U.B.C.S. mixed rescue team ran into her on Central Avenue in the south. One of our elite units is also operating nearby."
...
At the same time—
"Claire?! What are you doing in Raccoon City?!"
"I came to find my brother... Miss Valentine, is that really you? I haven't heard from him in nearly two months—I'm so worried. Do you know where he is?"
Central Avenue, Raccoon City Police Department.
A heartfelt reunion broke the heavy atmosphere in the police station.
Now wearing full M.S.F. gear, Jill removed her mask and helmet amid the wary gazes of officers and survivors, rubbing her temple in frustration.
Standing before her was a young woman with long, chestnut-blonde hair tied into a practical ponytail. Her features were striking. She wore a white shirt under a red jacket, jeans, and high-top boots. Dust covered her face and clothes—a travel-worn sight.
It was none other than Chris's twin sister—Claire.
"You, a college girl, running into Raccoon City alone at a time like this—what were you thinking?!"