Chapter 20: Umbrella's Westward Shadow
In recent years, Vera had poured every ounce of effort into transforming Umbrella's North American California branch—under her command—into a new technological powerhouse. No longer just a medical subsidiary, it had expanded to include cutting-edge sectors: cybernetics, neural control, semiconductors, electronic warfare systems, and now, the military-industrial complex.
Under Derek C. Simmons' authorization, the California branch swiftly acquired Pentagon and DOJ-approved industrial certifications. Vera didn't wait for factories to be fully operational or for high-end combat gear from Arasaka or Militech to roll off assembly lines. Instead, she secured critical footholds first—producing and distributing basic munitions: standardized calibers of bullets, stun grenades, gas canisters, smoke bombs.
Low-tech, but essential.
Utilizing schematics and experience pulled from cyberpunk-era tech archives, Vera refined and optimized these basic products. Backed by Umbrella's vast infrastructure, she flooded the California market almost overnight.
She infiltrated local police precincts, civilian gun ranges, competitive shooting leagues, rifle clubs, and veterans' associations—offering gear at dirt-cheap prices. Profit wasn't her priority.
Behind this façade lay a more lucrative engine: prosthetics, neural-interface tech, semiconductor processing, and Gen-0 cyberware—where the real money flowed.
Secure the gate. Flood the field. Own the future.
Meanwhile, at a military base demonstration, U.S. Army officers scrutinized a consumer-grade drone, retrofitted by Umbrella. A tech sergeant, already adept at flying the drone, leaned close to the general.
"Umbrella's reserves are stacked. This model alone handles individual recon flawlessly. And if we retrofit it..."
The general raised an eyebrow.
"...it's viable for suicide bombing ops or precision payload drops. Huge potential."
The general gave a slow nod. He didn't care what Umbrella intended when designing it. What mattered was how easily it could be retooled for tactical deployment.
With military R&D shifting towards autonomous units, Umbrella's early models showed promise. Feedback from field units on initial drone batches had been overwhelmingly positive.
"Our Chief of Staff is watching this closely," the general murmured. "We see this kit as a foundational element for future battlefields."
He turned to Vera, extending his hand.
"Dr. Russell, your expertise in control systems and human-machine engineering is... remarkable. Just a few years, and the tech has leapt forward this far."
After a beat, he asked carefully, "But military application is far different from civilian. More chaotic. If you're willing, maybe you can help us evolve these drones further."
Vera offered a practiced smile.
Civilian or military—it was always just a matter of intention. Every civilian-use tech carried latent combat potential. Drones, prosthetic limbs, even neuro-linked toys. The only real question was scale.
The general pressed again, voice low. "And what about... misuse? Selling these to the wrong people—criminals, insurgents. Social stability? Public risk?"
Vera's smile didn't waver.
She deflected with corporate platitudes: "That's an unfair assumption." "Umbrella maintains strict compliance." "We have full faith in American law enforcement." "We're committed to national security."
In other words—let's table that discussion.
The factory tour resumed. Questions and answers flowed. The mood lightened.
After inspecting the large UAV workshop, the general spoke again—seemingly offhand: "If I recall... Umbrella's only surviving founder is British?"
Vera paused slightly.
"Lord Oswell E. Spencer. Yes. But I was born and raised in the U.S. My Black Umbrella division operates solely on American soil. My team is American. Our upcoming expansion projects? All here."
Satisfied, the general chuckled, his jowls lifting slightly.
"With Dr. Russell at the helm, Umbrella's future looks bright."
Vera offered a tight, rehearsed smile. "Appreciate your trust."
---
That evening, Umbrella California secured a massive Pentagon contract.
Consumer, racing, professional, and heavy-grade drone fleets—purchased in triple-digit batches. This wasn't a one-off test order. This was a strategic partnership. Annual replenishment. Increasing volume. Budget lines carved out in defense appropriations for 1998 and beyond.
Vera saw the delegation off herself. They'd be pampered in one of Umbrella's contracted luxury hotels—drinks, dinners, entertainment. No one in Washington ever left without a smile.
Back in her office, Vera's fingers drummed rhythmically atop the signed contract and military credentials. Her expression sharpened. The smile faded.
"As expected... prosthetics, semiconductors, intelligent systems—too much overlap. Too much power."
Umbrella wasn't just the medical giant anymore. It was becoming the everything company. And Washington noticed. So did the Antitrust Bureau. So did the old allies in London, who preferred a fragmented America.
If not for Umbrella's four-division structure and its legendary legal + lobbying corps, Spencer would already be on trial—wheelchair or not.
Derek C. Simmons? He wouldn't stop the split. He'd welcome it.
This year, the rats begin jumping ship.
Vera leaned back in her chair, long legs crossed, thumbing through a Colorado newspaper.
Buried deep on page seven:
> "Series of murders rock Raccoon City. RPD vows to eradicate Satanic cult suspected of mass killings..."
The date read: September 20, 1998.
News this delayed was clearly suppressed—by Umbrella.
"Soon," Vera murmured, pressing her fingertips to her temples. The countdown had begun.
She had done her duty. Spencer had bet on her, and she'd delivered tenfold. No Wesker Project DNA, no bio-enhancement—just brilliance and drive. But she'd outgrown this.
Ethically? Legally? Even morally—she had every right to leave.
The T-Virus, G-Virus, BOW bioweapons, and the nightmare festering in Raccoon City—Umbrella was rotting.
From day one, Vera had warned the board: biotech was a dead end. She wanted neural nets, machine limbs, surgical cybernetics. The future wasn't mutation—it was mechanical ascension.
Now, even Umbrella insiders were questioning Spencer's biotech obsession. What had decades of viral research yielded? One semi-viable subject group, recruited from Cold War leftovers?
Vera's path was clearer, cleaner—and profitable.
Cyberware. True Gen-1 implants. Next-gen prosthetics. Direct neural interfaces.
Her vision extended life, preserved mobility, rebuilt the broken.
As profits rolled in, staff defected from the bio-divisions to join Vera's Black Umbrella team. Spencer? He didn't stop them.
Why? Because he needed her.
Spencer burned her revenue on Birkin's endless research. The old man, once brilliant, had become a delusional husk chasing immortality.
Vera tapped the table lightly again.
Her gaze landed on the red-and-white Umbrella logo.
"This brand will be poison soon."
A flicker of inspiration.
She reached into her desk, pulled out a notepad and pen.
Shhh... scratch... scratch...
MILITECH.
She sketched a new emblem: black base, yellow V-shape, encased in a bold-edged frame.
"Military Technology," she whispered.
Time to expedite the vehicle assembly line—Arasaka models, Militech prototypes—nothing she couldn't acquire under her Arasaka Security clearance.
Prosthetics needed faster updates too.
What Umbrella sold now were stopgaps: artificial organs, replacement limbs—basic Gen-0 tech. Enough to keep people alive. Enough to get them walking again.
Vera needed Gen-1 and Gen-2 cybernetics.
Not survival. Superiority.
She would outfit her bodyguards, reclaim key Umbrella paramilitary units—preferably elite U.S.S. teams. She had already embedded herself deep in the U.S.F. Guard Corps.
Some of them were now wielding prototype Arasaka weaponry—courtesy of her.
Her mind raced.
Everything's in place. Just need the spark.
Knock, knock.
"Come in."
"Director Russell," her secretary entered, voice hesitant. "There's a man outside. Says he has urgent internal intel... and it's critical to Umbrella."
Vera raised an eyebrow.
"What's his name?"
The secretary looked confused. "He said... Chris Redfield."