The next morning.
The sun rose over the hills, ushering in another ordinary dawn in San Francisco.
Vela woke naturally.
She opened her eyes to a familiar ceiling—the intricate suspended gilded panels faintly gleaming in the dim light. Thanks to the sound-dampening system's noise control, the room was utterly silent, save for the faint rustle of filtered wind brushing through treetops outside.
"Have Ashley and the others woken yet? Any disturbances last night?"
Lights came on as Vela slipped out of bed, pulling aside the bedroom curtains.
Beyond the wrought-iron fence lay shaded woods, a mirrored pond, poetic gardens, and untamed forest stretching into the distance—a scene that embodied tranquility and elegance.
A view worthy of poetry and dreams.
[No abnormalities detected. Miss Graham awoke at approximately PST 8:17 and is currently washing up. Would you like to review the target's and her classmates' conversation transcripts—] chimed a crystalline synthetic female voice.
"No." Vela waved her hand to interrupt.
If no threats remained, she had no interest in eavesdropping.
"Send me the daily schedule and the operational briefing. Oh, and forward the situation reports from the Pentagon's Central Command (R.D.J.T.F.) and the M.B.C.S. Middle East Division regarding the Fallujah campaign."
Vela didn't bother asking if the operation was successful. The fact she hadn't been awakened overnight meant no critical incidents had occurred.
Casualties and developments were within expected parameters.
[Understood,] replied Red Queen AI from the bedside control panel.
As it watched Vela step across the thick carpet into the washroom, the AI activated the smart home systems—opening windows, adjusting lighting tones, and signaling the butler and kitchen that the mistress was awake.
Swish, swish.
During her routine wash, Vela turned on the waterproof television embedded in the bathroom wall, half-watching the global headlines.
[Dancing with Dragons: Jurassic Park San Francisco] / [Spain 3/11 Bombings, Saudi Arabia Terror Attacks—Global Terrorism Rising] / [Crude Oil Prices Continue to Soar] / [Fallujah Offensive—A New Era of Biohazard Counterterrorism]...
"Hm?"
Vela paused, turning her head slightly as warm water trickled down her smooth, fair cheek.
In her indigo-blue eyes reflected a live feed of the bridge battle.
"Leon S. Kennedy." Her tone carried quiet satisfaction. "So, a new biohazard counterterrorism hero is about to be born."
Noticing the agile figure leading the charge in the footage, her gaze deepened.
Militech Security was about to gain its own poster figure.
Just as the official B.S.A.A. had Chris Redfield.
Hmm. The PR team would have to capitalize on this.
"Red Queen, send an internal memo to the CEO's office. Have PR and Marketing draft a joint campaign proposal."
...
Fifteen minutes later.
Fresh from her shower, Vela stepped out of the washroom.
After getting ready, she dressed in a semi-formal business outfit and sat before her vanity. Once a maid had tidied her hair, she descended the baroque staircase to the grand atrium.
"Miss," greeted the butler, bowing deeply.
"Henry," Vela replied with a soft smile.
He was a middle-aged man of sturdy build, silver beginning to streak his neatly combed brown hair. Dressed in a tailcoat, white gloves, bow tie, and single-lens spectacles, with a silk pocket square and polished shoes, his appearance radiated the unmistakable refinement of old money.
Indeed, he was an English butler—formerly of the Ashford family.
Yes, that Ashford—the one from Umbrella.
After one of Umbrella's three founding fathers, Edward Ashford, was betrayed and assassinated by Oswell E. Spencer, the family fell into decline.
From Alexander to the twins Alfred and Alexia, the next two generations met tragic fates—either "missing" by filial betrayal or choosing voluntary cryogenic sleep. In the end, only a deranged remnant remained to bear the family name.
Alexander, having been betrayed by his children, became the first test subject of the T-Veronica Virus.
As for Alexia—Vela had personally dispatched an elite squad to Umbrella's Antarctic research base to retrieve her cryogenic remains. Alexia had long since become a living reservoir of Veronica Virus tissue for Biotechnica's genetic R&D.
Her brother, Alfred—after graduating from university in December 1993—was appointed both the head of the Rockfort Island Military Training Base and director of the Antarctic Research Facility. At that time, when Vela was still consolidating her influence within Umbrella's remains, she had met him once—a handsome man.
Unfortunately, he'd gone mad.
He murdered his father, hid his sister, and lived under the constant pressure of being watched by their scheming grandfather, Oswell E. Spencer. Crushed by loneliness and paranoia, Alfred's mind fractured—he developed sadistic tendencies and, in his obsession with his sister, created a split personality that mimicked Alexia herself.
By 1998, during the Raccoon City incident, Umbrella's downfall had become irreversible.
Rockfort Island, along with the rest of Umbrella's remnants, quickly became spoils for rival factions. Alfred himself was killed violently in the ensuing conflicts.
How poetic, isn't it?
Thus ended the illustrious Ashford family—seven generations of legacy, now extinct.
But extinction doesn't erase inheritance; it merely changes hands.
That inheritance included more than stocks, liquid assets, and estates—it also included people.
Servants and retainers who had served the Ashfords faithfully for generations, particularly those who remained in England guarding the ancestral estate.
Vela took them in.
In the name of inheritance.
After removing dissenters and those who chose to leave, those who remained were lost and directionless.
For them, a lifetime of loyal service—one job, one room, and devotion to their masters—was all they'd ever known. Unless they committed grave errors, their positions were guaranteed.
Vela reassured them and showed them a message left by the sixth patriarch, Alexander Ashford, in 1983.
The message had been discovered by the M.S.F. task force in the Antarctic Research Facility.
In it, Alexander, foreseeing his fate, pleaded for whoever found the message to stop his daughter's madness.
The mystery of his disappearance was finally revealed.
As one legacy fell, another rose. Through this, Vela acquired a full old money set—the Ashford estate in England included.
Beneath its grand halls lay a hidden crypt, where the remains of Veronica and other ancestors were preserved.
When Vela said, "I am Umbrella's true heir," she wasn't exaggerating. Though she rarely visited the estate afterward, that didn't stop the remaining retainers from pledging their loyalty anew.
Or rather—they had no other choice.
"Miss Graham is waiting for you in the living room," said the butler, Henry, stepping aside.
Vela nodded.
"What's for breakfast?" she asked casually.
"A mixed menu. As per your request—light fare. Primarily Cantonese dim sum and a touch of English breakfast."
"English, too?"
"Miss, I am British, after all," Henry replied with mild exasperation as he led the way. "I consider it my duty to challenge your stereotypes about English cuisine. Though admittedly, it's mostly a matter of comfort. Everyone knows our cookbooks are... a bit thin."
"In London, you can taste food from every corner of the world—except British food."
Classic dry British humor.
"Haha." Vela chuckled softly.
Her gaze lingered briefly on the top of Henry's head as he descended the stairs.
Surprisingly full.
Unlike most balding Englishmen.
"The new hair tonic from the Traditional Medicine Division works well, I see," Vela mused.
Catching her meaning immediately, Henry smoothed his slicked-back hair with a hand and smiled. "I sincerely hope this promising project yields the profit you deserve."
"Thank you."
The two continued their light conversation as they walked.
In the living room—
"Vela," called Ashley with a bright, charming smile as she waved from the sofa where she'd been watching the morning news.
The young woman wore a sleeveless beige knit top, her pale, porcelain arms catching the morning light. A deep green pleated skirt swayed above sheer black tights, her legs crossing lightly—a picture of youthful elegance.
"Did you sleep well last night?" After greeting Jessica and the others, Vela approached the dining table, gesturing for Ashley to join her for breakfast.
Today's editions of The Washington Post and The Stars and Stripes were already neatly pressed and placed at Vela's usual seat.
Still warm to the touch.
As Vela unfolded the paper and sat down as usual, Ashley propped her chin on her hand, her eyes glimmering as if comparing something.
"What is it?" Vela raised an eyebrow.
"So old-fashioned," Ashley remarked. "Ironing newspapers—hardly anyone does that anymore, even in Washington. It reminds me of my grandpa."
"Really?" Vela shrugged. "You should blame Henry for being old-fashioned. I just didn't have the heart to refuse their thoughtfulness." She smiled faintly and turned to the attendant. "My glasses."
Clink.
Bowing slightly as he placed the cutlery and warm milk on the table, old Henry nodded politely to Ashley.
"I simply follow tradition. Thank you for your understanding, Miss Graham." His English carried a perfect Oxford accent.
Then he rose and gestured for the attendants to wheel over the breakfast cart.
Just as Ashley was about to ask something, she saw Vela quietly put on a pair of thin-rimmed glasses.
"Hmm, couldn't find my usual pair, so these will have to do."
With that, Vela leaned back slightly in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. She unfolded The Washington Post, lowered her gaze through her glasses, pressing the paper down with her fingers. Between the rising steam from her milk and the servants moving about, she looked every bit the image of a seasoned senator reading the morning paper at home.
"How's this look?" she asked, eyebrows playfully arched.
"Perfect!" Ashley laughed, pretending to take out her phone. "Can I take a picture?"
"Go ahead."
"Yeah!"
Knowing Vela's usually calm and reserved demeanor, Ashley didn't overdo it—she snapped a few pictures, then cheerfully declared, "My turn!" Grabbing her own copy of the paper and a pair of glasses, she struck a pose. Vela chuckled and took the photos for her, while Ashley scooted closer for a few playful selfies.
Henry, standing behind Vela with a white towel draped over one arm, smiled faintly.
Truly, he felt a deep sense of satisfaction.
Having served the Ashford family for generations, he'd grown up hearing the legends of Lady Veronica. To him, Vela—with her intelligence, poise, and commanding grace—was a perfected reincarnation, a Veronica reborn. Especially after witnessing Alfred's madness and the family's fall.
The others at the table forced polite smiles.
Some couldn't help but glance away, muttering inwardly—having a president for a father sure had its perks.
They listened to the newspaper broadcast for a while longer before the attendants began serving breakfast from the cart.
Vela's meal consisted of one basket of crystal shrimp dumplings, half a basket of barbecue pork buns, a plate of steamed rice rolls with pork, a bowl of yogurt fruit-and-vegetable salad, one crab roe soup dumpling, and an English platter—no toast or sides, just roasted tomatoes, fried eggs, sausages, bacon, and stewed chickpeas in tomato sauce.
High-carb, high-calorie—a perfect East-meets-West combination.
Ashley was amazed by Vela's appetite. After overeating last night, she only picked at her food—sampling shrimp dumplings and a soup bun, with salad and buttered toast as a safe fallback.
On TV, the news continued: "According to the war correspondent who filmed this footage, terrorists opened fire on Fallujah civilians attempting to flee. They deployed suicide bombers and vehicle bombs among their own people and used bio-organic weapons to exploit human shields, showing utter disregard for civilian lives."
"From his vantage point, the reporter could clearly see the fierce battle at the bridgehead. He claimed to have witnessed a Militech M.B.C.S. security operative charging upstream against the chaos—followed by an entire team executing a counter-assault."
Whoosh.
Blowing gently on her steaming dumpling, Vela listened intently, then picked up a shrimp dumpling with her chopsticks and took a bite—its translucent skin glistening, its flavor fresh and crisp.
"Mmm... perfect."
Just then, the broadcast cut to live combat footage: after a brief aerial overview, the screen showed a rusted steel beam bridge, desperate refugees crying and screaming, Fallujah terrorists swarming in, grotesque B.O.W.s advancing—and Militech M.B.C.S. operatives charging in reverse, engaging in brutal close-quarters combat.
"Oh my god!" Despite the pixelation and censorship, the girls at the table instinctively covered their mouths in shock.
Ashley, struggling with her soup dumpling, looked up. "What's going on?"
Then she gasped too.
On the massive television screen, an M.B.C.S. security officer wielded an electromagnetic weapon—dancing between towering T-Tyrants.
Graceful, deadly.
He dodged the mutated claws with impossible precision and fired tungsten penetrator rounds charged with explosive plasma bursts—each shot shattering monstrous bodies with the violent elegance only Militech engineering could create.
Ashley watched, spellbound—forgetting even to blow on her food.
"Wow, cool! Is he, like, a superhero?" Ashley asked, her tone a mix of awe and curiosity.
"Hero?" Vela took a bite of sausage dipped in HP sauce, chewed, swallowed, and smiled faintly. "Something like that. He has potential—worth investing in. I plan to cultivate him further."
"Cultivate a new hero? Like the BSAA's Chris Redfield?"
"Yes."
Looking down at the roasted tomatoes on her plate, Vela nodded.
The BSAA had Chris; Militech's M.B.C.S. had Leon. Everyone would have their symbol of glory.
"Hope he wins some awards, too," Ashley said.
"From your lips to heaven's ears."
"What nickname will you give him?"
"Nickname?"
"Yeah, like 'Redfield the Blackhand' or something."
Vela chuckled softly.
Ah, American nickname culture.
Just look at the NBA or any sports league—everyone with a bit of fame had a moniker. Funny thing was, she'd tossed off "Chris the Blackhand" as a casual remark back then, never meaning for it to stick. But the American public had embraced it wholeheartedly, spreading it worldwide.
"I haven't decided yet," Vela said, shaking her head. "We'll see. As long as it's not something like 'King' or 'Little Emperor,' I'll manage."
"King?" Ashley blinked, then her expression brightened with understanding. "Oh! No wonder you ignored that rookie's advances."
"Don't talk nonsense," Vela replied calmly. "He's an Akron boy. I've no intention of going to Cleveland to steal anyone's sweetheart."
Ashley gave a small "oh," and the room fell into momentary silence.
Only the sounds of cutlery clinking, soft chewing, and quiet sipping mingled with the distant echo of gunfire and cries from the news broadcast.
The television showed hollow-eyed refugees, the devastation of the battlefield, pixelated images everywhere.
Bloody. Brutal.
Ashley shifted uneasily.
The other girls at the table seemed unsettled as well, their faces tinged with pity.
But that was all.
Sympathy for the suffering was human nature—but events so far away rarely stirred true empathy.
They were adults, after all, raised in media-saturated America. Their generation had grown up amidst an explosion of information—blockbuster blood-and-gore spectacles had long dulled their sensitivity. Their thresholds were high.
Soon, the Iraq segment ended, and the sweet-voiced anchor transitioned to the next piece of political news: "In Copenhagen, Denmark, Militech representatives signed the Greenland Full Development Accord with the Prime Minister of Denmark, Rasmussen, and the Premier of the Greenland Autonomous Government. Critics have condemned this as an act of corporate imperialism."
The atmosphere in the room subtly relaxed—but also grew heavier.
Vela smiled faintly, turning to see Ashley still struggling to pierce her soup dumpling. Sighing softly, she picked up a bottle of dark brown sauce from the condiment tray and handed it over.
"This is a special vinegar blend. It cuts through the grease and enhances the natural sweetness of crab roe. Drink the broth first—try it."
"Oh, thanks!"
Their friendly exchange broke the tension. Soon, the room was filled again with easy chatter and warmth.
As time passed, the bright morning sun climbed high, its rays streaming through the Georgian-revival arches and spilling across the floor.
As if nothing had happened at all.
...
BOOM!!
A tremor.
The ceiling cracked, chandeliers swayed visibly, and dust and rubble rained down—followed by a chorus of curses.
"Goddamn it, again?!"
"Where this time? They've been shelling all day!"
"Just our luck—stuck on sentry duty."
...
Under a makeshift camo tarp, coalition soldiers eating their MREs were showered with dust, coughing and swearing as they brushed it off.
"Enough! Eat fast. I'm starving too," barked a gruff veteran outside, silhouetted against Fallujah's night sky, illuminated by firelight and flares. Holding the high ground, he lay low, scanning the perimeter.
Though the coalition's forward camp lay just outside the city, hot rations from the rear kitchens weren't exactly rare. But once you were inside Fallujah, occupying ground meant you were staying there—and for good reason. The forward posts couldn't be manned by rookies. Only experienced urban fighters, familiar with Fallujah's terrain and capable of countering ambushes, could be trusted to hold the line.
So naturally, entire platoons had to stay on the front.
Rotation might come later—maybe the day after tomorrow, if luck held. Then they'd be mid-line reserves again, eating real food delivered fresh from supply trucks.
Provided they didn't get carried off by medics first.
Creak, crunch.
Boots scraped against gravel and broken glass near the field decontamination tent.
Carlos walked alongside Leon.
"Mission go smoothly?"
At the question, Leon removed his face shield and chewed on an energy chew. He gave a small, stiff smile.
"More or less. Aside from the locals being a bit too 'welcoming.' You guys?"
"We... tch, ran into some trouble," Carlos admitted. "During the push, we got careless—lost more people than we should've. No wonder Central Command keeps warning us not to over-rely on tech."
He drained his sports drink and glanced toward the tent.
Leon followed his gaze.
Beside a crate of ammunition sat a young soldier, clutching a crumpled foil ration pouch, staring blankly.
Jill stood beside him, speaking quietly.
"He's one of my recon dog operators," Carlos explained. "Made a mistake during sweep—got people killed. He's taking it hard."
He sighed, sat down behind the blast wall, and lit a cigarette with a click of his Zippo. The flame flared, reflected in his tired eyes.
Fwoosh. A drag. A sigh.
"Honestly, no one blames him," Carlos said at last. "These bastards wrapped their B.O.W.s in rags and cardboard, hid them in sewers and basements—tiny openings, just enough to mount disposable machine guns. Add in dust and fire interference, and the recon dog's IR sensors didn't pick them up. Can't really fault him."
Leon rubbed his forehead. "They never intended to win—just to make us bleed more. Fuck."
"..."
The two fell silent. Through the quiet, they could just make out the words coming from inside the tent.
"Redd and Joe are dead—but not because of you. Those bastards killed them."
"It was their fate."
"This is war. If you can't handle it, quit now!"
"If you're a man, then in fifteen minutes, I want a full report on your recon dog's operational flaws and what to watch for! Then get your ass back on patrol and do your job! Fight for Redd and Joe's share too! Got it? Answer me!"
It was Jill's voice.
Carlos and Leon exchanged glances, both clicking their tongues in quiet amusement.
Just as they were about to stand, Jill stepped out—and spotted the two eavesdropping behind the blast wall.
"Well?" Carlos asked first, shamelessly.
"He's writing the report," Jill replied dryly.
"A beauty's pep talk hits different. Respect." Carlos grinned, giving her a thumbs-up.
"Asshole."
Jill spat to the side, then turned to Leon, her expression softening. "Congrats on the fame," she said, referring to the bridge incident earlier.
"Just doing my job," Leon replied evenly. Then, steering the topic elsewhere, "Where's Chris?"
Jill sighed—not one of frustration, but of pride.
"Him?" She nodded toward the distance—where bursts of gunfire and strange inhuman roars echoed from Fallujah's inner city.
"Of course—the Blackhand himself." Leon smirked. "Still a lot I could learn from him."
He grabbed another handful of energy chews, tossed them into his mouth, and walked off toward the temporary equipment bay.
"Yeah," Carlos muttered, crushing out his cigarette and following.
It was time to move again.
Jill just smiled faintly, saying nothing.
She turned toward the MRE storage tent. Even on overtime—one had to eat first.
...
Meanwhile, at the Fillory Estate, Vela was bidding farewell to Ashley and her friends.
"Goodbye."
Standing at the top of the steps, she waved until the vehicle disappeared down the driveway.
"Cultivating heroes, hmm?" she murmured, turning back inside.
"Chris represents the heavy-assault archetype—power and endurance. If I want differentiation, Leon should embody finesse and agility: a technical combatant. For now, we'll focus on conservative bio-augmentation... things like Sandevistan can come later."
Her eyes glinted.
"You, though... you've raised quite the batch of returning heroes from the East, haven't you?"
Vela paused mid-step, looking up as sunlight filtered through the forest canopy—painting slender, dappled lines across her face. Her lashes lowered, and in that moment, her indigo eyes shimmered with crystalline light.
A silent resonance.
The call of the world of Code Geass.
...