Beep beep—
The secure line connected quickly.
"Hello." A calm, commanding male voice answered.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Simmons. This is Vela Adelheid Russell from Umbrella. Sorry to bother you." Pressing the receiver to her ear, Vela opened warmly with the standard American political pleasantries.
A true tactician knows when to bow. This wasn't Arasaka. The U.S. hadn't collapsed; it remained the world's dominant power.
The man she was speaking to—Derek Clifford Simmons—was the U.S. National Security Advisor, a powerhouse in Washington with a vast political network spanning both legal and illicit spheres. She was merely an executive in pharmaceuticals, not the CEO. No room for arrogance.
Washington D.C., White House – Office of the National Security Advisor.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Russell."
Seated behind a massive mahogany desk, Derek C. Simmons—a man in his prime—set aside paperwork and adjusted into a more relaxed posture. "What can I do for you?"
They were both veterans of this game. No need for small talk.
Simmons knew Vela wasn't calling just to chit-chat—not when she'd just been appointed as Director of Umbrella's newly formed Black Umbrella division.
"You're too kind."
Vela smiled softly. "Umbrella's growth owes much to the United States. As the newly appointed director of the Black Umbrella Division, I hope to contribute to the protection of freedom and social stability..."
As she spoke, Vela mentally constructed Simmons' profile—early forties, neat dark brown slicked-back hair, sharp suit, disciplined appearance. The image of a classic American elite.
Tailor the message to the audience.
Simmons was a hardline stability advocate in U.S. politics. His public persona championed societal order above all else.
Whether it was genuine or a calculated front, Vela leaned into it.
'Defend freedom.' 'Do my part.'
After mentally sifting through Vela's polished, circuitous statements, Simmons caught the core message. He chuckled lightly.
"So the pharmaceutical and medical hardware leader Umbrella—with recent forays into bionic prosthetics, drones, electronics, and semiconductors—is now eyeing the defense sector?"
"Umbrella has the responsibility, the obligation, and the capability."
Since he'd laid it out, Vela no longer bothered with subtlety.
"Is it really Umbrella that has the capability... or is it you, Dr. Vela Adelheid Russell, renowned authority in bionics and intelligent systems?" Simmons asked meaningfully.
He'd been watching Umbrella for a while now.
After losing two of its founders and showing signs of bureaucratic stagnation, the company had suddenly experienced a renaissance.
Those sweeping changes... likely came from the woman on the other end of the line.
Vela only smiled, saying nothing.
"Dr. Russell, that's not exactly relevant to the matter at hand, is it? Let's get to business. I'd like to discuss the details of Umbrella's new West Coast facility." With clearance granted, Vela resent a sanitized version of the equipment proposal she had shown Spencer.
It was trimmed, but the profit-sharing hints embedded within were subtle and unmistakable.
The sound of the fax machine filled the momentary silence. Pages turning.
"Why not go through the state government? Or the GOP..." Simmons asked casually.
"Because I chose you," Vela said sincerely.
Simmons abruptly paused.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I truly share your views on peace, order, and stability, Mr. Simmons," Vela replied smoothly, her tone sincere—like a true believer in Simmons' political ideals.
Not like she could just say, "I know your weaknesses and where to stab, lapdog."
"If you ever decide to run for a state governorship or even the presidency, Umbrella will always be your staunchest supporter."
A brief silence followed. Simmons knew what she meant—she was speaking for the Black Umbrella Division.
"Let's meet, Ms. Vela Adelheid." Switching to a more familiar tone, Simmons unfolded the still-warm pages from the fax.
Tamayura, WAA Bullpup Assault Weapon, WXA Computer-Aimed Weapon…
As National Security Advisor—the President's chief consultant on security matters and coordinator of all national intel—Simmons knew U.S. military R&D specs like the back of his hand.
If these weapon specs were real, they would blow the Pentagon's current prototypes out of the water... assuming Vela wasn't bluffing.
And Simmons didn't believe Umbrella had the guts to deceive Washington.
"The pleasure is mine. I've enjoyed our conversation, Mr. Simmons."
"As have I, Ms. Russell."
...
Beep beep.
Back in the San Francisco Umbrella Tower, Vela hung up the phone, shaking her head with a smirk.
Ah yes, capitalism—no amount of pleasantries or posturing could compare to simply demonstrating value and throwing cash. Oh no, not bribery—"political contributions."
Vela was ready to pay her way in. Hard.
Take the Tamayura pistol production line, for instance—she planned to give the Simmons family half the shares. The rest of her weapons manufacturing? All would come with generous profit cuts for the right people.
Only then could she truly step into the defense industry.
Drones, semiconductors, ICs, electronics... Sure, she'd already closed deals with the Pentagon under those categories. But those were sensitive tech—only half military.
Real entry into the defense sector required full access.
Soon, Simmons' family charity auction was coming up. She'd need to visit Washington for a face-to-face talk.
And she'd need to play the game: spend a fortune on obscure artwork from unknown painters and children's crayon doodles—just to check all the boxes.
There was also the National Rifle Association's master-crafted firearms auction; California's press conference on Umbrella's San Francisco plant; and the Veterans Association's charity gala supporting Umbrella's prosthetics program…
Vela was very busy.
All of this—both for her own climb and to sever herself from Umbrella's tainted B.O.W. legacy.
Buying her exit ticket early.
Umbrella might sink. But she would not go down with it.
"Mhmhm~"
Humming, Vela opened the folders her secretary had placed on her desk. She was happily planning her grand exit strategy when a few official letters immediately soured her mood.
She flipped through them:
[Protest letter from environmental and animal rights groups regarding environmental damage from Umbrella's factory expansion]
[Letter from anti-discrimination and equal rights organizations protesting the hiring composition of Umbrella's new workforce]
"...."
After a long silence, Vela finally blurted:
"F*ck."
If this were a few years later, would she be dealing with every activist bloc under the sun too?"
Ah yes, the unique flavor of American operations—best experienced firsthand.
"It really was better bossing people around at Arasaka..."