Chapter 11: Black Umbrella's Ambition
The curtains were drawn open. Seated at her desk, Vera slid open a drawer, revealing a stack of old Arasaka weapon blueprints:
WWA Bullpup Assault Rifle
WMA Mibo-10 Submachine Gun
WSA Automatic Pistol
Tamayura Compact Handgun
WCAA Rapid-Fire Assault Shotgun
WXA Computer-Aided Targeting System
These designs were relics—phased out by Arasaka long ago.
Yet, with her clearance, Vera had unrestricted access to decades' worth of Arasaka's research, development, and decommissioned armaments—technology that had been cutting-edge before the Fourth Corporate War.
By 2074, these weapons were obsolete in the hyper-advanced arsenals of megacorporations. But for Umbrella, in its current timeline, they were decades ahead of their time—a perfect balance of innovation and practical deployment.
"Drones, prosthetics, electronics, vehicles, weaponry… that should be enough for now."
She knew the game well. Being half a step ahead was genius—being a full step ahead was madness.
If she pushed too far, neither she nor Umbrella could protect these advancements from being hijacked, stolen, or forcibly acquired. But by releasing them strategically, sector by sector, she could control the flow of progress. The prosthetic limb market alone would serve nearly a billion disabled people worldwide.
Vera smirked. Her mood had improved. Leaning back in her executive chair, she idly twirled a pen in her left hand while picking up the secure line with her right.
Her call connected instantly.
---
Encrypted Line – White House Office of National Security
Beep. Beep.
A steady, authoritative male voice answered.
"Hello."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Simmons. This is Vera Adelheid Russell, calling on behalf of Umbrella. I hope I'm not intruding."
She spoke with the polished enthusiasm of a seasoned corporate player, her tone exuding the smooth, diplomatic charm of a politician.
Derek C. Simmons—the National Security Advisor of the United States, a power player in Washington with deep ties spanning both legal and not-so-legal networks—knew better than to entertain small talk.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Russell."
Seated behind a massive solid-wood desk stacked with classified documents, Simmons adjusted his posture slightly. He wasn't one for pleasantries.
"What can I do for you?"
Vera's smile deepened.
"Umbrella's success is built on its partnership with the United States. As the newly appointed Director of the Black Umbrella Division, I believe we share a common goal—preserving the values of the free world and maintaining social stability."
In her mind, she sketched an image of Simmons—early forties, meticulously tailored suit, dark brown hair slicked back in the signature style of an American elite.
A radical pacifist, at least publicly. A man who preached stability at all costs. A pragmatist, like herself.
Simmons exhaled, amused. "Umbrella has been making bold moves. From pharmaceuticals and biotech to semiconductors, drones, and electronic warfare. Now you want to enter the military sector?"
"Umbrella has the responsibility, the obligation, and the capability."
Simmons chuckled. "Umbrella? Or you, Dr. Russell?"
The way he emphasized her name wasn't lost on Vera.
Simmons had clearly been watching. He'd noticed the sudden resurgence of a corporation that should have died with its founders. An old megacorp, suddenly reinvigorated—like a dead tree blooming in spring.
He suspected she was the root cause.
Vera didn't confirm or deny. Instead, she smoothly redirected.
"Let's discuss the West Coast Factory project."
She sent over a redacted proposal—a carefully crafted document that, if Simmons was as sharp as she believed, would hint at the profit-sharing incentives without stating them outright.
The fax machine hummed. The rustle of papers. Simmons skimmed through the details. Then, a pause.
"Why bypass the state government? Or the GOP?"
Vera smiled. "I chose you."
Simmons' eyes narrowed slightly. "Why?"
"I personally align with your vision for peace, order, and stability."
Translation: I know your weaknesses, your ambitions, and how to make myself useful to you.
"If you ever decide to run for state office—or perhaps, a future presidential campaign—Umbrella will be your most loyal supporter."
A moment of silence. Then, Simmons spoke.
"Let's meet, Ms. Russell."
Vera's smile widened. Hook. Line. Sinker.
---
San Francisco – Arasaka Tower
Vera hung up, exhaling with a smirk.
In the world of capital and power, money spoke louder than ideology. No amount of pleasantries or political posturing compared to cold, hard financial backing.
Of course, this wasn't bribery—it was just a strategic investment.
She planned to hand over half the shares of the Yusura Handgun production line to the Simmons family, along with revenue shares from other weapons manufacturing divisions.
This was her ticket into the military-industrial complex.
Drones, semiconductors, cybernetic enhancements—these were dual-use technologies, always halfway into the military sector.
But military hardware? That required full clearance.
Her schedule was packed.
A high-profile charity auction—a necessity to schmooze political allies.
A firearms showcase hosted by the National Rifle Association—networking with military contractors.
The California state press conference—securing local government buy-in for Umbrella's expansion.
The Veterans Association Gala—strengthening ties to military and defense circles.
The work never stopped.
And all of it was leading to one goal:
A clean exit from the messy remnants of Umbrella's bioweapons division.
She was securing a golden parachute—if Umbrella burned, she'd be the first off the ship.
"Hmm hmm hmm ~"
Humming softly, she turned back to her desk, flipping through a new stack of documents.
Her mood soured instantly.
[Environmental and animal rights organizations protest Umbrella's factory expansion, citing ecological damage.]
[Anti-discrimination and equal rights groups challenge Umbrella's hiring policies.]
"...You've got to be kidding me."
Vera sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
Activist lawsuits. Ethics watchdogs. Political red tape.
The Cyberpunk future never changes.
She exhaled, muttering under her breath—
"Fucking bureaucrats."