Blue Umbrella Recruitment
November 9, 2011 - Blue Umbrella Corporation Headquarters, United States
The Blue Umbrella headquarters was a monument to cold efficiency—a sprawling complex of sleek, steel-grey buildings surrounded by high fences and patrolled by armed guards whose eyes were as cold as the sensors scanning every approaching vehicle. Standing outside the main gate, Alen felt the weight of the moment. This was the threshold. Behind him was the ghost of Alen Richard. Ahead was the future of John Michael Kane.
He clutched a file given to him by Mateo. Inside was the dossier on Dr. Elias Veynor.
Dr. Elias Veynor
· Affiliation: Umbrella Corporation (former, Intelligence Division) → Blue Umbrella Corporation (Military-Intelligence Command)
· Nationality: German-American
· Codename: Warden
· Rank: Formerly equal to Alex Wesker in Umbrella Intelligence; now Head of Tactical Intelligence Command, Blue Umbrella.
· Specialty: Covert intelligence, bioweapon analysis, field coordination, strategic planning.
· Status: Alive.
The file detailed a man of complexities: a high-ranking Umbrella insider who secretly despised its ethos, a quiet strategist who had waited decades to atone. According to Mateo, he was trustworthy, a rare beacon of principle in a corrupt world. He was his ticket inside.
A few minutes later, a side door hissed open. The man himself emerged. Dr. Elias Veynor was in his late fifties, with sharp, intelligent features and hair the color of iron. He wore a pristine lab coat over a tactical uniform, a symbol of his two roles as scientist and strategist. His eyes, a pale, clear blue, assessed Alen with a single, sweeping glance that felt more invasive than any scanner.
"You must be John Michael Kane," Veynor said, his voice a low, calm baritone with a faint German accent. "The elite soldier from Los Lobos Negros. Mateo and Diego speak highly of your capabilities. I've reviewed your file."
"Sir," Alen replied with a respectful nod, his posture that of a professional soldier reporting for duty.
Veynor began to walk, and Alen fell into step beside him. "A curious background, Mr. Kane. A degree in virology from Cambridge. An impressive academic achievement. Yet you chose the life of a mercenary. Why?"
"The world changed after Raccoon City, sir," Alen answered, his cover story ready and believable. "A degree couldn't protect anyone from what's out there. I decided understanding the threat wasn't enough. I needed to learn how to fight it. Survival demanded it."
"A practical, if harsh, assessment," Veynor remarked, his expression unreadable. "Diego claims you are one of the most naturally gifted operatives he has ever seen. We are in need of such talent. The old guard—the legendary U.S.S. operatives like HUNK—are ghosts. Scattered, retired, or dead. We are rebuilding our direct-action teams from the ground up, and it is a... costly process. We recruit where we can find quality."
"I'm ready to serve, sir."
"Your readiness is not for you to decide, Mr. Kane," Veynor said, stopping and turning to face him. "It is for me to determine. Tomorrow, you will report to the subterranean training facility at 0600. We will put that reputation to the test."
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November 10, 2011 - Subterranean Training Facility, Level 3
The facility was a harsh structure of concrete and steel, an echo of the training grounds Umbrella had used to forge its monsters and the men who hunted them.
"Your file indicates proficiency with a wide array of weaponry," Veynor stated, gesturing to an armory rack that would make a small army envious. "Choose a primary rifle, a sidearm, and a melee weapon. Choose what you fight best with. This is not about preference; it is about efficiency."
Alen's eyes scanned the rack. His hands moved almost on their own, muscle memory guiding him. He selected an M4A1 assault rifle, expertly checking its action. For his sidearm, he bypassed the standard-issue pistols and chose a Samurai Edge, its weight and balance a familiar comfort in his hand—a dark echo of his father's preference.
Finally, he came to the melee weapons. His training dictated a combat knife. But something else called to him. His fingers brushed past the knives and closed around the hilt of a black, unadorned katana. He drew it partially from its sheath; the blade whispered with a lethal promise. It felt right.
Veynor raised an eyebrow. "A katana? An unusual choice for modern biohazard containment. A combat knife offers more versatility in close quarters."
"With respect, sir," Alen replied, sheathing the blade, "I understand the advantages of a knife. But this feels like an extension of my own arm. I am more efficient with it."
"Very well," Veynor said, a flicker of curiosity in his icy eyes. "The weapon chooses the warrior as much as the warrior chooses the weapon. Let's see if your efficiency matches your confidence."
They entered a vast simulation arena. "The training regimen you are about to undergo is based on the U.S.S. program used at Rockford Island," Veynor explained, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "It is designed to break ordinary soldiers. You will be tested in assassination scenarios, high-risk retrieval, and live B.O.W. containment. We will use advanced holographic simulations and, when necessary, live specimens deemed too dangerous to exist. Most recruits require six months to a year to complete this course. Your mercenary experience may have given you a foundation, but this... this is something else entirely."
"I understand, sir," Alen said, his face a mask of neutral focus.
He doesn't know, Alen thought. The joint MI6/CIA program made this look like basic training. But I will learn what I can. I will become what they need me to be.
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December 16, 2011
For over a month, Alen was put through a hard trial. He endured everything Veynor's program could throw at him: navigating gauntlets of Licker simulations, executing flawless data retrievals under timed explosives, and even mastering close-quarter knife techniques Veynor personally demonstrated—techniques rumored to have been used by HUNK himself.
Alen didn't just pass; he redefined the parameters of success. He adapted, evolved, and overcame each challenge with a chilling, unnatural calm. He learned the new skills not as a novice, but as a master incorporating new techniques into his existing lethal set.
On the final day, Alen stood at attention before Veynor, his body humming with fatigue but his spirit unbroken.
Dr. Veynor regarded him for a long, silent moment, his calm look finally showing a crack of sheer admiration.
"Gotta say, Kane... you are a rare breed of soldier," Veynor stated, the informal phrasing starkly out of character. "I have trained many operatives in my time. None have progressed at your rate. Your adaptability, your tactical foresight... you operate as if you've already been on a hundred field missions. You remind me of the stories of HUNK himself, yet you possess a flexibility he lacked."
He stepped forward, holding out a new set of dog tags and a black beret bearing the Blue Umbrella insignia.
"Your code name, effective immediately, is REVENANT. A spirit returned from the dead to complete a mission. It seems fitting. Welcome to Blue Umbrella, Revenant. You've earned your place. Now, go get some rest. You've more than earned it."
Alen—now John Michael Kane, codename Revenant—took the offered items. He gave a final, sharp nod.
"Thank you, sir."
He turned and walked away, the ghost now fully armed, embedded, and ready to wage his war from within the belly of the beast.