"I've met Gideon and Mitchell's team."
"The best? Perhaps. But I'm generally skeptical of all ultimate weapon programs and extreme super-soldier projects. Industrialization, mass production, and scalability—that's always been the core of my philosophy. Honestly, I hope they aren't the best—just capable of constantly getting better…"
Tap, tap.
Wearing a custom single-ear earpiece, Vela walked slowly through the blood-splattered villa hallway, holding a PDA in one hand while speaking with BOSS Jonathan Irons.
As for the so-called "warrior greater than an entire base" Irons mentioned, Vela remained expressionless—noncommittal.
As long as Mitchell didn't threaten her or Atlas' interests, she didn't care about the rest.
He could even change his last name to Irons for all she cared…
Shaking her head to dismiss the stray thoughts, Vela lifted her gaze and glanced around the 'post-battle' interior with interest.
Leaving aside the set destruction effects, in the corridor, the 'terrorists'—who had been 'revived' after the [Hostage Rescue Exercise Completed] announcement—were already removing their helmets and masks, beginning post-exercise scene reset duties.
Some were joking about their simulated gunshot wounds—now dried blood stains. Others, marked as dead from headshots, melee knockouts, or throat slits, rubbed at the "impact sites," complaining that the Rapid Response boys really didn't hold back.
The simulated battlefield's central control system offered impressive realism.
Even Gideon's assault team was fully integrated into the virtual model. Based on feedback data—weapon types, ammo, grenade models, hit zones, impact force, etc.—the system calculated results in real time and updated each person's status via datalink.
The Atlas staff working the simulation training center were highly professional.
Their performance easily rivaled seasoned extras on a Hollywood set.
Given Irons' approval, the business department would probably have the nerve to pitch themselves for hardcore military blockbusters in L.A.
"Existence, development, change, and relativity—that's what you said. Then let's help them get better, Vela."
"You mean, let's help Atlas get better, right, Mr. Irons?"
Exchanging easy banter with Irons, Vela exited the villa.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
On the outer lawn and pathway, the mock red mines, tripwires, and sentry guns used in the exercise had already been deactivated.
Beneath the towering, segmented holographic dome, the lights brightened. In the distance, the glass wall display exited simulation mode, its metallic frame sliding back along tracks with a faint shhhh—revealing glaring sunlight and letting the noise of the outside world rush in.
Beyond, flags fluttered atop flagpoles—Atlas' black background with nested red-white 'Λ' arrowhead insignia. Farther still rose the stacked structures of the base's office towers.
Vrrr… Vrrr…
A six-seater extended convertible Jeep pulled up and stopped on the ramp.
Thud. An Atlas MP (military police) got out of the vehicle.
"We'll talk later."
Waving her hand to end the video call with Irons, Vela descended the stone steps. The waiting MP immediately opened the car door.
Click.
Vela climbed in. In the front passenger seat, the backrest automatically adjusted to fit her height and posture.
"Soldier, get in. K.V.A. (the anti-tech terrorist group) has been getting more and more aggressive. You need better-performing prosthetics to help you fulfill your duties. I've prepared one—or several—top-shelf upgrades for you."
Tap tap. She lightly patted the car and pointed behind her—gesturing to the two-member rapid response team following her out of the villa.
One with a yellow beard, one black—Gideon and Mitchell, descending the steps mid-conversation.
Hearing her, the two exchanged a glance. Gideon's expression grew serious.
He placed a hand on Mitchell's shoulder and said, "Even if Irons holds you in high regard—don't let it go to your head. Don't ask unnecessary questions."
Gideon gave the reminder in a low voice.
Then, he stepped forward to open the rear door of the Jeep, letting Mitchell climb in first.
As he did so, he turned his head and called out to Joker—who was still standing on the steps.
"Joker, we're heading to the R&D department. After Mitchell gets his new arm, he'll need to adjust, so I'll run him through a few more training sessions. Let me know once the simulation program is ready."
Only after that did Gideon get into the vehicle and close the door. Vrrr—the engine purred to life and the Jeep pulled away.
The open-top Jeep exited the [Simulated Battlefield] and cruised smoothly along the arterial roads between Atlas facilities.
Inside the vehicle, Vela sat in the front passenger seat, her right elbow resting on the open car door. Head bowed, her delicate fingers danced nimbly across her PDA tablet. Her simply-tied golden hair billowed freely behind her in the wind.
"Director Russell."
At a checkpoint along the way, a guard recognized Vela and respectfully saluted with a fist to the chest.
His right hand was noticeably paler than the rest of his body and bore metal indentations—clearly a prosthetic.
Vela raised her hand in return.
In less than a minute, more than a handful of Atlas employees saluted Vela.
Her status and reputation within Atlas needed no further explanation.
Sitting in the third row, Mitchell observed everything silently. Ahead of him, two fully armored Atlas MPs in the second-row seats blocked his view entirely.
"...Military Police."
He muttered.
Anyone who could command MPs clearly wasn't someone of low rank.
It wasn't jealousy—just genuine surprise that someone so young had achieved so much.
"How old is Russell again?"
Mitchell suddenly asked.
"Twenty-five. It's not that unusual."
As if reading his thoughts, Gideon replied from the seat beside him.
"Maybe one day, it'll be Director Russell signing off on our pensions. Once you're done with fieldwork, keep an eye on the company's internal developments."
As he spoke, he rotated his left arm and tapped at the tactical terminal embedded on his forearm.
Beep.
Mitchell raised his own left hand.
Gideon had just sent him a document—a publicly available excerpt of Vela Adelheid Russell's profile within Atlas:
[#2053 — Age 20: Graduated early from UC Berkeley, joined Atlas R&D Department as Assistant Engineer.]
[#2054: Made multiple breakthrough advancements in neural networks and bionics research; promoted to Senior Researcher and Sub-Project Director.]
[#2055: Appointed Chief Engineer of Prosthetic Technology; led development of medical prosthetics capable of replacing missing or damaged limbs and organs; project approved by Atlas Board; received FDA approval for trial launch.]
[#2056: Introduced the concept of cybernetic components; appointed Director of Atlas Cybernetics Research Institute; launched civilian-friendly prosthetic models; continuously improved design and integration to reduce production costs; normalized and reduced costs for anti-rejection treatments.]
[#2057: Due to repeated K.V.A. attacks on global nuclear energy infrastructure, oversaw radiation protection projects; developed multiple radiation-blocking pharmaceuticals and countermeasure products.]
[#2058: Took over management of multiple advanced research divisions covering prosthetics, exoskeletons, smart systems, and energy technologies; appointed Director of Atlas R&D Department; assumed partial oversight of weapons development. Nominated by Chairman Irons, confirmed by board vote. Gained equity in Atlas through technical and managerial contributions.]
...
Mitchell was amazed.
Unaware of the interaction—or thoughts—between the yellow- and black-bearded rapid response duo behind her, Vela was remotely operating the prosthetic lab at the San Bernardino garrison's R&D division.
In under three minutes, the vehicle passed by a warehouse storing T5 self-propelled tanks, a helipad with stealth-capable rotorcraft, a drone swarm hive, an outdoor parkour obstacle course buzzing with activity, and an AST combat mecha training field…
Skrrt! — Brakes engaged. The vehicle stopped.
Click.
Disembarking, Vela said, "Come with me."
Holding her PDA tablet, she waved them forward and stepped into the massive fortress-like structure that housed the base's R&D division without looking back.
Mitchell and Gideon followed.
Tap, tap.
Inside the colossal structure, the hum of machines, clinks of equipment being tested, and the murmurs of researchers blended into a busy, slightly chaotic symphony.
Before long, after passing several testing areas, they arrived at their destination: a heavy yellow blast-proof door.
Three MPs remained outside with Gideon while Vela led Mitchell inside.
Once the door shut behind them, the noisy ambiance disappeared, leaving only silence.
"Director Russell, everything is ready."
Inside, two technicians in white coats, wearing ID badges, stepped forward to greet them.
"Mm."
Vela naturally handed her PDA to one technician and took a white lab coat from the other.
After putting it on, she gracefully tucked a few stray strands of her long hair behind her ear.
"Remove the exoskeleton and lie down."
She gestured toward a metallic instrument resembling an operating table, speaking as she headed into a side room to wash up.
Mitchell nodded. He disengaged from his EXO suit; sensor latches and locking mechanisms clicked open. Lifting his feet, he easily stepped out of the dovetail-style connection system. Guided by the technician, he lay on the table, and sensor straps on his wrists and waist secured him.
"Is all this really necessary?"
Mitchell asked, puzzled.
"It's a minor procedure. The [Bionic Joints], [Fortified Ankles], and [Reinforced Tendons] are foundational cybernetic implants that improve the performance of either the [Mantis Blades] or the [Projectile Launch System]. Of course, you can opt out."
At that moment, Vela reemerged—gloved, sanitized, prepped.
In truth, by Cyberpunk standards, implant surgery wasn't nearly this formal. In the street clinics of black-market ripperdocs, it was common to go under the knife right after a drug trip or a quickie.
She went through the full procedure only to reduce his psychological resistance.
"The [Mantis Blades] and [Projectile Launch System]—those are the features installed on the new prosthetic arm, right?"
Mitchell asked, cutting to the point.
"No. You can only choose one. Unless you want me to cut off your other arm too."
Vela smirked, tone playful.
"Uh… I'll pass."
"Then pick one."
Vela projected two holographic displays beside the operating table:
—The [Mantis Blades], featuring retractable hidden blades, reinforced with nano-wire edges, razor-sharp and visually striking.
—The [Projectile Launch System], capable of firing various special munitions—essentially a concealed hand-cannon or palm-sized missile launcher.
"Remove his old prosthetic."
While Mitchell was lost in thought, Vela instructed the two assistants.
The reason for involving them was simple—mentorship. She aimed to normalize the concept of ripperdoc-style cyber-implant surgery.
She was already a towering figure in the bionic prosthetics field. Continuing to expand her influence and reputation was only natural.
"I choose… the [Projectile Launch System]."
After a deep breath, Mitchell made his decision.
Vela smiled.
Of course—typical American. Between swords and firepower, they always preferred the quick draw.
"Administer anesthesia."
She said.
The cybernetic implant procedure began.
...