That night, as lanterns lit up across Night City, the Badlands assault incident continued to stir waves.
After Vela appeared in the Badlands to prepare the bodies of Arasaka's fallen 'loyal ones,' offering words of condolence before returning with her usual calm detachment, rumors began to swirl both within and beyond Night City. In the shadows, schemers and power players moved, spreading countless versions of what had happened.
[Arasaka Issues Official Obituary]
"We are deeply saddened to inform everyone that a few hours ago, a gunfight broke out in Jackson Plains. In this premeditated massacre, Arasaka's Special Operations Director, Susan Abernathy, was killed…"
—WNS News.
[Shocking! Arasaka Launches New Model of Hypersonic Missile Outside Night City!]
"Reports confirm that Director Abernathy was ambushed along a randomly selected backup route. But how was her itinerary leaked? Was it an external breach—or an inside job? We dare to ask what other media won't: who truly benefits from this assassination? Who achieved their goal? And that conveniently timed hypersonic missile—was it mere coincidence, or…"
—Network News 54.
[Criminals Brought to Justice]
"According to multiple confidential sources, Arasaka's elite rapid-response unit thwarted the suspects' escape attempt and rescued several innocent hostages…"
—Night City Inquirer.
...
A small basement.
A dimly lit room.
"So that bastard named Solomon Reed really got killed by Arasaka?"
"No idea."
Hearing Pilar's question, Maine glanced toward the old satellite-dish TV showing the news. His body was wrapped head to toe in bandages; he had just woken from a coma, his face dark and heavy.
He had blacked out earlier.
The last thing he remembered was being inside Falco's roaring car, swerving madly through the desert.
Because of Reed's manipulation, what should've been a clean job turned into a bloodbath. The more Maine thought about it, the more furious he became—his eyes bloodshot, his breath ragged, rage boiling up to the edge of madness. He wanted to tear Reed's corpse apart and eat it alive. Overuse of [Sandevistan] and the injuries he'd sustained had pushed both his body and mind to the brink—everyone he looked at now seemed like Reed, and he was about to lash out.
Thankfully, Dorio was there—the one in the best physical shape among the four who had fled to an abandoned oil-town safehouse.
The moment she saw Maine's condition turning critical, she jabbed him with a massive veterinary-grade sedative.
It was 2077, not 2075—they'd learned a few things since then. After working with a ticking time bomb like Maine for so long, Dorio had experience. She knew how to prevent a cyberpsycho breakdown. The sedative with nerve-dampening effects knocked Maine right out.
"Better hope you're really dead, Reed."
Grimacing through the throbbing pain in his neural system, Maine grabbed a nearby mug and gulped down a thick liquid laced with tranquilizers, like a man who'd never drink again.
"Forget that asshole for a second—what about Rebecca, Kiwi, and Lucy?!"
Pilar's usual humor was gone. Lying weakly on the bed, his long arms and legs trembling, he asked with desperate urgency.
"Pilar, calm down! Outside's crawling with NCPD and Arasaka enforcers!"
Dorio injected another dose of immunosuppressant into Maine, spreading open the medkit on the folding table.
The tray was full of bloodied tools, spent bullets, and shrapnel.
After tending to the wounded for hours, she snapped sharply: "If you tear those stitches and get an infection, we won't be able to save you with what we've got here."
As a former athlete with some medical and anatomical knowledge, Dorio often filled the role of field medic—but this was her limit.
"So we're just gonna sit here and do nothing? Let them die—"
"Enough!"
Seeing Maine's expression darken with every word, Falco—slumped in a corner, smoking with his remaining left arm—smashed his fist against the wall. "Pilar, you think I don't wanna save them?! But stepping out there right now is suicide! Didn't you see the news?! Even Vela Russell's been alerted! You wanna die? Fine! But if we're all dead, who's gonna collect Welles' cut, huh?!"
"I don't care if I die—"
"You think dying will get you off the hook? If you're gonna die, put a bullet through your own head! Then blow up your brain! That way they can't dig anything out of what's left in your skull!"
"What the hell do you know? That's my sister!"
"If you choose to play the merc's game, you deal with the consequences. Do I really have to spell that out for you?"
Though he looked exhausted and pained, Falco still managed to hold his place as the voice of reason in the team. Maine had always been the group's father figure—the heart, but not the head.
"…"
After a long silence, Pilar's thin, battered frame slumped back onto the filthy couch like a broken reed. "Got it," he muttered weakly.
"Yeah."
Patting Falco's shoulder—the one forced to play the bad guy—Dorio sighed. She glanced at Pilar, who was still muttering curses against Arasaka and the New United States, and handed him a steaming packet of Edgeramen.
"Eat. You need to recover."
Losing a sister he'd depended on for years—it was no wonder Pilar was falling apart. His panic came from love.
"I just hope Mr. Welles is still okay… Pilar, you and Maine—my skills and supplies won't be enough to treat you properly. You'll need a ripperdoc."
She looked at Falco.
"Not yet."
Falco shook his head. "We wait."
He continued, "According to plan, we wait for Jackie Welles' signal. He's the only one we can still trust. He's got connections inside Arasaka… unless Vela found his backer during the internal purge and had them prosecuted. As long as Arasaka labels this as an 'internal competition' within acceptable bounds, Welles' boss will get promoted—and if the NUSA takes the blame, we're in the clear."
Following Falco's gaze, Dorio turned toward the flickering television.
"Yeah," she murmured softly.
It felt like the cold emptiness that came after a job gone wrong—the mercenary's version of post-climax guilt. Beaten, half-dead, and replaying the mission in their heads, they could now see things from a new angle.
No matter how they looked at it, success or escape didn't really depend on them. They were just playing with fire. The real decisions lay not in their hands, but on the screen—in the hands of those well-dressed beasts. Everything hinged on how Arasaka chose to frame the incident. Were they petty thieves? Or rivals? Would the other megacorps respond?
Thinking of this, Dorio cursed under her breath.
"Damn it. Damn Reed. Damn this world."
On TV, after the Night City Enquirer finished its segment, the feed switched to a live press conference from the Arasaka Tower Foreign Affairs Department.
Crowds of reporters gathered, shaking hands, expressing condolences for Director Abernathy's death. Men and women alike wore solemn faces, pretending to mourn as though they were saints.
In front of a storm of flashing lights, Vela stepped onto the podium.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she began, her tone composed and cool. "I must admit—today is a tragic day in the history of Arasaka, and of the world. Someone has conspired to murder our Director of Special Operations."
At the same time, Washington, D.C.
The White House, West Wing—Oval Office.
The President of the New United States slammed her tablet onto the desk, fury in her eyes. The display still showed the Federal Intelligence Agency's action log.
"Useless! He betrayed my trust. I authorized him to accelerate the war effort at his discretion—and he couldn't even extract the damn 'cargo'? He lost the target, botched the entire operation, and burned our newly built Night City intelligence network to the ground?!"