"…The FIA's incompetence led to this catastrophic failure—a disgrace to our nation."
"The responsibility lies with individuals. We will hold them accountable—completely."
Knock, knock. Sitting behind the solid teakwood desk, President Rosalind Myers tapped her knuckles against the surface, her expression as cold and unyielding as her tone. With those words, she sealed the verdict on the failed operation.
Tch. What a convenient scapegoating.
The Night City intelligence network's operation had been authorized by her in the first place, and now that the news of failure had only just come in, she'd already pushed all the blame onto him. Was it really the FIA's incompetence? This mission had always been a gamble—and Myers herself had been one of its biggest proponents. Now, she was just washing her hands clean of the mess, using the fiasco as an excuse to purge political opponents, consolidate her authority, and plant her own loyalists inside the Agency.
Several FIA officials silently cursed her in their hearts, but on the surface, their expressions remained dutiful and submissive.
"Yes, Madam President."
"We will investigate thoroughly, remove the weak links, and continue improving the caliber of our agents—so that we may win this war against Arasaka and bring honor to our nation."
The White House strategists and policy advisors who had nothing to do with the fiasco simply looked down at their documents, avoiding eye contact. Their indifference was almost routine.
Nothing surprising.
When things went well, credit was monopolized. When things went bad, blame was distributed.
Classic politics.
President Myers' playbook was as old as time: the plan was sound, but its execution flawed.
After all, the "Gift Operation" had nearly succeeded—the goods they'd intercepted were real. Otherwise, Vela wouldn't have reacted so violently, wouldn't have fired a hypersonic missile in open retaliation, sacrificing the carefully prepared "gift" meant for Michiko Arasaka just to obliterate the attackers and their vehicles.
Looked at that way, the President's decision had been bold and decisive. She had seized a fleeting opportunity, and had nearly succeeded. The only problem, she could now claim, was her agents' poor performance and inferior equipment.
In short—Reed lost, but the President didn't.
On the TV, Arasaka Tower's live press conference in Night City was still ongoing.
"For those troubled by the launch of the hypersonic missile," Vela's voice carried with perfect clarity and control, "I sincerely hope you can understand the fury of a sister, a superior, a person accountable for the lives entrusted to her…"
As Vela's refined, perfectly enunciated speech continued, the broadcast feed split into multiple frames.
First came the Arasaka logo—then, a live feed from the Badlands.
The crash site.
Dust swept through the desert under floodlights. Dozens of NCPD detectives and Arasaka tech specialists were working through the night, collecting and analyzing every scrap of data from the scene.
Holographic projections, laser pointers, and real-time AR visualizations filled the area, feeding data directly into subnets. Each corpse was photographed before being taken to the morgue, their positions marked with semi-transparent 3D models glowing faintly in the air.
Overhead, thin green trajectory lines intersected across the digital display—linking both sides of the gunfight. Some terminated at the holographic corpses, others vanished into the distance. Technicians worked at portable consoles, calculating and adjusting ballistic trajectories in real time.
Along the edge of the screen, a series of photos of the deceased scrolled by—blurred only slightly with token mosaics.
Even in a world this far gone, where children saw gore before they could read, some traditions remained stubborn. The larger and more "respectable" the network, the more conservative its presentation. It was their way of distinguishing themselves from the sensationalist tabloids, preserving a veneer of class—even though many ran explicit entertainment programs on the side.
The bodies shown on-screen—whether Arasaka's uniformed operatives or the ragtag attackers—were beyond useful analysis. Heads shattered, neural ports scorched by maggot viruses, nothing salvageable.
Until the camera paused briefly over one particular corpse—a large, burned body, black skin charred and peeling, the faint symmetry of cybernetic implants visible across the ruined skull. Only the right arm and a few twisted fingers remained.
"That's…"
Sitting quietly at the side of the President's desk, the "Songbird," Song So Mi, froze. Her expression shifted—an unreadable mix of shock, guilt, and complicated emotion.
She recognized him.
Reed… your death was truly miserable.
She had thought… they would meet one last time.
Perhaps the others in the room had only heard of him but never met him. President Myers had met him—but secretly called him a "dog," and the token used to summon him a "dog whistle." She had never regarded him with true respect. But Song So Mi could not do the same. Whether she liked it or not, Reed had been her guide—her mentor as an agent, the veteran leading the novice.
Even if she sometimes resented him, even hated him for dragging her into the endless abyss of the Federal Intelligence Agency, stripping her of freedom forever.
Sometimes she wondered—if she had not accepted Reed's invitation in New York, if Myers had not chosen her, if she had not stepped into the political maelstrom of Washington, what would her life have been like?
Still, it was true that Reed had helped her, saved her many times during her rookie years. It was also true that in 2069, during the end of the Metal Wars, she had escaped Night City only because she betrayed him. So Mi herself couldn't tell—was her feeling toward Reed hatred, or something else?
If Reed had successfully brought the package back to Washington… how would she have faced him then?
That question had once haunted Song So Mi.
Now, it no longer mattered. Dying in service to the homeland—or dying on the path of his own oath—was all the same.
Unable to look any longer, Song So Mi lowered her eyes.
"Mm. You may go. Time waits for no one—move quickly and report to me at every stage."
President Myers' furrowed brows eased slightly. Glancing at her seemingly sorrowful 'favorite,' her gaze sharpened for a moment before she raised a hand to her forehead and waved, signaling the FIA operatives to take the blame and get moving.
"Yes, Madam President."
The agents rose fearfully and left the room.
Leather shoes padded softly on the thick carpet. The heavy antique oak door creaked open and shut with a deep click.
Only the President's closest confidants remained.
For a time, the office was filled only with the faint sounds of aides smoking, papers rustling, and sipping water—punctuated by the broadcast from the TV, where Vela's proud, commanding voice echoed—
After the footage of Arasaka operatives wheeling away the bodies ended, the broadcast cut again, the director switching to a split-screen.
The press conference had entered the Q&A segment.
A Network News 54 reporter was asking whether Arasaka was exploiting the incident for publicity, and whether internal factional struggles might be involved.
The camera zoomed in on Vela's upper body.
Her pale-gold hair was tied into a sleek bun. Dressed in an elaborate dark Arasaka-style uniform, the elegant woman rested her hand lightly on the edge of the podium, looking down at the camera. Her indigo eyes were deep and cold.
"…Overreaction? Excessive defense? I like the way you phrase that."
"Defense is an act of self-preservation—and self-preservation inevitably offends someone's interests. Is that clear enough?"
"I know—the people of the world are simple. They love peace."
"But the situation has changed. My subordinates died in someone else's war!!"
"This means my foremost priority has shifted once again—from development to confrontation."
Vela turned slightly and smiled faintly. "As for compromise? Taking a step back to find harmony? Then why is it that they advance—and we retreat? You say my subordinates merely lost their lives, while the world gains an era of peace?"
Her voice rose, sharp and resonant, her left hand pressing down on the podium, her right hand lifting as she pointed straight toward the camera.
"Arasaka has the right to defend itself—and the duty to protect its own people!"
"So I believe I have the right, on behalf of Arasaka, to tell certain people—your war is utterly meaningless!!"
Applause—cheers—commotion filled the hall.
"And some have said…"
Lowering her right hand, Vela swept her gaze across the press hall, her eyes like twin flames.
"That my subordinates were attacked because my team and I were developing advanced weapons of mass destruction—violating the Alvin Accords—and threatening peace?"
"Do you really think I'm developing such weapons? That I intend to tear up the Alvin Accords? That Arasaka is preparing for war?"
Three consecutive rhetorical questions.
Vela pressed both hands on the podium's edge, her fingertips tapping lightly on the surface.
"Of course not."
Word by word.
Clap—
A round of polite applause broke out instinctively, more out of formality than conviction.
Before the scattered applause could form a wave—whether from those who truly longed for peace or from smiling reporters ready to first praise and then crucify her with damning footage and insider leaks—Vela's next words sliced through the air.
"Because I'm already prepared."
The applause stopped dead.
Vela pressed her lips together, her expression poised between amusement and cold disdain.
"Arasaka fears no challenge."
"Because we have risen once more. We are ready—always ready—to solve problems."
"Because when hostile neighbors surround us, the difference between having a sword and having none is the difference between life and death."
"Because certain politicians in Washington never think about solving problems. They only solve the people who raise them. They plunder the progress of others and, trapped by base instincts, obstruct the advancement of mankind…"
...
At the same time.
In the underground bunker of an abandoned oil town in the Badlands—
Bang!
Watching the news, Falco could no longer contain his excitement. He slammed his only remaining left arm on the table. Even as vials of precious painkillers, inhibitors, and hormone stimulants toppled to the floor, and soy noodles splattered across the ground, he didn't care.
"It's official! Arasaka has declared it—the culprits have been identified! The New United States and the FIA took the fall. We're safe, Maine! We're safe!"
To be precise—they'd taken the entire fall for them.
Falco turned toward Maine, who was still dosing himself with meds. Even for someone as usually calm and rational as him, his face showed unmistakable relief. The tension that had wound tight in his chest finally slackened. The statement had come from Night City's de facto authority—Vela Adelheid Russell herself. No mistake.
"Haah…"
Maine slumped back on the couch, face tilted upward, eyes closed—a look that mixed exhaustion, frustration, and profound relief.
"At least we didn't fail Jackie's memory."
He murmured softly.
Because of Reed, he had assumed the mission's failure was his fault, that his own involvement had drawn heat and led to disaster. The guilt had been crushing—he didn't even know how to face Jackie, or Panam, or the nomads who had died because of it.
"You all just focus on recovering. Once we're stable, we can think about what comes next."
Dorio injected a sedative into the restless Pilar, forcing him back down. Then she turned to Falco. "Give it a few more days. I'm in the best shape. Depending on how things go, I'll head out to contact Jackie and the ripperdoc."
"Yeah."
Falco nodded. He glanced again at Maine, barely hanging on through chemical boosts, and Pilar, unconscious on the cot. Their wounds were too severe for back-alley medics—if they didn't get proper treatment soon, they wouldn't last.
"I just hope Kiwi and the others…" He sighed again, eyes shifting back to the TV, where Vela stood tall and radiant.
...
Arasaka Tower — Counter-Intelligence Division.
Inside the division director's office, Arthur Jenkins paced back and forth like a caged beast.
He looked haggard, restless, consumed by anxiety.
Waiting was torture—especially when one's own life and future hung in the balance. Sure, Abernathy was dead, but that didn't mean Jenkins could relax.
After all, his method of overthrowing her—murder by proxy—was the riskiest, crudest move even by Arasaka's cutthroat corporate standards. If it ever came to light, he'd lose everything. If Abernathy hadn't pushed him to the edge, forcing his hand, he would never have struck first.
Back at Arasaka Tower, after reporting his covert actions, V noticed the latest developments on the news and turned toward him. "Boss, looks like we're in the clear."
"The board's pointing the finger at Washington, but that's not enough."
Jenkins paused for a moment, then downed the last of his whiskey—ice cubes and all. Chewing the fragments, he fixed V with a frigid blue stare. "V, how many people still know about this?"
V hesitated briefly, opening her mouth as if to answer—but stayed silent. She knew what he wanted wasn't truth, but obedience.
"You mean…"
"Erase everything."
Pouring himself another glass, Jenkins pointed at the large briefcase on the low table in the sunken reception area. "Do it quickly."
V knew what was inside—the final payment promised to Jackie.
Judging by Jenkins' tone, though, it was clear—the money wasn't for Jackie. It was her reward alone. A bribe to keep her silent.
"Don't disappoint me. Aside from that informant of yours—it's a shame to lose someone that reliable—but everyone else who knows… clean it up."
Jenkins fixed V with a long, heavy stare.
"Yes, sir."
V straightened, the spark of emotion in her eyes vanishing, replaced by a mask of calm obedience.
Click.
The automatic door slid open. V stepped out of the office.
Returning to her workstation at an unhurried pace, she lowered her head. Her expression darkened, and after seven or eight seconds, the orange glow of her cyberoptics flickered.
Beep-beep.
[V: You saw the news, right? We need to talk.]
[Jackie: Así es la vida, chica. (That's life, girl.) I'm guessing it's not good news.]
[V: You could say that.]
...
Washington, D.C. — The White House.
Vela's speech had stripped away all pretense, calling out Washington by name—her declaration unmistakably bold.
"Just as expected."
"As reasonable as it gets. Opposing Arasaka has become political correctness for them—they'd never miss a chance like this."
"But to speak like that… Hmph. What an arrogant little girl."
A uniformed officer slammed his heavy-bottomed glass onto the table, ice clinking. "Saburo Arasaka spoiled her rotten."
"She has the right to be arrogant," murmured an old advisor, eyes half-lidded. "Her talent is undeniable. Unfortunately, none of us took her seriously at first. We were blind—and we let Kei Arasaka's bloodline rise again, reborn in the form of a woman with power and vision. She's become our greatest threat."
He turned his gaze toward the desk at the center.
"Madam President, I believe the so-called weapons of mass destruction Vela mentioned should not be taken lightly. The way she brought it up—openly, confidently—it could be a smokescreen, meant to mislead us into thinking she's bluffing."
President Myers nodded slightly in agreement.
This wasn't the first time Vela had spoken truth like lies—or lies like truth.
Once burned, twice cautious. Even if she was bluffing, Myers had to admit—Vela's threat was real enough to be taken seriously.
After all, in recent weeks, Vela had been unusually busy within her estate, creating constant commotion—clear signs of research progress.
Aside from her pet micro-dinosaurs and the ongoing development of the R-618 "Rebirth" Compound and its derivative rejuvenation serums, there were also rumors of a prototype exosuit—a next-generation single-soldier combat frame derived from the [Cyber Kong] platform.
That was one of the reasons Myers had approved and even expedited Reed's "Gift Operation."
With new research underway, who knew what Vela might have hidden in the shipment meant for Michiko Arasaka? The latter seemed unlikely—but the former, quite possible. Since Reed was willing, she had simply pushed the move forward. After all, the cost of failure was only one expendable agent.
And in the end—well, success or not—it served its purpose.
Myers actually felt a pang of regret.
If only Reed hadn't grown weak… Seven years without combat, without proper cyberware updates or neural maintenance, compounded by the injuries from his near-death experience—the makeshift repairs after "awakening" couldn't fully mend him. He was old now. Broken.
Forget it. A dead man wasn't worth her thoughts.
Hah.
Letting out a long exhale, Myers lit a slim cigarette, taking a slow drag, her expression steady, almost unreadable.
"Without question, Vela won't back down easily. The acceleration of the war effort is now inevitable."
"Let Arasaka bask in its moment of triumph throughout 2077. Victory isn't about a single battle—it's about who remains standing at the end."
"If she wants a fight, we'll give her one."
Her gaze swept across the Oval Office, her emerald eyes hard and solemn as they landed on every person in attendance.
"Delay will cost us politically. The strategic retreat of 2076 already brought me under fire from the opposition. We must be ready by mid-2078—sooner if possible. Martial law, parliamentary control—unification or oblivion. We will reclaim America's glory."
"Meeting adjourned. Return to your departments. Accelerate progress. Send the consolidated reports to me directly. And… Song So Mi, stay behind."
Chairs scraped back as the officials rose and filed out of the room.
"Madam President?" Song So Mi asked softly, uncertain.
"I'm sorry about Reed."
Rising from behind the Resolute Desk, President Myers showed a rare hint of regret. She pulled open a drawer and took out a sleek white case of top-grade, RAM-linked pharmaceuticals—formulated to restore a netrunner's neural integrity—and handed it to Song So Mi.
"I shouldn't have kept him in the field. I should've pulled him out…"
"That was the path he chose," Song So Mi said softly, accepting the case with both hands. A faint, distant expression crossed her face. "He was far nobler than I'll ever be."
"Don't belittle yourself."
Myers gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder—carbon-fiber titanium, heavy with high-end neural implants, its organic mass having thinned again since last year. "Your importance, the burden you bear, is no less than Reed's ever was."
"Recovering the Old Net, studying the [Blackwall], restarting Project Cynosure—none of it happens without you. I honestly don't know how to reward you."
Her voice softened, almost sincere. "Take some time off, go to the rehabilitation clinic, let the doctors run a full checkup. Take care of yourself."
"Thank you."
Song So Mi nodded, forcing a faint smile. "I understand."
She bowed slightly and took her leave.
Myers leaned back against the desk, her emerald eyes lingering on Song So Mi's retreating figure, deep and unreadable.
...
"Thank you all for taking time out of your busy schedules to attend and listen to my address. That will be all."
Clap! Clap, clap!
Thunderous applause.
A cold reception? Impossible—it was Arasaka's home ground.
Vela gave a graceful wave, turning to leave the stage.
"Not a declaration of war, but close enough. The folks in Washington are probably calling an emergency meeting as we speak."
Standing backstage, James Thomas, serving as senior overseer, handed her a cup of black tea with a faint smile.
Some matters, however, were better discussed through encrypted channels.
[James Thomas (Vice President): What about Arthur Jenkins from Counter-Intelligence? Should we eliminate him? His insubordination—such blatant gekokujo—even collusion with external actors, can't be tolerated.]
[Vela: No rush. Promote him half a rank. Keep him hanging. Boil the frog slowly—minimize the collateral fallout from the purge.]
Brushing a strand of hair from her temple, Vela took a small sip of tea to moisten her throat. "It's nothing. Sharp words mean little. Claiming the moral high ground is just embellishment. Our covert struggle with NUSA never stopped. What matters is what we hold—and how we use it."
After another sip, she asked, "How did the regional branches and Tokyo HQ react to our Night City director's assassination?"
"As expected. Business as usual. But… Lord Yorinobu's recent power consolidation seems to have slowed down."
Thomas lowered his voice.
"Oh?"
Turning her teacup between her fingers, Vela's lips curved upward—the faint smile spreading wider and colder. "Is that so."