"Yorinobu is coming?"
On the dirt road of Chun II Farm, when Vela received a call from James Thomas, who was stationed in Night City, a faint fan-shaped fluctuation of emotion flashed across her otherwise cold face.
Was it an official secret inspection? Or a private sudden visit?
Either way, this was... too sudden—and exciting.
"Ha, interesting." Vela suddenly let out a low chuckle. "I understand." She rubbed the windblown hair at her temple wearily, her expression returning to calm. "Let him come. The American Division welcomes supervision."
Finally, he was coming.
It hadn't been in vain that she had deliberately reallocated the stockpiles of liquefied Sakuradite and Sakuradite Cracking Bombs, creating the appearance of transferring them back to Tokyo to bait him.
These past days, holed up in the central state's desert, eating sand—showing favor, performing micromanagement, striking poses for publicity shots—and on top of all that, not neglecting her main duties, running operations remotely on the move...
Even for Vela, the constant strain was wearing her down.
Coordinating a grand army campaign—without a strong body, this was impossible.
In the world of Jormungand and Black Lagoon, Vela had already ordered her "sisters" to stop their reckless adventures, kicking them straight into bed to catch up on sleep. Even the Jurassic Park world team had suspended work, taking a company-funded vacation under International Genetic Technologies (InGen). The Code Geass world, meanwhile, had been given a royal rotational rest order by imperial decree—its members sent to recuperate at the royal manor...
Thus.
From the days before the 5-13 Omaha Detonation until now—almost a full week of sleeplessness—Vela, though visibly tired, still stood poised and sharp. Her commands were precise, her responses fluid, and her aura as dazzling as ever.
Even the bloodshot-eyed Arasaka ASDF generals and Free State officers couldn't help but admire her.
Impressive.
"It's good to have someone watching over us to fill in the gaps."
Her brows relaxed slightly as Vela reached out and plucked a stalk of Chun II wheat. Crack! She crushed it between her fingers and said casually, "Handle it as you see fit. If he picks a fight, push back. Only one rule—don't do anything that harms unity."
[James Thomas [VP of Night City]: OK, with your word, that's enough for me.]
After saying that, he hung up.
The orange-yellow iris indicator dimmed with a soft beep-beep. Vela then turned toward the Arasaka officers' camp. "General Iwamoto, your stance."
Iwamoto—the commander of ASDF's 1st Division—stepped forward. If Yorinobu was coming to claim credit, someone had to do the work.
The middle-aged man, with a gold-tasseled katana at his waist, understood instantly. Taking a respectful step forward, he bowed deeply. "Commander Russell, the 1st Division requests deployment!"
As one of the old Edo hawks dispatched by Yorinobu to North America—first landing in Night City, later reassigned by Vela to the NE (Nebraska) central front as reserves—he knew he couldn't escape this. Nor did he intend to.
His only concern was being discarded by Vela.
But after observing her these few days, he had a sense of assurance.
"This is an excellent beginning."
Nodding, Vela brushed off the wheat grains from her palms. "Go then—and don't embarrass your uncle."
"Hai!" Iwamoto bowed once more before turning to leave.
Vela turned back toward the horizon.
Endless golden waves of wheat rippled before her.
The wind swept over the low hills, stirring layers of shimmering ripples across the fields.
In the distance, lines of Petrochem's massive combine harvesters, each nearly a kilometer wide, worked in perfect formation...
If one ignored the half of the sky painted red by fire, the black-gray smoke columns, the bursts of explosions, and the nauseating stench thick in the air, there might even have been a trace of poetry in the view.
Along the highway littered with armored wreckage and dismembered corpses, crowds bustled, engines roared, and movement surged.
It was the Arasaka coalition pursuing the fleeing New American forces after Omaha.
The last wave of assaults before the NE front's complete exhaustion.
It was nearly time to let up.
The fresh forces led by ASDF's 1st Division were the "reinforcements" that Vela had carefully staged as her display of power.
Vela gave a salute as the troops passed by, then, prompted by a reminder from the Security Division SP guards, she turned toward the hovercar parked amid the Chun II wheat fields. It was a custom electronic warfare hovercar disguised as a troop transport, equipped with a complete jamming suite.
Tap, tap.
Paying no mind to the dust clinging to her uniform or the mud dragged by her low-heeled boots, she brushed off her hands, sank into the flight seat, ordered a glass of iced water, and pulled down the workstation terminal. A glance at the screen revealed over ten minutes' worth of unattended documents already piling up. Within seconds, she was back in full operational mode.
Vrrr...
The hovercar lifted, heading northwest.
The surrounding escort formation tightened and followed closely.
By the command vehicle, General Iwamoto, who had just issued orders for his troops to take over the pursuit line, raised his head as he heard the faint hum above. He watched the formation of Security Division hovercrafts glide by under air superiority cover.
"..."
Expression unchanged, he sat down, pulled out his encrypted phone, tapped a few times, and sent a message.
Eight or nine seconds later—beep.
[Message Received]
...
Meanwhile, in Night City.
Vista del Rey District, Corporate Residential Complex Megabuilding 17, Unit 18-H913.
Beep-beep, beep-beep...
David was awakened by his neural alarm.
Good times never last long, he thought, eyes still closed.
When he finally opened them, there were no ruined cities collapsing around him, no filth and rot, no reeking mutilated corpses, no terrifying Sakuradite firelight, no endless explosions, no commanding, charismatic female superior... ahem!
Instead, there came knock, knock, creak—and—
His mother's red hair.
"David, lunch is ready!" Gloria said, stepping in with her apron on.
"Oh." Glancing at the data projected across his corneal display: [2077/5/17/10:48:07]. After two and a half days of pure comfort—eating, sleeping, and doing absolutely nothing—David stretched lazily and got out of bed.
He made his bed, washed up, got dressed, and soon entered the living room.
On the dining table, utensils were neatly set, and the food still steamed with warmth—Spanish-style seafood paella, omelets, potato salad, churros, Japanese red bean soup, and soba noodles.
It was a feast—almost extravagant by current wartime standards.
Three short days of leave hadn't dulled Gloria's enthusiasm in the least. After all, it was still wartime.
"Wow, thanks, Mom." David smiled.
Gloria returned the smile, first serving him a full bowl of paella—his favorite—then ladling herself some red bean soup.
As she watched her son eat heartily, her brows relaxed.
Soon enough, conversation flowed—David asking about household supplies and Trauma Team package renewals.
He hadn't just slept these three days. Besides meeting with Suneo and restocking supplies, he had also used Arasaka's company channels to purchase a Gold-tier Trauma Team membership for his mother.
After down payment and monthly installments, the required minimum deposit remained at the prewar standard of €100,000. With his salary, medal bonuses, and mission pay, the Martinez family had just managed to reach the threshold.
The sooner, the better—he knew prices would only go up.
Soon, their talk of family security wound down.
After a brief silence, Gloria sighed softly. "Three days... too short. You're heading back to base this afternoon, right?"
David spooned another mouthful of baked rice, nodded, and mumbled, "Orders are orders."
"Please take care of yourself."
"Mm."
"Don't go throwing your life away chasing glory or payback. Be smart."
"Mm."
"Commander Vela doesn't need you to protect her. Stay alive—that's how you keep creating value."
"Mm."
...
Gloria didn't cry, nor did she say anything useless like 'can't you stay.' She knew Arasaka's rules all too well.
So the two of them simply talked—trivial, heartfelt, mother and son.
Time flowed by like water. Lunch ended with the soft slurping of noodles, most of the food ending up in David's stomach.
Looking at her son, whose cyberware and biological augmentations were already beyond recognition, Gloria sighed quietly.
Just as she was about to stand and clear the dishes, a pair of strong hands gently pressed down on her shoulders.
"Let me do it." David patted his chest, gave a thumbs-up, and grinned.
Before Gloria could even object, he was already clearing the dishes and tidying up with brisk efficiency.
She opened her mouth as if to say something but merely wiped the redness from her eyes.
The mother sat, the son busied himself.
As the warm scene continued—beep-beep.
David turned toward the notification flashing across his corneal display.
[Recall Order] HIDE
Sender: Security Division [Night City]
Recipient: David Martinez
Note: Your 72-hour paid leave is concluding. Please report to your assigned unit. New protection assignment scheduled.
David froze mid-wash. "Protection assignment? SP—bodyguard duty?" he murmured.
Who in Night City would need him as protection?
Commander Vela? Unlikely.
VP Thomas? Executive Michiko? Each already had their own dedicated Security Division detail—why would they need him?
Was he being promoted? Or reassigned as a special SP? Or maybe New America was stirring again, prompting an increase in security level?
...
At the same time, in Arasaka's Coastal District South—Konpeki Plaza.
On the rooftop helipad, the vector engine flames gradually dimmed with a low hum.
Surrounded by an entourage of bodyguards, Yorinobu stepped out of the arriving VIP armored hovercar, leading his aides burdened with luggage.
"Phew, not bad," he muttered, rubbing the back of his ear where synthetic skin met flesh, then rolled his neck, trying to ease the discomfort. Ignoring the attendant's flattery, he silently headed toward the suite prepared for him.
Meanwhile, unnoticed by everyone else, his neural interface had begun initializing.
"Ha! That smell—Night City! I'd recognize it even in the afterlife." A coarse, roguish male voice grumbled through the shared neural channel. "Wait—what the hell? These damned memories—Arasaka? What the fuck is going on? Where the hell have you dragged me now?!"