[Relic_2.0 Biochip]
—Soul Imprint Record—
ID: Johnny Silverhand
[Rock Rebel / Terrorist]
Profile: Real name Robert John Linder, born November 16, 1988, in Austin, Texas. A deserter from the New American military, rock legend, guitarist, and lead singer of Samurai. One of the culprits behind the 2020 Arasaka Tower nuclear detonation...
"Call me a terrorist again, I'll tell you this—it was righteous sacrifice, you corporate shithead! Hah! To think I'd still be in your heads, turned into some goddamn chip—guess that's an honor, huh?"
...
Konpeki Plaza, top-floor suite.
Just as Yorinobu returned from a survey round and reopened the Relic file, that unmistakably wild voice of Johnny Silverhand crashed directly into his mind—equal parts irritation and sarcasm.
"Head cooled off yet?"
Yorinobu, without lifting his eyes, took a sip of mint tea and replied evenly, "Should be asking you that."
"Fuck off! My brain's tangled with yours right now—how the hell am I supposed to stay cool? And what the hell are you drinking? Tea? Bring out the booze, the cigars—you've got top-shelf shit and you're just letting it sit there?"
As expected—distance truly creates admiration. The man who had once been his teenage idol was... far more volatile in person.
Yorinobu shook his head slightly.
"Then I'll take that as a yes."
Their silent mental dialogue continued as he set down the PDA and glanced at the corner of his visual field—where neural signals and the Relic's own projection system together conjured an internal sensory image.
A tall, lean white man with stubble and messy black hair appeared before him.
Wearing brown aviator shades, a dog tag around his neck, a black tank top under a tattered kevlar vest, leather pants, and boots—yet the most eye-catching feature was the chrome-plated silver cyberarm.
Combined with that rebellious, devil-may-care swagger, the man radiated unmistakable charisma.
In short, a volatile legend in the flesh.
Any old-school rocker—or any street kid who worshipped urban legends—would recognize him in an instant.
"Whatever, man, hurry it up. Light one up. I'm dying here!"
"Looks like locking you out visually was the right call," Yorinobu muttered. Still, he picked up a cigarette from the table, and under Johnny's eager stare, lit it. Click!
He wasn't like those poor bastards barely clinging to life through Relic integration therapy after neural collapse.
To coexist with Johnny Silverhand? Yorinobu had no such leisure.
Sharing a body was out of the question. Sharing sensory input and memory was already the limit.
After all, the Relic 2.0 chip in his possession was far more advanced—he could remove it anytime, even use it as a bargaining piece.
His reason for inserting it into his neural port stemmed from one simple thought.
On the flight over, he had replayed his plans endlessly, considering every angle.
Alliance-building—that was his necessary path. To secure more allies—or rather, to deceive, to misdirect, to manipulate—was the only way to pursue that faint, elusive chance at victory.
He didn't need fence-sitters to pledge loyalty. It would be enough if they simply hesitated—watched and waited—when the moment came.
And the strength of the underground and the civilian world could not be ignored.
As fate would have it, the Relic chip Yorinobu carried contained the consciousness of his youthful idol—
the revolutionary icon who once dared to defy corporate colonial power.
The more Yorinobu thought about it, the more tempted he became. He could no longer resist the urge to speak with Silverhand.
He was too alone.
And so, he did it.
As for his neural implants and chip slots—indeed, he had none at first. Not even the most basic kind.
Unfortunately, since 2075, following a certain "dear niece's" meteoric rise, the succession struggle within Arasaka had grown fiercer than ever.
After exhausting himself in endless bouts with that "inhuman" Vela, Yorinobu was left utterly spent—mentally and physically—living off stimulants and sedatives, nearly collapsing from overwork. Eventually, he had to undergo multiple rehabilitation procedures.
It was during these restorative augmentations that he, thinking ahead, secretly had trusted Arasaka black-market cyberdocs install several key implants and biological reinforcements.
He had concealed the implant scars with synthetic skin, leaving the augmentations dormant—thus escaping Arasaka Family Compound's detection systems.
Of course, the main reason was still his identity—as Saburo's last surviving male heir, no one dared lay hands on him or conduct invasive scans. Anyone who tried would simply keep quiet afterward.
Inserting the Relic chip had been Yorinobu's first real neural interface activation.
And to put it mildly, his first meeting with Johnny had been less than ideal.
The man's temper was foul, his tone explosive—every time he saw the Arasaka name, it was like triggering a manic episode. Whatever thoughts or memories he'd had before were instantly replaced with pure rage.
Yorinobu could understand—it wasn't easy, being a trapped consciousness locked in a lab for decades—but that didn't mean he planned to tolerate it.
He muted Johnny's access, imposed a forced disconnect, and left him in silence.
Only after Yorinobu had gone down to the Arasaka Coastal District for reconnaissance—personally inspecting the newly landed second and third ASDF hawkish divisions—and returned to Konpeki Plaza, did the raging rockstar finally get his metaphorical gag removed.
As expected—some things, no amount of explaining could convey. Seeing them firsthand, however, clarified everything.
"Ahh... sweet nicotine, that's the stuff."
Johnny's projection materialized beside Yorinobu on the sofa, expression euphoric as he took a drag from his own phantom cigarette, boots propped up carelessly on the coffee table.
"Phew." Yorinobu inhaled deeply, exhaled smoke, and asked calmly, "So—what do you think, Johnny Silverhand?" He tapped his PDA, summoning the suite's central holographic display.
"Not much," Johnny said, light in tone but deadly serious in gaze. "Just thinking you've got one hell of a death wish."
Then, surprisingly, he added, "I owe you an apology... Yorinobu."
"Honestly, I used to think anyone in a suit was just another corpo bastard. But your thoughts, your memories—they tell me I was wrong. Steel Dragon, huh? I don't know if your path's the right one, but... I respect it. I wish you luck."
He leaned back slightly, eyes distant, as if lost in old times.
"My crew and I—we failed, didn't we? Arasaka's still standing. Worse—stronger, crueler than before. Two cities nuked, two more flattened by Sakuradite bombs, millions dead, the world still in chaos. The Fifth Corporate War—same old cast, Arasaka versus Militech, same script, same bloodshed. Only the killing machines have gotten fancier."
He scoffed. "And that old bastard Saburo—what, he's pushing one-sixty and somehow reversed aging? What kind of cosmic joke is that?!"
Reviewing the fragments of Yorinobu's memories he'd glimpsed, Johnny looked dazed.
"Christ, it's enough to make me wanna just lie down and die again."
Yorinobu only smiled faintly, meeting his gaze without flinching.
"These things must be faced eventually. So... does that make us allies now?"
"Damn right. You're my kind of crazy."
Having processed Yorinobu's memories and circumstances, even Johnny—no friend of Arasaka—had to admit the man was relentless. The son of Saburo Arasaka, yet willing to gamble everything on his own conviction.
If he'd chosen to step back, he could've lived free.
"You plugged me in because you want connections—underground, grassroots, off-the-grid networks, yeah?" Johnny said, lowering his sunglasses. "Then you came to the right guy. I'm not just your hotline therapist or outdated news feed—I've got people. Contacts."
"Rogue. Kerry Eurodyne. The Nomads of the Aldecaldos. Not sure if Santiago's still around, but... I can get you the right people. You provide gear and access, I'll line up manpower."
"Every ally counts. Because from what I've seen in your memories, aside from Saburo, your biggest enemy—is your niece."
At that, Johnny's gaze flicked toward the holographic screen.
WNS News.
No coordinates given—just hints that it was somewhere across the Midwest, in the NE–IA warzone. Public intel was lagging far behind the front lines.
Across the open plains, armored columns thundered, aircraft swept low. Amidst the steel tides stood a tall, golden-haired woman with blue eyes—commanding presence sharp and radiant as she surveyed her legions.
The battered NUSA units, struggling to reorganize their command and rally fleeing troops, collapsed once more.
Interspersed among the combat footage came the woman's clear, commanding voice—a fierce, uplifting speech.
"Today's victory belongs to all of us! We will not stop until our enemies' blood stains the soil of the Free States!"
"In each and every one of you, I see the strength of Arasaka—and of the Free States!"
"Now the enemy lines have fallen. Kill! Until the earth drinks their blood! Advance!!"
Following that came captured Arasaka intercepts of the NUSA's remaining communications.
"General Sam's orders are clear! We make our stand here! Defend the unity of our homeland! For—"
The officer's shout was drowned by the deafening cacophony of gunfire, explosions, roaring engines, collapsing metal—and the chaos of screams, cries, and sobs mingling into one relentless storm.
"Damn, they're here! They're coming up!"
"Get over here! Fuck! Focus fire, eight o'clock—hold them off!"
"God, they're gonna kill us... Aahhh!"
"I can't see! Medic! Medic! I can't see anything!"
"Line's broken! The line's broken! It's chaos! The general's dead! We have to retreat!"
"Shit, shit, goddammit—it's over, we're done for!"
...
The synchronized footage and audio combined into a suffocating wave of horror.
Listening to the gasping breaths over the speakers—the last ragged sounds from dying lungs—Johnny muttered quietly, "Hell on earth..."
He shot Yorinobu a sidelong glance. "You've got your work cut out for you, man."
"What, finding her difficult to deal with?" Yorinobu asked, cigarette between his fingers, taking another slow drag.
"What do you think?" Johnny spread his hands. "She's the kind of iron-willed officer who's clawed her way to the top through fire and blood. Say 'no' to a woman like that, and you might as well shove the barrel down your own throat. Go against her? Better be ready for your whole family to die—well, in your case, guess that's not an issue."
He glanced again at the news feed—Vela visiting wounded soldiers in the hospital, her calm yet commanding presence dominating the screen.
From Yorinobu's perspective, Johnny watched her through the lens of an old war dog. That arrogance—so deeply ingrained it was almost regal—did she truly care about those soldiers bleeding for her? Hah. Probably just words for the cameras. Still... as propaganda went, she was good. Damn good.
"Hell, man, why didn't you ever try to screw her?" Johnny suddenly said, half teasing, half exasperated. "If you'd just seduced her—bam! Game over. All your plans would've been easy!"
"Impossible," Yorinobu said flatly. "Vela is... far too rational."
The topic died there.
Johnny exhaled a laugh and shifted back to business, musing about reconnecting with old allies—and lovers.
After a brief pause for thought, Yorinobu leaned forward. "Not enough. We'll need outside leverage. My channels, combined with yours, should be enough to get Washington's attention."
He fixed Johnny with a sharp look. "That 2023 nuclear strike—it was Militech that backed your group, wasn't it? Do you still have any contacts? Reliable ones? Any way to reach them?"