The next day, 8 p.m.
"Zzz..."
Tick-tock, tick-tock. "Miss, wake up—an emergency."
Pop.
A soft, soothing female voice pulled Vela from her sleep.
Blinking drowsily, she opened her eyes. Staring at the unfamiliar warm-toned ceiling, her indigo irises focused sharply. Within moments, she was fully awake. Sitting upright, she turned toward the voice—a beautiful cyber-ninja maid assigned by the Arasaka family was bowing slightly to her.
"Arin," Vela murmured, rubbing her brow as she called the ninja by name. "How long did I sleep?"
"20:41, ma'am," Arin replied. Red light pulsed faintly across the matte plating of her lithe, cybernetic frame as she handed over a cup of warm water.
"What kind of emergency? Military?" Vela asked while adjusting her robe and accepting the water.
Arin shook her head. "It's an internal company alert. Just moments ago, both the Arasaka Manor garrison and the Security Bureau at your residence in Night City received simultaneous orders. Saburo-sama may be flying to Night City. The reasons and itinerary are classified, but all local divisions are to prepare for security and reception."
Gulp. Mid-sip, Vela froze.
"So, he's really coming," she muttered, frowning. "Anything else?"
Arin chose her words carefully. "Lady Michiko, as per your delegation, is handling administrative affairs and is currently in Night City."
"Militarily, Operation Horse Racing proceeds smoothly. The northern front's main forces have taken advantage of the enemy's unpreparedness, breached the Fargo line in North Dakota, and entered Minnesota. They've encircled St. Cloud and are advancing directly toward the state capital, Minneapolis... detailed battle reports have been uploaded."
"Additionally—"
She paused briefly before continuing, "Lord Yorinobu's movements are erratic. He has forcibly taken possession of the liquefied Sakuradite samples and Sakuradite Cracking Bombs scheduled for transport back to Japan."
"Interesting," Vela said with a cold smile. "So he's finally showing his hand."
Clunk! She set the cup firmly on the bedside table, swung her legs out of bed, and stretched lazily. "No matter. I'll grant the old man some face. Let Uncle Yorinobu jump around all he wants—I'll stay unmoved. If Saburo-sama's coming in person, he must have his reasons."
"..."
All the attendants, led by Arin, lowered their heads in silence.
As retainers of Arasaka, harboring ambitions of gekokujō—usurpation—was one thing, but when it came to private matters within the ruling family, discretion was survival. See nothing, hear nothing, say nothing.
"Miss, any preferences for your meal?" Arin asked, tactfully changing the topic.
"No need. I'll eat once we're back in the Bay Area. Prepare the car."
Waving her hand dismissively, Vela dismissed the attendants and walked toward the washroom in quiet thought.
Splash—!
Moments later, freshly washed, Vela stood before the mirror, neatly dressed in her tailored uniform—creased to perfection. The final touch: an Arasaka logo brooch gleaming with a faint emerald light.
In the reflection, she looked refreshed and radiant—no trace of exhaustion from the previous week's sleepless grind.
Carrying her [Combat Suit] case, she stepped out.
The further she walked, the clearer the sound of the wind became.
Wooden shutters creaked and clattered; tumbleweeds rolled across the sand-strewn asphalt road. Soon, the view opened up—a small, unremarkable town nestled in the South Dakota mountains.
Everything was gray and desolate: sparse vegetation, heaps of junk, dilapidated buildings, scattered farm machinery, rough-looking locals... and, of course, the inevitable barley fields, rusted wind turbines, and half-broken signal towers.
It was a perfect portrait of the rural tragedy that had befallen the heartland of the old United States after its collapse.
Abandoned wastelands, left to decay—filled only with sighs and whispers of the wind.
Tap, tap.
Leaving the unassuming motel-like safehouse that concealed so much within, Vela took one last look before boarding. Surrounded by her ninja escort, she entered the armored vehicle. The vector engines roared to life, and the convoy's massive shadow lifted into the dust-laden sky, speeding westward.
Only after the escort formation had vanished beyond the mountains and deserts did the locals, huddled in the corners of the remote town, finally lower their heads—eyes still glowing faintly green from their cyber optics.
"Damn! Since when did corp dogs start nesting out here?"
"Who knows... man, what a fat prize. Shame we can't rob 'em."
"You? Rob Arasaka brass?" someone sneered.
"You dare?"
"Hell no! That Arasaka woman's got too many guards."
"Then quit running your damn mouth. Just keep farming. There's war out there—plenty of ways to make eddies. We're dirt-poor here anyway. Just grow barley and stay alive. At least the bombs won't drop on us. That Arasaka lady? Good riddance she's gone."
"What's the move? Soldiers are everywhere. Hard to rob and kill anyone these days." Someone sighed. "If we just farm honestly, Petrochem bleeds us dry. What, should we become mercenaries? No way—I'd earn a fortune only to die before spending it."
"Coward," another scoffed. "You don't even dare catch deserters? There are tons of Militech and New American runaways. Capture them—you can strip their gear, sell it, or turn them in to the Free States government for bounties. Can't even eat the food spoon-fed to you. No wonder you'll stay poor forever."
"Let's do it!"
"Yeah, let's form a bounty team."
...
The group of hillbillies laughed and bragged loudly.
Vrrr—vrrr—
The hum of an armored vehicle echoed from the street, instantly silencing them.
A patrolling Arasaka officer leaned out of his hovering car, glaring at the buildings that were clearly occupied. He grabbed the mic and barked, "Stay put. Curfew lifts after midnight. The commander appreciates your cooperation—whatever supplies we can't take, they're yours. When the time comes, you're welcome to join the clean-up sweeps. The bounties are... generous."
After a pause, he added sharply, "And don't get any ideas. The company will show you what cruelty really means. You know how the war's going—don't bet on the wrong side."
As a corporate grunt born in the North American heartlands, he knew exactly what these Midwestern rural types were like.
Sure, their lives were tragic—environmental collapse, vast wastelands, stagnant development, forgotten by both government and corporations. It had forged a brutal, desperate breed: every man had a side job—barley farmer by day, Wraith or part-time mercenary by night.
Farmers when idle, raiders when desperate—that was their life.
"Behave yourselves." The Arasaka officer said no more and drove off.
As the hum of the vehicle faded, whispers rose again.
"Did you see that smug bastard? Tch! Dogshit corpo. Still, money's money. Are we catching deserters or not?"
"Hell yeah. Why not? Heh, I bet Militech's paying good eddies for that Arasaka woman's location. And I heard the next town's got New American sympathizers. We could use Arasaka's knife to kill those fools—then grab their farmland. Ten hectares of barley ain't bad."
"Damn, that's cold. Double profit, huh? Shame it's already past eight. Curfew lifts at midnight—by the time you find a line to go online, intel'll be stale."
"Shit!"
...
Everything was running smoothly.
Inside the transport cabin, Vela leaned deep into the leather seat, eyes fixed on her retinal HUD.
[Welcome back, Executive Vice President / Lady of Night City — Arasaka Network permissions automatically reacquired // PT:2077/5/19/20:17 — Proxy tenure ended — Successor notified.]
Beep-beep, beep-beep.
Incoming call: [Michiko Arasaka]
Vela raised a brow.
That was fast.
"Good evening, my sister."
The woman's voice came through the line.
On Vela's corneal display appeared Michiko—her hair dyed black again, oversized gold earrings gone, dressed in a dark suit.
No tie, jacket and collar relaxed just enough. A sharp contrast to her years as a New America– and Militech-leaning corporate rebel, all blue mohawks and faux-punk rebellion.
Michiko always knew how to brand herself—her image was her weapon. Vela thought so silently.
"Yo," Vela greeted casually with a faint smile, waving as she skimmed through pending files on her personal UID terminal.
[Michiko: Beauty sleep's over? You've got some nerve—napping at a time like this.]
[Vela: Isn't that called trusting you? You handle administration, the army commanders handle tactics. Anything requiring intercontinental coordination, the old man oversees. Just a day and a half. Besides, I've already set the board—what, should I burn myself out another ten days just to micromanage? If I drop dead, you taking the blame?]
[Michiko: I can't afford that. But it seems Yorinobu's stirred up trouble—something big, aimed at you. It's pissed off Saburo-sama royally. You seriously didn't know?]
[Vela: Aimed at me? Interesting. So, a last-ditch gamble? 'Not inheriting means dying'?]
[Michiko: Who knows. Maybe I should congratulate you. Looks like Yorinobu's finally out.]
[Vela: Trying to unite everyone without bloodshed... that's hard.]
Vela smoothed her hair near her temple, her expression calm—almost reflective.
A lie, of course.
Without blood, how could she ever ascend?
Michiko didn't comment. She only smiled faintly, traded a few empty pleasantries, then completed the proxy transfer and ended the call.
Beep—beep.
Vela's expression remained calm as she placed a stack of read-marked military communiqués from [Tokyo Arasaka Tower – Saburo Arasaka] onto her workboard and skimmed through them casually.
[Seventh Fleet – Marine Divisions 3 and 4 have crossed the Mississippi River, landing at Lake Superior's former basin.]
[SAT Special Division bypassed Minneapolis, entered Wisconsin. Vanguard units have reached Madison—198 kilometers from Chicago.]
[Assassin guilds and underground syndicates that went into deep silence after the old Arasaka Tower era—hidden throughout Cook County (Chicago region)—are in position, ready to conduct sabotage operations behind enemy lines.]
...
During the 36 hours Vela had been offline under the pretext of rest, the battlefield had changed dramatically.
Inside and outside Arasaka, for many, it was the longest day of their lives.
...
Watson District, Little China.
Below the Afterlife Club—in a hidden compartmented bunker, a secret safehouse.
"...I'm out of my goddamn mind. I must be crazy to listen to you, you old ghost bastard—to go looking for a scapegoat, to get myself killed, to get dragged into Arasaka's royal succession war!"
The Queen of Fixers, Rogue, set down her specialized encrypted phone with a complex expression, glancing at the tea table buried under empty bottles and cigarette butts.
Across from her, posing with a smirk, was her old flame—Johnny Silverhand—projected in full 3D holography.
Using the polygonal Relic-2.0 Portable Module resting on the table, the soul imprint from the biochip materialized before her eyes.
"Hey, Rogue. Half a century apart, and it's barely been a day since our reunion. Don't tell me the novelty's already worn off. Smile for me, at least a little." Johnny's projection lowered his shades, winking.
"I've smiled enough for one day," Rogue shot back. "And Yorinobu's job for you is a hell of a lot more important, isn't it?" She exhaled sharply. "I knew it—when you show up, it's never good news. Fuck. I always knew this day would come."
Johnny laughed. "Who else could I torment, huh? Only Arasaka. You know I'm helping you. Look at yourself, Rogue. None of the old Atlantis crew would blame you for working with Arasaka—if it means digging out the real Rogue, the one buried under the so-called 'Queen of Afterlife' title."
"So now you're pulling a me," Rogue sneered, "running with Yorinobu instead of Goro? This time it's not 'find the girl,' it's 'find the heir'? If your stupid face wasn't proof you're really you, I wouldn't believe the Arasaka prince himself was a rebel."
"Hey, don't spread that around, Rogue. You and I both know—on paper, Yorinobu's fighting for inheritance. But to win, he still needs Arasaka's own power."
"Thanks for the tip, Johnny. I'm not an idiot."
"Good," Johnny said, shrugging. Then, with a grin fading into a smirk, he added, "Sorry, gotta keep this short. If I get the chance, I'll have Yorinobu print me a clone body—keep you company again, huh? But right now, I've got to jump back. His old man caught wind of his little rebellion—storm's coming. Time for me to play hotline therapist."
"Get lost, you piece of chrome. Think you're a gift or something?" Rogue snorted, waving him off and tapping the module. "Go play savior somewhere else."
Johnny's grin widened. "You think it's somewhere else?" Then his projection flickered out.
Silence fell.
"...Hah." Rogue's smirk vanished instantly. She picked up the module, staring at the crimson biochip within. "Johnny, you really know how to drop a bomb on me."
She stood, left the safehouse, and entered one of the club's private rooms.
"Here." She handed the module to a man in plain clothes.
The agent—one of Yorinobu's operatives—carefully accepted it, placed it into a briefcase, and handed over a PDA. "A gift from Lord Yorinobu. He hopes you'll find it... satisfactory."
With few words, he turned and left.
Sliding her finger across the screen, Rogue scanned the equipment list displayed.
"Heh. Illegal-grade cyberware, black-market exosuits, military power armor... quite the investment. Guess he really is ready to die." Her irises glowed faintly with a comms marker. "Hey, it's me. Kerry—you got that message from that bastard too, right? Up for one more Samurai run?"
...
Meanwhile, atop Konpeki Plaza's penthouse suite.
Storm clouds pressed low. Rain poured in sheets. Standing by the window, Yorinobu gripped his Kongō katana tightly, eyes fixed on his vibrating phone.
[Urgent Notice: Saburo-sama's private aircraft is en route to Night City International Airport.]
—
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