- Ten years before canon -
The loading yard was quiet now.
A low fog had crept in from the industrial stacks, veiling the ground like a chemical sheet. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed faintly — not here yet, but coming.
Victor knelt beside the dismantled prototype. Inside the reinforced case lay the prize: a cold black shard of technology wired with fine silver veins. Not military standard. Something rarer. Civilian-grade camouflage, corporate internals. Black budget. Definitely Militech.
His fingers ghosted over the surface. He didn't remove it yet.
There was still one variable left to handle.
Behind him, in the dark, movement.
Click.
A soft mechanical sound — optics adjusting. Then a sharp beep.
The lot's perimeter lights blinked on.
Too sudden. Too bright.
Victor blinked behind his HUD.
Heidi stood frozen, hunched over a portable antenna rig. Her visor lit up with warning signals. "What the fuck—?"
She didn't finish.
Three quick shots rang out. Suppressed.
Thup-thup-thup.
Heidi fell. No scream. No warning.
Victor didn't flinch.
He didn't even look back.
He already knew.
Behind one of the burned-out forklifts, Wilson stepped into the light, rifle trained and barrel smoking.
No quips. No speech.
He moved like he'd done this before.
He had.
Victor saw the way his stance shifted — not cautious, not frantic. Practised. Confident. Like someone who'd killed teammates before.
Victor spoke without looking. "You waited until now?"
Wilson didn't answer.
He adjusted his aim.
Victor's cloak dropped to the side as he pivoted low, drawing the pistol from under his forearm plate. A clean movement — legs wide, gun steady.
The forklift Wilson hid behind wasn't cover.
It was delay.
Victor fired.
Three rounds, spread tight — knee, knee, chest.
The rifle dropped instantly. Wilson fell backward, gasping. His legs were ruined, thighs twitching violently from the shock. The centre shot caught just below his vest, knocking the wind out of him.
He grunted. Tried to reach for a sidearm.
Victor approached, calm, controlled.
No panic. No rage. Just muscle memory and maths.
"Your greed disgusts me." Victor voiced, stepping over Heidi's cooling body, "You weren't discharged. You were court-martialled. Fragged a squad during a sand sweep in Bahrain. Claimed it was a misfire. Intel says it wasn't."
Wilson coughed blood onto his chin. "F-fuck you…"
"I read your file. That's why I picked you."
He tried to lift the gun again.
Victor stomped on his hand. Bone snapped.
"You were never meant to last."
Wilson stared up at him, pupils trembling.
"Just play your part," Victor said, holstering his sidearm. "Die quietly."
He didn't shoot again.
He merely caved his head in.
Not with impact but slow, gradual force, before the shape of his foot was imprinted into the back of his head.
Doom moved with purpose.
His will be done.
Elsewhere, a neon sign buzzed with and rain smeared colours across a window.
V sat alone in a third-rate bar nestled between a ripperdoc clinic and a joytoy parlour. Outside, the city roared. Inside, it mumbled—just a bartender wiping down chrome counters and a broken TV flickering over a booth.
She stared at her drink, barely touched. The fizz had long died, like the fire in her gut.
Another gig, another near-miss, another hole barely patched. Her jacket still smelled like gunpowder and ozone. A piece of synth-leather near the collar was scorched from the EMP blast during the last gig. She hadn't bothered patching it up. Maybe she wouldn't.
It wasn't burnout. Not yet. But it was something close.
She leaned back, letting her skull thunk gently against the red-lit wall. She could hear Jackie in her head, full of fire:
"Gonna be legends, V. Us against the system, right?"
But he wasn't here tonight. He was running another job. A real one. Big crew, corporate storage break-in. The kind of gig that ends in headlines—or death.
She sighed.
Everyone wanted to be a legend.
Nobody ever asked what it cost.
She looked down at her cracked holo. Notifications blinked. One stood out—a mid-tier ad, nothing premium, just local-cast spam. But the words lingered:
"Train With the Best. Arasaka Cadet Academy. Full Scholarship. Tiered pay. Advancement opportunities. Apply now."
"Be more than a legend. Become a symbol."
She scoffed—but didn't swipe it away.
It was stupid. Corporate bait. A scam, probably. But the voiceover on the ad had that perfect cadence—soft yet commanding, aspirational. The imagery hit harder than she'd expected:
Clean uniforms. Advanced combat gear. A woman her age, standing tall, saluting as mechs thundered behind her.
She closed her eyes.
Legends? Sure. Johnny Silverhand was a legend. So was Morgan Blackhand. So was Smasher, in his own butchered way.
And they were all corpo.
Even the ones who hated corps were made by them, shaped by them, weaponised through them.
Maybe that's how Night City worked.
Maybe her brother had it backward.
You don't become a legend by running gigs out of Heywood and hoping Padre doesn't hang you out to dry.
You do it by learning from the best. By becoming more than a street rat. More than a punk with a pistol and a vendetta.
Her thumb hovered over the ad. She tapped it. Not to apply, not yet. Just to learn more.
Cadet program. Entry age between 17 and 21. No prior military service required. No tuition. Paid housing. Cyberware benefits. A guaranteed contract after graduation.
It didn't feel like selling out.
It felt like... growing up.
She remembered the last gig. How she almost ate lead because a netrunner miscalculated a turret pattern. How the fixer shaved 15% off her cut without blinking. How she was treated like a body—not a person.
She looked around the bar. No one was watching her. No one cared.
Maybe that was the real problem.
She tapped again.
Then again.
Applied.
Just like that, Corpo V was born—not out of greed, not out of some twisted love for Arasaka, but because if this city was a gameboard, she was done playing checkers.
Time to play chess.
And Arasaka?
They'd teach her how to move like a queen.
With that, she made her way back home. Something about applying without looking over the contract bothered her.
The devil was in the details after all.
She'd need to see the full picture on a screen.
The door hissed shut behind her. Dim lights hummed. The walls bore old posters—chrome warbands, synth idols, a faded relic of Samurai.
V peeled off her jacket, dropping it on the floor, then slumped into the sunken couch. Her legs hung over the edge, hands still buzzing. Not from adrenaline. Something else.
Doubt.
The terminal on the wall pinged. She'd been accepted for pre-screening.
Simple as that.
A half-hour later, the door buzzed again. She didn't even look—just opened it with a muttered, "'S open."
Jackie walked in, a grin already halfway formed.
"Chica, heard you ghosted outta Padre's loop today. Thought maybe you were dead in a gutter, or worse—off grid with some corpo suit feedin' you fancy wine and empty promises."
V sat up, exhaled. "Close enough."
He raised a brow, settled onto the floor across from her. "What's the deal?"
She hesitated. Then pulled up the ad again, letting the holo project between them.
Arasaka Cadet Program.
Jackie's face fell, smile gone like smoke in the wind. "You're serious."
She nodded.
He rubbed the back of his neck, breathing slow. "So that's it? You're done with this life? Street gigs, fixers, our dream—legend status?"
V leaned forward, arms on her knees. "No. I'm just changing the road I take to get there."
"You sure this is the road, Vee? Arasaka ain't a shortcut—it's a damn leash. You might end chasing someone elses dream."
"I'm tired, Jackie," she said, softer now. "Tired of being small. Of scraping by for gigs that barely pay for ammo. Of watching every other merc lose limbs, minds, or worse… for nothing."
Jackie looked away, jaw clenched.
"This city eats people like us," she continued. "Chews us up, spits us out, and sells the chrome. You really think we're gonna make it big like this?"
Jackie tapped his fingers against the floor. "You think running for the suits makes you any safer? You'll just be another number in their system. That ain't freedom, chica. That's a cage with pretty glass."
"I'm not doing this because I believe in Arasaka," she snapped. "I'm doing this because I believe in myself. They've got training. Gear. Structure. If I'm gonna survive Night City, I need more than guts and a borrowed pistol."
He let the silence stretch, heavy with unspoken thoughts.
"Victor know?" Jackie finally asked.
She didn't answer.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Didn't think so."
"I don't owe him that," she said, quiet. "He's not my boss. Not my dad."
"He pulled you outta a bad gig last month. Saved your ass in Watson before that. Don't pretend you don't matter to him."
"Maybe. But I matter more to me."
Jackie looked up. "So that's your dream now?"
She met his eyes. "To live. To win. Whatever that means. Maybe be a legend, maybe not. But at least I'll die with purpose. Not on some sidestreet over half a shard and broken dreams."
Jackie exhaled, long and heavy. "Guess we're taking different paths, huh?"
"Looks like."
He stood, brushing off his jacket. "Well… If you end up head of security, put in a good word for me. I hear corpo dogs eat better than mercs."
She chuckled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
As he reached the door, he turned, suddenly serious. "Hey… just promise me something?"
"What?"
"Don't forget who you are, choom. Arasaka's good at making people forget."
V hesitated, then nodded. "I won't."
The door shut behind him.
She sat alone again, staring at the glowing acceptance notice. Her future, bright and gleaming… and already stained with shadow.