Tokyo Metropolis.
Arasaka Advanced Industrial Park, [Sonnentreppe Project] Biotech Research Center.
Tap, tap…
In the prototype virus storage vault, the sound of heels striking the polished floor echoed crisply—its clarity cutting through the silence of this highly classified, heavily guarded facility like a blade.
It was confidence incarnate—a deliberate proclamation of arrival.
The cybernetic guards stationed at key access nodes didn't so much as glance her way. Numerous surveillance lenses, biometric scanners, auto-turrets, drones, and mech sentries registered the visitor's bio-signature, confirmed clearance, and returned to standby.
Three senior researchers—those assigned to remain on-site during the New Year's holiday—had already gathered to greet her after receiving notice that the project's chief director would personally inspect progress and update the development logs.
As Vela carried the biohazard transport case and passed through the security gate with unhurried steps—
"Director Vela." ×3.
The trio stepped forward immediately, bowing in greeting.
Even in Arasaka, ruthless as the corporation was, mandatory rotations and minimal annual leave still existed—though, of course, nowhere near as generous as Biotechnica's six-day paid holidays or NightCorp's newly reduced eighty-hour workweek.
"Happy New Year. Director, is there new progress?" the lead researcher asked politely, reaching out as if to take the case from her hands.
Vela waved him off lightly. "Something like that," she replied.
Her bright indigo eyes shimmered faintly with a crystalline-blue glow as she glanced casually across the three researchers. "Unfortunately, the North American situation grows more complex by the day. I'll have far less time to devote to the [Sonnentreppe Project]. My duties in Night City require me to focus primarily on military affairs."
Extending her hand toward them, she added with a poised smile, "You've all worked hard during the holidays. Yoi otoshi o (Happy New Year)."
They were, after all, the backbone of Arasaka's bioengineering division—individuals whose talents she respected. Even Saburo himself occasionally played the part of the approachable patriarch before his subordinates.
In that regard, Vela was no different. She never withheld respect from those who were useful—
At least, not until masks needed to be torn away.
Drawing upon her Geass, she quietly dissected the mental patterns of the three before her:
The first—obsequious and ambitious, his mind burning with an eagerness to climb higher.
The second—reserved and diligent, her thoughts methodical, almost mechanical, already preoccupied with ongoing reports and data projections.
The third—outwardly composed, yet internally unsettled. Not fear—no, not quite—but anxiety. Distracted. Uneasy.
As a senior researcher with clearance to access the prototype virus vault and lead advanced sub-project teams, such emotions were telling. This wasn't the nervousness of an inexperienced intern cowed by authority.
So what was it?
Only one possibility.
You're not loyal.
Shortly after Vela had departed the Arasaka Family Compound, official dispatches requesting personnel transfers from Tokyo Tower to Night City's new Arasaka Tech Center had reached the researchers' inboxes.
The three of them surely knew.
Who wouldn't want to go?
The ambitious would leap at the chance—a gleaming addition to their career portfolio.
The earnest, research-driven type cared only for their experiments—so long as conditions were adequate, location was irrelevant.
But the reluctant one—was it really homesickness? Or something else?
If one assumed, for argument's sake, that Arasaka's Intelligence Division wasn't entirely composed of fools, then any foreign infiltrator embedded within such a critical facility would be more inclined to join a newly established branch—where operations would be easier, and advancement faster.
So then… it must be you.
If not an infiltrator, then perhaps one of Yorinobu's hawkish loyalists—a man who had already placed his bet on another master long ago.
After briefly shaking hands with each of the three, Vela's polite corporate smile curved subtly upward into a faint, knowing smirk.
Found you.
She decided not to transfer him. Let him stay in the Tokyo Biotech Center—for now.
Let's see what he does next.
"You may return to your work," Vela said calmly after a brief exchange of formalities, then walked deeper into the laboratory.
As she moved, she turned slightly and added, "Ah, and send me your individual annual reports later—along with the backup copies of each research group's development logs, including those on leave."
"Yes, Director," came the synchronized reply.
Vela nodded and approached the thick, explosion-proof, biohazard-sealed doors ahead. Blue-white scanner lines swept over her body; after a moment—click—authorization confirmed, the doors opened.
She stepped inside.
The three senior researchers stood quietly, watching the elegant figure with her flowing pale-gold ponytail disappear behind the closing door.
After a pause, the leader exhaled and patted his fist lightly. "Alright, you two. Director Vela doesn't seem like she'll stay long in Tokyo. The Night City lab sounds like a fine assignment."
The reserved one pulled out her personal PDA and said plainly, "I don't mind either way."
The last man sighed.
"Fine or not, I only know that Night City's a cesspool. Who knows what kind of chaos Militech and Myers will stir up next?"
Muttering to himself, he glanced once toward the vault entrance before walking away.
"The North American situation's too volatile. I'd rather not spend my days wondering when someone might blow my brains out."
...
Clang!
The lights flicked on automatically.
Entering the prototype virus storage vault, Vela walked through the vast chamber until she stopped before an empty containment rack.
Placing the transport case on the display platform—
Click.
Vela withdrew the small cylindrical containment tube and fitted it precisely into the designated slot. Clack-clack.
Her eyes glimmered with flowing data streams.
Inside the rack, the mechanical arms came to life. Once the containment seal was safely opened, one arm descended from above and retrieved a pen-sized vessel.
Within it churned a substance like living crimson oil—slick, gelatinous, viscous, and disturbingly animate. The thick, red fluid shimmered in her narrowed gaze, reflecting the cold calculation within her eyes.
Beep-beep.
Via local network access, Vela entered the corresponding log entry.
Designation: [Temporary Codename: Tyrant-Ghoul-118-09 Fusion Virus (T-G–Progenitor–Veronica–Ghoul Hybrid Virus)].
Her indigo irises reflected the pale glow of the holographic data board before her.
After a moment, her pupils flashed with orange-red light as she typed an additional note:
[Developer: Vela Adelheid Arasaka Russell. Discovered: 2076-12-18. Artificially engineered fusion-type virus. Highly unstable. Effects unknown. High mutagenicity. High lethality. Extreme risk.]
[Future Prospects: Successful adaptants may retain self-awareness while gaining immense regenerative capacity, significantly enhanced physical functions, and extended lifespan. A high probability exists for the evolution of newly adapted, transformed supercells forming novel organs—leading to the emergence of 'superhumans,' or rather, a new humanity.]
She bolded the keywords: evolution, supercells, new organs, superhuman, new humanity—then, like William Birkin before her, began to lavishly embellish the project's potential. When the final character was entered, Vela leaned back in her chair, casually set the empty containment tube back into the case, and closed it.
A subtle, knowing smile curved across her lips.
Truthfully, she didn't believe a word of it.
But that didn't stop her from selling the dream.
Whether the adaptation succeeded or not—well, whoever injected it would find out firsthand. She'd listed the risks clearly. If it killed them, that wasn't on her.
As for the T-virus line's high transmissibility, she wasn't worried. In the [Cyberpunk] world, there were always the sterilizing heat and clean detonation of the Sakura Stonebreaker bombs.
The only real concern was containment—its outbreak point had to be carefully chosen. It could never happen near Arasaka Tower or any key facility. Once she returned to Night City, she would make the necessary arrangements.
With that thought, Vela turned toward the workstation. Pulling over the built-in chair, she logged in using her personal ID. Notifications blinked red across the UI—emails, official memos, updates. Taking a moment to organize her thoughts, she began her true duty under the [Sonnentreppe Project].
Corporate politics were inevitable—but so was diligence.
First things first: confirm the personnel transfer list for Night City…
...
While Vela in Tokyo (Time Zone: UTC+9) prepared for her return flight scheduled for the morning of January 2nd—
Meanwhile, in Night City (Time Zone: UTC–8)—
It was still January 1st, 2077. Thanks to the time difference, Tokyo's New Year celebrations were winding down, while Night City's had only just begun.
For Night City natives, "sleep early"? The hell with that. "Stay healthy"? Screw that too.
Midnight was when life truly began.
The skyline still glowed with its eternal neon brilliance; the Watson districts remained dark and desolate. Yet, at least, consumption had risen. In Westbrook's Japantown, Heywood's Vista del Rey, City Center, and Watson's Little China, faint traces of festivity lingered. Clubs, casinos, and even small corner shops had seen a modest uptick in traffic.
Of course, Night City was still Night City. The NCPD hotline was already jammed with calls. Muggings, thefts, kidnappings, and murders spiked as always—it was tradition.
This was the city of dreams, where everyone had the right to chase their ambitions—even the scum rotting in alleyways or passed out in puddles of their own piss. So long as Arasaka's sheriffs or the NCPD didn't catch them, anything went.
For example—
Vista del Rey.
"AAAAAAGH!!"
Bang!
"Shut up, punk."
An electrified baton cracked the air, sparking bright blue arcs with each swing.
Fully armed Arasaka enforcers were in the middle of disciplining a tattoo-covered punk with neon hair. After one particularly brutal flurry—six strikes in a second—the officer finally relented. The ranking officer, standing nearby with his collar badge gleaming, spoke evenly: "Enough, Suneo. Just a petty thief. Call NCPD cleanup."
"OK."
The officer—Suneo—shrugged and hauled the unconscious punk to the curb.
"Katsuo, when's our shift change?" he grumbled. "Seriously, we're supposed to be elite security, not beat cops doing street patrols. Didn't the crackdown end last month? I just want to go home."
"Not our call," Katsuo replied, glancing at his tactical wrist terminal. "The class of '76 handles street duty until the '77 cadets graduate. Then maybe we'll get a break."
After confirming the NCPD response code on his display, he looked up. "Hey, David! What're you spacing out for?!"
"Oh—sorry!" came a bright, cheerful voice. "Just thinking about what to get my mom for New Year's."
The third officer—taller and bulkier than the others, his armor thicker, his badge gleaming—adjusted his winged helmet and waved them over.
The shop that had caught his attention bore the logo of a cat-eared girl with serpentine eyes—the local "Danger Gal" wellness store. The security guard out front ignored the massive Arasaka enforcer completely.
"Speaking of which," David said, "my place is right here in Vista del Rey. Shift doesn't end till tonight. How about lunch at my place? My mom's Spanish cooking's pretty legit."
"Go?"
"Go." ×2.