Saburo Arasaka had awakened. Upon hearing the news, Vela paused mid-command. A faint azure glint shimmered in her indigo eyes as she asked calmly, "After the old man woke up, did he show any signs of rejection?" Her tone was measured—gentle, almost like that of a physician inquiring after a patient.
On the other end of the holo-call, Michiko's expression flickered briefly before she replied after a short pause, "He's stable for now. But there are complications and sequelae... You're the developer of the fusion virus. You should return and examine him yourself. Saburo's condition isn't good."
"Alright, I'll be there soon. Oh, and send me his medical report."
"I'll forward it shortly. See you soon, sister."
Beep—
The call ended.
"Prepare the car. We're going to Arasaka Tower." Vela said as she stepped through the ruins of what had once been her home, her voice steady and cold.
"Hai!" a steward answered promptly, turning to relay her orders.
Rustling sounds followed—the soft crunch of boots sinking into scorched grass. While waiting for the vehicle and final clearance, Vela stood still, one hand behind her back, gazing at the devastation before her: what had once been the stately Russell manor and main hall was now little more than rubble, drenched in blood.
The walls looked like they had been gnawed apart by beasts. The gate had collapsed; the iron fence blown away who knows where.
Ashes drifted down through the air. The marble path was pitted and cracked, stained a deep red.
The rising barriers, scanners, and sentry turrets that once guarded the estate had long been destroyed—their remains still smoking faintly.
Inside and out, the grounds were littered with shattered weapons and wrecked armored vehicles. Some were twisted heaps of scrap metal; others still burned, the walls scarred with shrapnel, bullets, and scorched fragments.
Disfigured corpses lay scattered throughout, some piled in grotesque heaps inside collapsed walls, their blood soaking the lawns and paving stones, the stench unbearable when the wind blew.
Perhaps this was one of the few—if grim—benefits of the cyberpunk world's ecological decay: even in midsummer, corpses no longer attracted flies.
Reinforcements from various Arasaka divisions had been clearing the battlefield for some time.
The sounds of gunfire finishing off the wounded, the clatter of metal being moved, and shouted orders echoed one after another.
Any surviving enemies were dragged out for identification.
If they were Afterlife mercenaries—executed on the spot.
If they were FIA agents or Militech contractors—their treatment depended on their wounds; some were kept alive for questioning.
If they were Yorinobu's rebels—depending on strategic value, they were given painkillers or stabilized for interrogation later.
As for the wounded Arasaka security personnel defending the community—they were prioritized for immediate rescue and evacuation.
Even those who had already perished were carefully retrieved, cremated separately, and their ashes sealed in urns engraved with the Arasaka logo.
Crunch, creak.
Vela walked through the smoldering debris, stepping over spent shells, bloodstains, and severed limbs. Passing the ruins of the foyer and guest rooms, she entered the courtyard.
Vrrrm—! The courtyard roared with the sounds of engines and voices. Medics hurried to load the wounded onto medical AVs.
In the outer corners, corpses and dying enemies were being sorted into piles.
Zetatech "Canopy" drones—municipal and corporate waste collection units—hovered up and down under officer supervision. The Arasaka soldiers were tossing non-friendly bodies into the hovering containers as though they were nothing more than refuse.
Surveying the makeshift helipad and field hospital that the garden had become, Vela waved a hand dismissively, signaling the approaching officer to continue his work rather than report.
She was about to move on to check the wounded when—
"Commander." A member of the Presidential Security Division approached, carrying a large metal case.
Vela turned slightly.
Behind him stood another operative, holding by the hair the severed head of a mercenary.
Who was this? What rank?
The lead agent handed her the case and explained, "During the pursuit of fleeing enemies, we captured the thief who stole your Brute Wyvern."
Vela blinked, opening the case to look inside.
The mini Wyvern drone—her beloved companion—looked pitiful, dented and battered, but upon recognizing its master's scent, it chirped weakly, tail wagging like a loyal pet.
"Well done." Vela nodded approvingly, glancing at the cybernetic thief whose face was now unrecognizable.
The agent understood immediately. Turning, he drove a metal fist into the man's face with a sickening crack—fracturing his skull. Brain matter splattered across the ground.
Another operative stepped forward and fired two finishing shots before dragging the corpse away and tossing it into a drone's disposal compartment.
Clatter, hiss...
The commotion quickly drew the attention of the community security division, the stationed rapid response unit, and the ninja retainers resting in the courtyard residences. Upon spotting the silver-armored figure, they hurried over at once.
Vela raised her hand, signaling them to stand down.
The leading officers were covered in grime, their faces weathered and bruised from battle. None of them wore their combat exoskeletons anymore—only standard-issue uniforms from their various divisions. Beneath damaged synthetic skin, their faces looked rough and hardened, their eyes fierce, their bodies marked by both war and cybernetic augmentation.
Almost all bore wounds, though only superficial ones. The severely injured had already been evacuated for treatment.
Even the vehicle Vela had arrived in had been repurposed as a medevac shuttle and sent off earlier.
The commander of the ninja corps stepped forward, bowing deeply and lowering himself on one knee in the traditional Arasaka retainer's salute. "My apologies, milady. I failed to keep the enemy from breaching the estate and allowed such destruction to befall your home…"
Vela immediately reached down, lifting him back to his feet, halting his self-blame. "You should be saying 'mission accomplished,' Takeshita-kun. No one could have predicted Yorinobu's betrayal… or his sheer foolishness."
A lie, of course.
"You are a hero. All of you are heroes." Her gaze swept over the gathered soldiers—hardened faces full of adrenaline and fatigue—and she spoke with firm conviction. Without hesitation or disgust at the blood still staining their hands, Vela clasped theirs one by one, praising and commending them.
The scene—commander and subordinates, leader and vassals united in mutual respect—was quietly recorded by an attendant from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
Then came a low vwoom as an AV descended.
A security agent stepped forward and whispered a reminder about the schedule.
Vela nodded, smiling warmly at the assembled soldiers. She patted the metal case beside her, then lifted the little Brute Wyvern drone, stroking it affectionately before handing it to the old ninja with a rare, genuine warmth.
"Now, your task is simple: rest well and await your medals and rewards."
"The stability of Night City and the prosperity of Arasaka depend on us working together—as one."
"Pass down the order: slaughter livestock, and reward the troops."
She gave her command crisply.
Then Vela boarded the aircraft, leaving behind the old ninja—who was now staring in confusion at the tiny mechanical creature in his arms—and the battle-hardened men around him, whose curiosity about the so-called 'high-end dinosaur pet' was barely contained.
...
Whoosh! The wind rushed in through the open hatch. Seated within, Vela folded away all her [Warframe] external modules, gazing down at the awakening city beneath her feet.
Her city.
Ugly and beautiful all at once—the city of dreams.
And her road of chasing dreams was drawing to an end. Well, to a transitional end.
Saburo... Vela narrowed her eyes. You have no more choices left.
Clunk. The hatch sealed shut. Anticipating the confrontation to come, she settled into her seat, reflexively pulling out her portable terminal. She brought up the operational data feed, scanning through real-time combat summaries to make her own judgments. After all, the thought of Arasaka being ruined beyond recovery unsettled her deeply.
According to intel from Anthony Gilchrist, aside from senior field managers like Meredith Stout and Jonathan Irons, New America and Militech had established a temporary operations command center.
But one could not have both the bear's paw and the fish.
She had bombs to defuse and rebels to subdue—no time to play whack-a-mole among the skyscrapers.
New America and the FIA were greedy, not stupid. Anthony didn't know the exact location of that special envoy.
If they hadn't been caught by dawn, the big fish had probably fled already.
What remained were the scapegoats.
[Suspected Militech operations command center detected in the southern Charter Hill residential district.] The flickering blue holo-text reflected in Vela's eyes.
Almost as if in response to her thoughts—
BOOM——!!
A deep rumble.
The explosion's shockwave rippled outward.
The comm channel erupted into chaos—static and overlapping voices of shouting soldiers.
"Commander! It's a subnuclear detonation!" the co-pilot security officer shouted. "Blast origin: Charter Hill South residential towers—"
"I see it."
A MOAB—or multiple—had been detonated.
BOOM! The violent explosion birthed a red-black mushroom cloud. As it rose, its echoing thunder rolled across the city. A skyscraper in the heart of the district crumbled into ruin, several city blocks consumed by fire and smoke.
Not quite as devastating as a single Sakuradite explosive's 650-ton TNT yield, but still terrifying.
According to the onboard AI's rough estimate, this new-model MOAB from New America had an explosive yield of around 280 to 330 tons of TNT.
But the blast was more than enough to confuse the enemy, delay Arasaka's pursuit, and cover the retreat.
"Cease pursuit. Regroup the scattered units, rescue the wounded, and evacuate civilians."
"Order Mizuno Masao to activate the propaganda apparatus. Publicize the news that New America and Militech deployed subnuclear weapons across Night City. Emphasize the cautionary aspect—revive the story of the 2023 Arasaka Tower nuclear explosion and push the narrative hard."
The operation hadn't achieved total success and had even incurred minor losses, but Vela didn't mind.
War—this was its nature.
No matter how meticulously she planned, even with her gradually deteriorating "future sight," total risk avoidance was impossible. War always extracted its price. And after being ambushed so many times, the FIA was bound to have learned a few tricks of its own.
What Vela could do for the fallen was simple: send Washington a bigger present next time.
They were the first to break the unwritten rules by tossing a subnuclear weapon into Night City—so when she returned the favor, it would be perfectly justified.
As for the Omaha explosion? A third-rate war zone like Omaha couldn't compare to Night City—the continental corporate hub housing one of Arasaka's Three Grand Towers.
Now she had the perfect justification.
Next time, the weapon she sent wouldn't be a Sakuradite bomb—it would be the F.L.E.I.J.A. warhead.
No nuclear radiation meant it wasn't a nuclear weapon. No radioactive contamination meant it didn't violate the Nuclear Restriction Treaty.
It was semantics, yes—but corporate warfare and politics were filthier than any brothel's backroom deals. Still, Vela always preferred to keep her façade pristine. In politics, appearances mattered—whether one acted ruthlessly or not could make all the difference.
Wouldn't you agree? Through the polarized glass of the vehicle window, Vela gazed at the towering black monolith ahead—Arasaka Tower—its reflection overlapping with her own.
A strange sensation washed over her, as if an invisible force pushed her forward. Her reflection seemed to look back—dressed in a perfectly pressed dark ceremonial uniform with golden double-breasted buttons, a high collar, and a white ruffled cravat adorned with a cornflower-blue sapphire brooch.
[The Goddess of Love, is it? Soon enough. But first, I must handle the disturbances in Area 11. My dear Nina Einstein has been quite unsettled about her classmates at Ashford Academy—her anxiety's been affecting research efficiency.] said the reflection.
Be careful. No mistakes this time, Vela replied telepathically.
[Naturally.]
Beep-beep... DING.
The broadcast AI chimed: "Now arriving—Arasaka Tower. Welcome back, Miss Vela."
The AV settled onto the helipad. The hatch hissed open, and Vela stepped out.
Only then did she deactivate her [Warframe System].
As the gleaming nanotech armor dispersed in rippling streams of silver light, merging back into the carrying case, Michiko Arasaka—who had been waiting, arms crossed—narrowed her eyes, her expression flickering with intrigue.
"My dear sister, you never fail to surprise me," Michiko said after a slow breath, half in awe.
"Want one?" Vela quipped, handing the case to her attendant, Arin. "Once the war's won, I'll have one custom-made for you."
Arin accepted the case and presented a tailored suit jacket to Vela before smoothly stepping behind her—she had previously escorted Saburo to Arasaka Tower for treatment.
"That'll be a long wait," Michiko said wryly, shaking her head. Then, turning briskly, she continued, "Come. Don't keep the old man waiting."
Vela slipped on the jacket, adjusted her appearance, and nodded, following her sister.
Ding.
The elevator doors opened.
Moments later, the group emerged into the upper floors—the medical center.
Unlike the times she had sought audience with Saburo in Tokyo, this time in Night City the security was equally strict, but no one dared to stop or check her. Every Arasaka employee in the medical ward stood straight, eyes lowered.
Saburo's loyal retainers brought from Tokyo were either dead in Konpeki Plaza or buried beneath rubble. The few survivors were either in critical care or scattered. And everyone knew—Night City was the stronghold of the Arasaka American faction, or rather, the Internationalist faction.
With Yorinobu dead and Saburo gravely wounded, everyone understood what this meant.
As Vela stepped inside, she saw him—the ancient patriarch of Arasaka, sitting in a regenerative medical pod, tubes connected to his frail body. His back was hunched, eyes closed, as if in a half-slumber.
It was as if he had returned to the age before immortality—to the frailty of flesh.
Her heels clicked softly against the PVC floor as she approached.
"Arasaka-sama," Vela greeted evenly—neither hurried nor hesitant, her tone composed and dignified.
"Ve...la..." Saburo's eyes slowly opened, his voice hoarse and heavy, his words dragging like those of a man wrestling with time itself.
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