Thud, thud-thud!
The muffled cacophony grew louder, nearer.
Bang—BOOM—RUMBLE—
Vibrations… explosions…
Bzzzt—a sterile red warning light circled and flashed in the brightly lit room. Voices echoed in the enclosed space, nearly drowned by ambient noise.
"Where the hell are the PHXPD officers?!" barked a gelled-hair, suited old white man. "Arasaka—are they trying to start a war?!"
"They just held a public press conference accusing you of being a suspect in the 3.30 US-xico border attack. They've issued a subpoena..."
"Bullshit!" he roared, volu surging. "This is a shaless setup. A subpoena?! They want dead!"
Thump-thump-thump—footsteps rushed in.
"Secretary of State, sir, apologies. City SWAT and the National Guard are unreachable. Encrypted commands are getting no response. State and federal police say they need at least an hour to mobilize. City PD is in chaos..."
"Goddammit! Fuck! Send a distress signal to the Federal Intelligence Agency!"
"Can our n outside still hold? Arasaka's up to sothing—they preemptively beefed up security..."
And then—
BOOM!
The ceiling shook violently on the surveillance feed!
First ca a distant, rhythmic thudding… then tremors rocked the entire room… and then, an agonizing screech of twisting tal rang out. Cracks spiderwebbed across the ceiling, ballooning outward toward the center of the room—
Then—
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
An ear-shattering blast tore through the basent ceiling.
Light fixtures shattered. Displays, cables, and embedded electronics all blew out in crackling bursts of sparks.
A warped circle of compressed air and heavy rebar-laced concrete debris ca crashing down, instantly burying two guards who failed to react in ti—flattened under the collapse.
In the mist of blood spray, pulverized bones and flesh mixed with coarse, unfinished flooring into a single grotesque slurry.
The unluckiest of them all was the guard who almost—but not quite—dodged in ti.
Half of his body was crushed and compacted, revealing ruptured cybernetic structures—sparking electronic muscle cables, jumbled-up implant organs—whether artificial or organic, it all spilled out in a single, indistinct ss…
His [Pain Editor] must've been fried. The screams were bone-chilling.
"Plymouth Devon—you are guilty... Operation Fluttering Sleeve Vajra—revenge, retribution..."
A raspy, tallic synthesized voice echoed from beyond the breach in the ceiling.
Barely visible: a massive, matte-black steel titan stood atop the partially demolished remains of the surface-level mansion.
Whirr—whirr—whirr—! Servo motors roared to life. Crimson indicator lights blinked between the armored seams of its massive fist as it struck the ground. The gravity field generator's laser-identification system locked onto the basent breach.
Its glowing red cybernetic eye stared into the room—unmoving.
"Aaaaaaaaahhh—!!"
The surviving guards scread in despair. One tried to fight back, but his bullets only sparked harmlessly off the titan's heavy exoskeleton.
A split second later, return fire riddled his body. As he collapsed, several high-explosive fragntation grenades were tossed down—boom! boom!—shrapnel ricocheted wildly around the basent, coating everything in blood mist.
The panicked guard who had scread was flipped over by the blast, silenced permanently.
The cara feed cracked under the impact—deep fractures rippled across the screen.
Bang.
Bang, bang.
Three figures in matte-black heavy combat suits dropped straight down from over four ters above—
THUD! THUD!
Gunfire imdiately followed. Muzzle flashes blazed brightly through the dust-filled basent.
At last, the old white man—already wounded by shrapnel and sent flying backward by kinetic force from large-caliber rounds—landed hard in the middle of the basent, blood covering his entire body.
"Devon." One of the attackers grabbed the old man's head, inserted a personal link cable, seemingly to verify biotric data. A mont later, he stood up. "Target neutralized." He raised his gun and pulled the trigger. A burst of blood erupted from where Devon's head used to be.
They tossed a few more thermite incendiary grenades, then bent their knees—and the three of them jumped out of the basent.
BOOM, BOOM!
Explosions, shockwaves, fire, ignition…
Bzzzzt.
Black screen.
...
"..."
Myers fell into silence.
Her expression darkened as she leaned forward in her seat, elbows on the table for support, brows tightly furrowed, eyes narrowed as she reviewed the final sixty seconds in the life of Arizona's Secretary of State—
Footage of Devon being publicly executed in his own ho by an Arasaka assault unit.
Myers had already watched it more than once.
At the ti of the incident, she had imdiately authorized the Secretary to bring charges against Arasaka at the International Court of Arbitration.
And while both sides were busy exchanging verbal gymnastics on the diplomatic front, Arasaka had unilaterally released the entire background and investigation report.
Retribution.
That was Arasaka's official stance.
They stressed that it was not an assassination but a direct execution. That they were, in fact, following legal procedure—acting in reciprocity. Whatever ndoza Laurie used in his attack, Arasaka responded in kind.
Of course, the chaos across the western states was reported to Myers imdiately.
Nearly simultaneously, the Secretary of State for New xico was assassinated during a speech in the state legislature.
The attacker had shouted on-site: "Long live freedom, long live sovereignty—Myers, fuck you!" while waving the state flag.
Security and legislative marshals at the scene shot him dead. The marshals, unusually aggressive, moved fast and focused fire to obliterate the assailant's head.
Clearly, sothing was off.
How did the attacker smuggle a gun into the state legislature? Where was security?
Since when were marshals issued Russian-made, high-tech, large-caliber electromagnetic pistols equipped with anti-cybernetic incendiary rounds designed to destroy brain tissue and neural chips?
The situation in other states wasn't much better.
In Nevada, the state capitol was stord and occupied by rioters. City police turned a blind eye. A National Guard mid-ranking officer, upset over Washington's heavier taxation of the West and lighter burdens on the East, led a mutiny, seized the armory, killed his superior, and declared support for the local party's independence manifesto.
In Utah, SLCPD (Salt Lake City Police Departnt), under direct orders from the deputy chief, joined forces with a respected forr mayor from the Free State era and shelled the local Federal Tax Office—then attacked federal agents. They were now occupying City Hall and the state capitol.
In Oregon, an argunt between protesters and supporters in Portland escalated into a full-blown gunfight. Local gangs got involved while the police looked the other way. White House supporters were overwheld—over a thousand casualties.
In Washington State, in Olympia, the star-spangled banner was torn down from the capitol building and publicly burned…
"Preditated… or spur-of-the-mont chaos..."
Unable to take any more, Myers stood up from her chair and lit a cigarette, her fingertips trembling slightly.
Just like many within Arasaka—and even field agents unaware of the mission's full scope—Myers had been caught off guard at first.
Had Arasaka really orchestrated this many players?
When did this all start? Why hadn't the FIA detected anything?
But once she cald down and started cross-checking data, Myers began to understand.
Arasaka had indeed recruited so staunch anti-Washington hardliners—but for security reasons, they had kept it small. No more than two or three states at most.
But that didn't account for the West Coast local party mbers who betrayed their country.
Those bastards would side with whoever had the upper hand.
It was predictable—this West Coast upheaval, even if it eventually passed, no matter how smoothly it ended, her approval ratings would take a hit. And if things went poorly, she might even face impeachnt.
She had plenty of political enemies on Capitol Hill and within Militech's board.
That thought made Myers boil inside.
You were once Aricans too—faithful followers of the great and glorious Mayflower spirit. Why side with Arasaka? Why betray light for darkness? Why not unite around the original Thirteen Colonies and make Arica great again?
A bunch of shortsighted worms!
Why couldn't they understand her good intentions?
Yes, they were being exploited now. Yes, their tax rates were sky-high. But it was all to help the Eastern states recover faster—to revive the U.S. economy and industry. In ti, the benefits would flow back to everyone. A little hardship now for long-term prosperity. Wasn't that how the old Arica had thrived?
The rich lifting up the poor. First co, first served. Didn't they get it?
And yet, they dared to rebel. Had the ans to rebel. Clearly, her past policies had been too soft. The sustainable extraction of the central and western states hadn't been thorough enough. Ti to dig deeper—strip them down to the bone.
Myers made a ntal note.
This wasn't over.
One day, she'd settle the score...
"Madam President, the Pentagon has responded. Deploynt orders have been issued. The 82nd Airborne Division, stationed in the central buffer states, has begun mobilization. The 3rd and 4th Infantry Divisions have recalled reservists. Within 12 hours, two Heavy Brigade Combat Teams can begin moving west."
"Chief of Staff of the Air Force reports: Minot Air Force Base—5th Bomb Wing and 91st Space Wing—are now at combat readiness, prepared for imdiate launch..."
"Excellent."
The half-smoked premium cigarette was crushed out in the ashtray. Backed by firepower, backed by Militech, Myers strode forward with commanding presence, hands behind her back. Combat holograms and intelligence data reflected in her eyes.
Synchronized with her neural interface, the low-intelligence AI arranged processed surveillance screenshots across the screen—repaired, enlarged, HD-enhanced.
There were close-ups of a new model cybernetic Tyrant.
Compared with the Tyrants spotted in the Night City badlands, the armor was more refined. While maintaining sharp-edged weapon mount modules, the joints and armor seams were more tightly fitted—Arasaka was still refining their military product.
And those Arasaka heavy troops—
In addition to the signature scale-plated armor inserts and fully enclosed polycarbonate-Kevlar composite combat suits, they wore an added exoskeleton rig.
Not the bulky, partial-coverage Centaur-class, but a full-body lightweight exoskeleton—like a spinal and limb fra wrapped snugly around each soldier from the back.
AI zood, enhanced, and adjusted brightness. It paused the video at the fra where the Arasaka soldier executed Devon. On his limb exoskeleton and bracer-mounted combat terminal, the engraving read: [EXO—1].
A model number.
A new model.
Another new model bypassing the International Excessive Firepower Restriction Treaty.
That treaty had always been a half-hearted compromise between global powers. Urban deploynt of military-grade powered armor was banned—but under ergency conditions, exoskeletons were permitted.
Mass deploynt, then...
Myers's gaze road across the war room's holographic displays.
Arasaka…
As much as she hated to admit it, the truth was Arasaka's recent montum far outpaced Militech's.
Who would've thought Saburo Arasaka would regain his youth—pulling Arasaka back together like a tightly wound rope? How could they contend with that?
She sighed inwardly.
Looking up now—from Sonnentreppe, to Cyber Tyrants, to Quinques, Night City Expansion Zones, EXO—1... who knew what else the future held. But Myers knew one thing: this wasn't the end. With Arasaka showing signs of resurging to its peak, she could only feel an oppressive weight pressing down—like "black clouds crushing the city."
Arasaka wouldn't let Militech off the hook—just as Militech would never spare Arasaka if given the chance.
If she chose to suppress the western independence movent with force, and Arasaka escalated by intervening directly—would that an war?
When the U.S.-xico border attack first happened, none of her staff had anticipated Arasaka would go this far.
How deep did Arasaka's war preparations go?
Myers didn't know. She had no confidence.
She only knew this: the New United States was not yet ready for a full-scale corporate war with Arasaka.
Relations with the Republic of Texas had deteriorated sharply over the past six years. Border skirmishes had flared up multiple tis, resulting in dozens of military deaths. If war reignited, the Lone Star State would not stay neutral like it had during the Unification War.
If she fought, Arasaka might join the fray directly, and a weakened holand could be exposed to a Texan sneak attack…
If she didn't fight, the New United States' rising montum would stall. Her political career would forever be branded as weak and incompetent. Worse, if the western local party gained a foothold, the Free States Alliance—backed by international ga-corps like SovOil—would revive, and most gains from the last war would be lost…
How to fight, how far to go—those were all unanswered questions.
Truth be told, fighting under such heavy constraints—hands tied by worry—would be a frustrating, toothless war.
The more she thought, the more scattered her thoughts beca. Even soone as composed as Myers felt a wave of anxiety, of ntal exhaustion.
Lost in thought, ti passed unknowingly—
"Madam President, first victory achieved. The Lazarus Brigade's armored vanguard has broken through Barghest's defensive line outside Santa Fe. Over a hundred enemies killed, vehicles destroyed..."
A White House aide, face bright with optimism, stood to report.
"Madam President, FIA's Utah division reports they are successfully preventing insurgents from seizing the state capitol and city hall. The Utah National Guard's 19th Special Operations Group has responded—they received your direct military order. Rebel elents within their ranks have been neutralized."
"President Myers, composite forces made up of state troopers, SWAT, and marshals are dispersing the rioters occupying the capitol building. Nevada's Secretary of State has been safely evacuated..."
Myers listened quietly. The string of good news at least softened her tightly knit brow.
She then had the AI pull up military maps for southwestern Arizona and New xico, studying them closely.
According to the FIA's intelligence assessnts and the Pentagon's planning, Arasaka's likely targets were those two states.
If they successfully seceded, they'd form a direct land connection with the Republic of Texas and could forge a defensive pact. That would an the total collapse of southern U.S. stability…
Just as Myers was about to finalize her decision and issue a special military executive order—
An aide rushed over with urgent news:
"Madam President... Just now, the governors of Washington and Oregon have announced—on behalf of their respective voter assemblies—to the international community: the Free States have re-declared independence."
"What?" Myers was stunned.
Governors, not Secretaries of State?
They represented the voters. Though Washington had appointed Secretaries of State to sideline them—turning them into little more than rubber-stamp figureheads—legally and constitutionally, governors were the top administrative authority recognized by the U.S. Constitution and international law.
And why Washington and Oregon?
Expression blank, Myers slowly turned around and asked, "What the hell is going on?"
"Current intelligence is incomplete," the aide replied carefully. "We need more ti to verify the full picture."
"But what we can confirm is that this was long preditated. Western liberal party mbers, gang affiliates, police systems, National Guard units—even underground cyber-rcenary groups that rarely dabble in politics—they all took part, and moved almost simultaneously!"
"I see now... I see..." Myers's face grew visibly annoyed. "So it was a diversion all along. And they've got such an appetite—aren't they afraid they'll shatter their own teeth?"
She could no longer maintain her cold composure in the face of this situation.
"Madam President..."
"What now?"
Myers turned, irritation thick in her voice.
"It's Arasaka's naval fleet. Two Arasaka supercarriers and their escort carrier strike group have been detected approaching international waters near San Francisco."
The intelligence officer delivered the report with a hint of barely concealed tremor.
And just like that, the words Myers was about to say—mobilizing chanized infantry and armored divisions westward—died in her throat.
"..."
Like a bucket of ice water poured over her head, the searing tension in her chest was extinguished in an instant. Her expression turned cautious.
"Arasaka... are they truly prepared for full-scale war?"
This night dragged on endlessly—for civilians on both the East and West Coasts, and for both Arasaka and Militech alike.
...
Whoosh, crash—
In the endless roar of waves, the black-and-red-hulled Arasaka twin-hull warship carved through the water, its bow throwing up torrents of foam like snow.
Click-clack...
The sharp sound of high-heeled boots echoed across the deck.
On the triple-tiered flight deck of the mountainous Arasaka mothership, atop the command tower's observation deck, Vela rested her hands on the railing, eyes fixed on the distant undulations of the sea and the rumble of carrier-based aircraft taking off and landing.
The salty, damp sea wind howled past her. Her light golden mid-length hair, tied back in a ponytail, and the hem of her long coat billowed in the breeze.
"So, you called in the fleet," said Michiko Arasaka.
With her mohawk of vivid blue hair standing out starkly, she showed no concern about the sailors watching her as she rhythmically tapped a finger on the railing. Amused, she asked, "Then, are you ready for war?"
"The answer is no," Vela replied softly.
Her lips curled into a slight grin as she turned sideways, leaning against the railing, hands folded just below her abdon. "But I'm guessing Myers is even less ready. And if we want her cautious, hesitant to act—just you and I won't be enough..."
She paused, then looked to the other side.
"Commander Takayama, we'll need your help to play the role of 'peacemaker.'"
When you're in trouble, it's only natural to call in a respected elder to help steady the scene.
There stood a broad-shouldered figure—short by Vela's standards, but solidly built, back straight and full of strength. His graying crew cut spoke quietly of his age and old-school roots.
Shintaro Takayama.
"Little Vela..." he began.
At those words, Michiko imdiately felt a twinge of jealousy.
—
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