[Call of Duty]
North Arica, Arlington National Cetery, Virginia.
July 24, 2058, 09:30 AM.
Overcast.
Late sumr transitioning into early autumn, the lush cetery trees had begun to shed their leaves. A bleak breeze brushed against the yellowing, withered foliage.
A convoy of black SUVs, marked with a black-white-red nested arrowhead logo, braked to a stop.
The sparse crowd moved slowly, black short boots treading softly on the grass with a faint saa, saa sound.
"Manticore biological gene-programming virus…"
Murmuring softly, Vela, clad in a dark trench coat, extended her hand.
A torn, withered leaf descended, reflected in the mirrored surfaces of her crystalline irises—her indigo eyes like twin whirlpools, deep and unfathomable.
[Cyberpunk]—on that side, they're planning to start a world war…
Though, on my side, the latent instability is hardly any less.
It won't be long…
With an inaudible whisper, Vela's lips curved faintly. She turned her palm, letting the leaf fall, while her other hand—holding a bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums, white lilies, and pink carnations—swayed gently as she stepped into the semicircular military cetery.
Within the cetery, the green grass was like a carpet, the white marble tombstones standing in orderly rows, like a grand army of the dead. From above, the rolling expanse of graves carried an imposing and majestic air.
"Director."
"Doctor."
"Ms. Russell."
…
Nodding to the black-suited bodyguards stationed along her path, Vela walked toward a newer section of the tombs, bouquet in hand.
A white man with neatly combed-back hair and dressed in a black suit had been standing before one particular gravestone for quite so ti.
The engraved letters on the stone silently declared its owner: Private First Class Will Robert Irons, U.S. Marine Corps.
The man standing there was the deceased's father—Jonathan Irons, Vela's boss, and half-ntor, CEO of Atlas Corporation.
"Mr. Irons."
"Vela. Finished paying your respects to Joseph?"—referring to her father in this world.
Without turning, Irons replied.
Nodding naturally, Vela stepped forward, placed the bouquet gently before the gravestone, then stepped back, standing beside Irons but a step behind.
Her expression was sowhat solemn, though not sorrowful.
After all, she had first paid respects at the Atlas warriors' cetery to her own father before stopping here.
As for why her father wasn't buried at Arlington—
Those who rest here are either soldiers who died in U.S. wars abroad, politicians, national staff who died in service, or those who made exceptional contributions to the country.
Joseph died while carrying out an Atlas company assignnt. Will died during a Marine operation. The anings were not the sa.
In truth, Vela had barely known Will at all.
Since joining Atlas in 2053, she had only seen him a handful of tis, never even exchanging words. Then in 2054, his rebellious streak flared—he chose to enlist to escape his father's control.
And soon after, he was dead.
A textbook case of spoiled Arican rich-kid syndro.
With such privileged family conditions, not only did he skip military academy, but of all branches, in his youthful defiance he chose to join the Marines—the "fourth-class" of the military.
"…"
In silence, Irons stared at his son's cold gravestone.
After a long pause, he spoke with a tinge of emotion: "Four years. Will has been gone from his family, friends, and comrades for four years now."
On this day four years ago, July 24, 2054, Irons' son was buried here.
"He paid too high a price for a country that didn't love him. More than just unfortunate—it was utterly needless bloodshed."
"If Joseph's sacrifice was as weighty as Mount McKinley—he was a pioneer, charging forward on the right path…"
Glancing at Vela, Irons said with a touch of self-mockery, "Then Will's death was like the withered leaves here."
With that, he closed his eyes, crouched down, and gently stroked the tombstone. Unknowingly, his expression turned into a mix of pain and grief, as though he were recalling countless monts with his son—bitter, poignant, and complicated.
Vela made no comnt.
Her gaze lowered, mind calm, quietly waiting for the ritual to end.
Before long, Irons straightened, rapidly collecting himself—so quickly it was hard to tell if his emotions had been genuine or simply a performance.
He had already returned to his signature sharp, firm, cunning deanor—an air of control.
"Let's go, Vela. The ti for lancholy is over. Now, we continue the fight."
He didn't speak further of Will or Joseph. After all, both had been gone for four years, and the ntal adjustnts were long in place. Conversation flowed seamlessly to business.
"Twelve hours ago, KVA attacked a nuclear power plant in Eastern Europe."
As she spoke, Vela pulled a slim PDA tablet from her coat lining. Identity verification passed, and she entered the Atlas intranet—slipping into her role with ease.
"I've said before—once ground-based nuclear power plants are built, they beco tactical targets and potential threats."
On business, Irons' tone grew serious.
"Back in 2048, I submitted a report to the Pentagon, briefing the Secretary of Defense on the security risks. I suspect they didn't like our findings, because they burned the report. Now they hand us the security job just to keep us quiet."
First, he made clear his foresight, with a jab at the Pentagon. Then, his tone sharpened.
"Not surprising at all."
Reading his mood, Vela shrugged.
"Eastern Europe's helpless governnt officials have co begging for our help. The Baltic reconstruction contracts are already on your desk…"
"The contract's not the main reason I took the job."
Stopping by the black SUV, Irons turned, eyes intense, voice instructive.
"I signed this deal because Atlas must deliver the best returns for all taxpayers."
He straightened, speaking with great weight.
"Vela, you are one of Atlas' finest next-generation leaders. Inviting you to join Atlas may be one of the best decisions I've ever made. Bionic limbs, nuclear reactor miniaturization, radiation prevention, iterative smart-control technology… you've achieved one remarkable success after another. Your seat on the board is well-deserved, and the opportunities you've brought Atlas are unprecedented—for that, I am deeply grateful."
With a tone of admiration, Irons stepped closer and patted her shoulder—warm, yet still professional.
"Atlas will be proud of you."
"The honor is mine, Mr. Irons," Vela replied sincerely.
"I believe that better world—a world where good people can grow and prosper without fear—will co one day."
Mutual flattery.
Apparently satisfied, Irons smiled, changing the subject.
"The final inspection and finishing of the New Baghdad headquarters will be your responsibility. I'm eager to see what it becos."
"You won't be disappointed," Vela said proudly.
Irons smiled silently.
Step, step.
Just before boarding under his bodyguards' protection, Irons seed to recall sothing. He looked at Vela again.
"Vela, stop by the San Bernardino garrison in California on the way. The right steed deserves the right saddle, and our fine young n have run into so trouble lately."
"A leader shouldn't limit their vision to one corner."
After delivering his aningful words, click—the car door shut, vroom… vroom…
The vehicle started and drove away.
Vela's smile faded. She walked toward her own security convoy, boarded, and leaned her chin against her hand in the back seat, her expression returning to its usual calm elegance.
Leader?
She knew the type.
Irons was drawing her a big, enticing picture.
Recently, he had announced at the board eting that she had officially beco a shareholder through her technical and managent contributions. Combined with their ntor–student bond, rumors spread that, after losing his only son, Irons was considering Vela as his potential successor.
Vela felt little about it.
Compared to Arasaka, Atlas was indeed more… relaxed.
Successor?
For Irons—founder, chairman, and CEO—it was sothing that could change with a single sentence.
His goodwill was likely just to keep her firmly tied to Atlas' chariot.
With the anti-tech terrorist group KVA carrying out large-scale attacks on global energy facilities—especially nuclear plants—Vela's recent work leading Atlas researchers to breakthroughs in nuclear reactor miniaturization and radiation protection made her especially valuable.
In [Cyberpunk], such technology was already widespread, with Arasaka as one of the leaders.
It was heavily restricted to outsiders, but for soone like Vela, high in the hierarchy, those barriers ant little.
For example, Kurt Hansen—when he defected from NUSA and took over Dogtown in the Pacifica District—had shot down a New Arican nuclear-powered cargo airship. It crashed in the EBM Petrochem Stadium at Dogtown's center. Hansen restarted its nuclear engine, freeing Dogtown from dependence on outside energy.
Vela might not be able to make a reactor the size of Iron Man's chest piece—but compared to massive conventional nuclear plants with hundred-ter cooling towers, miniaturization had huge advantages.
This was the benefit of cross-world knowledge exchange—integrating the strengths of each.
Each had its advantages and shortcomings.
Unless the civilization gap was too vast.
As for those "fine young n"…
Thoughtfully, Vela tapped on her PDA. With filtered search, the roster of Atlas' elite counter-terrorism unit stationed at the San Bernardino garrison in California appeared.
Gideon Ery.
Ilona.
And—"Jack Mitchell."
Her eyes fixed on his half-length photo.
Black hair, blue eyes, clad in camo combat fatigues, solid build, sharply defined and rugged features, a scruffy beard, short ssy hair, and eyes that hinted at lancholy. His left arm—a prosthetic—was specifically noted.
As expected.
He was the comrade-in-arms of Irons' late son.
Vela understood.
She had seen Mitchell a few tis, but had almost no interaction with him. One was a front-line counter-terrorism rcenary; the other, a high-level researcher and corporate speaker. Their work had nothing in common.
Beep—she pulled up his file.
It was complete.
Including his 2054 retirent from the U.S. Marine Corps due to injury, and how Irons personally recruited him into Atlas.
His service record unfolded before her:
[#2054/7/10 – Seoul, Korea — Korean Conflict; Airborne operation, infiltration and clearing of Epsilon landing zone, destruction of Destroyer missile platform. Retired due to injury.]
[#2055/3/7 – Lagos, West Africa — Rescue operation; Successfully rescued Nigerian Pri Minister Samuel Aroyyo.]
[#2055/3/25 – Somalia, East Africa — Counter-terrorism operation; Eliminated Aden Bay pirate leader Efeya, rescued multiple international hostages in Mogadishu.]
[#2055/4/28 – Seattle, Washington — Anti-nuclear attack operation; Vicora Pacific nuclear reactor terror incident. Failed…]
[#2055/8/5 – Detroit, Michigan — Anti-nuclear attack operation; Failed…]
…
Though his completion rate wasn't impressive, with multiple failed missions, the opponent was the KVA—a group specializing in nuclear plant attacks. Even global military and political powers had suffered heavy losses to them.
His value shot up.
Opening their feedback reports, she saw scattered notes on required operational support:
Radiation protection.
EMP resistance.
EXO suit life support systems.
And—Mitchell's request for adaptive tuning and enhancent of his prosthetic's tactical capabilities.
Prosthetic tuning?
Tactical upgrades?
Vela's first thought: "An opportunity."
Second: "Leave a backdoor."
Third: "A perfect demonstration platform just ca to ."
Of course, she'd prioritize flashy, visually impressive gear—like Mantis Blades and launch systems.
Yes—she decided to enhance Mitchell further.
Whether his guilt was presud or not was another matter.
With her unspoken "future sight," she knew Mitchell might one day betray Atlas and Irons. But for now, he was still one of Atlas' poster boys in counter-terrorism.
Irons' "godson."
She would remain cautious, keep contingencies—but not openly move against him.
She also wanted to see what choices he would make after being cut off from his old Marine contacts, under the butterfly effect.
"Notify the airport—correct the flight plan. Destination: San Bernardino Garrison, California."
—
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