Cyberpunk: Infinite Progress Begins with Arasaka

"Last night, at the U.S.–Mexico border where New Mexico, Arizona, and Mexico's Chihuahua State meet, a violent attack occurred. Arasaka claims it was a long-planned assault by Militech and Washington. The attacker was identified as Mendoza Laurie, a senior agent of the NUSA Federal Intelligence Agency stationed in Juárez."

"According to reliable sources, the primary suspect, Mendoza Laurie, died on the spot during the attack. Militech and Washington have denied any foreknowledge or involvement in the incident. The case is still under investigation."

"WNS News will continue to follow up..."

Beep.

Ignoring the subtly symbolic signal from the bodyguard that the car was ready, Vela's indigo pupils flickered with a stream of data. The communication adapter remotely shut off the radio, and she turned off the shower, lifting her freshly washed light-gold hair to inspect it, smoothing it out with her hand.

Hmm. Smooth, no foreign matter—at least no sand, dried blood, or sticky soft meat chunks.

A quick shower and routine grooming.

Vela studied her refreshed reflection in the mirror. "No need to show up again for the return trip. Hoo..." Still, it felt good to be clean.

She pursed her lips, dried herself off with a towel, then changed into a more casual version of the Arasaka uniform. Using a hot dryer, she began blowing her hair dry as she exited the hotel bathroom.

"Destroy it."

She pointed at the garbage bag containing the blood-stained, damaged clothing and undergarments. Her order was directed at the personal Arasaka cyber-ninja guard.

He nodded silently and picked up the bag, leaving the room to incinerate and dispose of it.

Vela sat on the soft stool and began checking the mail on her personal UID terminal.

As she multitasked in this downtime, a female cyber-ninja from the Arasaka Family Compound naturally stepped up behind her to comb her hair. Another ninja smoothed her clothing and helped her into her shoes. The entire process resembled the pampering of a wealthy landlord.

Sigh... how decadent...

But honestly? These cyber-ninjas trained by the Arasaka Family were truly all-around domestic masters—flawless in every task. After all, that's exactly how they were raised in the compound.

By the time the ninja who handled the garment disposal returned, Vela, now looking "factory new," stood up, picked up the black-gold Quinque case on the long table, and walked toward the door.

"Is Adam Smasher here yet?"

"He is waiting at the helipad."

"Mm." Vela nodded.

They say the moment one feels most secure is often the most dangerous. Based on that psychological logic, and to prevent Militech and Washington from suddenly flipping the table and blaming everything on Arasaka out of desperation, Vela had taken every precaution.

Clang!

The automatic doors opened. Surrounded by layers of security officers and bodyguards, Vela stepped out of the hotel.

Click click click—

A wall of camera flashes.

Her face darkening again, Vela turned her head slightly, casting a glance at the swarm of reporters and photographers beyond the hotel's security barrier, as well as the crowds of demonstrators whose chanting rose in wave after wave.

Not protesters.

Supporters.

They held placards that read: "Reject Washington! Reject Myers!", "Justice for the Austin Summit!", "Down with Militech's Terrorist Acts!", "Freedom and Sovereignty Belong to the Free State Citizens!", "Vela Adelheid, We Support You!" ...

Even Vela felt a bit embarrassed hearing it all.

Since when was she, a corporate dog everyone loved to hate, this well-liked?

Were they hired plants?

[From the Intelligence Department?]

Wearing a surprised smile and waving to the crowd that supported her performance at the "Austin Multilateral Dialogue," Vela used her high-level authority to access the San Diego branch's communications and asked the local liaison beside her:

[Commander, partially, yes. But thanks to your remarks in Austin, the freedom-loving people of San Diego have long resented Washington's tyranny in annexing the Free States and trampling democracy.]

Oh.

Vela understood.

That "people" clearly didn't refer to the common folk—but to the local party.

"They sure act fast," Vela chuckled meaningfully.

Vmmm—

Several more flamboyantly painted AVs arrived—press vehicles from WNS News and Network 54.

But Vela had no time left to play with them.

Her part in this prologue had wrapped.

At the moment, she was more in a "silently fuming over being played" state.

Putting on a composed facade, she gave a nod of acknowledgment to her demonstrative supporters before heading to the hotel helipad, where a new transport vehicle and escort formation were already waiting.

Adam Smasher stood tall at the transport's open cabin door, clad in his basic exoskeletal cyber-armor—his form seemingly forged from iron.

He wasn't equipped with Cyber Kong.

Even the upgraded and restructured Cyber Kong (Prototype Cyberskeleton), redesigned by Shinichi Tanaka for Smasher, was still too large for use inside the vehicle for close protection. It had been optimized for his specifications and stored in a transport within the convoy, ready for instant deployment if needed.

"Thanks for making the trip, Adam."

"Director, I was actually hoping some idiot would try to die today. Night City's been far too dull lately." A cold, metallic voice answered as Vela boarded—none other than Adam Smasher.

Vela smiled faintly, turning her head to respond in an utterly flat tone: "The thrilling days will come. We'll see if you can write another legend."

"Hahaha... With that from you, Director, I'm looking forward to it."

Adam Smasher chuckled hoarsely and boarded alongside Vela's cyber-ninja escort.

Click.

The cabin door closed.

With a roar of engines, the scenery outside the polarized one-way glass rapidly pulled away and shrank as they rose into the air, departing San Diego amid the intensifying anti-Militech and anti-Washington protests.

Northbound—destination: Night City.

...

The trip was uneventful.

Smooth and steady.

Much to Adam Smasher's disappointment, no idiotic thugs jumped out to intercept them, no missiles came whistling from afar, no crash landings—not even a drone failure.

Not a single incident, not even bad weather.

[...Yes, the proxy plan is proceeding smoothly.]

[...A clean break for West Coast independence would mean immediate war with Washington, but salami slicing—one state at a time, two at a time—that's what you taught me. Human nature is such. Using this event as a pretext, we can take small bites.]

[We've secured a pretense to intervene in New Mexico and Arizona. The local parties definitely want to reinvigorate state sovereignty... Yes... Yes... I understand. It won't happen again. I promise, Arasaka-sama.]

Beep beep—

Call ended.

"Hoo..." The stern, sharp holographic image of Saburo Arasaka—scolding her with vigorous authority—finally disappeared from her cornea overlay. Vela couldn't help letting out a long sigh.

Cough... just got chewed out by the old man. Stern but laced with concern. Said my self-sacrifice gambit was too risky. Kind of... touching.

She took a glass of ice water from the minibar and downed it in one go, physically cooling herself off.

Leaning back into the chair, fingers gently tapping the armrest, Vela recalled the latest intel shared by her covert agent alliance.

Just as she expected.

Though local parties in the western states were baffled as to why Washington had made such a foolish move—was it rage-induced, desperation-fueled insanity?—no one doubted where to pin the blame.

Everyone agreed: Militech and Washington would eat this one.

Many had already seized the opportunity to stir the pot, taking the Arasaka delegation's attack—and her own assassination attempt—as the spark to ignite something bigger.

This incident had nothing to do with Militech or Washington. Whether Vela and Arasaka believed that didn't matter—what mattered was whether the international community and the people of the Western States believed it.

So-called self-defense was a trap. The moment you tried to justify yourself, you were already in the wrong.

If Militech opted to investigate and publish the truth, it would inevitably shoulder some of the blame.

Suppose they claimed it was the isolated act of a frontline operative suffering from cyberpsychosis—then Vela would viciously attack their incompetence and chaotic management, their lack of coordination and control.

If they couldn't even rein in their own Federal Intelligence Agency agents, how could they be trusted to govern the Free States? How could the freedom-loving citizens of the West entrust their future to Washington?

If they refused to acknowledge, respond, or disclose anything?

Then that was guilt. Cowardice. A refusal to take responsibility.

What right did they have to remain silent?

She—Vela—was the one attacked. She, who cared so deeply about her image and cleanliness, was left in such a miserable state. The casualties and damage at the scene were suffered by Arasaka's personnel and assets.

This was the time to sell the long-cultivated persona for a worthy price.

It was the ideal moment to drive and ignite public opinion.

Though Vela wasn't a rockstar like Johnny Silverhand who could summon a protest mob to storm federal buildings, local parties in the Western States, anti-Washington types, and interest groups opposed to federal supremacy would act on their own once they saw the opening.

If they didn't seize this golden opportunity, they didn't deserve a seat at the table.

Moreover, the "legacy" of the late Kei Arasaka—those surviving secret agent societies and intelligence relay networks—had, after over half a century of evolution and expansion, developed their own shell organizations and complex webs of influence. They had enough weight to move the scales.

If Militech had any brains, Vela could practically predict Washington's next move: a mix of truth and fiction, selective disclosure, montage-style evidence meant to muddy the waters.

For example, they might portray the cyberpsychotic agent as a heroic martyr, showcasing his resume, how his mentor died at Arasaka's hands, how his closest comrades and students were killed by Vela.

Paint him as a good man—one driven to PTSD by Vela's arrogance at the Austin Summit and her hostility toward the NUSA.

Then suggest that Vela's return route just happened to pass through his retirement post's jurisdiction, leading to his tragic breakdown and desperate action.

Clip the beginning and the end. Twist the narrative.

Maybe even spin it into a false-flag operation, blaming Arasaka for staging the entire thing, accusing Vela of being the real cause of the escalation.

The propaganda war would rage on—but as long as Arasaka held the upper hand, that was enough.

Thus, New Mexico and Arizona would become the focal points in the struggle between Arasaka, the Western Free States, and local parties versus Militech and Washington—a battlefield where public discourse and influence would explode.

But—

"Washington State, Oregon, Seattle, Olympia, Portland, Salem..." Vela's indigo eyes shimmered with anticipation.

Beep beep.

[Jimmy, this is Vela. Begin the operation.]

[Jimmy: Yes, Director. Within a week, I'll transmit the Liberty Will Initiative directives in batches to our trusted veterans from the 2023 Old Arasaka Tower era, already screened and confirmed, in Washington and Oregon.]

[Mm. Prepare thoroughly, Jimmy. Stay safe.]

The situation in Night City was always too hot.

North America, meanwhile, was far too dull.

Why enjoy it alone when you can share the fun?

Vela would make sure North America truly livened up.

"Feign east, strike west. Mix the orthodox and the unexpected."

Old tricks don't matter—as long as they work.

Ding. Vela set down her now-empty crystal glass of ice water and looked toward the skyline of Night City slowly coming into view outside the window.

"Good afternoon, Night City."

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