Dogtown, Kress Street, Longshore Stacks.
The cracked, web-like walls were riddled with bullet holes. This was the abandoned Daphne–Moth Bar.
Not far away, a small bonfire-style open-air tavern that had opened just over half a year ago was still doing business.
Beneath the humble but lively street-side venue, there was a narrow, hand-dug tunnel connecting to the Moth Bar's old underground boiler room.
It led directly to a hidden chamber—its original entrance collapsed and buried long ago.
The NUSA Federal Intelligence Agency's safehouse.
...
In the dim, spacious room, furniture and various scattered objects occupied much of the floor. Some were new, others still covered in dust sheets, the grime along their edges undisturbed. The air carried the must of age.
Solomon Reed, an undercover FIA agent, sat at the edge of a folding cot. In one hand, he held his custom-made sidearm, [Sacrifice]; in the other, a military-grade PDA tablet. He stared blankly, lost in thought.
On the table beside him were several crumpled A4 sheets covered densely in hand-written encrypted intelligence.
When transmitting sensitive information, it didn't matter whether the method was high-tech or old-fashioned. What mattered most was avoiding interception.
In the cyber world, sometimes the older the method, the better the effect.
The PDA screen in Reed's hand lit up, displaying the decrypted text:
[Intel 1]
The power struggle between Arasaka Tower's Counter-Intelligence Division and the Special Operations Division has reached a boiling point.
Two days ago, Director Susan Abernathy of Special Operations allegedly stole a project from Arthur Jenkins, the Counter-Intelligence Director, who had fought hard to secure it. The project involves a mission to Los Angeles and may be connected to Michiko Arasaka.
[Intel 2]
In mid-month, Arasaka's upper management collectively received rewards directly from Vela Adelheid Russell herself—internally nicknamed "Little Pet Dinosaur."
It's believed that the [Jurassic Project]—a subprogram focused on reviving and mass-producing dinosaurs—has achieved a breakthrough.
According to observation, Arasaka's revived dinosaurs appear to have undergone targeted genetic programming. They are docile but could potentially be weaponized or cybernetically enhanced.
Whether they utilize the [Sonnentreppe Project]'s Progenitor Compound remains to be seen. My assessment: mass production is unlikely, but high-end custom models are possible.
[Intel 3]
Rumors around Arasaka's seaside complex suggest that Vela promised Michiko Arasaka an extremely valuable gift.
From Westbrook's surveillance, Vela's been leaving home early and returning late. Her estate's firing range has been active, and Arasaka's logistics division has made frequent deliveries of raw materials involving construction, mechanical engineering, and bioengineering.
Yesterday, an armored hovercar departed from the Russell family estate and transferred a valuable shipment to the Special Operations Division at Arasaka Tower.
[Intel 4]
The Special Operations Division is reallocating manpower. Director Abernathy is rumored to be preparing for a trip.
Destination: Los Angeles.
...
Some of this intelligence came from other FIA operatives in deep cover; some from contacts inside Militech's Night City branch. The rest originated from street intermediaries and professional information brokers.
After careful analysis, Reed summarized the picture:
Abernathy was preparing to travel. The shipment in question was of great value. The two Arasaka department heads were competing for favor—and the "gift" from Vela to Michiko Arasaka was at the center of it all.
As for what that gift might be, possibilities included a custom-engineered dinosaur for Michiko or a new product in the R-618 "Rebirth" line—perhaps a rejuvenation compound.
After deliberation, Reed made his decision.
It was part risk, part gamble, and part political calculation.
Not striking back was never the FIA's style.
Even putting aside whatever Vela had gifted Michiko, there was still Abernathy—and as the head of Arasaka's North American Intelligence operations, taking her out would serve as both warning and retaliation.
Lately, Arasaka had grown too arrogant. Washington's "strategic weakness" policy had indeed unsettled Arasaka's allies—but it also made President Myers' position increasingly difficult, her pressure mounting daily.
The FIA's higher-ups had made their stance clear: whenever an opportunity arose, Arasaka had to be hit—hard.
Victories like the "Frankfurt Incident," the kind that left Arasaka scrambling, were the sort President Myers could never have enough of.
"Joseph, tell our people to be on standby for deployment."
Reed turned his head toward the agent cleaning an M-179 Achilles electromagnetic precision rifle.
"Understood."
The agent—disguised as a street punk, with flashy dyed hair and heavily tattooed arms—nodded and swiftly stood up to leave.
As Reed looked back down to continue analyzing the intelligence, the metal door slid open. A blonde, dark-skinned woman with a nose ring walked in, her boot heels clicking sharply.
Tap, tap.
"So tell me—based on mere speculation, is all this really worth the trouble?"
Bang!
She slammed both palms onto the table in front of him, voice brimming with frustration.
"Reed, think it through! We barely escaped the double pursuit of Arasaka and Barghest. We've been playing shadows, rebuilding here in this cursed place for half a year, finally avoiding the sweeps and stabilizing. And now you want to blow it all up again?"
As she spoke, the optical surface of her face shifted. Her dark skin tone faded to brown, her features subtly readjusted—revealing her true face.
Alex.
Or rather, the woman once known as Daphne—the owner of the Moth Bar, now wanted by Barghest.
The former was her codename. The latter, a discarded alias for cover.
Alex tried to explain their situation. "Our new intel network isn't even fully built yet. Barghest's purges are still ongoing…"
"I know the risks," Reed interrupted calmly. "But we're agents."
He set down his PDA, tone even. "This is the job we signed up for—"
"Save it!"
Realizing he wouldn't change his mind, Alex snapped, cutting him off in anger.
"You think you're so noble? Six years, Reed! Do you have any idea what I've been through in Night City during those six years? All because of you! You haven't changed a damn bit—still running headfirst into death the moment HQ whispers an order. Did you forget how we were sold out and left to die?"
"I didn't forget."
Reed's expression was unreadable in the dim light. "Calling it 'betrayal' isn't right. It was negotiation. The price of peace was my head. Peace always comes with a cost… and someone has to pay it. Seven years ago, our people went too far."
"Even the deepest wounds heal eventually," he added quietly. "Then they scab over. Give it a few years, and at worst—they just itch a little."
"Heal?" Alex let out a harsh laugh. "That's easy for you to say. What if it doesn't heal, huh? Just die and get it over with?"
She scoffed bitterly. "Forget it. I don't care anymore. Myers probably loves patriots like you—loyal idiots ready to die on command. Damn it. Early death or late death, it's still death. Keep hiding here, and one day when they renovate this block and uncover the safehouse, we'll die anyway."
Her voice trailed off as she stormed out, muttering curses under her breath. She had come in furious and left even more so.
But Reed knew—deep down, Alex had already agreed with his plan.
They'd been partners for years.
The difference was in perspective. Alex was frontline. Reed had to weigh Washington—the White House's expectations and needs.
"Thank you, Alena Xenakis," he murmured softly, lowering his head to the papers again. That was Alex's real name.
He glanced once more at the PDA.
Beep-beep.
A message had arrived—from Washington, from one of the FIA's senior net operatives, approving his plan.
[Mission Approved — Non-War Military Intelligence Operation: Project Lark.]
"Little Song…"
Seeing the codename, Reed's eyes flickered for a brief moment—but it passed quickly.
After rereading the intelligence one final time, he fed all the paper documents into the shredder. The hum of spinning blades filled the room as he wiped and permanently deleted the decoded files from his PDA.
Then, inserting a detached chip, he opened a surveillance feed.
Afterlife Club.
At the counter—one large, kind-faced fixer with his hair tied up in a bun and a bigger, yellow-haired, tan-skinned mercenary wearing shades.
"Maine…"
Reed's deep gaze lingered on the face of the hulking merc.
He'd been observing the man—his former military comrade—for some time now, even considering the possibility of recruiting him as an external FIA operative.
Reed hadn't expected that Maine would take a job from Arasaka—especially from the Counter-Intelligence Division. Life truly was full of surprises.
And a job tied to Arasaka's internal feud, no less…
Come to think of it, he should be grateful to Maine.
If not for their shared service years ago in the New American Special Forces, Reed might never have noticed him among the countless mercenaries in Night City—nor paid attention to Jackie Welles through him. And while investigating that well-regarded fixer's background, Reed had inadvertently confirmed what his instincts already told him: Arasaka's internal strife was escalating.
That had become one of the key factors in his decision to act.
The Counter-Intelligence Division's lapdogs were scheming to overthrow their superiors in the Special Operations Division—an amusing irony.
The mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind.
It would've been a crime not to seize such an opportunity.
If there was anything that gave him pause—
"Maine… I'm sorry."
Click.
Reed pulled out the detachable chip, crushed it between his fingers, and tossed it into the shredder. The machine whirred and crunched, spitting out fragments into the collection tray. He retrieved the box, dumped the shredded paper into a small brazier, and watched the flames consume it.
The firelight flickered through the metal grate, painting his face in shifting shadows.
All mortals must die—but a man can still choose the meaning of his death.
"For the good of the nation—above all else."
Even if the means could never be forgiven by the world.
...
One day later.
South of the Pacifica Restricted Airspace.
Vrrrrrr…
The hum of vector engines filled the air.
[AI: Director Abernathy, the hovercar has left Night City's airspace and is about to pass the border checkpoint into the Badlands.]
"Understood. Notify all teams to remain on high alert."
[AI: Affirmative.]
Inside the armored hovercar of Arasaka's Special Operations Division, Susan Abernathy swirled the champagne in her glass, visibly pleased.
Jenkins must be fuming—probably wanted to strangle her right now. The thought of her old rival's sour, defeated expression filled her with such satisfaction that she nearly laughed out loud.
She took a sip of the sparkling champagne. The fine bubbles danced cheerfully across her tongue, matching her mood.
When you're in good spirits, everything looks beautiful.
Her gaze drifted out the window—past Biotechnica's sprawling protein farms, the massive solar fields, the decaying wind turbines, and the winding ridges of stone. Beyond them stretched the Badlands—a vast, dead expanse of yellow sand…
Much like Jenkins' future.
[AI: Now exiting Night City jurisdiction. Entering the Jackson Plains.]
Ding.
Abernathy set her glass back onto the car's minibar and exhaled softly, calming herself.
She knew Jenkins' temperament—eventually, he'd do something reckless. But for now, he didn't matter. What did matter was the Los Angeles inspection mission—and the precious cargo riding with her.
Her eyes shifted toward the large temperature-controlled container secured inside the cabin—big enough to fit two and a half fully grown border collies.
Delivering it to Lady Michiko Arasaka and strengthening that relationship—that was her true objective.
Suppressing her curiosity, Abernathy summoned a holographic projection and turned her attention to the Los Angeles branch's operational report.
A minute or two passed uneventfully—until suddenly, the cabin lights flashed red.
BEEP–WEEOOO! BEEP–WEEOOO!
[AI: ALERT! ALERT! Vehicle has been locked onto by guided weapons.]
"Director Abernathy, we're under attack!"
Her security officer's voice came through, tense and urgent—followed immediately by the metallic chorus of weapons being readied: safeties clicking off, magazines slamming in, rounds chambered.
"What?!"
Abernathy's head snapped up.
On the holographic display showing the external environment, a dozen long, serpentine missile trails rose rapidly toward the sky.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!