Ring-ring—
Beep.
"Hey, V, lemme guess—you've been run ragged lately with all this war crap, huh?"
[V: Uh, it's fine, Jackie. You know how it is in our line of work—chaos is a ladder. As long as you don't get killed or pick the wrong side, there's plenty of eddies to earn and chances to climb.]
"Hah? Damn, I was gonna throw out a few big dumb lines to cheer you up—but looks like you're holding up better than me. My life's the one going nowhere."
2077/4/27 — Night City, Watson District.
A small street-side grill bar on Farrill Street.
Jackie Welles sat in the corner, holding a glass of tequila. The ice cubes clinked softly as they melted.
The bar was packed—buzzing voices, flashing holographic ads, braindance projections bouncing off the walls. Flames roared over the grills and iron plates, filling the air with greasy smoke. The meat—whatever kind it was—sizzled in the oil, skewered like spicy Turkish kebabs. The smell was intoxicating, the clatter of glasses never ceased.
Even as the shadow of war spread across North America and countless people fled, Night City remained the capital of excess—consumerism and hedonism in their purest, most grotesque forms.
Guns? Gone. Food? Maybe gone too. But hell—keep the music playing and the party going!
Here, living fast and dying stupid was practically religion.
This city itself was a tombstone for humanity.
A perfect reflection of every cyberpunk city that came before it.
The signal light from his cybernetic eye flickered as Jackie grinned, shaking his head.
"What's the saying? Women have their salons, men have their gas stations—and power junkies like you, mi hermana, get high off adrenaline and authority."
[V: Ha, maybe. But my stuff's nothing, really. Babysitting, debriefing, counter-espionage... The Counter-Intelligence Division's been completely taken over by my new boss—Jimmy. No surprise, given he used to be front-line Security Division. Hands-on guy, always running around himself. The department's structure isn't anything like it was under Jenkins or Abernathy.]
"Babysitting? Debriefing?" Jackie laughed loud enough to turn a few heads. "Dios mío, what the hell are you working as now? That's counter-intel?"
[V: Hey, you know how Arasaka works. Don't read too much into it—it's more important than it sounds.]
"OK, OK, I get it."
Leaning back in his chair, Jackie's expression shifted as he scanned the crowd. The laughter faded, replaced by something heavier.
"Let's get serious. I just wanna ask... this damn war—what are the odds Night City takes another nuke?"
V went silent.
Jackie didn't push.
He took a long sip of chilled tequila, eyes drifting toward the massive TV screen hanging from the ceiling.
The news? War. War. And more damn war.
From mercenary groups battling in the southern front, to full-scale military clashes in the central line, to heavy standoffs up north—
"Fuckin' Arasaka," Jackie muttered. "I already turned my apartment into a damn fallout shelter."
A resident of Case, a small town near the Oklahoma–New Mexico border, spoke in an N54 interview: "I hope I won't need it, but better safe than sorry. This is my home—where else can I go?"
"Streets are crawling with Arasaka walkers, APCs, and drones. They've been clearing debris from the Golden Gate ruins for four days now. My Geiger counter's been screaming nonstop—fuck you, Myers!"
A San Francisco resident told WNS: "The whole city's stockpiling food, ammo, and anti-radiation meds. Who knows when the second nuke's coming?"
"We're standing at a crossroads in history," warned a military analyst via neutral media. "If Arasaka and Militech continue their hypocritical nuclear strikes, this 'hot war' could escalate into full-scale nuclear annihilation—reducing the Americas to ash, and dragging the entire world into catastrophe."
...
Outside of those few mainstream reports, most of what played were exclusive recordings—footage shot by independent journalists and war correspondents risking their lives.
Clearly, the bar owner was the kind of man who valued profit over safety—and had connections deep in the black market.
He knew exactly what Night City's bloodthirsty audience wanted to see.
Screw the censorship!
Only cowards need mosaics! What the people wanted was gore and chaos—blood splattering, viscera bursting!
A small town in Kansas, razed to the ground by the war.
Once, the place had been rough but majestic, surrounded by vast private CHOOH2 ethanol farms. Now, the whole city burned. Farmlands ablaze, craters and tank treads scarred the soil. The once-lively commercial streets were nothing but shattered walls and scorched wreckage.
"Why?!"
Amid the ruins, the local sheriff—covered in ash and grime—knelt before the wreck of his precinct, shouting with despair.
"Why do we have to be the sacrifices of your damned war?!"
The independent journalist's camera caught it perfectly—behind the man, Arasaka's airships and massive drone squadrons glided across the sky.
On the ground, armored columns rumbled by, rolling over what remained of the farmland. Explosions and gunfire never ceased in the background.
Piles of Militech and New American soldiers' corpses were being systematically dismantled and burned by Free States troops.
"Dismantled"—stripped for usable parts. "Burned"—in the most literal sense.
No doubt, this was a small Central State town near the Free States Alliance border, one sympathetic to Arasaka. After the war began, Arasaka and its allies quickly took control. Then Militech's counterattack came—and obliterated everything.
Finally, Arasaka's reinforcements reclaimed the ruins—and slaughtered every Militech soldier that had taken it.
...
Jackie's expression darkened as he turned toward another split feed on the ceiling screen.
The last footage from a journalist who died for his report.
North Platte, Nebraska—a city completely destroyed in Arasaka's central offensive.
Militech and New American forces had entrenched themselves there—but they had underestimated Arasaka's determination. Their defenses shattered under the advance.
Powered armor divisions broke their lines. Multi-legged tanks stormed through. Hover-tanks delivered crushing fire. Hellhound drones flanked from the sides. Combat mechs held formation. Cyborg soldiers maneuvered in sync. Anti-air platforms covered their advance. Storm missile carriers picked off key targets. And above—allied airstrikes roared endlessly.
It was a war of metal—a true display of next-generation warfare.
According to that journalist's footage, no Arasaka soldier fought bare-bodied. Even those unloading ammo wore full EXO exoskeletons.
Since Arasaka's April 23rd declaration nullifying the Urban Excessive Firepower Convention, lifting the Aerial Power and Heavy Armor Restriction Treaty, and abolishing the Powered Armor Prohibition Accord, their military had undergone a total transformation.
The speed of rearmament was staggering.
That journalist didn't survive—killed during a retreat by rampaging Militech troops.
A centaur-class exosuit's thermal cannon had vaporized half his body.
His camera fell, cracked, and bled with him. The footage was later retrieved by a fellow reporter.
...
Jackie drained the last of his tequila and sighed, turning to another broadcast.
This one was more recent.
Eastern Nebraska—near Iowa—the Grand Island–Norfolk–Omaha metropolitan belt.
This journalist's camera didn't focus on the battlefields—but on the refugees.
Those fleeing and those advancing. The broken, screaming wounded and the cold, efficient killers. Families dragging bags of possessions beside armored transports gleaming with weaponry.
Every shot—a brutal contrast.
Under the weight of war machines, human fragility was laid bare.
"...Maybe I'm witnessing the birth of a new Nomad Nation," the journalist's voice whispered.
No one knew how long passed before Jackie finally muttered, "This is the death knell of humanity."
Then, V's voice came again through the line.
[V: Jackie, tell Mrs. Welles to close the Coyote bar. At least for now—don't stay in Heywood.]