Chapter 13: Arasaka's Slaughter in the Maelstrom
A Cyberpunk Experience
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Landing.
Vera tested the precision-engineered thermal katana in her grip, its edge glowing white-hot. In her other hand, a smart shotgun, optimized for brutal, close-quarters combat. Her heavy, bulletproof helmet sealed shut with a hiss, and her crimson holographic visor flickered to life, scanning the battlefield.
Meanwhile, across time…
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San Francisco – Umbrella Corporation Headquarters
The press conference was a feeding frenzy.
Surrounded by hulking bodyguards in black suits, Vera—Director Russell of Umbrella—stood at the podium, her face a mask of cold indifference. To the untrained eye, she looked as if she were attending her own father's funeral.
Below the stage, the press fired their shots—not with bullets, but with words.
> "Director Russell, despite our joint letter urging environmental reform, Umbrella continues to ravage the planet. Do you truly wish for a world devoid of nature for future generations?"
> "San Francisco's equal rights organizations are preparing to sue Umbrella for racial discrimination in its hiring practices. How do you respond?"
> "Director Russell, the Church condemns cybernetic prosthetics, calling them an affront to God. Your company promotes replacing human flesh with artificial steel. What do you say to that?"
> "Director Russell—"
Question after question, wave after wave of criticism. Each one, a hammer strike against her composure. Beneath the helmet, her breathing grew heavier.
Huff... I still lack restraint.
If I can't vent here—
Then I'll vent there.
A legal and justified slaughter.
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Night City - Watson Industrial District
Whoosh.
Wind. Fire. Explosions.
Huff.
Huff, huff!
The man's chest heaved as he sprinted, lungs burning, throat searing with each desperate breath. Every pulse throbbed through his skull, each inhale scraping against raw nerves.
Behind him—hell followed.
His wide, panicked gaze flicked back.
The Maelstrom encampment, their grim insignia—a cracked skull and a mechanical spider—was engulfed in flame. Illegally modified vehicles burned like funeral pyres. Metal shacks collapsed in fiery ruin. The narrow alleyways echoed with chaos:
Frenzied punk metal. The roar of machinery. Drunken, guttural laughter. And then—
BANG. BANG!!
Gunfire erupted, drowning out the music.
A shadow moved within the firestorm—a demon in samurai armor.
Beneath an Arasaka tactical helmet, the crimson glow of a demon mask flared in the darkness.
Arasaka heavy troopers stormed the district, their M2067 Defenders roaring louder than the screaming punk music. The muzzle flashes flickered against rusted metal walls, turning the twilight sky a grim, flickering red.
Screech. Screech. Screech.
Armor-piercing incendiary rounds ripped through Maelstrom cyberware like it was glass. Electroplated implants shattered. Synthetic skin peeled away. Sparks erupted from exposed circuitry.
> "Shit! The corps set us up!"
"Fight back! Kill these corporate dogs!"
"Who the fuck sold us out to Arasaka—?!"
The gang's shouts twisted into shrieks as they fell one by one.
From the sky, Octant combat drones swooped down, the Arasaka clover insignia stamped on their matte plating. Their chainguns whined as they spit streams of lead, carving through metal and flesh alike.
Boom!
A modified Maelstrom vehicle exploded, flipping onto its side. The force sent the runner tumbling through the dirt, shrapnel embedding in his torso. Blood seeped from his wounds, but his mind remained sharp—he could hear everything.
Above, glass shattered.
A security window burst apart on the factory's second floor.
From the burning opening—a figure leapt.
A shadow streaked through the air.
It landed on the roof of a Maelstrom van—and went through it.
SCREECH!
The reinforced metal buckled under the impact, the frame twisting as rivets shot out like shrapnel. The driver's skull slammed into the door. The passenger nearly flew out of the shattered windshield.
For a brief second, the runner saw her clearly—a nightmare made flesh.
> Tall. Over six feet.
Black combat armor, lined with crimson.
A long, flowing cloak marked with the Arasaka clover.
A matte black helmet, its V-shaped visor glowing hellish red.
Blood dripped from metallic, clawed fingers.
In her grip—a severed head, its cybernetic connectors still leaking milky-white coolant.
Buzz.
The thermal katana in her hand hummed, its blade crackling with energy.
Zheng!
She swung.
The driver's cabin peeled open like a tin can. The Maelstrom thugs inside barely had time to scream before they ceased existing.
BOOM!
The van detonated, flinging wreckage into the burning sky.
All around, Maelstrom gangsters scrambled to fight back. Dozens stormed out of the factory, weapons raised—
Only to be instantly erased by a barrage of Arasaka hovercraft rockets.
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The Phantom Dancer
In a darkened alley, a hulking Maelstrom brute emerged from cover.
He was a monster even among freaks.
Cyberware jutted from his flesh—heat sinks glowing, reinforced synthetic limbs twitching with excess voltage. His voice—modulated and distorted by enhanced lungs—boomed:
> "FUCK YOU, CORPORATE BITCH!"
With a single step, he lunged ten meters in an instant, twin mantis blades snapping forward, aimed at the Arasaka woman's throat.
She vanished.
One second, she was there. The next—empty air.
The brute's attack whiffed, his blades slicing nothing but smoke.
From the shadows, she reappeared.
The thermal katana was sheathed. In its place—a Kang Tao smart shotgun.
She pressed it against his back.
Bang.
A single, deafening shot erased the brute from existence.
Blood, oil, bone fragments—all atomized.
She continued forward.
Dancing between bullets.
Every movement, precise. A rhythm of death.
Each slash—a decapitation.
Each shot—a corpse.
Each kick—a shattered skull.
She never wasted a step.
A ghost.
A storm of death.
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2074 - A Back-Alley Braindance Den
A cry of ecstasy echoed in the dingy room.
On a tattered couch, a young man convulsed, eyes rolling back, body seizing from the sheer sensory overload.
With a gasp, he yanked off the braindance headset.
For a moment—pure silence.
Then—
> "Holy shit."
His pulse raced, his pupils flickered with neon data readouts.
He smoothed back his dark brown mohawk, voice still trembling.
> "Doctor, this was insane. Better than any movie. Who made this?"
A chuckle.
The ripperdoc leaned back, lighting a cigarette.
> "That'd be JK. He edited this one straight from the memories of a Maelstrom thug—extracted two hours ago. Fresh kill."
The young man swallowed.
His voice dropped.
> "Arasaka... are they really that strong?"
The doc smirked, exhaling smoke.
> "Strong?
Kid... they're gods."