Night had fallen.
In the Arroyo district of Santo Domingo, bordering Pacifica and Heywood, gloom and grayness were the norm. Abandoned factory plants and unfinished real estate projects dotted this industrial heartland of the city.
Under the towering overpasses, in the shadowy and dilapidated old streets, clank~ oil barrel fires sizzled beneath makeshift grills.
"Fuck Arasaka! Nosy corporate bastards..."
Sitting shirtless on rusted scaffolding, an old street punk spat a thick wad of phlegm and flipped off the glittering skyscrapers of Heywood and the City Center that loomed above.
"If it weren't for those dumbass corp dogs, the Valentinos—those soft Mexican punks—would've been on their knees in front of my big ol' boomstick. No way they'd still have Glen and Vista Del Rey."
"Dozens dead. One of my best bros—scattered into chunks, couldn't even be pieced back together. His poor old lady..."
"Tch! Poor my ass. Weren't you the one who 'comforted' her last night? In her bed?"
"You don't get it. That was love. Real emotion. Damn shame the lieutenant's Vista Del Rey land grab failed. I had my eye on those hot little Mox girls in Heywood. Would've—"
"You? Watch out or one of Lizzie's girls is gonna crush your junk."
The gutter punks jabbered on. Before long, a few armed figures showed up—militia-looking guys in combat vests and knee guards over jeans and work pants, stomping around in military boots. Their getup screamed thug more than soldier.
Baseball caps, cowboy hats, and patrol caps printed with old American flags, stars, stripes, and bald eagles told the story—6th Street Gang. No one else in Night City would dare flaunt the Stars and Stripes like that.
"Yo, tax run done?" the shirtless old punk asked.
In 6th Street turf, 'taxes' meant protection money.
"What taxes? Santo Domingo's full of broke bastards. Can't even squeeze out enough to buy snacks. For real cash, you gotta hit Heywood. Damn it, why'd that Arasaka bitch have to come back now? Bad fucking luck..."
Downing bottles of mixed industrial alcohol, syrup, synthetic weed, and stimulants, the street scum grumbled and cursed.
The night in Santo Domingo was eerily quiet. Aside from the industrial clamor, only gangsters and outlaws still roamed the streets. Anyone with sense had long retreated indoors.
And then: clang... clang...
Disruptive engine roars and the noise of dismantling and flattening border walls.
On the Pacifica side—Dogtown. Barghest territory. Near the Arroyo District of Santo Domingo, a makeshift barrier.
Built with whatever was available: rebar, concrete, scrap cars, rusted fences—a true wasteland aesthetic.
Standing up on the scaffold, the 6th Street veteran revealed his yellowed steel teeth and whistled sharply across the dust-filled air and stinking garbage heaps under the overpass.
The overpass ran east-west. Santo Domingo to the northeast, Pacifica to the southwest.
Santo Domingo's side was littered with run-down factories. Pacifica was even worse—unfinished, desolate, a graveyard of abandoned buildings and shattered gear left mid-war.
"Hey! You boys over there up for a drink?"
From atop a shipping container serving as part of the wall, a few military-clad figures in yellow-green camo and armed to the teeth eyed the 6th Street veterans.
"Oi, NUSA boys!"
One of the 6th Street punks called out, and fueled by liquor, several others joined in, shouting toward the other side: "If you fuckers had some backbone back then, maybe we would've won the Unification War! If we had, us true Americans wouldn't be eating Arasaka shit every day!"
"..." No reply.
Silence.
And the howling desert wind.
"Alright, alright, quit your yapping."
A sergeant wearing a 6th Street armband dug into his ear impatiently.
"You loudmouths are giving me a headache. Screaming's useless. They're just a bunch of traitors with no clue what they're doing. Been holed up in Pacifica for six years now, turning that place into a ruined vacation spot..."
Before he could finish—BANG!!
Like a watermelon exploding, the sergeant's jaw split apart, skull fragments and brain matter splattering everywhere.
"Shit! Electromagnetic sniper rifle... we're under attack!"
"Call the lieutenant! We're hit!"
The soldiers flanking him had just started to panic when pop!splat!ping ping! a barrage of bullets shredded them. Sparks, blood mist, and gore painted the air. Cyberware cracked and bodies were torn apart.
Around the barrel fire, other 6th Street grunts cursed and reflexively dove for cover, grabbing their weapons. Ratatata! Assault rifles and SMGs roared in return fire toward the direction of the attack.
Chaos.
As they called for reinforcements, BOOM! an explosion erupted on the crumbling wall—a cannon blast! Then more explosions and flashbangs lit up the area like a furnace blast, blinding and searing.
One unlucky guy chose the wrong vehicle for cover—it blew. Shrapnel shredded half his body, flinging him across the street. Chemicals ignited his remains. His screams were short-lived.
Against this well-planned, pre-aimed surprise assault, the entire 6th Street squad was wiped out in less than thirty seconds.
Devastating fire tore through them. Their light body armor was no match for military-grade weapons.
The old veteran from 6th Street took a hit too. He tumbled off the scaffold.
One arm snapped, multiple shots to the torso, and his abdomen blown open—a huge chunk of flesh gone, revealing synthetic organs and subdermal plating. He was out of the fight.
Thirty seconds later: creak creak...
"Ugh... fuck..." He coughed up blood, glancing at the Barghest troops charging over from Pacifica, clad in their signature yellow-green camo. "Shit... you fuckers finally grew a pair?"
At his taunt, one of the Barghest soldiers stomped on his chest and shoved a rifle barrel into his mouth.
"While you street trash were playing gang games, I was out bleeding for the country. Calling us traitors? You don't have the right! Washington and Militech betrayed us!"
"Don't think just 'cause city law bans high-caliber weapons you can play victim. Next time, watch your damn mouth, rat."
BANG. Right through the mouth.
The pop sounded like cracking an egg.
"Boss. Aren't we violating Colonel Hansen's orders by crossing the line and killing 6th Street scum?"
One Barghest asked their squad leader.
"So we let these street punks keep mocking us? Again and again? Think a few scraps from Militech gives them the right to mouth off at us?"
The squad leader's tone simmered with rage.
"Fucking bastards. We can't reach Washington or Militech's worms, but when these little pests show up to provoke us... you think we just look the other way? I'll explain to Colonel Hansen myself!"
"Y-yes, sir..."
The Barghest troops moved in, finishing off any surviving 6th Street members.
The squad leader silently watched.
Behind the thick faceplate his men couldn't see, his gaze hardened.
No vidcall. Just a nameless orbital comm chip.
He sent one short encrypted message to a fixed channel:
[It's begun.]
"Colonel, your conservative thinking is outdated. If you want revenge, only Arasaka..."
The Barghest squad leader whispered to himself.
A veteran of the 2069 Metal Wars initiated by the NUSA, he had once followed Colonel Hansen into Night City's Pacifica region as part of the vanguard, seizing an outpost to serve as a forward base for the expected main forces of NUSA and Militech.
But they waited... and waited... and all they got was news that Washington had signed the "Arvin Accord" with Arasaka.
Betrayal. The pain of it.
The more fervent he once was, the deeper the hatred now.
Those at the top always talk about having their reasons, expecting those below to understand. Easy for you to say when you weren't the one sacrificed. Try understanding when the knife's at your throat.
Traitors. Parasites.
The real enemy sits on Capitol Hill.
Beep.
[Received.]
Meanwhile, other 6th Street members in the district, upon receiving signals of an attack, rushed over in a mess of heavily modified cars. They arrived just in time to catch Barghest troops trying to retreat back into Dogtown.
6th Street fired first. Their vehicles unleashed makeshift rocket launchers, and one rocket accidentally struck part of Dogtown's outer defenses.
Barghest troops retaliated.
Whirr... Several multi-barreled turret guns slowly lifted their heads.
In an instant, firestorms erupted. Bullets rained like hell, explosions rocked the streets, engines roared, tires screeched, and the cries of chaos filled the border zone between the Arroyo District and Pacifica, near Heywood.
Many died instantly. Others lay wounded or vanished in the crossfire. Still more suffered from being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Amidst the chaos, across the river in Heywood:
"Arasaka: Your Ultimate Security Solution."
On the skyscraper overlooking the Arroyo-Pacifica border, a massive holo-screen beamed an Arasaka security advertisement.
...
BANG!
Dogtown. EBM Petrochem Stadium. Upper floor. Colonel Hansen's private suite.
Kurt Hansen slammed his empty glass onto the bar. He lowered his arm and cast an unfriendly glare at his subordinate delivering the report.
He spoke in a low, cold voice. "Explain."
"The 6th Street idiots couldn't keep their mouths shut and provoked one of our wall patrol squads..."
The aide took a deep breath.
"Colonel, you know how it is. Tensions have been boiling. Many of our veterans from the '70 Midnight Storm' op have long wanted to teach 6th Street a lesson."
"..."
Hansen tapped the bar, thoughtful. Then he raised his head as if making a decision.
"Order continued assault. Go tell Yuri to mobilize the troops."
"No withdrawal?"
"Withdraw what? The situation's past the point of no return. Now we push for maximum gain for Barghest."
If you're going to act, act decisively—hit them hard!
Dogtown's balance was delicate. He had to maintain Barghest's intimidation factor. No backing down after striking.
Hansen didn't hesitate.
"Tell Yuri and the boys: speed is priority. Blitzkrieg. Except for weapons that clearly violate Night City law, bring in the heavy guns. Cripple 6th Street and seize Arroyo within half a day. Make it a fait accompli. Show Militech what they've lost, and what they got wrong."
"Yes, sir!"
His aide left. While the troops outside were pumped and ready to brawl, thrilled to finally unleash on 6th Street, Hansen sat at the bar, brows furrowed.
There was no direct proof yet.
But he was certain: someone else was pulling strings.
Barghest's rivals, would-be usurpers, discontented new recruits, unhappy clients, ambitious schemers lurking in the dark...
Arasaka, Militech, SovOil—in Hansen's eyes, all these megacorps had motives to destabilize Dogtown.
"So be it... Constant suppression only leads to eventual eruption... besides..."
Muttering to himself, Hansen glanced at the news playing on the wall-mounted TV: Vela Adelheid Russell's private aircraft had landed at Night City International Airport, escorted by an Arasaka fighter squadron.
"If she's returned, Arasaka will escalate their operations. Militech, in turn, will reduce their support and focus on 6th Street. Washington's attention will shift as well. For Barghest, this might be a rare opportunity for growth..."
...
Colorado Bay. Artificial Island. Night City International Airport.
Local time: January 24, 2076, pre-dawn hours.
Whrrr...
Vector engines of Arasaka's exclusive hovercars roared across the private tarmac.
A long row of Rayfield Excalibur-class aircars lined the pad, while the adjacent flat grounds swelled with sharply dressed Arasaka employees in full business attire.
Around them, soldiers of the Arasaka Security Division in black heavy armor and fully equipped with the company's weapon suite bustled about.
Inside a luxuriously furnished hovercar, Vela adjusted her posture, gazing through the window at the jagged, fortress-like skyline carved by City Center's skyscrapers.
Home again.
Her Night City.
Even if not quite yet...
[Jimmy: Commander, welcome back to Night City. I see your aircraft now. Good news—Phase Two is nearly complete. I've activated multiple sleeper agents embedded within Barghest and 6th Street. We successfully incited armed conflict between the two. As of now, Barghest forces have entered Arroyo. 6th Street is retreating rapidly. Forecasts suggest they'll lose half their control of Santo Domingo before dawn.]
[Vela: Understood. Maintain real-time monitoring. Ignore the aftermath. Keep an eye on Militech's movements.]
Her pupils glowed orange with data light as Vela hung up the call.
Easier than she expected, but Barghest's expansion didn't surprise her.
That's human nature. Especially after years of her meddling, seeding dissent and manipulating emotions among Barghest's ranks. The bottled-up hatred of the lower soldiers wasn't something Hansen could suppress forever.
It's simple: lies travel fast, truth can barely crawl.
Clack.
The hovercar landed and its doors opened.
Escorted by Saburo's dispatched cyber-ninja bodyguards, Vela stepped down the ramp.
Ignoring the distant crowd of journalists and media, she strode past rows of Arasaka staff lined up in salute.
Jimmy, Bryan, Laurie, even Jenkins and Tanaka stood among them.
She greeted her senior with a bright smile—one of the key figures whose position she intended to inherit soon.
"Long time no see, Uncle Thomas."
While scheming against Militech, she hadn't forgotten her other key objective in returning: to inherit the "Crown Prince's legacy" and quickly consolidate a faction truly her own.