Buzz... whoosh...
Warmth filled the gently swaying carriage.
The moment she opened her eyes, Song So Mi turned her gaze toward the bedside. Reflected in her irises, illuminated by the soft glow of the sleep lamp, was the square, golden frame of an Arasaka [Senkoh LX] submachine pistol.
As her pupils adjusted, her sight focused farther ahead—to the crash-proof corner-designed bedside table, where a portable computer's screen remained lit, displaying the real-time status and route of the bullet train.
Nothing else in the soft sleeper compartment had changed. The secret mechanisms she had set up herself—meant to detect any uninvited 'observers'—were all untouched.
Safe. No abnormalities.
Swish. Song So Mi pushed aside the cool blanket and sat up on the relatively clean berth.
With a wave of her hand, the smart shades obeyed the signal and automatically drew open. The morning light poured in, cutting through the haze like a blade.
Outside the porthole, the desolate wilds of New Mexico stretched endlessly: red-rock cliffs, boundless deserts, rolling ochre hills, and the scattered silhouettes of worn cacti and tall palms. It was a stark contrast to the lifeless remnants of the natural world that once surrounded the dense cities of the East Coast.
Seven years—it had been seven long years since that humiliating retreat. She hadn't set foot on western soil in all that time.
Ironically, back then she had survived by betrayal. And now, once again, she traveled west—for betrayal.
A bitter smile tugged at Song So Mi's lips.
Humans were not without feeling. Betrayal was never something that could be done with a clear conscience. But she had no choice.
Because she wanted to live.
If she stayed any longer in the Federal Intelligence Agency, only two endings awaited her:
Her biological functions would deteriorate until she died—dissected and studied.
Or she would continue living—alive but hollow—her mind eroded, her spirit consumed. She would become a living corpse trapped between wakefulness and oblivion, her sanity stripped away by repeated deep-dives and exposure to the [Blackwall], her memories, her identity, her everything... devoured by the AI.
So Mi had chosen to break free from her cage.
Solomon Reed—the man who had brought her into this world, who always preached that "the motherland's interests come before all"—was dead.
He was an old dog, one that had worn its chain for too long. His bondage had sunk too deep. Even if he tore free, he'd bleed out before he could escape far. But she was different. Her sunk costs were still within reach. She could still break away.
Even if it meant being hunted for life, she had no regrets.
Like a drowning soul grasping a strand of salvation—
She chose Arasaka.
Arasaka's new technology could cure her. And with her hands full of NUSA's deepest black secrets—White House operations, FIA files, and countless classified projects—she was precisely the kind of asset Arasaka needed.
Moreover, her unique ability to bore holes through the [Blackwall] and partially access its protocols made her too valuable to discard—as long as she remained sane.
And as an early defector, one who turned coat before open war broke out, she would serve as a model of 'a thousand gold for a loyal steed,' just like Kurt Hansen once had.
"Phew."
Exhaling heavily, Song So Mi recalled her gentleman's agreement with Arasaka's upper echelon.
The day she transmitted her intent to defect through the [Blackwall] to Arasaka's deep-dive netrunners, she had a brief meeting with that woman beyond the Wall in cyberspace:
"...So, Rosalind Myers' beloved hound—this is why you've chosen to defect?"
The ambitious third-generation matriarch of Arasaka—Vela Adelheid Russell—stood before her, her data-avatar smiling gracefully, her voice smooth but devoid of warmth.
In the murky gloom of the Net, a storm of prismatic code drifted like dust. The digital matrix formed clean geometric grids beneath their feet, and upon it, the 'most radiant gem of Arasaka' appeared clearer than Song So Mi had ever imagined—an imprint burned deep into her neural pathways.
Cyberspace magnified Vela's virtual figure, revealing faintly beneath its perfect data construct the shadows of something else.
Something terrifying.
Song So Mi—one of NUSA's top netrunners, her skill unmatched even during the pre-DataKrash 'Golden Age of the Net,' when knowledge was free and open-source ideals flourished—saw it clearly.
What lay within Vela's avatar... were heaps of digital remnants, fragments of decayed AIs, shattered code, and corrupted architectures—
The remains of the dead.
Digital corpses piled into the shape of a goddess.
How many AIs had she hunted down and disassembled in cyberspace?
To use perhaps an inelegant comparison—what Song So Mi saw resembled the traces of blood still dripping from the jaws of a predator after feasting on its prey in the African savanna.
Fear crept through her.
Fear of the unknown. Fear of the apex predator…
That woman was a monster—a gifted, calculating, and terrifyingly perceptive monster.
Song So Mi remembered that moment vividly. The chill had cut through her very nerves.
But perhaps that was a good thing, wasn't it? The very force that would one day take her life—aside from the cyberpsychosis caused by excessive augmentation—was the backlash from the [Blackwall] that had already begun to eat away at her mind and body.
The deeper Vela delved into that field, the more it proved that Song So Mi's defection had been the right choice.
"Yes."
She took a deep breath and replied to the question, "Because I want to live."
"[Project Cynosure] and the locations of the FIA's underground intelligence and transit stations on the West Coast—these are my tokens of sincerity. You can conduct your own covert verification first. As for how to maximize your effort in uprooting FIA infiltration cells, you're the expert. I trust you don't need my advice."
"Hmm. A decent calling card."
Vela nodded lightly, then asked directly, "As you said—how are my people supposed to extract you?"
"Santa Fe—the capital of New Mexico," Song answered. "I can't provide an exact time yet, but you can keep an eye on the Voodoo Boys from Pacifica."
"When their leader travels to Santa Fe, I'll go there as well—to meet and negotiate their recruitment. That's their demand, since I contacted them through the [Blackwall] protocol. They're envious of what I can do. And on my side, well... among the short list of people the White House values, the Voodoo Boys are currently the ones most interested in exploiting the [Blackwall]."
"It seems you've already planned most of it out—just waiting for my answer."
Vela gazed calmly at Song So Mi, then smiled faintly. "Very well, Song So Mi. Our agreement stands."
"So long as you fulfill your word, I will heal you—and protect the rest of your life."
...
The memory ended.
The entire negotiation had gone far more smoothly than she had anticipated.
Or perhaps, for reasons unknown, Vela had decided almost immediately that she could be trusted.
Song So Mi wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.
Did Arasaka's intelligence files really analyze my personality model that well?
She sat there, basking in the sunlight for a while.
The rays streaming through the glass warmed her face, the heat tickling her eyelids with a faint itch—gentle, pleasant.
A rare sunbath. Between the lightless halls of the Intelligence Department and the paranoia of the White House, she had almost forgotten what sunlight felt like.
After rubbing her brow hard, she swung her legs off the bed.
She smoothed the wrinkles of her worn clothes, slipped on her shoes, and fastened the holster carrying her [M-76e Omaha] pistol beneath her arm. Then she stretched her back and twisted open a can of coffee on the bedside table, downing half in one go.
Just as her fingers danced across the portable computer's keypad—monitoring train status and compiling intel reports from Santa Fe—ding-dong~
Her optical HUD flashed with an incoming call notification from her private line.
Caller: President Myers.
"..."
Song So Mi connected the call.
"Madam President."
"I'm guessing you just woke up, So Mi."
Myers' voice came through the line.
"Yes," Song replied, nodding slightly.
"Hey, don't be so formal. You're not in Washington right now," Myers said warmly.
"Take this trip as a bit of rest, So Mi. You've worked hard lately. After you meet with Maman Brigitte—the leader of the Voodoo Boys—I'm granting you a day off. Go out, breathe a little, take in the sights. What's that phrase again? 'Get in touch with life.' You've been cooped up in that deep-dive lab for too long. Must be driving you crazy."
"Thank you," Song So Mi replied as usual, her tone steady. "I'll do everything I can to convince the Voodoo Boys."
"I know you will," Myers said on the other end of the line.
"Don't forget to rest. Take some time to see the beauty of our great homeland for me. Trust me—I'll make sure CDER's (Center for Drug Evaluation and Research) progress on the new medication moves along. Things will get better, my friend."
"Thank you," Song So Mi replied politely, with genuine respect.
After a few final words of encouragement, Myers ended the call.
"..."
Staring at the dynamic route map on her computer, which showed the train drawing ever closer to Santa Fe, Song So Mi's face remained calm—neither joy nor sorrow visible.
It was time to take a new path.
Knock, knock-knock.
Before she could respond, the door slid open, and an FIA agent dressed in gang-style streetwear stepped inside.
"Agent Songbird," he said in a low voice. "The train's about to arrive in Santa Fe."
"For safety, we'll disembark at the East Station, circle around, and meet the target in the west of the city."
He continued, "New Mexico is a prime infiltration zone for Arasaka's scum and those 'green-haired mutts'—the Barghest mercs. There's heavy support from Western separatist factions. Back in early 2076, Lazarus and their forces fought over Santa Fe, nearly flattening half the city."
"Understood."
Closing her laptop and sliding it—along with the [Senkoh LX]—into her backpack, Song So Mi nodded.
She threw on her old trench coat, wrapped a sandproof scarf around her head like those worn in desert regions, slung her pack over her shoulder, and followed the agent out of the compartment.
The narrow corridor was grimy, filled with the faint metallic scent of travel.
Outside, several FIA agents disguised as desert drifters and cowboys were already waiting.
Among them, what drew her attention most were the two White House special agents—pure flesh, or at most implanted only with bio-components.
Whom they were here to monitor was obvious.
And likely, there were more hidden in the shadows.
A simple question: how do you kill a top-tier netrunner capable of frying your neural ports in a single glance?
The FIA had found the most primitive, most reliable answer—send in humans. Flesh-and-blood operatives, completely unaugmented, to do the job.
After all, no matter how powerful a hacker was, they couldn't hack human muscle and bone.
Hadn't the so-called "God of Hackers," Rache Bartmoss, been killed offline by Arasaka in the end?
True, professional netrunners who underwent body modifications were physically stronger than normal people—but against full-powered, military-grade rounds and specialized ammunition, they were still just flesh.
That was also why Song So Mi carried firearms herself—one from Militech, one from Arasaka. Practicality and taste. It didn't draw attention. Myers herself was fond of Tsunami Defense pistols.
It was always wise to leave one's real body a means of resistance.
After a brief moment of silence, Song So Mi gave each escorting agent a nod before turning her gaze toward the porthole as the train began to slow.
[AI: Arriving at next station—Santa Fe Central Station...]
As the announcement chimed, the train eased into the station. Song So Mi's expression hardened—focused, sharp.
If she didn't escape this time, once she returned to Washington, even if her defection remained undiscovered, Myers would surely push for deeper augmentation, new drug trials, and endless rounds of overtime.
Let's hope Vela takes this seriously—and doesn't get arrogant or careless.
...
Night City.
Corporate Plaza.
Arasaka Tower—inside the executive office marked [Vela Russell].
"Maman Brigitte of the Voodoo Boys has arrived in Santa Fe?"
"I see. Sooner than I expected."
"You're uneasy, and I understand. A deal this good falling from the sky deserves suspicion. But my judgment stands—she's trustworthy."
Behind a massive marble desk, Vela leaned deep into her leather chair. Her left hand held a steaming cup of red tea, while her right tapped idly on the surface. As for what gave her such confidence in Song So Mi's defection—that was something she would not say.
"Jimmy, how much of the intel she provided has been verified?" she asked.
The voice on the other end belonged to Jimmy Warren, the current Director of Special Operations—Vela's former adjutant, and once the First Deputy Director of the Security Bureau.
[Jimmy: Excluding the abandoned ones, we've identified thirty-two active zones with signs of human activity. Of these, twenty-one are confirmed or suspected to involve espionage operations. The sites vary in scale—some within urban areas, but most scattered across the suburban fringes of major western cities.]
"Now that's sincerity."
Vela let out a quiet laugh. "The meal's already at our lips—what? Afraid to eat?"
"Keep them under surveillance, but don't act rashly. A bird that's broken free of its cage brings us a gift of loyalty; we're not going to waste a table already set, are we? If this cooked duck manages to fly away, Jimmy, you can hand in your resignation as Director of Special Operations."
[Jimmy: Yes, ma'am! I'll make sure nothing goes wrong.]
"Good. Wait for my order."
Beep.
The communication marker in her eyes dimmed. Vela lowered her gaze, her eyes sweeping across the vast holographic display that covered her desk.
At the center glowed an enlarged map of New Mexico. Blinking tags indicated the hidden mobile squads of the newly formed SAT elite detachment, alongside the stealth units of her personally deployed Wyvern and lone-wolf ninja teams.
Through Nomad routes across the badlands, they had traveled for two days and already reached the western outskirts of Santa Fe.
Of course, she knew full well that sending David Martinez—a trusted subordinate she had raised and trained for years—was a calculated move.
This mission would pit them directly against FIA elite agents and even White House special operatives. Once Washington realized that one of its own key officials had defected, Lazarus mercenaries would undoubtedly receive direct orders to intervene. It would be dangerous—deadly, even.
But Vela had still chosen to send her best.
An army too precious to fight isn't worth having. A force that fears death or loss is no army at all.
Now, it was time to test their mettle. To forge them through fire.
Setting her teacup aside, she glanced toward the large metallic case resting at the corner of her desk. The polished surface reflected her image—the unfinished [War Armor].
Her instincts whispered a warning: by choosing to accept the defection of the White House's secret agent "Songbird," she would soon find herself needing that armor.
...
Meanwhile, Santa Fe City.
Having circled around to the western district, Song So Mi arrived safely at the agreed meeting place under the escort of several agents.
A restaurant—quietly subsidized by the Washington government. The place had two floors, modest in size but busy thanks to its long-standing reputation. Inside, a few old arcade machines stood along the walls, and dust-covered landline phones sat like relics of a forgotten era.
"Hey, boss. You got a private room? We've got a friend waiting—the one leading the group's a stylish Black lady. Judging by the time, we shouldn't be late."
The lead agent leaned casually on the counter, asking with practiced familiarity.
"A stylish Black lady?"
The Latina clerk wiping tables arched a brow.
"Uh-huh. You mean her?"
She pointed toward the stairs.
Following her gaze, Song So Mi looked up—and there she was.
A dark-skinned woman with striking silver, afro-styled hair, her body inked with unmistakable Haitian patterns, stood at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, eyes locked coldly on Song So Mi.
Maman Brigitte.