This was the world before the war.
...
Night City, Heywood, Vista del Rey.
Corporate Community, Megabuilding 17 Unit.
Apartment number 18-H913.
"God bless us, amen."
As the first rays of morning sunlight filtered through the automatic blinds into the bedroom, the room's owner—a red-haired woman with a small square implant on her right cheek—was already dressed and ready. She stood before a shrine with her eyes closed, hands clasped, murmuring softly.
The shrine itself was a cybernetic blend of East and West: neon strips wound around the edges of the small polymer alcove, while the holographic crucifix inside displayed a projected image of Christ's crucifixion.
Before the shrine stood a metal incense burner, into which several Japanese-style incense sticks had just been placed.
The incense was freshly lit.
Around the woman's neck hung a small crucifix pendant.
A gesture that would make any fundamentalist Christian furious with indignation.
But it was 2077—true believers were few and far between. Most were either running cult scams or worshipping Money itself. What to believe and how to believe—people were free to choose.
"Phew..."
Finishing her prayer, Gloria Martinez exhaled deeply, releasing the heavy breath filled with unspoken worries, then opened her eyes, ending her daily ritual.
As a Hispanic woman, she was someone raised in the Christian cultural sphere. In the hedonistic, dream-chasing Night City, that made her somewhat old-fashioned—her values aligned more with the Valentinos, emphasizing tradition, family, and faith.
In her youth, she had thought such things couldn't compare to the thrill of a braindance session. But ever since becoming a mother, she had gradually rediscovered her faith.
Especially with David working such a high-risk job.
Gloria knew well that her past experiences could no longer help him.
Not making things worse—that was the greatest help she could offer.
Now, David was the busy one while she, relatively speaking, was at ease. Compared to the days when she'd struggled and schemed to scrape together Arasaka Academy tuition, things had completely reversed.
With free time on her hands and worries filling her mind, it was only natural that she had bought this shrine to pray for blessings. And since David now worked at Arasaka, she decided to blend in with local customs, mixing elements of Shinto rituals into her prayers.
Whether it worked or not, she didn't know. It was more a spiritual comfort than anything else.
Finally, after putting on the bright, fluorescent yellow jacket issued by the Night City Medical Center, Gloria prepared to leave for work.
Work had to go on. After so many years of hard labor and grinding through the ranks, she had finally managed to advance thanks to her status as a relative of an Arasaka employee. Now, as the chief EMT (Emergency Medical Technician) and ambulance team leader, she had five subordinates under her. With the promotion came a pay raise—and she wasn't about to refuse it.
Even though North America was in turmoil and Night City saw more violent deaths each week than most cities saw in a year—enough to make the morgue lottery a booming business—people still worked tirelessly, driven by the need to survive.
As she reached the entrance, she sent her son a routine message.
Beep.
[Gloria: David, take care of yourself and remember to check in.]
Short. Ordinary.
Because she understood the nature of David's work, she didn't want to distract him.
Naturally, the status remained [Unread].
Still on a mission, huh…
"Sigh."
She sighed.
Turning back, Gloria glanced at the holovision in the living room. The news was reporting the ongoing carnage at the Santa Fe conflict front—a recent international hotspot.
The bold headline read: "Escalating Tensions — Powered Armor Units Enter the Battlefield: Conflict, or War?"
The feed showed a clip of the chaos—a young, one-legged Lazarus soldier struck by a Barghest powered armor trooper's thermal cannon, his entire body turning into a charred lump in an instant.
The backdrop was the desolate ruins of Santa Fe under the dawn light:
Shattered concrete walls and burned-out vehicles tangled together, the sky dotted with rising clouds of explosions. Through the blurred lens of the camera, soldiers bathed in white phosphorus, energy weapon beams screaming through the air, cybernetic warriors of steel and flesh locked in brutal combat...
The footage finally froze on the butcher himself—Adam Smasher: a face like metal armor smeared with flesh, carved with grim detail, bathed in blood, oil, and corpses—ghastly and terrifying.
Some clips were covered with faint, token mosaics.
Those so-called "respectable" media outlets loved this kind of aesthetic. They called it professionalism.
"David..."
Her eyelids lowered slightly as Gloria's hand, clutching her jacket against her chest, unconsciously tightened. "I hope you're not in Santa Fe."
Taking a deep breath, she buried her worry deep in her heart, turned, and stepped outside.
Ding. Taking the elevator down to the underground parking lot, she found her red-painted Thorton Colby muscle car and slid into the driver's seat.
Her old junker had long been replaced—this new car had been with her for about half a year.
It was a birthday gift from David. He'd chosen it for its durability, practicality, and powerful engine.
Money wasn't an issue anymore. Even a bottom-tier corporate worker earned enough to support an entire family comfortably.
After tidying up the photo frame placed in the auxiliary dashboard slot, she looked at the picture inside: David, now towering over her after his cyberware augmentations, wearing his dark Arasaka uniform. A soft smile crept onto Gloria's lips as she started the engine. Vroom! The car pulled out of the parking lot.
Ding-ling—
A communication indicator lit up on her retinal display. Seeing the anonymous caller ID, Gloria answered.
"It's me."
A rough, deep voice came through the line.
"Maine?"
"Yeah. Gloria, I've got something to tell you."
Maine's tone grew more serious.
"That kid David reminded you to stock up on emergency supplies, right? Is he there? Or on comm silence for a mission? Listen, whatever you've got—it's not enough. Food, meds, even weapons and ammo—you'd better get more."
"This conflict isn't gonna fizzle out like that, uh... right, that 'Badlands Director Assault Incident.'"
"I've got some inside word from my contacts. Arasaka and Militech have traded no fewer than ten ultimatums within the past two hours. Neither side's backing down—and each one's more heated than the last..."
...
Watson—the same as ever. The half-dead industrial district in the northern part of the city.
Inside a long-abandoned, rust-stained factory, a hidden safehouse lay tucked away from sight.
After two and a half months of rest and recovery—his double-arm projectile launch systems fully repaired—Maine lounged heavily on the sofa, his cybernetic eyes flickering with comm-light icons. Talking as he reached for a 'Tech & Protein' burger from the table, he took a huge bite mid-sentence.
In front of him, an old-style LCD television played the WNS news feed.
Beside him sat Dorio, his partner and more like family than friend, arms folded thoughtfully as she watched the screen.
Pilar and Falco weren't there.
"...According to Arasaka's statement, President Myers of the NUSA was outplayed by her own 'trusted officer' and humiliated on Capitol Hill. She's facing impeachment—she won't take that lying down. And on Arasaka's side, the top brass seem dead set on protecting that 'Songbird' woman."
Maine glanced at the screen. "Looks like they're going all in."
"Don't get caught off guard, Gloria."
[Gloria: Phew... Got it. Thanks, Maine. I'll keep it quiet.]
"Good."
With that, Maine hung up.
Then he pulled out the disposable anonymous call chip and crushed it.
"Gloria's kid's on comm silence," he muttered, looking toward Dorio. "Guess he's on a field op. Just not sure where."
"Could it be Santa Fe?" Dorio asked, nodding toward the TV. "That's where she was when Arasaka extracted her."
The 'she' in question—the screen showed the ongoing broadcast about the FIA defector's brave public confession.
"...As the true culprit, Militech and the New United States—under President Kress's so-called political 'mastery'—shifted all blame for the nuclear detonation onto Arasaka, using it to smear their name and evade postwar sanctions."
"Justice was never served. That was the mistake."
"Look at North America now—economic collapse, endless civil strife, rising poverty rates... Militech and the NUSA, licking their wounds, have given their answer: they've chosen the wrong path, becoming the troublemakers of the Americas—and the world."
...
The red-haired Korean netrunner on the podium kept talking non-stop.
"This girl hasn't gone crazy?"
Maine frowned slightly, noticing the detail that didn't add up.
As the red-haired hacker turned sideways, gesturing toward the background display behind her, Maine's eyes widened. He caught sight of the back of her head and neck—almost entirely replaced with metal. The Militech logo hadn't even been sanded off yet.
"Damn," he muttered. "Looks delicate, but she's more chrome than me."
"Maybe that's one of the reasons she defected to Arasaka," Dorio joked. "Because Arasaka can fix her?"
"Looks like even the White House elites are just like us—scared of dying."
Maine shrugged. "Still, her spilling secrets makes for good entertainment, huh? Didn't expect those 'Afterlife legends' to be mixed up in this too."
He took a long swig of beer and shook his head with a sigh.
"What do you mean?" Dorio asked.
"They took corpo money, that's what. Look—Johnny Silverhand, Morgan Blackhand, all of them took Militech's help. We took Arasaka's. Makes us the same, huh? Damn. I spent all that time mentally prepping myself to be a 'dog,' and for what? Should've told me sooner."
Having been stuck on medical leave and bored stiff from his online rehab training, Maine slapped his thigh. "I'm calling Jackie, see what he thinks."
"Back when we first met at the Afterlife, he wouldn't shut up about legends—Silverhand, Blackhand, the Queen of Afterlife, all that."
Saying that, he pulled out a new disposable, unregistered datachip phone.
...
The bustling streets of Little Chinatown showed no hint of war's approach. Behind Misty's Esoterica, in the back alley, stood a small storeroom Jackie had recently rented to stock up on supplies.
"Huh?"
Eyes wide, Jackie rubbed his temples as he sat up.
Honestly, when Maine called, he was confused.
"Opinion?" he asked.
Recalling his old admiration for those so-called city legends, Jackie shook his head. "Corpos, mercs... same damn thing. I should've known."
People change.
The more he saw of the world—the more experience, the more exposure, the more he learned—the harder it became to keep idolizing those old names the way he did back when he was a naive street kid from Heywood.
[Maine: By the way, in that 2023 Arasaka Tower nuke list—why didn't that bird-coded chick mention Rogue? She's the Queen of Afterlife, the fixer of fixers. Didn't she raid Arasaka Tower with Silverhand and Blackhand?]
Jackie fell silent.
Of course he knew why that FIA defector, Song So Mi, hadn't mentioned Rogue. After V's promotion to Special Operations Director—her clearance level bumped again—they'd talked privately about it.
V had hinted that Rogue Amendiares was listed in Arasaka's internal archives... as a silent collaborator.
Honestly, Jackie couldn't even describe how that made him feel.
Sure, his own ties to V weren't exactly clean either. Their "business collaboration" wasn't some saintly partnership. But back in the day, he'd looked up to the Afterlife, to Rogue—with admiration. Growing up on the streets of Heywood, he'd listened to stories about the legends fighting the system, killing corpo dogs, standing tall.
But now…
Sigh. Best not to say it.
After all these years, all that time spent pondering what never made sense—he finally had his answer.
Why hadn't Arasaka hunted Rogue down for revenge?
Why did her Afterlife empire only keep expanding, unchallenged?
Why, even after Arasaka's full return to North America in 2070, did Vela Adelheid Russell—heir to Kei Arasaka's legacy—never strike back? Leaving a sworn enemy alive under her very nose? That wasn't like her at all.
Jackie didn't believe for a second that Vela—the woman renowned for her vigor, genius, and the approval of Saburo Arasaka himself—would just "overlook" Rogue.
"So you were in on it too," he muttered.
As for the truth behind Song So Mi's speech—Jackie turned to glance at the TV.
On-screen, the press conference was nearing its end.
"...And that's all. I am Songbird—formerly a Federal Intelligence Agency operative of the New United States. I served the White House for many years."
That final line—"served the White House for many years"—was authority enough. It was credibility. Enough to make the majority of people believe—and to shake their faith.
No wonder Washington's response—or rather, the White House's—had been so fierce.
For the NUSA government as a whole, it wasn't catastrophic. But for the current administration, it was disastrous.
Beep.
"She's one of them too."
That was Jackie's reply to Maine.
...
Time flowed on.
While Washington reeled under the growing scandal of political manipulation, as the NUSA and its allies used social media to spread misinformation and distort international opinion, Arasaka retaliated—publishing detailed exposés that laid bare corruption across every level of the American government.
Washington struck back just as hard.
First came the Capitol Hill impeachment hearings. Then Militech troops entered the city. President Myers declared martial law. Several senators were arrested. The NUSA issued its final ultimatum to Arasaka and its allies...
The drama multiplied. The pace of change accelerated. Events blurred together.
Would there really be war? For many, it was an open question.
After all, no full-scale Corporate War had erupted in over half a century—and the "Arasaka versus Militech" standoff had played out like the boy who cried wolf far too many times before. As the world watched, betting houses even opened wagers on which side would blink first.
Then, that night, came breaking news from San Francisco.
Arasaka's supercarrier—on approach for a port visit—was struck by a coordinated saturation barrage of anti-ship missiles.
The world—especially across the Pacific Rim and North America—fell into sudden, collective silence.