Vela's house was enormous.
Situated between the northeastern slopes of Constitution Hill and the North Oak district, the Russell estate had undergone multiple expansions alongside its owner's meteoric rise in power. Now it spanned over thirty-nine acres, crossing district boundaries—complete with hills, water, and forests. The scenery was exquisite, the facilities first-class. Serene as a poem, it could easily be mistaken for a manor—or even a palace.
Vela's family was rich. Extremely rich.
Personal wealth long since secured, her assets—property, cars, bank accounts, stocks, and funds—were beyond counting. Even the least remarkable things in her home, like the hundreds of thousands of eurodollars in cash stored in the entryway cabinet "just in case," were worth more than most people's lives.
Vela owned many fine things.
From rare, endangered creatures like iguanas used as exotic decoration, to the trendy "micro-dinosaur" pets beloved by the corporate elite, to the countless classified documents in her office, the cutting-edge experimental data in her labs, and the project development logs—there was something for every type of thief, smuggler, or rival corporation operative to drool over.
And now, it was open season in Night City—the perfect time for cyber punks to band together and plunder the corpo aristocracy!
...
At the gates of the Russell estate—
Flames danced like wind; thieves ran wild.
The storm had come, and with it, the scavengers.
Dozens of armed looters surged through the shattered entryway. One shouted triumphantly, waving an authentic painting. Another pocketed wads of cash and slipped away. Someone else cradled a potted plant, swearing loudly. Another grabbed an exotic pet, grinning like a fool. Some rummaged through cabinets, laughing madly, while others staggered out with bags full of loot.
The corner of Vela's eye twitched violently.
Especially when she spotted one scrawny, hunched-over figure sprinting away from the courtyard kennel, clutching something awkwardly under one arm. The skulking posture, the sneaky gait—utterly disgusting. And that thing in his arms—
Wait. Wasn't that her miniature tamed Raptorling she'd kept for decor and stress relief?!
Fuck! And was that another idiot wearing a braindance headset, recording the chaos? Streaming a damn "Robin Hood vs. the Corpos" holovid?!
Vela's expression darkened further.
This was no ordinary band of thieves—they were begging for a heavy-handed response.
...
Bzzz... Bzzz...
From the skies, aboard a hovering armored gunship moving west to east, Vela stood before a virtual projection console, observing the chaos around her estate through the community's surveillance network.
Her facial expressions were hidden behind her [Warframe] helmet.
"Orders: eliminate all external aggressors intruding on Arasaka's territory," she said calmly. "All Arasaka personnel—regardless of division—act as one against outsiders. Do not bring shame to your families."
Psychological warfare combined with personal command—both strategies deployed.
Meanwhile—
[Vela: Accelerate the disarmament operation.]
[Anti-Nuclear Countermeasure Task Force [Ad-Hoc]: Acknowledged.]
...
Jackie Welles didn't catch all of what was being broadcast through the estate's projection system. The roar of gunfire, the shriek of rockets and grenades—everything drowned the words. But one thing he was sure of: Night City's living legend, the Queen of Fixers, owner of the Afterlife—Rogue—was done for.
Because her crew had broken.
"Dexter DeShawn? Oh, it's him."
Like a sneaky raccoon, Jackie jogged a few steps, glancing at the retreating band of mercs who'd been firefighting his crew for hours. Sure enough, among them lumbered a massive, armored figure—Dexter DeShawn, the fat black fixer himself.
They were dragging suitcases, hauling bags—clearly getting the hell out.
As for the gullible mercs the so-called "Fat Jesus" had duped into joining his crew—they were left behind as cannon fodder.
Not that they seemed to mind. After all, this was a rich neighborhood. Even if they couldn't score loot from Vela's mansion, there were still fortunes to be made nearby—with far less risk than facing Arasaka's cyber-ninjas head-on.
"Dexter DeShawn... that fat pig who sucker-punched the Animals and kicked half of Pacifica's gangs? He's still alive?" Maine's rough voice echoed directly in Jackie's mind.
"Yeah," Jackie replied, half-laughing, half-cursing. "Not just alive—he's thriving."
Jackie snorted coldly. "Old-world relics..." Once, he had looked up to fixers like Dexter DeShawn—legends of the street. But people grow. After everything he'd seen, all he'd done, the illusion was long gone.
"So, we're just gonna let the fat bastard waddle off rich? How about we blast his ass on the way out?" came Pilar's eager voice over comms. "Can't just watch and do nothing—it's killing me!"
"You didn't grab anything stupid, did you?"
Jackie's tone turned sharp. "Hey, choombas—remember, we're backed by Arasaka. We've got steady work. We're not some broke-ass scavs farming dirt. Take what you can quietly, fine—but keep it low. Don't get greedy. Think long-term."
He cast a wary glance at the glowing holograms projected across the neighborhood—the silver-armored visage of Vela, immaculate and untouchable. "She's watching."
This whole neighborhood was full of mansions ripe for the taking, and Jackie couldn't deny the temptation. But as an off-the-books black operative under Arasaka's call, he wasn't about to act like Dexter DeShawn and his pig-headed cronies, looting without restraint.
What if there was an audit after the smoke cleared?
Besides, this emergency contract wasn't charity—V would pay. And that money was cleaner than stolen goods that needed fencing. For all her ruthlessness, Vela wasn't the type to betray those who proved themselves—unless they dug their own graves.
"I get it, I get it," Pilar replied. From across the street, a fiery blast shook the mansion he was holed up in. Crouched behind a load-bearing wall, his long, gangly arms gripping two Kang Tao G-58 smart SMGs, he fired in sweeping bursts while glancing inside.
The house's automated lights flickered weakly. To Pilar's eye, the place screamed luxury—the kind of extravagance only corpos could afford.
But what really drew his attention was the bedroom. The bed was half-burned, the motion-sensor cameras and built-in auto-turrets wrecked. Scorched furs, delicate undergarments, and toys of the adult entertainment variety lay scattered about. Even the table was piled with jeweled trinkets shaped in ways that made him cough involuntarily.
"Damn... these corpo dogs sure play fancy."
A part of him—a big part—ached to "appreciate" the scene firsthand. But... no. For his hotheaded little sister's future, he had to keep it together. Pilar sighed heavily. Any other day, he'd pocket one of those high-end... uh, "implements" just for curiosity's sake.
Then—
"Why the hell are you so slow, dumbass brother?!" a familiar, impatient voice barked over comms.
Pilar froze. "You—you're not supposed to be here! Weren't you with Lucy in San Francisco?!"
"Came back, dummy!"
"Wait—you don't mean you're at Constitution Hill—?"
BOOOOM!
Before he could finish, the building convulsed under a deafening blast. Dust and debris filled the air as concrete cracked and glass shattered. Something massive plummeted from above, tearing through the roof beams and reinforced walls, metal screaming against metal, sparks bursting like fireworks in the smoke.
For a few seconds, all Pilar could hear was the ringing in his ears—until a new rumble grew louder and louder.
Walls collapsing. Streets splitting under armored treads. Shouts and explosions closing in from every direction.
Clatter. Shaking the dust from his visor, Pilar coughed twice and looked around.
The mansion was gone—blown open from top to bottom. In its place, the street was swarming with Arasaka's black-and-red combat mechs, forming up into tight formations along the main road.
Vehicles thundered forward. Soldiers surged like a living tide. Hundreds of reinforcements vaulted the estate walls, their firepower tearing through the retreating mercenaries in a crimson storm.
And then Pilar saw her.
Amid the towering Arasaka troopers, a short figure stood out—carrying a massive combat shotgun on her back and a Type-31 heavy machine gun in hand, firing bursts while laughing maniacally.
Even with the helmet and armor, even with her bright weapon paint now dulled to matte gray—he knew her instantly. He'd know her even as ashes.
It was his little sister, Rebecca.
Before Pilar could even open his mouth to call out—
Just as Rebecca ducked behind cover to reload, she saw a hulking mercenary with gorilla arms hurling a handful of high-explosive grenades. Pilar's eyes widened in horror. "Watch out!" he shouted.
But faster than his Kang Tao G-58's enhanced radar could react, one of Rebecca's squadmates—a frontline assault trooper—snapped up his belt-fed Type-31 heavy machine gun, switching from sustained bursts to quick, precise shots. He pivoted, drew his sidearm—
Bang! Bang! Bang! Three clean shots.
The grenades detonated mid-air.
Pilar felt a surge of pride and relief. He had no idea that his sister was about to be transferred out of Arasaka's ranks, but seeing her in action filled him with satisfaction.
Sure, working for the corpos meant selling your soul—it went against everything their father, the "Father of the Sunrise," had ever taught about freedom and choice. But at least it was something. In a world this cruel, what job wasn't dangerous, what life wasn't under pressure?
At least with a paycheck, you could learn, grow, and fight alongside trained professionals. Arasaka might be harsh, but it was stable—so long as you didn't screw up or make enemies.
"Looks like Rebecca found herself a good place after all," Pilar muttered into comms. He swapped magazines, scanned the battlefield, and broke into a sprint toward her position, rolling between debris. "Hey, choom! You heard the big boss lady—counterattack! Wipe out the intruders!"
No sooner had the words left his mouth than—
Rrrrrrrr-KRAKAKAKAKAKAK!
Down the main boulevard, a colossal multi-legged armored war machine rumbled forward, its treads and legs crushing pavement and burnt-out vehicles beneath it. Rotary cannons, auto-turrets, and rocket pods unleashed roaring streams of fire.
As the beast came to a halt, Pilar heard Falco's voice over the comms. "Mount up!"
"Got it!"
Clank! Pulling open the narrow, heavy rear hatch, Pilar climbed aboard, sliding into the co-gunner's seat and jacking in via personal link.
At the driver's console, Falco—the veteran wheelman and dependable middle-aged merc—grinned as he locked the hatch. "Since Rebecca's back in Night City, that must mean Lucy and Kiwi are too. As her old crew, we'd better give them a show worth remembering."
"Woohoo!" Rebecca's voice blared through the comm line, manic as ever. "So this is the multi-legged tank V and Lucy pulled strings to get? Hell yeah, it's beautiful!"
After that disastrous job months ago, Maine's crew had been gutted—most either dead or maimed. They'd spent a long time recovering, rearming, and rebuilding.
With their numbers reduced, Maine and Falco decided to refit—upgrade their cyberware, hone their tactics, and recruit new blood. Their old armored van couldn't handle high-intensity ops anymore, so with V's connections—and the loosening of arms restrictions after the Fifth Corporate War—they acquired an older-model Arasaka multi-legged tank, heavily modified for personal use.
Now, it seemed like a blessing in disguise. Maine's call had been the right one.
Refreshed and rearmed, they'd answered Jackie's call—and their sudden return to the battlefield blindsided Dexter DeShawn's mercs.
Rogue's desperate bid to seize victory in chaos had failed—thanks to a handful of unassuming Arasaka operatives like Jackie's crew.
They weren't on the level of the Afterlife's elite or Militech's top black-ops agents, but as "low-tier horses," they could easily offset the influx of random mercs Rogue had rallied through her influence.
And that was enough. Because Rogue and Militech's heavy hitters were too busy clashing with Arasaka's main forces—the Security Bureau, mobile divisions, and the cyber-ninja corps.
If the battle dragged on… if Yorinobu could hold out or win, fine. But if he fell quickly—as he now seemed to—then Rogue's entire gambit would collapse.
Thud! A massive figure in heavy exoskeleton armor—Maine—landed hard beside the tank, dragging a half-dead Afterlife merc by the collar. Like tossing a chicken, he flung the limp body at Rebecca's feet.
"Yo," he greeted, flexing his cybernetic biceps with a grin.
After rehabilitation and a full rebuild—new adaptive cyberware, custom operating systems—he looked healthier than ever.
"Where's Dorio?" Rebecca asked.
"Training a rookie," Maine replied.
"Oh. Then let's make it rain!"
"Haha! Hell yeah—let's go wild!"
They exchanged quick grins—then moved in sync, advancing alongside Falco's tank. Years of teamwork made words unnecessary.
Within minutes, they'd cleared both sides of the boulevard, wiping out every stray merc. Their next target was clear—no corporate gods, no grandstanding—just one bloated fixer running for his life: the Black Fat Jesus himself.
...
Meanwhile, near the Russell estate's gates, the battle still raged.
Arasaka's defenders held desperately, repelling Yorinobu's last fanatics and Militech's desperate assault. The front wing of the mansion was a slaughterhouse—bodies piled high, carpets soaked red.
Elsewhere, in the southwestern corner of Arasaka's residential district—at a secluded villa's underground garage—
A blonde Militech executive, her hair in disarray, kept glancing toward the hovering projection of Vela giving her surrender broadcast. Her brow furrowed in frustration.
"Damn it... Yorinobu's people are surrendering. We're out of time."
She dropped her half-smoked cigarette, crushed it under her heel, and barked, "Arm the MOAB—NOW!"