I am Meredith Stout.
A dedicated, loyal, and ambitious employee of Militech.
I work at the Night City branch, serving as a senior operations manager, currently striving for promotion to director.
Originally, as a core member of the company's talent reserve echelon, though I had to deal with the slander and attacks of some internal scumbags, my future was bright and full of promise.
Unfortunately, all those beautiful prospects came to an abrupt end when our great enemy, Arasaka, began its step-by-step return to North America.
Because of Arasaka's threat, the overall situation along the West Coast grew unstable, the security environment worsened, and the company's strategy suffered setbacks. Everything I had was overshadowed.
When the nuclear mushroom clouds over San Francisco and Santa Fe rose one after another, our company and the White House completely tore off the mask with Arasaka. The Fifth Corporate War broke out...
Unlike the Fourth Corporate War, since the 2070s, our company had faced an unprecedented geopolitical crisis in the western states. The Night City branch, located deep within the Free States Alliance that was hostile toward the New United States, forced the Washington headquarters to announce a withdrawal from California, designating the branch building as a non-military zone.
That meant—my department was disbanded.
Meredith hated Arasaka.
Especially that bitch who always gave Militech trouble.
Clang, clang—
Steel scraped against the ground, echoing in the air.
The worksite buzzed with heat and chaos. A dozen Militech operatives strained to unload a new MOAB-series sub-nuclear bomb, over ten meters long and nearly a meter in diameter, along with the related thermobaric and propellant agents. They arranged them in the underground garage of a mansion at the southwest corner of the Arasaka Community, using phased-array configuration principles.
The mansion's original owner's luxury cars were treated like trash—shoved to the corner, flipped, even crushed flat. A sight that would make any car lover scream in horror.
Several heavily modified [Bratsk J4020] heavy trucks from the Russian Federation's Caucasus factories replaced them, squeezing into the garage.
Engines and machinery roared continuously—it was deafening.
"How much longer?" Walking down the ramp, Meredith crossed her arms, her tone sharp with impatience.
"Thirteen—no, ten minutes! Give me ten minutes!" the technical officer on-site shouted, crouched before an armed MOAB's detonator, sweat pouring from his forehead despite the partial cybernetic implants.
"Ten minutes?" Meredith frowned, signaling the guard to bring her PDA. She pulled up progress reports from other operation teams and the live combat data at the Russell residence.
At a glance, she realized—the chance of breaking into Vela's main house and scavenging spoils was shrinking by the second.
The higher-ups were too greedy, overestimating that wastrel Yorinobu Arasaka's competence.
If we can't take it, we destroy it. Better to blow it up first, then grab what we can amid the chaos.
Then—"Fuck!" Meredith cursed lowly, her expression darkening further. She saw that bastard's name on her feed.
[Operation Team [Anthony Gilchrist]: Bomb placement nearly complete, final calibration underway. Estimated time required: 6–8 minutes.]
"Seven minutes!" The woman's thick, dark hair seemed to bristle with her rising temper. She whipped her head around. "You've got seven minutes, no more!"
The technician froze. "Huh?!"
"What do you mean 'huh'? Execute!"
"If you can't finish in time, set up the blast sequence by truck groups! It won't maximize yield, but the plan has tolerance for that!"
Meredith slammed her PDA onto the tech's shoulder. "If you want to live—want a promotion and a raise—then listen to me! The sooner it blows, the better your odds! Delay—and we all die!"
"Y-yes, ma'am!" The officer nodded frantically, turned, and shouted orders to his engineering subordinates, prioritizing the bombs already unloaded while he scrambled into the truck's cabin to continue the work.
Meredith herself didn't bother maintaining composure anymore. She rolled up her sleeves and joined in setting up the propellants, all while monitoring friendly status and higher command updates.
Time ticked away.
"Internal conflict among Yorinobu's forces—mutiny reported."
"Afterlife mercenaries beginning mass retreat."
"Offensive failed again. Frontline stalemate. Our units are being pushed back out. Damn!"
...
In less than two minutes, Meredith's inbox was filled with bad news.
Staring at the thick-skinned, power-packed but poorly controlled Russian-made heavy trucks in the underground garage, Meredith couldn't help but think—if only the vehicles were Militech's own Behemoth-class armored carriers.
Their electronic systems would be fully compatible, and the debugging process would be far smoother.
Unfortunately, this was Arasaka's Night City. The Behemoth, restricted to governing entities and licensed corporations, was far too conspicuous. Even Yorinobu couldn't fully conceal it—it would definitely be discovered.
When it came down to it, the Arasaka mutiny had happened too suddenly.
After receiving orders from higher-ups to "cooperate with Yorinobu Arasaka," mobilizing this scale of deep-cover force in such a short time was already an impressive result, thanks to the combined efforts of the Federal Intelligence Agency (FIA) and Militech's related departments.
Meredith took a deep breath.
As long as the sub-nuclear retaliation strike succeeded, she could withdraw from Night City with merit, not fault.
The immediate priority was figuring out how to avoid being caught in the blast.
She wanted to live.
As Meredith's mind drifted, plotting her retreat—beep beep.
Her neural link chimed—an incoming call.
[Caller: Anthony]
That bastard. What the hell did he want now?
Her face darkened. Iris flashing blue, she accepted the call.
"If you've got shit to say, spit it out." Her tone was curt.
"Tsk tsk, only seventy percent progress? Running out of juice already? Need a hand—?" The smug, taunting voice made her blood boil.
Beep...
Meredith hung up instantly, her face like stone.
"Ugh. Disgusting. Bastard." She cursed under her breath.
No matter what, she refused to lose to that asshole, Anthony Gilchrist.
Just the thought of him rising above her rank made her sick. She'd rather request transfer to the Iowa (IA) warzone and fight Arasaka's field army head-on.
"Move faster!!" she shouted.
Everyone kept their heads down, silently working at full speed.
Then—beep beep.
Another notification.
But this time, Meredith didn't show irritation. It was a high-priority encrypted order—only managers of a certain level could receive it.
[Special Operations Commissioner [Encrypted]: Attention—all teams, Vela A. Russell has arrived at Japantown and is en route to Constitution Hill. Begin covert withdrawal immediately. Maintain communication and stand by for my signal. Prepare for detonation of MOAB sub-nuclear ordnance at any time.]
Meredith knew clearly—"all teams" referred only to the bomb-deployment units and a handful of officials.
As for the soldiers still fighting tooth and nail in and around the Russell estate—they'd already had their combat chips secretly activated. They were bait, and now abandoned.
Groups like Afterlife mercenaries and Yorinobu's rebel remnants didn't even count.
In truth, if they were following the "if you can't have it, destroy it" doctrine to the letter, the moment they learned of Yorinobu Arasaka's death, they should have cut their losses—rammed the truck bombs into the estate, and detonated immediately.
But there was one immense temptation—the almost guaranteed successor after Yorinobu's fall: Vela Adelheid Russell.
Such a perfect opportunity to blow her up amid chaos.
Miss it now, and it would be gone forever.
Would they take the gamble?
The commissioner representing the White House's will chose to bet.
Meredith turned to the tech officer. "How much longer?"
"If we just set up a basic chain detonation—"
"That's enough," she cut him off. "Withdraw!"
"Phew…" The exhausted operatives in the garage exhaled in relief. They'd barely lifted their weapons and started up the ramp when several high-caliber tungsten slugs screamed through the air, striking the lead men—among them, the technician with the laptop still wiping sweat from his brow.
"Ambush!" Two security guards lunged forward instantly, shielding Meredith with their bodies.
But faster than their shouts came the blaring red alerts from ICE defense systems—an intrusion warning—and then electromagnetic railgun rounds ripped through exoskeletons, heavy subdermal armor, and titanium bones alike, blowing apart the guards' heads, torsos, and limbs.
Knocked down, Meredith took a grazing hit—an open wound tearing through her torso.
Her internal health monitor screamed in alarm, and only the activation of her Pain Editor prevented her from passing out.
Now drenched in blood and bits of flesh, Meredith lay at the entrance to the garage ramp.
Her mind spun in confusion.
"Cough... cough... Who... who is it?"
She wasn't asking who the enemy was—she was wondering, where were her sentries? The lookouts, the hidden guards, the patrol posts she'd arranged? How had Arasaka's troops managed to strike so precisely, so quickly? Their ICE and frontline combat units weren't even of the same type—how had they been located this fast?
Thud, thud!
Meredith forced her eyes upward. In her blurred vision, several flickering humanoid figures—optical camouflage shimmering—rushed forward, weapons spewing flames. Cybernetically enhanced soldiers, their bodies more metal than flesh.
Behind her came gunfire and screams.
Another squad was descending through the mansion's internal garage tunnel.
Arasaka's cyber-ninjas and SAT special assault elites.
Suddenly, Meredith understood. That call from Anthony… something was wrong...
"There's a trai—"
Shing!
A piercing metallic note—the hiss of a thermal katana igniting. A red-hot blade flashed from its sheath, slicing through keratin, flesh, and bone in one clean arc.
...
"Traitor! There's a traitor!!"
The roar came from another sub-nuclear deployment site, where FIA senior agent Jonas Collinson, under siege by Arasaka's all-out counterattack—from cyberspace to data links to physical assault—was cornered, shouting desperately from behind a wall.
Meanwhile, above, the sky hummed.
Whrrr... whrrr...
Aboard the armored gunship hovering over the Arasaka Community, Vela ended her surrender broadcast. She set down her PDA, and as the screen went dark, a brief encrypted message flickered into view.
[Vela: Well done, Mr. Anthony Gilchrist. Arasaka never underpays its loyal servants.]
[Anthony: Serving you—and Arasaka—is my honor.]
Rising to her feet, Vela flexed her wrist, stepping easily toward the drop hatch of the gunship. Beneath the [Warframe] visor, she gazed upon the burning, chaotic Arasaka Community below and clicked her tongue softly.
Reciprocity indeed.
"Well, to think you managed to approach Anthony so quickly after arriving in Night City—and even turn him to your side, plotting to strike back at Myers..." Her tone carried a faint amusement. "My dear Second Uncle, it seems we finally share something in common."
—
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