January 30th, 2069 | 08:40
Richard Wagner (Zorge)
Incoming Call – Zaria
Establishing Secure Channel…
Connection Established
Arbiter Thirty-Four. Correction vector. Incoming contact.
The figure that appeared on Richard's screen barely qualified as human. Gender, age — completely indiscernible. The voice was layered with modulation filters, and the face was buried under digital static. Whoever this was, they weren't taking chances.
"Arbiter Thirty-Four. Identity confirmed. Codename: Zorge. Transmitting verification code."
Richard — a blond man with the calm detachment of someone who'd danced too close to death too many times — triggered the protocol and waited. A low hum filled the silence as the system ran its authentication sweep.
"Agent status: valid. Engaging enhanced encryption protocols..."
For a few tense seconds, the image on screen froze. Then, with a flicker, it came back — clearer this time. The visual noise had lessened just enough to make out more detail. Still not enough to ID the person known only as Zaria.
"Good morning, Zorge," the figure said.
Richard caught the tonal shift immediately. Something was off.
"Wasn't my next check-in for another few days?" he asked, brows narrowing. "What's changed?"
"There's been a significant data breach — sensitive intel tied to several of our long-term global operations. In response, the Union is reevaluating its strategic models. Updated directives will be issued to all field agents shortly."
"Tch..." Richard let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand down his face. "I had a feeling. Things were going a little too smooth lately. Unnaturally so."
He paused to recalibrate. Zaria didn't push him — she understood the kind of operator she was dealing with. Zorge wasn't just good. He was the kind you called when everything else failed. Even pros like that needed a second to get their bearings.
"What's the Union's initial assessment?" he asked, shifting back into mission mode.
"First report from the Iskin came in five minutes ago," Zaria replied. "But it'll take at least another 24 hours to complete the full analysis and draft a revised operational plan."
"So it's bad," Richard muttered, frowning deeper, mind already working the angles. The idea that anyone had pierced Union intel left a bitter taste.
The Union — the USSR's most advanced AI construct — had been born in the aftermath of the Fourth Corporate War. Its design was based on early-gen social AI frameworks, the kind every global power once dreamed of mastering. Most failed. The Union didn't.
These so-called iskins had done more than pull humanity back from the brink — they'd accelerated its evolution. Tech advancement exploded. AI stopped being just a tool; it became an infrastructure. It guided education. It handled psych development. It shaped moral frameworks. And soon, no one could imagine the world without these digital overseers.
The aftermath of the Corporate War sent humanity's grand ambitions careening off course.
The spark? The collapse of the Old Net — kicked off by none other than the world's most infamous hacker: Rache Bartmoss. His final act wasn't just a middle finger to the system — it was a digital nuke that set the world back by decades. The R.A.B.I.D.S. virus spread like wildfire, corrupting nearly eighty percent of the global Net and dragging civilization to the edge of digital extinction.
And it might've finished the job — if not for an unlikely alliance between a then-obscure group called NetWatch and the miraculous survival of the Soviet AI known as The Union.
Together, they deployed a temporary fix: a containment layer, a digital buffer zone anchored by a cloned fragment of the Union. They called it the Black Bastion. Its sole purpose? Quarantine the infected zones, seal them off, and stabilize what was left of the Net — just enough to keep it usable.
But NetWatch wasn't done. They dove into the ruins of the Old Net, searching for lost data, trying to stitch together the fractured remains. That's when they hit something worse.
The Wild AIs.
These weren't just glitched-out programs or errant code. Some were corrupted artificial personas. Others… were the ghosts of netrunners — people who'd been jacked in when the system went down, their minds severed from their bodies. The former had gone feral, twisted by the chaos of the collapsed network. The latter? They wanted only one thing: to live again. In a body. Any body.
Didn't matter how.
In the first weeks after the Bastion went live, dozens of netrunners died trying to patch the breach zones. But it wasn't firewalls or black ICE that killed them. It was them — those fractured digital minds, clawing their way back toward flesh. Some even made it. But what came through wasn't salvation.
At best, the host body suffered massive cerebral failure the moment the transfer completed. At worst, the invading consciousness took hold — but the original soul didn't leave. Two minds trapped in one skull, drowning in conflicting data. The brain couldn't take it. What came out the other side wasn't human. Just an empty shell running on instinct.
A walking corpse.
"It's not our problem anymore," Zaria said after a long pause. "All agents are to follow Internal Directive Three — standard response for a critical systems breach. Any questions?"
"No."
"Then I'll expect your full report within the next few days."
Connection terminated.
Call ended.
Zorge sat in silence, fingers steepled, jaw tight. He bit the inside of his cheek — a habit he never quite broke.
He didn't like this. Not one bit.
Invoking Directive Three wasn't just serious — it was severe. Everyone in the inner circle knew what it meant: get ready for large-scale ops against so-called "internal threats." Officially, it was about containment. Unofficially? It was a trap. And the agents? They were the bait.
Zorge understood the necessity. Hell, a part of him even agreed with it. But knowing didn't make it sit any easier. Being bait in someone else's game never did.
Incoming Message — Jeremy Martinez
"Roughly twenty minutes ago, we engaged an assassin — origin unknown, target likely confirmed. She looked young — early twenties, maybe. East Asian features, blue hair, heavy on the military-grade chrome. She got away. I didn't think pursuit was worth the risk. During the fight, I managed to take her arm — literally. With some luck, it might help trace whoever sent her. We're en route to Megabuilding H4."
Attached was a frame pulled straight from Jeremy's optics — blurry, mid-fight, but good enough to make out her face… or what was left of it.
Zorge read through the report with a tight scowl and clicked his tongue in frustration. He immediately fired off a response:
"Someone's leaked intel on our agents. Whoever's behind this is already in motion. I don't know how deep it runs, but for now — go dark. No gigs. No street presence unless absolutely necessary. If you find anything else on the girl, I'll see about getting us new directives."
"Understood."
Richard leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as the weight of the last hour settled in. Everything was moving too fast. And in his world, fast was never good — it meant mistakes, and mistakes got people killed. He needed to slow things down before the chaos outside started calling the shots.
Oddly enough, he was grateful his current ops were based in Night City.
The city's corporate sprawl made bold moves nearly impossible. Any company that overstepped would draw fire from the others, sparking turf wars no one could afford. Paranoia kept the corps in check — and in that delicate balance, Zorge and his agents carved out just enough room to breathe.
It helped that two Soviet-aligned corps — SovOil and TechtroNika — were quietly backing them with logistics. Not a perfect safety net, but enough to let Zorge sleep at night without checking over his shoulder every five minutes.
"Maybe it's time to chase something more solid… like leads."
The thought clicked into place the moment his eyes landed on a familiar contact flashing at the edge of his HUD — an elderly Japanese woman with an iron grip on her turf and a memory sharp enough to cut steel.
If anyone in Watson or Japantown had a clue who this blue-haired killer was — or who might've sent her — it was Wakako Okada.
Zorge didn't hesitate. Whatever this mess was, he needed answers — and Wakako always knew what was happening in her backyard.
***
January 28th, 2069
Night City – Megabuilding H4
Alex Mitchell (Volkov)
"It all happened over forty years ago…" I spoke slowly, deliberately, eyes locked with the pale-haired girl leaning over me.
The story wasn't much different from the one Rache once told me — just with a few added touches. Personal details. Things only I could've known. By the time I finished, Vega's expression had changed. Subtly, but unmistakably. She looked more lost than before.
A heavy silence settled between us. Neither of us rushed to fill it.
Eventually, she broke it.
"Alex... what am I to you?"
Her voice was soft, but the way she looked at me — sharp, searching — told me the answer mattered. Maybe more than anything else ever had.
"You're someone I care about. Deeply," I said without hesitation.
"I see."
She shifted closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off her skin. Close enough to kiss. Her whole demeanor had changed — gone was the girl I'd known all these years. This version of Vega... was something else.
"I'm glad," she said quietly, leaning in just a little more.
"I'm sorry I never told you sooner..." I mumbled, glancing away, suddenly unsure of myself.
"I understand," she replied, her lips curling into a faint, almost bittersweet smile. "You did what you thought was right. That's all I could ever ask of you."
Those words hit harder than they had any right to. Stirred up something I wasn't ready to face. She noticed — of course she did.
"Ahem... maybe we should head back to the workshop," I said, trying to ground us both again.
"Let's stay like this a little longer," she murmured, making no move to pull away.
And so we did. Just laid there, holding onto the quiet. Letting the moment stretch out for another thirty minutes — long enough for someone to start wondering where we'd gone.
The knock that came was sharp. Impatient. A reminder that our little pocket of peace was about to end.
With a reluctant sigh, I gently lifted Vega off me and carried her to the door. It slid open at my signal, revealing a teen girl mid-knock, hand raised and ready.
"Am I interrupting something?" Lucy asked, one brow arched, already starting to backpedal.
"Interrupting what?" Vega said softly, head tilted in innocent confusion.
"I came to talk to you," Lucy replied quickly, brushing past the moment like it never happened.
"So that's what this is about..." I muttered, locking eyes with her. She wasn't a kid anymore. That much was clear.
"All right."