The springtime breeze swept across the Arasaka Seaside District—gentle wind, warm sun.
The night before, Night City had seen the tail end of winter's drizzle. By late morning, the rain had cleared, and the sky shone a deep, vivid blue—just as the Adelheid-class carrier fleet arrived.
Clear skies above, azure waves below—the black ships approached...
The sight immediately stirred the crowd: remnants of Great Americanism, supporters of the United New America doctrine, and the self-proclaimed 'patriots' who had rushed to witness the event beat their chests in anguish and outrage.
The "Second Black Ship Incident." Arasaka's Ministry of Foreign Affairs had made it clear—Fleet No. 7 of the Arasaka Navy, serial number "Ⅶ," would henceforth be stationed at the new port of Arasaka's Night City branch.
Unlike the previous shows of force—where the fleet had withdrawn after coercive diplomacy—this time, it was a permanent deployment.
Citing repeated invitations from Night City's City Hall and the Free States Alliance, Arasaka was, as they claimed, "reluctantly compelled by sincerity" to deploy troops to "safeguard the freedom and democracy of our allies against external threats."
"Arasaka's ambitions are boundless!"
"Fuck you, Arasaka! Fuck you, Vela Russell!"
"Damn those Arasaka bastards! Traitors! How could they sell out their own people like this?!"
...
On the bridge linking the City Center and Watson, along the levees by Little China's shoreline, and on the docks of the northwest bay, countless onlookers craned their necks. As the massive black warships—bearing Arasaka's insignia—neared the inner sea, merging with the silhouette of the lighthouse and gliding slowly into the new Arasaka Harbor, the air erupted with noise and turmoil.
Some rejoiced. Some fumed.
Some raised their fists. Some cursed.
Some watched indifferently. Some prayed devoutly.
Some pondered profit. Others just came for the spectacle—
Little China.
Bzzt.
A Delamain taxi rolled down the grimy street, stopping in front of an old seaside motel—its neon sign flickering faintly.
Just beyond the sign lay an abandoned dock, piles of trash, and layers of broken levees. Street kids gathered in clusters to watch the incoming ships.
"Hey, look at those idiots. Jumping and yelling like monkeys. You'd think those ships belonged to them."
With his oddly long limbs and oversized hands, Pilar stepped out of the cab, pointing his gold cyber-thumb toward the cheering crowd. Grinning beneath his sunglasses, his tone was dripping with mockery.
"And those guys over there—yeah, the ones moping like their moms just died. They look like they just stepped in dog shit right after buying new sneakers. Hah! As if Washington's interests have anything to do with them."
Gesturing toward the fence where a few foul-mouthed locals were shouting slurs, Pilar continued his teasing with a carefree smile.
He'd clearly moved past the trauma of two months ago—his sister's death, his own injuries, and those long, fearful nights of hiding. Now, he seemed almost back to normal.
"Mhm."
Dorio stepped out, carrying several bags. After a moment of thought, she said quietly, "So this is what it means, huh? Even the poorest slaves and laborers in Night City—just thinking of Arasaka or New America's wealth and glory makes them puff out their chests."
"From extreme nationalism to the new militarist ideology—it's all propaganda. Poor souls, all of them."
Falco shrugged. "Still, picking sides and daydreaming helps with mental health. Gives them a little comfort in their empty lives."
Corporate Plaza might be magnificent, Washington might be sacred—but what did that matter to those who lived by the knife's edge, crawling through filth just to survive?
"What are you two mumbling about?"
Maine, chatting with Delamain—the AI driver with a glowing blue dome—lowered his sunglasses, revealing a pair of surprisingly clear eyes. "All that talk about 'isms' and melancholic crap."
"Nothing. Just drink your meds."
Falco flexed his newly tuned cyberarm, shaking his head before glancing instinctively at Dorio. She turned just as he did, and their eyes met for a brief, knowing moment.
Time to clock in.
The two of them—one the daughter of an Icelandic athletic family, the other from a well-off Texan ranch house—were arguably the most educated members of Maine's crew.
Lucy could have easily surpassed them, if not for her early rebellion—starting at just seven years old—which left her without a proper, continuous education. Half-literate at best, she'd spent her later years either in 'Deep Dive Technical School' or on the run, surviving purely on instinct and self-study. The rest of the crew? Street dropouts, every one of them.
—During this period of laying low, whether they eventually decided to retire or move on, maybe it was time to enroll the team in some night classes.
In this world, fearlessness alone meant nothing; there were reckless punks everywhere. To climb higher—to earn a bit of dignity—one needed more than cyberware and grit. A bit of knowledge went a long way.
Coincidentally, not all team members were present. Lucy, Kiwi, and Rebecca were at Arasaka, undergoing training to make up for missed education—or, to be precise, Lucy had been ordered to attend classes, while Kiwi and Rebecca got lucky tagging along as 'companions.'
Thinking of that, Falco and Dorio exchanged knowing smiles.
Who would've thought Lucy really was connected to Arasaka... and even a runaway heiress at that?
"Let's go. Don't keep Mr. Welles waiting."
Falco took a deep breath and said to Maine, "With the Arasaka Navy's arrival in Night City, crowds are gathering along the coast. Using this as cover to meet should be safe enough."
Maine nodded.
The group entered the shabby motel. The middle-aged clerk behind the counter barely lifted his head, staring as if he were watching a funeral procession. After confirming the room number and floor, they took a creaky elevator up. Moments later, it stopped at the top floor—an entire level rented out for the meeting.
Whoosh—
Bonfire. Grill. Beer.
A big guy with braided hair sat sprawled across a torn couch, holding a skewer of synthetic meat jelly.
"Hey, chooms. Long time no see."
Pop. He twisted off a beer cap. Jackie Welles stood up, raising his bottle. "You really kept me waiting. The storm's finally blown over—come on, sit down."
"Brother Welles."
Laughing heartily, Maine stepped forward and embraced him.
Thud! The two hulking men patted each other's backs.
"No need for words of gratitude," Maine said, thumping his chest. "You saved our asses—"
"Ah, skip that talk."
Jackie waved a hand and passed him a beer, cutting him off. "If anything, I should be thanking you. Without your help, my friend couldn't have gotten that promotion. And if she hadn't, I'd still be just another Heywood native—worth jack shit."
Then, changing the subject, he asked, "How's the new meds working out? That doc I sent you to—Viktor—solid, yeah?"
"If it weren't for Viktor, we wouldn't have recovered so fast. Appreciate it," Falco replied, then shifted tone. "But, Mr. Welles, you mentioned something in your message. Surely this meeting isn't just to watch Arasaka's fleet?"
The wind howled across the rooftop. From their vantage point—twenty stories high—they could see over Arasaka Seaside's fortress-like walls. Beyond, the aircraft carrier had docked at the specialized deep-sea pier. Tiny figures moved about the deck.
Jackie wiped the beer foam from his lips and tossed Falco another bottle.
"We're all chooms here, so I'll skip the niceties. I asked you here not only to discuss your post-job arrangements and settle the final payment—my friend also asked me to pass along a message... about a secret recruitment."
He leaned forward, resting his bottle on the table, and asked solemnly:
"What's your answer?"