"Would you rather live out your life as a nobody—grow old, die in bed with a catheter plugged in your crotch? Or die before thirty and make sure history remembers your name?"
"A nameless pawn—or a legend remembered forever?"
...
Vrrrmmm—
Through the chaos, several armored hovercrafts sliced through columns of red smoke that covered half the sky, speeding toward the Arasaka Coastal Port.
Inside one of the executive transports, glug... huff... Yorinobu Arasaka—having downed an entire jug of black coffee—forced himself upright despite the searing pain and itching that crawled across every inch of his body. He leaned weakly against the edge of the aircraft table.
His eyes—no longer human from the infection of the fusion virus—were a grotesque sight: sclera blackened and bloodshot, pupils slitted and glowing a dim, sickly red.
"Rogue's people?" he muttered, staring at the live feed transmitted to his personal PDA.
On the display, the dim corridor of a residential block flickered under weak lights. Military contraband lay scattered everywhere. Dozens of cyber mercenaries and street thugs—each grotesquely modified with implants—sat or stood in full combat gear, clearly preparing for something big.
The most conspicuous among them: a three-hundred-pound black man with golden cyber arms and tea-colored shades, a cigar clenched between his teeth, shouting orders at the top of his lungs.
Dexter DeShawn—Afterlife's veteran fixer. The "Black Jesus" of Night City's underworld. He'd retired two years ago, only to resurface recently.
Yorinobu's mind flashed through the data instantly.
Courtesy of Johnny Silverhand.
[Heh, interesting.]
The digital echo flickered through his neural interface. Johnny's voice—rough, magnetic, dripping with arrogance—resonated inside Yorinobu's head.
Along with it came flashes of memory—Johnny's ghostly perception of his old connections at Afterlife, his exchanges with Rogue, fragments of thought and noise. What Yorinobu saw and understood now... were the same things Rogue had shown Johnny.
[That cigar-stuffing fat bastard wrapped in fake croc leather? All talk about ideals, but his belly's full of greed. Same as every suit in this rotten world. Selling dreams to the cannon fodder, feeding 'em sugar before sending 'em to die. Then whacking 'em with the 'Success' and 'Values' stick dipped in corporate bullshit. Hah—feels familiar, don't it?]
Johnny's projection mimicked Yorinobu's recent gesture—raising a coffee mug in mock toast—and sneered.
[Still, he's not wrong.]
[If you don't make a name for yourself, you'll rot in obscurity. In this goddamn world, there's no choice. Either burn bright—or vanish.]
As Johnny's words faded, the PDA showed Dexter theatrically smashing a glass. "To gettin' filthy rich overnight!" he bellowed.
Moments later, over the roar of gunfire and explosions, the mercenaries charged out of the corridor, weapons blazing.
Yorinobu said nothing. He swiped the PDA with clawed, hardened fingertips—mutated talons that screeched lightly against the reinforced glass—as he flipped through reports and dispatched new orders.
Crunch! With his other hand, he picked up a chunk of biomaterial weaponry and shoved it into his mouth, chewing with the mechanical grind of a crusher.
He was eating a piece of Quinque to replenish energy.
[Hey, I'm just sayin'—don't you ever wonder what that freak virus's gonna turn you into?] Johnny mused.
"No."
Chewing Quinque and sipping coffee, Yorinobu didn't even look up from the PDA.
[Jesus, man. Your body just turned into a goddamn blast furnace. You realize that, right? I could barely stay inside your head! You go berserk again, I'll feel it too. That last time felt like gettin' wrestled by a dozen oily G-A-Y bodybuilders in a sauna. You got any suppressants, serum, vaccine—anything?]
"Don't know."
[Motherf—...]
Before Johnny could finish, the PDA's speakers softly kicked in a track—an old punk rock anthem, blaring with unrestrained fury and rebellion.
"Got chrome in ma' bloodstream, heart of steel, I'm ready for the real thing—Rage burnin' high, justice callin', time to hit the streets and set it free...!"
Unconsciously humming along to the beat, Johnny grinned and said, "'Chippin' In.'" He laughed. "That's Kerry, alright. I'd recognize that bastard's voice even if it turned to ash." His expression softened for a moment—nostalgia flickering across his digital face.
On the PDA, a vibrant concert feed filled the screen.
Kerry Eurodyne—devilishly talented, the superstar of Night City—stood on stage, electric guitar slung over his shoulder, performing his farewell concert between Westbrook and the City Center's Japantown. The event spanned May 19th to 20th, themed around two things: farewell... and cursing this goddamn corporate war.
The background thundered with sirens, cheers, and the roar of a hundred thousand voices. The crowd swayed like a living sea—lights blazed, colored smoke billowed, hysteria ruled the night.
Traffic blockades, media frenzies, and diverted police resources were guaranteed.
Even with Konpeki Plaza's collapse, Arasaka's mutiny, street firefights breaking out, and even rich districts under siege—none of it stopped the frenzied fans, fanatics, and diehards from flocking to their idol's farewell show.
[Looks like Kerry made it big, huh.]
Johnny could tell—Kerry had become top-tier. His influence rivaled Johnny's own from the 2013 assault on Arasaka Tower.
"Maybe," Yorinobu murmured suddenly, "I'm just leading them straight into hell."
He flipped the PDA face-down on the table and stood, cutting off Johnny's reverie.
The onboard AI chimed in: "Destination: Arasaka Coastal Port, Sector A-7—arrived."
Vrrrmmm! The hovercar descended, landing in the open yard of the docks.
Yorinobu silently lifted the unconscious, elderly man slumped in the corner.
The dark, crested haori draped over the old man's body spoke for itself—Saburo Arasaka.
He looked even older now—filthy, bloodstained, and gray. His round glasses were gone, his face marred by scrapes and cuts. At the corner of his mouth lingered a vile mix of saliva, blood, and some unknown secretion—as if something large had been forcibly shoved down his throat.
[So what's the plan for the old man?] Johnny mocked, miming a deep-throat gesture. [You stick a bomb down his gut or somethin'?]
"He's still useful."
Clack. The hatch opened.
Yorinobu stepped down, dragging Saburo by the collar.
"Lord Yorinobu—sir..." The ASDF colonel, one of the coup's commanders, instinctively saluted—then froze.
Patricide wasn't shocking. Mutiny made anything possible. If Yorinobu had killed Saburo outright and brought his head as proof, they wouldn't have flinched.
But this... this was something else.
At first glance, he looked human. On the second, wrong—horribly wrong.
He seemed taller, bulkier. A black cloak covered most of his form; his boots were massive combat-grade models. The hand gripping Saburo's collar was pale and monstrous, with razor claws that gleamed faintly under the floodlights—like bio-augmented keratin, twitching with pulse-like motion beneath the skin.
Veins of crimson light crawled from his neck, hidden under the cloak's high collar, up to his jaw.
His mouth bore deep, torn cracks at both corners.
And his eyes... they were no cybernetics. Those vertical, living slits—predatory and alien—made the soldiers shiver.
"Don't panic."
Yorinobu's split lips curled into a grotesque grin. His voice rasped, low and metallic. "The evolution serum of immortality... will be yours soon enough. Now—lead the way."
Realization struck the officer like lightning. Yorinobu had stolen Saburo's prototype immortality serum.
He stammered, "Y-Yes, my lord. This way, please." Turning sharply, he led the group onward.
Yorinobu followed, his personal strike unit—elite troopers clad in the latest EXO frames, AST mechs, and power armor—moving close behind.
They arrived before a warehouse labeled [Sakuradite] on the electronic display.
Awaiting them were Yorinobu's inside agents: a port control official, a Coastal District researcher, a dock garrison squad leader, and Militech's covert liaison. All had been waiting.
Suppressing his restless energy, Yorinobu threw Saburo onto the ground and asked flatly, "Everything ready?"
"Yes, sir," the colonel replied quickly.
He didn't know why Yorinobu demanded so much ultra-concentrated coffee, Quinque bioweapon material, and R-618 'Rebirth' serum—but he wasn't about to ask questions.