Night blanketed the city. Neon lights shimmered.
At 12:07 AM, Miss Vela ended her day of work.
Vmmm... Vmmm...
A Rayfield Excalibur floated smoothly from the dark hangar of Arasaka Tower.
Its exterior shimmered with a special coating usually reserved for top-tier supercars—dark-toned, radar-absorbing for a degree of "stealth," polished yet subdued, luxurious yet understated.
Black base, white accents, adorned with the aRaSaKa insignia and Arasaka's iconic clover logo.
That was her guarantee of free passage across Night City. No checkpoints. No delays.
Inside the car, Vela had removed her blazer and reclined against the soft cushioning. She stared idly at the vintage gilded paper box in her hands containing her new ID keycard, vehicle registration, and a thank-you note. The keycard resembled a Trauma Team platinum membership.
"With the internal discount, it wasn't that expensive."
Only a bit pricier than the 225,000-euro Rayfield Aerondight "Guinevere" model.
But with floating cars, the real challenge wasn't the price—it was the privilege. The status.
Arasaka—or any corporation, really—worshipped hierarchy. What you wore, what you drove, it all had to match your rank. Men and women alike were expected to dress and commute according to position.
"...."
After a few seconds, her interest waned. Vela tossed the box aside, propped her elbow on the armrest, and rested her chin in her hand, gazing blankly out the window at the sea of lights rushing past.
She'd finally gotten her first floating car.
But it didn't seem to bring her any joy.
She used to want one so badly…
Through the polarized privacy glass, Vela's indigo eyes surveyed the world below.
"...."
South of the City Center lay Heywood—Valentinos territory. The district was a patchwork: modern skyscrapers and parks near the north, slums and winding alleyways in the south. Crumbling low-rise buildings stacked like cardboard, ready to collapse at any moment.
It was the first time she'd seriously looked down on Night City.
Before, she'd lived in an ivory tower, buried herself in relentless study at Arasaka Academy, or traveled the world on assignment with Arasaka's military. The company cars she used never took commuter routes, and when she did ride in a flying armored vehicle, she didn't have the view—or the leisure.
Tonight, her route to Westbrook took her eastward, allowing her to take in a dynamic panorama of Heywood, parts of the Glen, and Santo Domingo.
Her ocular implants, as powerful as a high-powered scope, made every detail crystal clear:
At the edge of a park, under a flickering streetlamp, homeless people gathered around a barrel fire, their faces lit by the flame.
In the alley between buildings, a group of ragged children chased each other near an abandoned car.
In a dim trash-strewn corner, junkies and drunks huddled together, choking on the toxic air.
...
They all passed through Vela's eyes in the blink of an eye.
Where was her curiosity?
When had her sense of compassion become so thin?
She asked herself.
Suddenly, she widened her eyes.
She realized she could no longer remember when she stopped being curious about the realities of cyberpunk life.
Over and over, she had deceived herself while carrying out missions: "It's just Arasaka's orders.""It wasn't my kill.""They brought it on themselves.""Everyone's climbing upward—why shouldn't I?""We're all the same.""They were criminals with bounties anyway."
Had her empathy already grown so thin?
There was a time when the streets of cyberpunk Night City intrigued her. But fear of death—and the intervention of her parents—had suppressed that curiosity.
Back during her first field assignment as a trainee observer in San Francisco, Vela had once felt pity for the ragged people on the streets. Even the hostile stares of civilians had made her reflect—brief pangs of doubt, hesitation, guilt.
Instinctively, she opened her hands.
These were her hands. The hands of a corporate soldier.
Nourished by eurodollars, soft and pale like the first leaves of summer, slender and elegant. Hidden beneath her flawless skin were barely visible subdermal lines. Every joint seemed sculpted from ivory, fingertips swaying lightly, her perfectly manicured nails glimmering like works of art.
Yet at that moment, Vela thought her hands looked filthy. Soaked in blood.
"The blood on these hands... can't be washed away."
She murmured silently.
Closing her fingers into a fist, Vela shut her eyes. She listened to the gentle music from the car's AI, letting it soothe her in contrast to the grim streets of Night City.
After a long while, she opened her eyes.
She didn't regret her choices. Nor did she regret the person she had become.
A life on the edge—licking the blade, living with death around every corner—wasn't what she wanted.
This was only a reminder: don't lose yourself. Going with the flow didn't mean becoming the worst of the worst. Maybe she could be one of the more "moderate" corporate types—a company woman with just a shred of conscience.
Vela chuckled softly.
"Three years."
2074 to 2077.
Three years to reach the top of Arasaka's Night City branch—or at least among those who held real military power. Then wait patiently for the Arasaka family's inevitable upheaval. That was her real goal.
To rise by defying the odds, to become a legend? That was never her path.
After all, in Night City, all the legends end up buried together.
...
Vmmm...
The Excalibur floated noiselessly across the sky, its engines casting faint blue light.
It soared past Heywood, past those dark, loud, and lifeless corners where eyes from below stared up—disdainful, fearful, hateful, envious—before arriving at Westbrook's corporate residential zone.
Address: Unit 414. Russell family apartment, back-lot landing pad.
The Russell household had been authorized for VTOL[1] access long before. Now, that privilege was simply reinstated.
Zzzk.
A crimson guide beam traced the landing coordinates. The vehicle settled gently. The door opened automatically, and Vela stepped out, hand reaching for the back entrance handle.
[Biometric scan confirmed.]
The door slid open. Interior lights lit up.
First thing through the door, she tossed her blazer and briefcase onto the couch. Then she grabbed a tablet off the coffee table, connected to the local net, and flopped down to browse the online marketplace.
Home Security Services.
Miss Vela, plagued by mild paranoia, had decided to renovate the back-lot landing pad and upgrade her home's security system.
The base model of the Excalibur had just arrived, so nothing could be done there—yet. But Vela had already contacted Rayfield to privately upgrade her car's protection and firepower. Vehicle-mounted drones, weaponized automation—everything on the list.
Oh, and a premium upgrade for home concierge services too.
She, Vela Adelheid Russell, had never lacked money—just rank.
A certain young lady, sole heir to two deceased high-level Arasaka executives, living well, with no mouths to feed but her own.
[1] Vertical Take-Off and Landing