I never took my Skyline to work, mostly because I just wanted Miyoko to be mine, and mine alone. Business was always business, and pleasure always pleasure, the two don’t mix. Besides, I wasn’t exactly the type with many friends at the workplace, and the last thing I needed was to be associated with one particular vehicle. One might call me paranoid, but the amount of times I’ve found someone based on, say, a coffee shop they supposedly frequent, or a car they’re known to have, it’s staggering. Miyoko was wonderful and took me fucking forever to fix up and repaint, but I just can't deal with that kind of crap in my workplace.
Instead, I always opted for a far more distinctive classic, a 1999 Porsche 911 GT3, the year before the German company swapped over to the 990, and the last time they were ever sold in the former United States. Such cars are quite rare, with only about a handful left on today’s roads, though not as obviously out-of-place for a woman of my standing. Image is everything in this business. That, and unlike my Skyline, I actually bought this car with my own money, so I take a certain measure of pride in that fact. Besides, after a long day at work, what am I gonna do, throw a fucking pickup truck around the streets at-speed to relieve stress?
I pulled out of the parking garage to find it absolutely pissing rain this morning. Today I was scheduled to work in the afternoon, though I generally left far earlier than I had to. That way, I could be at my desk and getting ready for the day while those working under me could fill out my itinerary. I typically found it to always be less stressful when I knew precisely what the day ahead of me held, as opposed to coming in right on time and being blindsided by work. And today was likely to be one heavy workday, if ever there was one.
Thankfully traffic wasn’t too bad compared to how it usually is at 8 in the morning. Most people commuted via NCART and walked along Memorial Park; I was one of the few to drive to work every day. Typically I parked in the underground parking garage, but since that was under renovation, they diverted all of us to the company cargo lot. Fantastic work, boys. Give us a loud, horrible hell hole of a parking lot and force us to walk through the muck and rain to work. That will surely leave a lasting impression on the trainees when they see their boss show up with damp leaves impaled on her heels like a fucking kebab.
I suppose I should be more grateful for my position, however. For one thing, outside of the Arasakas themselves, I’m one of only a handful of women in this company who is, in fact, a noblewoman. My family traces its lineage back to Clan Soga, themselves said to be descendants of the legendary emperors lost to history, though in reality the progenitor founded the house in the 12th century. My family primarily rules lands from southern Kanto to Hiroshima, with some said to have extended to Kyushu at various points.
That meant virtually nothing for much of the 20th century, that is until the rise of Clan Arasaka and the eponymous corporation that restored much of the old customs unique to our heritage. For one, I am by-law allowed to carry my sword as a perfectly proper component of my regular attire. Moreover, I’m entitled to the land my mother retains when she passes, all two square kilometers of it and everything housed within.
While my sword traces its lineage to the 16th century, that only applies to much of the core; the exterior is made from nanomolecular steel with polymer inserts to absorb and deflect incoming projectiles. Otherwise the blade itself would simply snap in half or bend beyond recognition; thank the gods for modern metallurgical techniques. Nevertheless, the interior still houses a martensite and pearlite-infused tamahagane construction with seven layers of density, making Shinden a particularly brutal and effective weapon in addition to a quite ornamental one with its gold-damascented metalwork.
I’m not quite used to this long walk yet. Normally I just take the elevator straight up to the main lobby, a perk of the job. Few people earn the privilege to drive their personal vehicles through the main gates, even less are granted the right to fly AVs to the top of the tower directly. I’m certainly not that lucky, being considered mid-tier by most standards. Normally, when I’m not at work, I quite like the notion of my career. “Section Chief of the Counter Intelligence Branch” has quite the ring to it, though my office has yet to reach the coveted window-room status. That title exclusively belongs to Department Chief Arthur Jenkins, my boss and (former) mentor.
One would never know where the windows are from the outside. The structure was carefully crafted to appear sleek, imposing, and ominous – a great black obelisk towering some 620 meters into the sky. I couldn’t even see the topmost floors through this dense fog coverage, with the massive building more resembling the finger of a god having crashed down to Night City. In a way, I suppose that’s exactly what it is.
Normally I’m not one to worry much about outward appearances outside of looking professional, otherwise I would’ve likely been bothered more by the rain. Perhaps my work with Jackie is keeping me relatively jaded to it, though; I’ve already been docked a few times for underdressing, though I genuinely couldn’t care less at this stage in the game. I’m less worried about job security as I am about what the next job is. When most people look over and see someone carrying a sword with them to work every day, it tends to create a distinctive first-impression. That was never much of a problem.
But, to put it mildly, I am not built for this work. I’m not sure whether my reticence means that I feel trapped in the endless cycle of the mundane, or that I’ve simply yet to accept who I am as a person. Either way, I’ve taken more trips to the bathroom than I care to admit to have a private panic attack. The downsides of not having the usual regulatory implants to control one’s brain chemistry, I suppose. Most of my coworkers opt for a combination of timed-release stimulant implants, mood stabilizers, and a mountain of coffee. Hell, I never got panic attacks like that when I was soldiering or infiltrating enemy cells. Sure, I’ve felt the torment of lost souls after the battle. But I’ve never vomited over the thought of doing paperwork until recently.
It’s odd, the effect this job had on me. I think there comes a day when one looks back on their life and wonders what they would change, given the chance. That day arrived for me the first time I was ordered to kill, not with a sword, but with the press of a single key on my keyboard. What kind of soldiering is that? How is that honorable, exactly? All that determined a man, his past, present, future, and the futures of those who follow; it all came down to a simple twitch of my index finger. Who was he? What did he do to deserve this fate? I couldn’t help but question it, dream about it every night. Was all this justifiable? Could I justify it to myself? Indeed, I ultimately had to. Yet all this, it felt so deeply impersonal, like I was somehow violating an unwritten code. I had never known such shame, nor such regret, as the day when killing became menial.
My TimesSquare marquee activated right on time. And the first task that popped up: Frankfurt Crisis Worsens: IMMEDIATE ACTION NEEDED, in big bold letters. Fantastic. Guess our plant dropped the ball and left us without any solid foothold in the smugglers’ nest. I rang up Jenkins but received no answer, forgetting that I’m a full hour late for a second. Off to a great start today.
Looks like the boy-scouts are outside collecting for the Towers Memorial restoration fund again. They want to do an overhaul by 2078, the 55th anniversary of the nuclear blast in August of 2023. And I say good luck with that; it’s already mid-2075 and they haven’t raised anything beyond what their little "cookies" can sell. I suppose no one gives a rat’s ass about ancient history anymore. Not even me, and I was one of this tower’s first full-time workers, brought in back in 2067 before the Unification War even began. Back then, the NUSA was quite a lot smaller than it was today, a shadow of the former United States. However, Arasaka wasn’t allowed on American shores at any capacity since the Time of the Red began in 2023, leaving us stranded across the ocean. The fierce independence of the breakaway states left a void for someone to fill; naturally the best candidate was the American-made Militech Corporation, and throughout the 2060s many new structures were erected, some of which are still in Night City. We, however, saw things differently. Rather than a truly united America, we found opportunity in the divide – potential competitors looking to usurp Militech’s monopoly on the continent. A chance to rebuild anew, and better than ever.
Meanwhile, Rosalind Myers, former CEO of Militech, was elected NUSA President in 2065, and saw the writing on the wall here just as easily as Saburo. She launched a number of campaigns to expand westward and retake old lands, resulting in a proxy-war between Militech and Arasaka since 2067. By 2069, Myers formally presented a new program to unify the country once more, angering who was left and sparking full-scale war: the Unification War – good business for Militech, certainly. And everyone here knows how that turned out, myself more than many. I’d likely still be snuffing out Militech operatives if it wasn’t for Arasaka docking that supercarrier in the Bay.
The end result of that conflict was the permanent re-establishment of Arasaka in Night City and beyond, with this building serving as our overseas base of operations ever since. It was built atop my old office, an ad-hoc structure built within the remains of the old Arasaka Towers, themselves built atop the original Arasaka Regional Complex dating to 1990. No fewer than three layers of ruins, one on top of another. This place was steeped in history and soaked with more Japanese blood than any single point in North America; no wonder, then, that we chose it to continue our legacy. For if there’s one thing we samurai are noted for, it’s an adherence to tradition and conservative principles. Though I am certainly not well-known for the latter, I do take my heritage very seriously.
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The lobby was noticeably empty for this time of day, even by early-shift standards. I wasn’t about to complain about a lack of a line, though. “Welcome, Captain Valerie Tokai, ID number NC770416,” announced the heads-up display in my peripheral vision. “You are scheduled for three (3) assessments today: Case file labeled – Frankfurt; Case file labeled – Operation: Spring Bloom; Case file labeled – Operation: Zookeeper.”
As if I needed any more reminders about this fucking garbage at Biotechnica in addition to the other pending investigations. I bet my mother would be thrilled – her daughter was finally involved in cloak-and-dagger politics. Sure, it wasn’t the National Diet like I’m sure she had planned, but close enough, I suppose. I did prefer being on the dagger side rather than the cloak side, though at least the cloak side had nicer benefits. I still can’t believe I’ve given 12 years of my life to this company. One for Arasaka Academy at 15, then 11 on the job from age 17 until now. That’s over a third of my life, and I’m not even in my 30s yet, fucking hell. I still can't believe that I went through all that fucking work at Benkei to get my officer's commission - for this. What a hell of a waste of time and resources, training someone to press a fucking key. Guess that's the price we pay for peacetime operations.
Apparently there was a storm warning going on throughout the day as well. I don’t know why, but something felt… off, about today. The construction outside. The empty lobby. Odd weather. All the bustle going on in the upper floors. I felt oddly… intimidated. Frightened, even. Every part of my body screamed in protest. And all I wanted to do, at that moment, was scream…
“Scream until you are heard…”
No, V. Take it easy, and breathe… Just breathe. Jackie’s free tonight, maybe we can do something then. Just take a deep breath in and out, it’s okay. Let’s make it to lunch, at the very least…
-
I ran to the bathroom, hyperventilating and shaking following my dinner break. 12-hour shifts are never fun. My HUD flashed with warning messages and alerts. Stock prices, pending assignment dates, meetings… it overwhelmed and consumed me like a great, roaring inferno. I couldn’t help myself, and ended up regurgitating today’s meals right into the sink from the stress as my eyes darted all over the place, looking for any space free of this madness.
Oh thank fuck, it’s Jackie calling, not Jenkins for once. “Hey V, you there?” he asked in a concerned voice.
“Ugh… ahem… yeah. Yeah, I’m here,” I muttered, washing what was left off of my face and nose.
“You okay?” he sounded genuinely worried, probably because I hung up on him in the middle of my meal.
“Yeah, sorry, I just, um… needed a breather,” I sighed.
“A breather, huh? Sounds like you just blew out your gut’s airlock.”
“Yeah. Kind of… just another stress-vomit.”
“Ah, job’s gonna kill you…”
“You mentioned that, yeah.”
“So what’s up?”
“Remember Frankfurt? We had a leak. A big one. My boss kept me on to intervene. All of Night City’s on edge,” I explained as someone walked in through the bathroom door, staring at me like a fucking asshole. “Hey, can I help you?” I shouted at him, prompting him to fuck off into his own little corner.
“But no way you’re fucked, right?” Jackie replied, “I mean, I thought you were the one who fixes other people’s shit!”
“Jackie, trust me. You work in Counterintel, just assume that you’re always fucked. Keeps you on your toes.”
“Nah, you gave me this speech how many times, come on. How far back do we go.”
“I know, Jack, I know. Look, don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. As always.”
“Mm, good luck. Be safe, V.” He hung up, clearly concerned for my well-being. I felt bad for, well, all this. Fuck, I can’t even bring myself to tell him my actual name, much less what I do for a living here beyond the bare minimum. Every single time I trusted someone, every single time, it always ended badly. He may be my brother, but he’s like the one good person I see regularly, I can’t do that to him.
What did today hold... I don't even know... I don't know anymore... Did I even want to know...? I had a bad feeling, whatever it was... I couldn't even do anything. Just stared blankly in the mirror and held back my tears. “Come on, V,” I whispered to myself, shaking my head in a desperate but vain effort to clear myself and try to relax a bit. Sadly, though predictably, it didn’t work. I relented to merely brushing my hair back, trying my best to stand up straight and putting on a less anxious face.
I headed back into the main lobby with all the other worker bees waiting for the elevator. As per usual, the overhead monitor displayed a list of accolades which we all know by heart at this point. I waited alongside a few students from Arasaka Academy today, the first day of the 2076-year classes, I think. Students who don’t know where they’re going. Reminds me of my time in the Academy once upon a time, though it was the Tokyo branch, of course. Students mostly occupied floor 5 of the building; you don’t get into the double-digits until well after you graduated.
My floor was 33, not even a quarter of the way up the Tower, though prestigious nonetheless. Beyond the common gawking of the crowd as the woman with a sword entered the elevator – something I’m quite used to by now – the television inside displayed a two-part documentary on the life and times of our glorious leader, one Saburo Arasaka. Owing to his samurai heritage, I had no doubt that certain elements likely selected me as an operative due to that shared blood we had, even if it wasn’t directly familial. I suppose it was my way of justifying how I made it past Special Agent candidacy training when so many others failed.
Of course, I carried no presumptions that the Arasaka family gave two shits about me, but it brought me some small comfort to know that I’m one of the few employees in this organization – and, in fact, the only one in Night City – allowed to brandish my family katana as a matter of right. Even my employee ID and official company photo feature my weapon. 100 years ago, such a practice would never have been tolerated. How times have changed.
My employee ID had me wearing a fitted shirt and blazer with my Captain rank on the collar, neatly-done hair, impeccable makeup, and a bright spotlight right on my face to eliminate my freckles – we don’t like “flaws” here. Though as I sat at my desk without the fancy jacket, rank badges, or honor pin, I must admit that I looked quite different. The only consistent thing about my attire was the color palette, but the rest was exchanged for a corporate-approved dress. No way would I wear anything like a suit in the office proper; I sat directly next to a server tower, and that would cook me like a clay firing kiln if I covered up more than I already was. If my coworkers didn’t like it, then I’d be more than happy to invite them to join me in the “Sauna” for an hour or two.
Sad – I actually quite liked the “dress” uniform. It wasn’t my full-on dress blacks, such as they were; I’m not about to wear my medals to work. I was only ever proud of the one badge, anyway. Golden Army Swordsmanship Proficiency Badge, First-Class. Only 14 of those have ever been awarded in the past two centuries. Proof that I'm quite good with a sword. Yet here I am, stuck at this fucking desk, wasting my talents on telling other people how to do my job. I might as well blow my brains out right now because next thing they’re liable to do is axe me for some fucking computer algorithm… No, no. Calm down. Just get your work done… Breathe…
Great – forgot my Trauma Team Platinum card in my drawer again. My memory’s shit lately. Someone recommended I store memories on databanks, considering the massive intake of information I do every day, but I found that to compromise too much critical thinking. From what I read, memory conversions often cripple certain higher-functions. You can infer many “What’s,” but not many “Why’s” behind the memories. My job almost exclusively focused on the latter. It would’ve benefitted me when I was thinking at the tactical level, but I’ve since upgraded to the operational level. My boss, Arthur Jenkins, well – he was a strategic-level thinker, and a bold one at that. I’m the only one with a special exemption for metallic objects allowed in his office – the most obvious, of course, being my sword. Though that privilege was earned, not given. We go way back, him and I. Though I’ve never been one to boast that fact around the office. Last time anyone figured out that we had a history, immediate allegations of “relationship” this, “suck-up” that. It nauseated me more than these fucking reports.
I got settled and opened up my computer, and of course the first notice I received was an immediate call to a meeting, along with a phone call. “Christ, V! You were supposed to be here an hour ago!” Jenkins shouted as soon as I answered.
“Oh? I never received any notification.”
“What? Did you check your computers?”
“Looking at ‘em right now, sir.”
“Fuck, is it that fucking assistant of yours again?”
“Carter? Yeah, I’m still training him. Probably forgot. I’ll be there shortly.”
“You do that…” he paused, “Fuckin’ Frankfurt. That Abernathy bitch’ll probably dump it right into our laps.” Referring, of course, to the one and only Susan Abernathy. A woman with a chip on her shoulder regarding Jenkins, and by extension yours truly. She burned my boss off a promotion to Spec Ops Director, set him back years, the selfish, psychopathic fuck. I started to head out of my office when I met with another familiar face – Frank… uh, oh, right, Frank Nostra.
“Hey, Captain! Remember me? We met during ‘Icefall.’ East Coast, remember?”
“Icefall...? What, Atlanta?! Man, that’s ancient history, what, 7 years now?”
“Hah, somethin’ like that. See you still haven’t kicked the Japanese language habit.”
“Well you know what they say. You can remove the Japanese from Japan, but not Japan from the Japanese.”
“Hah, wish that were true about where I’m from. Still smell like the metroplex-”
“Look, Jenkins asked for me, I’m sorry, I really have to go.”
“What? Oh, uh, sure. Oh here, my number,” he wired his deets to me, “Let’s catch up.”
“Yeah, sure, later.” I took two more steps before my assistant burst out of his office to talk to me. I swear, just let someone blow my brains out right now.
Carter Smith. Nice kid, only 25 years old, operating way above his usual pay grade, to which he always repeated how thankful he was for the position. His dark skin complexion, coupled with his navy suit today, made him just blend in with the background, I almost walked right past the poor guy. Funny, he confided in me how unethical he finds Arasaka’s bullshit. Probably why I kept him around. After what I’ve seen, I could always use an honest face in this line of work.
He briefly tried to probe me for details on the Biotechnica job, apparently an agent is hitting a brick wall in terms of information-gathering. That sounds like a personal problem to me, but ultimately I’m responsible for these people, and assets are worth a lot in capital and manpower, so I ordered him to pull out. “Oh, and next on the agenda, Frankfurt is-”
“Carter, I am not in the mood right now.”
“But-”
“Ah!” I snapped, “Look, if this guy is incapable of handling a simple information leak out of a smugglers’ den in Frankfurt - All I'm saying is, you could feed him brain-eating bacteria and they would starve. The Berlin mob is full of ostentatious oligarchs. Now he’s already in bed with the head arms dealer’s Neapolitan girlfriend, someone with apparently two sets of loose lips. Do I need to spell it out for you?”
“No… sorry.”
“Good, now stay there and make sure no one touches my shit.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
---
The common name for the time period following the AHQ Bombing. Its name comes from the blood-red skies around the globe, a phenomenon caused by particulates accumulated following a number of devastating fires and orbital strikes (in addition to the nuclear blast itself creating such a haze in Night City) sustained in the Fourth Corporate War. While the term is correctly applied when referring to the decade after the AHQ Bombing of 2023, it's commonly extended in Night City to mean the timeframe in which the Night City Holocaust's consequences were at their most prominent. For instance, large portions of Night City's central districts were rendered uninhabitable until the 2050s, leading many Night City denizens - including V - to denote the Time of the Red to be far later than it would apply in other parts of the world, being used more as a slang-term for the nuclear holocaust.