Cyberpunk: Infinite Progress Begins with Arasaka

Outskirts of Tokyo.

A massive estate spanning over twenty acres towered silently on the verdant horizon. Heavily armed drones and hovercars patrolled its perimeter without a single blind spot.

The main gate lay hidden within a dense bamboo grove. In Japan, where land was scarce and greenery a luxury, owning such a secluded retreat within Tokyo was the ultimate symbol of power and wealth.

Arasaka Family Compound.

That was its name.

Established back in the era of Sasai Arasaka, father of Saburo Arasaka, it stood long before Saburo seized control. This place bore witness to the rise and fall of Old Japan, and the rebirth of both Neo-Japan and Arasaka itself.

It was indisputably the heart of Arasaka Corporation. No other place came close.

For Saburo Arasaka lived here.

At the estate's center, in the main residence carved with delicate sakura blossoms and swirling clouds on its doors, the temperature was springlike year-round. A traditional incense burner released a soothing aroma that mingled harmoniously with the tatami floors, paper lattice windows, and wooden paneling.

On a massive projection screen that seamlessly merged old-world charm with modern tech, multiple surveillance feeds played.

One of them showed a large, open corporate hovercar platform marked with neon crosshair lights. A standard Rayfield Excalibur hovered down slowly. As attendants gathered to greet the arrival, a dignified woman with striking light-gold hair stepped out, lightly brushing her handbag, exchanging a few courteous words before walking gracefully toward the residence.

"Do you think she can be trusted?"

A slow, withered voice asked.

"Vela Adelheid Russell... Only daughter of Fred Russell and Mia Russell, both North American Arasaka Security executives. She joined Night City's Security Division to honor her father's legacy. Saburo-sama, she's a product of our internal Arasaka system."

Vela had seen this man before—a pure musclehead who looked down on everyone. Now, Takayama Shintaro had bowed his arrogant head.

"She has ambition, but in my humble opinion—she can be trusted."

His voice was filled with reverence as he spoke to the old man kneeling on a cushion—his lifelong master, Saburo Arasaka.

"...."

Saburo didn't respond immediately. Nor did he turn around. Instead, with his shriveled fingers, he slowly swiped across the touchscreen.

Vela's Tokyo activity logs appeared: her time as the top graduate of the 2073 class at Arasaka Academy Tokyo, her business collaborations with Danger Gal, live combat footage from her operation in Rio de Janeiro, grainy clips of her slaughtering Maelstrom members in Night City, and footage of her delivering a speech at Arasaka Academy's freshman orientation...

To observe her actions was to observe the person.

The image of Vela Adelheid Russell gradually formed in Saburo's mind.

"Continue."

After a long silence, Saburo's hoarse voice finally broke the stillness.

Takayama nodded, choosing his words carefully.

"Vela's talent and potential are undeniable. With another decade of refinement, if she maintains this trajectory and we don't suppress her, she will—by standard promotion—become one of Arasaka's key North American strategists."

"In recent years, North America has been turbulent. Though our official re-entry into the region occurred in 2069, and we've reestablished our West Coast holdings thanks to alliances with Free State and separatist factions—and gained substantial ground in Latin and South America—as long as Militech exists, all of it remains ephemeral."

"If Militech recovers and launches another offensive, we'll be paralyzed in North America without Night City. That city is the keystone of our American strategy. As long as we hold it, the other fence-sitters won't flip to Militech—and we'll have time to strengthen our footholds and keep competing."

"So yes—Night City is our anchor."

"Though Miss Michiko's dovish faction was formed under your tacit approval and served us well in the aftermath of Director Kei's death, those doves—pro-American to their core—have morphed into appeasers over the last half-century."

"Peaceful coexistence with Militech? Never. Unless one of us falls, this war will never end. Night City's current state is dangerous. We need someone strong enough to resist pressure, but diplomatic enough to manage internal politics—someone local with power."

"So... this young woman, she's your choice?"

Saburo Arasaka slowly turned.

He wore a dark gray kimono with wide sleeves and a haori emblazoned with the Arasaka crest.

At 156 years old, time had left deep grooves on his face. Once sharp and commanding, his features were now lined with age spots, and his skin had lost its luster. Only his eyes—clear beneath his round, legless spectacles—retained the clarity of a hawk's.

His gaze was intense, radiating an unnatural vitality.

"Yes, Saburo-sama."

Kneeling on the tatami, Takayama Shintaro placed both hands on his thighs and leaned forward in deep respect.

"After my evaluation, she is the most capable Arasaka junior available for this responsibility. Arasaka never lacks ambition—we discard incompetents. As long as you live, her ambition means nothing."

"She can be trusted—but must be monitored."

Vela wasn't the only candidate.

Night City's Special Operations Director, Abernathy, had also been under Takayama's watch. But in comparison, a local powerhouse like Vela—part of the North American faction—had hands-on military experience, resilience, and a proven record in field operations and tough assignments. She was simply more valuable.

Abernathy, on the other hand, had spent her energy in intelligence, counter-intelligence, and internal purges.

Those roles earned her enemies, not allies. To put it bluntly—she was a mad dog, a cleanup rag. Feared, yes. Respected? Not quite. And if something went wrong—easily discarded.

Nobody mourns the mop.

In contrast, Night City—frontline against Militech and NUSA—needed someone who could actually lead. Michiko already served as the chief executive on the administrative and diplomatic side. Her complement had to be someone who could get their hands dirty, sign contracts, fight Militech, lead hybrid forces, speak at press conferences, and excel in military operations.

Purely by merit, Vela was the optimal choice.

Takayama knew full well that Abernathy only sat in that director's chair because of Saburo's intervention. But she'd never proven herself under pressure—and without that proof, she was unfit to lead the North American HQ.

Of course, should Saburo reject the choice or have someone else in mind, Takayama would obey unconditionally.

His loyalty was to Arasaka. Supporting Vela was just a reasoned opinion, based on his evaluation of what was best for the company. It would never override Saburo's will.

"Shintaro... seems you're quite fond of her."

Saburo rose slowly from the cushion. A gleam of clarity flashed in his eyes.

Though doctors had declared him wheelchair-bound back in 2020 at age 101, cybernetic augmentations still allowed him to walk short distances.

Swish! Responding to a call, a bodyguard with a tied-up bun stepped forward and carefully assisted Saburo Arasaka forward.

"Yes, I admire her greatly. She's a genius, but clearly not easy to control. She has a strong personal style and purpose-driven actions. There's a cultural clash with our values..."

Takayama Shintaro stood as well and followed at Saburo's side.

"Such differences are negligible..."

Among the Zen-like tranquility of koi ponds and bamboo fountains, Saburo slowly stepped onto the veranda of the teahouse.

"I've seen her file. An impressive resume... Clever, but her tricks are irrelevant."

"As long as she brings Arasaka value, I can give her anything she wants. Her parents' positions won't be her ceiling... Shintaro, add her to the list of successors."

"To inherit her parents' legacy... Hmph. If Yorinobu had even a tenth of her resolve, Arasaka—Kei—our family, might have stood stronger."

Judging by deeds, not hearts, Saburo's voice carried disdain as he compared Vela's accomplishments with those of his own disgraced son.

Their father-son bond had withered ever since Yorinobu's rebellion and disappearance. Saburo only kept him alive because he was his only surviving child. There was one other—a maturing project... one that might require him.

Standing under the eaves of the main house, Saburo gazed at the pines and sakura lining the garden path.

"Her Sonnentreppe Plan—do you think it's just a ploy for funding? Or is there substance? What are the odds of success?"

"Well... Saburo-sama, you know I'm not well-versed in research. But based on analysis, it doesn't appear to be just formalities."

Takayama paused briefly.

"Though Michiko-sama's Danger Gal division is pressing for updates, it's all on paper—they wouldn't truly expect Vela to focus on side projects. Her main job remains in the Security Division. Still, judging by her track record of improving recovery products, she either stays silent or delivers something viable. I'd say 50/50."

"Her sources can't be verified. There were too many mining and logistics companies operating in Africa half a century ago—mostly European. The Old Net collapse caused by Rache Bartmoss destroyed countless companies. CEOs committed suicide. Massive data was lost or consumed by rogue AIs."

As he spoke, Takayama tapped his datapad. Embedded projectors along the corridor flickered to life, displaying detailed records. Vela's activity crossing the Blackwall under Arasaka cybersecurity supervision had been documented.

No one knew exactly when she defeated the rogue AI and obtained that data.

From every angle, Takayama couldn't see Vela as a spy. She lacked both motive and logic. Even if there were traces of "collusion," they were likely forged or planted by rival firms trying to take her down.

"A genius, is she?"

After long contemplation, Saburo finally let go of his suspicions.

"To think that through an unexpected collaboration with Michiko, from cosmetics to recovery medicines, such a discovery emerged."

Geniuses are the most irrational beings in the world.

Like Rache Bartmoss. Like Altiera Cunningham, creator of Soulkiller.

Saburo's analysts had combed through Vela's research. Her formulas and improvements were all novel—nonexistent in the current market.

No biotech firm would freely offer such breakthroughs to Arasaka. And Militech? Their medical tech was even weaker.

Vela's plan intrigued Saburo deeply.

"Let's see what she finds in Africa. Takemura, order the security division to covertly monitor Vela Adelheid's behavior. Dispatch a protection unit. Ensure her safety at all costs."

"Yes!"

With his hands behind his back, Saburo Arasaka pulled up a half-body image of Vela Adelheid. He stared at her silently, then shifted his gaze to the faintly visible Tokyo city skyline.

Saburo's memory had not faded with age. He vividly remembered the location of the Arasaka Tower in Tokyo.

The silhouette of the black tower, over 600 meters tall, stood out from the skyline—taller than any other building in the city.

But it still wasn't enough. He wanted it to reach even higher.

He needed time.

Longevity.

An even longer life.

Saburo Arasaka craved it more than anything.

No matter how revered he was or how immense his power, beneath it all, he was an aging relic, physically withered.

He would not pass up any opportunity to extend his life.

"I can't die yet. Michiko is too compromising, Hanako too conservative, and Yorinobu lacks the qualities to lead Arasaka. He cannot restore Japan's glory... Before my mission is complete, I must remain."

...

May 25, 2075, 10:15 AM.

Tokyo Haneda International Airport. The massive projection screen displayed the time as Vela stepped out of her vehicle with a suitcase in hand. She glanced at the Arasaka private flight bound for Cape Town, South Africa.

Having changed out of her black-and-red Tokyo University uniform, she looked relaxed, as if she were genuinely going on a study tour.

With her cyber-tinted brown sunglasses, a black collared shirt with the Arasaka clover pin, a red jacket, fitted black trousers, and sharp high heels—Vela's outfit was casual by local standards, though formal by most others.

Study trips should look like study trips. Other regions weren't as obsessed with uniforms as Japan, and this trip wasn't official. Still...

From the corner of her eye, Vela noticed the boarding passengers and people around the terminal. The sense of being watched was intense.

Perhaps it was due to her soul fusion—Vela's senses had always been sharp.

With her "Divine Gift" activated, linking her to other timelines and selves, her perception had heightened, verging on a sixth sense. In field missions, she was rarely ever ambushed.

These observers began appearing more often after she submitted the "Sonnentreppe Project" in early May. She suspected it had attracted the attention of a certain undead patriarch and his loyal son.

Unclear. It could also be their subordinates acting independently.

The bait had been taken.

Faster than expected, but not a problem—after all, she supposedly knew nothing.

Over the past half-month, Vela had operated under their scrutiny.

She attended classes, hung out with plastic-friend classmates, visited theaters, studied in libraries and labs, ordered leeches, and aced her first-term law exam with an A. Summer break began.

Following protocol, she had pre-registered her trip and booked a flight to Cape Town.

And now, those shadows had followed.

Were they Saburo's men?

Yorinobu's?

She hoped she wasn't caught in their crossfire.

Caution was key—who knew what orders those old and young maniacs had given?

She needed to ensure her safety. Once in Cape Town, she would borrow a few Arasaka rapid response squads under her rank.

Calming her agitation, Vela looked at the military-grade secure briefcase in her hand. Inside were the extracted leech DNA samples.

As for the Progenitor Virus, the Sonnentreppe flower, the degraded flower without virus properties, and the fresh flowers in the Umbrella African Research Center...

Escorted into the first-class cabin, Vela adjusted her seat, turned to the window, and caught her reflection.

In the momentary flicker, she saw herself—her other self—inside the Umbrella African Research Center.

Everything was ready.

"Central Africa... the lost ruins of Bantu-speaking tribes..."

The Bantu languages belonged to the Niger–Congo family, widespread across Central and Southern Africa. There were countless ruins to explore—plenty of room for Vela to act slowly and deliberately.

She wasn't a pure researcher. She had the power they lacked.

"The key to unlocking it all... whose door will I knock on first?"

Vela stayed alert, yet full of anticipation.