Cyberpunk: Infinite Progress Begins with Arasaka

"David."

"Hold on, I haven't reached the designated position yet."

"Move faster. We just received confirmed intel from the border outpost—there are the Wraiths in the area. Those stray dogs will take any job. If they've been hired by another corp… stay alert. If encountered, eliminate on sight."

"Understood!"

Northern Watson. A desolate stretch of Badlands wasteland, near an abandoned auto motel.

A rough-looking man with tattooed arms sat on the hood of a modified car.

"Night watch, night watch—watch your damn mother. Those bastards must be cheating..." he cursed under his breath while wolfing down a greasy meat-sauce bun made from who-knows-what. Mid-rant, he grabbed a dose of powdered inhalant and took a long, ecstatic sniff.

The look on his face—pure bliss. That little kick made the food go down easier.

Hrrgh— Just as he was savoring the rush, a pair of large, jet-black hands suddenly appeared from behind him, muscular arms tightening around his neck.

Grrk! Half-chewed paste sprayed from his mouth as his airway was blocked. Realizing it was an ambush, he tried to alert the others inside the motel—but—

[WARNING: Being hacked. Communications plugin offline.]

You—!

With eyes bulging in panic, he glanced back one last time and saw a pair of glowing orange-red tactical goggles and the unmistakable winged helmet.

"Ara... saka..." Crack! His neck snapped violently. The body was dragged off the hood.

In the darkness, Arasaka Security Division rookie David, still in his probationary period and committed to protocol, gave the corpse a few extra twists just to be sure. Then he hauled the limp body to the rear of the car and jogged in a crouch toward the wall.

"In position."

Reporting in, David gave one final glance through the virtual HUD displayed by his Kiroshi tactical cyber-eye, confirming his vitals and gear. Aside from a slightly elevated heart rate, all green. He tightened and loosened his grip on his rifle, settling into his optimal grip posture. His implant—Ballistic Coprocessor—let him track ammo types and weapon specs in real time like a video game.

"Hoo..."

A steady exhale. David's irises flickered with an orange-red glow.

Arasaka Security Division system, encrypted field comms channel.

[Sunao: In position.]

[Katsuo: In position.]

[Haggai: In position.]

...

Within five seconds—

[Infiltrated! Target acquired. Sharing coordinates.]

That was the squad netrunner's signal.

At once, David sprang out, raising his HJSH-18 Masamune assault rifle. The holographic sight synced with his cyber-eye overlay, the red 01 glitching digits aligning with a moving humanoid silhouette—live target.

Raffen Shiv. Exiled from nomad tribes—pure scum, he thought silently.

He kicked in the door. Full auto. Trigger pulled.

Ratatatatatatata! The recoil barely noticeable, his aim solid. Wrist and palm implants: Recoil-Reduction Pads. In David's view, the tungsten-tipped armor-piercing rounds formed a perfect line. One pierced through the skull of the Raffen Shiv closest to the entrance, the pink mist blooming in the air as the headless body collapsed, toppling a chair.

Barely six rounds fired—and then a sudden eruption of gunfire around the motel.

The doorframe was shredded by incoming fire. Inside, hostiles screamed back, spraying wildly without any aim. Chunks of metal and splinters of wood rained down from the splintered door—then bang!

Bolt-action. Kinetic sniper rifle. Large caliber.

The booming shot tore through the wall—and the loudest Raffen Shiv's head exploded in a burst of gore!

Katsuo.

David understood immediately. While Sunao and the others laid down suppressive fire from the other side, he swapped magazines.

He sent a message through the internal channel: "Entering."

Four seconds later, he breached the room. Other teammates entered from separate points—kicking down doors, breaching walls, or leaping through windows.

The air filled with the stench of smoke and blood.

David stepped over the bleeding bodies beneath his feet—some of them torn apart.

Bang!

A finishing shot. It was Sunao—his rifle still smoking as blood spurted from the neck of a corpse at his feet.

David gave him a nod and continued sweeping the motel's first floor. He paused near the restroom and fired a burst through the door. A muffled grunt, followed by a spray of blood. As David's magazine ran dry, Sunao timed it perfectly, kicking the bathroom door open. Inside was a bloodied, gun-wielding man—David swapped mags and delivered a final shot to the head.

"Clear."

Thud thud. While David and Sunao cleared the first floor, another Arasaka squad finished clearing the second, descending the stairs.

"Katsuo, all clear," David reported.

"Roger."

On a nearby hill, Katsuo Tanaka—clad in a full set of polycarbonate composite armor and aramid ballistic gear—scanned the surrounding area through his sniper scope. Once he confirmed no movement, he flipped over and disengaged his rifle.

Beside him, a partner armed with a Masamune rifle and tasked with close-range security stood up.

Vrrr...

Engines hummed. Two Emperor 620 Ragnar SUVs, responding to the mission-complete signal, approached from a distance. The two operatives boarded and headed toward the motel.

Soon, David, Sunao, and the other assaulters exited the building and climbed in one by one.

Click.

Car door shut. "Piece of cake," Sunao said with a grin, disengaging his rifle's active mode.

"Raffen Shiv are nothing more than stray dogs thrown out by the nomad tribes. If this had been hard, that would've been the surprise." Katsuo opened his eyes after a brief rest. "This is the most basic form of internal patrol duty—ensuring the smooth progress of new zone construction."

"Uh... Katsuo, what exactly is the relationship between the Raffen Shiv, the Wraiths, and the nomads?" Rookie David, unable to insert himself into the conversation, raised his hand.

Katsuo glanced at David, whose eyes still held a hint of cadet-like clarity.

"You... you're a purebred Night City native, huh?"

In short: the Raffen Shiv are the ghosts exiled from the nomad tribes. The Wraiths are the worst scum among them, forming a gang from within the Shiv.

"My father spoke of them. All you need to know is this: nomads can be given measured trust. But Raffen Shiv and the Wraiths? Trash. Utterly unreliable. They raid small villages, target lone nomads, even small-scale corporate convoys. They break contracts, hold goods and personnel for ransom—not for any reason. Just for fun. For death-seeking fun."

David nodded thoughtfully at Katsuo's words.

"No wonder the company hires nomads while also instructing us to eliminate the Shiv."

After the old United States collapsed, nomadic migrants became vital labor in building cities and factories. Companies provided resources and money—they provided manpower, and moved on after the job. Ideal tools.

But the irredeemable garbage that was the Wraiths? No one would hire them for construction. They only knew destruction.

"Alright, enough about that rabble. David, how's the cyberware your ripperdoc is customizing for you coming along?" Katsuo shifted the topic.

"All baseline combat-grade implants have been successfully installed," David said with a serious tone. "According to the doctor's phased plan, after DNA-level micro-adjustments, this week I'll be getting subdermal armor, synthetic muscle, bionic joints, wound-sealing coagulants, and a hemodynamic booster."

Unlike those mercenary ragtag crews, the company had rigorous multi-tier implant standards. For academy-bred insiders like David, every procedure aimed to maximize adaptability and minimize neural degradation to prevent cyberpsychosis—ensuring long-term service viability.

Unless you requested it yourself—or were a company test subject—then that all-at-once, full-combat-cyberware implant method (which almost guaranteed cyberpsychosis) was rarely applied to full-fledged employees with real potential.

Katsuo nodded.

"Just about right. By April, you should complete full installation and adaptation to your combat-grade cyberware. By then, your probation will be over, and once our squad has fully synced up, we can apply to take on external security assignments." As he spoke, he reached out and swiped the rear seat's LCD display.

"Better prepare yourself, David. You too, Sunao," Katsuo said, pointing to the broadcast on-screen.

This wasn't WNS—it was Channel 54, known for its pro-Militech stance.

[WARNING: WAR MAY RETURN!]

A dramatic headline, delivered in a heavy tone by the anchorwoman.

"The Austin Multilateral Dialogue has concluded. Arasaka and Militech, the Western Free States' local parties, and Washington have clashed fiercely on numerous terms of the Arvin Peace Accord. According to inside sources, the talks failed to yield any effective communication. A new cold war—or even a hot war—may be imminent."

The suddenness of it snapped David wide awake.

A hot war. Like the Metal Wars six years ago?

If he remembered right, Director Vela Adelheid's parents had died in that war.

Would another Corporate War break out?

Having completed Arasaka Academy's full history curriculum, David of course knew about the Fourth Corporate War between Arasaka and Militech half a century ago. The Corporate Plaza got nuked, Arasaka Tower collapsed, CEO Kei Arasaka was assassinated—hundreds of thousands died overnight.

And now, he and his mom had only just settled into Heywood, finally enjoying a few days of peace. If another war began…

Unconsciously, David gazed out the window toward Night City—his home.

Through the drifting yellow dust, he could just barely glimpse the city's neon-lit skyscrapers and giant holographic billboards.

David stared in silence. His thoughts unreadable—perhaps sorrow, perhaps resolve, perhaps a heavy sense of dread.

Until—Ding-dong!

Beep beep beep—

[Notification!]

Everyone in the vehicle froze for a second.

It was the chime for a cross-departmental high-priority company bulletin.

[Arasaka Night City HQ, Information Department]: "Effective immediately, this notice is issued to all Arasaka employees in Night City and the North American division territories—Los Angeles, Seattle, San Francisco, San Diego, etc.—prepare for Level One combat readiness."

"At 7:56:29 PM, March 30, 2076, Night City time—Director Vela Adelheid Russell's motorcade, returning from the Austin foreign affairs meeting, was ambushed near Ciudad Juárez at the U.S.–Mexico border."

In an instant, the smiles vanished from David and Katsuo's faces.

The Director… was attacked?!

...

Just over ten minutes earlier.

Ciudad Juárez, Mexico.

Federal Intelligence Agency secret field division.

"Yes, I'll keep my subordinates in line."

Click.

Beside a desk lamp, a bald, dark-skinned giant hung up the phone with a grim expression.

He remained silent, head lowered for a while.

Then—Bang! He suddenly shot to his feet.

Revealing his hulking, muscle-bound frame, he kicked over the table and chairs. Items flew everywhere.

"Shit! The big picture—always the goddamn 'big picture'! Myers is a coward! And those Washington office rats are nothing but spineless bastards!"

His fists clenched tight, his skin revealing large patches of chitin armor and artificial dermal plating over bulging synthetic muscle. With a roar, he slammed his fist into a desk, producing a heavy, dull crack as the stacked computers and monitors crashed to the ground—glass shattering, sparks flying.

"Was backing down six years ago not enough?! Now we're backing down again?!"

Ranting, his eyes had begun to flicker erratically—data streams, normal vision, combat mode—all flashing uncontrollably. His hands clawed at his forehead, tearing at the synthetic skin. Blood started to flow.

"Boss?" The same agents who'd just been itching to join the fight now looked on in alarm, instinctively stepping back.

"Not good!" one agent gasped. "He's going into an episode!"

"Mendoza! Calm down!" A mustached man in a cowboy hat—Maika—rushed forward, grabbing several pneumatic injectors from a drawer, clearly marked with the Arasaka clover insignia. He sprinted toward the staggering giant, who was now grinning with an unsettling madness.

With a shhk, Maika jabbed the injector into Mendoza's cybernetic neck.

Huff... "Thanks, Maika." The behemoth named Mendoza exhaled heavily, grabbing the rest of the suppressants from Maika's hand without hesitation.

"Wait, Mendoza, you're not—"

Pssht. Pssht. Pssht.

Three consecutive injections. The bronze-skinned behemoth plunged all of them into his arm and flashed a snarling grin filled with metal teeth.

"It's fine, Maika. I'm a dead man anyway. And honestly, thanks for the hookup. If it weren't for Arasaka's little tools, I'd have gone mad long ago. Maybe it's fate that I stayed sane long enough—to take revenge on Arasaka. On that little bitch Russell."

"Maika, you'll support me, right?"

Mendoza's grin widened. He turned his head toward Maika.

"Hold on. Mendoza, your condition isn't stable enough for deployment. And Washington's orders were—"

BANG!

A single gunshot. The talkative agent's head exploded in a spray of blood. His jaw twitched as he collapsed.

"War. This is war, my friends. Those fat cats in Washington don't know shit. Timing is everything..."

Mendoza lowered the still-smoking pistol. "Killing an Arasaka bigwig to liven things up—wouldn't that be fun? You're all scared of her, aren't you?" He tilted his head.

On the radar, the Arasaka hover convoy approaching Juárez was clearly visible.

Mendoza smiled radiantly.

In that moment, he imagined his mentor—Solomon Lied, the ace operative who once recruited and trained him—beckoning him forward.

Solomon had died—killed by Arasaka's pursuit, betrayed by Myers' cowardice.

And then he saw the fresh-faced agents he'd mentored. Dead too.

All because they joined covert missions against Arasaka—only to run into a then-unrisen Vela Adelheid.

"Hahahaha... Here I come."

Arms spread wide, Mendoza laughed.

He was beyond help now. Even the suppressants couldn't contain his madness.

Maika thought quietly, tipping his cowboy hat lower. Under the brim, his eyes glinted faintly.

"What a strange mission. Well... not my problem."

...

At the same time, the Arasaka hover convoy—returning from Austin, Texas, and passing through Mexico en route to Night City in Northern California—

Inside the lead vehicle—

Data streams flickered rapidly in indigo eyes. Vela sat with her legs crossed, chin resting on her hand, right fingers rhythmically tapping the armrest.

Her gaze locked onto the glowing red warnings on the car's holo-display—

Shhhh—

A missile streaked up from the wasteland, trailing twisting lines as it locked onto the convoy.

"So it begins, huh?"

Vela's lips curved into a smile, her irises narrowing—a grin full of danger and cunning.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

40 Advanced Chapters Available on Patreon:

Patreon.com/DaoOfHeaven