The Arasaka security team—thirty-seven strong—stood arrayed like silver-and-black statues in the chill morning haze, their visors mirrored and impassive, their body armor gleaming with that polished corporate menace unique to Arasaka. They ringed the warehouse perimeter in tight formations, weapons held with precision that screamed years of training or brain-burned discipline chips. But for all that uniformity, they were outnumbered. Slightly.
Twenty-seven mercs, by Carl's count—including himself, Jackie, Oliver, and Maine. It was a strange contrast. Where the Arasaka personnel looked cloned from the same hyper-efficient mold, the mercs were a patchwork of rough chrome, synth-leather, glowing optics, custom ink, and cigarette burns. Different crews, different styles—some silent, others trading jokes or tweaking gear while checking ammo counts or adjusting their shoulder rigs.
Jackie cracked his neck as he glanced out past the open warehouse doors. "Thirty-seven Arasaka suits, twenty-seven of us," he muttered. "That's sixty-four in total. Feels like we're gearing up for war, not an escort gig."
"If it's a war, we're short," Oliver replied grimly. He shouldered his SOR-22 and stepped into the cool light bleeding through the loading bay entrance, his boots crunching faintly on dust-slicked concrete.
Outside, the dull-gray sprawl of the Arasaka coastal freight yards stretched under a colorless sky. Stacked cargo containers cast long shadows, each marked with ARS codes and hazard warnings. The early sun hung behind a gauzy veil of haze and sea-salt air, casting the whole area in a bleached, almost sterile light.
"That our client's ride?" Oliver asked, pointing to a vehicle nestled in the center of the yard. It was encircled by another layer of Arasaka muscle, standing at double readiness. Even at a distance, it practically radiated money.
"My fucking god," Jackie said. His voice cracked halfway between awe and disbelief. "That's a Rayfield 'Lady of the Lake'—Guinevere. Damn, I remember watchin' the launch stream. I remember drooling over it."
Carl raised an eyebrow. "And now?"
Jackie gave a slow, reverent nod. "Still droolin', choom."
Carl chuckled, but his eyes stayed locked on the vehicle—sleek lines, angular chrome trim, that seamless bodywork like something grown instead of built. He knew the specs by heart.
[Rayfield 'Lady of the Lake' — Guinevere]
Top-of-the-line corpo royalty. This armored luxury sedan is the lovechild of a vault and a limousine. Twin-turbo elite engine, adaptive smartglass windows, and enough military-grade armor to make a tank blush.
"How much you think that thing's worth?" Carl asked, squinting toward the matte-plated hood as the windshield flickered with soft holo-text overlays.
"A mil?" Oliver guessed, lowballing.
"Try 2.25 million," Jackie corrected, practically vibrating. "Base model. That thing costs more than some island nations."
Carl let out a low whistle. "That's enough to buy a skyscraper in Santo."
"Or a whole block in Pacifica," Oliver added.
"Still wouldn't fix Pacifica," Jackie muttered.
Maine, leaning nearby with his bulk resting against a concrete pillar, didn't even flinch. His eyes followed the car for a moment before drifting away, unimpressed.
"You're all thinkin' like street kids," he said, his tone dry. "You know what I'm thinkin'?"
Carl glanced over. "Let's hear it."
"We're screwed."
Carl's brows pulled together. "Why?"
Maine jutted his chin toward the Guinevere and all its hovering pomp. "Anyone who rolls in that—with this much firepower wrapped around them—and still needs to bring in extra mercs like us? That means they're expecting a storm. We're not backup. We're expendables."
Carl's lips thinned as the implication settled. The shadows from the warehouse walls suddenly felt colder, tighter.
"I got a hunch," he said, lowering his voice.
"What kinda hunch?" Jackie asked, his usual smirk tightening into something smaller.
"ACPA," Carl said.
Oliver visibly stiffened. "You serious?"
Carl gave a slow nod. "Got a few breadcrumbs. Could be nothing. Could be a whole loaf."
Jackie frowned. "So what's the play, hermano? We bet our ass on a coin toss?"
Carl shrugged. "Fifty-fifty."
Oliver's voice was a hiss. "That's not reassuring."
Deep down, though, Oliver trusted Carl's instincts. The man didn't speak on hunches without reason. If Carl even whispered "ACPA," it meant there was already a specter hanging over the mission. A ghost in the machine.
Maine didn't say anything, but Carl could feel his weight shift slightly—more alert now. His hand rested near his LMG's grip.
Then came the sound of smooth engines approaching—the purr of wealth rather than the growl of power. Sleek black Veilfort Alvarado V4F 570 Diplomats pulled into view, moving in a synchronized, almost balletic rhythm. Wide grilles, golden trim, and silent tires—each one was a throne on wheels.
[Veilfort Alvarado V4F 570 Diplomat]
Night City's rolling fortress for corporate convoys and political pawns. Armored luxury SUV with reinforced plating, riot suppression sensors, and top-shelf ride stabilization.
Carl watched them roll to a perfect halt before the mercs, their doors hissing open with refined silence.
"When I was a kid," Maine muttered, eyeing the fleet, "this was the dream. Alvarado meant you made it. You rolled past a club in this, even the junkies on the block shut up."
"And now we're riding in them like hired guns on parade," Jackie said.
Oliver chuckled. "Parade of meat shields."
They began climbing into the vehicles, the interiors slick with warm leather, curved LEDs glowing a faint blue across dashboards like bioluminescent veins. Carl slid into the front passenger seat, the chair adjusting to his posture with a low, friendly chirp. No steering required—just optics and interface. Still, his hand drifted toward the virtual wheel out of habit.
"We really gonna roll convoy-style through Watson?" Maine asked, voice low. "That's like painting a target on our backs. Hell, with Guinevere in the lead, it's practically begging for fireworks."
"Maybe," Carl said. "But think about it—why not just use the Rayfield alone and bolt?"
"Because whoever's gunning for our client probably has a hacker in their pocket," Oliver cut in. "They'd just reroute traffic lights or slam a dump truck into us on command. Convoy spreads out the risk."
"Still think an AV would've been smarter," Jackie said, rubbing his chin. "Fly over the mess, jam the signals. Keep it clean."
Carl shook his head. "That'd work—if we trusted the sky. But even a top-end AV can be grounded with the right netrunner. Those anti-hack suites are good—but they ain't bulletproof."
"Which brings us back to this," Jackie muttered, tapping the window. "Big-ass land parade full of people hoping not to get blown up."
"This is theater," Carl said. "Big, loud, shiny theater. But here's the kicker: I don't think it's for the attackers."
Oliver frowned. "Then who?"
Carl's voice dropped. "For the insiders."
He let that hang in the air, watching it twist into the silence. If the leak was internal—if someone inside Arasaka was playing double—it meant this whole operation was less about protection and more about chaos.
"And if I'm right," Carl added, "then someone's testing the target. Not protecting them. Seeing how far they can go. Who's loyal. Who survives."
He looked straight ahead as the convoy lurched into motion, sun glaring off a row of passing crates.
A cherry blossom, caught between corporate thorns.