I noticed the change immediately when the businessman escorting me was discreetly replaced by a spaceport employee. The transition was seamless, almost imperceptible, a testament to the precision with which these operations were conducted. It was clear that every detail had been meticulously planned, and this was just one small part of the grand design.
As I stepped off the spaceplane, my HUD flickered into view, a soft red-crimson hue washing over my vision. It rarely activated unless absolutely necessary, so its sudden appearance sharpened my focus. The display guided me through the bustling terminal, directing me towards one of the many customs checkpoints. People flowed around me, their faces blurred into a haze of insignificance, while my HUD highlighted potential security measures with pinpoint accuracy.
As I moved through the terminal, I couldn't help but notice how my HUD filtered the environment. If I focused on someone for too long, a character box would appear, quickly filling with relevant data about them. This feature was a constant reminder of the world I inhabited—a world where information was power, and power was everything.
I caught sight of a woman trying to catch my eye, her false eyelashes fluttering with well-practised allure. Her smile was carefully crafted, but I wasn't interested. My focus remained on the customs agent ahead, his form outlined in red by the HUD. I had no time for distractions, not with what was at stake.
I glanced briefly at the woman as she continued her futile attempts to engage me. I didn't bother to listen to her words; instead, I let the familiar rhythm of my music play softly through my augmented ears. As my HUD scanned her, it confirmed what I already suspected: she was nobody of consequence. Just another mid-level employee in the advertising industry, someone who had spent too much money on a few surgeries. In Night City, that made her nothing special.
"You're not my type," I said flatly, cutting off any further interaction. Her surgically enhanced features froze in shock, but I didn't spare her another glance. My attention was already on the customs agent, and his profile was displayed in the corner of my vision. As the line inched forward, I allowed myself to review the details. The agent seemed ordinary enough, but appearances were often deceiving in this city.
The low hum of conversations around me faded into the background, replaced by my measured breathing. I mentally prepared myself for the brief exchange, knowing that every moment was an opportunity for something to go wrong. The customs agent finally looked up at me, his organic eyes conveying a polite, if slightly weary, smile. He tapped a few keys on his touch keyboard before speaking.
"Passport and landing card, please," he said, his tone professional yet indifferent. He knew what was expected of him, and the identity I'd been given was designed to pass scrutiny without raising any red flags. His eyes flicked between the photo and my face as he examined my passport. I could see a flicker of surprise—likely at how young I looked—but he kept his thoughts to himself. Men like him had learned long ago that life was rarely fair.
He nodded, then slid one of the passport pages under a small scanner. The device lit up, capturing the information I knew would be quietly corrupted once archived. The higher-ups had taken care of that, ensuring my passage would be smooth and unremarkable.
"Don't lose it," he said, returning my passport while retaining the landing card. His focus had already shifted to the next person in line, another corpo spook on their way to whatever assignment awaited them. The Tower was burning through agents at an alarming rate these days.
I offered him a practised smile, my teeth gleaming with an artificial brightness that momentarily disoriented him.
"Thanks, Kennedy," I said, deliberately using a name—his name—that wasn't his cover's name. His confused reaction was predictable and momentarily entertaining for me. The man darted his eyes away from my gaze as he mumbled something under his breath when I finally began walking away, something about "creepy suits," but it hardly mattered.
Anyone paying attention would have known that my arrival in Night City was anything but official. There had been no public announcement; the world still believed I was safely ensconced in a compound in Kyoto, kept away from the more corrupting influences of my repentant father.
My accommodations in the Konpeki Plaza were luxurious, though the suite felt cramped compared to the space I was used to back home. I carried a false identity, one carefully constructed and known to only a few select individuals—none of whom were in Night City. The isolation was a calculated move, but it offered a degree of freedom I wasn't accustomed to.
Grandfather had always viewed me as an extravagant and immoral person, more interested in personal pleasure than in the serious duties of succession and corporate responsibility. And with my absentee father's return to the family fold, Saburo now had someone else to focus his severe attention upon, as Yorinobu grasped the mantle of the rightful heir, leaving me as but the expendable bastard spare. But with that expendability came certain liberties, one of which was the opportunity to operate under the radar, away from the prying eyes of family and expectations.
Perhaps this was all a test? Maybe he wanted to see if I'd fall into some scandal? Give him an excuse to cut me off for good- I wouldn't put it past that heartless old bastard. But if he thought I was here to indulge in Night City's seedy underbelly, he was in for a surprise.
Because he was right—but not in the way he likely envisioned me going about when bringing shame to the Family name—I'd like to believe that I'm a step above dearest daddy in taste.
I don't imagine I would look particularly dashing in a biker ensemble.