Been a while, but, I've been waiting for peeps to send in more character stuff. Also, I was going to write a different POV but, well, I've not received a couple of characters yet, so, I decided to write something else in the meantime.
10:15 24th April, 2090
Arasaka Tower, Corpo Plaza, City Centre
The twenty-first floor of Arasaka Tower was a meticulously crafted monument to power, precision, and the cold, relentless efficiency of a corp. It was a world apart from anything Carlos had ever known, a far cry from the chaotic, vibrant streets of Vista del Rey where he had grown up. There, the world was messy, loud, and full of life – an explosion of colour and sound that assaulted the senses the moment you stepped outside. In Vista, every street corner was a story, every swatch of street art told a history, etched in the graffiti that clung to crumbling walls like scars on weathered skin. But on the twenty-first floor of Arasaka Tower, everything was different – everything was controlled.
The doors slid open with a sound so soft it was almost imperceptible, revealing a world that seemed to reject the very concept of chaos. The floor was a seamless expanse of polished black marble, so flawlessly smooth that it felt like stepping onto the surface of the cosmos. The light from the overhead LEDs, recessed into the ceiling, cool and clinical, casting a pale glow that left no room for shadows to hide. In Vista, light had always in short supply; neon signs buzzed and flickered in the night, casting everything in a sickly, distorted glow. But here, the light was different – sharp, sterile, and unyielding. It was a light that didn't just illuminate; it exposed, dissected, left nothing to the imagination.
The walls were an unsettling blend of matte black panels and tinted glass, each surface perfectly aligned, with no seams, no imperfections, no trace of the human hand that had constructed them. The glass, in particular, caught Carlos's attention: It was tinted just enough to obscure what lay beyond it, giving a sense of transparency while keeping its secrets close. In Heywood, windows were either broken or barred, patched up with whatever scrap could be found. Here, the glass wasn't just a barrier; it was a weapon – a reminder that the people could see out, but no one could see in. Carlos couldn't shake the feeling that even as he walked, the walls were watching him, evaluating every step he took, measuring his loyalty.
There was a quiet, pervasive hum in the air, barely noticeable but ever-present, like the distant fizzing behind a neon light. In Heywood, there was never silence—there was always the sound of people shouting, cars honking, music blaring from a dozen different directions at once. But here, on the twenty-first floor, silence was the rule. It wasn't the kind of silence that brought peace; it was the kind of silence that brought unease, that made your skin crawl because you knew something was happening just out of sight, beyond the walls, beneath the floors.
As Carlos walked further into the floor, the wide corridors began to feel less open, and more like arteries of something cold and clinical. It reminded him of where he grew up – the alleyways between apartment blocks were narrow, crammed with life, people, and all their noise. There, the walls were decorated with layers of paint and Valentino graffiti. Here, the corridors were barren, devoid of personality or warmth. The only decoration, if it could be called that, were the subtle lines of blood-red light that pulsed along the edges of the black panels, like veins carrying some unknown, vital fluid through the building. Carlos had never liked the red lights – flashing sirens, Maelstrom gangers... But here, the red was different, insidious.
Every so often, Carlos passed by a sleek, metallic door, each one identical and unmarked. The doors opened silently at the approach of those authorised by the invisible security systems – biometric scanners, retina scans, encrypted keycards. Arasaka had no room for mistakes, no tolerance for the unpredictability of human error. In Carlos' old apartment, the doors were simple (often broken), hanging on by a thread, patched up with whatever materials could be scrounged. You could kick a door in with enough force, but in Arasaka Tower, on the twenty-first floor, Carlos knew that the doors wouldn't yield to anything less than the proper authorization. They were more than just barriers; they were the iron grip of control, ensuring that only those who belonged could move freely.
And then, at the end of the corridor, there was the office – the beating heart of the twenty-first floor. As Carlos approached it, he couldn't help but feel a sense of dread settling into his bones. The corridor leading to it was long and straight, flanked by those same dark panels and glass, the red lines of light growing more frequent, more insistent as he neared the end. It felt like walking down a vein toward the heart of something malevolent, something that didn't just exist, but thrived. The heart of Vista del Rey would've been Jacked and Coke – a bar on Pigeon & Congress. That was where the 'Tino's gathered, where life happened. But on the twenty-first floor, the heart was a fortress, where life was irrelevant and only power mattered.
The door to the corner office was a monolith of black steel, smooth and seamless, with no handle, no keypad, nothing that suggested it could even be opened. The door slid open with a quiet, almost ominous hiss, revealing the corner office beyond.
The walls were glass on two sides, offering a panoramic view of the city that stretched out far below. The glass was subtly tinted, making the city seem distant, almost insignificant, as if it were just a plaything in the hands of those who looked down from above. In Vista, the city was alive, a sprawling, chaotic organism that everyone was a part of, whether they wanted to be or not. Here, the city was nothing more than a backdrop, a distant landscape that served as a reminder of the power held within these walls.
The remaining walls were the same matte black as the rest of the floor, but here, the red lines of light were more pronounced, running in intricate patterns that hinted at something more than mere decoration. They pulsed softly, almost like a heartbeat, a constant, rhythmic reminder of the power that coursed through this place. In Vista, walls were decorated with whatever could be found – posters, paintings, tags. They were expressions of community, culture, and control. But here, the walls were an expression of control, of a power so absolute that it didn't need to be shouted.
The desk in the centre of the room was a massive, imposing structure of black metal and glass, positioned to command the space. It was large (almost too large), with edges so sharp they seemed to slice through the air. The surface was immaculate, devoid of any clutter or personal trinkets. A sleek, high-tech terminal sat on one corner, dark until activated, at which point it would spring to life with stock trading data, I reports, and surveillance feeds. Carlos remembered the desks were cluttered, piled high with the detritus of everyday life, functional and lived-in. This wasn't a place to work; it was a place of command, where orders were issued that would ripple out and affect the lives of countless people far below.
Sat in the chair that was more of a throne, with hidden controls built into the armrests, was Raine Redford. His black hair was no longer parted like curtains, but instead slicked back and over to one side. His almond-shaped eyes glowed candy-red as he glanced up to Carlos, gesturing for him to take a seat. Carlos did so, in an armchair with leather so black it seemed to drink in the light, the steel frame polished to a mirror finish.
The floor beneath was covered in a seamless, dark material that absorbed sound, adding to the sense of quiet, controlled menace that permeated the room. The silence was thick, heavy, broken only by the occasional whisper of the ventilation system or the soft hum of the technology that ran through the walls like veins in a living organism. The office was devoid of any personal touches. There were no photographs, no decorations, nothing that suggested the person who occupied this space had any connection to the world outside these walls. The only items on display were a few carefully chosen artifacts—a katana in a sleek, black sheath hanging on the wall, its blade hidden but its presence unmistakable; a small, meticulously maintained bonsai tree sitting on a pedestal near the window, its twisted branches ungracefully hewn.
Redford scratched the birthmark by his ear, just at his hairline, as he listened quietly. His Kiroshi's dimmed to their regular scarlet hue, and he looked back to Carlos, putting on a pleasant smile and stretching his arms out wide.
"Carlito! How are you keepin'?"
"Did your office get bigger?" Carlos asked.
"No, it's the view – opens up the room. Makes everything feel bigger."
Carlos disagreed – there in the sight of megatowers, skyscrapers, and corporate monoliths, he'd never felt smaller.
"You wanted me?"
"Yeah- yeah, so, there's an asset you're…" Redford trailed off as his eyes glowed candy-red once again. "Okay… alread- send them in." Redford's voice always changed around others. He sounded more… 'proper'.
"Asset?" Carlos asked.
"Yes, a man by the name of Ushijima Junzo. Formerly of a small boostergang from Westbrook. Got absorbed by the Claws some years back. Mr. Junzo was detained by the police and..." Redford trailed off as the door to the office opened.
A woman entered, flanked by a man. While she walked forwards, a face of bronze piercings in her brow, her nose, her lips and her ears, Carlos could not stop staring at her. He'd seen a variety of people growing up in Heywood, but not her. Not because she was beautiful or grotesque, but because she was red: her monolid eyes like Redford's, deep and rich like sangria, the sclera irritated and pink. Her lips were a glossy red like cherries and berries, her hair as red as blood and jam.
She was a colour given legs and lips. While the man beside her was absent of any: fair-skinned with paper-white hair shorn to the scalp around his ears, and long and slicked back atop his head. There were no tattoos, no piercings, no beard, no colour. He wore a set of tinted black sunglasses over his eyes, a black jacket, black pants, and a red shirt. No individuality there – it was the same suit Carlos had seen gonks in the building wear.
"I've been in bigger booths," the woman commented, hips swaying as she walked forwards, grimacing at the room before her bloodshot eyes fell upon Carlos. "Who's the gaki?"
"Mr. Carlito – a business associate of mine. I see you've a Samurai of your own. Mr. Hanzo, isn't it?"
"Kobayashi-san is not mine. He is… on loan."
Carlos examined how the man did not stir at all as the woman spoke. Did he have some kind of chip that kept him dormant until called to action? Like some kind of android?
"Yes, well…" Redford cleared his throat. "Carlito, this is Miss… Aoki-San, directly from Kyoto."
"Ma'am," Carlos said, bowing his head slightly.
"Chiyo-sama," she corrected Redford. "You've been briefed?"
"I have; Ushijima-san…" Carlos paused to clear his throat, waiting to see if Chiyo would correct him, "is a person of interest, and is to be recovered."
"Recovered from the penitentiary in Santo Domingo, yes. His sentence has been commuted and on Monday 1st, he's to be released. You, and Kobayashi-san will bring him here, and take him up to the forty-seventh floor to meet Takao-sama."
"I suppose trouble is always expected in Night City," Carlos said, glancing to Redford, who pasted on a smile again.
"Mr. Carlito is a Heywood native; he'll be able to escort Ushijima-san here safe and sound."
"A compass is useful, Redford-sama, but a blade is safer. Kobayashi-san will keep Ushijima-san safe."
Carlos looked to the man again. He was what folk in Japantown called a Samurai: a corporate-specific merc, an assassin. His sole purpose was to protect corp interests and strike against rivals. That was a rule Carlos learned, growing up Vista and kicking around in the Glen: never fuck with corps, and walk the other way if you see a solo like that.
Redford's smile faltered for a moment, but never fully faded.
"Of course. After all, this is your operation – we are simply here to assist."
"Kobayashi-san," Chiyo turned to look at the man, who finally moved (he turned his head towards her), "you'll accompany Carlito-san and protect Ushijima-san. Rikai suru?"
" Hai, Chiyo-san," he spoke quickly, each word as fast as a boxer's jab.
"How do we determine who is a threat?" Carlito asked. "I mean… 'Tino's hang out all over Heywood, and all of them are strapped. Are we to consider each and every one a possible threat?"
"Kobayashi-san?" Chiyo raised an eyebrow.
"A possible threat is a threat," he stated.
"That doesn't answer my question."
"Doesn't it?"
"Carlito is just sentimental, that's all," Redford reassured the others as he slapped Carlos on the shoulder, "we'll cross such a bridge when we have to, yes?"
Carlos cleared his throat and composed himself, clasping his hands and giving a small bow once again. "Of course."
As he stood there, in the heart of Arasaka's domain, Carlos felt a deep, unsettling realization settle in his gut. This place was more than just a building, more than just an office. It was a machine, a living organism that thrived on power, on control, on the manipulation of lives. And like any machine, it had no conscience, no morality, no sense of right or wrong. It simply existed, cold and unfeeling, driven by the relentless pursuit of power.
The twenty-first floor of Arasaka Tower wasn't just a place—it was a fortress, a sanctuary for those who wielded power without conscience, who understood that in this world, there were only two kinds of people: the predators and the prey. And here, in the cold, sterile heart of Arasaka, the predators ruled
Well, that's it for now. We'll be picking up with a fairly long chapter next time because, well, I've already started writing it and I kinda wanna combine a couple of chapter ideas together.
So, yeah, drop a review, lemme know what you thought and send in a pitch for a character if you've got one!
Until next time,
R.