"Busy, everyone's busy, being busy is good."
"Don't let your sisters feel lonely. Send gifts often to coax them."
...
[Cyberpunk]
Ignoring a certain sister who was muttering pretentious nonsense in a comfortable and leisurely mood, Vela continued forward with ceremonial precision, still methodically inspecting the Arasaka Honor Sergeants who had recovered and returned to duty.
"Sergeant Fetter Jones, affiliated with the Free States Alliance Army (CSA) 5th Division. You participated in the Omaha Campaign, and were injured while breaking through the old Missouri River channel and capturing Council Bluffs City?" Vela stopped in front of a white noncommissioned officer with scars on his temple.
"Yes, Your Excellency." Unlike the previous Black fellow, the white NCO was very serious. He saluted stiffly and replied, "I was wounded by a rocket explosion while pursuing remnant enemies. Fortunately, it wasn't serious."
The so-called "not serious" here meant that his head was still intact.
Vela's prosthetic eye plugin scanned Sergeant Jones' file. A visual interface window popped up, and she skimmed it quickly. At the time, when he had been carried off the front line by medics, both his legs had been shattered, he had suffered more than a dozen wounds, and even his titanium skull had nearly been pierced by shrapnel. This was also the origin of the three scars on his right temple.
It was obvious that the scars had been specially treated, and seemed to be engraved with extremely tiny characters, very eye-catching, deliberately preserved.
After sizing him up, she asked thoughtfully, "Red? A name?"
"Yes." He nodded. "My friend. During an alley battle, Red and I were covered by the same volley of rockets. I was lucky and survived, but he was blown apart, his head severed. Right in front of me."
Hearing this, Vela reined in her smile. The gentleness faded, and a sharp authority gradually spread across her exquisitely refined face.
She did not say any empty words like please accept my condolences, but instead asked, "Did he have children?"
"He did."
"How many people in the family?"
"Four. He was Italian. An elderly mother at home, married, with one son and one daughter."
"How are they doing? Were the death compensation, campaign bonus, and honor allowance paid? In full?"
Cold sweat immediately broke out on the Free States Alliance official following behind Vela.
One had to know that Vela was not only Arasaka's acting CEO, but also the acting Chief of the Arasaka Joint Military Command and the Chief Military Commander of the North American Theater, holding the title of Honorary Speaker of the House of Representatives of the United Free States of America.
Forget getting rid of him. Even if she had him executed on the spot, Sacramento would have nothing to say.
Motherfucker, let's hope the people below hadn't done anything stupid. At a time like this, if someone had even embezzled the compensation money, and it just so happened to blow up right in front of Vela, then this black pot would land squarely on his head. If he were even more unlucky, he might really be dragged out and prosecuted, killed to warn the monkeys.
Fortunately.
"They're doing okay." Sergeant Jones said. "The compensation, bonuses, and allowances were all paid in full. Apart from being harassed by hooligans and targeted by malicious neighbors, survival and daily life aren't a problem."
"Hooligans, malicious neighbors? Briefly explain."
"People borrowing money, harassing them, wanting to remarry the widow and live together."
"Tsk." Vela clicked her tongue. There really was nothing new under the sun. Past and present, East and West, all the same damn thing. She thought of herself in this lifetime just after her parents had died, and that group of 'kind-hearted people' who wanted to adopt her.
"Have the NCPD handle it." After instructing her assistant, Vela asked again, "Education?"
"..."
Silence.
"Alright, I roughly understand." Vela said dryly, a look of comprehension appearing on her face. She turned her head and instructed her assistant, "Notify the Arasaka Academy board of directors. Have them take the lead and jointly establish a Loyal Heirs Academy together with Night City Hall and the Alliance."
This Loyal Heirs Academy was not that Loyal Heirs Academy.
In Vela's conception, although the Arasaka-branded Loyal Heirs Academy also had the goal of cultivating killing machines loyal to Arasaka, its most important positioning at present was as a reform school, a hostage camp, and a sports and driving school. Academic cultural education was the least important. Physical training and learning how to operate various types of equipment were the main focus.
For the vast majority of ordinary people in Night City and North America, studying liberal arts and science? Study my ass.
Better to learn a trade and survive on the streets.
And what would happen to those lower-class little brats who had lost their fathers and mothers, suddenly becoming rich after receiving compensation money?
Do not doubt Night City's temptations, and do not doubt Night City's filth.
One carefully designed encounter, a few fox-like friends' tearful recommendations, the flattering praise of people with ulterior motives, braindances, casinos, bars, sex dolls, underground boxing, lotteries...
Faced with such sweet words, huge profits, and decadence, how many young people who had experienced the loss of both parents, were grieving and depressed yet still hot-blooded, could keep a tight grip on the money in their hands?
As far as Vela knew, those scavengers and organ harvesters even had businesses dedicated to wiping out entire families, specializing in setting traps for small households that had suddenly become rich.
Even the families of fallen employees from large corporations were fair game to them.
It was extremely difficult to eradicate.
After all, these pieces of social trash were like street thugs. They existed everywhere, refreshed in a timely manner, not a specific group or gang or organization, but simply a collective term for people with similar goals.
When corporations carried out a purge, they could not even recover the damn costs.
Those that truly had factions, organization, and industry instead did not dare to easily provoke major corporations.
Vela's current measure was to throw those little brats who had lost their fathers into sports academies, protecting and dissipating their excessive energy, guiding them to think, deepening their hatred toward military technology and the New America, and mixing in private goods to govern the school through loyalty.
As for the concrete effect, she did not yet know. It would require practice to find out.
Hypocrisy or buying people's hearts, either way, she had already taken action.
"Draft another plan to prevent embezzlement andabsconding with the funds, ensure the money is spent on the martyrs' families."
As the words fell, she looked at Sergeant Jones and swept her gaze around, saying, "For the orphaned children of soldiers who died for Arasaka and for the sacred war, what we can do, aside from paying the price for selling their lives, is at least not let them be stripped to the bone, right?"
As for those who had no children but had relatives, there was no solution. The compensation could only go to their wives, parents, or siblings.
No matter what, not paying would smash the brand.
How to make the money return to Arasaka through consumption was another topic altogether.
Instead, those who were completely alone were easy to handle. Once dead, simply find an orphan to adopt. In any case, the money would be spent cultivating death warriors. Revenue and expenditure formed an internal cycle, and it could even help Arasaka seize the moral high ground. Why not do it?
All of this was more effective than any hollow consolation.
"Thank you for Your Excellency's kindness." Sergeant Fetter Jones was unable to suppress his emotion and bowed deeply.
The many soldiers beside and behind him were also stirred. They performed solemn gestures, some bowing, some saluting, some pressing fists to their chests.
Returning to the battlefield, every one of them might die.
Selling one's life was nothing to talk about, but with Vela, they could at least settle their worries. Selling their lives like this was worth it, even if the so-called "settling worries" was merely a fleeting illusion, superficial at best.
"You deserve it."
Vela curled her lips into a faint smile and reached out in a gesture of support toward the assembled soldiers.
After patting Sergeant Jones on the shoulder, she strode sternly past the formation under inspection.
After that, Vela randomly interviewed, conversed with, and inspected more than thirty people, men and women alike, Black and white, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Latino, all included.
"Koike Jun, affiliated with the Central Front's Arasaka Ground Self-Defense Force 1st Division, ACPA powered armor pilot. During the Des Moines Campaign in Iowa, you encountered a main force element of the enemy NUSA D.C. Reserve Group Army, fought bloody battles during a feint operation, and achieved outstanding merit. You've worked hard, Captain Koike."
"Arasaka, victory! Vela-dono, banzai!"
"Bruce Chen, affiliated with the Northern Front's 1st Mobile Group Army. You were injured in the St. Cloud Campaign? Battlefield medic?"
"Yes, Commander."
"Juan Garcia, Southern Front, Barghest Mercenary Group..."
"Hooyah!"
"Park Viro, Northern Front, Seventh Fleet Marine 2nd Division..."
—!!—
"Yester..."
...
[Black Lagoon + Jormungand]
Southeast Asia.
Southern Thailand, the coastal city of Roanapur, offshore. The sky was a washed-clean blue. Seabirds skimmed past the streamlined hull of a yacht, their chirps shattering in the wind.
Splash—!
A large luxury yacht with a bold and solid futuristic design was cutting through the waves.
On the foredeck, beside the swimming pool.
"Inspections and bestowing favors really are exhausting work..." Vela lay on her side on a deck chair. Water droplets still clung to the tips of her light-golden hair. She wore an intricate and exquisite bikini, oversized dark sunglasses, a shawl draped over her shoulders, and a beach towel wrapped around her lower body, leisurely enjoying the warm sunlight and brisk sea breeze.
Under the bright sun, her smooth skin glowed with a delicate, fair sheen.
On the low table beside her were a fruit platter, small pastries, and a finely crafted .42 caliber revolver with a box of ammunition.
Before Vela could finish sipping the iced lemon cola in her hand.
"Hey, Boss, Thai green mango salad cocktail, please enjoy." Almost as soon as the words were spoken, a shadow fell over her.
A member of Vela's team, a Slav with thick brows and large eyes, broad shoulders and a bear-like back, wearing a floral shirt over an underarm shoulder holster, handed over a specially mixed cocktail.
"Thanks." Vela lowered her sunglasses slightly and accepted the oversized goblet with a smile.
She gave it a gentle shake. Syrup, ice cubes, spices, and alcohol collided within the glass, bursting into a crystalline symphony.
Taking a small sip, the flavor was sour, spicy, salty, and fresh, rich in texture, full of tropical flair.
"What did the 'Moscow Hotel' say?" she asked leisurely.
"Balalaika is already on the way. Naval radar shows rendezvous in about fifteen minutes," another person replied.
A tall and sturdy man walked out from the open bar at the front hall of the deck cabin. With a flat-top haircut, hands in his pockets, and a cigarette hanging from his mouth, he carried a strong military aura, his expression indescribable. Especially when Balalaika's name was mentioned, a trace of reminiscence overflowed from him.
Yes, he was also a Slav.
Or rather, quite a number of Vela's senior enforcers and core employees came from that world power which had already collapsed.
The reason was simple. When one great whale falls, all things thrive.
Although this world's Vela had not swung the hoe wildly like certain "sisters," nor plotted for a long time with insatiable greed, she still ate until her mouth was greasy during the "gluttonous feast" known as the end of the Cold War.
Talent and opportunities were everywhere.
Even in the free world, many departments and units created to respond to the Cold War had been dissolved.
As long as you had money and channels, indebted special forces veterans, dismissed KGB officers, impoverished scientists, capable administrators reduced to wandering the streets, former Soviet elites whose faith had collapsed... all were available for selection.
That was the best era for assembling a team.
As for how Vela connected with the "Moscow Hotel," well...
At that time, Vela had been traveling around the world checking in at various places. When she arrived in Roanapur, she gambled wildly in a casino, had a small conflict with the house, smashed up the place, which escalated into a firefight. In the end, Balalaika acted as the mediator.
Just as Vela cheerfully discussed that scene with the team's two main assault fighters who also served as battlefield commanders.
"Miss, would you like a massage? Or sunscreen?"
Accompanied by a faint fragrance, a voluptuous body quietly leaned close to Vela. She kneaded Vela's shoulders, red lips moving, hot breath warming the rim of Vela's ear.
"Nova."
"I'm here, Miss." The beautiful woman called Nova was tall, with brown hair and blue eyes, a high nose bridge, and relatively thin lips. Her temperament was gentle like water—if one ignored her powerful abdominal muscles and gunshot scars exposed at her waist.
"I'm going to mix drinks." / "I'll check the smoker."
The two Slavic men were very perceptive. They coughed twice, greased their soles, and slipped away.
"Massage me then. I still have guests to meet later." Vela sighed helplessly and leaned back.
"Alright." Nova responded gently, a flourishing smile appearing on her pretty oval face.
Creak—creak.
The beach recliner was lowered flat. Vela lay prone on the soft cushion, allowing Nova to work.
Watching the team members playing around in and around the foredeck pool, sunbathing, flirting, drinking, eating meat, and bragging: men and women of varying heights and skin tones, yet uniformly lean, capable, and efficient—
Vela slowly closed her eyes slightly, enjoying the strong yet gentle massage.
Slurp~ She took a sip through the straw from the iced cocktail placed near her mouth.
Mm, refreshing. This kind of life was what real comfort felt like.
That kind of life where every morning began with exhausting paperwork, work work, overtime overtime, meetings meetings like a beast of burden, what kind of hellish days were those?
You carry the burdens forward while I enjoy peaceful years. But likewise, my peaceful years are also so that you can carry those burdens better.
[Hey!] ×7
Except for the one sister still in deep slumber, snorting sounds came from the boundless distance.
Vela secretly curled her lips.
[Hey hey, the big sister fighting corporate wars and the imperial princess who has to go to Area 11 to clean up her cheap little brother's mess are one thing. The ones advancing the "monster" project in the genetic department of Masrani International, supervising construction of Atlas headquarters in Baghdad, and the one promoted back to New Hafen City from the German General Staff, I won't say anything about you either. But you two, one visiting Jurassic Park and one hunting in the Yukon Valley, what are you shouting for? You're not any busier than me.]
Just at this moment.
Buzz~ Buzz~
A phone began to ring.
"It's Koko Hekmatyar from HCLI Company." Nova, who answered the call, paused briefly, leaned down, and placed the satellite phone beside Vela's ear.
"Hello, this is Vela Adelheid Russell."
—
—
13 Advanced Chapters Available on Patreon:
Patreon.com/DaoOfHeaven