Chapter Twenty-Five

The Badlands did not earn such a name and title without cause; the intemperate and infertile plains surrounding the Free City were a wall in itself, a near-insurmountable barrier for those who sought a fresh unregistered start in Night City.

Much of America, nay, the world, lived in such pitiful financial straits that would make returning to the 1900s an upgrade in health and living conditions for them, industrialised or not.

Yet, there were beacons of prosperity and opportunity in this depressing world, and Night City maintains a preeminent position not just in America but the globe, one of the pulsating organs of international commerce during a time when the internet was localised, and self-perpetuating AI-controlled mines hampered sea-travel.

Its independence from the resurgent NUSA was guaranteed by a single entity, a rival of the reformed United States government, yet was not a nation-state but a private company.

It was the presence of the supercarrier Kujira, the most advanced piece of sea-faring equipment ever developed, and one of the few ships that could brave the AI-infested waves.

It was the deployment of thousands of Arasaka corporate enforcers, cutting-edge tanks, VI-aided artillery and all else necessary to maintain such a large expeditionary force.

If you were a more learned man, you would have found a sense of irony in all this, that the NUSA would suffer the humiliation of an unequal treaty, capable of fighting the smaller but more technologically adept intervening force and winning the wider conflict, but lacking the will to prosecute such a titanic struggle.

But you didn't and had to have it explained by an overly-prideful Japanese officer, who took near-sadistic delight in that the tables have turned, utterly oblivious to the fact that said westerners surrounded him.

Little surprise that enemy fire would kill him a month into his command.

Yet, while that army may be long gone, and Night City's independence secure for the moment, the importance of Arasaka in the security and continued prosperity of this Free City was not to be underestimated.

After all, your kind patrolled the border, gazing upon your Militech counterparts across the demarcation zone.

It was something you avoided to the point you'd willingly exchange shifts at lower-paying and more humiliating jobs than ever to take part in a Badlands deployment.

You don't care that they offer hazard pay; there isn't enough money in the world to convince you to traverse those wastes of sand.

Yet, it was not something you could escape from permanently; eventually, a Corpo suit would notice that you hadn't had your month ruined and curse you with such duties.

When one receptionist informed you of what your next deployment would be in that irritatingly droll slow voice, you felt as if you had suddenly caught a dreadful cold, your face paling, your breath hitching, and a cold sweat beginning to seep into your casual clothes.

It was mandatory she informed you, utterly indifferent to the stark terror that had dug its claws into your very being; her eyes never strayed from her work computer; you don't think she noticed her words' effect on you, but you doubt she cared.

There was no use crying over this, offering weak excuses, or trying to beg off for another deployment; to refuse an order given from up high was to place your employee report in jeopardy and so much worse.