Disembarkation

You were aware of the moment when the businessman was replaced with an employee from the spaceport.

At that very particular time, the HUD (which usually remains absent from your view) began to guide you down a specific route after you had disembarked, towards one of the innumerable customs checkpoints.

You felt the red-crimson hue take over your vision to blur any irrelevant people and point out any safety measures around the airport.

If you ever lingered on one figure for too long, a character box appears in front of your eyes that are filled with information about them.

You ignore the woman trying to attract your attention with fluttering false eyelashes and a smile; instead, you focus on the customs agent you will be processed by, his form illuminated in red by your Heads-Up Display, the same device that identified your previous portly bodyguard.

You had assumed that the legitimate identification papers given for your new identity would be sufficient; the Japanese government does not promote corruption and awarding counterfeit documents easily.

But it's never been in your family's tradition or practice of its employees to dismiss contingencies and overlook the idea of stacking the odds in one's favour.

Confident in a smooth entry into the country, your gaze fixed on the woman attempting to capture your attention, you don't even bother to listen to her words, opting instead to let your music play through your augmented ears. Your HUD invades her privacy as you scan past her head, quickly gathering enough information on the woman to turn you off.

She was a nobody, an older woman employed in a mid-level advertising job with enough money to buy herself a few surgeries. Everyone had money nowadays; she was nothing special.

"You're not my type."

Your reply causes an expression of shock to settle across her surgically shaped face, but you don't spare another glance, now focusing on the employee file of the customs agent. When the line inches forward, she is forced to face ahead and hide the hurt look on her face from view.

The chatter of the Customs Agents and the constant murmuring of the line ahead of you is lost in the background as you focus on your breathing and the coming conversation you will have.

The Customs Agent stares at you, his organic eyes conveying a slight smile. He presses a few keys on the touch keyboard before speaking.

"Passport and landing card, please."

He knows what is expected of him, and your identity is carefully constructed to avoid suspicion. He scrutinises your passport, comparing your face to the picture provided as he flips through it. He was likely surprised by how young you look, but he doesn't comment; he's used to life being unfair.

Nodding his head, he slides one of the pages under a small scanner; it lights up, making a copy of the information which will surely be corrupted once archived. The higher-ups see to that.

"Don't lose it."

He keeps the landing card but returns your passport to you before waving through another Corpo spook - The Tower is burning through them quickly these days.

You flash your best smile, a flawless line of gleaming white teeth that make the poor wage earner blink in confusion.

"Thanks, Kennedy."

The man responds with a weak grin, quickly fading away as soon as you've gone. He shudders and mumbles something about creepy suits under his breath; he hadn't even bothered to attach a nametag to his uniform.

It was obvious to both the driver and those in the know that you were not in Night City on any official business, as your arrival had not been preceded by any official announcement. People still believed you were confined to a compound in Kyoto, receiving an education and being kept away from your repentant father's corrupting influence.

You have been put up in the Konpeki Plaza, in a suite smaller than the bedroom you had back home, with a false identity and only a couple of people knowing the truth about you, none of whom are residing in Night City.

Your grandfather considers you an extravagant and immoral person who seems more interested in having fun than accepting the duties of succession.

But he does not have to worry now that your father has returned, as he has his rightful heir, and you are merely the spare, which brings about more freedom.

It is possible that this is a test, and he wants you to get photographed by paparazzi while doing something vile, or even get some women pregnant, all to give him reason to shut you up once and for all.

You wouldn't put anything past him, but if he is expecting you to take a stroll in Night City's slums, mixing with criminals and seduced by scantily clad prostitutes, then he will be pleasantly surprised.

Because you have something else planned.