Boom—boom—boom!
The engine roar felt like it could shake Night City apart.
Some of that noise came from street cars. Some of it was just ad voiceovers.
Didn't matter what device it came from—sound became vibration, vibrations stacked, and the whole city's rumble slammed straight into people's eardrums.
"Night City, Night City! Welcome back! This is your Stanley, and now—are you ready for the wildest, most thrilling, most brutal, bloodiest… and most dreamlike race in history?!"
Every time he emphasized a word, the ads shifted right along with him.
Not because the whole city was "cooperating" with Stanley—ad placements were just insanely dense at this hour.
Gorilla Arms smashing concrete. The nimble darting of a "Jump-Boost Mk. II" movement system. Mantis Blades ripping people into chunks—
The ads came in all flavors, heavily edited and cut to perfection, but they all shared one thing:
They were all recordings.
In the days leading up to Extreme Metal, in corners no one noticed, new lone wolves and rising gangs had popped up like weeds after rain—hitting factories, companies, gang turf, production sites again and again.
Everyone was proving they were the right kind of monster to wear these implants, to wield these weapons.
The right investment.
"I don't know if you're ready, but a whole lotta people can't wait anymore!"
"Yesterday I was gonna step out to grab something to eat—didn't even make it out the door before I saw a Militech warehouse across the street get rammed open by a van on fire! A bunch of psychos cleaned it out, top to bottom. Wonder which legend's gonna roll up during the race with the full 'Militech Charcoal BBQ Set'—"
"Now, I'm not a Militech hater, okay? Arasaka got hit too! Thieves slipped in quiet as ghosts, then—when they could've slipped out quiet as ghosts—they chose to set off explosives instead. An arm landed on my window. Thank God my insurance covers it."
"Which warrior wins? Who becomes the shadow over this city—prove your ability, by any means necessary! Fight, challengers—"
Hfff—
The announcer took a sneaky bite of a burger.
"Look, look, look—Night City's blood is heating up!"
"Listeners—if I were you, I'd find the safest corner you can, crank your radio to max, turn on your TV, open up whatever forum you usually use to watch porn, and make sure your ears and your eyes are locked on every single second of danger!"
"Tonight—history's most—most most most legendary meat-grinder contest—"
"EX—TREME—ME—TAL!"
"I'm your friend Stanley, and with me… let's kick off this bloody night!"
"Yee—haw!"
Boom!
A stray rocket—out of control—slammed into a roadside building. The explosion shredded the camera mounted there.
Right before the feed cut, it caught a weaponized sports car tearing through the street, a few chrome-mad freaks dancing on top like cyberpsychos.
Signal lost. Picture gone.
A massive projection screen threw a logo onto a curtain: a red ring enclosing three solid red dots, linked by simple straight lines.
Like a three-petaled flower. Like a synapse. Like the end of an electrical circuit.
The Arasaka emblem.
"I'm disappointed." Saburo Arasaka spoke to the person on the other end of the call after watching it all. "My son is a dull-witted fool, slow to grasp the situation.
Gangs strut around on the streets, and Night City's forgotten who truly owns this city."
Saburo's son—Yorinobu Arasaka—was the one on the other end.
"It's because Militech's interference that we—"
"Silence." Saburo's eyelids lifted slightly. Just those few words, and he'd already sensed the strange intent in his son's mind:
Too immature. As if he thought this would be enough to make Saburo look away from what mattered.
Clearly his son still carried that gang-born mindset, and someone had reignited his hope—Yorinobu was trying to shield those people.
That flame that only reignited once every fifty years had lit up more than Night City.
It had lit up his stupid son, too.
Yorinobu wasn't his father's equal. Even through a simple call, he was afraid—he was frightened—
In public he was a successful executive, Arasaka's heir, the reckless, explosive vice president who acted like he wanted full-scale war with Militech every day, all pressure and hostility.
But in a single call, with just two sentences, Saburo could make him unravel—exposing his most foolish, most reckless self.
Before, just two sentences like that, and Yorinobu would've already exploded, cursing his father out loud.
But now… he held his emotions back. No screaming. No raging.
And just as he was about to say more, Saburo cut the connection.
Far away in Night City, Yorinobu had only just barely kept himself together—then the instant the call ended, he lost it, grabbed the nearest glass, and hurled it to the floor.
A nameless fury shattered his mental defenses in one hit—so hard even he didn't understand why.
Expensive liquor. Decorative pieces. Luxury daily goods. Shattered fragments scattered across the room.
Only then did Yorinobu claw his way back from the edge.
He looked up.
On the TV, another pack of maniacs was ramming a corporate warehouse—and the vehicle had an Iron-Banded Burger logo on it.
Seeing that, he suddenly laughed.
Like he'd remembered something warm.
Something hot-blooded.
"…That old bastard definitely has another scheme."
Saburo Arasaka always knew what was happening in Night City. If he'd shown interest and dissatisfaction, there was no way he'd just let this keep spiraling.
He had something else in play—something only an Arasaka insider could do.
Usually after a meltdown like this, Yorinobu would've gone and worked off steam with a doll.
But today, he felt… driven.
He had to find out everything.
To stab Saburo in the back, there was only one way: surveillance through the Net.
The sun sank lower. Clouds thickened. Wind carried sand and grit in violent bursts, sometimes heavy, sometimes light, rattling against the vehicle's body.
The Badlands were vast—and this race didn't even have a real starting line.
It was free from the first second. Everyone could pick a "safe" rock pile, hide, and wait for the launch.
Militech drones scanned every vehicle, giving each lunatic brave enough to stand at the front a bright, unmistakable spotlight:
This contest was so free you could even join late. The "race" wasn't about speed.
It was about staying alive.
There would only be one kind of winner—either you quit halfway, or you die.
Some people were hiding on the route, setting ambushes.
But some were standing at the start, bold as hell. And those people would get a real show.
It was obvious most wouldn't dare take that early stretch—because if you accidentally launched off the road and flew into the sand, the odds of embarrassing yourself were way too high. Badlands roads weren't forgiving.
You couldn't exactly crawl into the city at a snail's pace, right?
"News 54 reporting: the Badlands have gathered a large number of illegally armed and modified vehicles. It appears the so-called 'Extreme Metal' illegal race that's been spreading through the city is not merely rumor.
Given current conditions, Militech may conduct warning fire—"
Forums were exploding, threads screaming, everyone analyzing the people and vehicles in the footage.
If you survived—even if you did it ugly—you'd be famous.
Of course, starting at the front meant you were also the biggest target.
[Stout: Damn. That's a lot of rides. Fifty-six armed vehicles total. The Aldecaldos alone have twelve. And there are a few that are basically junk—one crash and they'll fall apart. Psychos aren't even afraid to die.]
[Stout: You're getting one hell of a spotlight.]
[Leo: And I haven't exactly shorted you, have I?]
News 54 wasn't the only "serious" broadcast. There were plenty of other programs.
A station could ride this kind of traffic and launch a new show—like Guns & Saddles—and sell product off the hype.
Starting now—starting with the heavy machine guns, armor plating, drones, chassis frames… everything on display.
Hiss—
Tap tap.
V patted the vehicle and tossed the spray can aside. "All done!"
A massive iron hamburger was painted across the body: iron teeth biting down hard, bursting red blood.
"Such a ridiculous name," Leo said with a laugh. "And somehow it really caught on."
"That's fate, chica." Jackie stood in the rear bay with a heavy machine gun hugged to his chest, grinning.
V swung back in through the window. "Drive!"
VROOOM—
The engine roared. Current surged from the solid-state batteries embedded in the vehicle's frame, flooding through the chassis and undercarriage.
One hundred forty-four variable Cronite-Titanium armor plates locked in place via electromagnetic actuators, forming a shell that was unbreakable—yet still unbelievably flexible.
Jackie sat under the armor layer in the rear bay, controlling the heavy gun from inside.
Ahead, Militech's border checkpoint gates opened wide, green lights flashing:
[Security check passed.]
[Night City welcomes you.]
Bang!
Thunder cracked overhead.
In the sky, drones that had already locked onto every contestant swung their barrels toward the space behind them—and fired in unison—
That was the starting gun.
Legend surged out through the checkpoint.
Bullets and missiles blossomed behind them, chasing them toward the city.
"Wake up we got a city to burn!"