Cyberpunk 2077: Demons of Night City

Looting is always a treat, especially when there's no time crunch. Still, we keep things efficient, avoiding unnecessary risks. My paranoia conjures images of a mob of pissed-off patriots showing up any second. But it's smooth sailing. No surprises.

Three hours later, we're back at Rebecca's place. We left in one car and came back in three. Too bad one of the rides in the shop was out of commission, but Falco managed to snag its onboard computer, swearing it'd fetch us at least three grand.

"Money, money, money," Rebecca purrs, sweeping the clutter off the table.

Empty cans, pizza boxes, and random junk hit the floor as we clear the table in the middle of the kitchen, dumping out the haul. Guns, cash, credchips, a few baubles, gold-plated watches—the works. Time to tally up how much tonight's score is worth. I get to counting, checking with the others here and there.

Between the safe and the gang members, we've got 28 and a half grand. Probably the cash from selling the cars. Throw in the weapons and trinkets, and we're looking at 35.

Then there's the two cars and parts.

"Roughly forty," Falco figures. "Cars are decent, but double-listed. We'll have to scrub 'em, so we don't get any heat."

"Altogether, let's say seventy-five K," I wrap up the math.

Is it a lot? Not huge by my standards, but the whole gig was low-risk. Easy cash, really.

"Now for the tough part…" Falco says, looking around the group. "We gotta split it. Fairly and without drama."

"What's the big deal?" Rebecca chimes in, unfazed. "Let V do it. He set it all up."

"I've got a pretty simple plan," I say. "If I'm the one arranging a job, I get fifteen percent off the top as a fixer's fee. The rest we split evenly among active participants. Today, I was in on the action, so I take a share too."

So I get about twenty-seven K, and the others take home sixteen each.

I glance around the table, waiting for objections or alternative ideas, but no one's speaking up.

"Faraday'd make us dance through bullets for this kind of cash," Lucy notes.

"Yep," Falco nods. "It's wild. Just the four of us, no real solo."

"Gramps, are you serious?" snaps Rebecca. "What the hell do you think I am?"

But the old nomad continues, ignoring her.

"You'd think a squad this small couldn't handle big jobs. Yet we're pulling in more eddies with less trouble than we did working under Maine, even on his best days."

Better keep my mouth shut on their fallen comrades, but…that's the point, isn't it? Picking jobs within our skill range. Firepower's only half the equation. The other half is, well, the difficulty and the planning. Can't pull off ops like this if your fixer's a tool and the boss is halfway to cyberpsychosis. Not every edge can stand up to the harsh truth.

Still, jobs like these aren't gonna make me rich. They're just a way to keep our crew going and establish myself as the leader. If I really want to break the bank, I need to look for other opportunities…

I remember the recent hit on that scav. A necessary act of informational vampirism. Even that lowlife had some useful crumbs. Names, contacts, rumors of recent events. Next time, I need to take down someone with deeper connections in the city's underbelly—a real prize, someone whose mind can fill in gaps in my knowledge, whose wallet can fatten mine.

"Hey, Lucy, how much do I owe you again?" Rebecca asks, sidling up to Kusinada with a sweet smile.

"Thirty-two."

"And four more for me," Falco adds.

"So much…" Rebecca sighs, laying her head on the table. "Eddies fly right out of my hands… You guys don't need it right this second, do you?"

"Just start paying it back," Falco advises. "Debts are bad for friendships—and business."

"Alright. I'll give you two for now, and four to Lucy. The rest… later. V, choom, I need another gig."

"V needs to take care of his own problems first," Lucy says firmly. "While Falco works on the rides, let's find that cop."

"Oh! There's a cop after you?" Rebecca exclaims, lighting up. "Can I shoot him?! Pretty please?"

"Not yet. Recon first," I reply.

"Rest first," Lucy teases. "V, you shouldn't be hitting the clubs right now. Let's grab some drinks and get out of town."

"Let me pick a spot far from the Raffen then," Falco suggests. "Don't want uninvited guests crashing the party."

Half an hour later, we were speeding through the streets of Night City. A strange crew of survivors, outcasts, fugitives.

Sitting in the backseat, I held Lucy's hand and watched the bright store signs whiz by. My mind kept replaying the success of the mission. Thinking about what else could be improved. What details to polish.

It was way more interesting than planning ops for Arasaka.

Back then, the missions were carried out by some abstract agents, just a list of names and callsigns to me. Life, death, success, failure—it all turned into dry lines on a spreadsheet. Now things were different. People I knew well were working with me. My plan was the lifeline we'd all have to follow to get across the chasm. Even the analysis phase didn't get boring here.

The night passed without incident. In the morning, after we got some sleep, Lucy and I got ready to deal with a nosy cop.

"How much do I owe you for the help?" I asked her as we sat in the rented car.

"Come on, V," she replied, brushing her nimble fingers against my cheek and neck. "I pull you out, you pull me out. Money doesn't factor in anymore."

Does this mean our relationship's gone up a level? A non-commercial one. Seems like it.

In about three hours, we figured out which cop had been poking around the ripper docs, where he lived, and what he was known for. Some Sergeant Theodore Christopher Malone. Lucy pulled up an image of his broad, plump face, your typical white American look. It'd fit right in a '70s flick, except for the chip socket and outdated cop implants that kinda ruined the vibe.

"Slimy bastard, but he's not a full-on psycho," Lucy concluded after some checks. "You're not on the police database, so T.C. Malone picked this up as a side gig. He's got a first-floor apartment near Wellsprings. Wanna pay him a visit?"

"Later. First, I need an illegal ripper. Know anyone?"

"There's one asshole in Santo Domingo, but are you sure?"

"It's fine. I've got an idea. Let's go."

Soon we found ourselves at the same dump where David Martinez got his Sandevistan. A shithole barely worthy of being called a clinic.

Lucy went in first, and I followed, wearing a new black jacket and a breathing mask that covered most of my face. I had a glove on my left hand to keep my expensive, high-grade prosthetic hidden.

The illegal ripper sat at his workstation, tinkering with an ancient model of a cyberlimb in chipped yellow plastic. Doc gave a raspy chuckle, staring at us with his visor.

"Ahh, David's little friend. He hasn't come by in ages. And with you…?"

Doc looked me up and down, clearly trying to figure out who was honoring his sad little den with a visit.

"Some very low-profile choom," he finally muttered. "So, what do you want, guys? Pills, injectors, maybe a fresh brain-dance?"

"Got any gear for plastic surgery?"

"Somebody's been a real bad boy, huh?"

"Quite the opposite. Too good. I'm sick of getting stopped on the street for thank-yous. I'm naturally shy."

"Got it all. Mask off, lay down… But anesthesia's extra. Or without?"

I chuckled, muffled by the mask. "You're not touching me even if you offered to pay. You couldn't afford it, choom. I'm renting the equipment and the space. You clear out, my ripper comes in, then you get your cash. And don't even think about surprises like a bug or a cam."

Doc spun around in his chair, looking at me with a sneer.

"You trying to muscle in, choom? I pay for gang protection and to the cops too. My turf, my rules and—"

I stepped closer, snatching the old cyberlimb from him and crushing it in my left hand. Plastic cracked and crumbled, even the metal joint.

"You're dealing in extreme brain-dances, right, Doc?" I asked. "Ever heard of Jotaro Shobo's studio? I assisted him in a few scenes. Could set you up with an audition. Not many roles, but they're all very… memorable."

Doc backed down real fast, deciding I might be mixed up with the Claws.

"Fine. Closed topic. Let's open the topic of payment. How much?"

"Five for three hours at night."

"Deal."

Alright… The clinic problem was handled. Now I just had to contact Vic on a secure channel to explain the plan. Of course, we'd have to check the place for surprises. From what I knew, Doc didn't have strong gang ties. He just paid up so they wouldn't toss him out of the neighborhood. But he might still try some funny business. His twisted mind could come up with something.

The next night, Vic and I arranged for the new ops. Sooner than he wanted, but I felt great, plus I urgently needed some cosmetic work. Alongside that, we planned to install an adrenaline booster, reinforce the tendons in my legs with synthetic fibers, and add joint cushioning so that jumping from heights wouldn't be as risky.

"Quite the cesspool," Vic commented on the illegal ripper's 'clinic'. "Hope you're not letting him install anything?"

"No way. I wouldn't trust him with even a Maelstrom headcase."

"Alright. So, any thoughts on what handsome face I should give you?"

Cosmetic surgery. I didn't want to change my look too much, but that wasn't necessary. To beat facial scans, I only needed to tweak some key features. Vic also fitted me with bright blue lenses for my optics and tightened up my skin. After the operation, I looked younger. The bags under my eyes were gone. From a worn-out, midlife gangster-addict, I'd become a fresh, up-and-coming gangster-addict. Perfect.

No issues with the combat implants, either.

With the rental fees, the whole thing cost me twenty-one grand cash. But no need to stress about finances yet. My total stash only took a small hit. Down to 720K.

The next day, Lucy and I were all set to take on the cop. We took a cab to T.C. Malone's neighborhood. Without getting too close to his place, we started checking for signs that someone else was watching him.

We spent almost the whole day scouring local networks. In 2077, the most practical way to keep an eye on someone was through a camera. Small shops, private apartments—we checked anything with a good view of Malone's apartment. No luck.

We did find a spot dealing MDMA and witnessed two petty thefts.

After that, Lucy moved on to Malone's apartment itself. About an hour before the cop came back from his shift, she broke into his personal space, downloaded files from his computer, and planted a virus to track his future moves.

Once she left the apartment, Lucy sent me one of Malone's recent emails.

"This is the one he's after," the message read.

It was followed by my photograph, taken... at a lecture in the Academy? Odd choice. Very odd. Sure, it's a relatively recent picture, but... my old job must have had way more relevant shots.

The email was signed: "Inspector Stints."

Damn. That name sounds familiar... Unfortunately, my memory about the future isn't flawless, especially when it comes to minor players in the upcoming chaos.

"Check the second one," Lucy suggested.

I opened another email—actually, two: one from Malone and a reply to it.

'To: Inspector Stints

Henry, these two clowns have been tailing me for the second night in a row. I want to grab Harris and detain them. Or is everything okay? They don't really look like gangsters, but they're definitely watching me. I made sure.'

And the reply:

'To: T.K. Malone

Ted, leave those idiots alone. Apparently, they're on your side. I checked. Let them sit around if Fujioka's fine with footing the bill. Just keep a low profile and don't play the hero. It's not worth it.'

Fujioka? Again, something rings a bell, but none of the counterintelligence agents I know go by that name.

"Alright, let's wait for the clowns Malone was talking about. Maybe they'll treat us to an interesting perfomance," I said.

The act would probably be straight out of the famous "Fucking Circus."

To stay out of sight, we took control of one of the street cameras and parked the car a little ways off.

Evening draped the city in its dark veil, and soon the dedicated officer T.K. Malone returned home from a hard day's work. His burly figure lumbered up the steps, waving at some neighbor.

A few minutes after the sergeant entered his apartment, an old Thorton Galena rolled up to the curb near his place. Inside were two young people in cheap synthetic shirts: a Latino guy and a Black girl with dreads. Basic gear, guns out in the open. They both had that look of low-budget merc rookies stamped across their foreheads.

"God, look at these guys, Luce. Somebody really fucked up in HR. Only amateurs think they can assign surveillance to any idiot. It doesn't work that way. Remember when I hired a tail for you?"

"You hired a tail for me?" she asked, surprised.

"Exactly! You didn't even notice. Because I hired a pro. I didn't cheap out."

"Nice. So, when were you following me, V?"

"Way before we met. Started with David, then both of you. Or do you think I just showed up at your place that day with the Claws... only because my heart told me to?"

I winked, leaning closer, and we both laughed. Her light purple eyes sparkled with a mix of joy and madness—an expression you only see on people fate decided to mess with.

"Our first meeting, I was racking my brains on how to kill you fast. Now I'm helping solve your problems. Alright. Let's turn off the street cameras and give these idiots a lesson?"

"All for it. But let's make sure no one's tailing them first."

Bait around bait. It would've been a clever trick. But it looked like we were dealing with plain old incompetence. All checks turned up no third layer of surveillance. So we decided to nab the agents on the spot.

We approached the mercs' car from behind, keeping an eye out, but the street was nearly empty. The few passersby were unlikely to interfere in the little drama about to unfold here. This is Night City. A brief scuffle isn't about to draw anyone's attention.

I took the guy on the left; Lucy took his partner.

Memory wipe, short-circuit, overheat, short-circuit.

Both mercs convulsed under the effects of our quickhacks, and we darted forward, wrenching open the car doors to finish the job. Not to kill, though. I jabbed the guy with a tranquilizer needle, while Lucy used a chip with a virus.

Seconds later, we shut the front doors, and both hopped into the back. Without a word, each of us hooked up a port to our target and began scraping data. It went fast.

"Their payments come from Kaoru Fujioka's accounts. Your old colleague?" Lucy asked.

I spaced out for a few seconds, sifting through memories from both my lives, then answered:

"Nope. Definitely not. He's from a different department. This is all strange. Either counterintel really went downhill in my absence, or the people after me aren't ex-colleagues. Let's figure out where Fujioka lives. Maybe we should pay him a visit before he catches on that his 'super agents' are out cold? Night's just getting started."

"Alright. Give me a sec, then we'll head out for the signal jammer."

Lucy rummaged through the black girl's pockets and found someone's business card and cheap red lipstick. With it, she quickly scrawled a few characters on a scrap of paper that said:

"Get a real job, idiots."

She tucked it into the neckline of the rookie merc's sports top, and we left the car. Within forty minutes, we were headed toward the business district.

Honestly, breaking into a corp apartment without scouting it first isn't the best idea. But my gut told me it'd work out this time. Everything about Fujioka's actions reeked of amateur hour. I wasn't expecting any clever traps.

From what we gathered, Kaoru Fujioka was a financial analyst at Arasaka and a former PR manager. Japanese by birth, transferred to Night City five and a half years ago. Good career. What would a polished suit like that want with Vincent Price, the guy the corp dumped? Is Abernathy still trying to get to me through people in other departments? Unlikely. Fujioka's way too rich and clueless about covert affairs. Okamura, Lucas—they're small fries but experienced. This guy? Finance guy and a bullshitter. Not the hardest opponent for a former counterintelligence agent.

Fujioka lived on one of the top floors of a luxury skyscraper. Not a penthouse, but still pricey. Security was posted downstairs, but we slipped in through the back. Disabled the magnetic lock, knocked out a few cameras, and took the freight elevator to the right floor. Lucy locked herself in a closet, pulling out signal-blocking equipment from her bag, while I suited up in my usual assassin's kit: black balaclava, mask, vest, gloves.

I felt a bit jittery going into Kurusaki's lair back then. But this time, I was moving with ice-cold calm. It felt like Lucy and I could pull off almost anything tonight. A pleasant illusion, of course. But one worth indulging in—just not too much.

'Герои, герои, герои…

О них говорит целый свет.

Шагают по краю порою,

И полнится список побед.

Но есть и у них мне на радость

Изъян незаметный для глаз.

Их вера в себя — это слабость,

Хоть кажется силой подчас…'

I sang in my head, forcing myself to stay alert. To look for traps and trouble, even if the opponent had already shown himself to be a novice. Scanning. Query. Ah, got it. Camera, alarm, and there's the man himself.

Lucy unlocked the door for me remotely, letting me into the Japanese guy's lavish apartment. Kaoru Fujioka was still up. He'd come back from a restaurant recently and was probably still hitting the bottle in the kitchen, chatting on his comms at the same time.

"Yeah. They kicked him out. I thought he was gonna either cry or piss himself on the spot. But what did he expect after pulling a stunt like that, locking down a whole district? I even suggested… well… firing him a little harder."

"Waiting for him to finish rambling before I cut the signals," Lucy informed me. "Cameras aren't recording anymore."

Kaoru was quite the chatterbox once he got a buzz on. I had to wait nearly half an hour while he poured, drank, laughed, and told all these insane tales about life as a financier. Finally, he was done. Now it was my turn to talk.

I walked into the kitchen, holding my Kenshin "Apparition" in front of me. Kaoru was facing away from me. Polished bastard in a bio-silk shirt and a gleaming vest with scales of gilding.

Right. He shouldn't have any serious combat implants. I could take my time with this.

"Kaoru," I called in a metallic tone.

The guy spun around, dropping his tequila glass, pressing his back against the bar. I couldn't see his eyes through those mirrored glasses, but I was sure he was stressed out. His Arasaka biomonitor was probably advising him to take a sedative right about now.

"I've got Platinum Trauma!" Kaoru warned. "Three minutes, and a strike team'll be here."

"Their shift's over. Hands up! Move, and I'll paint your brains all over the bar."

I needed to knock him out, take him somewhere out of sight, and… well, devour him. Best way to get the whole truth. But it looked like he'd already figured out who'd come for him.

"Mr. Vincent Price, I presume."

"The one and only," I confirmed, not bothering to hide it. "You skimped on the mercenaries."

"Well… if you're here, that means they did their job," he countered. "I reached my goal."

"The goal was three bullets in the head? Is this some elaborate form of suicide by assassin?"

"Not suicide," the guy shot back, regaining a bit of his nerve. "I want to hire you for a hit. There's someone troublesome I need dealt with, and I'm sure you'll take this job with enthusiasm."

"And why are you so sure of that?" I asked, still not lowering my gun.

"First, this person is your enemy too. Also wants you gone. And second…" He smirked. "Not many people turn down a chance to settle a score with their former boss after getting fired. I want you to take care of Susan Abernathy."