Cyberpunk 2077: Demons of Night City

In the evening, I had a strange encounter. Waiting for me by the elevator was a one of those troubled kids, from the streets.

"Are you V?" he asked in a pitiful voice. "The corp guy?"

"Yeah," I replied, carefully placing my hand on the grip of my pistol. "No sudden moves, kid. I'm jumpy today."

Had Okamura used his last bit of cash to hire a child? Ridiculous, but who knows what's going on in that sick head of his?

"Uh, okay," the boy got scared and showed me a black envelope with a white pattern. "A woman told me to give this to you. Gave me cash and Chromanticore. Said I'd get more."

"Put the envelope in that corner and scram."

Once the boy obeyed, I tossed him a small bill. He hurried off, happy but still a little scared. The envelope. Damn. I needed to go home and grab gloves and a gas mask.

I picked up the black envelope, using latex-gloved fingers. It was light. No way an explosive device could fit inside. The envelope wasn't sealed either. Gas or powder were out of the question too—everything would have spilled out while the kid was carrying it. I carefully dumped the contents onto the floor. It was a photograph of Evelyn Parker. The doll was captured in a red and rather provocative outfit.

I gently hooked the edge of the photo and turned it over. Against a black background, white letters were messily scrawled:

"Don't disappear. Don't get yourself killed. We remember you. We are waiting."

I see. Just a little hello from the Voodoo Boys. I went back to my apartment. Damn. I just wanted to enjoy life in peace, but if it's not gangsters showing up, it's dark sorcerers sending greetings, and sometimes even the dead from the Net start bothering you.

I really needed to deal with the assassination attempts at least. But for now, I wanted to focus on developing my demonic powers. Okamura wouldn't be able to get a new loan for another hit anytime soon. I had a couple of weeks, maybe even a month.

Soon, we received the rest of our salaries. I got seventy-two thousand with overtime bonuses. After covering expenses for tracking Lucy, food, taxis, and other daily stuff, I had about 427 thousand eurodollars left in my account. Around 45 thousand I had in cash or on credchips.

I would have liked to withdraw more, but it was dangerous to draw attention to my accounts with sudden big spending.

The next week and a half passed almost peacefully. Work, work, overtime, headaches, coffee, pills, work. From morning until late at night, I was a cog in the corporate machine. A small piece of the giant zaibatsu mechanism. But in the evenings, my true nature revealed itself. Either I'd go to the shooting range or just order Lucas to drive around the city. Our car would speed along the highways or dive into the city's slums. That's where the real fun began.

"Slower," I commanded.

The black car glided through the working-class neighborhoods, abandoned buildings, and dumps like a ghost. There, I hunted for victims. Homeless people, junkies, scum, gangsters. Those who had no place in expensive hospitals. Only med-techs like Gloria Martinez, who work for pennies, would clean up their bodies, whether they overdosed or caught a stray bullet. They were rejects, too disgusting even for Scavengers. But I could find a use for them. Watching the city's underbelly through the tinted glass, I activated scan mode and picked out my target.

There was an obviously fallen technician. He wore a torn Petrochem work uniform. He had suitable implants in his head, but his ice was worthless. Perfect. My tendrils crept toward him through Cyberspace. One second, two. Contact. I opened his eyes and saw a dead-end alley filled with trash bags. I stood up, staggering along the road where other poor souls sat on cardboard.

"Nick! Nick!" a nasal voice called from behind. "Nick, choom, let me bum a smoke."

I turned around. A small, dirty Latino with a wobbly jaw and missing right eye was reaching out his hand. I patted my pockets. In one, there was a lighter and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. I pulled out two. Lit them.

Somewhere on the other side of the street, a car was speeding, carrying my real body, but my virtual threads could stretch pretty far. I had tested that already.

The smoke from a shitty hand-rolled cigarette, likely made from the contents of many discarded butts, flowed into someone else's lungs. The marionette's body convulsed with a reflexive cough. All sensations were muted.

Soon, I cut the threads. With chilling hands, I pulled out a plastic device made especially for me. Three slots held different drug vials. The device hummed, mixing my favorite cocktail. The result was a slightly burgundy suspension. I could send the whole dose directly into my vein through the device's built-in injector. But I preferred to savor it. Using a small syringe, I'd inject a couple of cubes after each experiment. At first, the symptoms of desynchronization faded easily, but they built up day by day. When the drugs stopped working, it was time to feed.

Днем лихорадка — ночью пир

Ты теперь демон, ты вампир

В поисках новой жертвы в снег и зной

Вечный изгой…

The first victim of my street hunts was a young gang member from Animals trying to steal a motorcycle near some sleazy diner. I took control of him, led him into an alley, and made him shoot himself in the knees, thigh, and left arm, then I skinned him virtually.

I didn't make him shoot himself for sadistic pleasure. Especially since marionettes didn't perceive time while under control. It was just easier to skin the wounded.

Marionettes remember nothing and feel nothing while under control, but virtual flaying turned out to be an extremely painful process for the victim. That Militech guy in the hospital was probably under anesthesia. That's why he died so peacefully. But the gangster convulsed violently. He foamed at the mouth, even shit himself. A few people ran over at the sound of his screams, but none tried to help. They just watched in fear, and one bum later carefully snatched the gangster's gun. Night City. The city of compassion.

In just a week and a half, I temporarily controlled about thirty people, flayed two, and drowned one. The last one had been viciously beating a homeless woman, then decided to set her on fire. He doused her in fuel, but as he was taking out his lighter, I seized control.

Drowning in someone else's body. It was interesting experience. The sensations were muted, but I felt the searing pain in my lungs. I didn't get kicked out of the shell until the very end, and even after death, I briefly retained control of the corpse.

Two weeks went by like that.

Then it was time to give a lecture at Arasaka Academy. It wasn't just about the money, although four and a half thousand isn't something to pass up. It was a convenient opportunity to meet with David again and to convince Tanaka there was no conflict between us. They offered me to give the lecture online, but I refused. Without a face-to-face meeting with Martinez, half the point of the whole event would be lost.

So, taking a short leave for Sunday, I dressed as strictly as possible. A black corporate blazer, a white shirt, perfectly pressed pants. I did add red glasses as a little personal touch.

At the Academy building, I was met by Tanaka's annoyingly fussy subordinate, who looked like a cross between a man and a pug.

"Mr. Price! Please, this way. We'll record your speech and include its points in one of the monthly tests. So the students will have to listen to you very carefully. And yes…" he handed me a shard. "If your material doesn't last an hour and a half, here's some recommended content from the program…"

"I'll pass," I replied with a smile. "I could talk about my work for days. I'm definitely not going to 'read from the paper.'"

"As you wish," the pudgy guy immediately gave in.

My speech took place in a round auditorium with a high-tech design and scattered green-blue lights. Rows of students in identical uniforms filled the seats at the base of the stage-podium. I spotted David. He had changed a lot since our last meeting. His uniform was clean, his hair neatly cut, but the biggest changes were elsewhere. While I'd been in the hospital learning to control corpses, the guy had clearly hit the gym and occasionally visited a ripperdoc. He now looked like a young athlete. Not a track-and-field type, but more like the captain of a college rugby team.

His position in the class hierarchy had also changed. When he entered the hall, a group of several boys and girls clearly followed him, all vying for his attention. Popularity.

It made sense. David had publicly humiliated the son of one of the Academy's executives, but instead of getting expelled, he got a scholarship and free implants. In just a few days, the kid went from a poor outcast to a promising student, with a "bad boy" reputation to boot.

I was introduced as a special guest, and it was mentioned that points from my speech would definitely appear in their tests. Many students were not thrilled by this news.

"Good evening," I began, pacing across the stage. "Well, how good could it be? You're here after your studies, and I'm here after work. Mr. Tanaka recommended that I give you more specifics. Especially since one of your students recently had a run-in with the city's gangs and, as a result, met me."

I glanced over at David. Many others looked at him too. Some with disapproval, but most with admiration or respect. The guy himself only nodded modestly, looking grimly focused, as if before an important conversation. I had my suspicions about that, but I'd check everything after the lecture.

"But first, a little theory. What skill would I name as the most important for an intelligence officer? The ability to calculate options and choose the most optimal one. In reality, this skill is necessary for almost everyone, but in intel, we pay a very high price for its absence. Anyone have suggestions on how to develop such a skill?"

"Chess?" came the predictable answer from the hall, one I was already prepared for.

"Correct. Chess is a decent basic training tool. It teaches you to plan moves ahead, but on the other hand, the game traps us in a dangerous illusion. Can anyone guess what that is?"

There was silence for a few seconds. Finally, a medium-height brunette with glasses, the type of straight-A student, raised his hand. I nodded, allowing him to answer.

"The illusion of chess is that opponents start with equal conditions and the same resources? "he suggested. "In real life, that almost never happens."

"Correct. And that too," I agreed. "But that's a specific case of a broader problem. Chess creates the illusion of logical and predictable rules, but in the real world, they don't exist."

Giving the students a few seconds to digest my point, I began to expand on it with examples:

"Who said your own pieces are less dangerous than your opponent's? Nonsense, your own pieces are much more dangerous. In chess, while you're not looking, your knight can't eat your rook to take its place, and a pawn won't sell your strategy notes to the opponent for a couple of thousand eddies. In reality, things like this happen all the time!" I chuckled.

Many in the audience smiled as well, getting the point.

"In reality, pawns, if they conspire, can corner their own king and expose him to an enemy blow because the officer aiming for the throne promised to make them all knights. Who said that a pawn reaching the final rank must always become a piece? Nonsense. Sometimes it's much more useful to leave it as a pawn - let it stand at the edge of the abyss as a warning to other pawns…"

I paused again before moving on to more general topics.

"People are predictable in their greed, but at the same time, poorly predictable in their stupidity. These two forces clash, creating the Great Chaos of life."

Another short pause, and I continued.

"Corporations try to fight chaos. They create discipline and service hierarchies. Structures designed to tame chaos. Yet it still seeps through and tries to find its place. Outside corporations, there's a boiling sea of opportunities. Opportunities to succeed, and opportunities to die a horrible death. Gangsters, mercenaries, fixers, nomads, journalists, cops. Thousands of fates are mixed in the cauldron of Night City. At the start of your career, each of you has to decide 'will you hide from the chaos, looking for the calmest spot, or dive into the churning waves, hoping to catch a dream'. Some of you may be curious how I answered that question? I try to walk somewhere in between."

The lecture shifted from vivid imagery to specifics. I explained how, in my view, one should assess the combat potential of soldiers or mercenaries, which gangs operate in the city and what to expect from them, how important these groups are to the bigger corporate game, and why it's sometimes necessary to carry out operations using other people's hands.

I'm not sure how thrilled Tanaka will be with my teaching methods, but he did ask for specifics on operational work. The students, on the other hand, were clearly enjoying hearing who among the street gangsters would cut out their implants and who would try to sell them to an underground brothel.

An hour and a half flew by unnoticed.

After the lecture, I stepped out of the Academy and stopped for a smoke in a pretty visible spot while Lucas waited for me by the car. He was waiting for me, and I was waiting for David.

In my past life, I preferred hookahs over cigarettes, and later I quit those too. But in this new world, where technology was both a blessing and a curse, lung cancer probably wouldn't be the thing to kill me. More likely, a bullet from one of the gangs I'd mentioned in the lecture. So I started smoking. It added a certain finality to my image.

David came out of the building, having shaken off the new admirers he'd acquired, and walked toward me. Serious, focused, much more grown-up than before.

"I'd love to see the test on my lecture," I smirked, imitating the fussing pug from the Academy administration."Maybe something like - Question number six: Choose which of the listed gangs control prostitution in this area."

"They'll reduce everything to boring generalities," David replied, handing me a package. "Please take this. She asked me to give it to you."

"Gloria? Thanks."

I turned the package over in my hands. Clearly something soft inside. A sweater or scarf, probably. Unique loot for completing a quest, huh. It was a bit pleasant, actually. But David seemed embarrassed by the gift, likely thinking I was too cool for sweaters and scarves.

"You've got something you really want to tell me?"

"That obvious?"

"Yeah. You're gloomier than a storm cloud. But your classmates seem to dig your new image."

"I don't care," David waved dismissively. "A week ago, they didn't even notice me. But yeah… I wanted to talk to you. I tried calling, but it turned out you were in the hospital."

"Right. They only forwarded work calls to me at that clinic."

"So, everything's okay? With your health, I mean."

"Yeah, all good now. Go ahead, say what you wanted."

"Remember in the car…" the guy started, clearly nervous and looking off to the side. "You told me about my mom and how she ended up in that hospital. What they tried to do to her… I can't let that go."

"I remember. But going to the police is pointless. A mistake. They'll reduce everything to negligence, and you won't prove anything. They've got their own protection."

"I get it. That's why… I want to deal with that doctor myself. But… I don't really know how to find him. I thought about paying one of the street fixers, but… I already know you. I can't offer much. Two thousand for information on that guy and where to find him," David finally said, breathing heavily.

He was clearly anxious but had enough determination to get through the conversation. I assume they'd already put him on a course of meds, including those affecting his psyche. They were turning him into a war machine.

I took a small pause, finishing my cigarette and flicking the butt away before replying:

"For starters, kid, answer me this, and more importantly, be honest with yourself: what exactly are you planning to do with that guy?"

David nervously swallowed. Growing up is tough. Me? Well, with all the lives I've lived combined, I'm ancient, so I can answer these kinds of questions without even thinking. But here he is, standing there, working himself up to finally say:

"He needs to be taken out."

Taken out? Yeah, suuuure. A no name doc? It would have been more appropriate to "kill' or "zero" him. David's nonspecific, operative-like "taken out" is telling.

"You don't have to do anything," David added hastily. "Just tell me where and when he'll be. I can pay more. Just later. They only just started paying me a stipend."

"Keep your money, kid. Let's make a deal: one evening, we'll take a ride, and after that? Only the streets of Night City will know what happens next. Wait for my call."

"Got it."

"Take care," I nodded and slowly walked toward the car.

"See you, Mr. Price," came his voice from behind.

"V. Just call me V," I said without looking back.

Once I was in the car, I sorted my thoughts.

Was that quack really going to kill David's mother? Maybe yes, maybe no, or maybe—who the fuck cares? I'm not the city's judge. This murder could end up playing nicely into my hands. So let Martinez take out the bastard and feel indebted to me. That'll come in handy when he finally climbs to the top of the food chain in our lovely city.

So, I've got three things on my plate: Maine's gang attacking Tanaka, dealing with Okamura, and David's revenge. I've got to fit all that into the two days off Jenkins promised me. Though, only the situation with Tanaka seemed tricky.

I was still thinking about what to do. At first, I was dead set on taking him out, but now I'm not so sure it's in my best interest. I kinda want to use the attack information to my advantage. But how? Save him and count on his gratitude? Nah. Been there, done that. Best case, I get another small favor, worst case, I get a scolding for acting on my own. Should I try selling the info to Jenkins? That might strengthen his position. But I'm worried that if I do that, a security team will be sent to rescue Tanaka. Lucy might die or get caught in the aftermath. And what do I get out of it? At best, a bonus from Jenkins.

Nope. I won't be saving Tanaka. It's not just about revenge. It's too risky for my plans with Lucy, and the reward's pretty insignificant even in the best case.

Soon enough, Maine's crew will track down Jimmy Kurosaki, a black braindance director who's basically Tanaka's personal chef for twisted content. That's what my memory of the future tells me. If not, I'll tip them off anonymously myself.

But David won't be in Maine's crew anymore. That might change the chain of events, so it's better for me to keep everything under tight control. The raid on Jimmy Kurosaki will happen under my watchful eye. If possible, I'll snatch something valuable from the director—eddies, intel, equipment. A little compensation for my wicked efforts.

The only question left is: can I handle this solo, or should I hire some mercs for backup? Hmm. Better not follow in Kentaro Okamura's footsteps—he's gonna be dead soon anyway. It's smarter not to skimp on mercs.

That evening, I placed an order at Afterlife. Twelve grand for two bodyguards for both days. I set very strict requirements for their chrome. I needed fighters who could potentially pull me out of serious trouble.

The next evening, I went to pick up some gear for the operation. I rode solo in Delamain. I wasn't dressed like a corpo at all, and my face was covered by a medical mask.

Looking like that, I visited a small open market in a not-so-great part of town. The clothing vendor was a former Tiger Claw enforcer who'd taken early retirement after suffering serious back injuries. Sure, that kind of thing can be treated nowadays. I'd even say, they can treat much worse stuff now, but it costs a shitload of eddies. The vendor handed me a big bag and grinned.

"Just like you wanted: masks, gloves, helmet, a heavy-duty vest, black clothes. Someone's planning on doing some bad shit, huh, mister?"

"Oh no, of course not," I replied. "Just decided to get my Halloween costume early."

"And what are you gonna call this outfit?"

"The Cold-blooded Killer."

The ex-gangster laughed hoarsely.