Cyberpunk 2077: Demons of Night City

My familiar counterintelligence office welcomed me with wary, polite greetings from colleagues. Beneath their courteous facade, I could read the true tone:

"Oh wow, V, you're still alive⁈ We were starting to hope you'd done us a favor and died in a ditch somewhere from a gang bullet."

Jenkins greeted me with:

"Well, Wild Bill, time to hang up the hat."

This time, he even offered me a seat.

"You didn't screw up. Tanaka wrote half a page about how you're a pro, deserving of all sorts of praise. Too bad I didn't get to see Abernathy's face when she read that. But be straight with me... it wasn't really about stealing some training software, was it?"

Lying to Jenkins is risky, but I can't exactly spill all of Tanaka's secrets either. Let's try sticking to a half-truth.

"Mr. Tanaka had some trouble with a black braindance director. They threw me into that stinking mess to clean it up. Had to zero out a fixer who got too curious—cut his head clean off."

"In another case, I'd ask, 'Did you at least save some dirt on him?' But Tanaka's a particularly nasty, vengeful guy. If you're gonna yank his chain, you better make it pleasant for him. Looks like you managed."

"I did my best."

"But don't expect a bonus. This is between you two, let Tanaka settle up with you himself."

No problem. He already has. With my current cash reserves and the steady income that has little to do with a paycheck, it reminds me of that old joke about cops living off fines and bribes in the nineties: 'What, we get a salary too? I thought they just gave us a badge, a gun, and told us to make do.'

I've managed to scrape together hundreds of thousands.

"Time to get back to work, V. You can't run from your responsibilities forever, or something worse will catch up with you."

And off I went.

Back to days blending into one another. The first week was utter hell. The backlog buried me like an avalanche. And no rescue crew was coming—I had to dig myself out. Six days of sixteen, sometimes seventeen-hour shifts. Early in the morning, Lukas would drive me to the tower, and late at night, he'd haul my half-dead body back home.

It was as if work had sensed that I had a personal life now and was vengefully punishing me for my secret affair with Lucina Kusinada. Speaking of that secret affair—twice, Lucy messaged me through secure channels, asking if I was free. Both times, I had to turn her down.

Reports, filings, meetings.

The real "joy" came from two agents I nicknamed Beavis and Butt-head from Petrochem. I don't know whose brilliant idea it was to send two spies into the same department of a fuel giant and let them know about each other, but the result was… spectacular. These morons mostly spied on each other, sending near-identical daily reports about how the other was about to botch the operation. And guess who had to analyze all that spam? Me. Four days in, I was seriously considering turning them over to Petrochem or shelling out fourteen grand for a hitman. It would have been simpler to write up their deaths and the operation's failure than to keep drafting endless responses to their mutual complaints.

What held me back was knowing that I'd still have work regardless. Once I cleared this up, they'd throw more my way. Jenkins seemed to think that after my wild days, I had to endure some corporate penance. Cleanse myself, so to speak, from the corrupting influence of the streets. Forget that the world outside the tower existed in any form other than incoming reports.

The advance came in—32k. By now, it seemed like pocket change, hardly worth celebrating. Guess I'd gotten spoiled.

Still, buried in work, I tried to quietly prepare for my departure. Without drawing attention, I copied some files from the databases. Nothing too classified, but definitely useful info on key figures in Night City's underworld. Whether I become a fixer or a bandit, this kind of intel could come in handy.

After a week, Jenkins eased up a little. Things started to go back to a "normal" pace—if you can call 10-12 hours a day, 6 days a week, normal. I even managed to meet up with Lucy briefly. This time, she was noticeably more insistent.

"I need to see you. Even if it's just for a little while," read the message.

We met late at night in an alley in Japantown. It felt like a mix between a secret rendezvous between lovers from rival families and a spy drop. I walked into the alley with my hat pulled low over my face, and Lucy jumped down behind me from a fire escape.

I turned just as she was ready to pounce on me. There's really no other way to put it. A long kiss took the place of our greetings. It seemed like her feelings hadn't cooled one bit during our time apart. Then again, obstacles tend to strengthen attachments, and it looked like that's what we had.

When we finally pulled apart, Lucy pressed a heavy package into my hand.

"For the stones?" I asked quietly.

"For everything," she replied. "And there's more."

"There's more," happened to be an unmarked chip. I slotted it in, heard a brief beep, but nothing else seemed to change.

"What's this?"

"A black cloak and hat," she smirked, pressing herself against me. "Just virtual. Run a diagnostic through a proxy."

I followed her advice and... Ah, some kind of stealthy ice. My cyber defenses now looked solid but still conventional. No digital fortress in my head—just a very strong corporate ice.

A very useful tool. I hadn't run into runners lately, but if I did, this chip would save me from hearing more stories about experimental implants. Okamura bought my lie, but a more inquisitive type might've quietly filed for a review. Like, what's this strange ice in the head of a corporate desk jockey, and why don't I have the same?

"There's more," she continued. "You won't notice it right now, but it's working. I tested it on myself."

"What is working?"

"You mentioned the Arasaka chrome bothering you. The chip's got your current implant signature embedded."

"Wait, what?" I was surprised and thrilled. "This thing can mask the chrome, too?"

"Yeah. Install whatever you like of the same type; surface scans and remote checks won't detect the difference."

A disguise like this was just what I needed. It meant I could swap out the corporate chrome for my personal equivalents without anyone at work catching on.

"It won't fool a full diagnostic, so be careful with ripperdocs," she warned.

Well… Now I definitely don't regret all the effort I put into recruiting Lucy. Worth every bit of the hassle to get her delivered by Faraday in that gift-wrapped package.

"Thanks."

"V..." Lucy said, looking into my eyes. "Get out of there."

There was a mix of demand and pleading in her voice.

"I will, I promise," I nodded and joked. "Just waiting for the guy at the next desk to return the golf club."

"Look inside here," Lucy pointed to the bundle she'd given me. "There's enough for a whole golf club."

"Really? That's intriguing."

After we parted with a kiss even longer than our greeting, I opened the bundle in the back of a cab. Inside were stacks of cash and credit chips. I counted, thought it over, added it up, and… it took my breath away.

One hundred sixty-four thousand.

There was a note in the bundle that said besides the gems, Jorge's safe had cash, gold, and a small box of unremarkable microchips. Those chips were worth even more than the jewels—some rare circuits, cast and printed in zero gravity. Jorge Luis wasn't a millionaire, but he'd been guarding someone else's goods worth a small fortune. No wonder he was so paranoid.

So now, after recent expenses, I had 830, with 464 in cash.

Not a mind-blowing amount, but significant. The old V could only dream of this kind of money, like most of Night City's population. I could buy a fantastic car right away, get top-tier chrome, and still have enough for a few months of easy living. The key now was to put those funds out of harm's way.

"Home stretch," I thought.

That same evening, I stopped by a small shop near the Kabuki market. One of many makeshift workshops, fixing junk and selling outdated tech straight from the dump. I ordered a simple device that could be a game-changer for me—a flat injector shaped like a plastic pill. You press the top, and a few needles deliver the dose into your bloodstream. I'd load it with an anti-neural shock cocktail, perfect for injecting mid-fight.

Another workday passed, and my one day off finally arrived. Well, not a full day, since I had to stop by the tower in the morning. Lucy suggested meeting in the evening, but I replied:

"I have a meeting planned today, but you'll like the reason. I'm swapping out my chrome."

"Good job. Get out of there fast."

By the afternoon, I maneuvered my way to Watson, dodging any tails. Little China. The street was one I remembered well from my first life. Nearby loomed the tenth megatower.

"Arasaka is not just a corporation, not just a clan!" an ecstatic street prophet was proclaiming. "They're the immortal undead, draining the life out of innocent victims."

Well, there certainly was a little undead presence in Arasaka right now.

"No, Gary!" a frightened, dark-skinned homeless woman cried out, clearly plagued by anxiety. "Don't reveal Arasaka's secrets. They'll come for you. They'll come for us!"

"I cannot do otherwise," the prophet replied proudly. "It's my mission. I plant the seeds of truth! It will grow and free us from the death grip of these parasites!"

I left the odd pair to their conspiracy theories and headed straight to Viktor's clinic, skipping Misty's Esoterica.

I had to wait a bit while the ripper worked on the face of a young guy, who either had a car accident or a run-in with some unhappy Animals. When he finished with the patient, Viktor gave me a quick look and asked:

"First time here? You don't look like my usual clients."

I wasn't wearing a suit today, but my appearance still marked me as someone with above-average means.

"First time, and I hope not the last. Jackie spoke highly of you, Mr. Vector."

"Jackie?" Viktor pondered for a moment. "He mentioned he often helped some corpo. V?"

"The one and only."

"Isn't off-the-books chrome a no-go for your type?" Viktor asked, curious. "I can do the install, but it might cause you trouble later. And… let's switch to first names if that's okay."

"Fine by me," I replied, removing my coat and shirt. "I want to replace the corporate chrome with my own. Same models. Maybe upgrade the Kerenzikov a bit. I might be quitting soon, and I don't want to lose my chrome with a snap of the boss's fingers."

"That 'quitting' sounds a lot like 'running,'" Viktor chuckled quietly, gesturing for me to sit in the chair. "The suit starting to chafe?"

"Yeah. And the tie's strangling me," I said as I sat down. "It's a long story, really. Trouble at work, plus I met a girl, and it's hard to build a relationship when you're working six days a week or worse. Arasaka's a very jealous mistress."

"Love knows no age or profession," Victor remarked philosophically. "I thought I was too old for that kind of thing, but recently I've found myself going on dates again."

Weird. I didn't remember anything like that from the past, though those memories focused mostly on key events. Some details might have been left out—or maybe just off-screen.

"So, what are we installing?" Victor interrupted my thoughts.

For most of the chrome, I just picked equivalent replacements. I spent a long time deciding on the deck. It was between the Tetratronic Rippler, fourth version, and a private-use Arasaka model. The former offered extra memory, while the latter was better for stealth scripts, making it harder for enemy runners to detect. In the end, I went with the Rippler.

Victor also suggested adding a Kereznikov stimulant system, but that would risk messing up the disguise Lucy had prepared for me.

The whole operation set me back a hefty 66,000. That left me with 764,500, including 398,000 in cash. As a "gift," Victor handed me a box containing my old corporate chrome, neatly packed away. Now everything I had was mine—no remote shutdown possible anymore.

Victor did notice some oddities in my ICE and nervous system but didn't pry too deeply. He just recommended regular check-ups.

After the surgery, I felt relatively okay, though exhaustion hit me hard. I converted another twenty thousand into cash and headed home.

The next three days passed without incident, except for a call from Jackie one evening:

"So, who is she? Are you gonna introduce me? C'mon, give me the—"

"Lizzy Wizzy," I cut him off coldly. "I jerk off to her poster every night. I'll give you all the colorful details in person."

"Mierda! Paranoia's gonna bury you, V."

And it's the only thing that'll dig me out of my grave.

Three days went by normally, but on the fourth, things got strange. Arthur Jenkins summoned me out of nowhere and started with:

"What's this business you've got with Security?"

"Me? With Security?" I asked, genuinely surprised.

"They want you specifically for tomorrow and the day after. Not just a counterintelligence officer—you. And Abernathy signed off on it gladly."

Odd. Well, looks like I'm reporting to Security tomorrow.

The next morning, Lucas Costa picked me up in a corporate jeep, greeting me with:

"Good morning, Mr. Price. Today, I'll be escorting you both during transport and at work."

"Alright," I nodded.

Security had a few militarized bases across the city, and they also occupied a couple of floors in the tower. That's where Lucas and I were headed. We walked through unfamiliar black corridors with minimal décor, where people in tactical gear moved around instead of the usual suit-wearers. Armories, workshops, shooting ranges, gyms, locker rooms. Still a part of the corporation, but far from an office environment.

Lucas led me to a small room where a middle-aged Japanese man with extensive body modifications was waiting. He introduced himself as Sadao Araki, Senior Security Officer.

"Take a seat," he said in an icy tone.

It sounded more like a command than an invitation. Fine.

Sadao stared at me, his armored visor's red lenses locked on my face.

"Vincent Price," he stated emotionlessly. "Survived two assassination attempts."

"Correct," Lucas answered for me, standing to the side of the desk.

"Some punks, and the Sixth Street Gang. Participated in a ZetaTech factory raid. No injuries. Threatened a pilot with a weapon… Received a bonus. Personal firearm?"

"I carry it," I replied.

"Show it, Mr. Price," Lucas clarified.

I pulled out my Yukimura and the Kenshin "Apparation." Sadao barely glanced at the smart pistol but scrutinized the electromagnetic one intently with his metal fingers.

"I know this model," he finally said. "It'll do. Lucas, take Mr. Price to the fourth locker room."

What the hell is going on here?

Lucas snapped to attention, giving a deep bow in the Japanese style before gesturing for me to follow him out. Okay then.

"What's the plan here, exactly?" I asked the Brazilian as we walked down the corridor.

"You'll receive instructions later. Let's head to the locker room."

We entered a spacious room with rows of large lockers, each with heavy magnetic locks. This was nothing like a high school locker room. And the people getting suited up here weren't teenage athletes. Dozens of Arasaka operatives were fitting their chrome-plated bodies with aramid fiber, Kevlar, tactical vests, and various gadgets. Lucas pointed me to a locker that opened when it scanned my corporate ID. Inside, I found a combat runner's kit: a reinforced suit with titanium alloy plates, body armor, a sealed helmet with a visor, advanced scanning tech, and an overheating protection module. Looks like they want me to do some fighting. But with whom, and why? Don't they have their own people for this? Guess I'll deal with it as it comes.

Lucas moved away to gear up at his own locker while I started to unbutton my jacket. That's when I heard a familiar voice behind me:

"Mr. Price?!"

I turned around.

"I mean… V," stammered one of the operatives, pulling down his mask.

Standing before me was David Martinez.