Cyberpunk 2077: Demons of Night City

Well, we meet again. Sooner than I expected.

"What brings you here, David?" I asked.

"They recruited me two weeks ago," he replied, tugging down his mask further. "First, they had me run some simulations, then a live-fire exercise. A few more tests, then they said I'd be part of a combat operation."

Hmm. Is this part of his training, or are they slowly transitioning him from the Academy to Security?

"And you're here for work?"

"Yeah. Sometimes counterintelligence officers get assigned to Security units," I answered.

Though they still haven't explained what exactly I'm supposed to investigate or scout out.

"Cool," he beamed. "Looking forward to working with you."

There was genuine enthusiasm in his voice.

"Time, Mr. Price," Lucas reminded me, already suited up in combat gear.

His heavy armor was white and silver with red accents, made of flame-resistant materials, and with good kinetic absorption. In that kind of "raincoat," a shower of small-caliber bullets would be no problem.

"Sorry for distracting you," David said, glancing at Lucas, and stepped aside.

I went back to the buttons. After taking off my jacket and shirt, I felt like a scrawny kid who'd accidentally walked into the locker room before some sports championship. The size difference was that obvious. In this world, even height can be adjusted with combat implants. When I first met Martinez, he was a slim teenager, a bit shorter than me. Now, David had grown to a good half a head taller and bulked up enough to rival, if not surpass, some of the security guys here. How much chrome and chemicals have they crammed into him? Damn. I want that too.

I squeezed into a tight black jumpsuit that was clearly tailored for my skinny frame. In an inner thigh pocket on the left side, I tucked a round injector, already filled with the required formula. Hopefully, I won't need to use any special abilities, but if I do, I'll be ready.

Then I put on the armored collar, which was meant to connect with a sealed helmet. A black sphere with the red corporate logo on the center. I pulled a cable from the helmet and plugged it into an open port. Connection established. The helmet's interior became transparent, and the enhanced scanning equipment highlighted everything from cameras and alarms to mines and computers—even showing cable outlines through the walls.

After the helmet, I strapped on a heavy body armor and utility belts. The locker also held a set of emergency medical supplies, EMP grenades, and a TKI-20 Shingen, a smart SMG.

In other words, I was packed with corporate-grade gear. And the gear wasn't all I was getting. Underneath it all, there was a small metal case filled with shards: viruses, icebreakers, demons. Corporate combat software. I loaded each shard into the helmet.

Three minutes later, a virtual briefing began for the operation team. A 3D render appeared of a three-story building in Northside: an abandoned factory in the middle of a rundown industrial district. Rusted pipes on the walls looked like the decayed guts of some giant creature, long dead and slowly decomposing under the acid rains.

"Mission type: assault. No time restrictions," announced the detached female voice of the virtual assistant. "Necessary arrangements with the Night City police have been made. They'll limit their interference to securing the outer perimeter."

Whenever corporations and gangs want to shoot it out, Night City's brave police force is always ready to politely step back and let them at it.

"The building is occupied by Maelstrom gang members. Armed conflict is inevitable. Preemptive strike is recommended," continued the virtual assistant.

Maelstrom. Aggressive cyber-psychos with a fetish for all things inhuman.

"Due to theft or an intentional leak by an unknown corporation, the gang has gained access to advanced tech. They have conducted several network attacks on hotel complexes and braindance studios. These companies have approached us for assistance. There was also an incident involving hostages, though no demands were made. Primary objectives: eliminate the gang and secure the equipment for further investigation. Hostages are low priority but may be rescued if feasible."

The briefing showed the building from multiple angles, with footage taken by a camouflaged drone, which the Maelstrom thugs outside ignored. Red-eyed freaks gathered around a charred old car, armed with assault rifles. Judging by the bullet holes on the walls, this place had seen gang fights before.

Command was nice enough to upload an old floor plan of the factory we were about to hit, though they warned us it had been gang-occupied for over a decade. So, we should expect makeshift modifications. They probably hadn't turned it into a fortress, but bricked-off passages or knocked-down walls weren't out of the question.

That concluded the briefing, and I was still left wondering: what exactly was my job here? Investigate where the gang got their tech? They could've just told me.

Seven minutes later, the assault team gathered on the platform where three AVs awaited us. The group was twenty-two strong, counting me and David. The commander addressed us with these words:

"Today, Mr. Price from counterintelligence is our only netrunner. Mr. Price, if you have any suggestions or observations during the operation, you can address me or those nearby. We will take your opinion into account."

What the—did I hear that right? Security teams usually see counterintel staff as helpless, bratty kids. They hate it when we interfere, even with the best intentions. It's like, if you want to help, step back and don't get in the way. Don't talk over their shoulder, don't walk into the line of fire. But here, they're outright inviting me to get involved. They even emphasized I'm the only runner in the group, which sounded like a lot of responsibility.

We filed into the three armored AVs. The mood was somber, even David, who was riding with me, stayed silent the whole way. Combat gear, clipped formal exchanges, helmets and masks covering faces. It was like we were off to war. It was almost strange that the peaceful city lay beneath us and not a battlefield.

En route, a fully blacked-out Arasaka AV bristling with machine guns and launchers joined us. So they were boosting our firepower? Smart move.

"Three minutes to target!" the pilot announced.

Below, the gloomy landscapes of Northside blurred by. Once, these factories had employed thousands of Night City residents. Today, almost all of them were closed, with most buildings left half-ruined after earthquakes, and those still standing occupied by gangs.

Our AVs began descending, circling the building. Police cordons appeared on the surrounding streets. Everything was set for the assault. Lucas manned the machine gun and fired a burst at the Maelstrom guards securing the outer perimeter. The AV pilots launched several rounds of low-power homing missiles to clear the way. However, we wouldn't be leveling the building with artillery; our main goal was to capture the equipment, which meant taking down the cyber-cultists up close.

Three AVs were landing, while a fourth, the one that joined later, hovered above the factory. Its machine guns occasionally fired at the roof. No troopers on board? Just fire support, then.

The surviving perimeter guards retreated inside the building. Our AVs landed smoothly, under the cover of gunfire. One red-eyed punk tried to peek out a window and launch a missile at us, but it was intercepted by a homing round on takeoff.

"Positions! Move out!"

We bolted from the AVs, closing the distance to the factory. According to the plan, the team would split into three units and enter the building from different directions.

My squad included the commander, a machine gunner, two assault rifle fighters, two with smart shotguns, David—armed with a regular shotgun, revolver, and pistol—and Lucas with an assault rifle. We also had a light drone as our "companion." It managed to fly about ten meters before dramatically shorting out, spewing a shower of sparks.

"They've got a runner, or maybe several," I warned over the comms. "Take out the cameras along the way until we neutralize them."

I'm not sure if that old superstition about sending in a cat first into a new home has any merit, but during a raid, it's definitely a good idea to have a grenade go through the door before anyone else. Our team tossed in four frag grenades through the nearest windows and door we planned to breach. The explosion was quieter than I'd expected—seems my combat helmet muffled the loudest sounds and amplified the faint ones. Like active noise-canceling headphones. Handy.

I went in second-to-last. Lucas, who was acting as my bodyguard today rather than a direct combat unit, brought up the rear.

Inside, the walls were painted an impenetrable black, the paint thick and uneven. Here and there, skulls with clusters of red eyes, cyber-spiders, pentagrams, and a whole bunch of other Maelstrom symbols were scrawled across the black background. It felt like we'd busted into an underground rock club. As if to confirm my thoughts, scratchy speakers across the factory blared:

"Rise, hellbound hounds! Fresh meat has entered our lair! Here's a good track to get your blood boiling—let the slaughter begin!"

The speakers blasted music that sounded like a DJ having a seizure over the shriek of a circular saw.

But I couldn't get distracted by this nonsense. While the assault team handled the guards, I had to find the runner. And the enemy was active—taking out our drone was only the beginning.

Two strung-out Maelstromers charged at us with makeshift pipe weapons from around the corner. Pure insanity. They were down in seconds, but the enemy runner used their attack as cover to infect us with a virus. For almost a minute, the team moved at a sluggish pace while they dosed up on meds to detox.

I glanced at the fallen attackers. Ugh. Antique, janky implants, crude surgical scars, track marks everywhere. I doubted they joined the gang willingly. From what I remembered from V's memories, Maelstrom often "recruits" cannon fodder by straight-up kidnapping people. They burn out their minds with drugs, implants, and black-market braindances, creating disposable chrome zombies like these, willing to throw themselves at a SWAT team armed with nothing but pipes.

Our first serious obstacle was moving from the corridor into a large room. About six Maelstromers were holed up there with a machine gun and grenades, using old containers as cover to fill the hallway with gunfire. Bullets were everywhere. The only cover we had was the hallway corner.

"Fall back! Fall back!" the commander shouted, gesturing.

The squad retreated, as incendiary and frag grenades exploded in the passageway.

"Martinez, on me. Runner, proxy through me," the officer ordered over comms. "We're moving in. The rest follow in three seconds to support."

David slung his shotgun over his shoulder, grabbing a revolver in one hand and a grenade in the other. I linked up to the commander, using him as a proxy, and now saw through his eyes. My view was enhanced with targeting indicators and programs to assist with aiming. The commander held his assault rifle in his right hand, a grenade in his left.

"Go!"

Everything blurred in my view. They both kicked on Sandevistans and bolted around the corner. Grenades went first, then gunfire. For a few split seconds, the commander slowed, letting me select targets for quick hacks.

Weapon malfunction, overheat, sonic shock on one, short circuit on another. I had to prioritize — focus on the biggest threats, not the ones already bleeding out.

The rest of the team followed, pressing our advantage. Rounds ricocheted off the rusted containers the Maelstrom were using for cover. We breached their defenses but quickly found ourselves on the defensive, holding our ground against another wave.

The first attackers were more zombified lackeys armed with pipes, knives, and machetes, even one guy loaded with grenades as a makeshift bomb. Behind them, more dangerous types charged in, wielding rifles, shotguns, and even a Budget Arms flamethrower. I maxed out my deck's memory, firing off hacks and even spraying a few bursts from my smart SMG at the next wave of cyber-psychos. How many of these freaks were here?

Their runner was still on the offensive. His repertoire was simple but annoying: contamination, short-circuiting, overheating. He managed to down one of our fighters, who had to be revived by the team.

When the assault thinned, I got to work finding access points to the local network. The team took a breather, checking the cleared area.

"Cameras, cameras, knock out the cameras," I reminded them over the comms.

I quickly found a port, but it was booby-trapped. Well, paranoia pays off. Noticing some oddities in the scan, I checked it carefully: the mod job was amateurish — likely a bomb inside. Real access was hidden nearby in a small alcove, visible only to my helmet's scanner. I connected.

Their firewall was strong, but I decided to crack it "fair and square." No special skills just yet. I launched a corporate icebreaker and began cycling through the security protocols.

"Price, status?" the commander asked.

"Three or four minutes. Breaking through."

Interesting. They actually waited for me, either out of respect or just because they were tired of getting hit with infection hacks. Probably the latter.

Gunfire echoed in the background, but my job was to shut down their runner. The local ice was weakening. I dived into the surveillance feed, flipping from camera to camera. Nothing, nothing — there!

I found the runner on the monitors in a control room with two guards. There he was — a true Maelstrom psycho. Half his face was missing, a grotesque fusion of scarred flesh and exposed wiring. He was half-submerged in an ice bath, with bottles of some nasty chemical brew floating around him. One of his guards grabbed a bottle, cracked it open, and took an absurdly long swig.

Next to him, in a neighboring bath, lay a mangled corpse of a woman, surrounded by ice and more liquor bottles. Classy. Felt like some Metalocalypse set. Dethklok would approve.

Alright. Time to break their vibe, their ice, and then their chrome.

The enemy netrunner was pretty well shielded, no easy takedowns here. Fine. I disconnected from the cameras and hit the injector. A brief sting followed by warmth spreading from the injection site. Time to get serious.

Overload, soul rip, overload, neural melt.

After the first overload hit, the netrunner just gripped the edges of the tub, like he was enjoying the rush, even grinning with that hole where his mouth should've been, like nice hit, bro. Then my special ability struck, and he wasn't smiling anymore. He leaped up, clutching his scorched head. Another overload and neural melt hit him, but still didn't finish him off. Fine. I had enough memory for one more overload. This time, he tanked it no more, collapsing back into the tub while his guards scrambled to steady him.

"Netrunner is down," I reported. "No more shooting at cameras. They're mine now. Monitoring the situation."

I switched between different rooms. Armory, some storage, garages, random rooms cluttered with junk, all crawling with enemies. Dozens of them, and our only advantage was that they weren't coordinated. Apparently, cyberpsychosis doesn't pair well with tactical thinking.

I uploaded a corporate virus to jam all comms except for Arasaka protocols. It'd make life harder for Maelstrom, preventing them from regrouping and counterattacking effectively. Then I threw in another program that should, in theory, grant our command center video access to the building. Though, without another netrunner, direct help wasn't in the cards.

Our assault team had the upper hand, but there were still way too many enemies. Well, command wanted feedback and suggestions? Here goes.

"Quick headcount on remaining enemies. Not sure our forces are enough for a full clear," I relayed to the commander. "Suggest requesting reinforcements. Pushing ahead could lead to heavy losses."

I expected to get shut down or brushed off, but the response was just:

"Relaying to HQ. Wait for further orders, Price."

Didn't have to wait long. While I kept infecting random Maelstrom gang members, the voice of the virtual assistant came through:

"Situation is under control, Mr. Price. Reinforcements have arrived. You, Martinez, and Costa are to proceed and rendezvous with them. Follow our directions."

Already here? This op was getting stranger by the minute.

"Hold position!" ordered the commander to the rest of the team, but it didn't concern me and David.

"Marking rendezvous point," said the assistant.

The meet-up point was deep inside the factory. I took another look through the cameras. All three assault squads had stopped advancing and were holding defensive positions near the entry points, like they weren't even aiming to capture the building. It looked as though our teams were just… blocking the enemy's escape routes?

A red line appeared on my HUD, leading into the factory's center.

"Shall we?" David asked.

The assault team had already taken positions, almost demonstratively keeping a distance from us, like saying we were on our own now. Lucas approached me, saying:

"You received your orders, Mr. Price."

It wasn't even a question. Just a transparent hint. Follow them. So, the three of us were to head into the depths of an enemy-held building… An error by command? A trap? Maybe a test? I hoped for the last.

Having Martinez nearby was reassuring. If command wanted me gone, they might, but Martinez was valuable. No way they'd throw him away.

"We're moving," I agreed, surveying the upcoming rooms. "About ten meters up, three targets around the corner, one armed with a grenade. I'll handle him. David, take care of the others."

"Understood," he nodded.

We started moving away from the main group. David took point, Lucas was rearguard, sticking to me like a shadow.

We took down the trio around the corner textbook-style. Optical glitch, overload, overload, neural melt for the red-eyed one with the grenade, followed by our own EMP. David rushed in, didn't even need Sandevistan.

One, two, three, four. Two revolver rounds to each chrome-scarred head. The madmen barely had time to react.

The next area was cluttered with crates. No cameras here, so I couldn't gauge the threat ahead. Not that it mattered to me—David was the one who had to go all out.

The only time I'd seen Sandevistan maxed out like this was with Miriam Levy, who sliced through four Tiger Claws in one go. David did the same trick, but with five Maelstrom. Shotgun and revolver instead of mantis blades, but still impressive.

David turned into a whirlwind. He tore through the row of enemies who'd come at us, merging seven or eight shots into one deafening barrage. Every time he fired, it was point-blank. Two rounds per head, moving forward in a blur. He even ended one psycho with the butt of his shotgun, slamming him into the wall so hard a red stain splattered across it. The psycho was probably already dead, but David gave him a final shot just in case.

Glad they trained him well. Simple enemies weren't an issue for him now. After that alley incident, pulling the trigger on armed cybercultists was probably a walk in the park. No moral quandaries here.

We got lucky with the next room. It had a turret I hacked just in time, tearing apart three of them with the heavy machine gun until a fourth severed the power cord. I hit the last two with optical glitches, then a quick burst and cleanup.

Good progress. Real good.

Still, we were heading deeper into the factory, right into enemy territory. Risky. But the red line kept guiding us until we arrived in a large hall spanning all three floors of the building. The signal pointed dead center.

"You've arrived," the assistant announced. "Wait for reinforcements and don't step into the designated red zone."

A five-meter circle appeared in the hall's center instead of the line. The red zone. Guessing our reinforcements have something explosive in mind.

No time to think. The Maelstrom psychos were pouring in from all sides—two, three, five, seven. Even Lucas had to start firing. I locked onto a shaved-headed woman, probably, with spikes sticking out of her skull. I fired two bursts from my SMG and took cover behind a busted machine, ready to deploy scripts via proxy.

Mostly, I used optics jamming and weapon interference. My primary role was as a debuffer right now; Lucas and David were handling the killing just fine. I just had to even the odds against our overwhelming numbers.

The multi-eyed freaks with makeshift implants dropped one after another. A sniper fell from a platform near the ceiling, splattering fake blood all over the floor. Lucas's sharp shots took down two chrome zombies wielding machetes. David, powered up on Sandevistan, blasted three nearby shooters to shreds with his shotgun.

But more enemies kept coming.

"Waiting on reinforcements," I radioed to command.

"Everything's under control," they replied. "Follow instructions."

Yeah, control is relative. Question is—who's controlling what? Then a two-and-a-half-meter psycho lumbered toward us from the next wave. This hulking beast looked like it crawled straight out of hell. His head bore a crude, spiked helmet—thick and roughly welded. His body was loaded with heavy chrome, his pale skin marked with tattoos and sores from shoddy surgeries. This thing would probably rot away within months, but for now? This Goliath was dangerous. Analyzing his implants… armor, muscle, skeletal reinforcements, and…

"David, stay back," I warned. "Looks like he's got a modified Biodine Berserker chip."

Just in time. Goliath roared, threw his shotgun aside, and charged, swinging his massive metal claws. Damn. He wouldn't even notice my scripts right now—the berserker had practically replaced his brain, turning him into a primitive but extremely effective destruction machine. Bullets and shells didn't seem to phase him.

"Reinforcements, now!" I repeated.

They answered with the same phrase: "Everything's under control. Follow instructions."

David dodged to the side on Sandevistan, dropping two grenades at Goliath's feet. A hail of shrapnel tore off chunks of flesh from his metal frame, making him look even more like something from the depths of hell. Bloodied but still dangerous, the Goliath charged again while fresh cyber-psychos flooded in from all levels. My deck's memory for debuffs was running low. The situation felt critical, and then—

A deafening crash, a cloud of dust, and a crimson flash. Something smashed through the roof, landing in the red zone command had marked.

I looked at Goliath. Or what was left of him. A large-caliber cannon had punched a hole clean through the psycho's chromed-up torso. A few more rounds obliterated his helmet along with part of his skull. Goliath collapsed. Nearby psychos followed, torn apart by heavy ordnance.

As the dust settled, a solid black metal figure emerged through the cloud.

Now I got it. Why command kept saying it was "under control." Who they'd brought in on that fourth AV. Adam Smasher had just dropped into our midst.