JohnnyZ
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[Deons of NC] Chapter 81
🕑 Added 2025-02-28 20:54:48 +0000 UTC"You want some coffee?" Pedro Ruas pushed a steaming porcelain cup toward his guest. "Real stuff. Ground beans, no sugar."
He already knew she’d refuse, but he offered anyway. Partly out of politeness, partly just to mess with her. He looked at the woman with a mix of disdain and condescension, though he chastised himself for it. He was supposed to stay cold on the inside and friendly on the outside. That was professionalism.
"No. I’ll smoke. You mind?"
"Suit yourself," the Brazilian netrunner nodded.
Her name was Kiwi. A real name or just a handle? Though, for a Yankee, did it even matter? Half their country was illiterate, and Night City’s rate was probably even worse. Soon enough, Pedro would be heading there himself to cut off the supply lines and money laundering networks of Wagner Nascimento’s crime syndicate—a gang that had grown into a full-blown political force, spreading its rot through the sensitive organs of the state. And the blame lay with the NUSA, too weak to clean up their own backyard. The filth pile that was Night City had become prime fertilizer for international crime.
"I read your report, Kiwi. Interesting stuff. You’ve got the right experience, and we’re willing to work with you. But the price…" Pedro shook his head. "We got less funding than I expected. Two-fifty isn’t an option. One-fifty."
"We had a deal," she replied, her voice devoid of much hope.
"Provisional," Pedro corrected. "I warned you."
He knew she’d accept. As far as he was concerned, he was sitting across from a dead woman. Kiwi could still walk, talk, puff on whatever garbage she smoked, but her hourglass was running out fast. He’d read her file—her body was a wreck. Genetic diseases, chemical exposure, drugs, cheap cyberware since childhood. A combo even modern medicine couldn't patch up.
"Fine. One-fifty it is. Let's move forward," she said.
"Good. I’ll run it by my superiors. But for now, let’s talk about the paid data centers we could use," he replied, taking a sip of coffee.
They talked business for half an hour, then went their separate ways.
Not long after, Silva, the handler for this op, called him.
"Got her down to one-fifty," Pedro boasted.
"Doesn’t matter. We’re getting rid of her anyway," Silva replied. "This is a Level Seven op. If anything leaks, heads will roll."
"Eliminate her? You sure? She might still be useful if we—"
"Leave it to me, Pedro. No risks on this one."
Pedro Ruas stared at the reflection of city lights on the sea. Nighttime Rio de Janeiro smelled of salt and the heavy stink of the favelas. He felt a twinge of guilt. Sure, this woman was gutter trash, her life worth nothing, but cutting down an ally always left a bad taste. Even one like Kiwi.
His conscience needed some professional help—and a lot of alcohol. Lucky for him, both were easy to find.
I surfaced from the stolen memory. The last shreds of Pedro’s consciousness were burning out, his mind crumbling in its final moments. Forty-six years of life, reduced to a few fleeting minutes.
I sifted through his last thoughts, making sure Kiwi hadn’t sold out Lucy to her new employers. Turned out she hadn’t. Not out of loyalty—more like basic self-preservation. Fine by me. A reason not to kill her on the spot.
Pedro’s memories also explained why the Brazilians hadn’t wanted to flatline me right away. They were under strict orders to avoid major conflicts with Arasaka. Politics. When I hit their radar and they dug into my history, they saw a problem. The plan? Kidnap me, keep me on ice for a few weeks, then dump me back into the wild with some fake evidence linking my disappearance to a cartel.
Didn’t work out.
After that, they’d wanted to handle things peacefully—cut off my pay from the Animals, maybe set up a meeting between their higher-ups and mine.
Too slow.
If, instead of a tranq dart, they’d handed me a business card, maybe I would’ve called.
But now? Too late.
I drained the last scraps of Pedro’s mind and returned to my body. His corpse lay at my feet, blood pooling from his ears, nose, and mouth. His pale-gray optical implants stared blankly into nothing.
Time to collect my trophies and clean up.
First stop, his stash. In the room where I had drained him, I pried off an insulated panel. This one came off easier than the last. Behind it was a small, booby-trapped safe. I punched in the code pulled from his memory—18641870, the years of the Paraguayan War, a major chapter in Brazilian history.
Inside: credit chips, quick-hacks, combat programs, and neuroviruses.
Exactly what I expected. The sports betting scheme was just one part of a broader op to weaken Wagner’s cartel and its allies. If I played this right, I could flip it into eddies for my own accounts.
I drew my monoblade and crouched over Pedro’s body. Careful not to damage the fragile blade, I started cutting—vertebrae, artificial arteries, extra cooling loops.
"Diplomatic scandal. Heads will roll," I muttered, remembering Silva’s words.
In about a minute, I had Pedro’s head cleanly severed. Couldn’t grab it by the hair—he was bald as a bowling ball. Instead, I gripped his ear with my cyberlimb. Sturdy enough. The reinforced realskin held.
Head in hand, I stepped into the hallway. Spanish voices echoed from nearby rooms—Jackie and his camaradas were ransacking the place. Rebecca was busy clearing out the armory, looking like she planned to keep every last bullet.
I walked into a larger room where Kiwi was smoking by the wall. She glanced at my prize but said nothing.
Crossing the room, I approached a big microwave the agents had been using to heat up pizza. Now, it’d be heating up something else.
Time to properly cook Pedro’s brain. Just in case some ripperdoc decided to dig around inside his head. Wouldn’t want them finding signs of a deep dive.
"Defrost, grill, steam treatment…" I muttered, flipping through the settings. "What to choose? Let’s start with medium power."
I turned the knob. The microwave hummed to life, and Pedro’s head began its slow spin inside.
"They were gonna ice you," I said, glancing at Kiwi.
"I know," she replied, exhaling smoke. "I was hoping to bail before they got around to it."
"Optimistic," I nodded.
Sparks crackled behind me.
Pedro’s skull had cyberware inside. This was gonna be a hell of a show.
"You should drop the optimism. Try caution instead," I suggested. "Better to die quietly somewhere on your own than optimistically end up in my way."
I smirked, watching a thin wisp of steam rise from Pedro’s ear.
"You know," I mused, "Night City’s got industrial microwaves. Big enough to fit a whole netrunner inside."
"Nah, I'm good. Had enough of that shit after what happened with Faraday," Kiwi replied. "I wasn’t planning on working with you anyway."
Well, let's hope so.
"I'm not the type to lecture people or preach about humanity…" My words were punctuated by the crackling and popping of the roasting head in the microwave. "But from where I’m standing, you fucked up—traded trust and a solid ally for a handout from Faraday, who would’ve zeroed you the second he was done."
"I told her never to trust anyone in Night City," Kiwi said, completely indifferent. "Didn’t lie about that. And with Faraday… I didn’t exactly have a choice."
"Yeah, well, sucks to be you. Take care," I smirked. "Drink some decent coffee."
I cranked up the microwave’s power and stepped out. At the stairs leading down, Jackie was waiting for me, looking way too pleased with how everything turned out.
"Mano, I almost feel guilty taking the money," he admitted. "Barely had to pull the trigger."
"‘Almost guilty’ means you’re still taking it, just gotta pretend to hesitate for show?" I laughed.
"Of course. A deal’s a deal."
"No problem," I nodded. "Just messing with you. Honestly, without your guys hitting them from behind, this could’ve dragged out way longer. You showed up at just the right time. Hope that eases your conscience."
Not that I cared. The cash wasn’t even mine—Lucy was footing the bill for this one. Our budgets were still separate for now, and maybe they’d stay that way.
Speaking of budgets, I needed to figure out who’d pay the most for the intel on the Brazilians' operations. Besides the betting racket, they were deep into blackmail, gathering dirt, and leaking info on Wagner’s cartel associates in Night City. Who’d pay top eddies for that? Arasaka? The Animals? Some client from Black Sapphire?
Plenty of options.
"Hey! V!" Becca’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts. "Can I stash some of this shit in your club? Pleeeease?"
"Define ‘shit.’ Is it explosive?"
"Uh… I’ll be careful," she batted her lashes at me.
"You? Sure. But I can’t vouch for the rest of the club’s staff. Let’s just rent you a storage unit instead."
"That works too."
Besides the M-32 grenade launcher and its mountain of ammo, Becca had also looted a heavy flamethrower, about two dozen assault rifles, dart guns, and a shitload of other gear. She was claiming it all. Jackie and his guys were stripping the corpses for whatever else they could grab. Meanwhile, Falko and Panam were divvying up the vehicles and some of the tech. Everyone was happy.
As for Lucy, she paid tens of thousands of eddies for… a conversation. She and Kiwi spent almost an hour in one of the back rooms.
I made a quick call to Angie.
"Time to prep my ‘special reward.’"
"Wait, already?" she asked.
"Already. Everyone’s down. Your guys are only needed for cleanup."
"…Huh."
"Not hearing a lot of enthusiasm," I said. "Pretty much a free extermination of your pests. Your crew can head right back to the gym."
"You just don’t know the guys I got stuck with. Cryer’s gonna bitch nonstop about how bored he was. But yeah, you did good. The virus?"
"Got it. And the documentation. And multiple versions. You could crash the fuckin’ Olympics with this."
"Now that’s what I like to hear," she sounded much happier. "But you’ll still send me the address?"
"Of course."
She probably wanted to verify everything herself—make sure I hadn’t just cut a side deal with the Brazilians. Fine. She’d get the bodies, IDs, and whatever data was still on their drives. And if they got nosy about Kiwi, we’d spin a story about flipping her ahead of time.
"Maybe I’ll swing by and check out the bodies myself," Angie mused.
"Sure, but if you’re grabbing pizza, don’t get frozen."
"What?"
"There’s a… slight issue with the microwave," I smirked. "You’ll see."
We left the site in separate vehicles—too much loot to fit in just one ride. No way I was handing any of this over to the Animals.
Lucy and I took one of the Brazilians' cars, loading the back seats and trunk with netrunning gear.
"So, what did you two talk about?" I asked, not bothering to hide my curiosity as I hit the gas.
"Mostly silence," Lucy answered, staring out the window. "Kiwi said I was stupid for doing all this. Maybe she’s right."
"Yeah? Well, there’s a silver lining to that," I said, taking an exit into a tunnel.
"Oh? What, the Brazilian money?"
"Trust," I said, resting a hand on her shoulder. "If you’d go this far even for her, I’ve got a damn good reason to believe you’d never leave me hanging."
Sometimes, being too good for this city could get you killed. But sometimes, the ‘stupid’ choices made someone worth trusting.
"Do you feel better?" I asked.
"Yeah," Lucy said after a pause.
"Then it wasn’t for nothing."
"It definitely wasn’t," she suddenly said with conviction, turning to meet my eyes. "You’re human. I don’t doubt that anymore. And for Night City… you’re not the worst one to have around."
At that moment, I knew I’d made the right call. After everything—since our first run-in at Ho-Oh—we’d been up and down, and back again. But now, that chaos had settled into something solid.
"Maybe we should get out of the city," I said.
"You… serious?" Lucy raised a brow.
"Not for good. Just a week, maybe. Go see this fucked-up world for once."
"You sure you can tear yourself away from your business?" she asked, teasing.
"Not right this second," I admitted. "But after Konpeki and a couple more things—why not?"
"I’m holding you to that, V," she said, watching me closely. "One week. A real one. No off-the-books ‘mission’ bullshit."
"No tricks. Full-on vacation. How’s Monaco sound? Or Italy? Maybe the USSR?"
"Europe’s… complicated. Let’s pick somewhere else."
"Fine, your call."
I eased off the gas, letting the car drift through the neon-lit streets. For once, Night City felt familiar. Almost… beautiful. Like something had clicked into place.
Lucy watched the skyline, smiling.
For a second, I thought about pulling over, dragging her into the nightlife, diving headfirst into the city’s chaos just to regret it in the morning—hangovers, meds, the whole mess. But Konpeki wasn’t gonna wait forever.
So instead, we just cruised slowly through the streets, before heading back together.
Didn’t sleep right away, though.
And this time, we didn’t need Evelyn’s help. Just the two of us.
The next morning, I handed off all the virus data to Angie’s courier. Soon after, my account lit up with a sixty-thousand eddie transfer.
Time to sit down and count up my wins.
For once, I was sure—I came out ahead.
I burned a lot of eddies setting up the convoy heist, but made some back selling off the gear we pulled. Then there was the payout from Michiko, Angie’s fee, and the cash we stripped from the agents. When it all balanced out, my finances actually looked pretty damn good—1,303,000 and change. Enough to fund a solid vacation. But first, I had a mountain of shit to deal with—starting with the biggest job I’d set up for myself.
"You said you don’t care about looks," Panam said as we sat in the car outside Vik’s clinic.
"Yeah, but better safe than sorry."
"Fuck, I like my face."
"I get it. But it’s temporary. Trust me, you won’t even have scars."
"There better not be, you asshole! Ugh, fine. The bot’s been working like a dream. I spent all day cracking open different cases with it before we hit the Brazilians. Had to tweak the controller, add some upgrades…"
"It’ll get the job done?"
"Yeah. This thing’s a top-tier Militech prototype—worth hundreds of thousands. Swapping one shard from one container to another? Child’s play."
"And replacing the real one with a fake?"
"Obviously."
Thanks to Evelyn’s data, we had a solid idea of the bioprocessor’s required storage conditions. Building a fake container wasn’t an issue. Shoving the real one into my own head, though? Fuck no. I already had two sets of memories rattling around in there. A third might actually fry me.
So, first stop—Vik’s, for some quick cosmetic tweaks. Adjusted a few key facial points and proportions, and had him wrap my cyberlimb in realskin. My arm was too damn distinct.
"You’ll lose some sensitivity," Vik warned. "This model isn’t designed for realskin."
"Doesn’t matter. I just need it for a couple of days."
"Going somewhere hot again?"
"In a perfect world, I won’t have to fire a single shot."
"Perfect world doesn’t exist," Vik muttered, stitching the synthetic skin. "If you end up with extra holes and a lead overdose again, my phone stays on, even at sunrise. Just get your ass back to the clinic."
"How’s David, by the way? Thinking about quitting yet?"
"I wish," Vik sighed. "He keeps climbing higher. Probably too late to yank him out. But at least he’s learned to say ‘no’ to his bosses. He knows how valuable he is now. They’ve got him guarding another VIP. Hasn’t been home in days."
"That’s corpo life," I smirked. "No home, stuck babysitting assholes. Exactly what he and Gloria wanted, huh?"
"They bought into the dream," Vik said. "Even smart, decent people wanna believe in corpo polish sometimes."
With the face swap done, I climbed into the van, disguised as an Arasaka maintenance vehicle checking the hotel’s network systems.
"Nervous?" I asked Panam.
"Nah. But looking in the mirror and seeing the wrong face? That fucks with me."
"You never wanted to be an actress?"
"Not even once. I wanted to drive fast and shoot shit."
"Shit. Alright. Well, pretend you did. Imagine you’re slipping into a role—becoming someone else. Method acting."
"That a Soviet spy thing?"
"Close enough."
In thirty minutes, everyone would be in position. Time to bring months of planning to life. The big job at Konpeki.
I really wanted to believe it would all go smoothly. But Vik was right—sometimes a quiet, clean job turns into a full-blown shitstorm, complete with citywide shootouts and missile strikes.
