JohnnyZ
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[Demons of NC] Chapter 80
🕑 Added 2025-02-26 05:07:22 +0000 UTCThe one who strikes first and fast usually wins. That rule holds true no matter how well-trained you are. But training helps you set up that “first and fast” attack—and, more importantly, execute it right.
I waited two seconds, then tossed the grenade around the corner. A crackling burst filled the air, followed by screams of pain. A cold blue flash lit up the insulated panels of the Brazilians' hideout—not so much of a “hideout” anymore, since we were already inside.
Right after the blast, Becca and I jumped out. Close-range bursts tore into the still-writhing, stunned enemies. No more games, no mercy rounds, no tranq darts. I gunned down the left one—familiar face, though it was getting less and less recognizable under the zigzagging storm of smart bullets.
The Warden had some real kickback, but with this rate of fire and stopping power? Worth every bit of it.
The bullets shredded through his RealSkin and subdermal plating. Once again, white blood from Brazil’s intelligence agency was spilling because of me.
"Bam! Bam! Boom!" Becca’s voice rang out, cutting through the gunfire.
She’d just tossed some kind of homemade explosive at the Brazilians’ feet. It wasn’t as strong as a standard frag, and whatever casing it had was plastic—no sharp shrapnel hitting us. But the impact staggered them. Thick black smoke filled the air, laced with specks of glowing white blood.
These Brazilians were running top-tier chrome, but their fates were already sealed. Still, before their bodies even hit the ground, a third agent burst into the room.
He came in hot, Sandevistan already cranked to max. I had to counter with Kerenzikov, pushing myself back. It was like a firework went off in my skull—everything around me blurred with a greenish haze. But I’d adapted to this implant by now. No wasted movement. No erratic flailing.
My smart SMG wasn’t gonna be fast enough to track him—not a chance. That’s the downside of smart weapons. I almost launched a script, but then I spotted the grenade in his hand. He threw it with absurd force, timing it so it would go off nearly on impact.
Shit.
I shifted as far to the side as I could, burning the last fractions of a second my Kerenzikov had left. Ducked back around the corner, calculating the blast trajectory on instinct. Had to drop to the ground.
Helmet, vest, armored suit—turned my head toward the explosion and opened my mouth to keep my eardrums from blowing out. Didn’t help much. Still got slammed—ringing ears, pain, impact. Most of the shrapnel went over me. A few pieces hit my helmet and vest, but I had subdermal plating and reinforced bones under that. I could take it. I could still move.
The moment my systems rebooted, I was already on my feet, surging back into the fight. Hopefully, Becca was still standing.
She wasn’t just standing. She was thriving.
Unlike me, she had rushed forward instead of back. Now, she was standing over the corpse of our last attacker.
Half of his skull was blown out, despite the metal reinforcing his bones. His brain matter had turned into pulp, flecked with glowing chrome sparks.
Becca stood above him, holding a sawed-off shotgun in one hand, both barrels still smoking. One had even cracked from the blast. One-shot kill, but damn, what a shot.
"What the hell did you load that with?" I asked, reloading my SMG.
"Oh, you know," she winked. "A little love, a pinch of badass, and a fuckton of pyroxylin."
She meant military-grade smokeless powder.
Before I could respond, another Brazilian agent appeared at the far end of the room.
Not a combat op—his body language gave it away. He looked like he barely knew how to hold that assault rifle. But I figured all that out after we had already opened fire.
This time, the blood was red. It splattered across his white button-down—the vest he threw on over it had clearly been a last-minute decision.
Then I felt it. A dull ache in my limbs. A script attack.
The guy wasn’t a netrunner himself, but someone was running scripts through him as a proxy. I had to trace the source—
"V! Watch out!" Lucy’s voice cracked in my head.
It took me a second to realize what she meant.
No new enemies. No grenades flying my way. No drones, no cameras. Nothing else moving—
Wait.
Kerenzikov, now!
A bullet from Becca’s Noko D5 “Copperhead” slammed into my vest at point-blank range, lighting up my ribs with a burst of pain.
Her eyes flickered red-orange. A control script.
Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move right.
But I lunged at her anyway.
Dodged left, out of her line of fire. Let go of the Warden, grabbed her rifle barrel with my right hand, and drove my cybernetic forearm into her throat—just enough pressure to lock her up without crushing anything. At the same time, I hooked my right leg behind her knees. Classic takedown.
Becca hit the floor.
Kerenzikov ran out.
The problem didn’t.
I pressed my weight onto her, pinning her arms to keep her from unloading another mag into me.
Her movements were jerky—Lucy must’ve hit her with an implant disruptor. Good. That meant no Sandevistan.
My emergency bioware kicked in, stabilizing my breathing.
We wrestled on the ground, the Copperhead still clattering as rounds fired wildly.
Through the transparent visor of my helmet, I saw her face—empty, doll-like.
No emotion. Just glassy, vacant eyes.
Click. Empty mag.
Good.
Or—
Becca reached for her pistols.
I locked both her wrists with mine, pinned her legs with my knees. Ended up straddling her, doing my best to hold her down without actually hurting her.
"Where the fuck are you getting all this strength?" I growled, straining to keep her in place.
She thrashed like she was possessed. At least the hack made her movements clumsy. Even so, she was strong. Too strong.
Good thing I’d been keeping up with training. Good thing I had a cyberlimb.
She writhed beneath me, trying to break my grip, even snapping her teeth like she was about to start biting.
Crack!
She slammed her helmet into my chin.
I gritted my teeth, lowered my head to meet the next hit head-on. Let our helmets absorb it. Pressed my cheek against her tactical vest, against the aramid bodysuit beneath. Felt her heart pounding like a drum.
Control scripts weren’t great for your health. But she’d be fine. Implants would compensate.
She just needed time.
"Choom, what the fuck are we doing right now?" Becca suddenly asked in a completely normal voice.
She stopped thrashing immediately.
"We’re getting up," I panted. "And then we’re going to put a bullet in the fucker who tried to control you."
"Oh, cool. Yeah, let’s do that," she said, rolling to her feet like nothing had happened.
Looked like we were out of combat operatives. We’d taken out five—four soldiers and one corporate lackey. That left the netrunners, including Kiwi.
They were next.
I had a rough idea where to find them. Lucy helped too, marking a digital arrow for me.
Becca and I moved toward a white plastic door, insulated like the walls.
Blow it open with a grenade?
Nah. Better idea. Use my optics first.
The place was built in a rush—cheap materials.
I grabbed one of the insulation panels with my cyberlimb, clenched my fingers. Artificial muscles and servos strained. The panel groaned, then gave way.
A quiet crack.
Strength check, passed.
Behind the bare concrete wall, a shape flickered into view—a man crouched in ambush.
The outline was clear.
Netrunner suit.
Smart pistol—Tsunami Kappa.
Held tight in both hands.
Take him out immediately? No. I needed someone alive—so let’s do this differently.
"On my mark, kick the door in and get back," I whispered to Becca, pulling out Apparition. "He's got a smartgun. He won't have time to lock on."
"Got it."
"One, two… hit it!"
Becca slammed the door open with a powerful kick and darted to the side. I extended my cyberlimb into the doorway, gun first, and fired a burst into the runner’s silhouette, aiming for his gut.
He tried to return fire, but the Kappa couldn’t lock onto me—my body was out of sight. The Brazilian doubled over, clutching his stomach. A second passed, then another—his combat readiness was tanking fast.
"Drop your weapon!" I shouted.
He didn’t comply.
Fine.
I grabbed the ripped-out panel from earlier and hurled it at him with all the force of my cyberlimb. A second’s hesitation was all I needed. I dashed inside, tackled the runner to the ground, and jammed a tranquilizer needle into his neck.
Dark skin. Bald. His pupils, dim behind gray optical lenses, dilated as he gasped for air. He barely had time to react before the tranq kicked in.
He slumped.
I jabbed him with a coagulant—no need to let him bleed out. Didn’t hit him with a stim, though. No reason to wake him up yet.
Alright. Moving on.
The next step was planting the virus directly into the Brazilians’ systems.
"Did they manage to wipe a lot?" I asked Lucy.
"No. I’m restoring some recently deleted files. Kiwi won’t resist. But be careful."
"You sure about that?"
"Yeah. I already talked to her. She’s in the next room with two Brazilians."
"Got it. Let’s go."
I gestured for Becca to follow.
We reached the right door. Could I pull the same panel trick?
Yep. The fasteners didn’t stand a chance.
Through the exposed section of the wall, I saw three figures. Two standing, weapons ready. One sitting on the floor in the corner, head down—Kiwi, most likely.
Time for another Apparition trick.
They scrambled for cover—behind tables, behind equipment. Didn’t help them. Kenshin rounds punched through all of it like paper.
A guy and a girl. An agent and a netrunner. Neither had enough combat chrome or experience.
By the time Becca and I stepped inside, it was just a cleanup job.
"Wait…" the agent croaked, raising a shaking hand.
I shot him twice in the head.
Young. Not a soldier—covert ops, maybe.
Once upon a time, I could’ve ended up like him. Another nameless casualty in someone else’s fight. A short line in a failure report: operation compromised, personnel lost.
"Get up. Slowly," I said, turning toward the figure huddled under the table.
"Yeah, yeah," a husky, dead-cold voice replied.
Kiwi, alright.
She rose slowly, keeping her hands where I could see them. Red coat, mask covering most of her face. The few exposed parts of her skin looked sickly pale. Her eyes, narrowed, held more exhaustion than fear.
"Oh. You’re here too, Becca," Kiwi said.
"Shut the fuck up," Becca snapped. "I know what you did."
Kiwi shrugged, indifferent. Like it wasn’t even worth a response.
"That was the last of them," Lucy said in my ear. "Grab Kiwi’s shard, then get out."
"You owe me a shard?" I asked Kiwi.
She moved just as slowly as before, handing me a small case.
"Documentation on their viruses. Everything I managed to save. Over there—" she gestured toward a bullet-riddled, blood-splattered desk "—a bunch of their daemons and programs. Some of it should still be intact."
"Damn, you really leveled up in backstabbing former allies," I said, keeping her in my sights as I rummaged through the desk drawers.
Yeah. Expensive shards. The kind used for high-grade combat programs. This would come in handy.
Time to figure out how to leave this friendly little hideout.
"Lucy, what’s the weather outside?"
"Shit. Heavy lead showers incoming. The mercs know something’s up. The door’s locked down, but they’re waiting outside."
Hmm. Call in the Animals? Try negotiating?
How many were left out there?
We took out three on the roof, one at the door. That left about sixteen.
We had seven on backup, plus Lucy running net support. Me and Becca. Worst case, Falco and Panam. Maybe we could handle it ourselves.
I pinged Jackie, laid it out.
"If your girl’s got our backs, we can flank these pendejos easy. Got grenades."
Perfect.
"Let’s move," I said, gesturing for Kiwi to follow. I led her into the room with the unconscious Brazilian runner. "Sit here and make sure he doesn’t bleed out."
She nodded, sliding down against the wall.
Becca and I checked the Brazilians’ armory on the way out.
Damn good thing we hit them first.
There was a fucking flamethrower in here. Plenty of other heavy-duty weapons too. Not a huge arsenal, but enough to make our job a lot harder if we hadn’t caught them off-guard.
Also, a set of tranquilizer darts.
Not much of their gear was non-lethal, though.
"Can we please set something on fire?" Becca asked, yanking off her helmet and eyeing the flamethrower hungrily.
"No. The whole damn building might go up."
"Fine. I’ll take this!" She grabbed an M-32 automatic grenade launcher off the rack. "Choom, grab the tripod?"
"On it."
The M-32 was old-school but reliable. Good stopping power.
We rushed to the exit, where Lucy fed me a security cam feed.
A group of mercs waited outside, backs to us, weapons ready. Good positioning. They were spread out, even had a few guys covering the rear.
But I was banking on surprise and a fuckton of explosives.
"We’re set, V," Jackie said over comms. "They aren’t watching the perimeter much. Your girl fried one of them. No sign of the rest. We’ll walk in like we own the place. Just give the word."
"Now," I said, planting the tripod and pulling out a high-power frag grenade.
"Una, dos, tres, cuatro…" Jackie counted down. "Go!"
Thunder cracked.
Explosions rocked the building.
Gunfire filled the air.
I watched on Lucy’s feed as the mercs spun, caught completely off guard by the attack from behind.
"Lucy, hit it!" Becca yelled, gripping the grenade launcher.
We positioned ourselves so the door shielded us. Even when it opened, we’d be mostly out of sight. The mercs? Sitting ducks.
The doors slid apart.
I tossed my grenade—probably unnecessary.
The M-32 roared, launching 40mm rounds one after another.
The concussive blast shook the whole building.
Shrapnel shredded the mercs—already panicked from the ambush. Those who weren’t dead or critically wounded broke into a full retreat.
"Move up," I told Becca, helping reposition the launcher down the hallway.
"Dios mio! What the fuck are you guys using?!" Jackie’s voice came over comms.
"Borrowed some toys."
"Just don’t fucking hit us!"
I signaled Becca to hold fire.
Gunfire still rattled through the building, but it wasn’t organized anymore. The mercs had lost cohesion.
"We’re almost near you," Jackie said. "Don’t shoot, for the love of all that’s holy—Jesus Christ, there’s blood on the fucking ceiling."
His last words weren’t just over comms—I could hear him now.
Damn.
That went even better than expected.
"About ten guards ran off," Lucy reported. "Doubt they’ll be a problem."
Yeah, I figured. These Night City security agencies were barely more than glorified rent-a-cops. Their main job? Terrorizing unarmed or poorly equipped workers, shaking down debtors, and making life hell for the unlucky. The Brazilians hired them as a glorified alarm system—a disposable meat shield at best.
The building was fully under our control now.
Didn’t even have to call in the Animals.
Now came the fun part—looting. And then I’d ring up Angie’s crew for cleanup duty.
