JohnnyZ
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[Demons of NC] Chapter 57
🕑 Added 2024-12-24 21:07:38 +0000 UTCI’d spent so much time, care, and effort weaving a web of lies for the two of us. A masterpiece of deceit, its intricate pattern hiding the dark pit of mistrust below. Now, I was staring at Lucy, trying to figure out how much she’d pieced together and, more importantly, how. My lips curved into an odd smile. It felt like a twisted game, and my opponent had just outmaneuvered one of my cleverest moves from a past round.
“Yeah. I pointed Faraday in your direction. Even scared him a bit,” I replied calmly, watching her reaction.
Lucy looked up at the sky, then down at her burning cigarette. She flicked it away with a sharp motion.
“How’d you figure it out?”
“I spent a long time thinking about how Faraday learned about my past,” she said, her tone oddly measured. “At first, I chalked it up to coincidence—something unrelated to you. We just happened to cross paths at the right time. But then…”
“What?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“I got to know you better. The way you think, plan, pull strings. You needed to zero out a very dangerous bitch, and you found a client for the job. You convinced Hansen to pay for something he already wanted done. You bait Nash with a lead on yourself and lured him into a trap. You hired a psycho just to kill him later. That’s your style, V. I’ve seen it enough to realize…” Her voice wavered. “In the end, I realized… it wasn’t a coincidence. Not with us. It was easier to believe you sold me out to Faraday yourself. You caught me and let me go. Why?”
Alright. So far, so good. We were still walking a tightrope, but neither of us seemed ready to jump off. That was the key.
“Why? I liked you. Wanted to get to know you.”
My words were confident, blunt, but not hostile.
Lucy smirked.
“Were you competing for the title of Night City’s biggest fucking pickup line? Did you win first place?” she asked with ironic bite.
“Could I have done it any other way?” I shot back in the same tone. “Hi, Lucy. Remember me? Yeah, that guy from Arasaka you hate, who almost turned your apartment into a war zone. Wanna grab a drink?” I paused, then continued without the sarcasm. “First impressions only happen once. You know that. But you can overwrite them with something stronger. So, I staged a show for you. From start to finish, you were never in any real danger. Faraday was outnumbered, and if the Tyger Claws had tried anything, my guys were waiting outside.”
"That, I believe. You’re good at security measures, backup plans," Lucy nodded, taking the bottle from me. "But your pickup line cost me a friend."
I shrugged and asked:
"Do you want the soft answer or the hard one?"
"Both. Hit me with both."
"No problem," I grinned. "Soft: Kiwi made her own choices. The only person I kicked in the balls was Faraday. He roped her in. If you’re gonna blame anyone, blame those two."
"And the hard one?" she slurred, leaning in conspiratorially. "Go on, put on the black mask and all."
"Don’t need it. Here goes… Hard: You should be thankful Kiwi stabbed you in the back during my show. Her knife was a prop, and the only blood spilled was Faraday’s. Now imagine the same stunt, but in a real fight. You think Faraday wouldn’t have set you both up? I didn’t cost you a friend; I exposed a rotting wound. Hurts like hell, but it’s better for you."
"Oh-ho! So I should thank you? And what, if you propose to someone, you gonna lock them in a basement for a month?"
"Who knows… Wanna find out?"
"You’re out of your fucking mind, V. And you don’t even realize how much."
"No more than this city. Or this goddamn world."
We stood in silence for a few seconds. The twilight of morning was giving way to thin beams of sunlight on the horizon, but gray, leaden clouds were rushing in from the north, ready to crush the light like riot control sent to reinstate the night’s reign.
"And now what?" I finally asked. "Just don’t tell me you’re walking out over this."
"Are you kidding?" she sounded surprised, which was oddly reassuring. "You’re a fucking devil with a plan. That bitch was guarded by all of Arasaka, and I didn’t believe we’d make it out alive for a second. Thought we’d crash into that skyscraper like moths on a lightbulb. But you—bam—took her down. Went up against some of the most dangerous people in Night City and won. And you even seem to have some principles left. For now."
"For now?" I feigned offense.
"V… I didn’t know about your second set of memories," Lucy admitted. "Sure, you came off older sometimes, but I see something else in you. It’s growing, and it’s not just that engram in your head."
"What do you mean?"
"You’re climbing higher and higher, but where do you stop? What’s the peak?" she asked, answering her own question. "There isn’t one. You’ll keep climbing until you die—or hit a ceiling. And it’s changing you."
A vision of Abernathy came to mind—how she started and how she ended. For a moment, it felt like we had some shared trajectory.
"You think I’ll end up like Susan?" I asked cautiously.
Lucy only smiled and lightly touched my cheek.
"No, sweetheart. Susan had a ceiling, she’d never break through it. Too much of a stubborn bitch. You’re different. You know how to win people over when you want to. Plus, you hate taking orders. You’ll never be a copy of her. Your ceiling’s higher."
Lucy turned away, gazing at the city now nearly engulfed by the storm clouds. A distant rumble of thunder echoed.
"Saburo, Hansen, Myers, Youngblood, and the rest. That’s who you could become. That’s what you’re aiming for, unless a bullet finds you first."
"And that’s… bad?" I frowned.
"Becoming one of those people everyone hates? It has its price. People stop being people to you. They’re assets. And you’ll get sucked into their games—the ones with rules we both know too well. You’ll have to play by them to stay on top."
She wasn’t wrong. Experiments like the one she lived through, Soulkiller, Cynosure, corporate wars, and countless smaller-scale horrors. Ruthless, bloody games where the powerful clawed at each other.
"I’ll be blunt, V: as long as we’re on the same path, I’m here. But when you build your empire, I won’t be around."
"That’s final?" I smirked. "You haven’t even seen my empire. No one has."
"I’ve seen enough of others," she replied firmly. "I like you, that’s the truth. But there’s a chasm between us. I dream of escaping this city, and you… you want to rule it."
The doubt was gone from her voice and eyes. She’d faced her darkness and come out intact. Her face now reflected both beauty and strength. Our beginning was steeped in shadows, but I’d given her time to recover, to be safe, surrounded by people she cared about. And yet, she still dreamed of leaving Night City.
There was no point arguing anymore. We valued things too differently. For now, it was better to let it rest. I was more concerned about the engram situation, but that wasn’t what troubled Lucy. Her worries lay elsewhere.
"I get why you didn’t tell me about this memory shit sooner," she added. "I don’t doubt you’re human, V. I can feel that. But the real question is: what kind of human are you? And who will you become when your dreams come true? Think about that, please."
I heard the sound of tires against pavement. A cab rolled up, honking a few times. She wanted to be alone—or for me to be. Probably the latter. She handed me the bottle of absinthe. About a third was left.
"Just promise you won’t disappear without warning," I said, pulling her into a side hug.
"I won’t. You’d come looking anyway. You’d find me," she replied, kissing my cheek before slipping out of my arms.
Thunder growled louder to the north. The clouds were heavy with lead, and the morning felt as dark as evening. I watched her go and stood alone at the edge of the overlook, watching the storm roll in over the city. A storm or maybe something worse.
I wondered, do storms here have names? Back in my world, we had Hurricane Katrina. Do they name bad weather here the same way? Hurricane Johnny? Earthquake Adam? That’d be poetic.
Lucy’s right about me. Empire might sound a little pretentious for now, but in a few months, I’ve managed to rake in a cool mil. That’s with sweet Sue doing her best to get in my way. Now? My hands are free, and they’re happily digging into other people’s pockets.
What’s next?
I’ll stack up cash and influence, let my threads—my tentacles—spread, fuse into the nerves of this city. Money pulls more money, power feeds more power. First, I’ll become a fixer. Then I’ll solidify things by starting a permanent outfit: a gang, a security firm, maybe even a private detective agency. Whatever suits my taste. The gigs will roll in, and the juiciest ones? Those come from corps. You start working for one against another, or try to dance between the giants’ interests. The bigger you get, the harder they press. Independence? Costs a hell of a lot, and more often than not, you’ll pay for it in blood.
Knocked off the top of Arasaka’s tower, I can push off from the bottom and climb higher than before—as long as I’m ready to step on a few skulls. I’ll claw my way up the pyramid, up to the very peak of this Babylonian ziggurat, its stairs and platforms forever slick with sacrificial blood.
Then came the words from an old song, unbidden:
A blazing flash will sear your mind,
Shatter submission’s chain,
The past will stir within your soul—
A new sin will be born again.
Blood on your hands, blood on the stones,
Through backs and spineless spines,
Of those who’d rather die as slaves,
You claw your way back to the shrine.
Hey, sky dwellers!
Who here’s never been below?
Without descending into hell,
There’s no heaven to build above.
Hey, bottom-dwellers!
Thunder laughs at your plight.
To stand with it as equals,
There’s only one way—climb!
There’s only one way—climb!
Но яркий луч вспыхнет в мозгу,
И покорность выбьет клином,
Прошлые дни в душе оживут —
Свершится новый грех.
Кровь на руках, кровь на камнях,
По телам и жалким спинам
Тех, кто готов сдохнуть в рабах,
Ты рвешься вновь наверх.
Хей, жители неба,
Кто на дне еще не был?
Не пройдя преисподни
Вам не выстроить рай!
Хей, жители дна,
Гром смеется над вами,
Чтобы быть с ним на равных,
Есть один путь — наверх!
Есть один путь — наверх!
The rumbling from the north grew louder, and the dark shroud stretched across nearly all the sky.
I took a slow sip of absinthe. It burned going down, but that pain was almost comforting—a small reminder that I was alive. Probably still human. At least partly.
Alright then.
The most important thing right now? Lucy doesn’t actually want to run—yet. The rest? We’ll figure it out. There’s time. And as for what I want out of this life…
That’s a tough one. Hell, it’s an interesting one.
Back when I was under Arasaka’s boot, it was clear—I wanted out. Then it was about dealing with the fallout of escaping. Cementing my freedom. I did that. So now what?
Lucy wants out. To live somewhere quiet, far from Night City. A place where bullets aren’t flying every day and corporate skyscrapers don’t loom over the streets. But me? What do I want on a grander scale? Sure, the idea of a peaceful life has its appeal—especially a rich, peaceful life. But Lucy’s got a point. I’ve got a real talent, and it’s not the kind you bury six feet under.
No.
This talent? It’s the kind that buries anyone standing in my way.
I looked out at the city, poised to meet the storm. Somewhere out there, my influence was already spreading, like invisible threads. Reaching from the grime of the streets to Dogtown, and from there, all the way to Arasaka’s counterintel office.
And, as if to confirm my growing reach, my phone rang.
“Yeah, I’m listening,” I answered, my voice a little slurred.
“Good evening…” came a nervous female voice. “Oh, uh, morning. My name’s… Paige O’Brien. You’re V, right?”
“Yeah, Paige,” if that’s even her name. “What’s this about?”
“I was referred to you. They said you’re good at handling… delicate situations. I’ve found myself in one.”
“And what kind of resolution are you looking for in this delicate situation? You got that figured out?”
“Yes. Y-yes. I need someone… gone. Someone who’s blackmailing me.”
“You think I’m just some fucking hitman⁈” My tone sharpened, but then I let it smooth into cold professionalism. “Well, yeah, that’s part of the package. Who’s the target? Name, job, who they work for.”
“I don’t know his real name,” her voice got shakier. “Goes by Zeitgeist. He’s a netrunner, a blackmailer. Probably works solo or with a small crew.”
Solo, most likely. Makes sense. From Faraday’s memory—and some scraps from Mauser’s—I knew this runner. Not exactly Major League, but he liked playing dirty and taking risks. Dug up dirt to blackmail mid-level corps, cops, up-and-coming celebs.
“Why not just pay him off? Or did he name a price too steep for you?”
“I paid him. Twice. But it’s like… he just wants to ruin me. Keeps adding new demands, like he’s toying with me.”
Not surprising. Zeitgeist had a reputation for that. Sometimes, he’d leak the dirt even after he got paid. Nasty habit. Hazardous to his health.
“How much?” I asked.
“I can offer you twelve thousand eddies.”
“Normally, I don’t take on jobs for pocket change like that, but lucky for you, I’ve got some free time. And I’m in the mood to kill.”
“Oh… thank you, thank you so much. Um… how long will it take?”
“Hour and a half, if he’s home. Longer if I have to track him down,” I said. “Relax. Take a bath. It’s already done.”
“Y-your confidence is… comforting,” she said, though her voice still trembled.
“It’s not confidence. It’s just an estimate of capability. You know the saying—using a cannon to shoot a sparrow?”
“No, but I get the gist.”
I downed another gulp of absinthe, feeling the first heavy raindrops hit my face.
“You just launched a nuclear missile at an ant.”
Too dramatic? Maybe. But I was buzzed and feeling pretty damn good about myself. Grabbing the bottle, I headed toward my rented ride, the rain cooling the back of my neck and my short, buzzed hair. My synthetic jacket did a decent job repelling water, though. In the car, I’d slip on a light vest under it.
I slid into the backseat, activated the autopilot, and let the music play. The car moved smoothly, the wheel spinning on its own like I was being chauffeured by some ghost. One of the countless restless spirits haunting Night City.
Zeitgeist. Pretty sure that translates to “Spirit of the Times” in German. What a load of pretentious crap. Was he drunk when he came up with it? Or just a fifteen-year-old trying to sound edgy?
The car sped toward Charter Hill, where this punk had holed up, ready to keep playing his games. The rain had eased for now, the pavement drying, but the clouds and wind said it was just the prelude.
“Just the warm-up…” I muttered to myself, glancing at the glowing Kiroshi ads outside the window.
The day after tomorrow, I’ve got a meeting about buying a club. Sure, it’ll bring its share of headaches, but stuff like that’s worth the hassle. At least, that’s how I see it.
The car pulled up next to some small factory. “Spirit of the Times” was holed up not far from here. The noise of the machinery and the incoming thunderstorm would cover any gunfire—if it even came to that.
I stepped out of the car, adjusting my gear. A dozen steps, and there it was: an unassuming door. Knock. Voices inside. The door slid open, and staring back at me were the red visors of a netrunner. Lots of chrome on him, but not the combat kind—mostly flashy or functional runner gear.
Apart from him, there was just some young Latino guy in a tacky T-shirt sitting in the office-like room. The netrunner himself favored black synthleather. Pretty damn pretentious.
“Lost, choom?” the runner asked, a hint of challenge in his tone.
“Nah. I’m right where I need to be. Zeitgeist, I assume? Mordellini had nothing but good things to say about you. Said you really helped him out with that recording of the badge bitch.”
All these details? Pulled them straight from Mauser’s and Faraday’s memories.
“Oh…” Zeitgeist nodded. “But, bro, for shit like this, I got email and a phone.”
His Latino buddy eyed me warily at first but started to relax as he listened to the conversation.
“It’s urgent, choom. And, y’know, with so many runners out there, I’m even writing shit down on paper these days. At least a note, you can eat it if it comes to that. Like I said: urgent. And I’ll make it worth your while. How’s five K upfront, cash? Can I come in?”
“With that kinda approach? Hell, I’ll even pour you a beer,” the netrunner said, stepping aside.
I’d already noticed he wasn’t packing heat right now, though his buddy had a revolver. Another piece—a Nue pistol—sat on the table next to a computer.
The door shut behind me. Time to get started. I shifted my shoulders, like I was about to take off my slightly damp jacket.
“So, who’s the target we’re brea—” Before the runner could finish, there was a quiet, sharp click.
That sweet, techy sound as cyberlimb fingers momentarily hit inhuman speeds and precision. The guys didn’t even register what had happened at first. Then the Latino started choking—a solid metal stiletto lodged deep in his throat. Clean hit.
For good measure, my right hand was already on my gun, but it wasn’t needed. The punch had enough force to pierce not just his neck but embed into his spine.
Zeitgeist hesitated for a fraction of a second, caught off guard, then started running quickhacks that wouldn’t do shit against me. Next, he lunged for the pistol, but a spectral blue flash intercepted his hand. White synthetic blood sprayed onto the table. His severed hand landed next to the gun. The cut? Perfect. Flawless, even. All that practice paid off.
“Never understood people who go for synthetic blood. Honestly,” I said, watching the white droplets drip from the translucent blade of my mono tanto. “But I’ve always been curious—when you’re bleeding fake blood, does it feel less scary than the real thing? And isn’t it gross, watching that white gunk spill out of you?” I asked, slotting a virus shard into the runner’s port. “Eh, don’t bother answering. I’ll figure it out myself.”
The Spirit of the Time passed out cold. His buddy was already dead. I dialed the client.
“It’s V. Gotta admit, I miscalculated the timeframe. Didn’t take even an hour. Wrapped up in fifty-three minutes.”
“You have no idea how much you’ve helped me!” came the nervous but noticeably relieved voice on the other end. “I know it’s wrong to celebrate someone’s death, but… he was a nasty, awful person.”
“Well, none of us are saints,” I chuckled. “So go ahead and celebrate. I’ll be waiting for the payment.”
Hanging up, I locked the door and looked at the unconscious runner. His head, computer, programs, potential hideouts, bank accounts, plans—it was all mine now. Another brick in the foundation of my future empire, assuming I still wanted to build one.
