JohnnyZ
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[Demons of NC] Chapter 54
🕑 Added 2024-12-18 03:41:37 +0000 UTCTwo days had passed since my encounter with Jack. In that time, I’d hit the gym, practiced at the shooting range, and worked with two different fencing instructors.
The first was a well-known guy around the city—big on videos, lectures, and ads. He was a short, elderly Japanese man with barely any implants and ran his dojo near Corporation Street. For two and a half grand, he gave me a long, polished spiel about philosophy, katas, and different styles. Occasionally, he’d demonstrate something. Slow. Precise.
He was good—knew his history and taught well—but the longer the session dragged on, the clearer it became that his niche wasn’t street samurai like me. He catered to bored corpos chasing “spiritual growth.” Sure, I’ve got cash, but boredom? That’s one luxury I don’t have.
The second instructor was a black ex-merc known as Hash—probably short for hash marks all over his body. The guy looked like he’d survived multiple apocalypses. His military-grade cyberarm, replacing the right one, was pockmarked with bullet dents and blade scratches. Half his skull was plated with a rough, polished implant, while the other half was a mess of burn scars.
Hash worked out of a garage-turned-mini-gym: makeshift dummies for attack drills, rubber flooring, junk piled in corners, and old movie posters slapped on the walls. No eastern philosophy here unless you count Bushido film posters.
He didn’t talk much about philosophy either, breaking up his haggard speech with bouts of deep, raspy coughing.
“Lungs giving you trouble?” I asked.
“Nah… Back in '71, I got hit by a netrunner assault in Pacifica. Fuckers fried me good. Second Heart saved my ass, but I’ve been glitchy ever since.”
Battle-hardened experience. Just what I needed from a no-frills instructor.
“Now, where were we?” he scratched his non-metallic side. “Why the hell would anyone use swords in '76, when you’ve got all kinds of guns? Good ones too. Yeah, some folks say it’s for style, and sure, they’re right. Nothing screams “I walk the edge” like cutting down some asshole with a shotgun or LMG.”
“Sneaking up from behind? Face-to-face is not my style,” I shot back.
“Exactly! And there’s the second reason: blades are quieter. Not silent, but quieter than suppressed guns. Downside is people tend to scream when you stab ‘em. You gotta learn to send them off without all the noise and drama.”
I recalled taking out Mausser’s guard recently—quick amnesia script and a single swipe with a monoblade. Done in seconds. Clean, fast, and quiet.
“Another thing: modern blades paired with good chrome can do some real damage,” Hash continued. “No Berserk mod’s gonna save a guy if you lop his head off. Monoblades slice through armor most bullets and shrapnel can’t touch. A solid EMP shocker will make some borg regret their life choices. Get the right chip upgrades and a sharp blade, and you’ll be dishing out royal-level ass-kickings… until someone blasts you point-blank with a shotgun, of course.”
Fair point.
I needed to figure out how melee weapons fit into my combat setup. Time for a breakdown. What’s my overall combat profile?
First, there’s the strategic layer—planning ops, leading a team, and providing remote netrunning support. That’s my brain in action.
Second, there’s ranged combat. Between hacking, grenades, and guns, I’m covered at mid-range. A sniper or precision rifle could even let me hit targets from afar. And my pistol’s always on hand.
Lastly, close-quarters combat. What do I need there? Taking down targets in tight spaces, silent kills, or handling enemies who rush straight into melee. Seen plenty of those types—like Miriam Levy and Wesley Hunt. For those situations, melee weapons are essential.
Mastering swordsmanship would round things out. Then I’d have skills at all three levels: strategic, ranged, and melee. No glaring weak points.
“In Night City, though, you don’t get much use out of fancy swordplay, choom,” Hash went on. “Flashy moves are for Bushido flicks. What you really need to learn first is iaido. That’s what the japs call the art of quick-draw attacks. Instant takedowns, straight from the scabbard.”
He stepped up to a training dummy, riddled with marks around critical areas. Hash rested his cyberarm on the worn hilt of a simple wakizashi.
“You’re close. Real close. No weapon in hand beforehand,” he described the scenario. “You’ve got a sword and maybe something else. They’ve got a gun holstered. If you get it right, you can cut the bastard in one move and sidestep their line of fire.”
Hash bent his knees slightly and twisted his torso just enough to prepare for a lunge. He barely unsheathed his blade—a little show of menace—before delivering a straightforward horizontal slash to the mannequin's neck.
“This is like the first kata.”
A kata—a move or a type of routine scenario you drill over and over. Basically, Japanese sword styles are built on core principles of the school and the specific katas that embody them.
“He…” Hash gestured at the mannequin. “He’d probably try to pull his piece and shoot you in the gut if you’re close. So ideally, you’d move your body like this, too.”
The ex-merc repeated the move, this time shifting his torso slightly to the left.
“Japs in the yakuza, and just cold steel fans in general, used to go all out back in the day. One guy had custom scabbards—shit would split open to ‘boost’ the sword’s speed. Another choom would carry crap-tier scabbards and slice through them in one move with a monoblade. All just to save a fraction of a second. Sounds dumb, but sometimes dumb shit like that wins the fight.”
While Hash rambled, I got a message from Viktor:
“V, can you make it today? The kid will be here in 20 minutes. I can hold him for an hour or so.”
I glanced at my worn-out sensei and asked, “Mind if I delta early today?”
“Not at all, choom. It’s your eddies. I ain’t gonna act high and mighty like some Shaolin master. My ‘philosophy’ wouldn’t even fill five lines of text. What’s up? Got a gig?” he asked with the curious tone of a retired pro still nosy about street action.
“Nope. Personal. Gotta straighten out some kid. Word is, he’s falling apart.”
“That’s noble work.” Hash shrugged. “I’ve had plenty of chooms before. Good ones. All gone now. Most over some dumb shit too embarrassing to even talk about. So yeah, better to fix their heads sooner than later.”
“Agreed.”
I headed out to Vik’s clinic for a totally random encounter with David Martinez. I wondered if anyone was tailing him. Bet he’s got some tracker tucked into his implants, but as for eyes on him? Hard to say.
On the way, I kept an eye on the crowd. Nothing suspicious caught my attention.
“An invisible fiery star fell upon our city and struck the tower at its center!” shouted a street prophet, waving his arms like a maniac. “The astral sea churned and boiled as a hellish spirit came for the lizard-woman of the Arasaka clan! You’d call it corporate warfare. I say it’s only a fragment of the secret war waged between the overlords of the afterlife and the techno-necromancers from distant space!”
Crazy as it sounded, there was always a nugget of truth buried in his bullshit. Maybe Gary the Prophet really did have a busted implant that picked up fragments of comms or Cyberspace chatter, but by the time it reached his brain, it turned into this fever dream bullshit. Still, sometimes it’s worth paying attention—or even funding a deep dive into whatever makes him tick. But not today. Today was about Martinez.
After greeting Misty, I headed downstairs to the clinic. David was still half-reclined in the chair, clearly coming out of anesthesia. Viktor turned, gave me a wink, and gestured for me to wait. No problem.
While I stood there, my holo rang. It was the owner of 7th Hell.
“What’s that? They haven’t checked in for a few days? How tragic…” I said coolly. “My offer still stands, but I expect you won’t jack up the price compared to the last client. Let’s meet sometime soon and…”
“Mr. V?”
David had emerged from Vik’s office and was now climbing the stairs.
“Let’s talk tomorrow,” I said, cutting the call and turning around.
David stood a step below me, but even so, he seemed taller. His shoulders were broader, too. The things tech could do to a person—and how fast—never ceased to amaze me.
“Hey. Looks like you’ve been living in the gym,” I joked.
“More like the ripperdocs,” he replied, his tone flat and lifeless as he climbed past me. “See you, Mr. V.”
“Hold up!” I called after him, layering my voice with as much friendliness as I could muster. “Off to work?”
“No,” he shrugged, stopping. “Nowhere to be.”
Something about his tone was way off. I’m no shrink, but even I could tell life had thrown Night City’s rising Sandevistan star face-first onto the cold, wet pavement.
“Well, that’s perfect,” I said with a grin. “Let’s grab a bite. Talk.”
“Why?”
Huh. A fair question, but also… off. We weren’t exactly pals, but we had some history. Sitting down together didn’t seem that weird. Kid just looked like he’d forgotten how to people. Emotionally numb.
“It’ll be good,” I said vaguely. “For both of us.”
“Fine,” David agreed without much enthusiasm.
Maybe he just didn’t feel like going home.
I already had a private room reserved at a nearby cafe. We walked there on foot. David stayed quiet at first, so I nudged him into conversation.
“Got any questions?”
“Where you working these days? What corp?”
“Nowhere,” I said.
That seemed to throw him off a little. Yeah, I didn’t look like some washed-up bum. Decent outfit, chrome worth more than most people’s cars.
“I’m a freelancer. A free lancer, literally. Just poking my spear wherever it fits. And sometimes where it doesn’t—but that’s when I gotta run fast.”
“A merc?”
“More of a fixer. Occasionally a merc. But honestly? I shoot for fun more than anything.”
We reached a half-empty diner and took a booth in the back. I ordered us a couple of beers and some snacks, while David went all out—three burgers, a mountain of fries, and a giant soda. Looked like emotional eating at first, but nah. His bulk probably demanded a small army’s worth of calories.
“So, how’s Arasaka treating you these days?” I asked.
David stopped mid-bite, gestured vaguely, and didn’t answer.
“Got any questions about the corp?” I pressed. “Anything confusing? I’m out of the game, but I worked there long enough to see it all from the inside.”
“Questions?” David frowned. “What’s the point? Just clogs up your head for nothing.”
“Fair enough… I bet a lot of Sandevistan users at Arasaka would call that a solid answer. Why bother asking questions when you’ve got orders to follow? But questions… they show you care about the world. At your age, you should still be asking them.”
“Maybe we should just say fuck it?” David said with tired indifference. “I’m doing my job. You did yours. Followed orders, like back at that thief’s apartment.”
“Not really,” I said with a small smile. “That wasn’t my job, and I wasn’t following any orders.”
I had to grab his attention somehow, find even a flicker of curiosity beneath all the muscle, chrome, and disappointment.
“No way?” A trace of surprise finally flickered in his voice. “Then why the hell did you get involved?”
“I saw an opportunity. That fun little ride with the Claws and the mess at the apartment originally got me a reprimand and a sweet forty-thousand eddie loss. But in the end, I came out way ahead. So did you. I made a bet, and it paid off big time.”
“But they still fired you, and you almost got killed,” David said grimly.
“Yeah. That had nothing to do with you or my little gamble, though. It was a fight way above my pay grade.”
I wondered if someone was listening in on us right now through David’s implants. Maybe they’d activated his recording function? While we talked, I started discreetly scanning him, catching signals floating around through the Net. There was something, no doubt about it.
“‘Nothing to do with me,’” he echoed, staring blankly at the table, his fingers brushing over the salt shakers and napkin dispensers like the culprits for all his pain were hiding somewhere in between.
Not there, David. You’re looking in the wrong place. One of them is sitting right in front of you, and the other is probably steering a wheel somewhere between Night City and the Badlands. That is, if either of us can even be blamed. His girl put on the target mask all on her own. Taking the bullet meant for Sue Abernathy was her mission, and she nailed it. Though in the end, it didn’t do Sue much good. Maybe that’s what’s really eating him. A heroic sacrifice is one thing. A pointless one is another.
“Vik told me what Gloria said about you and that ambush,” I said. “You did everything you could. Stop beating yourself up.”
“Did I? Then what the fuck was the point?” he finally snapped. “We put our lives on the line to protect her, and then—”
“Then everyone pretended nothing happened,” I finished for him. “Like they didn’t care at all about Abernathy or her death.”
“Yes!”
David slammed his palms down on the table, making the whole thing creak and the dishes rattle. The guy at the scratched-up counter glared at us but didn’t say a word. I’d paid him enough to keep quiet.
David was definitely broadcasting something. His signal was clear but encrypted. I started trying to crack a few of the packets.
“You’re pissed and confused by how they acted,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Which means, David, you don’t really understand what corporations are.”
“And who the hell does?” he shot back, his voice sharp. “Everyone’s got their own bullshit take.”
“Plenty of people do. And yeah, spouting bullshit is part of their job. They get paid for it,” I said with a wry grin.
“You gonna explain this without the bullshit? You’re not on their payroll anymore.”
“With pleasure. But let’s start somewhere a little abstract.”
“With Saburo’s childhood?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “I just went through that shit.”
“Forget names and brands for a sec. Imagine aliens.”
“Aliens? You’re serious? They’re real?”
Guess I’d been listening to Prophet Gary too much if this was the example I picked.
“Doesn’t matter if they’re real or not. Just picture them. Total outsiders, clueless about our world, landing here and trying to figure out what the dominant form of intelligence is. These aliens gather data, analyze everything, and make their call. Who do you think they’d pick?”
“‘Humans’ is too easy of an answer…” Davi mused, his brain actually kicking into gear. “Corpos? Money guys?”
“Still too simple,” I said. “And not exactly subtle—it’d just mean corpos aren’t human, which is what plenty of anarchists love to claim. Makes it easier to demonize the suits. But nah, corpos are just as human as you or me. The problem isn’t them. Got another guess?”
“AI?”
“They don’t dominate us. At least, not yet. You were on the right track at first, but the answer’s a little trickier. The dominant form of intelligence on Earth isn’t corpos. It’s corporations themselves. You get the difference?”
“You mean… like corporations are alive? Actual beings?”
“Entities. Alive in a way. Don’t freak out; this isn’t sci-fi or mysticism. Think about what an AI is: an organized system of information recorded on some medium. That medium can change or multiply, but the AI itself keeps functioning. It’s not biological, but it ‘lives,’ grows, evolves. Now picture a corporation the same way—not as a group of people, but as a network of information. Hierarchies, rules, accounts, protocols, contracts, obligations, instructions, laws. All that becomes more important than the people. What you get is an informational system. And it ‘lives’ by its own principles. Corpos are just the hardware. Replaceable parts. Break one, and they’ll slot another in, same info loaded up.”
“Okay…” Davi exhaled, staring down at his plate of soggy fries. “And that changes what, exactly?”
“Everything. Look at the world this way, and corpo logic starts to make sense. The problem is we get taught history in the shittiest way possible. Not even because of lies—just plain bad teaching. Ever seen medieval art showing ancient Romans or Greeks?”
“No.”
“They drew them as knights. Same armor, same weapons. They couldn’t imagine society being different in the past. We’re the same way. We picture kings like presidents, knights as soldiers, merchants as businessmen.”
“But they weren’t?”
“Not even close. Those societies didn’t have complex systems like we do now. Back then, you had two natural forms of human organization: gangs and families. Medieval kings were more like Valentino bosses than Rosalind Myers. That’s how it started. Drop a hundred people on a desert island, and they’ll split into small groups—gangs, families and friend cliques.”
“Like Maine’s crew?”
“Yeah, that's our foundation. You don’t need complicated rules or job descriptions for it. But humanity’s evolving—not so much biologically, but organizationally. New forms of groups emerge: first states, religions, armies. Then corps. Your problem is that you’re trying to view this in terms of family or friendship. It’s both more complicated and simpler than that. A corp is a big, informational entity. People? Just leased data carriers.”
“Leased by who?”
“By us. A corp rents our time and headspace. One carrier breaks? They lease another. In many corps nowadays, the individual doesn’t matter. What matters are their permissions, functions, job duties. That’s the informational “flesh” of a corporation. That’s why one month everyone’s idolizing some director, and the next, they’re burying them in the desert and singing praises to the new one—who’ll get buried in six months anyway. Because they’re not praising a person; they’re praising the functions tied to them. Swapping out the carrier doesn’t change that.”
“That’s what happened to Abernathy?”
“Exactly. What’s the point of avenging a Director of Special Ops? The role lives on as long as the function does, and someone will always fill it. Especially now. Whether intentionally or not, corporations have reshaped the world for themselves: cheap labor, minimal value on human life. Swapping out defective carriers is easy.”
“So what’s next? Eternal competition? Or will someone win, and… maybe… there’ll finally be peace?” the kid asked with a hint of hope.
Looks like those old, normal emotions were stirring somewhere deep inside, breaking through the cold gloom of recent losses. Talking about peace, huh? Guess I should shut that down—not his emotions, but that hope for peace.
“One corp winning would be even worse.”
“Why?”
“Right now, progress and “humanity” only exist at the intersection of contradictions between major players. An arms race forces them to invent. Sometimes they throw people scraps to stand out against competitors. But if one faction wins, mark my words, they’ll try to freeze things exactly as they are. Any extra scientists? Executed as threats. Wars replaced by “protective” purges. The body count won’t drop.”
“So there’s no hope? This world’s just stuck in shit forever?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a prophet. Not beyond ‘77, anyway. Humanity’s gone through several transformations. There’ve been better times and worse. Maybe corps aren’t the end yet, and something entirely different is already on the horizon.”
“On the horizon…” David echoed, staring out the window where neon lights cut through the twilight, and people trudged home from work. “How long do we wait? What do we do now?”
“Don’t wait,” I said. “Just get a grip on the situation and figure out what you want. What you need.”
“Are you suggesting I leave Arasaka? Not renew my contract with Security?”
“Leave?” I smirked. “Nah. They’re not letting you go anywhere.”
By then, I’d cracked the signal packets. Seemed like medical data and geolocation. No comms monitoring? Maybe, but better to play it safe.
“You could stay and rethink your perspective,” I said, while setting up a secure transmission channel. “A corp will never be your family, and you’ve gotta be damn careful about who you call a friend there. Expect them to stab you in the back someday, or for management to throw them out—or worse, make you take them out. But there’s an upside. Corps pay big for someone like you.”
There. The protection was up, and the bypass protocols were set. I kept talking about the perks of corporate life, smiling, while before David’s eyes, a burning message should’ve popped up:
“The only way out of Arasaka is to run.”
