JohnnyZ
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[Demons of NC] Chapter 53
🕑 Added 2024-12-14 23:28:50 +0000 UTC“A solo, huh?” Becca teased as we watched the live feed from surveillance cams.
“Well, he works solo,” I replied. “But it looks like his last gigs were rough, and he decided to hire some muscle.”
Jack Mauser had rented an apartment on the third floor of a building in a not-so-great part of a pretty decent Charter Hill neighborhood. The place was near an abandoned ElectricCorp power station—you know, the kind Scavs use to film their black braindances.
The building was old and marked for demolition, as indicated by the giant sign on its side. A couple of Animals were loitering nearby—your stereotypical huscle, each a two-meter mountain of meat and chrome. Another one stood right outside Jack’s apartment door.
From the camera footage, I could tell the guards rotated every six hours. Three or four meatheads at a time. Jack himself never left the apartment, metal shutters locked tight. Occasionally, couriers would show up. The Animals would frisk them, while residents and guests were only let in if they were on a list—and unarmed.
I wondered if Jack’s paranoia was solely because he’d wiped out a squad of Net Watchers, or if he’d pissed off someone else too. I leaned toward the latter, considering I noticed a surveillance drone hanging around the area, likely operated by one of Jack’s other “fans.”
What was supposed to be a quick, easy job had just gotten a bit more complicated.
Killing Jack outright wasn’t an option—I needed to absorb him, so to speak. His skills, his cash. Killing him without that was just pointless.
“What’s the hold-up, choom?” Becca asked impatiently. “Let’s go kill something already!”
“One sec. Thinking,” I muttered.
“About what?”
“Life. The philosophical meaning of existence.”
“...You high or something?” she asked, leaning closer from the passenger seat.
“Kidding. Just planning the approach and exit routes.” I brought up the nearby cams, checking for weak points. “A couple more tweaks to this junker’s autopilot, and… we’re good!”
“Finally!”
We stepped out of the mid-range rental car parked on a nearby street. I kept it low-key, hiding my armored vest and gear under a baggy synthetic jacket with a red dragon head printed on the back. Becca was in her usual style—black trench coat hiding her arsenal, with a massive guitar case slung over her shoulder. Inside? Her Hercules. Not exactly subtle, but hey, we weren’t hitting a high-level corpo.
Crossing the street, we dodged a 200-kilo dude sweating buckets. Poor bastard. Probably destroyed his health eating cricket-protein slabs. It’d be one thing if it were for actual steaks or caviar, but food options around here sucked.
We slipped through an alley, hopped a fence, and found ourselves in front of Jack’s building.
“Walk in casual. Don’t draw attention,” I murmured to Becca.
But attention found us anyway. The Animals spotted us about ten steps away.
“If you’re coming in, show me what’s under the coat and in the case,” one of them rumbled, his bass voice as heavy as his build.
“We’re not here for you,” I replied, firing off hacks.
Memory-wipe
A couple of seconds later, red and blue lights flickered in their optics. They were out of it. I grabbed Becca’s arm, and we bolted inside, making it up to the second floor just as one of them snapped out of it.
“See anything?” one of them asked.
“Nah,” the other grunted. “Just some asshole with a pipsqueak.”
“Oh, I’ll show them—” Becca started, unzipping her case.
“Not now,” I hissed, dragging her upstairs.
At the top, another Animal stood guard. He turned to us just as we hit the landing.
“Hey!”
Memory-wipe
I surged forward, mono-tanto flashing in my hand. One quick slash across his throat, deep enough to nick his spine. Blood gushed as I stepped back to avoid the spray.
The guy blinked back to awareness for half a second before collapsing, his soul halfway out the door already. Becca unzipped her case fully, pulling out her Hercules 3AX. Not the best weapon for close quarters, but we both wanted to give it a proper test run. And the Animals? Perfect targets. Big, slow, and full of meat to shred.
I slipped on a lightweight respirator—didn’t want to accidentally inhale any powder residue from the ammo. For weapons, I went with a neurotoxic blade in my left hand and Delusion in my right.
Becca shrugged off her black coat, revealing a synthetic top, shorts, and a mess of tactical gear, including a bulky pouch loaded with ammo for her Hercules.
I moved slowly toward the door. Cracking the maglock was easy—just a couple of seconds. But I didn’t open it right away. Carefully, I slid it aside, just enough to peek and listen. Inside, some familiar tune with a psychedelic edge played faintly. The merc’s apartment was cloaked in shadows.
"See anything?" Becca asked.
I turned on a small flashlight. Its narrow beam glinted off a thin wire.
"Yeah, tripwire. Gotta figure out how it’s rigged."
"Let me see," she whispered, leaning in close, practically breathing down my neck as she tried to peek under my arm.
By the sound of it, she’d laid her Hercules across the corpse outside—probably didn’t want it soaked in the blood pooling out of him.
"Alright, alright…" she muttered, inspecting the wire. "Move over, choom. Lemme stick my hand in and…"
She carefully grabbed the wire, unhooking it from its latch, and slowly eased the tension. All clear. We could move in. Just in case, I scanned the short hallway. No cameras. None anywhere in the apartment, actually.
Above us, a cluster of three EMP grenades dangled from the ceiling, rigged with a simple triple-detonation mechanism.
The place reeked of booze, perfume, and some kind of smoking blends. Black wallpaper with stylized flames covered the walls—sharp, schematic designs, the kind you’d see on tattoos. The dim red lighting gave the impression we were stepping into a devil’s den.
The music amplified the vibe. Familiar club beats stretched and twisted into something nearly unrecognizable, a distorted, psychedelic mess.
I followed Becca, constantly expecting the apartment’s owner to jump out at us. Hiding behind her felt wrong. For one, she was a solo, and I was more of a netrunner moonlighting as a shinobi. And two, I could shoot over her shoulder; she wasn’t tall enough to do the same with me.
Walking quietly was a bitch. The floor was littered with trash—empty vials, syringes, shell casings, snack wrappers, and cans. Not piled high, but enough that every step had to be deliberate.
Minutes stretched on, tense and quiet, but no ambush came.
The first “inhabitant” we found was in the foyer—a naked black woman sitting on a red-upholstered couch. Her eyes glowed red. A doll. Someone had left her running on a blank program. She didn’t react to anything.
Kitchen, two bedrooms, storage closet... A home thoroughly trashed by Jack. But where the hell were you, Mauser?
We found him in one of the bedrooms. Kneeling on the floor, barely swaying to the distorted rhythm like some underwater anemone. He was wearing nothing but tight shorts and black shades. No visible weapons or gear, aside from a retro-styled cyberlimb on his right side. High as a kite.
I motioned for Becca to stay quiet. All I needed was to get close and plug in a virus shard. Setting down the neurotoxic knife, I moved in.
One step. Another.
As soon as I got close, Jack sprang up, both hands lunging for my throat. I flicked on Kerenzikov just in time, dodging back and putting up my right arm to block. Priority one was keeping him away from his gun. I fumbled the shard, but with a snake-like strike of his cyberlimb, I jabbed a needle full of sedative into his neck.
Jack activated his own Kerenzikov—or maybe a Sandevistan—and darted to the other side of the room. Becca aimed her Hercules at him, but I waved her off. We needed him alive. No big deal. Jack would be taking a permanent trip to dreamland soon enough.
Touching his neck where I’d stuck him, Jack smeared blood onto his fingertip and licked it like he was tasting wine.
"Oh... I get it…" he slurred, a crooked grin spreading across his face. "Won’t do shit, choomba. Just one tiny drop in a fuckin’ ocean of drugs!"
As he said it, he slapped his left hand against his shredded abs, over a tattoo of a pentagram and a demonic goat’s head.
I hit him with a Short Circuit and followed it with a triple zap from Memory Wipe.
The first script was absorbed by his intralimb defensive redundancies. Then Jack bolted for the bed, reaching under the pillow for a revolver. But shots rang out first—Becca’s Unity and my Delusion. Of the three, two hit his right cyber-arm and one nailed his leg. Didn’t slow him down much.
I dove low, taking cover behind the bed. Four more shots followed. Half a second later, the rest of the scripts kicked in. Jack twitched violently, and the implants on his face began to smoke.
I jumped up, grabbed a backup shard, and jammed it into the merc’s data port. Jack stopped convulsing.
"You hit?" I asked Becca.
"Nah. He just messed up my hair and… yeah, no biggie. Dude was feral," she said, a note of grudging respect in her voice. "And that’s coming from me."
Exactly—was. Time to get to work.
"I need twenty, thirty minutes," I told her. "Keep an eye on the outside. Could be scavvers come to check on the bruiser at the door. Or maybe one of the locals starts asking questions. If it gets bad, wake me."
"Drag the corpse inside?"
"Good call."
The Animals would spot the bloodstain right away, but maybe a nosy neighbor would overlook it and avoid calling the cops. No one likes getting tangled in someone else’s firefight.
I began the absorption process, diving completely into it. Sight, sound—everything faded. Compared to Abernathy, Jack was easy prey. His memories had an unusual balance of order and chaos, almost a perfect harmony. Rare, that.
I’d noticed a pattern: people who lived to control their lives and others’—Abernathy, Faraday—had memories neatly structured, meticulously compartmentalized. Chaotic stuff was buried deep in the subconscious, out of my reach. But the minds of junkies, small-time gangers, and other driftwood types were a mess—a tangle of scattered, poorly connected fragments. A lot of duplicates, distortions, trips mixing with reality.
Jack’s mind was a weird mix—a junkie mess on the surface, but with a solid, logical core beneath it all. Like a workhorse of reason, keeping track of his deals, plans, and deepest secrets.
Hell, I’d make one hell of a psychologist or psychiatrist. Could’ve built my own theory about how human minds tick by diving straight into them. But nah, wiping people is way more profitable than fixing their heads in this world. So, instead of therapy, Jack got a synapse roast, and I walked away with a chunk of his knowledge. Fifteen minutes, almost a record.
By the time I snapped back to reality, gunshots were already ringing out somewhere in the stairwell. I bolted towards the noise.
Becca stood on the landing, firing down at something below. Whoever was down there was shooting back.
“I told you to wake me up if shit hit the fan!” I yelled, pulling a grenade from my gear.
“This is cool as shit!” Becca yelled back.
“Go fuck yourself, bitch!” someone screamed from below.
Clearly, Becca’s opponent didn’t agree with her assessment of the situation.
Before I could toss the grenade, Becca let loose another burst, and a blood-curdling scream echoed up the stairwell.
“Holy shit, this gun is insane, choom! Just fucking insane! Look at them!” she shouted, ecstatic. “I’ve only seen shit like this in cartoons!”
I peeked over the railing. Two bodies lay crumpled below, mangled and oozing from Becca’s explosive rounds and acid-coated slugs. One poor bastard still twitched slightly, his wounds sizzling and blackened where the Hercules had done its work.
It was time to delta. The Animals would send backup soon—if they weren’t already on their way—and cops might show up too.
I ducked back into the apartment, heading for the second bedroom. Flipping the mattress revealed a small case underneath: Jack’s go-bag. Credit chips, key intel, some hard cash.
Ripping off criminals was always a pleasure. They practically do the work for you, stashing their assets in the gray zones, converting everything to cash or chips. No need for messy bank transactions. Beautiful.
I swung back into the room where Jack had met his end. Stepping over to the wall, I took a few precision shots at his head. The boosted rounds made a satisfying mess. After emptying the mag, I swapped it out and tossed an incendiary grenade onto the body for good measure. The sprinkler system kicked in immediately, but not before the flames engulfed his corpse. Let the bastard roast. If anyone tried to crack open his brain for analysis, they’d find nothing but charred mush.
“Let’s go,” I barked at Becca, heading out the door.
“Already?”
“Yeah.”
The autopilot brought the car around to the building. Through its camera, I spotted a van speeding towards us. Backup. The Animals had arrived.
By the time we bolted outside, the van screeched to a halt, its doors sliding open. Four goons poured out, all juiced-up muscle heads. From the looks of them, far from top-tier. Jack must’ve cheaped out on his Zoo package.
Optics reset. Optics reset.
I ducked back inside just as a volley of smart bullets from a Palica homed in on my position, harmlessly embedding themselves in the wall. I crouched and peeked out again.
Becca, on the other hand, sprinted forward, activating her Sandevistan. She zipped between parked cars, firing as she went.
The scripts hit, and the Animals were left scrambling as their vision blinked out. The viral component spread like wildfire, infecting anyone too close. At the same time, the Hercules rounds tore through them. Screams echoed through the street. Blood mixed with the powdery residue of toxic slugs, forming sizzling pools of acid.
The driver’s door of the van opened, and something massive started to climb out—a hulking figure only vaguely resembling a human behind the grotesque muscles. I fired twice with the Delusion, amplifying the second shot. The driver took one look at the carnage and the screaming wrecks of their crew and made a split-second decision: nope.
They slid back into the seat, slammed the door, and gunned it. The van screeched away, its rear doors flapping wildly in the wind.
“This gun is fucking amazing!” Becca shouted again, practically glowing with excitement.
Yeah, it was effective. But also flashy as hell. The kind of weapon that leaves a signature. Great for chaos, not so great for jobs where you don’t want the heat. Nobody would cry over Jack, and I wasn’t worried about an investigation. But I made a mental note to leave this beast at home for high-stakes gigs—unless I wanted to paint a big neon target on my back.
The car sped us towards Northside. We’d swap rides a few times and crash at Becca’s place.
Leaning back, I closed my eyes and focused on the data I’d ripped from Jack’s mind. It was a goldmine. Fixers, mercs, gang leaders, and shadow players. Contacts for weapon dealers, underground clinics, dirty cops, and small-time fixers. Jack had spent years swimming in Night City’s brutal tide of street life and death. Riding the edge longer than most. A high-risk game, but he’d gotten paid well. Nearly half a million eddies scattered across various stashes. A third of it had been in that case.
Damn. If I’d known how loaded he was, I’d have taken him out sooner.
But money wasn’t all I’d pulled. I’d also uncovered details about a major deal Jack had been working on for months. It was already in motion. Now, with Jack out of the picture, I could step in.
No point wasting time. I pulled up the contact right from the car. Some might call it too risky—offing the guy and immediately sliding into his deal. But Jack’s death wouldn’t be investigated in detail, and he hadn’t broadcasted the arrangement. If the cops did sniff around, I knew exactly who to pay off and how much it’d cost me. Not much, honestly. Jack didn’t have corporate protection, and half the city wanted him dead anyway.
Calmly, I dialed the number and spoke in a friendly tone:
“Mr. Urban? Good evening.”
“Good evening. Do I know you?”
“We haven’t had the pleasure yet. I’m calling about the club on Corporation Street and the western ring. I hear you’re interested in selling it?”
“The 7th Hell? I am, but I’m already negotiating with a potential buyer. You’re a couple weeks too late.”
“What a shame,” I sighed. “But… are you open to counteroffers?”
“I’m afraid not. The deal’s practically sealed, and the buyer’s not someone who enjoys jokes. You understand what I mean?”
“Yeah, of course. I won’t push, but if your buyer changes their mind, give me a call. You can note me down as V.”
“I’ll keep it in mind, but don’t get your hopes up.”
“Thanks. Good luck.”
I ended the call.
“Wait, you’re buying a club?!” Becca asked, clearly surprised.
“Yep. It’s practically falling into my lap, and it’s a nostalgic spot.”
The income from the club wouldn’t be much, but it would make for a solid fixer HQ. I’m not aiming for a second Afterlife, but who knows how it plays out down the line. Mausser’s stash should cover the purchase, with enough left over for some upgrades.
With that settled, it was time to tackle something trickier. I texted Victor:
"Hey. Can you set up an ‘accidental’ meet with Martinez for me?"
"Hey. Probably, but why the sneaky approach?"
"If I just call or text him out of nowhere, it’ll look suspicious."
Not to mention, it could put me on Arasaka’s radar. I might’ve slipped through the cracks with them for now, but better safe than sorry. Meeting in person, no comms involved, was the way to go.
"Alright. I’ll think of something and let you know."
Perfect.
'Okay, here’s the plan…' I told myself. 'David’s a warm-up. Then it’s time to untangle things with Lucy. Time to take that first step back to the bridge of lies I once spun over that abyss.'
