JohnnyZ
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[Demons of NC] Chapter 66
🕑 Added 2025-01-22 19:42:24 +0000 UTC‘Thirteen minutes late already,’ I thought, sitting at a small cafe on the edge of the business district.
I was halfway through my second cigarette, and my espresso was almost gone.
“Excuse me, could you turn it up a bit?” one of the customers, a guy in a cheap office suit with a “Kang Tao” badge, asked the mustached man behind the counter.
The man fiddled with an ancient remote, and the old TV crackled to life with a familiar voice all of Night City would recognize.
“Good morning, I’m Arif Iqbal, and you’re watching WNS News. On this beautiful morning of the last day of 2076, we’re discussing the upcoming visit of Michiko Arasaka to Night City. After celebrating the start of 2077 in Tokyo with her family, Michiko-san will be flying here tomorrow. WNS reporters in Japan managed to secure an exclusive interview, and I’m pleased to present it to you now.”
The anchor vanished, replaced by a woman of indeterminate age dressed in neo-kitsch style: blue hair, a shimmering gold dress with a daring cut, and just enough chrome to make a statement without overdoing it.
“I want to thank the people of Night City,” Michiko began, her tone friendly and refreshingly free of the usual Japanese corporate pomp. “I appreciate your attention, but I don’t quite understand the excitement surrounding my visit. This is my hometown. I spent many happy years here and am delighted to return, whether for a month or a year. That this coincides with company business shouldn’t be surprising. After all, I…”
Her words were abruptly cut off as the screen was overtaken by a grotesque face made of digital static.
“Hey, you! Yeah, you! Who’re you voting for? Revolutionaries? Federalists?” a distorted voice demanded. “Actually, never mind. It doesn’t matter. Our votes don’t mean shit! Both parties are shoving the same garbage down your throats. Gangster capitalism, libertarian dystopia, no ideals, no hope, no compassion. And you’re just supposed to slave awa—”
The cafe owner cut the TV off with a sigh.
“That bastard never shuts up,” he muttered, adjusting his graying mustache. “Been spewing the same shit for over fifty years.”
“I doubt the original Dr. Paradox is even alive,” a younger customer speculated. “It’s probably just corporations and political parties using his mask for smear campaigns or black propaganda.”
“I heard it’s an AI created by Bartmoss himself,” another chimed in. “That’s why it’s been going strong for decades, just running its program.”
“Conspiracies about a conspiracist,” I quipped, finishing my coffee.
I remembered watching early episodes of Mister Freeman (1) on a beat-up laptop in a dorm room back in another world. That kind of anonymous content was novel back then. Later, we found out the virtual figure was just some quirky venereologist character from an Interns (2) sitcom. The problem with these exposers is that the system isn’t what it is because people are ignorant. It works just fine even if most people know exactly how it operates.
That’s the first level of understanding. The second is realizing that even if a rebellion wins, sooner or later, new corps and governments will rise from the ruins, gradually mirroring the old ones. But whatever. I was veering off into the weeds of political philosophy, and while the broad strokes are clear, the details can tangle you up faster than the alleys of Kabuki.
Michiko…
What role is she stepping into this time? Auditor? Crisis manager? Special investigator?
Maybe Tokyo HQ noticed how much “interesting” shit has gone down in Night City lately. A financier vanished with a fancy car, an important counterintelligence officer died, the head of that division became the target of a bombing spree downtown, and then Abernathy herself mysteriously pancaked onto the asphalt. Officially, the blame all fell on the Crimson Harvest. Those terrorists happily owned up to it, hanging the blame like trophies on their walls.
No one would challenge those conclusions publicly, but the central office could easily launch a covert investigation.
Bottom line:
Best case, Michiko’s here to mediate between warring factions at Night City HQ and personally pick a new head of counterintel.
Worst case, she’s here to dig into my handiwork.
I didn’t share Frank’s panic, but I wasn’t dismissing the danger either. Michiko is a serious threat. She ran one of the world’s top detective agencies for years with an impressive track record. Hell, she even dated Smasher at some point. I can’t imagine how that went down, but that’s ancient history now.
My thoughts were interrupted by a slightly overweight, rumpled man reeking of booze. A city official.
“Mr. Price?” he squinted at me. “Good afternoon. Sorry I’m late. Damn New Year’s parties—corporate events, drinking with the bosses. Couldn’t say no.”
“No problem,” I nodded. “You brought the building plans and the estimate?”
“Yes, of course. Here, let me just get my tablet…” He fumbled with the device. “Which space were you looking to rent?”
“Both,” I replied. “Lease with an option to buy, and I’ll need them rezoned as residential.”
“Alright, let me calculate…”
He quoted me sixty-four thousand eddies. Steep, but I liked the idea of living right above my club too much to pass it up. Of course, I’d have to pour a ton of eddies into renovations. Here’s hoping Michiko-san doesn’t completely fuck up my relatively stable business. If she does, I might have to go back to hunting and gutting shady types like Jack Mauser.
While I was finalizing paperwork with the bureaucrat, I got a call from a rising star in the art of flashy ass-kicking.
“You V? Angie gave me your number. Said you’d check out my chrome or something.”
“Yeah,” I replied, signing a document. “Let’s meet at my ripper’s place.”
“Alright, cool. But let’s do it early. It’s New Year’s, and I’m planning to get wasted and high tonight.”
“What about your training?” I smirked.
“Twice a year, chumba: New Year’s and my birthday. I already made a deal with Angie. Send me the address and don’t waste my time.”
I sent her Vik’s address and reminded her how much cash to bring. I wasn’t paying for every athlete’s maintenance. Let Angie bankroll her proteges.
Ending early sounded fine to me. Jackie was hosting a gathering at El Coyote Cojo, and I wanted to swing by before heading to my club—and maybe a few others—for the night.
After parting ways with the bureaucrat, I called for a cab but had it pick me up a bit further away from the cafe. Decided to take a short walk.
Surprisingly, the city hadn’t changed much in preparation for the New Year. No Christmas trees on every corner, no Santa Clauses, none of the typical holiday clutter. Some ads had been swapped out for seasonal holograms, a moderate amount of decorations appeared in malls, and a few mom-and-pop shops displayed battered old ornaments or handwritten signs advertising discounts.
From what I could dig out of V’s memories, that’s just how it’s always been. The Sixth Street gang were the only ones who really went all out with decorations, clinging to the traditions of the old U.S. Japan Town and, of course, Little China preferred celebrating the Lunar New Year with fireworks, parades, and dragon holograms.
As I strolled, my eyes wandered, searching for signs of the looming calendar switch from six to seven. It was a pointless distraction that still kept me sharp enough to not get caught off guard.
A sleek black Chevillon Trax 388 Jefferson, shiny like raw oil, screeched to a halt beside me. At the same moment, a crushing pain stabbed into the back of my skull—a script attack. My vision dimmed, but my resistance was enough to keep me from blacking out completely.
The car doors burst open. The driver stayed behind the wheel while two men in sharp black suits jumped out like devils from a jack-in-the-box. Dark sunglasses, immaculate hairstyles. One had a sparking stun baton.
We activated our Sandevistans almost simultaneously. No idea what model he had, but he moved just a fraction faster. Too bad for him I’d been training with Hash and had the chrome to back it up. In a single motion, I sidestepped and drew my monotanto, slicing at his arm. A few stingy drops of synthetic blood rewarded me.
The guy raised his other hand, revealing a small, shiny gun that looked almost like a toy. But I knew better than to underestimate it—it was a dart gun, loaded with something nasty. Probably poison or tranquilizers.
My next swing aimed to sever the weapon—and his hand along with it. Didn’t go as planned. The blade clipped a finger but glanced off the chrome in his arm. The tanto snapped.
I was already drawing my Apparition with my right hand while hitting his partner with a Short Circuit and Overheat. The second guy, who was fumbling to draw a similar dart gun, froze in place. I tossed a Reboot Optics script at the driver for good measure.
By the time my Sandevistan timed out, I’d partially charged my electromagnetic pistol.
A flash, a deafening crack, and the round tore through the car’s body. The first attacker dodged using Kerenzikov, but the shot still punched through the vehicle. Not ideal. My Kerenzikov wasn’t active.
Then came the sting—a cold jab in my neck. A sudden numbness began spreading through my body.
“Warning. Neurotoxin Zf12 detected in your system,” my biomonitor announced. “Initiating emergency countermeasures.”
They got me. But I managed to lock eyes with the wounded bastard holding the broken tanto. Sent him a Soul Rip and a System Collapse for good measure. Then I threw the broken blade with my cyberarm, aiming for his neck.
A scream echoed—maybe from my throw, maybe from the scripts.
My vision blurred. I fired off a few wild shots while retreating into an alley. Ripping an EMP grenade from under my coat, I primed it and tossed it back. My cyberarm still worked decently, but my flesh arm was going numb.
Time to find the injector. Got it. The press of a button delivered my favorite cocktail of three different drugs into my veins, flooding me with warmth. My vision cleared slightly.
I leaned against the wall, panting. Somewhere, police sirens howled. I needed to move fast—dealing with cops in my state wasn’t an option.
No one followed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the black car vanish.
“Guess we both got our asses handed to us and called it a draw,” I muttered, holstering my empty pistol.
I yanked the dart out of my neck and stashed it in my pocket for later analysis. Then, forcing my body up the fire escape, I ascended one painstaking step at a time. Ten steps—inhale. Another ten—pop a pill.
“Just one small drop in a big-ass ocean of drugs,” I smirked, quoting Mauser, before inhaling another hit from my trusty stim.
Eventually, I stumbled onto a quieter street. My condition stabilized somewhat—I wouldn’t pass out anytime soon. But my head spun, my hands felt like ice, and my legs wobbled with every step.
Another hit from the stim and I collapsed onto the backseat of a waiting cab. At the same time, I sent out a distress signal to Falco, asking him to pick me up somewhere discreet.
Lying there, I couldn’t help but think:
“Just when I thought Vincent Price could walk around Night City in peace… something has to go to shit. Again.”
Preliminary conclusions?
This wasn’t some random mugging—it was a deliberate attempt to abduct me. Abduct, not kill. Hence the non-lethal gear: scripts, stun batons, dart guns.
They were pros. Their plan was simple—take me out with the scripts, toss my unconscious body into the car, and drive off without a fuss. My unusual resistance to quickhacks threw a wrench in their plans, so they switched to Plan B: incapacitate me by force.
The implants and combat training saved my ass. In the end, it was a draw. Or maybe a win on my part since the kidnapping failed.
But who the hell were they?
Not your average mercs—that much was clear. They felt more like corporate hounds or agency operatives. The fragmented memories I pulled from their systems showed flashes of a night shootout by the ocean and a jungle march, but it wasn’t enough to pinpoint who they worked for.
Still, it was obvious these weren’t your run-of-the-mill street samurai.
Could it be Michiko-san? Or someone else from my former job wanting a "private" chat? Seems likely.
The car stopped in a dead-end tunnel where Falco was already waiting.
“Any new holes in you?” the former nomad asked, leaning against his ride.
“Just a tiny one. Nothing serious,” I replied, climbing in. “They gave me a free dose of expensive shit and tried to take me for a ride, but I made it clear I had other plans for the evening. Mind dropping me off at Vik’s?”
“Sure thing.”
By the time we reached Vik’s clinic, the cocktail and adrenaline had mostly worn off. The exhaustion hit, and all I wanted was sleep.
“Hey, Vik,” I greeted as I plopped into one of his chairs. “Got jabbed with some Zf12. Fun times.”
“Not the best choice. That one can leave your muscles aching,” he joked while prepping his equipment. “Next time you want to get high, try a ten or a nine.”
“Real funny,” I muttered. “What about Clementine-whatever-her-name-is? The judo chick with the nose ring?”
“She came by earlier,” Vik said, attaching a line to my arm. “Already left. Rushing to get shit faced before the New Year.”
“Damn it.”
“Relax. I checked her out. Neurovirus, just as we suspected. Nasty stuff. It activates when certain chemicals in the body reach a specific mix, then causes a temporary implant failure.”
I nodded as the fluids began to flow through the catheter leading to my vein. “Athlete’s body is depleted by the finish line. They make one last push, hormones and lactic acid running wild, and bam!”
“Exactly. Muscle spasms, loss of balance, or some other delightful hiccup. Then the virus self-destructs. Rare as hell. Took me three scans to figure out where it was hiding. But she’s clean now. Kept a sample for research.”
“Any idea how long ago she caught it?”
“Not long. Two, three days tops.”
That caught my attention. Finally, a lead. I needed to figure out where she’d been, who she’d been in contact with, and what she’d connected to. Maybe check her devices for suspicious files.
“Thanks, Vik. I’m feeling better already. Gotta go track her—”
“Whoa, hold up,” Vik interrupted. “Gloria’s coming by any minute, and we’re all heading to El Coyote. You’re coming too.”
“But—”
“No buts. What, you’re gonna spend New Year’s Eve chasing a drunk girl through clubs and dives? I saw her eyes. She’s probably halfway through a second bottle of tequila by now. You’ll get nothing useful out of her tonight.”
I sighed. “Fine. Just frustrating to finally have a solid lead and let it wait.”
“Rest is important too, doc’s orders. And yes, you can drink tonight—but in moderation. Your body’s been through the wringer. A couple of shots, and you’ll be flying.”
“Got it. Guess I’ll save some eddies on booze.”
Soon enough, Gloria arrived, radiant in a sparkly dress with sequined shoulders and an equally dazzling smile. She kissed Vik on the cheek, greeted me warmly, and generally seemed in the mood to celebrate.
“Mom Wells called,” she said. “Everything’s ready over there. Shall we grab a cab?”
“V’s got a friend nearby who can give us a lift,” Vik said, gesturing toward Falco.
“And he’s coming in with us, right?” Gloria asked.
“I’m sure he’d be happy to join,” I said. “He’s all about a good time.”
Within minutes, we were crawling through Night City traffic in Falco’s car. The sun dipped toward the horizon, casting its last rays of light off the towering skyscrapers that swallowed it whole.
“David’s working tonight?” I asked Gloria.
“Yeah, but he promised to make it soon,” she replied, her voice filled with pride. “I used to tell him as a kid that he’d conquer this city one day, especially when times were tough. I don’t know if I believed it myself, but I said it because I wanted to believe in something better. And now... it’s really happening. It’s unbelievable.”
Vik met my eyes with a pointed look, as if to say, We both know what kind of work David does for Arasaka. I nodded subtly in return.
When we got to the bar, the place was buzzing with Valentinos and drunk Glen locals. Surprisingly, nobody gave us any trouble. In fact, the vibe was almost friendly. A few recognized Viktor, and to my surprise, some even recognized me.
“You’re V, right?” a dark-skinned guy with a skull tattoo on his neck stopped me. “Cesar couldn’t shut up about that fight at Extreme. Was Smasher really there? Like, the Smasher?”
Before I could answer, another Valentino stepped in, grabbing the guy by the shoulder and moving him aside. From behind them came a calm, measured voice.
“My son, don’t bother Vincent. He’s clearly tired and came here to relax with friends, not answer a thousand questions.”
I nodded gratefully to the voice’s owner—none other than Sebastian Ibarra, the fixer of Heywood. The man knew everyone worth knowing, and apparently, that included me. No surprise—knowing the right people was the hallmark of a great fixer, and Ibarra was one of the best.
We headed upstairs, where Jackie and David were already seated. Misty wasn’t there; Jackie probably planned to meet her later, away from his mom, who wasn’t exactly thrilled about their relationship.
“Viktor! V! Get over here!” Jackie called out, waving enthusiastically. “We haven’t even started yet. Gloria, you’ll let your son have a little beer for New Year’s, right?”
“He’s old enough to make that decision himself,” Gloria replied, amused.
David gave me a firm handshake but stayed silent. He sat between Jackie and his mom, looking composed, maybe even a little tense. Not long after, Guadalupe Wells joined us.
“I’m so happy to see you all here,” she said warmly, her voice carrying the perfect mix of maternal pride and hospitality. “Old friends and new—mi casa es tu casa.”
I threw back my first shot of tequila, and it hit me like a freight train. My nervous system, still shaken from the neurotoxin and Sandevistan overdrive, didn’t even try to put up a fight.
“You good, V?” Jackie asked, noticing my wince.
“Someone gave him a little something earlier,” Viktor explained.
Jackie shook his head, grinning. “Man, don’t take random shit from people. You wanna drink, you come here.”
“I didn’t take it,” I muttered. “They ‘gave’ it to me. Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly thrilled about it.”
“Ah... Well, just be careful, mano.”
I tried sipping another shot but started coughing. Great. My body felt fine, but my nerves? Like someone had crushed them in a vice and stuffed them back in place. I zoned out for a bit after that. The others were laughing, chatting, toasting—it was a calm, easy vibe. Falco and I sat quietly in a corner, more observers than participants in the celebration, which was fine by me. I needed to unwind.
At some point, I noticed the noise around us had died down. I looked up, and Gloria’s face was tight with concern, her eyes fixed on someone standing behind me.
“You here for him?” she asked, her voice sharp. “We don’t know you.”
A cool hand rested on my neck, and a familiar voice answered.
“I know him.”
It was Lucy.
Now I understood Gloria’s tension. She didn’t know Lucy personally, but she clearly recognized her from David’s stories—or maybe from mine. David, too, seemed uneasy. For the first time that evening, a heavy silence fell over the table.
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Mr. Freeman is a Russian animated web series named after its main character. The series appeared on YouTube on September 21, 2009 and got considerable popularity in Runet. The main content of the series is monologues which in a harsh manner criticize the lifestyle of modern everyman.
Vadim Demchog - Russian actor who played a venerologist in a Russian sitcom “Interns” and voiced over the character of Mr Freeman
