JohnnyZ
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[Demons of NC] Chapter 37
🕑 Added 2024-11-07 23:37:09 +0000 UTCFor someone who’d recently taken a bunch of bullets, Panam looked damn good. She’d found something like her old green bodysuit to replace the shredded one.
“Not even a scar left,” she noted, catching me checking her out. “Thought only the ultra-rich clinics did work that good for thousands of eddies.”
“Gotta know the right places,” I replied, sprawled out on a folding chair.
We weren’t meeting in a bar or club but out in the nighttime Badlands, just outside the city. We parked a couple cars, started a fire with pressed wood chips and coal scented to smell like real wood. Even the scent brought back memories of real campfires, the kind I remembered from my first life.
Lucy was sitting nearby, eyes locked on the flames. Panam sat across from us by the fire, reached into a cooler, and the pop of a beer bottle opening broke the silence.
“Gonna be a good night,” she said like a pro. “Not enough wind to kick up dust, but enough to cool off the daytime heat. Little fresh air, a look at the stars, and for a second, it doesn’t feel like life’s totally screwed.”
“An ass is one of the better parts of a human body,” I said with a smirk, speaking the great and mighty Russian language. “It’s all relative. Plenty of asses look a hell of a lot better than your average face.”
“You’re a romantic sometimes,” Lucy said with a sleepy smile. “Toss me the cigs.”
“You’re an odd bunch, honestly,” Panam said, sipping her cold Broseph. “No offense. I’ve met enough gangers, mercs, nomads, and corpos to know what to expect from each. But you guys are harder to figure out.”
“Gets easier with time,” Lucy replied, catching the pack of cigarettes I tossed with a graceful motion. “We need a reliable ride for a trip that could get a little… intense.”
“How intense?” Panam asked.
“Dogtown,” I answered. “But we don’t need to bust in guns blazing. We’ve already got a pass. Only ten grand for all four of us.”
“There’ll be four of us?”
“Yeah,” Lucy replied. “The three of us, plus one more friend. You got room for her?”
“She’s compact,” I added.
“And the cargo? That compact too?”
“The cargo is us.”
Panam took a moment, looking between me and Lucy. She still didn’t quite get what the hell we did besides drinking.
“Some runner biz, huh?” she asked. “I need to know what we’re doing. At least get a rough idea of the risks.”
“We’re looking to make contact with a big shot from Barghest. We want to pitch him a service. One very specific service. If this works out, it’ll be a major gig.”
“Any history with Barghest? Any deals?”
“Not yet. We’re just starting the prep work. This’ll be long-term. I’m offering you twenty-five grand for the trip and any help in Dogtown.”
Panam went quiet again, looking at each of us in turn. Her brown eyes, reflecting the firelight, were watching us more closely than when we’d first met.
“Let me ask one question. And don’t lie. If you don’t want to answer, don’t. Just be straight,” she said. “Who are you working for? Or who’s got your back?”
“Only ourselves,” I reassured her. “No big gangs or corps behind us.”
The nomad chuckled.
“So you’re… like rich, or what?”
“He is,” Lucy nodded, gesturing to me. “I’m not quite as well-off. The result of often lending to a friend.”
“So, what’s it gonna be?” I asked. “You in, or no go?”
“You’re either one generous bastard, Alex, or there’s a hell of a catch hidden in this job,” Panam said, squinting and grinning.
Well… there’s danger. First, there’s a bounty on my head. Second, Dogtown’s got a nest of voodoo freaks with a special interest in me.
“A corp wants me dead,” I admitted.
“No kidding. And let me guess, you’re wanted by the police too.”
“Just me,” Lucy smirked. “He’s a law-abiding boy.”
“You answer my questions, but your answers just leave me with more questions.”
“So are you in or not?” I pressed. “It’s risky, but the pay’s solid.”
“I’m in. This might sound naive for Night City, but I feel like I can trust you guys. Otherwise, I’d already be carless and full of holes.”
“Good.” I nodded. “Then let’s get real. The first time we met, I gave you a fake name. Hope that’s no offense?”
“Couldn’t care less,” Panam waved it off, setting her empty bottle on the dry sand. “I’m not even surprised. Aliases are normal in this deadly line of work.”
“Right. Now here’s a fun fact. I’ve never been to the USSR.”
True, actually. This version of me was born after the fall of the Union.
“Now that’s a shocker,” Panam nodded, popping open another bottle. “Serbia? Hungary? I have no clue where else you’d learn Russian that well outside the Union.”
“Night City,” I said with a grin, switching to English. “Grew up in the city of legends, street crime, and acid rain.”
Panam’s expression turned to pure surprise again as I took off my mirrored glasses and tossed them into the fire. One less mask. Though I might pick up some black aviators later.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Lucy said. “He’s a former spy.”
“Oh, damn. No way. So… NUSA intelligence?” she asked, opening another bottle.
“Nah. Arasaka counterintel. Nice to meet you. Vincent Price, but you can call me V.”
Panam froze for about five seconds, halfway through a sip of beer, then finally drank, chugging half the bottle before letting out a deep breath.
“A friend once told me everything in the cities is backward. And what do I get? A fixer and partner ditching me, and my life saved by an ex-corp I was planning to shoot. Unreal.”
“Welcome to Night City,” I smirked. “This place is an expert at twisting your expectations.”
Then I gave her the short version of my corporate tragedy. Power struggles, assassination attempts, a botched escape, and a bounty on my head.
“Sounds like exactly the kind of shit I’d expect from corps. So, you plan to settle the score in Dogtown?”
“Partly,” I agreed. “Sometimes you gotta dive deeper to make it back up.”
“Is that some Arasakan wisdom?” Panam asked.
“Nah. Came up with that on the spot.”
We prepped for the trip like it was a warzone. Ammo, grenades, meds—including neurostims and pain blockers—as well as spy gear: cameras, bugs, viral chips, and trackers.
The four of us were heading out since Falco hadn’t returned, and Jackie flat-out refused, saying, “Not sticking my ass in that shithole, and you’d be wise not to either.”
Well…
Couldn’t blame him. Night City’s cops are bad enough with their bribes and heavy-handed arrests, but Bargest’s goons playing law enforcement? Way worse.
At the range, I tested the rifle I took off Nash. Strange piece of work, honestly. To me, a sniper rifle’s appeal is in precision and power—a slower rate than an assault rifle, but with headshot potential. This beast, though, modified for electromagnetic shots, somehow kicked like hell. Not sure about the mechanics, but it jolted and fired in bursts.
So I came up with three ways to use it: single shots with sight adjustments, close-quarters body shots, or fully charged blasts. Weird piece, a bit unhinged like its previous owner, but it could be useful.
Finally, we were set.
The car was loaded, weapons and ammo packed. I threw on a vest, despite my subdermal armor. Advised the others to do the same.
“No thanks. Too restrictive,” Lucy said.
“Hell no. Vests ain’t my vibe. What next, a helmet?” Becca smirked, packing weapons in bags around our place.
“Hey… that’s actually not a bad idea…”
Our plan was for Lucy to travel to Dogtown under an alias. I’d be listed as her security. Fits the role to wear a helmet, so I swung by for one on the way out. Picked a heavy netrunner model, an old rig modified by some street tech. Lacked the sensor loadout of modern Arasaka gear, but protected against shrapnel, smart bullets, and linked up with my cyberdeck for easier remote hacks. If the cams on it got fried, though, I’d have to ditch it fast, or I’d be as blind as a Skyrim merchant with a bucket on his head.
Truth is, most mercs and gangsters in Night City skip armor, especially helmets. Makes sense. In games, you can slap gear on your character, and they’ll wear it for days, no complaints. Real people? Try getting them to wear something bulky and stifling, even if it’ll save their ass.
So, mostly, it’s just corporate grunts and cops who suit up.
Or people ready for serious trouble. Like me.
Panam’s car crawled through Pacifica, dodging trash heaps. On the roadside, now and then, stood armed black men and women—either decked out or subtle. Voodoo Boys. Gang that’s got plans for me.
For now, they’d lost my trail. Plus, keep in mind, the Voodoo Boys aren’t exactly a monolith.
The Net's black magic community is split in half by the Dogtown border. The Voodoo Boys there are a force to be reckoned with, working with Kurt Hansen. They don’t have to hide — they have bases, guards up the ass, and regular gigs from Barghest.
The Voodoo Boys from Night City are a much more underground group, always ducking the Watch and cops. They’re not so blatant, especially outside the Net.
In the beginning Slider somehow caught a wind of me appearing on this side of the Wall. He probably hasn’t spread word about me or my… unique talents yet, even to the rest of the gang. I wonder if he’s still looking for me or if he figured I got iced during my recent ‘lay off’?
“So, boys and girls,” Panam sighed as we neared the northern gates of Dogtown, “cross your fingers and hope none of these assholes are going through withdrawal or on the verge of cyberpsychosis.”
Ahead of us was a massive fortress in true raider fashion — towering concrete gates, and right behind them, the hulking shadow of an unfinished stadium, belching smoke from its illicit weapon and chemical factories.
Barghest thugs were everywhere, swarming like ants. Lots of them in neon-green armor, but also the elites in dark red. The red-armored ones still clung to some army discipline, had the coordination to match. It was the red guys, from what I’d heard, who responded to emergencies and protected the most critical sites.
The greens? Less disciplined, but helluva lot more of them.
We ended up in a small line of six cars. The first three got through pretty fast — regulars, probably, or at least on good terms with the big gang. The fourth car took a while. First, a scanner, then three red-armored guys with fully enclosed helmets picking through the cargo, weighing things, sniffing with chemical sensors.
There was also a line on foot beside us — mostly homeless-looking folks, outsiders with grim faces. Dirty, hollow-eyed from withdrawal and disease, they were trudging into Dogtown, trying to escape their pasts. Some of them probably sold a kidney or piece of chrome to get a pass. Some ran from the law, others from gang vendettas. Though, not all of them would get away.
As we waited, we saw two greens pull a disheveled Chinese woman out of the checkpoint, her voice rising in desperate screams about being framed, claiming she’d never worked for the Claws. But the screaming didn’t help. They dragged her off to the side, and soon after, a few gunshots rang out.
Finally, it was our turn.
“All right… everyone here be calm and polite,” I announced as our vehicle rolled up under the scanner. “Please, I’m begging you, Becca.”
“What?!” she snapped. “I’m an angel! Sitting here quietly, not shooting anyone.”
The scan ended. Two red-armored guards with assault rifles approached our car. Faces hidden behind visors.
“Open the doors!” one of them barked.
We dutifully opened every door on the Thorton. Panam and Lucy were in the front; me and Becca were crammed in back with the bags.
“Cargo?” asked one of the guards.
“No,” Lucy answered smoothly. “Just personal arms. All listed on the pass.”
“Ren Yamako?” asked another guard.
“Yamaoka,” Lucy corrected.
“And three escorts… Hey, you. Take off your helmet.”
I complied, but my attention wasn’t on the red-armored guards. I was watching a pair of greens standing about ten meters away, a man with dark skin and a mixed-race woman. Black body armor splattered with ghostly green patches, gear strapped to their chests, an assault rifle and a shotgun. The gate was packed with similar thugs, either on duty or just hanging around, but these two were watching us intently, talking in low voices.
We had a directional mic in our spy kit, so while the reds searched the car, I connected remotely to tune in on the two greens.
“Fuck, that’s a woman,” the woman muttered, watching Lucy talk to the guard.
“So what? Are they new? Yeah. Not with a gang, either. ‘Woman’ doesn’t mean shit; after a going under a knife, you could turn someone’s face into a damn cat if you wanted. Just tag ’em.”
“Boss said don’t draw too much attention. If too many cars vanish…”
“Just a quick check if they don’t make a fuss. Tag ’em.”
A couple of lines were all I needed to figure out what was going on.
They’re hunting me. Scoping out folks who’ve recently secured a pass to Dogtown, who are here for the first time, and who aren’t tied to any big orgs.
Those two? Bennett’s people. Which means Abernathy’s got him on a leash, and her “mention” of Dogtown might not have been an accident at all — it’s a trap. Or maybe she slipped up at first, then spun it into a setup.
How’s the trap work? Pretty straightforward. It’s not Arasaka security running the show, it’s Barghest thugs. I’d guess the setup goes like this:
The red guards don’t answer to Bennett, so he didn’t try to bribe or strongarm them. Instead, he planted his own people as “support.” These two tag anyone who fits their criteria. Then, deeper in Dogtown, another team picks up those tagged for additional screening. They probably have a DNA sample to ID me.
So now what? Pull out and find another way in? Yeah. Best option is to team up with a merchant who frequently travels to Dogtown.
I sent Lucy and Panam a single word we’d agreed on beforehand: “Stop.” Then I put the helmet back on.
“You’re clear to go,” the guard said, stepping back from the car.
“Change of plans,” Lucy replied smoothly. “Heading back for the day.”
“Your problem. Move along.”
Panam started backing up, tapping the horn as the line shifted a little to let us out.
“What, it’s a shitshow?” asked the nomad.
“Yeah. Turns out my ex-colleagues are more thorough than I thought. We’ll need a new way in.”
Maybe I should call Hansen? Not my favorite option — the guy’s slippery, and he’d dig around in this mess for his own advantage. Last thing I need is another big player breathing down my neck.
Pacifica greeted us again with its trash, desolation, and streets lined with the desperate, but then…
Like on some unseen signal, the locals scattered. Reason was obvious — two cars in Barghest colors suddenly cut us off. Guess the dogs wanted to go for a stroll outside their city.
