JohnnyZ
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[Demons of NC] Chapter 30
🕑 Added 2024-11-07 23:14:17 +0000 UTCThe Rayfield Aerondight could go over three hundred, though I was driving it slow and steady. Last thing I need is trouble with the cops, especially with a dead corpo in the suitcase behind me.
The Rayfield prowled the night streets, cutting through the grimy air with a predatory grace. Dream car. Am I gonna miss it? Honestly, it’s not much use for our line of work. Too flashy, too rare, and that custom interior only has two seats. Mega-luxurious and mega-roomy, sure, but two seats? Useless. We’d need to cram half the crew in the trunk.
I pulled up in a nondescript spot by a high-rise. Dialed Lucy.
“Lucy, we still got some good dummy accounts?”
“Yep. I thought Faraday would be richer, though. What d’you need them for, V?”
“Yeah, might have access to some of Fujioka’s funds.”
“What, are you gonna risk it? Torture him or…?”
“Nah. He’s already dead. Just stumbled on a chip with some bank data. Send me a couple of good dummy accounts. Maybe I can drain a bit more from this bastard.”
“Where’d you get these skills, V?” she laughed. “Always had a knack for robbery?”
“Oh, please... I used to be a corpo. Corps are the best thieves in the world. Just ask anyone in Night City.”
“Sending the accounts. I’ll be at Afterlife soon.”
“Good luck.”
Now, onto the next part—getting the corpse out of the suitcase and into the driver’s seat. Head’s throbbing from information overload. Fujioka’s memories kept flaring up, persistent, intrusive. Even the details I tried not to absorb slipped in. Business meetings, drunken rides, fancy hotels, dollhouses… Evelyn Parker? Damn. At this rate, Arasaka should give her some kinda loyalty award. Signature red-and-black bikini with a gold ribbon.
I unzipped the suitcase, pulling out the corpse to strap it in the driver’s seat. Meanwhile, the Rayfield had drawn some unwanted attention. Two barely-dressed girls strolled up to the car, clearly working the streets and not wearing much in the way of clothing or modesty. They couldn’t see the mess inside thanks to the no-windows deal, so they figured I was a potential customer.
“Hey there, looking for a ride?” purred a tan brunette with streaks of pink in her hair, draped in a red open trench coat, mini skirt, and two plastic triangles barely functioning as a bra.
Does she even know my car only has two seats? Then again, for a couple hundred eddies, these girls would probably be happy to ride in the trunk.
“We know all kinds of tricks, sweetheart,” assured her friend, a dark-skinned girl who flicked a forked, snake-like tongue.
Not just split, like I’d seen back in my old life—this one was surgically lengthened, too.
I was still maneuvering Fujioka into the seat. That forked tongue triggered a memory of him leaning back in some poolside chair with a girl kneeling in front of him… with a similar snake tongue. And she had some kinda scale pattern all over her skin. Argonian maid knockoff. I pushed the memory away just as Fujioka’s mirrored shades slipped off his face. His half-shut eyes seemed to be glancing right at the brunette, who’d just taken off one of her plastic “bra” cups to show off a silver piercing on her dark nipple.
“You don’t need to be looking at that, Mr. Fujioka,” I muttered, putting the shades back on him. “It’s too late. Maybe think about spiritual enlightenment in the afterlife.”
They couldn’t hear me outside, but my words might as well have been a summoning spell. A nearby pile of trash started rustling. Up staggered a homeless man, with a mop of filthy dreadlocks, and wearing shorts and a torn blazer. Eyes bugged out and gleaming with pure mania.
“Sodomite sinners!” he shrieked. “Begone, begone, begone!”
He underscored his exorcism with a throw of half-eaten burrito scraps from a trash bag. Chunks of meat and rotting veggies splattered the hood, some hitting the girls. All pretense of seduction disappeared.
“Asshole, we’re working here!” yelled the dark-skinned girl.
“Begone, child of Satan and lice!” the righteous preacher fired back.
By then, I had Fujioka seated, and I started the engine, reversing to discourage the girls further.
“Well, fuck you, grandpa! Now he’s ditching because of you!” the brunette said, snapping her bra cup back into place.
"I’m gonna rip all those dreads out, old man, and shove ‘em up your ass," threatened the dark-skinned prostitute, menacingly advancing on the homeless guy while taking her purse off her shoulder.
I didn’t stick around to watch the hookers beat up a bum. It was time to head to the bank. To steal some cash.
"Just a little longer, and I’ll leave you in peace, Fujioka-san. You’re not taking this money to the afterlife anyway, so let’s ease you of this heavy karmic burden so you can happily rot in hell. By the way..." I said, gripping the wheel. "If you run into Arthur Jenkins or Lucas Costa—tell them I said hi."
Many places in Night City, including most banks, ran 24/7. This city lived in shifts.
I stopped at the Fujiwara Tokyo Bank office. Not one of the biggest in Night City—a small branch for cash withdrawals, large transfers, and consumer loans.
"Well..." I sighed. "Time to engage in some financially-driven necromancy."
'Живые спят. Мертвец встает из гроба,
И в банк идет, и в суд идет, в сенат…
Чем ночь белее, тем чернее злоба,
И перья торжествующе скрипят'.
'The living sleep. The dead rise from the grave,
March to the bank, the court, the senate…
The whiter the night, the blacker the hatred,
While the quills triumphantly scrape.'
A fragment of a poem I’d memorized back in my school days came to mind.
First, I needed to tweak the viral chip a bit. Disable muscle locks but keep the bio-monitor from calling Trauma Team. Then I moved on to the resurrection.
I didn’t rush with the possession. Fujioka made an ideal target. Decent implants, intact body, had just recently been breathing.
Stimulants flowed into the bloodstream. Micro-rotors started circulating blood through arteries and veins. Slowly. Carefully. And then I saw the world through the optics and the expensive mirrored glasses of a financier. Now, to move. The recently swallowed sleeping pills didn’t interfere with my control—they worked on Fujioka’s brain, which was mush by now.
"Testing, testing... one, two..." I muttered slowly.
Perfect. Voice is working. Doesn’t sound too energetic, but I wasn’t planning any long speeches.
I opened the door across from Fujioka, and the puppet exited the car, leaving my body “asleep” at the wheel. The Japanese man walked towards the brightly lit bank entrance. The glass doors slid open. The small lobby was empty. Just cameras and ATMs. Perfect.
I transferred the limit of 30,000 from the digital account to credit chips. Thanks to Fujioka’s stolen knowledge, I knew that cashing out more in one go risked an immediate corporate or bank security check. Then, I transferred 127,000 to the account Lucy specified.
Unfortunately, about 300,000 of the financier’s money was locked in investment accounts and deposits, difficult to withdraw. But even 157,000 was a huge win.
For one Fujioka, we scored more than from the six goons we took out in the workshop. I’d split a significant chunk of the money with Lucy. Something from selling the car would go to Falco. Fifteen from the stash were mine, a fixer’s cut, in a way.
The corpse returned to the car, and I cut the connection. My hands felt cold—or rather, my hand did. My ears were ringing. I gave myself a shot, caught my breath, and sped away. Then, slowed down again to calmly set up a secure channel with Falco.
"Hey. Did Lucy call you?"
“She messaged me, says there’s another car. This business is blooming. What kind of car?”
“Rayfield Aerondight.”
“Oh, my god... You guys steal from Kerry Eurodyne or something?”
"No. An ex-colleague from another department came looking for me."
"And? Found you?"
“Yeah, no shit. Found me. Comes with his corpse as a bonus. Could stuff him in a suitcase, but be careful—he’s got Trauma platinum. Don’t take any chips out of him.”
“Pretty flashy car and a dead corpo with Trauma platinum. When we’re done, we’re gonna need a beer to calm our nerves. Bring it out of the city. I’ll send you coordinates. You ride bikes?”
"Not the biggest fan."
"I’ll bring you a bike with my car. You can ride it back into the city. I need mine tonight."
"Works for me."
Calling a cab from wherever we stashed the car was too risky. The car was flashy, and Fujioka was at least a mid-tier big shot if not top-level. High-risk job. It’s quiet now, but one wrong step, and I’d be neck-deep in shit.
I drove out of the city. Fewer and fewer cars on the road. Two-thirty in the morning—a relatively late hour even for Night City. A couple of cops glanced at me as they passed. All was going smoothly, until out of nowhere, a black-as-night Thornton shot out from a side road. A battered wide-body car blocked my path on the narrow serpentine road. It crawled forward, forcing me to slow down.
I called Falco again.
“Looks like we’ve got trouble.”
"Cops? Maelstrom? Trauma?"
"No clue. An old black beater just pulled up, blocking the narrow road, can’t go around or turn back easily."
“Send me the coordinates. I’ll grab the bike and head over.”
“Hold on. Try to stall them.”
The Thornton ahead came to a full stop. I tried to reverse, but a Galena blocked the road behind me. The driver of the budget car honked like crazy, oblivious to what he’d stumbled into.
Three guys jumped out of the Thornton. I scanned them quickly, since they hadn’t noticed me yet. Not gang members, not Maelstrom—just some little highway thugs. No Sandevistan. No Kerenzikov. One with subdermal armor, plus cheap cyber-limbs.
I pulled down my protective mask, drew Fujioka’s smart gun, the Kappa, in my right hand and my trusty “Apparition” in my left. Time to try a little yakuza trick.
By then, the bandits were about ten meters away. Shotgun, SMG, double-barrel. Dressed in rags. Suburban mutts, sniffing out easy prey. Probably thought there was some drugged-up rockerboy or corpo in the car with a couple of hookers. Maybe they didn’t even plan to steal the car. Just grab a few eddies and take off. But I’m overthinking for these kinds of goons. They run on instinct and a fix of cheap drugs.
I opened both car doors at once.
The bandits froze. Their guns pointed from one door to the other, guessing where the passengers would pop out.
Alright.
Three electrical shocks for each of them and a parting gift—a glitch in the optics for the luckiest one.
As soon as the scripts activated, I jumped out of the car, activating Kerenzikov.
Aimed with my left-hand gun, while the smart pistol handled itself. I aimed the Kappa at the far-left bandit in the black bandana. The “Apparition” in my left hand targeted the guy in the middle, whose body was half-covered in a scruffy bulletproof vest.
Without slow-mo, firing like this would just waste bullets. You’d have to be a gunslinging god for this. The kind that’d make Roland of Gilead tip his hat or Revy invite you out. But with Kerenzikov, I could deliver with style—especially against punks without high-end implants or survival instincts.
I took one down with the "Apparition," shot another right in his not-so-smart head with some smart bullets. Right in the final seconds, Kereznikov kicked in; I rolled to the roadside, hopping over the barrier and vanishing into the dark, blending with the bushes and rocks. A drop-off behind me. Gotta be careful.
Meanwhile, the rest of the crew snapped out of shock.
"That’s a fucking Corp ninja!" the survivor shouted. "Let's get out, Garry, get the fuck out!"
I could have finished them off, but I decided not to bother. Better they drive their wreck away themselves.
The driver of the Galena parked behind the Rayfield started reversing frantically, scraping the guardrail with sparks flying. I headed back to the car, jumped behind the wheel, and the black Thornton was already tearing down the road. They thought they’d caught easy prey, but they found a different kind of predator.
"All clear," I reported to Falco. "Just some idiots. Spooked them and I'm on my way to the meetup. Head there too."
I maneuvered around the corpse of the unlucky robber, and the Rayfield pulled out of the narrow stretch. Once I hit the empty highway, I let the engine roar. Dust kicked up as I flew forward.
Lucy called me.
“Handled the car, V?”
"Almost. Gonna drop it with Falco, then head back to town on the bike."
“Swing by Afterlife. I’ve got an interesting job lined up. Oh, and change into something flashier. You're Alex, a netrunner fresh in from the USSR who only speaks Russian.”
"Oh wow. Spy games?"
“You’ll find out. Don’t stress. I’ll tell you everything when you get here. It’ll be fun.”
“Alright. Be there soon.”
Another night that just won't end. Murder, carjacking, a dead guy in a tub, a shootout on the road, and now Afterlife awaits.
The lights of Night City faded behind me. Ahead lay nothing but darkness, a few stars, and the stretch of road. A wave of melancholy serenity washed over me. Kind of sad the drive would end soon. Could ride like this all the way to the horizon. It’s moments like this you get why nomads do what they do.
Headlights shining.
Two beams dividing the night into what was and what's gone.
I met up with Falco near a dirt road exit winding between rocks. The former nomad whistled, giving the Rayfield a quick look.
“Nice, pricey toy,” he said with a hint of disapproval. “I prefer a different approach. To cars and people alike.”
“How much do you think we could sell it for?”
“Wouldn’t even try guessing,” Falco shook his head. “This thing’s too flashy. Best bet would be to smuggle it out of the country. That’ll take time and money.”
“Speaking of time. Gotta go. Lucy wants me at Afterlife.”
“Just do me a favor—no more heists for a couple days,” the nomad joked as I strapped on my helmet. “Gotta offload what we’ve got first.”
“We’ll see how it goes.”
Now I was racing back towards the city lights, feeling the speed and the wind in my face. Nearing Night City, I eased up. I’d mostly practiced riding in sims, with a bit of hands-on experience in my first life on a dirt track. Purely for familiarization. Not planning to push my luck.
Lucy wanted me disguised? Alright. First stop, a cheap barbershop on the edge of town. The sign said “open,” the door was ajar, but the lights were off. I stepped in, hand ready on my pistol, just in case. All good. The barber was knocked out in his chair, judging by the empty bottles nearby, he’d had a fun night.
“Wake up,” I nudged him. “Time to earn for that hangover cure.”
The groggy guy barely opened his eyes and muttered, “Choom, I can try…but it won’t be pretty.”
“Lucky you. Just grab the clippers and give me a three-millimeter cut.”
“Ah. Gotcha. That’s easy, choom.”
Spent the next few minutes inhaling his boozy breath, but we got it done. Next stop, a 24/7 market in Night City.
Had to find something “Russian.” A striped tank top and ushanka? Too cliché. Ended up picking a black T-shirt with a red star, a dark red track jacket, and matching track pants with white stripes. Also grabbed a cheap gold chain. Probably stolen. Finished the look with big mirrored shades. Not as flashy as Fujioka’s, but they still sparkled.
Checked myself in the reflection. A grin, no chaser for the vodka, and I’d look just like some shady Soviet who came to Night City for back-alley deals. Would’ve added a gold watch or bracelet, but no time. This’ll do.
Next stop, Afterlife.
Soon I was descending the stairs, standing in front of the door and the bouncer’s cold gaze as he blocked my way. Guy stood about a head taller.
"Lost, are you?" he challenged, voice metallic as he blocked the path.
I grinned wide and replied in Russian.
“Меня подруга ждет. Хотела какое-то дело обсудить.”
(Friend’s waiting. Wants to talk business.)
“What friend, Ivan?”
“Люси. Белые волосы с радужным отливом. Черный комбез с красными вставками. Очаровательная улыбка. Она не предупреждала?”
(Lucy. White hair, rainbow highlights. Black suit with red details. Charming smile. She didn’t mention me?)
“Right. Down the hall, and stay out of sight.”
I stepped inside, into the pale green glow of the mercenaries' den. Small club with big reputation, set in an old morgue. Fitting enough. I wasn’t known here yet. Not looking for fame either—not yet. Fame’s a double-edged sword. Besides, maybe I won’t even have to chase it. It’ll cling to me like dirt, as long as I don’t get in the way.
Taking a right, I found a small section with two tables. At the far one sat Lucy and… yep, her company was interesting. She waved me over. I nodded, hands in my pockets, and strolled over with a casual spring in my step.
Two people sat to our right. Both in travel-worn jackets.
“This is Nash and Panam,” Lucy introduced the two I already knew. “Nomads trying their luck on the city streets. Looking for some netrunner help.”
The tan face of the female nomad was unmistakably familiar. Her “friend” Nash, though, I hadn’t seen as much. Big guy with a square jaw, like a stereotypical American marine. Probably never set foot in an army, though.
“Здравствуйте,” I said with a wide smile, settling next to Lucy. “Алексей Ланцов. Но вам будет проще звать меня Алекс. По какому поводу сборище? Просто выпить или ожидается задушевный разговор?”
(Hey there, Aleksei Lancov. But it’ll be easier for you to call me Alex. So, what’s the gathering for? Just drinks, or are we expecting some heart-to-heart?”)
“Hi. We’ve got time for drinks, but there’s a job,” Panam said, her tone serious. “Nash, what’d your fixer spill?”
"Gotta track down some fucker" the big guy started, gruff as ever. "He's an ex-corp netrunner on the run. You'll help us locate him, and we'll pay seven grand if it's a clean job. Clear?"
"Abso-lute-ly," I replied with the thickest, dumbest accent I could manage, then switched to Russian. “Но хотелось бы услышать подробности. Кого ищем, чем известен, откуда взялся, куда делся.”
(But I'd like to hear more details. Who's the target, what's he known for, where’d he come from, and where’d he go?)
"A corpo suit from Arasaka," Panam explained. "Killed some of his colleagues, then made a run for it. Got the full profile here." She slid a crumpled file over. "He might’ve changed his face by now if he’s not a complete moron. We’re low on leads. He’s a netrunner, hence the need for you two."
I nodded. “Ну где-то он должен закупаться плюс мог светануть корпоративных демонов. А зовут то его как?”
(Sure, he’s gotta be buying gear somewhere, maybe showing up with corporate daemons. What's his name, by the way?)
I already knew the answer, but I wanted confirmation.
"Vincent Price," Panam replied.
Ah, Night City. Always got a warm, murderous hug waiting for me.
