JohnnyZ
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[Demons of NC] Chapter 7
🕑 Added 2024-11-03 02:00:00 +0000 UTCI stood across from Maine, feeling my heart start to race, but my voice remained as firm as ever.
"I'll repeat myself. There’s at most four of you, if the girl decides to join in, but I really wouldn't advise her to do that." I turned towards Lucy and added, "That ice you saw, kid, is just the tip of the iceberg. What's beneath... Any Titanic would shit itself."
"You won't even have time to shit yourself, suit," Maine shot back. "The pieces of meat left from you will fly into the next building."
"Fuck…" Dorio exhaled. She clearly didn’t like where our conversation was heading again.
There was a mechanical hum and a dry click. Saito, with a sharp motion of his thumb, slightly unsheathed his katana. A final samurai warning, so to speak.
"Maine!" Lucy finally spoke up. She turned to us, casting off her previous confusion, and stepped closer to the big guy. Her eyes, outlined with red makeup, were burning with resolve.
"I found the kid," she said. "But this whole thing…" she glanced over at the cyberpunks and Claws ready for a brawl. "This wasn’t part of the deal. Enough!"
"Shut the fuck up!" the cyberpunk rudely replied. However, it seemed like he was slowly starting to think with the remnants of his brain instead of his muscles.
"Take your little shit and get out!" he snapped, turned, and stormed off, slamming his chrome fist into the wall with such force that it left a crack. "Fucking corps and their fucking bullshit!"
"Are we bailing?" Jackie asked, clearly happy, already having gotten David almost to the door.
"We're bailing," I nodded. "fucking corps will now and go cause their fucking bullshit somewhere else."
Dorio let out a loud sigh of relief. Saito spat his cigarette stub onto the floor and said in Japanese:
"You won’t die today."
Then he headed for the door, firmly sealing his katana back in its sheath. We all slowly made our way out to the hallway, and soon we were outside.
"How are you, kid?" Jackie asked as David got into the car with us.
"I don’t know…" the guy said, staring off into space, but then his gaze cleared. "I still can’t believe it… my mom’s alive."
"Relax," Jackie patted him on the shoulder. "You’re just a bit fucked up. Anyone would be fucked up in your place. So much crazy shit at once. Getting pressed by cyberpunks, the whole mix-up about your mom’s death, Arasaka actually doing something good. Que fuerte! I can hardly believe that last part."
Meanwhile, I was listening in on the cyberpunks through a bug I had discreetly placed before we left. Everything was centered around Maine, who was whining about the situation we’d put him in. What was the classic line? "In the evening before the fight, you might feel a slight burning sensation. That’ll be your pride fucking with you."
"We missed our chance," Maine stated.
"But we kept our heads," Dorio replied. "Thanks to Lucy. She saved us."
"We could’ve taken them!" Maine protested.
"Hardly, even with all four of us. I scanned their implants," Lucy replied. "Two Sandevistans, and that corp guy… I’ve never seen such a stable and strange ice. It’s like there's a digital fortress in the suit’s head."
"But my rounds would’ve broken through it," the big guy kept raging. "Pilar, you’re with me on this?"
"Yeah, choom. All good," Pilar chuckled. "We’d have killed a few of them, and then I was planning to blow up all my grenades."
"Why the fuck?" Maine was surprised.
"To take more bastards with us. In an open fight, they’d have shredded us. Screw the netrunner. That yak has MLj-15 arms. Underground Chiba modification. The joints are... mmm, chef’s kiss! And hits like a jackhammer! That bastard would've flipped on his Sandevistan and zip-zip like in a samurai movie. No chance, Maine. But! We would've gone out with a bang."
While listening to the cyberpunks, I took a small pack of vials and a syringe out of my pocket. I was about to give myself a shot to counter the desynchronization with my body. My hands were still freezing.
"You’ve been using too much pharma, camarada," Wells said, concerned.
"I’ve got a tough job, Jackie," I replied, letting the drug flow into my vein. "Tough and stressful."
"What does Arasaka want from me?" David asked, slightly calmer. "Why go through all this trouble for me? They didn’t care before."
"And now they do. You beat the shit out of Tanaka Junior too well. Tanaka Senior saw the video and was very impressed."
"He wants revenge?"
"No. I’m from counterintel. I don’t deal with schoolyard brawls," I chuckled. "You’re a one-of-a-kind, David. A winner of the genetic lottery. Tanaka Senior, whose son you pummeled, personally gave you a scholarship and ordered you to return to the Academy. Ironic, right?"
David gave a nervous chuckle, wiping the blood from his split lip.
"The irony doesn’t stop there," I continued, smoothly shifting from truth to pure lies. "The clinic your mom was sent to had an illegal side business. Organ trafficking."
"Wait… What⁈" David’s eyes widened in shock and rage.
It was amazing he still had any energy left to be shocked. His whole day had been one long adrenaline rush. That's the strength of a young body for you.
"Yeah, yeah," I replied grimly, massaging the injection site. "You understood correctly. They target poor people with no connections, feed their relatives a story about a sudden health deterioration, and hand over someone else’s ashes. But Gloria got lucky because you beat up Tanaka Junior. His dad sent me on the case, and I visited the clinic. These bastards tried to repeat their story about her health suddenly worsening. I demanded full records, threatened them with the police, and, lo and behold! It turned out to be just a 'mistake'."
"The world’s full of assholes, kid," Jackie sighed. "And Night City’s got more than its fair share."
"I’m not letting this go."
“I understand,” I nodded. “But don't do anything stupid. It would be a shame if Gloria gets discharged from the hospital only to face her son's arrest. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Don’t take after that punk who looks like a gorilla. People like him don’t live long. Think with your head, not chrome.”
Twenty minutes later, he was already home. The academy had paid off a small debt to his landlord.
“Your mom is getting discharged tomorrow. Here’s my contact if there are any problems.”
“And mine too,” added Jackie.
Wow, he signed up to be the dad real quick.
“I don’t think that punk Maine will bother you anymore,” I added. “We left too much of an impression on his buddies. But if he does, give me a call.”
I suspect Maine might try to collect the debt from Gloria, but the Martinez family won’t have money problems anymore. David’s education was their biggest expense.
Arasaka wants to test implants on him. Is that bad for him? It’s definitely better than if some shady, incompetent ripperdoc shoved implants into him while pouring cheap chems on top. Arasaka will give the kid good healthcare and the most modern adaptation courses. Clean clinics, polite doctors, and lots of corporate chrome. Who knows, maybe in a few years, the street gangs in Kabuki will fear David Martinez more than Adam Smasher.
“Thanks…” the guy muttered after us as we reached the door. “I owe you.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Jackie waved it off, but I responded differently.
“We’ll settle it somehow.”
We definitely will.
The same almost-limo drove me home. Without the Claws, it was quite cozy. Jackie and I were drinking champagne, and our mood couldn’t have been better.
“You know, talking with you now, you seem like a normal guy,” Jackie remarked, leaning in. “But when you start talking corporate, my ears bleed and my fists itch. Do they teach you that on purpose?”
“It’s a talent,” I smirked. “A talent and a pinch of assholery.”
Overall, the day went great, but the next six were utter shit. Piles of work, crunch, deadlines, chaos, and other terrifying words were the usual working atmosphere in our delightful department of the most wonderful corporation in the world. Honestly, it would have been better if Vincent Price had dreamt of joining the Tiger Claws instead of Arasaka. I’d be walking around with a grim face, a katana, smoking smelly hand-rolled cigarettes, and having a grand time, instead of all this.
For almost a week, I felt less like a hamster on a wheel and more like the kitten from the "I Will Survive" meme.
During the trip to David’s place, the bug in Lucy’s apartment went into sleep mode. It wouldn’t be usable for a few days, but that also made it harder to detect. We’d remove it later to avoid getting caught. I paid Wakako an extra five grand to continue surveillance on Lucy, not with a constant tail that would eventually be noticed. No. Just periodic information gathering. I just needed to make sure she wouldn’t change apartments.
However, as long as the girl worked with Maine, she was easy to track through that idiot. But soon his gang would start dying off. I had to seize the moment. The plan was simple: show up when she was sinking into total despair and make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.
By that time, almost no one from Maine’s gang would be left. I wasn’t going to save them. If my memory of the future wasn’t failing me, they were actively rushing toward their deaths. So let it be. Unlike them, David and Lucy had a chance, and most importantly, potential.
All these thoughts swirled in my head as Lucas drove me in a corporate car to another session of corporate nonsense.
Neither the morning sun nor the cooling coffee in my stomach could cheer me up. Only the thought of the upcoming paycheck gave me a bit of a boost. We stopped at a traffic light, surrounded by a stream of cars. One second, two, three, five… ten? When you take the same route often, you start memorizing the timing. This light was taking longer than it should. This seemingly trivial detail caught my attention, reminding me of the broken elevator in the building. I frantically looked around for any new important details. I noticed a street camera.
“Lucas,” I called out to the driver. “We might be about to…”
I didn’t finish saying "get killed."
From a nearby alley, a camouflaged SUV barreled down the sidewalk, knocking over street vendors' stalls and scattering pedestrians. Another one followed right behind. Both were covered in NUSA stars. Sixth Street.
Lucas slammed the gas, trying to break through the traffic. At that moment, the door of the first SUV opened while it was still moving. A guy in camouflage and tactical gear leaned out, holding a Defender light machine gun. His voice boomed, probably amplified by the car’s speakers.
“Death to the fucking collaborators!”
Ah, must be talking about me.
I triggered a weapons malfunction and overheating on the patriot and dove to the floor of the car. Glass shattered around us.
I caught sight of the street camera, taking control of it. Lucas tried to escape the jam, but the delayed traffic light had caused a massive bottleneck. Our black corporate SUV was stuck amidst a pile of budget junk heaps, all getting riddled with bullets. Alongside the loudmouth with the Defender, two more guys emerged from the first SUV. One with an assault rifle, the other... damn it. Here come the grenades.
Without thinking, I used soul-rip. The Sixth Street thug convulsed, but the first grenade exploded close to our car. Hundreds of fragments tore through the flimsy bodies of the budget cars. Many drivers scrambled out, trying to flee. Gloria had died in a crash much like this.
After the soul-rip, I felt the familiar cold in my hands, combined with a strange euphoria. Following up with the unique script, I cast short-circuit and synapse burnout on the grenade enthusiast. That should finish him. But there were still plenty of enemies.
Lucas tried shooting back with his Sigurnae, but the machine gun and a couple of assault rifles from the Sixth Street gang dominated the fight. I had knocked out one with scripts. Not enough. More of them were getting out of the cars. At least five.
Our SUV was already full of holes, and when an incendiary bomb landed on top, it became clear we had to ditch the car before we burned with it.
Soul-rip, weapon malfunction, overheating. I unleashed that sequence of scripts on the machine gunner and disconnected from the camera. Smoke, fire, it was almost impossible to breathe, and my head was spinning, making everything sway underfoot. I tumbled out of the SUV, landing on asphalt covered in shattered glass. Nearby, cars were burning. The unbearable heat overpowered even the cold in my body from using soul-rip.
I rushed to run, trying my best not to stick out. Kept my head down. Turned off the main road into side streets. The explosion of a gas tank erupted behind me. Made it just in time.
No idea what happened to Lucas, but I didn’t have time to search for him or his corpse. Staggering from the desynchronization with my body, I darted into an alley. A burst of gunfire followed. Strangely enough, the pain didn’t seem that bad. It just suddenly knocked the wind out of me. Probably because of the desynchronization. My body felt foreign.
I’d been shot in the back. Three or four hits from an assault rifle. The bullets pierced through my light armor, and beyond that was my not-so-modified body. Ordinary fragile bones, bleeding flesh.
"Got him!" came a shrill, hunting cry from one of the NSRA patriots behind me. "Lieutenant, finish him off!"
I collapsed forward, falling face-first onto the asphalt, covered with old, rain-soaked newspapers. My left hand reached for one of the mega-stimulants the corporate doctor had given me. A plastic casing, with several syringes of chemical compound inside. I stabbed three needles into my leg, pressing the button. It felt like an electric storm surged through my body. Strength returned quickly.
With my right hand, I was already grabbing Yukimura from my belt, rising to my feet and retreating further into the alley. Staggering from wall to wall, I moved forward. I glanced back. The first of their grunts had already appeared in the alley. He raised his rifle, and I responded with a lock-breaking script and gunfire from my pistol. My hand betrayed me, but the smart bullets found their target. They hit, but didn’t do much damage. The enemy's armor was far superior. All I did was force him to take cover. Bought myself a little more time to stumble further.
With my left hand, I ripped a grenade from my jacket. Without looking, I tossed it behind me. Unlikely to hit anyone, but maybe I’d buy myself another couple of seconds.
Ahead of me…
I’d hit a dead end.
A cramped basketball court, squeezed between buildings and a chain-link fence. A good spot for my second death? Not really, though better than a plague ward.
Behind the fence was a door into a building, but I didn’t have the strength to climb. First-floor windows, a fire escape. Probably how the street kids used to get in to play ball here. But I could barely move my legs now.
I grabbed the chain-link fence for support, to keep from falling. Pointed Yukimura’s barrel at the alley I’d just come from. A second later, the first enemy appeared. Briefly showed his ugly mug in a cowboy hat. Yukimura didn’t lock on in time, and I fired wide, but I scared him off. A second, maybe two, passed before a grenade flew my way…
Shit.
I activated Kerenzikov, but I didn’t have the reflexes or steady enough hands to shoot it mid-air. I just threw myself back, away from the blast center. In slow motion, I saw the hand that threw the grenade retreating into the alley. There was visual contact, weak but enough.
Soul rip, locking, locking, synapse suppression. The bastard’s dead, though he doesn’t know it yet.
A bright flash and explosion. I managed to hit the ground, but some of the shrapnel got me. My legs took the worst of it. There was almost no pain. Just dizziness, euphoria, and the feeling that my body was rejecting me. Like I was a jockey riding a stubborn, wounded horse. Blue flashes danced before my eyes. Reality blurred with cyberspace.
For a moment, I saw myself from the outside. A scrawny corpo in a black and red suit. Black and red not just from Arasaka’s color scheme. Blood had soaked my white shirt, shrapnel had shredded my pants. I was lying on my back, clutching a nearly useless pistol.
I dove back into my body. Amid the blue static, an image of a chubby, buzz-cut “soldier” in camouflage with a bunch of American patches appeared in front of me.
“Is he dead?” a voice came from behind me.
“He will be,” grinned the patriot, raising his assault rifle.
Idiot. Should’ve just shot me, not talked. I had nothing left to lose. My essence partially transformed into a net demon. I didn’t just use the pseudo-script for essence extraction. No. Dozens of grasping tendrils burst from my informational body, slipping through the cracking ice of the pathetic human. The patriot screamed. His assault rifle went off, missing me, only grazing my poor, battered right leg with one bullet.
I tore the man’s informational structure to pieces. Shredded his scattered, chaotic thought storage units. I guess this is how Alt Cunningham’s infamous Soulkiller works. But she preserves the information from the torn-apart person, creating an engram. I just destroyed my enemy. Consumed only the bits that, for some reason, felt useful to me in the moment. Not even memories. Just some abstract fragments of thought.
The patriot collapsed, blood foaming from his mouth. He twitched for a few more seconds, then died. His body outlasted his soul. Or at least his informational essence.
A final feast for the briefly resurrected dead man. Out of the corner of my perception, I saw two more grunts approaching.
“Damn it, Raneer! Throw another grenade!” came a shout from that direction.
I could have tried to tear them apart too, but I was sure my link to my body wouldn’t withstand that. I’d either be thrown back into cyberspace or disintegrate entirely. I wasn’t sure what would happen to my essence. But I had no choice. The grenade was about to fly and…
It didn’t. Gunfire rang out in the background. Could it be the valiant police had decided to step in? There was another explosion from the grenade, then... silence. Through the flashes and static of cyberspace, I saw Lucas Costa approaching me. The SB operative had taken a serious beating. Half of his face was gone, exposing implants and metal skull bones, his suit was torn to shreds by shrapnel, but the Arasaka soldier was still standing. He held a captured assault rifle in his hands. The Brazilian came closer. He finished off the patriot I’d ripped apart with a shot. Started checking my pulse and injecting me with some drugs. Was I really going to survive?
Five minutes later, Trauma Team arrived. They loaded my almost lifeless body into their signature white and green AV. Onboard, a medic in a closed helmet began resuscitation. I was conscious, but I couldn’t speak or move. I hovered somewhere between the world of the living and cyberspace.
In that state, I ended up in a hospital room. Not even anesthesia helped. I didn’t fall asleep as I inhaled powerful tranquilizers and anesthetics, remaining fully aware. But there was no pain at all. Surgeons and medics in blue gowns were patching up the battered body of the long-dead Vincent Price, while the demon that replaced him was stuck on the edge of the Net.
