JohnnyZ
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[Demons of NC] Chapter 10
🕑 Added 2024-11-02 23:00:00 +0000 UTCTwo days later, the surveillance team sent a report that Maine's gang was planning something. By that time, I had already checked in with a ripperdoc. No new implants, just updated the firmware on my cyberdeck.
That morning in Jenkins’ office, I laid it out for him:
“It’s Okamura. I’m sure of it now. Abernathy called him in right before the first hit on me. The visit log was erased, but three employees confirmed it. Okamura took time off on the day of the first hit and was on a solo job during the second.”
“Alright, V. But you sure took your time,” Jenkins noted. “I was beginning to think you were giving the bastard a third shot.”
“No way. Two days, and he’s gone.”
“Make it clean. Whether you do it yourself or hire someone, I don’t care. But if you decide to shoot…”
Arthur pointed to a black plastic case lying on the table between us. The Arasaka logo was stamped on top. I picked up the box. Heavy. I snapped open the latches. Inside was a hefty electromagnetic pistol.
“A gift?” I asked, surprised.
“Loot,” Jenkins clarified. “Three months ago, Frank Nostra ordered it from our arms department. That little prick who's all over Abernathy. I figured, if she’s screwing with my protégés, might as well put pressure on her fan club too. Frank doesn’t need this gun, but you might.”
The Arasaka JKE-X2 "Kenshin." Nice piece of tech. But was it smart to use it on Okamura? One-of-a-kind gear made in Arasaka could be easily traced back by the Security Dep. Safer to take him out with something disposable and ditch it. Still, the Kenshin would come in handy later.
I noticed a kanji on the side of the box that roughly translated to “Apparition”—personalized, like a lot of custom mods. Turns out, Apparition had a unique feature: it synced with the owner's biomods. When the owner got hurt, the gun’s safeties disengaged, making every shot more lethal, though rough on the hardware.
Thanking Arthur, I went to settle some scores. Tanaka, Okamura, that quack. A triple cocktail of revenge. Shake, don’t stir, and add a splash of fresh blood.
Lucas drove me to my apartment, where I spent a couple of hours getting used to the new pistol. Kenshin generates an electromagnetic pulse that ejects tungsten-core rounds capable of piercing the thickest armor. It’s much deadlier than the Yukimura, but aiming will be manual. If you hold the trigger for a moment, the pistol blocks shots but charges the field, allowing for several extra powerful bursts in a row.
Toward evening, I dressed down like an average Night City citizen—no corp shine or showing off. A man in the crowd, wearing a gray coat, a cap with the logo of some long-defunct baseball club, and a medical mask. I brought along a bag containing my “Halloween costume.” I called Delamain.
While the automated taxi took me through the evening city, I transformed. From a man in the crowd into a creature of the shadows. A black balaclava completely covering my face, impenetrable welding goggles over my eyes, a black turtleneck with a high collar, body armor, a light helmet with padding and a protective mask, cargo pants, gloves, and a utility belt with pouches. Black. Black all over. Under the mask, I attached a simple voice modulator. I had a Unity, the Kenshin, three grenades, and even a Pulsar as backup.
Delamain dropped me off at the city’s outskirts, where two mercs from Afterlife were waiting next to a tinted car.
The first was a tall woman, openly showing off her chrome. The upper part of her face was covered with green synthetic skin, with additional armor plating. Judging by her rolled-up sleeves, she used mantis blades.
Her partner for tonight was a black guy, whose implants were well hidden. He wore a loose trench coat and looked like a solid cop from old American TV shows.
“When the fixer said the client wanted to stay anonymous, I expected the old trench coat and hat combo,” the black guy smirked, checking out my getup.
“I don’t do things halfway,” I replied.
Besides the all-black outfit, I also had temporary ICE, shielding me from scans. A good runner could break through it quickly, but for most and for now, I was a mystery.
We got into the car, heading toward the Ugli restaurant. Nearby, in the underground parking lot, Maine’s gang would attempt to nab Jimmy Kurosaki, the infamous director of extreme braindances. According to my memories of the future, the attempt would fail. Jimmy would use a powerful EMP device. Then he’d escape in a car, heading to his studio.
“I’ll disable the cameras in the parking lot for a bit, and you…” I pointed at the black guy. “You’ll plant this bug on the Rayfield Caliburn by the column.”
“Look, we weren’t hired to plant bugs,” the guy shook his head. “We’re here to protect you.”
I smirked. “I could step out in my ninja gear. Then you’d be dealing with NCPD.”
“Damn it, Els, just do what he says,” the woman finally spoke up.
“Alright, alright. I just like clear terms,” Els grumbled as he took the bug and left the car.
“Buzzkill,” the woman commented on her partner’s behavior, then blew a bubble with her obnoxiously pink gum, popping it loudly.
The bug was set with a delay. It wouldn’t activate for another thirty minutes, and the casing was fully sealed and shielded from EMPs. Jimmy’s device wouldn’t fry it.
The black guy returned after twenty minutes, carrying coffee and donuts.
“Want some, Miriam? Not offering it to Mr. Ninja over here, since op sec and all.”
I ignored the schoolyard jokes, focusing on the parking lot. In the original timeline, David was here waiting for Kurosaki. But Martinez was probably at home doing homework or lifting weights at the Academy gym. Instead, a short girl with unnaturally pale skin appeared in the parking lot. Rebecca. Her job, it seemed, was to distract Kurosaki while Maine and Dorio snuck up from behind in a rented SUV.
For about ten minutes, the girl wandered around the parking lot, looking bored. She kicked empty cans, peeked into the windows of parked cars, and balanced on the curbs, swinging the wide sleeves of her coat. Then my camera feed went black. Scanning the networks, I realized someone had disabled all surveillance in the parking lot. Probably Lucy or Kiwi.
I could have tried to break through their defenses, but there’s a chance I’d spook the cyberpunks. Nope. No way. I won’t be getting another day off for a while. Everything needs to go down today.
“Sorry for the rough start, Mr. Ninja,” the guy continued playing comedian. “I’m getting more and more into this mission. Guarding clients who sit quietly in a car? Pretty easy. If it keeps going like this...”
“Let’s roll,” I commanded as Jimmy Kurosaki’s car shot out of the parking lot.
“Damn, I jinxed it,” the black guy sighed, yanking the wheel.
We tore out of the spot, tailing the director. I was counting down the time until the bug would activate. The main thing was not to lose sight of the car before I got a solid signal. If the bug failed, I’d have to do it the old-fashioned way—hanging onto his tail and risking drawing attention.
But there, I got the signal. Perfect. We confirmed everything was good, so we could drop off Kurosaki’s tail and let him relax, feel safe.
Our car slowed down. By this hour, the city streets were covered in what was either smog or fog. Some ghostly haze, through which the neon looked like something out of a fantasy, and the outlines of skyscrapers reminded me of the ruins of a non-human civilization. I felt a pleasant rush of adrenaline. Not the jittery kind, the one that’s a struggle between resolve and panic for control of your mind, but the thrill of the hunt.
I’m a cybernetic predator, stalking my prey in these concrete jungles.
My hearing sharpened to the extreme. Police sirens, the rustling of cars on asphalt, the clanging of construction machinery—every sound drew my attention.
This is how I want to live. Not in the Net, not in an office, but on an endless urban hunting safari. A shadow man, a mystery man, a neo-vampire in a city of high-tech vices.
In the meantime, we rolled up to the studio, which looked more like a warehouse with a high ceiling. Jimmy Kurosaki was trying not to attract too much attention. Doing a bad job at it. His little business of exploiting people’s base desires was hanging by a thread. If I’m a city predator, then Jimmy Kurosaki is a scavenger. The type who loves to profit off other people’s tragedies.
“I’m going in soon. You guys stay here, wait for the signal. If you get it, rush in and cover me from any potential threats,” I told the mercs, leaning back in my seat and starting my netrunner magic.
From the external cameras to the internal ones. Ah, there he is. There’s Jimmy, and he’s carrying... Rebecca. Found himself another unwilling actress, but this shoot’s about to be interrupted.
There weren’t any human guards inside. Lots of equipment, shelves, power blocks. But I remembered Kurosaki had some tough drones ready. At least two. My invisible tendrils were searching for them now. Carefully, gently, without overexerting... Got them!
Practicing control over the homeless helped me get better at remote manipulation. Now I had to slowly erode the drones’ systems, replacing some protocols with corrupted versions. That took me about ten minutes. As I stepped out of the car, I felt a slight dizziness, which I cured with a small dose of meds.
Soon, I was walking through the side door that had conveniently opened for me. Didn’t even need to use the magnetic lock breaker. Everything was controlled through the building’s local network.
In the dim light, my ninja suit no longer seemed funny, especially with the Kenshin in my right hand. Besides that, I had the Unity on my belt, two grenades in my vest, and a Pulsar slung over my shoulder.
My optics were cranked to max brightness to make out the world through my welding goggles. However, where Jimmy was fiddling with his equipment, the light was bright enough. I walked slowly, watching for traps underfoot. Nothing.
So this is who you are, Jimmy Kurosaki. A psycho, but not a paranoid one. If it were me, I’d have placed at least some tripwires, if not mines. All your faith is in the drones? Not smart.
I activated a jammer to make sure the director didn’t accidentally call the cops, his gang muscle, or Trauma Team. Now, only my emergency signal could leave the building.
Rebecca was half-reclined in a bulky metal chair. Jimmy had taken off her coat, leaving her in some black outfit—either lingerie or a swimsuit. Her wrists and ankles were strapped down, and a glowing brain dance wreath was around her head. Judging by the way she was twitching, arching her body, something intense was being fed into her brain. Black brain dance. Someone else’s death, with all the sensations dialed up to the max.
“Turn around, Jimmy. Slowly,” I said in a metallic voice.
The director quickly pressed something on the console. Probably an alarm button. Useless. Then he finally turned, grinning with his chrome freak face. Part of his skin was covered in gold plates.
“Wow, you’re pretty quiet,” Jimmy said casually, glancing at Rebecca. “Or maybe she’s just too loud. What brings a man in black to my place? Money? Information? Exclusive recordings? I’m sure we can make a deal, but first...”
Behind me, the engines of two Wyvern military drones roared to life.
“No firsts, no seconds either” I said, snapping the fingers of my left hand.
A click, and both drones sparked, crashing to the floor. Even through the balaclava, the smell of burning plastic hit my nose.
“Alright, alright. Now I really surrender,” the freak said, raising his hands. “So, what do you want?”
I pulled a small chip box out of my vest pocket, walked over, and placed it near Jimmy.
“Stick this chip into your port. It'll knock you out a lot more pleasantly than my scripts will,” I advised.
Jimmy obediently opened the box, twirling the chip between his long fingers.
“Oh, I’m curious to see where I’ll wake up and in what state! I love surprises.”
“Hurry it up, Jimmy. I’ve got big plans for the evening,” I replied, pointing my pistol between his eyes.
“Yes, sir,” the director sneered, slotting the chip into the port on his neck. “I’m already off to slee...”
He didn’t finish. The virus chip knocked him out in a split second.
So far, so good. Now, all that’s left is to rob Jimmy, help Maine capture the director, and make sure they deal with Tanaka without screwing over Lucy.
I walked over to the control consoles. In a few minutes, I managed to find the emergency shutdown for the brain dance. Rebecca stopped convulsing in the metal chair. Now, the only sound in the underground studio was her heavy breathing.
Hope she’s in her right mind. Well, in her usual not-right mind, at least.
I took off her brain dance wreath and carelessly tossed it onto the floor. I gently placed two fingers near her heart, barely touching her chest. Damn. Even through my gloves, I could feel her pulse racing over 200. She’d already opened her eyes but clearly wasn’t fully conscious. I rummaged through my med pouch. A pink octagon of expensive drugs fell into my palm.
With my other hand, I grabbed Rebecca by the chin. Opened her mouth like an owner trying to feed a pill to a cat. Luckily, unlike a cat, she didn’t resist. The pill dropped onto her pale pink tongue.
“Swallow, snap out of it, and we’ll talk,” I said, turning towards Jimmy’s body.
Time for loot. And to divert some funds into my pocket.
Jimmy had a solid 4,500 in cash and chips. Not bad. Clearly, he dealt in a lot of illegal stuff, hence the need to carry that much cash.
Then I turned to the director’s computer and...
“Ca svallow!” came a voice from behind me. “Ay ca svallow it.”
I turned back to find that Rebecca was now conscious, sitting up with the octagonal pill stuck to her tongue. Her mouth must’ve gone dry.
“Ca svallow it,” she insisted.
I barely stifled a laugh. The scene was just too absurd for me to handle. A guy all decked out in black, armed to the teeth, and across from him, a punk girl strapped to a torture chair with her tongue sticking out. Staring at him with red-yellow eyes, demanding “water.”
I glanced over at Jimmy’s desk. Nothing suitable, but...
“Will vodka do?” I asked.
“Mhm.”
I grabbed the square bottle from the table, with a portrait of Lenin on it. "Bolshevik" vodka. I pulled off the cap in one swift motion and went to give the needy a drink. Rebecca lifted herself as much as the straps allowed, leaning forward. I carefully dripped some vodka onto her tongue. She didn’t even flinch. Just a muffled “More.”
Well, if more, then more. This time I didn’t hold back with the vodka, but Rebecca didn’t even cough. She downed about 200 grams like it was water. I guess she was in shock.
Making sure she swallowed the pill, I returned to the computer. I launched a data-harvesting worm that first transferred valuable files to my external drive and then erased them from the system. Accounts, client databases, supply chains — anything that could be turned into eddies.
“Untie me!” Rebecca demanded, this time in a normal voice.
“Later,” I replied.
I didn’t want her getting in the way or doing something stupid.
“When's later?” she pressed.
I could hear her struggling against the straps. But I figured Jimmy Kurosaki strapped down his unwilling viewers and actors pretty tight to make sure they didn’t break free during their ‘viewing’.
Rebecca kept saying something, but I wasn’t particularly paying attention. I was busy searching for valuable loot. I picked up a bag and started gathering any data chips I found, along with an EMP device Jimmy used for self-defense.
“Choom, don’t go quiet on me!” Rebecca yelled, twisting in the straps. “You’re after Jimmy’s ass too, right? We’re on the same side! Let me out!!”
I picked up a large utility knife from one of the tables and walked toward her, flicking out the blade. Rebecca went quiet, eyeing the sharp object in my hand.
“Choom, you’re not a psycho, right?” she asked cautiously.
“No. I’ll let you out now and leave. Call your people. I’ve taken what I needed. I don’t care what happens to Jimmy Kurosaki, but I strongly recommend you zero that bastard. It’ll make life easier for all of us.”
“No problem!” she cheered. “I’ll off him myself. By the way, where you from? We haven’t crossed paths at Afterlife?”
“No,” I shook my head. “Don’t move, I’ll…”
I didn’t finish the sentence. Out of the corner of my ear, I heard Japanese voices from the next room, with that distinctive tone of arrogance.
Tiger Claws.
