Cyberpunk 2077: Demons of Night City

After Susan Abernathy's body splattered across the rain-soaked asphalt, David Martinez got his first day off in three and a half weeks. Under the same relentless rain, he stepped out of the Union Street skyscraper and wandered aimlessly into the night.

The synthetic fabric of his gray-steel hoodie, something he'd thrown on after work, was quickly soaked through. Droplets trickled down his neck, sliding down his back to his waist. But David didn't even try to shield himself. If anything, he went out of his way to walk through the rain-soaked streets. The cold downpour was the only thing that seemed to distract him, even slightly, from the chaos raging in his head.

The past few days' events and echoes of the recent past collided in his mind, shattering into fragments, piling up on top of each other. They refused to let him go, refused to give him peace. Questions swirled endlessly, but the answers remained out of reach.

[Alert. Please take your medications.] the corporate biomonitor chimed.

Its voice irritated David as much as it grounded him. At least there was one constant in his life: meds.

Martinez stopped under the awning of a high-end clothing store and pulled out the plastic container issued by the corporate medics. Each compartment held nine different pills and capsules, plus two inhalers he always kept on him. Immunosuppressants, peptides, vitamins, hormones, muscle growth stimulants, adaptogens, antidepressants—all top-of-the-line products. Each pill could fetch fifty, maybe even a hundred eddies on the street. David got them for free. Chelsea Clark took nearly half as many meds even after her cosmetic surgery. He remembered how their biomonitors used to go off almost in sync. She'd reach for a similar plastic container and joke about "snacking on corporate candy."

Now all of that felt impossibly distant, like something from early childhood. David's thoughts kept circling back to the words of the senior officer:

"The attack was carried out by a gang of netrunners," the officer had explained. "None of them even got close to the tower. Network shenanigans, drones, a rigged AV. Maelstrom and Animals were just pawns—they didn't even know what they were part of. The hit team probably included a sniper and maybe a solo who took out the lookouts. But that's just a guess. More likely, they were hired for specific tasks, told where to go and when to pull the trigger. They might never have seen the real perpetrators. And terrorists? Not them either. They're just riding the free PR."

It was infuriating. How do you fight darkness and emptiness? An enemy without a name or face?

David was angry, but he couldn't even anchor that anger to some rusted nail of revenge. Who the hell was there to avenge? That cursed night, bullets flew out of the darkness, like the city itself had decided to claim Susan Abernathy's life—and missed. The Director of Special Operations had cheated the city one last time, sacrificing Chelsea in the process. She'd died with someone else's face, for someone else.

Had it helped anyone? No. Susan Abernathy lasted less than a week before shattering on the wet asphalt.

"Sir, are you okay?" a clothing store employee asked, snapping David out of his daze.

He realized he'd been standing there for several minutes, just staring at the pill container.

"Yeah…" David replied, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. "Just lost in thought. Do you have any water or soda?"

"Sorry, sir. But there's a vending machine over there."

"Right... Thanks."

[Alert. Please take your medications.] the biomonitor reminded him again.

David shut the container, slowly stepped back out into the rain, and trudged toward the vending machine. The occasional car sped past, spraying silver streaks of water into the air.

[Alert. Please take your medications,] the biomonitor repeated, now more insistent. [Failure to comply with your medication schedule will result in a report being sent to your healthcare provider.]

The vending machine spat a can of Ni-Cola onto the wet asphalt. It hissed open in David's hands, rain washing away the frothy bubbles that spilled out. The soda tasted even more synthetic than the pills. It made him nauseous, though, as his doctor often reminded him, that was psychosomatic. According to his biomonitor, his toxin levels were within acceptable limits.

After choking down the pills, David realized he had no idea what to do with himself. A day off, and yet the thought of going home felt unbearable. There, he'd have to answer his mother's questions and pretend he was holding it together. Pretend that everything, if not fine, was at least tolerable.

He didn't want to talk to anyone—not even those close to him, who might offer support. That's why he didn't call home.

Instead, he wandered aimlessly through the Business District until dawn, letting the rain drench him. He stared at the bright displays in store windows but didn't go inside. A few times, vendors of various pleasures approached him, but he ignored both the pushers of commercial love and the drug dealers.

He didn't want anything. His mind was finally, mercifully quiet, and he tried to savor the stillness. But it didn't last.

As morning neared, his group's senior officer—his direct superior—called.

"Don't stress about Abernathy," the officer said. "The investigation's closed. There are no claims against us. You're even being put up for a commendation."

"A commendation?" David repeated, disbelief clear in his voice.

The silence in his head shattered. The chorus of intrusive thoughts and unanswered questions roared back to life.

The whole situation felt like some absurd hallucination. A corpo under their protection was dead, they'd lost four people, including Chelsea, and now... a commendation?

"Yeah. You handled yourself well when the AV went down. There were mistakes, but we'll go over those in the briefing. For now, take it easy."

"Wait! The investigation's over? Who's behind the hit? How the hell did she die in a locked penthouse?"

"Looks like a neurovirus embedded in her friend's implants. Both of them suddenly snapped and committed suicide. There'll be an official statement tomorrow. Don't repeat what I've just told you. Got it?"

"Of course, sir."

"In the official release, we're blaming it on Crimson Harvest. The terrorists have already claimed responsibility."

"B-but… it wasn't them!" David exclaimed, his emotions finally breaking through. "You told me yourself—it wasn't them!"

"That was just my personal opinion, Martinez. It wasn't the official position of our department," the officer replied coldly. "Coordinated anti-terror efforts will strengthen our collaboration with Biotechnica. It's a reasonable political decision."

"But, sir—"

"Abernathy's dead," the officer cut him off. "And not many people are going to mourn her. Our job is to do what's required without asking unnecessary questions. If you're struggling with sleep or mood swings, see the medics. You've got another week off, Martinez. Get some rest. You'll need to swing by the Academy—they've got something to clear for you as an external credit. End of transmission."

"End…" David muttered, trailing off.

His fragile inner peace was shattered once again. The biomonitor flashed a notification of a non-critical rise in adrenaline and cortisol levels.

David looked around. Early morning. The rain had stopped. Somehow, he'd wandered to the fringes of the Business District, finding himself surrounded by bleak, desolate scenery.

"Why? Why does everything have to be like this…" he asked himself silently.

The nightmare had started with the hostages at the factory, slaughtered by Smasher, and it showed no signs of ending.

David had seen streets piled with bodies, but the reports labeled it "minimal collateral damage." He hadn't been able to save anyone, yet the brass handed him a commendation and added another glowing note to his personnel file.

The longer David served in the corporation, the less sense it all made to him.

Sure, there were plenty of people willing to explain. Documents, manuals, briefings—lots of words about duty and snippets of Japanese and European philosophy. But the more of it David tried to absorb, the less he understood or accepted the reality around him.

He kept following orders, refusing to give up. But it was getting harder and harder to sleep at night or look his mother in the eyes. He couldn't tell her the truth, because that would mean abandoning the dream they'd built together. But sometimes, he wanted to scream at the top of his shiny new synthetic lungs:

"They lied to us, Mom! The ads are bullshit! There's nothing good at the top! It was all a mistake! A goddamn mistake!"

Just a few months ago, David had been overjoyed to ride in a car with Vincent Price and find out his mother was alive.

A miracle.

But the miracle ended quickly, giving way to the brutal, often bloody grind of Security Service life.

Even Price wasn't around to offer advice—first fired, then vanished. Victor probably knew more but refused to talk. Maybe…

David's spiraling thoughts were interrupted by a distant scream. A woman's voice.

In an instant, it was like someone flipped a switch inside him. Energy and focus flooded his body. His hand instinctively gripped the heavy Techtronika revolver at his hip.

David moved toward the sound. He crossed a short alley at a brisk pace, vaulted over a metal fence.

"Hand it over, you cunt! The chip!" a rough voice shouted.

Each word was punctuated by a blow. Even from a distance, David could hear them clearly.

"You fucked up, chica," another voice added. "Hand over the shard, or we'll have to dig through more than just your purse."

"I'm gonna knock her teeth down her throat!" the first voice yelled.

Another blow. Another scream. It was close now. David moved like a well-trained hunting dog, zero hesitation.

And then the scene unfolded before the perfect Arasaka employee—a small tragedy, one of countless Night City dramas. Three punks, wannabe Valentinos, were roughing up a low-level corpo. Cheap makeup smeared across her young face, mingling with tears and blood. Her blonde hair stuck out at odd angles, as though someone had tried to rip out chunks. The girl, in a black miniskirt and torn tights, was slumped against a wall.

"Hey, macho, don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong," warned the eldest punk, his battered face framed by a red bandana. "This puta owes us—"

David didn't let him finish. He'd had enough of other people's explanations and excuses.

The Sandevistan lit up in his nervous system, burning away the last of his apathy.

For the duration of the fight, all the questions in his head faded into silence. His body and chrome acted on their own, running the combat algorithms drilled into him during training. There was no room for doubts from his crumbling psyche.

Hit when it's time to hit. Shoot when the situation calls for it. Simple. Logical.

David lunged forward before the punk could draw his revolver. He grabbed the man's wrist and twisted it until it cracked. Then, he pivoted to the second punk, catching his slowed-down scream mid-air. One powerful punch to the gut folded him in half. The youngest of the trio didn't even think to fight back. David deactivated the Sandevistan. Time snapped back to normal, and the alley filled with the agonized screams of the man with the broken wrist.

All the actors in this grim scene froze. Two of the gangsters groaned in pain from their injuries, the third cowered against the wall with his hands up, and the girl, bloodied and bruised, stared wide-eyed, as if unable to believe her luck. David stood there, clueless about what to do next.

The girl broke the silence first:

"I-I'm gonna call the p-police," she stammered.

David knew exactly what that would mean for him. Hours of explaining everything to the cops, then at work, and finally to his mother. Nobody would blame him, of course. They'd just heap praise on him, tell him what a great job he did.

'No way. The last thing I need is another goddamn award,' he thought bitterly.

"Just leave," he snapped at the girl, irritation dripping from his voice. "No cops. You don't owe me anything. Just… just leave me the hell alone!" he suddenly yelled.

Something inside him cracked, then broke entirely. His bio-monitor flashed a warning about adrenaline spikes.

The girl jumped at his outburst, scrambled to her feet, and ran off without another word.

"Yo, choom…" muttered the youngest thug, still pressed against the wall. "You even fuckin' okay?"

"I don't know," David replied, his vacant eyes scanning the graffiti-covered walls of the alley. "I don't understand anything. It's like the ground keeps slipping out from under me—again and again. I'm just so goddamn tired…"

"You should, uh…" the kid shifted uncomfortably, glancing sideways at David. "Go see a doc. Looks like you've got eddies. Don't let this shit fester, choom. You'll lose it for real."

"I've seen corporate shrinks," David replied with a bitter edge. "They prescribe pills, talk a lot of bullshit, but they don't get it. They don't see what I do at work—blood, pain, death. My partner got killed, and I don't even know who did it! It's all just…"

A gunshot cut him off.

Pain flared hot and sharp at the back of David's head. The thug with the broken arm had drawn a shitty revolver and shot him point-blank. The flattened bullet clattered to the asphalt half a second later. His subdermal armor and reinforced skull held firm.

David's response was pure instinct. Moving in a blur, he lunged sideways, drew his weapon, and blew away half the thug's head in three rapid shots. Another gang member barely had time to react before David's precise aim put a bullet clean through his forehead.

That left the youngest, who yelped as David grabbed him with one hand and slammed him against the wall. The kid dropped a compact Dragon flamethrower* he'd just managed to pull out—nasty piece of kit, but more an annoyance than a threat to David now.

"Why the fuck did you do this?!" David screamed in the thug's face. "What the fuck were you thinking?! Can't you see who I am?! Can't you see the combat chrome?! I've been trained for two months to fight in urban combat zones!"

"S-stay cool, choom…" the kid stammered, trembling. "I-I give up. Call the cops if you want. I surrender."

"To hell with the cops!" David snarled. "Because of you, I had to kill again, and I'm not even on the clock!"

"J-just chill, man. Please," the kid begged. "We were hired. It was just a job. I didn't even want to rough her up, but Ignacio lost his shit. Let me go, please?"

David took a good look at the kid. Seventeen, maybe? About his own age. Scrawny, unhealthy skin, fake gold chain around his neck. But the fear in his eyes—that was real.

A few months ago, they could've walked the same streets in Santo Domingo, sat at adjacent tables in some cheap diner. But those days were long gone.

Now, David was almost twice his size, three times his weight. Now, he was a corporate killing machine. Life had gotten way more complicated. His dreams had come true so fast that his own growth couldn't keep up. Sometimes, having everything go right was the worst thing that could happen.

Dead comrades. Civilian casualties. Intrigue, hypocrisy, lies.

All of it twisted into a knot David couldn't untangle, a knot that tightened around his throat with every passing day. Breathing had become harder and harder. Unbearable.

If you can't untangle it, then… maybe you can tear it apart.

That thought hit David harder than the thug's bullet had.

He'd spent so much time chasing answers to his ever-growing list of questions, but maybe the answers didn't matter. Maybe the questions themselves didn't matter.

The punk kept babbling, squirming in David's grip like a fish freshly caught on a line.

"C'mon, choom. Look, I can tell you're hurting too. Let me go, I'm begging you. Show some mercy…"

"Mercy?" The word snapped David out of his daze, a crooked, unnerving grin spreading across his face. "No. Mercy is disgusting."

The punk's skull hit the wall with a sickening crunch, cracking open like a nut.

________________________________________

The concepts of "waking up," "coming to," or "snapping out of it" don't really apply to Cyberspace. Let's just say I became aware of myself again, though still unable to control my body. The stunt with Abernathy had hit hard—too hard. Maybe it was the distance, maybe the Wall, or the ice in her system. Or maybe Abernathy herself was just that toxic.

I'd pulled a lot of data from her, but the backlash was brutal. Like that time I spent days recovering in a hospital bed. I could almost reenter my body, but control? Forget it. I was just a spectator. Lying in a bathtub filled with melted ice, half-lidded eyes watching as Rebecca paced the room, nervous and restless.

"He's not waking up!" her voice cut through the haze, laced with frustration. "I did everything I could! Yeah. You're coming? Fine. I'll wait."

Huh. She must've called Lucy. Wonder how long I've been out? Ten hours? Twelve? A whole day? I could make out the empty IV drip at the corner of my vision. Good. At least I knew what to do about this desync now. Rest up, down my stash, and I'd be fine. But first, Cyberspace.

Jacking in was easy. I appeared in the virtual space modeled after my rented apartment. Without hesitation, I fired off quick messages to Lucy and Rebecca:

"I'm alive. Stuck in the Net for now, but I'll return once I've handled some business. Oh, and… the bitch is dead."

That should calm them down a bit. Time to get my head straight and sift through the shit I'd pulled from Abernathy's mind.

_____________________________

"V? Is that you?!"

A ghostly voice called out to me amidst the flickering lights and darkness of Cyberspace. Lucy. She hadn't come in person—she'd reached me through the Net. Her virtual avatar approached me, but I wasn't exactly in top form yet. I'd lost my human shape. Instead of restoring a full humanoid form, I'd created only a phantom shell around myself. An icon housing an engram.

"It's me, Lucy. But for now... I'm still not back to normal."

"What's happening to you?" Her voice carried both worry and shock. "You look like..."

"It's the aftermath of my attack on Abernathy. This has happened before. Last time, I spent days in a hospital. I can't control my body right now. I'm just too fried. Just give me a little time and some peace. A few days, a couple IV drips… I'll be fine."

"V… I respect people's secrets, but you've got way too many. How did you even get to Abernathy? What's going on with you?"

"Wait... What defensive protocols did you use coming here?"

I was picking up unusual disturbances in the Net around us. Something familiar. The Watch? No. And definitely not Songbird...

"V, don't dodge the question," Lucy pressed on. "Do you even realize how you look to someone on the outside right now?"

"That's just who Vincent Price is," came a third voice from the darkness of Cyberspace, which suddenly seemed even darker. "Full of secrets and mysteries."

At the edge of our perception, a phantom figure appeared. Pulsating red points came together to form the unpleasant shape of a scrawny-looking guy. Well, hello there, Jory. Of course, you'd pick the worst possible moment to show up.