Cyberpunk 2077: Demons of Night City

Falco stood up and grabbed an extra chair from a nearby table. Lucy sat down beside me, crossing her arms and legs—a body language textbook for "stay the hell away."

"Hey there!" Jackie greeted her with a wave. "This is Lucy, for anyone who doesn't know. She and V are... well, they're together."

"I've heard about her," Mama Wells replied. "And so has Gloria. Jackie, you and V might be very different, but you share one thing in common. Elección dudosa."

That roughly translated to "questionable taste." It was a subtle jab, likely referencing Jackie's relationship with Misty. Apparently, the story of how David and Lucy met had become a local legend, with its dramatic climax where the poor kid nearly ended up disassembled thanks to his new "girlfriend." Funny how fate works—I'd intervened at just the right time to derail what might've been love or friendship, turning it into cold animosity. At least on Gloria's side; David looked indifferent, like he couldn't care less. After everything he'd been through, this kind of drama probably felt trivial.

"Didn't expect anyone else to join us," Gloria added curtly.

Lucy seemed entirely unbothered by the frosty reception. In fact, she might've even enjoyed the negative attention in some twisted way.

"Falco texted me," Lucy explained, cool as ever. "Said you were attacked. Figured I'd meet up with you sooner."

"You were attacked?" Mama Wells gasped, alarmed. "Was it in Glenn? Do you know who those bastardos were?"

"No, it happened far from here," I said, shaking my head. "It wasn't exactly brutal. No headshots, no punches to the face or kicks to the nuts. Just tranqs, scripts, and a little electroshock. Whoever it was, they clearly wanted a chat."

"Or maybe a date," Lucy quipped.

The joke didn't land with anyone but me. Judging by their reactions, it wasn't supposed to. Lucy wore her cold, indifferent mask well, leaning into the role of the ice queen. Ironically, the attackers had used the same neurotoxin I'd once suggested to Faraday for use against her. Hardly a coincidence—Zf12 was renowned for being highly effective with minimal long-term side effects. Another clue they weren't trying to kill me.

"It's fine," I assured everyone. "Dangerous job, y'know? I'll just be more careful until I figure out who's tailing me this time."

"Less of the gloom, parientes," Jackie cut in, raising his glass. "It's a celebration. We're alive and well. Let's enjoy it."

Jackie's words worked their magic, and the tension eased as conversations picked up again. Mama Wells began asking Viktor about his work, and I felt utterly hammered. My body was still processing the neurotoxin, Sandevistan, and a cocktail of custom scripts, but my nervous system was slowly adapting. Maybe I'd have enough in me for the club scene later tonight.

"Rebecca coming?" I asked Lucy, slurring slightly.

"Yeah, she'll show up later," Lucy replied.

"Cool..." I muttered, grinning drunkenly.

Oh, great. I'd need to make a quick exit. My two circles of friends didn't exactly mix well, which, honestly, felt appropriate. It mirrored the duality of my entire existence.

Jackie was mid-story, something about a car and a dumb customer, when David cut in, pulling out a tablet.

"Hold up, I'm gonna listen to something," he announced.

"Oh, it's the New Year's address, right?" Gloria asked. "Turn it up so everyone can hear, if that's okay."

"Just this once," Mama Wells allowed. "Though I never thought I'd hear corporate speeches in my bar."

David turned up the volume, and the room filled with the voice of Saburo Arasaka, delivering his annual address in Japanese.

"To our valued employees and all who hold the Arasaka Corporation dear," Saburo began. "We bid farewell to the year 2076. Soon, it will become a part of the long and proud history of the Arasaka family. Together, we must move forward, creating a brighter future. This past year, we worked tirelessly and achieved much. We celebrated successes, took pride in our accomplishments, and stood firm in defending our corporate interests, values, and traditions that are the bedrock of our strength. Thank you all. I look forward to what we'll achieve together in the coming year."

The speech ended, and silence lingered for a moment before Lucy spoke up, swirling her drink in its tall glass.

"You know what's always struck me?" she asked, her tone casual but cutting. "No matter how many of Saburo's speeches I hear, I've never found one remotely interesting or memorable. Just nauseating platitudes—blah blah loyalty, blah blah hard work. How does someone so dull rise so high? Or is that the mask, hiding the devil underneath?"

Gloria looked like she was ready to snap, but David beat her to it.

"The world needs people who actually say, and more importantly, do those simple things," he said. "Most are just trying to cut corners and screw someone over."

"Exactly," Gloria agreed, with a firm nod.

I was about to step in and play peacekeeper when a commotion erupted downstairs. Mama Wells rose from her seat, ready to call security, but before she could, Rebecca burst onto the second floor.

Her hair was a mess, her outfit partly undone—her bra and gun harness both slightly askew. She looked half-drunk and completely wild.

"Oh, hey! Lucy! V!" she called, waving like nothing was wrong. "They didn't want to let me in, so I just sped past on Sandy. Oh! Hi, doc!" she added, spotting Viktor. Then her gaze landed on David. "Wait! You were at the arena?! Holy shit! That was insane! You wrecked that guy! Head turned to mush, and then... snap!" She mimed snapping a neck for effect. "Oh, and Falco's here too! Let's get outta this dump and hit somewhere decent!"

"Dump?!" Mama Wells bristled.

"Arena?!" Gloria exclaimed, horrified.

Before anyone could respond, Lucy stood up, pulling my drunk ass with her.

"We're leaving," she declared firmly. "V has urgent business at his new club."

"Yeah! Let's delta!" Rebecca chimed in, grabbing my other arm. "What about you?" she asked David, turning with her usual reckless energy. "Why stick around here with the old-timers? We could swap you out for Falco—he'd fit in better here."

"I'm coming with you," Falco cut in, standing up from his seat. "Not up for discussion."

"Pleasure meeting you all," he nodded toward Mama Wells and Gloria.

"The pleasure was ours," Mama Wells replied, though her tone carried a hint of concern. "Take care of V, and don't let him get torturado por todo tipo de perras."

"'Tortured by all kinds of bitches.'" Classic Mama Wells diplomacy. I gave her a sloppy, drunken wave. "Happy New Year, everyone... friends!"

My voice was way too slurred to be taken seriously. As we exited, a few Valentinos bouncers closed in, likely to keep the peace.

"We're leaving already!" Rebecca snapped at them, clearly unimpressed. "Yeah, yeah. We're outta here."

Not long after, we were crawling through the festive gridlock in Falco's ride. I slumped in the back seat with Lucy, while Rebecca sat shotgun, window down, hurling colorful insults at the city's drivers.

"Blow your horn up your ass, dipshit!" Rebecca yelled, hanging halfway out the window. "We were here first! You wanna step out and prove me wrong?!"

Meanwhile, Falco had "Let It Snow" playing softly in the background—a surreal contrast to Rebecca's tirade.

"You know... he's kinda right," I muttered, turning to Lucy.

"Who? That asshole who called us 'freaking losers'?"

"David," I said, shrugging. "He's right. There really aren't many people you can trust these days."

"Someone's got his brain washed, V."

A knock on the window interrupted us—a homeless man in a grimy Santa hat, with a scruffy beard and a three-colored rat perched on his shoulder like some diseased parrot.

"Happy New Year, friends!" he croaked, holding out a cup for change. "Spare some eddies for Santa? I need to buy gifts for the good kids. All my cash went on coal for the bad ones. Night City, y'know?"

Rebecca tossed a crumpled bill into his cup, pointing at his "pet."

"Whoa! What's your buddy's name?"

"My buddy? What bud—AAAHH, FUCK!" the man screamed as the rat clung to his beard. He swatted at it while we drove off, leaving the scene behind.

"And yet, he's still right," I repeated, turning to Lucy. "Let's make a deal. No matter what happens, no matter what kind of asshole I have to become, I'll never abandon you or see you as just a 'resource.' Can I count on you for the same?"

"I'm an elección dudosa, remember?" she teased. "Can you really trust me?"

"They don't know you," I replied. "They just see the mask. But I do. Just say it. Say you'll be on my side. It might sound cliche, but I need it to be true."

Lucy was quiet for a moment, then softly whispered, "I'm on your side. I'm with you."

"I'll rip out every single one of your ribs so you can suck yourself off!" Rebecca screamed out the window, flipping the bird and flashing her pistol at someone. "Yeah, you, goat-faced asshole! You probably think the mirror's a damn plastic surgery ad for losers like you!"

"Best New Year's ever," I muttered under my breath before leaning in to kiss Lucy.

INTERLUDE: Yorinobu Arasaka

Tokyo, January 1

The family New Year's gathering was, as always, revolting. The same monotonous performance, with dozens of supposedly rational adults dancing attendance around a rotting mummy.

Even during his years in exile, Yorinobu had stayed in touch with Hanako through the Net, trying to convince her that their father's methods were outdated. Stuck in the '90s—or even the '80s. Now, he understood how wrong he'd been. Saburo's methods weren't just outdated—they were fossilized, relics of a bygone era. He was a walking corpse, a necromancer animating the decaying body of Japanese feudalism.

"Family corporation," Yorinobu scoffed, staring out the panoramic window at Tokyo's rows of orderly skyscrapers.

The heir of eternal Saburo had seen plenty. He'd watched his father crush promising candidates to ensure no one could rival the Arasaka bloodline. He saw him choose spineless puppets and dimwits, people trembling at the mere sound of his voice.

Every time he listened to Saburo's speeches, Yorinobu felt a deep sense of shame and contempt. Shame that his name and nation had become symbols of an eternal stagnation. Sacrificing the future for the past. The corporation's vast resources were poured into this—erasing lives, waging wars, brokering peace—just to ensure nothing ever changed. The man who should've been long buried kept delivering the same speeches to his aging children, who were destined never to control their own lives.

"Not for much longer," Yorinobu thought.

A soft chime interrupted his musings—an incoming message.

"Hey. You left so fast last time. I wanted to see you. –E."

Yorinobu smirked at his reflection in the glass. Ah, Evelyn. A charming, empty-headed little doll. He'd encountered dozens of women like her over his long life. She thought she was clever, sneaking glances over his shoulder, fumbling with his computer when she thought he wasn't looking. He let her, indulging her illusions of secrecy and trust. Then, he'd undercut her pride, only to lure her back with whispers of secrets shared in her presence. The small victories puffed up her ego like a wilting flower catching a rare rainstorm.

He began typing his response:

"I'll be back soon. Missed you. Let's meet. I'll be staying at Konpeki Plaza for a week or two. I'll message you before I leave."

Perfect. Timing was everything. Evelyn knew something valuable would soon be in his possession. If his allies in Night City were right, she'd already hired Dexter DeShawn, who was securing credentials to infiltrate the hotel. They'd succeed—just in time for Saburo to arrive, ready to punish his wayward son.

Silverhand. That bait would be too tempting for his father to resist.

"J.S." That's how Saburo referred to him. Rarely writing the name in full, as if he resented wasting even a fraction of his eternal time on such an insult of a foe. Even in death, Johnny still haunted him.

Ironically, even in death, Johnny Silverhand might get a shot at delivering the fatal blow to his old enemy.

Another reason Yorinobu had no doubts about his father's personal visit was the man's obsessive "familial" approach. A typical corporate head would have simply ordered security to dispose of a troublesome subordinate. But not Saburo. His children could only be punished by his own hand. No one else was allowed to step on the Arasaka name—only the stern father himself.

Saburo would likely arrive with a couple of bodyguards. Even if he dismissed them from the room, Yorinobu had Adam Smasher. That guy didn't give a damn about family names. Yorinobu knew exactly what that… creature wanted—war, violence, the chance to destroy everything in his path. Yorinobu could provide that opportunity, and for it, Smasher would even turn on his former master. Adam wasn't a samurai; the old codes meant nothing to him.

Of course, working with someone like Smasher was revolting, but Yorinobu had long since burned away any excess idealism. At 82, he'd learned to forgive treachery, cruelty, and betrayal, as long as they served a meaningful purpose. Arasaka's problem wasn't its viciousness—it was the absurd, empty goals all that ruthlessness was aimed at.

Yorinobu had to end his family's eternal stagnation. Only he could do it.

"Arasaka's been bombed before. It didn't work. Silverhand couldn't pull it off. I'll go further—I'll become the bomb myself."

It would all end soon.

INTERLUDE: Evelyn Parker

Night City, January 3

Evelyn had stopped caring about New Year's a long time ago. For her, it wasn't about trees, tinsel, or gifts—it was drunk corpos storming into Clouds, loud and vulgar, ready to start fights over nothing. And there was Woodman, always trying to sell her time and body for the highest price.

The doll chip was like an elegant, insidious drug. Money seemed to flow out of nowhere, bringing all the pleasures it could buy. A job where you weren't even really present—it sounded like a dream if you ignored morality. But every session stole hours of her life. One, two, sometimes five or more. Life without you in it. That didn't sound like much of a dream. Still... it would all be over soon.

A few more days, maybe a week, and Yorinobu would grace this wretched city with his presence once again.

Yorinobu...

So serious, so full of gravitas, yet as naive as a child. Relaxing in the back of a taxi, Evelyn could picture his stern face. Could she have ever truly loved him?

'Maybe,' she thought, 'and that would've been incredibly stupid.'

She knew perfectly well she was just a high-end toy to Yorinobu. He had made it clear more than once. "We can't be seen together, especially not in Japan," he'd said. "The age of fairy tales about princes and Cinderellas is long gone."

Evelyn smirked bitterly, pulling a cigarette case from her purse.

The great Yorinobu Arasaka. Rebel, genius, heir to an empire. She would give anything to see his face when he realized the truth—when it dawned on him that the pathetic doll had risen against him, played him, outwitted him.

'Maybe he'll regret not seeing me as more than just a doll?' she wondered, lighting her cigarette, only to chastise herself for such naivety.

'Get a grip, Eve. He won't regret anything. He'll just hate you for it.'

She knew she was betraying her lover—or more accurately, her client—but what other choice did she have?

'Idiot,' Evelyn thought again. 'He could've pulled me out of this mess. Not as a lover, fine, but at least as a corporate employee. He could've taken me with him. Would that have been enough? Probably.'

Stepping out of the taxi, Evelyn took in the familiar scents of the city: damp, chemicals, the promise of rain. She had another call with Dex tonight. The plan was ready, and it seemed like he'd already found his team.

'I hope they're competent.'

She headed to the storage locker where she kept her notes. Time to destroy everything—wipe away any incriminating evidence. The area was quiet, lonely even, with only the distant hum of traffic. Evelyn instinctively slid her hand into her purse, gripping the handle of her A-22B Chao. Sleek, deadly.

For a moment, she thought one of the surveillance cameras shifted to follow her movements. Was she imagining things? She glanced around. Nothing.

'Stay calm, Eve. Get it together. The chance of a lifetime is falling into your hands. Just one more step…'

Darkness suddenly clouded her vision, static rippling at the edges. Her ears were useless; all she could hear was a deafening hum.

"What the—" she started, drawing her pistol. But where was she supposed to aim? The blackness before her eyes offered no answers. Then came the sharp sting in her neck. She spun, fired blindly—but there was no sound, not even the crack of gunfire.

"Warning: Neurotoxin Zf12 detected in your system," her biomonitor announced. "Please seek immediate medical assistance."

Numbness spread rapidly. Her fingers could no longer grip the trigger.

Evelyn realized it was over. Over for her dreams, over for her life. All she could hope for was the mercy of waking up again. The thought of dying offscreen, in silence, terrified her more than any pain. But deep down, she knew that was exactly how she'd go.

Death without you in it.

Evelyn Parker lost consciousness.