"V!"
A loud, insistent voice is droning right next to my ear. Blue sparks flicker in front of my eyes, and I can't seem to focus.
"V!?"
"Yeah," I respond just to make the voice go away, but the guy keeps talking.
"Damn, you're alive! I thought your brain was fried for sure. Should I disconnect you?"
Disconnect me? I feel him pull something out of my head. A wire? No, a massive cable, complete with a connector. It's dark around me, save for the equipment lights. A data center, rented under fake documents—my memory reminds me. We were working here today.
Finally, the pieces start to come together. Well, maybe not a full picture yet. More like my memory is slowly unraveling, one thread at a time. I was in cyberspace. A deep dive into areas regular netrunners have no business exploring. And something went wrong.
Whatever, who cares. The important thing is, I'm still alive... or… Random thoughts about illness and death bubble up in my mind. What the hell?
"I took a real hit," I say. "My head's a mess."
"Go home," nodded the guy, who I think was named Kentaro Okamura. "We got hit so hard I'll be cleaning up this mess until tomorrow at least. Just make sure to write a report for your boss. Explain that we're not getting through Crystal Palace's defenses with this approach. One more brilliant idea like this from him, and we're going to be fried to a crisp."
"Yeah, once was more than enough," I mutter, getting out of the ice bath.
I really do need to get home. Maybe hit up a ripperdoc or just grab a stiff drink. My head's too messed up, like the corpses that wash up in Heywood's bay come morning.
I left the data center in a hurry. My car was parked nearby, but I decided to take a Delamain cab instead. I figured a quiet ride might help me pull myself together. No such luck. With every passing minute, I was feeling worse.
Neon signs, 24-hour diners, cheap motels, kiosks selling junk. The evening streets of this city of neon and sin passed by outside the window, but inside my head, it was pure chaos. Along with my own memories as V—Vincent Price—a whole mess of "someone else's" memories had lodged themselves in there. Fine. But the weird thing wasn't just that. The strangest part was that the new memories felt more vivid. Real. Mine. Only the world outside kept me questioning it. Here I am, heading home from work. Vincent Price, aka V. This is Night City, not Moscow, a place I've never been. Moscow—the capital of the Soviet Union, which never collapsed, and...
While searching for contradictions in my memory, I glanced from the window to the rearview mirror. One of the cars in traffic seemed to be following us too closely. It wasn't trying to catch up but matched all of our turns. A large black van with no markings.
"Delamain, I want to change the route."
"As you wish," the AI's bald head on the screen answered politely. "Please set a new destination and we will recalculate your fare."
"Megabuilding Ten."
Why that place? Have I been there before? I think so. I unbuttoned my black jacket, feeling for the holster underneath with my semi-automatic Unity, loaded with twelve rounds of 9mm ammo. Damn. At home, I had an HJKE-11 Yukimura with a thirty-round mag, but I rarely brought it to work due to its size and weight. A mistake. A smart gun would come in handy right now, given how scrambled my head is. Better to rely on auto-aim.
The van wasn't dropping off, even after we changed routes. No doubt about it now—we were being tailed. And not very professionally either, considering how obvious it was.
A good tail would've involved several alternating cars, each losing sight of the target, only to pick it up again at a distance. That's much harder to notice. So, who were my pursuers?
Call security? Something told me that wasn't a good idea. Kentaro and I had been involved in some not exactly corporate-approved Netrunning today, even by Arasaka's standards. If Network Watch agents were tailing me, I'd have to deal with them without drawing corporate security into it. Handling this alone would be tough, so I closed my eyes slightly, bringing up my contact list. Aha. Jackie Welles. A solo merc who's supposed to die during the Konpeki raid in 2077… Damn it! Enough already! Where was all this crap in my head coming from? What did I pick up in the wild net?
"Focus," I ordered myself, watching the stream of cars rush past outside the window. "Your brain issues only matter until bullets enter it. First, deal with the van. The rest can wait."
I called Jackie, and soon I heard his familiar voice:
"V! I hate to break it to you, but I'm not alone and not exactly in my Sunday best. So, unless it's urgent…"
"Hate to say it, but it is. I've got a tail. Can you help me shake them? Calling corp security isn't an option."
A string of Spanish curses erupted on the other end, clearly showing frustration at a ruined evening.
"Where you want me to roll up, V?" the merc finally responded.
"Near Viktor's clinic. I'm stopping by the Megabuilding first. Gonna pick up a better gun than this Unity, maybe a couple of grenades. And hey, I've got no idea how many guests we'll be expecting. Bring some muscle if you've got it, I'll cover it."
"Comprendo. You ever been to Vik's?"
I was about to say yes, of course, but then realized the memories I had of meeting Viktor Vektor felt... off. Everything seemed to revolve around Konpeki, the biochip, and 2077. More false memories. In reality, I'd never actually met Viktor. At best, I'd heard of him through Jackie in passing.
"One time I was looking for a ripperdoc outside Arasaka. Almost went with Viktor, but didn't need him in the end," I lied.
"Vik knows his chrome. Golden hands. Just don't drag him into your corpo shit, ay? He's done with esta mierda."
"Wouldn't dream of it. Let's meet by the alley near his clinic in thirty-five minutes."
After saying goodbye to Jackie, I continued cruising through the streets of Night City…
After saying goodbye to Jackie, I drove around the city for a while, still regularly spotting the damn van tailing me. Eventually, it was time to stop at the N10 megabuilding. Everything here felt both so familiar and confusing. I quickly jumped out of the cab, putting Delamain in standby mode. Despite the late hour, there were plenty of civilians and cops around. No way the guys in the van would try anything here.
A couple of minutes later, I was already inside the gun store, "Second Amendment."
"Hey, Wilson," I greeted.
The chubby shopkeeper frowned and asked, "Do we know each other?"
"Doesn't matter. I need an SMG. Preferably a Pulsar. Two... three grenades. Frag. And one EMP."
"Mhm. I'll get 'em," Wilson replied without much enthusiasm. "Pulsar, huh? Ever fired one?"
Of course, I had. The moment I closed my eyes, images of countless dead enemies flashed in my mind. Bullets flying, explosions going off, me breaking into the tower's basement... Damn it. Now's not the time to figure out whose memories are whose. I've got the gun, and the grenades. Now for one last thing.
"Got body armor?"
"Nope," Wilson shook his head, laying the grenades on the counter. "I sell stuff that shoots or blows up. Some mods, suppressors, sometimes tactical gear. You want armor, you'll need to look elsewhere."
"Maybe you should add some to your inventory," I said, slinging the SMG over my shoulder and covering it with my jacket.
"Maybe you should keep your advice for your whore secretary," Wilson muttered under his breath as he moved away from the counter.
Hmm. I thought he liked me. Guess not. Whatever. Time to bail and lead my tail into Jackie's trap.
Carefully, I exited the megabuilding via the stairs. The van was parked a little way off. As I expected, the pursuers weren't going to make a move with all these people around. That's fine. I'll lead you straight into a quiet alley anyway.
"Jackie, you ready?"
"All set, V. Just waiting for you and those pendejos."
Perfect.
In the cab, I packed the grenades into a small sports bag I'd picked up from some half-homeless guy in the megabuilding. Not exactly up to corporate dress code, but who cares. I also decided to take the SMG off the strap. It's too inconvenient and awkward to draw the gun from under a jacket, so I draped the jacket over it. Just looked like I was carrying it because I got hot. It would be getting hot soon enough.
I didn't feel fear, just a rush of adrenaline. My memories were still a chaotic mess. One part of my mind was convinced I'd gunned down enemies by the dozens, while another insisted this was my first real shootout. Whatever. I'll sort it all out later.
Aside from the gun, I also had my cyberdeck. But quickhacks don't always help in a tight firefight.
The cab slowed down, stopping in front of brightly lit windows where girls were dancing. The city was sinking into the night. Bright, loud, full of temptation and danger. A night not everyone would survive. Amid the music, the chatter, and the distant sound of engines, the crazy ramblings of a street preacher echoed.
"They try to convince you that Cyberspace is nothing more than a means of communication, like radio or cable TV. Falsehood and lies! Can you step into a television? Can you send your mind to travel through radio waves? No! How can life exist beyond the body? Who are these creations of the Net, if not souls that have escaped our mortal coil? I have heard their voices! The living must never cross that cursed boundary, for these souls will join the ranks of the infernal army!"
It sounded like madness, but something stirred inside me at those words. Wait. No time for self-reflection now. The weight of the Pulsar felt good in my hands. I pretended to stare at the shop windows while keeping an eye on my pursuers from the corner of my eye. They're coming. Three, four. Maybe more. No need to look too closely and risk spooking them.
Finally, I slipped into an alleyway. No one was around. Even if a shootout starts, the people on the street forty meters away won't be too bothered. Gunfire is the night music of this city. Still, I was wrong about "no one." A scruffy old man was sleeping next to a dumpster, his wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes. Should I warn him?
I walked over to the bum and gave him a not-so-gentle, but light kick in the shin to wake him from his drunken, drugged sleep.
"Hey, get out of here, old man. There's gonna be—"
"Already here, V," the old man unexpectedly answered in a clear, sober voice.
"They're already coming for you. Don't turn around, just head for the brick wall."
"Alright," I muttered, stepping aside.
Damn. Jackie found himself a master assassin as a partner. The guy was doing a hell of a job pretending to be a bum.
Step by step, I moved forward. There was a brick wall ahead and a couple of heavy dumpsters on the side. Good. I'll try to use them as cover.
"Hey, corpo!" a voice called from behind.
Not a master assassin this time. It was a woman's voice with a thick accent. I turned to see six grim-looking gangbangers. Voodoo Boys. No need to ask a fortune teller to tell you that, even if Misty was nearby.
Four beefy guys, one shorter dude with a sawed-off strapped to his waist, and between them, a girl in a netrunner jumpsuit peeking out from under a jacket that looked like crocodile leather.
"Corpo," she repeated with a Creole accent. "Drop the gun and come for a ride with us."
Behind them, a small side door quietly opened, and out stepped the large figure of Jackie Wells. He motioned with his gold-plated pistol for me to duck behind the trash bins. The assassin had already pulled an assault rifle from somewhere in the pile of garbage.
"I think I'll pass," I replied. "I suggest you take a ride yourselves. Preferably to hell."
"Just don't shoot him in the head!" the netrunner chick said as her bodyguards pulled out their guns.
I dove behind the dumpsters, tossing aside the jacket and revealing the Pulsar. Gunfire erupted from all sides. I barely peeked out from behind cover, pulling the trigger. The surviving Voodoo Boys were already scattering. Two lay dead, their brains splattered across the alley.
The guy with the sawed-off charged at me. I fired the Pulsar at him, trying to launch a quickhack at the same time. The bastard dodged the first burst, his body blurring for a moment.
Pure instinct made me jump back, and the shotgun blast hit the spot I had just left. Alright. Quickhack. Seems like you need an implant malfunction, you fast bastard. Looks like it's sent, but the upload's taking time, and he's already closing in on me.
The Pulsar roared again. The SMG kicked in my hands, and I barely managed to control the recoil as the barrel jerked around. Instead of a clean burst to the face, it just grazed the motherfucker.
The moment was etched into my mind. The enemy's grim, focused face, adorned with a tattoo of white crossed bones on his chin. His red eyes bore intricate patterns within. Both arms were entirely metallic, with spikes jutting out from the elbows. Any second now, the shotgun blast would come, and...
But the man didn't shoot. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the script kicking in. It seemed his heavily chromed arms had shorted out. Taking advantage of the sudden opportunity, I aimed the Pulsar point-blank.
Two shots, bracing against the recoil, another shot, refocus, two more. Pieces of the man's face flew off along with sparks. The bullets shredded his fancy optics. Simultaneously, I moved to the side.
The shotgun blast rang out wide. The enemy had fired almost blindly. His last chance to send me to the afterlife was wasted. Another two bullets. Adjust. Three more.
The enemy finally broke. He collapsed onto his back, sparks flying from his bullet-riddled skull, with exposed chrome showing. Two more shots for good measure, and it was over.
Damn, I'm a fucking terrible shot!
It felt like the first time I'd ever shot someone. Then again, V wasn't much into this stuff. He was more of an agent and office worker than an operative. Wait. Hold on. Why the fuck am I talking about myself in the third person?
"Hey, V!" Jackie's voice snapped me back to reality. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
I peeked out from behind the barrels, keeping my SMG raised. The Voodoo Boys were done for. Jackie and his geriatric soldier were far better shots than I was. The old man was already walking up to one of the goons writhing on the asphalt and put a bullet in his head to finish him off.
The netrunner was still alive, though her time on this earth was clearly running out. White synthetic blood oozed from four holes in her black jumpsuit. She gasped for air, her eyes rolling back, then seeming to regain consciousness. I rushed over to her, making sure she couldn't reach her weapon, and shoved the Pulsar right in her face, nearly shouting:
"Who sent you?!"
In one final moment of lucidity, the woman rasped out an answer.
"T-the Skater... He said… the corps summoned a demon… The Skater saw… Saw a spirit rise from the deep… F-find the Skater…"
"Anyone have an injector?" I asked. "We need to interrogate her."
"Too late for that," the old man chuckled grimly. "But you can have fun with her while she's still warm."
The netrunner's agony ended. Her eyes stayed open, as if fixed on something sacred in the cloudy evening sky. The low-hanging clouds reflected the bright city lights, flickering like memories of cyberspace.
"What the hell was she rambling about, V?" Jackie asked warily. "What demons, in the name of Santa Madre?"
"Forget it," I waved him off, slinging my SMG over my shoulder. "These Voodoo Boys are just crazy."
"You know who else is crazy? Your boss Jenkins. One day, he's gonna drag you into such a shitshow that even old Jackie won't be able to help."
"Corp shit is a mess for us bandidos, but it's eddies for them," the old man grumbled. "Now pay up."
Alright, how much do I owe them? I strained my memory, recalling similar situations, and answered.
"Three and a half each, plus whatever you can strip off them."
I transferred the money.
"Muchas gracias," the old man grinned, flashing golden teeth. "You too, Jackito. Gustavo doesn't give me work much these days. Says old man Javier's got the shakes from hitting the bottle too hard, that my aim's off. He should ask these dead putas."
I looked closely. The old man's hands did tremble slightly, like a drunk. Great backup, Jackie. Fine. He didn't have much time anyway.
"Let's finish up and delta," Jackie said, grabbing weapons from a couple of the Voodoo Boys.
He didn't loot the dead much, maybe out of distaste for taking trophies. The old man had no such qualms.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting in a cab again. Twenty-seven minutes after that, I was at the doorstep of my apartment in Japantown. Well, not really mine... Corporate subsidized rent. But the place was nice enough. Soft music, dim lighting, the scent of moderately expensive incense. A cozy little sanctuary in the city where bullets love to whistle through the air.
Time to sort out my head.