By some unspoken villain tradition, torture chambers are usually found in the basements. Better soundproofing, darker atmosphere. But Jotaro's studio occupied the third floor. Entertainment was already in full swing. Two Claws, dressed in blood-smeared, semi-transparent protective suits, were working on one of Faraday's henchmen. He was chained to a medical table, his abdomen split open. Guts, organs, and bits of implants spilled out. Wires were attached to his head to record his sensations. The Claws connected a portable battery to a pair of wires, regularly zapping the moaning, gagged victim's insides with electricity.
Another one of the fixer's lackeys was tied to a chair nearby, with recording equipment wired to his head as well. A bald Japanese guy with a red visor for eyes kept him from looking away, tugging on his ears, and kept saying:
"You'll end up the same way, bitch. Maybe even worse. Watch, watch closely, little pig."
Faraday was being kept separate for now. Jotaro also wanted to record his brain dance, and I had no objections. I just needed to change into my "stage costume." I secluded myself in one of the private rooms. My bag with my favorite cold-blooded killer outfit was already waiting for me—black mask, full black attire. No armor today, though.
Lucy's words about a dream in a locked room, combined with the sight of Jotaro's studio, brought back the lines from my first life, accompanied by the melancholic notes of a piano:
'Я уснула в камере пыток,
Где на стенах тиски и клещи,
Среди старых кошмаров забытых,
Мне снились странные вещи.
Заглушала музыка крики,
Столько памяти в каждом слове,
Я уснула в камере пыток,
На полу, в луже чей-то крови'.
Is this it? The thing I was trying to remember? Not sure. I changed clothes and walked into the room where Faraday awaited his fate, chained to a metal chair. He had come to, but a gag taped tightly over his mouth kept him from speaking. The fixer looked pitiful—face bruised, gray hair disheveled, suit crumpled. All the polish had been beaten out of the bastard.
"A dream in a locked room…"
And then it hit me. It was just a quote from a show. In my first life, I'd watched it multiple times and remembered one scene well. In a metallic voice, distorted by a device under a mask, a dark figure spoke, leaning over a doomed victim:
"Now, at the last moment, try to see things differently, and you'll realize that all your life - you know, all your love, all your hate, all your memories, all your pain - it was all the same thing. It was all the same dream, a dream that you had inside a locked room," I tapped my gloved finger on the fixer's skull. "A dream about being a person. And like a lot of dreams,…" I straightened up, pointing at myself now. "… there's a monster at the end of it."
Faraday jerked, mumbling something, and I stepped aside, focusing on the virtual image. My tendrils extended, preparing for work. There was a lot to do.
Faraday needed more than just a flaying; he needed to be thoroughly gutted. Extract everything even remotely valuable, claiming it for myself without clogging up my own memory with useless junk.
Vivisection with sorting.
When my tendrils latched onto the shimmering neural networks of Faraday's data soul, his body convulsed. Time seemed to slow down. I was fully immersed in the process. I could see and hear nothing.
Like a Predator from an old movie, ripping out a spine, I pulled a long, tangled strand of memories from Faraday's structures. I had to act quickly before everything started falling apart.
Then, like a chef at a seafood restaurant, slicing off heads and tails with a knife, I cut away memories of childhood and dreams of a distant future. All of it into the "trash." Into the void, into nothingness. I was interested in facts—accounts, passwords, plans, dirt, safes, contacts among the gangs, corps, and other shadowy figures of Night City. Occasionally, entire scenes slipped through. Murders, scandals, torture, negotiations, sex, mostly with men. I tried to push all of it away, not letting it settle in my own memory.
The process took over half an hour. Finally, I tore the data layer from the remnants of his disintegrating personality and replaced it with my own, damaged by the overload. The black transplant was complete.
When I came back to myself, Faraday was still "burning out." Waves of spasms coursed through his agonized face. Two of his eye implants had popped out, dangling by wires. From the holes, a vapor—not quite smoke—rose. Did his brain fluid boil?
"What fascinating... expressions," Jotaro marveled, reading the equipment's output.
The brain recorder only captured Faraday's sensations. It would contain nothing but pain and agony, so my skills wouldn't be exposed by that recording.
"I'll send you a copy after processing," promised the psycho. "I think we've got a potential masterpiece on our hands."
Not sure if praise from a maniac is a good thing or not. Whatever. I changed back, but decided to keep the Arasaka medallion in my bag. I took a few access cards from Faraday's belongings. I'd need to pay his place a visit. But that was for later. For now, back to…
The VIP section of the club was empty. My heartbeat sped up, and a nasty feeling filled my chest. No good deed goes unpunished, right? Calm down. I quickly scanned through the club's cameras. No sign of the girl. Bathroom? Unlikely.
The security at the entrance shouldn't have let her out, but getting past those meatheads wouldn't be too hard, especially if you had experience—and Lucy had plenty.
"Fuck!" I cursed, dropping my bag and slamming my fist on the table where we'd been sitting.
My unfinished drink spilled, soaking a torn menu with a synthetic fruity beer. A scrap of paper. I picked it up by the corner, hesitating for a few seconds, expecting more disappointment. The other side could just as well read something like "Haha" or "Not this time." But when I turned it over, I found a different message:
"Waiting in the car."
I let out a heavy breath, grabbed a bottle of tequila from the table, threw it into my bag on top of my things, and headed downstairs. Parked in the alley was a Chevillon Thrax 388, which had once belonged to Faraday. A beast of a car, mixing classic design with a hint of futurism. A massive armored coffin on wheels.
Lucy was sitting, or rather reclining, in the front passenger seat, legs propped up high on the dashboard, absentmindedly inspecting a heavy, dark-red revolver. She hadn't run. Could she be thinking of killing me to tie up loose ends? I'd told her myself that no one else knew her secret. Sure, there were still a few breadcrumbs that could lead back to her, but…
Enough. That's just paranoia. I'm analyzing like a corp, but she's different. Could Lucy kill? Absolutely. Could she coldly kill the person who just saved her? I doubt it. I really, really doubt it.
I got in behind the wheel, tossing the bag into the back seat.
"Thought you'd wait for me."
"I did," she replied casually.
Stay calm. She's testing the limits of her freedom, seeing how I'll react.
"Is that Faraday's?" I asked, glancing at the revolver.
"No idea. Found it in the glove box," she replied, aiming through the window at a random spot on the wall. "They took my gun. Might trade this chunk of metal for something lighter. Faraday?"
"He won't be needing the car anymore," I replied, stepping on the gas.
The car shot out of the alley, picking up speed. The Thrax accelerated slowly, but once it got moving, it held steady on the road. It felt like driving a multi-ton safe on wheels.
I remember how I drove in my first life. Carefully, politely, never going too fast. But now I wanted to feel the speed. Adrenaline rushed through my veins, drowning out even the aftermath of the extraction. I sped down the wrong side of the road in the car of a scumbag I'd killed, with a rescued beauty by my side—and tomorrow was my day off. A dream? No, dreams rarely get this good.
"Got a bottle of tequila in my bag," I hinted, making a sharp turn at an intersection.
Lucy leaned into the back, nearly throwing herself into the back seat, somehow keeping her balance even at this speed. She uncorked the bottle, took a small sip, wincing a little, then passed it to me. The fire poured down my throat. Scorching, yet smooth and gentle at the same time.
***
Lucy didn't ask where we were heading, and I didn't know either. For the first twenty minutes, I just floored it, drank, and laughed. We sped through the corporate plaza's loop. Holographic fish swam among the skyscrapers, diving down toward the speeding cars below.
At that moment, Lucy leaned into my ear, her breath hot as she whispered, "Riot."
"Let's go," I replied.
Club Riot greeted us with lights, noise, and a wide range of booze. In my first life, I knew my limits, but tonight, I wanted to forget all about them. To let go. To dive into a whirlpool of emotions, forgetting all plans and dangers for one night.
We danced. Well, Lucy danced, and I mostly just played the role of a spectator, awkwardly jerking around or shifting from foot to foot. Dancing had never been my thing in either life.
Some chrome-plated meathead, his giant chest covered in shark tattoos, tried to push Lucy away from me—showing off, thinking he could steal a girl from some scrawny guy. But my companion ignored him at first, and when he got too persistent, she gave him a quick but likely painful jab to the ribs. He backed off, throwing us both a contemptuous look, as if to say she'd chosen a rich fool.
After Riot, we headed to a bar called Red Dirt. A rock band on stage was screaming curses at the corps. The lead singer looked like he was on the verge of passing out from booze, staggering with every move.
Then there was another club, bathed in red lights, with mind-bending yet catchy music. I didn't catch the name—something about hell, I think.
The night churned on, blending the impressions of those wild hours in my mind: invisible tendrils tearing apart Faraday's identity, his henchman gutted, city lights, dance floors, music, smiles, shouts, and Lucy.
When the first hints of dawn began breaking through the city's glow, I drove to the lookout on the dam. I slowed down a bit, rolled down the window, and felt the wind on my face. Soon, the city sprawled beneath us in all its predatory splendor. Palaces and slums, road forks and wastelands, holographic ads rising into the gradually brightening sky.
We stood at the edge, smoking. Our night was coming to an end.
"Can you sell this car without any risk?" I asked.
"Yeah," she nodded. "Your cut?"
I could've said it was a gift, but that would come off as either stupid bravado or a lack of backbone—not great qualities for a merc.
"Half. But cash only. I need to move my money out of the corp's reach."
"Got it. You know, while you were gone, I tried digging up info."
"On me?"
"Yeah," she said, leaning against the concrete barrier.
"And?"
"Not much," Lucy replied, flicking ash into the abyss. "You're from Night City. Born here, good student, climbed the corporate ladder. No trouble with the cops. Not even a damn speeding ticket."
"I usually drive more carefully and don't drink behind the wheel," I joked, feeling myself gradually sobering up.
Lucy flicked her cigarette over the dam's edge. The tiny red ember disappeared into the cool morning wind. In one swift move, she climbed up on the barrier, balancing between the asphalt on one side and the void on the other. That's not the kind of game I'd play.
Her long legs, tightly wrapped in synthetic fabric, took careful steps until she was next to me. Then she sat down on the barrier. We stared at each other for a few seconds in silence.
With a swift motion, she snatched my red glasses off and threw them into the abyss behind her.
"Much better," she assured. "You looked like a total creep in those."
I was about to say that was the point, but instead, we kissed. It all happened so quickly. She leaned in—who knows with what intention—but my still-tipsy mind took it the way I wanted. And really, what did it matter who started it? We both clearly wanted it right then.
At first, it was slow, surprisingly tender, but then it got faster, more intense, like the heat in our blood wanted to outmatch the alcohol. The wet warmth of the kiss made me feel more drunk than any tequila. Our passion reached a peak, then transformed into something different. And I realized we were standing there, embracing. Clinging to each other like we were both afraid the other might vanish. Disappear like mist, carried off by the cold morning wind towards Night City.
We stayed like that for about three minutes. Then, as if snapping out of it and feeling embarrassed by our moment of vulnerability, we lit up again, pretending like nothing had happened.
"I've got some time for interesting work this month," I said. "After that, things will get tougher. My boss doesn't like my tendency to freelance."
"Then quit."
"I will. But first, I need to pull some valuable intel, then I can give up that whole 'Born here, climbed the corporate ladder' routine."
Lucy shook her head, saying, "And if you told anyone, they wouldn't believe you."
True enough. Most people try to climb higher up Arasaka's tower, not jump off it, with a parachute stashed away.
"Alright. I've got to call Del."
I ordered a robo-taxi, said goodbye to my newly minted partner, and headed back to my corporate cubicle.
Looks like the recruitment went well. Lucy "understood" who I was and now felt safe around me. Vincent Price, the star student turned suit who suddenly thought he could play at being a criminal mastermind. A corp who'd lost his mind. A rare creature, but you find all kinds in the boiling pot of Night City.
Lucy had no idea what happened to Faraday while she was getting out of Jotaro's club. She couldn't imagine that the real Vincent Price was long dead. He'd finished watching his dream in a locked room, and, indeed, there was a monster at the end.
The next morning, I woke up somewhere around… I checked the time and realized it wasn't morning anymore. 2:32 PM. I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept in this late. My head spun a bit, and I felt a little queasy, but the intense hangover I'd been expecting didn't hit, despite my best efforts to earn it last night.
Maybe it was the implants, the meds, or maybe my body was just younger than the one I left behind.
I took the edge off the hangover with a tonic inhaler and started planning the rest of my day.
Faraday. Time for harvest, pay a visit to his place. It hadn't been long since his death. There shouldn't be any problems, but just in case, I called up Jackie, offered him a couple thousand to sit in the car and keep watch, plus another three if he had to fire a shot.
I didn't call in Lucas. Right now, I'm playing the lone wolf again, and I don't need a Security Bureau watchdog on my tail.
Already in the car outside Faraday's place, Jackie frowned and asked:
"Hey… Isn't this where that maricon with three cyber-eyes lives?"
"Faraday? Yeah. What's your take on him?"
"Find yourself another fixer, V. I don't know what his reputation is like among clients, but Faraday's mercs don't last long."
"I know. The guy's a real cunt."
I didn't tell Jackie that Faraday was already dead. I'd fill him in later when things cooled down. We pulled up to the house. I checked for traps again—everything seemed unchanged. Time to loot.
The fixer's house greeted me with the scent of expensive air freshener, like high-end men's cologne. The place was a blend of sleazy luxury and corporate polish. Faraday definitely aimed for the big leagues. He hoped that all his dirty deals would one day open doors for him straight to the top floors of some corp. There, he could carry out his shady business on a grander scale.
From the fixer's memories, I knew the location of all his stashes. Two safes: one secret and one even more so, a few weapon caches, a stash of drugs and toxins. I disabled the cameras, put on gloves and a mask, and started my search.
The first safe, hidden behind a fake panel with roses of a toxic shade, held twelve and a half thousand in cash, some gold jewelry, about thirty chips, and a box of cigars. Not bad. I debated whether to take the cigars. They're worth a lot, but I felt a bit gross about it. I mean, I've reached the level of a criminal-corporate genius with half a million in the bank, and here I am, stealing cigars. Well, not stealing—claiming trophies.
I focused on the remnants of Faraday's memory. I kept the info about the contents of the safes. The cigars were just normal—no poison or drugs. Fine. I tossed the box in my bag. Maybe I'd give them to Jackie.
The second safe was hidden in the floor beneath a basket of dirty laundry. It had a built-in bomb. Just swiping the access card would open the safe, but ten seconds later, boom - finita la commedia. I had to press two barely visible buttons on the safe walls right after unlocking it. I did so, but stepped back just in case.
Silence. Trap disarmed.
Inside was a pile of chips. They were neatly arranged in small boxes. Perfectionism or OCD, or maybe it was easier to jerk off to it when it's neat and tidy, who knows. Data chips, training chips, and credit chips worth exactly twenty thousand. Among them were braindances of extremely illegal content.
"Boy on a String," "Caustic Enema 3," "In Skin and Under Skin." Damn. A sick bastard through and through.
I left the braindances alone but grabbed everything else.
Next, I turned my attention to the computer. I'd blown up Faraday's monitor yesterday, but I didn't need it. I just needed a portable disk with a worm program, which I'd already tested on Jimmy Kurosaki's system. Five minutes later, all the data from the fixer's computer was mine. The worm simultaneously wiped it from the computer, making it unrecoverable.
I didn't bother with the illegal drugs but took the stash of toxins. The weapon caches held two elaborately decorated knives, an EMP grenade, a needle pistol Avante P-1135, and three regular pistols, one of which might've belonged to Lucy. Faraday also had a simple combat robot hidden in a wall compartment. A pricey toy, but I didn't have time to carry it. So I reprogrammed it—in other words, I disabled all target restrictions and set it to treat any intrusion as an invasion. The robot would attack the next guests after me.
Lastly, I grabbed two boxes of spy gear: mini-cameras, motion sensors, viral chips, trackers, bugs. No self-respecting fixer would be caught without such equipment.
That's it.
Thirty-two and a half thousand. Sounds like a lot, but nothing extraordinary. The jewelry would bring in a few more thousand when sold. But the real payday was still to come. The money in accounts and, most importantly, information. Unfortunately, you can't just walk in and grab every valuable from a dead man's apartment. Some of the resources would need to be extracted—carefully, and with plenty of caution.
But now I had Lucy with me. She's got the skills of a netrunner, a few black-market connections, and most importantly... unlike me, she's unemployed! I mean, officially off the books. Without her, the info I got from Jimmy Kurosaki and Faraday might spoil while smartass Vincent Price sat in his office.
Time to start working on this information.
I saw two promising paths for myself in the concrete jungle of Night City. Option one: eventually become a fixer myself. Option two: build a small but capable gang and, as I once suggested to Lucy, dive into direct crime without middlemen and employers.