Cyberpunk 2077: Demons of Night City

The Badlands stretched out around us. I could feel the hunger for battle simmering inside me—the need to drown out Michiko's words in the roar of gunfire. But her voice still echoed in my head as I strapped on my gear inside the trailer.

She'd figured out my involvement in Abernathy's death. Probably assumed I used David to slip my former boss a unique neurovirus. The most logical conclusion. A hell of a lot more believable than a tunnel through the Blackwall.

Not that I had to worry too much about exposure. Michiko had made it clear that Abernathy had made too many mistakes. So, chances were, knocking her off had actually earned me some credit. Not in the "Good job for whacking Night City's Counterintel chief!" sense, but in the "Damn, not many people can pull off something like that" sense.

I already had a solid rap sheet—recruiting David, planting the worm in Crystal Palace, saving Tanaka's secrets. If you added Abernathy's and Slider's heads to the list, my record started looking downright legendary.

Then again, sometimes being too good at something was a curse. Just ask Abernathy—she saw my talent and decided it was safer to wipe me out than fire me.

But in the end, talent won. I was still standing.

I doubted Michiko wanted me filing spreadsheets again. That's why she so easily agreed to my "freelance" status. The only question now was—where the hell would she throw me next? Stir up shit in the NUSA? Steal light bulbs from Kang Tao's bathrooms?

Whatever it was, I was sure she'd find work for me.

My best bet was still Yorinobu. If his little grand reveal went as planned, Arasaka would have bigger problems than me.

"Choom, you coming or what?" Becca's voice cut through my thoughts.

"Yeah, yeah, on my way," I said, fastening the last straps on my gear and activating a holo-mask—a red variant of the kind Scavs liked to wear.

For weapons, I had two electromagnetic Kenshin pistols—Apparition and a standard model—along with Nash's old rifle, grenades, and a monokatana for the absolute worst-case scenario.

It was about five in the evening. Ninety minutes till the convoy rolled in.

I stepped outside under the pale blue California sky—where the ozone layer was thinner than cigarette paper. Even at sunset, the heat was merciless, and the dust made my nose itch.

Scattered among the yellow-brown rock formations were five armored vehicles, tucked out of sight. One belonged to Panam, another to Falco, and the rest were probably borrowed from the Nomads. Each had a turret, and two even had guided missile launchers.

A mismatched crew of mercs and freelancers milled around, all geared up. Even Lucy, for once, was in a light kevlar vest and a full-body armored suit. Like me, she wore a holo-mask.

Above us, a few unarmed drone-cams hovered, catching footage. Someone was blasting club music, and if it weren't for the ridiculous amount of firepower, it could've passed for a Badlands rave.

"Alright, eyes on me! Everyone's here!" Panam called out, throwing me a nod. "Time to go over my brilliant plan for fucking over a corp."

"Wait, this is the guy we've been waiting on?" one of the mercs—big, red mohawk—gave me a skeptical look.

That was Alec Johnson. I just smirked in response.

Funny. Spent my whole morning trying not to impress an absurdly powerful corpo exec—only for her to see right through my act and peg me as dangerous. And now the hired muscle I paid for didn't seem impressed.

Whatever.

"Yeah, him," Panam confirmed. "He's our second runner. Now shut up and listen. And Mike—kill the music."

"Alright, alright, I'll turn it down," muttered Mike Kowalski, aka "Little Mike."

He was the embodiment of old-school Night City—a guy with a Polish last name and no clear racial identity. Somewhere between European and Asian. No nation, no allegiance. Former Tiger Claw, now a solo-for-hire. The only one here with a backstory as Night City as Becca's.

Panam took a deep breath, then started her briefing.

"In about an hour, give or take, a Militech convoy is rolling through here. Sixteen big rigs, armored escorts, more guards than a Corpo CEO's wet dream. Just the way we like it. Pull up the map."

A portable projector flickered on, and a 3D render of the surrounding terrain—stitched together from satellite data—hovered in front of us.

"So what do we have lined up for our friends from NUSA? We planted explosives here, here, and here," she pointed with the grip of her pistol, holding it by the barrel. "Hardwired detonation—no network access. Shielded cables. Quick scans won't pick them up. Plan A is to take out the lead and rear escorts, pinning them in place. Right here—"

She gestured at a section of uneven terrain, full of deep ravines and jagged rocks.

"Bad spot for them—big trucks won't clear it without rolling over. Meanwhile, this side's clear. That's where we come in. Then? Lots of shooting, grabbing what we can, and getting the fuck out. If the underground charges don't work… Tim, what's Plan B?"

The tech Panam hired—a guy in an orange jumpsuit—held up four drone bombs. Looked like the ones we'd tried to use on Abernathy.

"We got four kamikaze drones and three recon units," Panam continued. "We also installed a few long-range cameras at the ambush site. They're net-linked, but offline for now. We'll only power them up when the fireworks start—for safe runner work."

"So the rest of us get the unsafe work?" Gabe Fuller, a heavy weapons merc, joked.

"No shit," Panam shot back. "This ain't a job interview for a pizza joint."

"Hey, no complaints, girl. We're here to shoot people, and I know that."

Three of the five hired solos had machine guns. Mike carried a marksman rifle, and another guy had a sniper.

"If the charges and drones both fail, we have this," Panam added, yanking a tarp off the bed of a truck.

Underneath were four anti-tank guided missiles—old but well-maintained military surplus, probably modified in some Nomad chop shop.

"If we have to use these," she warned, "kiss the loot goodbye."

"Is that all we got?" she asked, then answered herself. "Nope. Not even close. Tim, show them."

The short, dark-skinned tech—probably a Nomad—pressed something on his console. A section of one truck's chassis slid open, revealing two more launchers. But these weren't normal.

They looked improvised.

"What the fuck is that?" Becca blurted.

"EMP missiles," Tim said proudly. "Hybrid charges. First pulse fries electronics. Second's a low-yield fragmentation blast. Downsides? Expensive as hell and not the most reliable."

"Each shot costs eight grand," Panam added before glancing at me. "We using 'em if shit hits the fan?"

I gave her a nod.

"Yeah. If we have to."

"We're packing some serious heat," the third gunner whistled in appreciation. "Damn, I love working with Nomads. You guys don't fuck around."

I had to agree.

How do you know you've put together a good crew? When you show up and see they've already handled everything without you having to micromanage every little detail. It was nice rolling in and finding everything set up.

"Alright, to sum up…" Panam continued. "We've got two runners, six solos, and three vehicles for the assault. You—" she pointed at Falco without saying his name, "—plus the girls and that guy over there." She gestured toward Fuller.

"'That guy…'" Fuller muttered, slinging his machine gun over his shoulder. "I get it, we're keeping things low-key. But damn, I was hoping we'd go with cool-ass codenames, like in those old movies. Mister Red, Mister Blonde and shit."

"Oh yeah, sure. And then you'd spend the whole job trying to remember that shit instead of my plan," Panam shot back. "The only codenames here are for the cars—First, Second, and Third. Simple. You'll recognize Militech grunts by their fancy uniforms. Shoot them. Don't shoot anyone else. Alright, let's split up."

Alec Johnson and two other mercs were riding with Tim in the center. Becca, Lucy, and Fuller were with Falco on the right flank. Me, Mike, and Panam were on the left. I'd considered using my rank to position myself next to Lucy, but splitting the runners between flanks made more sense. Panam had the right idea.

"Figure out your firing angles based on where your ride is when we hit the convoy," she continued. "Escort vehicles? Turn 'em into scrap. The trucks? Don't fry them. You, you, and you—take a rocket launcher. The fourth's mine. Runners—" she looked straight at me, "—our intel says they've got two vehicles with grenade turrets. Would be real nice if those turned into smoking wrecks real quick."

That one was aimed at me. Lucy already knew the convoy's composition—she was the one who intercepted the intel in the first place.

A few minutes later, we were strapped in, engines running. Two extra vehicles would follow behind on autopilot, acting as backup transport and extra storage for the loot.

Now, we just had to wait.

We were set up in a shallow depression, draped in yellow camo fabric and running anti-scan jammers. Inside the vehicle, it was dark as hell, except for a dim overhead light and the glow of our gear.

"You put this together real nice," I said, my voice slightly distorted by the modulator in my holo-mask.

My netrunner helmet sat on my lap, ready to swap out when the time came.

"Of course I did," Panam grinned. "This shit's my favorite part of the job. Shootouts in the Badlands? Feels like home."

"You really should cover your face, though."

"Please. I've been on wanted lists for years," she shrugged. "My face ain't tits—I don't mind showing it off. I'll lay low for a while after this. The suits will chew each other up, find some scapegoat, and forget all about us. Same as always."

"Choom, no offense, but you give off real corpo vibes," Mike chimed in. "Tell me I didn't just sign up for another pissing match between the Japs and Militech? Not that I really care—just curious. Who's your boss?"

"I'm an alien operative," I said, deadpan. "An interdimentional entity possessing a human body to manipulate your species and politics."

Mike groaned. "Oh, fuck off."

Wanna make sure someone doesn't believe you? Just tell the truth.

Twenty minutes before the convoy was due, I took a memory stim and slid on my netrunner helmet, linking it to the vehicle's camera systems. Panam had mounted one of Arasaka's rangefinders per my request—though she did warn me, "Didn't have time to install it properly. A single stray shard of shrapnel, and it's toast."

Fine by me. The company was paying.

"Oh, and…" Panam hesitated for a second. "Even without those EMP rockets, we may have gone a teensy bit over budget. Like… ten grand over. I'll cover part of it with my cut of the haul."

"Don't sweat it," I waved it off. "We're well-stocked. Better to overpay a weapons dealer than a ripper."

"Fuuuuck!" Mike groaned. "Wish every client thought like that."

"Most clients don't fight their own battles," I pointed out. "Other people's wounds don't hurt as much."

"Alright, enough chitchat," Panam cut in. "Ten-minute countdown. Time to focus."

She was right.

Beyond our weapons and gear, we had surveillance covered. A few unarmed drones hovered along potential reinforcement routes, listening in on comms. From intercepted chatter between Maelstrom and Gilchrist, their cyber-psychos had a killbox set up sixty-five clicks from ours. That was if they went straight across the dunes. No way they'd get here fast, even if they noticed something was up.

Then, the signal came through.

Panam slammed her foot on the gas. "Alright, let's fucking go!"

The vehicle roared forward, leaving the camo tarp behind. We surged out of the shadows into the golden glow of California's evening sun. Dust kicked up behind us. I cycled through my camera feeds, watching all three assault vehicles tear across the Badlands.

Ahead, just past the horizon—fireballs bloomed.

Drones shot into the sky from our convoy. I jumped my consciousness into one of them.

The feed was crystal clear despite the smoke and dust. Militech's convoy was crumpling like a squeezed accordion. The explosion from the first two escort vehicles had brought several trucks to a halt, forcing the rest to emergency brake before they crashed into each other.

The massive Kavkaz haulers jostled on the road like whales trapped in a too-narrow channel.

Not bad.

But there was no panic among the guards. Militech soldiers moved with precision and discipline. The four remaining escort vehicles stopped exactly where they anticipated an attack—right in our path.

Troopers in desert-camo disembarked in a smooth, drilled motion. Some took defensive positions. Others deployed turrets and combat drones.

The distance was closing fast. Our turrets had already opened fire. Time for me to get to work.

Panam's rig was running along the left flank, so my first priority was taking out the grenade turret closest to me. The damn thing had already spewed a burst of shrapnel rounds our way—not a direct hit, thankfully, but enough to send some metal flying. Our armor held.

I shifted my perception into cyberspace. Using the rangefinder relay, I lashed out with a full-force netrunning assault, tendrils of raw ICE-breaking code surging toward the turret. Didn't matter if my hands went numb or if my body started shaking—this thing needed to go down.

Military-grade ICE was a bitch to crack, even for me, but a turret wasn't a goddamn Chimera. A second, maybe two—then the ammo detonated inside. Almost simultaneously, the second turret blew. Lucy had done her part.

A burst of machine gun fire rattled against Panam's Thorton, but the armor held. Mike, jacked into the turret, kept up suppressing fire, while I burned through my remaining memory to reboot the optics of the Militech grunts.

We'd taken out both grenade turrets, but Militech wasn't out of tricks yet. Three guided missiles were screaming toward us. The corp had come loaded for war. I thought about trying to hack the warheads mid-flight—stupidly risky, but maybe worth a shot.

Didn't get the chance.

Somebody—maybe one of the mercs running a Sandy, maybe Tim's turret—fired countermeasures. Two missiles exploded midair, shredded by micro-shrapnel. The third didn't detonate but went up in flames, burying itself in the sand.

Dust was kicking up like a goddamn sandstorm.

Two of our kamikaze drones got taken out, but the others made it through. Militech's numbers were thinning fast.

Smart munitions were detonating behind the escort vehicles, wiping out anyone using them for cover. The enemy drones and bots were either frying out from electrical surges or getting shredded by heavy gunfire. The Militech drivers and techs weren't eager to fight back—they were hunkering down behind the haulers, too scared to move. Some had already ditched their trucks, sprinting toward the dust-covered ravines.

"We're in!" Panam barked.

The other two vehicles skidded to a stop, doors flying open as our ground crew stormed the convoy. Meanwhile, inside our rig, we swapped roles—Panam took over the turret while Mike unloaded explosive rounds into the stragglers.

I figured I might as well put a few rounds downrange while my memory buffer recharged. Lucy kept up her cyberwarfare assault, running her scripts at full burn. She was clearly using overclocking to push herself—I couldn't do the same. Not with my Sandevistan. So, pew-pew it is.

Nash's rifle still kicked like a bitch, and its accuracy wasn't anything to write home about. Thought about bringing a sniper, but mobility took priority. Not that it mattered—our firepower was plenty without me.

Three LMGs, Becca's dual SMGs, and the turrets on the rigs—hot lead poured down in waves, hammering across the trucks. Not exactly a lullaby. Unless, y'know, you count the permanent kind.

Fifteen Militech grunts down.

And just like that, their resistance snapped. The last of the guards broke ranks, bolting for the ravines. Those who didn't run? They weren't running ever again.

Beautiful.

The whole firefight had wrapped up in a couple of minutes. Coordinated action, heavy weaponry, and a surprise attack had turned an enemy force twice our size into a bunch of corpses and cowards. Not bad.

My personal contribution? Not the biggest. Important, sure, but not the deciding factor. Then again, this whole operation was my money, my plan, and my goal. That's what real power is—controlling the flow of influence, not just bullets. In this world, it's not just cyberware that decides things. Money still talks. If it didn't, Saburo wouldn't have been running Arasaka. Smasher would.

The ground crew hopped back into their vehicles. We rolled up to the trucks and got to work.

One by one, the armored doors on the Militech haulers blew open, cracked apart by shaped charges.

Inside, everything was pristine. Neat rows of crates, held in place by reinforced netting and straps. Almost looked cozy.

My eyes locked onto several large containers.

There they are.

Those goddamn bots.

"Shit, why don't we just jack the whole truck?" Becca suggested, eyes gleaming. "There's so much shit in here!"

"Fuck no," Panam shot back. "That beast crawls slower than a dead rat, and I am not spending hours ripping out every tracker and bug. We grab what we need and delta."

The mercs dove into the crates, grabbing anything that wasn't nailed down. They were owed a cut, so they pounced on the loot like starved dogs, hauling gear into our vehicles.

Me? I moved with patience. No need to rush.

Same for Panam and Falco. Lucy was jacked into one of the trucks, extracting data. The rest—including Tim—had that gold rush look in their eyes.

People were even grabbing shit you could buy for cheap in Night City. Give it a few more minutes, and someone would've started pulling the tires off the trucks.

But time wasn't on our side.

"I grabbed two Bolts," Falco called out.

Perfect. I grabbed two more. According to the manifest, there was a fifth unit in the convoy, but fuck digging around for it. Four was plenty.

Nine minutes of looting. Not bad.

I was about to call for the pullout—then my optics caught something.

Something big.

Over the horizon, an AV.

Shit. Reinforcements? Already?

I zoomed in, adjusting my optics.

What the…?

Yeah. No doubt.

The emblem on the fuselage wasn't Militech.

Six blood-red eyes, staring back at me from a death's-head skull.

Maelstrom.

And behind them? A dust storm of approaching vehicles.

Goddammit.

Their ambush was supposed to be sixty-five kilometers out.

Fuck the why.

Right now, we had bigger problems.

Congrats, Becca.

You're getting your wish.

We're fighting Maelstrom, too.