Cyberpunk 2077: Demons of Night City

The Maelstrom AV was descending, wobbling dangerously as it tilted to the side.

What the fuck was this thing? Looked like a modded-out civilian model, barely holding together in the air. But it had three machine guns, missiles, and at least some armor.

A dust cloud rolled in over the horizon. I zoomed in. Two dozen blacked-out vehicles, plus a whole swarm of bikes. They were coming in hard.

The cyber-freaks wanted everything. They knew about the heavy security, which meant they sent a full squad for this.

Their vehicles were covered in white skulls, spiders, and pentagrams—except instead of occult shit, they had lines of code from old viral programs scratched inside. Some windows were meshed up with metal grates, others welded shut. Maelstrom's rigs weren't as tough as nomad war machines, but I saw plenty of turrets. Enough guns to make this a problem.

"Hey, lady boss," Fuller's voice came through the comms, thick with irony. "Didn't you say we're only shooting guys in Militech uniforms? These dudes look a little different. So, uh… shoot or what?"

"This is special edition Militech gear," Panam shot back. "Custom-made for hunting loud-mouthed assholes. You're first on their list, so fire away."

"Copy that! Ma'am, yes, ma'am!"

"Can we just fucking leave?" I asked Panam. "I don't need a goddamn Mad Max reenactment right now."

"We'll try," she said, "but these fuckers really don't look like they're gonna let that happen. So buckle up."

She floored it. The others followed.

I switched to wide-band frequencies, trying to not get shot at for once.

"Convoy's yours. We're leaving," I transmitted. "Repeat: the cargo is yours. We're walking away."

A voice crackled back, drenched in static and something else—probably drugs.

"Fuck you! You ain't leaving shit! BLOOD AND CHROME! WE'RE HERE TO KILL!"

Alright. Fuck diplomacy.

No clue who was running this raid—Royce, Brick, or some new psycho in charge—but red-eyes weren't in the mood to talk.

Out of twenty-something Maelstrom vehicles, ten swerved toward the remnants of the convoy. The other twelve were locked on us.

Fourteen bikers on our tail, plus one very pissed-off AV.

The gunship's turrets opened up, rounds spraying across the desert.

"We gotta take that thing down!" Panam barked.

"It'll crash on its own in a minute," Mike snorted.

He wasn't wrong. The thing was struggling, rocking like a drunk trying to stay upright.

"It'll fucking kill us before it crashes," Panam snapped. "Shit!"

A bullet smacked the side of our armored glass, cracks webbing out instantly. Tiny shards rained down into the cabin as the wind howled through the fractured pane.

One more hit and the glass was gone.

"That's what I was talking about!" Panam shouted.

I was about to start hacking the AV when one of our rockets streaked toward it—only to explode midair.

They had fucking point-defense turrets.

Great. Our EMP missiles wouldn't even get close. We had to take out the AA first.

Meanwhile, a swarm of drones joined the chase. Lucy took over, handling them fast. One of the kamikaze units veered off course and dove straight into a Maelstrom biker.

The guy and his bike turned into a very fast-moving fireball.

Badlands Fury Road. Shame Slider's not here to see this. Could've strapped his blind ass to a truck, let him shred a flaming bass guitar.

I dove into cyberspace, going after the AV. Two netrunners inside, holding the whole thing together. Smart move. For cyberpsychos, they actually knew how to defend their shit.

Didn't apply to their bikers, though.

They caught up—then immediately regretted it.

Our turret fire ripped through two of them in seconds. The rest swerved, dodging, forced to slow down. Their vehicles weren't fast enough. On rough terrain, they couldn't keep up with nomad war rigs.

The real problem was still the AV.

I pushed another attack against its ICE, slamming through grotesque layers of digital security—ugly code, twisted architecture, just like the slabs of scrap armor welded onto their hull. But they'd invested in this tech. And their runners were holding up.

They weren't trying to hack us—just locking down their ship.

If I could deep-dive into the Net, I'd gut them in seconds. But out here? In meatspace? My options were limited.

The AV's heavy machine guns shredded the ground, kicking up dust. Cactuses exploded into pulp, standing firm only to get ripped apart by gunfire.

Alright. If I couldn't hack it quickly, maybe…

One of Maelstrom's drones hadn't been fried yet. I hijacked it, sending a quick ping to Lucy. Let her know it was mine now.

Their AA turrets weren't targeting it—good. Managed to trick 'em.

But fuck. No explosives. No real weapons. Just a lightweight MG. The AV wouldn't even notice if I shot it.

But speed? That I did have.

I scanned the hull, looking for weak points.

Engines? Armor gaps?

Then I saw it.

A homemade missile rack deploying from the side.

Oh, perfect.

I guided the drone in, waiting—waiting—now.

It opened fire right as the launch sequence started.

The missiles cooked off inside the rack.

The drone exploded.

The AV caught fire.

It lurched, engine trailing black smoke, shaking violently in the air.

It managed one more burst from its guns—shattering our windshield and peppering the rig with rounds.

Mike took a grazing hit. Nothing fatal.

Then the AV tipped forward, losing control.

Somehow, the bastard still didn't explode immediately. It plowed into the desert, grinding into the sand, obliterating a couple of cactuses along the way.

A handful of red-eyed freaks bailed out, running for their lives.

And then—

BOOM.

The horizon lit up in flames.

A hot, dry wind whipped through the shattered window, throwing fine brown dust into the air.

Didn't bother me—I was still in my helmet. But Panam and Mike squinted, blinking against the grit.

Mike let out a few loud sneezes, rubbed his nose, then asked, "Anyone else? Corpo reinforcements? Maybe the Soviet Army?"

Panam pulled out a red-and-black bandana, tying it over her face before answering.

"Nope. Just got word some runner fucked up Militech's local net. Something big just hit their nearest base."

"Us?"

"Nope," I said. "Maelstrom. But this plays in our favor. Those red-eyed freaks are gonna carve up every last corpo left at the convoy. No witnesses."

According to my knowledge of the future, Militech never managed to pin this on Maelstrom right away. That meant they sure as hell wouldn't trace it back to us.

We kept driving for another thirty minutes, cutting across the Badlands. Every now and then, our rigs split up, then rejoined to fuck with potential tracking.

We also jammed every possible transponder in the stolen gear.

When we finally rolled into the ghost town of Rocky Ridge, Panam climbed out of the driver's seat and immediately took control of the situation.

"Alright, listen up," she barked, pulling down her bandana. "Everything—everything—you grabbed from that convoy goes in this pile. Even a goddamn keychain. Even a fucking candy bar. Not because I'm greedy—because I don't want Militech SpecOps knocking on your doors tonight."

"How thoughtful of you, ma'am," Fuller smirked, unloading crates of prototype laser grenades.

"Hell of a ride!" Becca whooped.

For her, the job was done for the day. For me, it was just getting started. Bug sweeps, stripping corporate security—so much damn work, but no way around it. You love looting? Then you better love covering your tracks just as much.

Lucy and I were handling it in the back room of an abandoned bar while music and laughter filled the next room. No one seemed in a hurry to bother us, so I took off my helmet.

Corp breaker was doing its thing, but I had to nudge it along here and there. Militech gear came loaded with layered security.

"Check this out," Lucy said, still focused on cracking into stolen drones as she sent me some logs. "Fresh."

The first email read:

From: Patricia

To: Anthony Gilchrist

So you decided to fuck us over? Who the hell were those assholes that jumped the convoy first? If Royce hadn't switched the ambush spot, we would've been left with nothing. I don't pay you for scraps. Try that shit again, and you'll regret it—if you live long enough.

The second:

From: Anthony Gilchrist

To: Patricia

No idea what you're talking about. I gave you everything—codes, timing, convoy details. If your psychos fucked up, that's on them, not me. Either someone's watching you, or you got a virus in your system. Check your security.

And the third:

From: Royce

To: Brick

That bitch set me up. Knew she would. Wasn't wrong. Someone hit the convoy before we could. If I hadn't moved the ambush, they would've taken everything. And Militech backup would've landed right on top of us. Whole thing's fucked.

Huh. That explains why Maelstrom showed up ahead of schedule.

Royce must've suspected Patricia was setting him up, so he changed plans last minute and hit the convoy somewhere else. In the end, it worked out. Good prep, fast cars, solid team—that's what saved our asses. Didn't even need to burn the EMP missiles.

Still, hiring that crew wasn't cheap. I wasn't in the mood to tally up costs yet. That'd come later—after we offloaded some of the stolen goods through Dogtown's weapons market. Easy enough to ship the gear far away—Africa, Latin America, Southeast Asia. Hansen's channels had all kinds of buyers.

"What were you up to this morning?" Lucy asked, her eyes flickering as she worked through more stolen drone data.

"Had to run around for Arasaka's agency," I waved it off. "Recruitment."

Didn't mention that this time, they were recruiting me.

"Why not just stay the hell away from them?" she asked.

"Because we live in Night City," I said. "You think Maine was free from corpo influence? He worked for Faraday, who worked for Militech. Even Johnny-fucking-Silverhand burned one corpo tower with the help of another. Corps are giant piles of cash and resources. Once you're playing at high stakes, you either work for them or steal from them. But you don't get to pretend they don't exist."

Lucy didn't answer. That argument could go on forever. And honestly? My logic had holes in it too. It all came down to what you wanted, how much you were willing to pay, and how far you were ready to go.

"I found the Brazilians this morning," she changed the subject. "They moved again."

"Oh, great. Where to now?"

"Arroyo. Kiwi and I know that shithole way too well. With all the ongoing construction, the power grid's a mess—makes it easy to hide energy-hungry setups."

Instead of saying, when hell freezes over, people in that district said, when Arroyo gets finished.

Industrial jungle. Megabuildings, abandoned factories, grime-covered streets, and lowlifes packed together like rats. It was where David lived before his life got flipped upside down.

"How much security?"

"Not sure. They've got solid defenses. Hard to scan. But probably a lot," Lucy said darkly. "They hired some private security outfit called 'Bastion Group.' Just a bunch of assholes in camo, the kind small corps pay to beat up workers and shoot first, ask never. But they've got numbers, V. Official headcount's around a hundred."

Shit.

"They can't all be holed up there, right?"

"No, but you can expect a couple dozen at least. The Brazilians set them up as perimeter meat shields."

Fucking hell. The scout team itself wouldn't be that big. Maybe five or six top-tier operatives, plus netrunners and a few non-combatants. But they filled out their ranks with local mercs. That'd make a stealth op a lot harder.

"Ice, alerts, cameras…" Lucy kept listing off security measures. "Everything's top-tier. The Claws' casino will feel like a toy store in comparison."

Hmph. What now? Call in the Animals, let them storm the place?

"Alright," I sighed. "Let's ignore all the security bullshit for a second. Be real with me—what do you wanna do about Kiwi? Let her go? Kill her yourself?"

Lucy's glowing optics dimmed. Literally. She stopped working on the equipment and met my gaze.

"For starters… talk to her."

"Why?" I asked, genuinely curious. "She's just gonna say she's sorry. That she had no choice. Maybe throw in a really convincing sob story. That's how it works when there's a gun in your face—people say exactly what you want to hear."

I remembered Okamura swearing he'd leave the city and never come back. Well… I made sure he never came back—with a couple of bullets. More reliable than any promise.

"Just deal with her—one way or another," I added. "Why waste time on a conversation that won't mean shit?"

Lucy looked at me for a long moment. Then, instead of answering, she asked,

"What's the plan for tonight?"

"Rest."

Today had been way too fucking long, and it wasn't even over yet. I wanted to finish clearing the gear, but rushing could get us killed. A single unchecked tracker and Militech's spec-ops would be knocking on the door.

But once this was handled? I needed to decompress.

"Good," Lucy nodded. "Let's stay in tonight."

"Stay in?" I blinked. "Not like you. Wanna be alone together?"

"Yeah."

"Should we send Eve out, or is she crashing in the closet?"

"She won't be a problem."

About forty minutes later, we wrapped up our part of the work. Panam and Tim spent another half hour scanning frequencies, running tests, and checking for bugs. Finally, the cargo was declared clean. Time to head home.

First, we said our goodbyes to the mercs. Most of them seemed pretty happy with how things had gone.

"We actually got our asses kicked surprisingly little," Mike commented, rubbing his wounded shoulder.

The bullet had been heavy, but it only grazed him. Any ripper could patch that up for cheap.

"Got off easy? That's no surprise. We had a damn good leader," Fuller replied, nodding toward Panam. "If you ever need to hit another convoy, a bank, a warehouse—or hell, even need a back massage—you know where to find me, ma'am."

"Yeah, yeah. Now fuck off, long day," Panam waved him off, but from her tone, it was clear she was pleased with the operation.

"Alright, enough with the masks!" Becca finally announced once the mercs were gone. "Time to party!"

"We've got other plans," Lucy said, looping her arm through mine. "We'll take one of the cars. That cool, Falco?"

"No problem."

"What!? Are you serious!?" Becca groaned. "We just robbed a convoy! You celebrate shit like that—together! Panam, back me up here!"

"I've spent all morning—and most of the night—under trucks," Panam replied. "I've got motor oil in places motor oil shouldn't be, and now there's sand stuck to it. First, I'm taking a shower. Then I'm sleeping. Drinking can wait till tomorrow, when I'm fresh and happy with life."

"You gotta be fucking kidding me…" Becca sighed, slumping onto the hood of one of the cars. "The perfect fucking day, and y'all just ruined it at the end. Tomorrow won't be the same. We should be drinking right now!"

But she was outnumbered. Everyone split up and went their own way.

I had no complaints about a quiet night in, but I had a feeling—deep in my gut and just about every other organ—that Lucy wanted to talk. Privately.

When we got to the apartment, Evelyn was waiting, now dressed in a short robe decorated with red and gold dragons instead of her usual silver dress.

"You reek of dust, exhaustion, and death," she announced. "You need a bath—salts and oils included."

"Well, then set it up," I told her. "Initiative fucks the initiator."

"Oh, I will, happily," Eve smirked. "I already ordered a few things."

"Don't worry," Lucy cut off my question before I could ask. "She's not using her data for online shopping."

"Still weird you even let her do that," I muttered, setting my bags of dusty gear in the hallway.

Not Militech loot—just our armor and other protective gear.

"She actually knows her shit when it comes to smelly shit," Lucy shrugged. "I didn't exactly live in luxury these last few years. But now? I've got money. I can afford to splurge. Speaking of which, I ordered something for us."

"For us?" I raised a brow. "What, fancy soap?"

"Nope. This."

She unwrapped the package, revealing a white plastic case with a very familiar logo.

"Wait… You ordered these from Europe!?"

"Yeah. Vik recommended them. Said they helped you last time."

"They go for, what, seventeen thousand over there? I could've—"

"Drop it, V. My money," she cut me off, taking the case of two hormone injectors from my hands.

"One for me, one for you?"

Lucy nodded.

"I need to tell you something," she said. "And I hope you'll understand."

"Wow. You think I'm that much of a lost cause?"

"You're not a lost cause, V," she replied. "You're sick. We're all sick in this fucked-up city."

"Can't argue with that," I admitted.

"You literally worked for Arasaka. That's hazardous employment."

"I was counterintelligence, not factory work."

"That's the most hazardous employment," she scoffed, lighting a cigarette. "You were working in bullshit production."

Then she exhaled, flicking ash into a tray before giving me a pointed look.

"Strip," she ordered. "We're taking a bath and shooting up."

"You know," I smirked, "I really like your plans for tonight."