Cyberpunk 2077: Demons of Night City

INTERLUDE: David Martinez

Cold, damp twilight. An industrial zone near the bay.

"A2, report status," a voice crackled through comms.

"On position," David replied.

"Understood, A2. Hold position with A1 and wait for reinforcements. Maintain perimeter control."

"Reinforcements not needed."

"Repeat, A2. Wait for reinforcements. You are required to follow the approved operational plan."

The last words sparked a flicker of irritation in David. Not anger—more like a mix of boredom and exhaustion. He was sick to death of the security division's restrictions, sick of waiting on the sidelines, following pre-approved plans that, 95% of the time, didn't let him unleash his full potential in combat.

"Reinforcements not needed," he repeated, pulling out his Malorian Arms Overture with his left hand. "They'll just get in the way."

"A2, I'm warning you…"

David had already stopped listening. Time to act.

Aside from his .42-caliber Overture revolver, he carried an HJKE-11 Yukimura for rapid fire and quick reloads, plus a newly gifted Ba Xing Chong shotgun—his heavy artillery. He gripped it easily in his right hand.

The helmet overlay turned transparent, providing an unobstructed view. The gray-steel armor barely restricted his movements, its components fitted so well they felt like a second skin. He wanted to move, to throw himself into the heat of battle. Tonight was a special occasion.

Not street thugs. Not some wannabe samurai. High-grade mercs. The brass still hadn't figured out who hired them—suspicions were spread evenly between Kang Tao, Zetatech, and even Petrochem.

A strike team in urban camo, no insignias, had flown in on a high-speed AV to raid one of Arasaka's facilities in Night City. They landed, wiped out the security, grabbed what they came for. Their op was running smoothly—until their extraction plan fell apart.

After the aerial attack on Susan Abernathy in the city center, Arasaka had increased the number of interceptor drones. Some of them had been placed in various locations across Night City under strict secrecy. One such drone had nailed the enemy AV with a shaped-charge warhead, taking it out completely.

The mercs were forced to retreat back into the facility they'd raided, locking down security systems and taking up defensive positions. Either waiting for alternative evac or planning to take as many with them as they could before going down.

David stood behind a metal shipping container. Ten meters ahead—a side entrance to the building. But, according to his scan, a sniper had the approach covered. The optics highlighted his silhouette in a third-floor window.

David holstered the revolver and pulled a grenade from his rig, simultaneously running a trajectory calculation through one of his programs.

Funny. Back in the Academy, he'd been one of the top students in his class. People used to laugh at him—called him a nerd, a bookworm wasting time on boring equations. But now, as a chromed-out killing machine, he realized math was just as important in battle as cracking skulls.

Trajectory calculated. Perfect timing—1.1 seconds. Which meant he needed to wait 3.1 seconds. He started the timer overlay in his HUD, then activated Sandevistan.

Time stretched.

David stepped out from behind the container, left side first, and launched the grenade like a fastball. The sniper barely had time to react before the explosion tore through the window.

Perfect calculation. Sandevistan-enhanced throw. A simple grenade became a precision strike, as effective as a small missile.

His optics confirmed the sniper had survived but had been thrown back.

Sandevistan off. Time to move.

David rushed the building, conserving seconds on his Sandevistan.

Shoulder-first, he smashed through the door. Inside, they were waiting. His optics painted a clear picture—short hallway, then an open room with three enemies in a semi-circle, weapons raised toward the door. Two rifles and a shotgun.

They were still. Probably even holding their breath.

David unclipped a smoke grenade with his left hand and moved forward, silent.

One of the three made a hand signal. The others adjusted their stances slightly.

'He can see me,' David realized instantly.

Even though his armor had some anti-scan measures, their cyberware was tracking his movements. Instead of unsettling him, it made him excited.

This was what he lived for.

Not wiping out helpless goons. Fighting professionals.

This was why he came in alone.

The enemy had a netrunner. David already knew that from the security cameras in the room.

"Showtime."

The smoke grenade flew down the corridor. They shot it apart mid-air, but the chemicals had already mixed. A thick red mist began spreading.

The guy with the optics probably smirked. He could still see. But the smoke wasn't for David.

Sandevistan—again. Another grenade. A strong, precise bounce off the wall—landing right at their feet.

The explosion sent shrapnel ripping through the red mist. A moment later, David was inside.

Three shots from the revolver, two for the security cameras.

One merc managed to react—he activated Kerenzikov, stumbling backward while firing wildly. He reached for a grenade of his own.

Adrenaline surged through David's veins.

The last bullet from his Overture found the enemy's wrist. The grenade dropped right at his feet.

Sandevistan off. Explosion.

David ducked behind a column as the blast echoed.

His nerves hummed with energy. His heart pounded in sync with the cyberware, fusing metal and flesh into something greater than either.

Everything was exactly as it should be.

No hesitation. No doubt.

'Reload.'

Six rounds back in the Overture.

More numbers. The mathematics of combat.

Enemy count, bullet count, solution paths.

Get it right—you live. Fuck up—no second chances.

His frequency scanner picked up enemy comms.

"They've breached!"

"Already?!"

"Shit! How many?!"

"Only saw one. Cameras are down. Perry, check it out."

A basic combat drone—mounted with a light machine gun—floated into the hall.

The next room was larger. Five enemies. One was piloting the drone. The others covered every possible entry point.

David stayed out of the drone's sight, moving along the column.

"Nothing," the operator reported. "No visual. Three of ours down. Should've…"

David didn't let him finish.

He'd already solved the equation.

Sandevistan—one more time.

He charged.

The mercs hesitated.

He was moving too fast, unpredictable. They opened fire, but he weaved between bullets like they were moving through water.

At this speed, it seemed like he was charging into a dead end—one guy against five.

But he'd already solved for X.

The answer was geometry.

Positioning. The way they stood in relation to him.

They didn't realize they were already dead.

It sounded like one shot, but it was a whole volley.

Not from a single firearm—more like a micro-missile system.

A swarm of guided explosives, launched from Ba Xing Chong's oversized barrels.

Merciless, burning wasps found their targets.

Each one distributed with precision.

David pushed off the ground with his right foot, shifting his center of gravity back as he sprang toward the wall, deactivating Sandevistan.

The space in front of him erupted into a firework display of muzzle flashes, explosions, and crimson mist. Five mercs were torn apart. Chunks of bodies, shredded gear, chrome sparking from shattered skulls. Ba Xing Chong was a simple weapon—one volley, up to six targets gone in an instant. All you had to do was catch them in the blast radius before they had a chance to dive for cover. Not even Kerenzikov could save you from its payload. Its raw stopping power was almost as awe-inspiring for the wielder as it was devastating for the victims.

Time to reload Smasher's gift.

Meanwhile, enemy comms were turning more and more panicked.

"I saw him. He's alone. Didn't even have time to run a script. He wiped Ross, Rowdy, and the others in seconds."

That was probably their netrunner.

"We got a breach on the west side! Jensen, Timmons, Caesar—move it!"

David glanced at the bodies—or what was left of them. Needed to make sure nothing was about to detonate. Ba Xing Chong's rounds prioritized heads and limbs, so ammo rarely cooked off postmortem, but better safe than sorry.

His gaze settled on the remains of the drone operator. Six grenades in his webbing, plus several breaching charges. Almost completely intact. Unlike the rest of him—both legs gone, right arm missing, left arm and head barely hanging on by strips of skin and cloth.

Perfect.

David stepped on the corpse's chest, ripped the left arm off, and tossed it aside.

At the same time, his optics traced silhouettes beyond the double doors ahead. More enemies, about twenty meters away, moving slowly, covering each other.

He finished reloading Ba Xing Chong, slung it over his left arm, then grabbed the drone op's torso by the harness.

Sandevistan—on.

One by one, he primed the grenades still attached to the dead merc. Then, gripping his shotgun tight, David spun on his heel like an Olympic hammer thrower—except instead of a metal ball, his projectile was a nearly headless corpse.

The body crashed through the doors, tumbling forward, sliding several meters across the floor, leaving a thick, red smear in its wake.

"What the f—" one of the enemies started, just before the explosions went off.

Throwing a grenade? Too predictable. They'd have tried to dodge, shot it mid-air, relied on cyberware to counter it.

But a corpse-rigged bomb? That threw them off. They wasted precious fractions of a second trying to process it.

Then—detonations.

Then—David.

The entire next room was drenched in blood. Bits of shredded flesh everywhere, the floor a soupy mess of pulverized meat.

Time for the Yukimura.

A few quick headshots put down three survivors. He shot out a camera for good measure.

They'd managed to throw a few scripts at him, but two got swallowed by his implants, and the third barely tickled.

David pressed forward. His optics saw them coming through the walls—mercs, moving in from all over the building.

Time to wrap this up.

Ba Xing Chong in his right hand. Overture in his left. From a compartment in his armored forearm, a combat module slid into place.

He stepped into a wide corridor.

Overhead LEDs buzzed coldly.

Bodies of Arasaka security littered the floor—cut down when the mercs first stormed the place.

Plenty of hostiles left. They were positioned in doorways, behind cover, using every advantage.

One blast wouldn't take them all out. This would be a shootout.

Gray urban camo. Black webbing. Assault rifles, SMGs, LMGs.

A professional strike team.

And against them—just one man.

One man who had long since crossed the line of what counted as human.

David charged straight at them, activating and deactivating Sandevistan between bursts of gunfire.

Six rounds from the Overture—four kills.

Two mercs popped out at the same time—one Ba Xing Chong blast erased them both.

David dumped the shotgun, freeing his right hand. Tossed a grenade. Yukimura in his left.

From deep in the building, a heavily armored enemy burst out with two teammates.

David and the enemy leader activated Sandevistan at the same time.

This guy wasn't slow.

Fully chromed, built for war.

Mantis blades flared from his arms. He juked side to side, already predicting incoming shots, charging straight for David.

The Yukimura wouldn't cut it here.

But something else would.

David's left forearm flashed red.

You might be faster than a bullet.

But you can't outrun light.

Razor-thin laser beams lanced through the air, slicing through flesh and armor.

Two of them lost their heads instantly.

The borg with the mantis blades lasted longer.

His armor smoked, the plating melting into thick, acrid fumes.

David backpedaled, keeping his hand steady as he carved into the bastard.

His wrist-mounted laser system fired six precision beams and one high-intensity blast.

All adjustable. A slight shift in angle, a flick of the wrist—new target, new cut.

At full charge, it lasted ten seconds. He only needed five and a half.

The mantis-bladed borg took a direct hit to the gut, holes burned clean through him, deep gashes crisscrossing his body.

His two partners? Mincemeat.

One of them had been the first sniper.

"Jensen? Dei?" a voice called over open comms—probably the netrunner.

But they weren't answering.

David spent the next minute reloading, collecting gear.

"Is anyone there? Hello?"

"Hi," David said, stepping into the security room.

The enemy netrunner was inside.

"I surrender! I surrender!" The guy—dressed in a black bodysuit and armored vest—threw up his hands, wide-eyed.

David lowered his Overture.

"Cool," he said casually. "I'm leaving."

"For real?" The netrunner blinked. "No cuffs? No bag over my head? You want me to follow you or what?"

"Nah. Sit tight. Another team'll pick you up. I don't feel like dragging you around."

"Well… uh, thanks?" the netrunner said, still unsure. "Who the hell are you, anyway? I've heard of a lot of Arasaka vets. Fought some. But you—"

"You probably haven't heard of me," David said, pausing at the door. "Just finished my internship."

"Holy fuck…" the netrunner muttered as David left.

The solo walked back through the trail of destruction he'd carved.

Zero wounds.

A few shots had hit him, but either they'd glanced off or his armor had held.

Outside, reinforcements had finally arrived.

Black-armored Arasaka soldiers patrolled the perimeter, unsure what to do next.

"All clear," David announced, removing his helmet. "One surrendered. The rest are neutralized."

"MARTINEZ!"

A furious voice snapped across the comms.

The senior officer of the response team stormed toward him, pulling off his helmet—his face flushed red with anger.

"That was direct insubordination!"

David calmly packed his weapons into a sports bag.

"Gotta go," he said flatly.

"You signed a contract! I'm writing a full report, and you—"

"Bye," David cut him off, walking past. "My cab's here."

The officer took a step to block him, but hesitated.

He feared David.

Tried to hide it, raised his voice, but the fear bled through every word.

"That chrome isn't yours, Martinez!" he shouted after him. "All they gotta do is flip a switch and you'll be a pile of useless scrap! You hear me, Martinez?! Know your place, you go—"

David turned around. That alone was enough to shut the officer up. The guy stood there, silent for about three seconds, then, with noticeably less confidence, repeated:

"I'm filing a report."

"Go ahead," David nodded and kept walking.

He climbed into the automated taxi, pulling his legs in—barely enough room. His frame had become too non-standard for most seats.

"Good evening, sir," Delamain greeted him in its usual polite tone. "Rough day at work?"

"Nah," David cracked open an energy drink, taking a long sip. "Easier than I thought."

Just then, his holo rang. A familiar number. Mr. Tanaka. A man who had once played a significant role in his life.

"Good evening, David," Tanaka's voice was smooth, controlled.

"Good evening," David replied just as politely.

"I've received reports that you've been skipping scheduled checkups with our specialists. Avoiding tests. If this is due to your work with Security Services, I will escalate this to your superiors."

"It's not work. The situation has changed. I won't be participating in the Roboskeleton project."

There was a pause.

"What?" Tanaka's usual composure cracked—rare for him. "What does that mean, David?"

"I'm opting out."

"What are you talking about?"

"I consulted an independent ripper and a few corporate ones. The consensus is that these tests could negatively affect my current condition. They're offering me a different implant package. A different project."

"But David, this—"

"Apologies. I have a work call." David cut him off. "Goodbye, Mr. Tanaka."

He switched to the incoming call. The screen filled with the face of Jeremiah Grayson.

"Where the fuck are you, kid?"

"On my way. I'll be on time."

"You better be early. Move your ass," the merc barked.

David wasn't fazed. Lately, nothing fazed him. Words, actions, even bullets—just noise.

The cab pulled up to "Coals", an upscale restaurant. The evening fog clung to the streets like a dirty yellow veil.

David stepped out, walking through the haze toward the elevator. The mist reminded him of dispersing smoke grenades.

"Hold it," a security guard in a black suit with an Arasaka emblem stopped him.

A scan.

"It's him," the guard confirmed. "He's clear—wait. You've got blood on you."

"Don't worry," David smirked slightly. "It's not mine. I, uh, spun a corpse. It had grenades and—actually, could I get a napkin?"

The guards exchanged looks. One reached into his pocket, but the other shrugged.

"They're already waiting for him. Not our problem."

David stepped into the elevator. After a brief ride, the doors slid open, revealing a luxurious VIP lounge.

The bar glowed with ambient lighting. A live pianist played a real grand piano.

Amid all this opulence, Adam Smasher looked out of place—like a parked military vehicle in the courtyard of an elite mansion.

"Evening," David greeted. "You—"

Smasher silenced him with a gesture, then pointed toward one of the tables.

A man sat with his back to them.

Short, well-kept hair.

A gray bio-silk shirt.

A vest.

Some corpo? Probably.

The man was speaking on an old-fashioned phone in Japanese.

David's implant translated:

"This isn't a business trip. Of course, work will need to be handled, but that is our fate. Duty follows us like a shadow."

The voice was familiar.

With his enhanced hearing, David picked up the voice of the woman on the other end.

"If you'd like a tour of the city, dear uncle, I'd be happy to show you around. Night City may be rough in places, but its heart beats strong among the slums."

"You think I haven't seen enough of this city over the years? Haven't listened to its rhythms?"

A pause.

"Pay me no mind. Tonight, I'm just another tired tourist."

"As you wish, uncle. But if you need anything…"

"I'll be in touch. Good night, dear niece."

The man put down the phone and slowly rolled his shoulders.

David had never seen Smasher act this… restrained before. It was as if the borg wasn't the center of attention for once.

Finally, the man turned to face him.

"Sit," he said. "These chairs should still be able to hold you."

David sat across from him.

"You know who I am, don't you?"

"Of course, sir. You're Yorinobu Arasaka."

He recognized him immediately.

"Today was your last day in security services," Yorinobu stated. "Starting tomorrow, you work directly for me. 

"You clearly have talent—something those narrow-minded commanders can't properly utilize."

That last part hit home.

It was exactly what David had been thinking for the past few weeks.