[Demons of NC] Chapter 97

"Two entrances, big room here, marked the cameras with red circles. There are two Arasaka turrets here and here. Standard civilian models."

"V, you ever think of taking up drawing?" Panam asked while looking at my layout sketch, drawn from Brigitte’s memories.

"Nope. Never crossed my mind. Why, you about to crack a joke? Something like, 'don’t bother'?"

"Nah. It’s a goddamn masterpiece of abstract art. Just one glance at it and my brain starts short-circuiting," she smirked, spinning on the chair in my apartment above the club. "Most trendy art-wankers have to pop pills to get inspired, and you did this almost sober. Talent."

Right then, a message came through from Lucy:

"Shop’s prepped. No cops, but one of the Voodoo Boys dropped by. We stuffed him in the fridge with the others."

"Got it," I replied. "Final stage of the op starts soon."

We had to hit the Voodoo Boys’ mobile base that same night. And still make time to clean up loose ends at the butcher shop. I planned a little local fire and kaboom to make sure Brigitte’s brains hit the pathologist’s table looking like beef stroganoff. As for Placide’s corpse—wanted to leave that mostly intact. Gotta hand over at least one recognizable face from the Voodoo Boy leadership to the NCPD.

This wasn’t just about wiping out the enemy. It had to be done clean, tight. Leave Michiko with as few questions as possible. I wasn’t gonna get away with blaming this one on a weird fetish. The Konpeki shit had to land squarely on the Voodoo Boys.

If someone asked the question—“What’s your proof?”—I had a neat little list:

The data center trails Michiko pointed me to led right to T-Bug’s apartment. She was kidnapped, used, and murdered by the Voodoo Boys. Their own systems back it up. There’s even an encrypted file with part of her interrogation. I know where to pull it from in Brigitte’s virtual stash.

A shitload of materials the Voodoo Boys gathered on Konpeki. Hotel schematics, personnel data, the works. Solid evidence.

I’ll drop some half-finished subroutines into their servers—the ones used to unleash the rogue AI on Konpeki. A direct connection.

I’ll try to grab a few low-tier Voodoo Boys alive. Ones who knew about the heist planning but weren’t in deep enough to lawyer up with cyber bullshit.

Yeah. In the spy game, nobody takes your word for shit. You need receipts. But it wouldn’t hurt to have even more angles.

One more idea hit me.

What if Michiko got proof the Voodoo Boys were behind the Konpeki hit… from someone other than me? That’d be gold. If, say, NetWatch broke into Rezo Agwe’s systems, Michiko could get the same info—either through corp-to-corp intel sharing, or embedded agents. Shit like that does happen sometimes.

Seemed like I found the perfect place to slot NetWatch into the game I was about to play. I even had a way to reach Bryce Mosley, the agent currently digging into the Voodoo Boys. I pinged Angie. No answer at first—probably not alone. Finally, on the third try, she picked up:

"Hey. This important?"

"Yeah. I need to talk to the NetWatch agent you’ve got under wraps at the old mall. I think I’ve got something he’ll want real bad."

"Oh, really now," she sounded intrigued. "I’ll reach out. What’s in it for me?"

From the tone of her voice, Angie was already thinking about what kind of favor she could squeeze out of NetWatch as a middleman. I didn’t care. I’d already scored my payday—once we took out their base, I’d start raiding Brigitte’s stashes and the gang’s reserves. Mosley’s cash didn’t matter. What mattered was getting NetWatch’s people inside the Voodoo Boys’ networks—finding exactly what I needed them to find.

We got on a call with the agent about seven minutes later. The conversation went smoothly—aside from Mosley fishing hard for details I wasn’t ready to give up.

"You don’t need to risk yourself," he said. "Just hand over what you’ve got, we’ll handle the rest professionally."

"I do need to risk myself," I replied, just as polite but with steel in my voice. "I’ve got a whole fucking organization behind me too. I’m happy to sell you whatever scraps we don’t need. But let me finish the main job first. If—by some goddamn miracle—they beat us, I’ll send you the data with my dying breath. But don’t worry. No miracles tonight."

Eventually, the agent agreed to wait. We shook on forty-five grand. Not much, but hey—I'll take it.

Alright. Prep was finished. Time to raid the nest.

The Voodoo Boys left in Brigitte’s inner circle were holed up in old metro tunnels—east of the chapel, not under it. Supposedly around twenty of them inside, including a few netrunners. Sounds like a lot, but their gear and prep were second-rate. Voodoo Boys always preferred stealth and shadowplay over meatspace shootouts.

"So the plan’s pretty simple," I told the crew when we regrouped. "Me and Becca go in through the shack. Falco and Panam cut off their escape route by the drainage exit. That zone’s wide open, so a sniper rifle, LMG, and something heavy-duty should convince them to stay put. Lucy covers both groups through the Net. We wrap this up before dawn."

"Flamethrower?" Becca asked, all hopeful and shit.

"Sure," I nodded. "But just for the first phase. These rooms here are concrete and steel, nothing much to burn. Let it rip. After that, we’ll be near sensitive equipment—and we’ve got hostages. Don’t wanna smoke ’em out with carbon monoxide. So play it smart."

"Let’s ride," said Panam.

And off we went—to finish the black magic mafia. If we wiped out Brigitte’s inner circle tonight and NetWatch took Rezo Agwe, it could be the end of the Voodoo Boys outside Dogtown entirely. Very real possibility. Over in Hansen’s turf, after the Slider’s death, a new headliner had emerged—some chick named Ayo Zarin. Makes sense. They’ve got bases, regular clients, and local government support. But outside of Dogtown? These guys were vulnerable. Smash the network and the gang would splinter. The best and brightest would flee to Barghest turf or go solo. That worked just fine for me.

Only downside? NetWatch would have a lot more breathing room. I’d have to tread way more carefully in the Net—but worst case, I had my Arasaka creds.

As for me, I geared up like it was Brazil all over again. Took Apparition, an AX-7 Keeper smart SMG, two monokatanas, and a pair of throwing stilettos. Plus, of course—grenades.

Becca, bless her maniac heart, was dragging along some beastly two-handed flamethrower from a brand I didn’t even recognize. Thing sprayed thermite mix under insane pressure—hot enough to roast a full-grown booster in their own chrome. Accuracy and range were shit, but we’d be fighting in tight corridors. Perfect environment to let hell loose and make the fuckers panic.

Becca’s secondary weapon was a sawed-off Constitutional Arms M2038 “Tactician.” Simple thing, but reliable as a Swiss watch—maybe even more. She also had a pistol and three standard grenades. No EMPs this time. Didn’t expect any heavily chromed solos from the Voodoo Boys. Placide was already toast.

Me and Becca were zipped up in protective suits, faces covered with chem-masks. Not just to keep our bodies intact, but also to minimize DNA traces.

The van—formerly property of the Voodoo Boys—delivered us on autopilot to a nondescript shack near a greasy spoon.

"We’re here. Block the back entrance," I told Panam and Falco.

Early morning. Pre-dawn haze. Streets were nearly empty. Even the ever-present hobos and gangoons were out cold wherever they’d dropped.

"Your keys worked," came Lucy’s voice over comms. "I’m in their system with admin access, no problem."

Of course they worked. I’d pulled those keys, passwords, and ID tags straight from the head queen witch of this cyber-magical mess.

I stepped out of the van, feeling the weight of my gear, eyes sweeping the surroundings. Coast clear. We entered the shack fast, greeted immediately by the first adepts of black magic. Two lookouts who didn’t even get the chance to raise the alarm.

One got a dose of amnesia and a monoknife to the ribs. The other got the same script and a bullet to the head—courtesy of Lucy and Becca. Two fresh corpses in under five seconds. Beautiful.

Inside the shack was a mess. Plastic barrels, rusted-out crap, empty bottles. Could spend hours digging through the garbage, but I knew where to go. Walked over to a wall, moved aside a busted radio, lifted a poster of some black actor, and pressed a barely-visible button. A hidden hatch opened in the rusted floor a second later.

"Four in the main room below," Lucy fed me a visual of the chamber.

Concrete walls, high ceiling, a couple of pillars, dim lighting. Voodoo Boy graffiti glowed in fluorescent paint. On a couch sat a bald netrunner chick—kind of gave off T-Bug vibes. Probably the skin tone and shaved head. She was watching something on a tablet while two scrawny guards leaned against the wall, jabbering in Haitian. The fourth was fiddling with a breaker box. Rhythmic music was playing.

Funny thing, I recognized all four. If I really tried, I could even remember their names. Brigitte had been very selective with who she trusted post-Slider rebellion. These were loyalists. Less about talent now, more about obedience and low ambition.

That bald chick? She’d do fine as live evidence for NetWatch. She was loosely in the loop about the Arasaka heist, but didn’t know the details. They’d kept her out of the Parker and DeShawn stuff.

"Go in quiet," I whispered to Becca. "No noise, no bullshit. I’ll handle the netrunner. Knock her out. You handle the rest."

"Roger that, boss. Three Voodoo Boys, extra crispy. Bellissimo, muah!"

"Cool it. Fire after praise. Let’s move."

We crept down the steps. A camera blinked above, but Lucy already had it under control. Love hitting a target with good prep.

We slipped into the shadows of the half-finished underground complex. The music masked our steps. Even when we were four feet from the netrunner, she didn’t look up. I dropped amnesia and reboot optics on her.

"YAAA! BURN!" Becca’s scream overlapped with the roar of the flamethrower.

Fuel mixed with oxygen, igniting into a high-temp death cocktail. Fire sliced through the gloom, sweeping the two guards. The room lit up instantly. Flames licked the walls. Two human torches bolted in opposite directions. I leapt at the netrunner, jabbing a neurotoxin injector into her neck, then dove behind a pillar. One more guard was taking aim at me—but never fired. His eyes glitched from Lucy’s script and a heartbeat later, fire swallowed him whole.

"That was... SO COOL! I want more!"

"Four inbound. Left side. Narrow corri—"

Lucy didn’t finish. Becca had already jammed the flamethrower nozzle around the corner and cranked it up. In tight corridors, that thing was hell on earth. Screams echoed, then an explosion—probably one of the Voodoo Boys dropped a grenade at their own feet.

"One tried to run. Turret got him," Lucy reported.

Becca was about to charge ahead, but I stopped her.

"Leave it for now."

"Aw, come on, choom. Just one more? Please?"

"Not now. We’ve got hostages. Take the shotgun. Shotguns are cool too."

"Two more down," Lucy continued the virtual genocide.

"Great. Try to stun a couple. No need to kill 'em all." I paused. "That wasn’t for you, Becca. You can wreck 'em however you want."

We moved forward. Burned corpses littered the corridor. One of them twitched—probably implants frying from the heat.

"Up ahead..."

Two shotgun blasts.

"...nevermind," Lucy finished.

Gunfire echoed ahead. The turrets Lucy hijacked were doing their thing.

"Two tried to surface," Panam reported. "Didn’t make it."

No more coordinated resistance. One chromed-up Voodoo Boy with a Sandevistan tried to make a show. Even dodged two of Becca’s shots. But we flipped on our speed boosters too. I veered right, dropped a burst, then hit him with an implant glitch. Lucy had already softened him up. Half-blind, the bastard tried to hide behind a folding couch—plastic crap that didn’t stop Apparition’s bullets. I let my SMG hang on its strap and fired using smart targeting.

One-two—head blown open. Three-four—sent to hell.

We cleaned house fast, clean, and loud. Nineteen dead. Three unconscious. Not a scratch on us worth mentioning. Becca caught a few slugs, but her armor ate them. The base was ours.

Time to free the hostages—and “free” Evelyn Parker.

They didn’t have proper holding cells here. Just tossed prisoners in closets and storage rooms. First one we opened—Jackie. Man, he looked fucked. Beaten to hell. Covered in bruises. Jacket torn, crusted with blood. Rope marks on his neck.

"He even alive?" Becca asked, staring at the merc face-down, hands tied behind his back.

"Yeah. Should be. Hit him with a stim."

"On it..."

She dug through the medkit. After the shot, Mr. Wells started twitching. Groaned. Tried to roll over.

"Easy, choom," Becca murmured. "Let’s get those hands free. There. Don’t sit up too fast. Damn, they messed you up good. You’ll be alright. Wanna piece of gum?"

"Nah..." Jackie mumbled through busted lips. "My teeth... cagada. You’re... you’re that little psycho that runs with V."

"I’m here too. Can you walk? We’re short on muscle for a proper evac, but we’ll carry you out if we have to."

"I can... just... I’m dying of thirst and about to piss myself."

"That’s my every morning," Becca grinned. "There was a john around here—if I didn’t blow it up. Come on, I’ll help you."

"There was someone else with me..."

"I know. I’ll go get her now," I said.

The second cell was near Jackie’s. Using the Kiroshi, I saw a female silhouette through the stone wall—standing still just to the right of the door. In her hands, she held a chunk of brick, raised above her head, ready to smash the first poor bastard who walked in. Yeah... probably best not to barge in unannounced.

I knocked and said, as calmly as I could:

"Morning. Valerie, I presume?"

"Yeah," came the voice from behind the door. "And who the fuck are you?"

"Lumberjack. Specialist in harvesting wood." (1)

"The fuck? Is that a handle or something?"

Right. Guess she’s not a transmigrant. Or at least not from my past world or culture.

"It’s a joke. One of those laugh-at-yourself types. I’m here to kill Voodoo Boys and break you and Jackie out. The Voodoo Boys are already dead."

"Now that’s a better joke," she replied, exhausted, dropping the piece of brick to the floor. "I’d invite you in, but the door’s locked from the outside."

"I’ll handle it."

Time to meet my alternate version—and the other failed candidate for Johnny Silverhand’s little joyride. As I started cracking the door open, one thought crossed my mind:

"Crazy thing is... everything’s actually going according to plan."

(1) No clue what this joke supposed to mean. It might be related to illegal wood harvesting, but I don’t know