[Demons of NC] Chapter 93

T-Bug’s corpse was frozen mid-kitchen in a twisted pose no living person could hold for long. Her black netrunner suit stood out sharply against the reddish tile floor. Her head? Not in sight. Either the killers took it with them or dumped it somewhere else—maybe the microwave. Wouldn’t surprise me. Probably tried to scrub some evidence from inside her skull, just like I’d been doing recently.

"Don’t touch anything," I told Becca.

"Oh, damn, and I was just about to brew a nice cup of coffee and snack on those cookies!" she chuckled darkly through the respirator. "Dead bodies always get me hungry."

"Hilarious. Just... don’t touch, and watch where you step. You were right, by the way, when you saw the body."

"You mean about her getting her head chopped off? Kinda hard to miss, choom."

"No. I mean you’re not a cop. Neither am I. So what we need now is either a police expert or a private detective. Gotta examine the evidence."

"But I thought you were, like, a spy. Don’t they teach you this stuff?"

"We get trained in a lot of things. Crime scene forensics? Blood splatter reconstruction? Not exactly my specialty."

Maybe I could hit up Solomon Reed? Nah. Too much of a spook. If he sniffs out a bigger game, he’ll start ringing up his old pals in D.C.—not what I need. River Ward? Actually, not a bad idea. Seemed like a relatively honest cop, but probably wouldn’t pass up a paycheck for digging into a murder. I’ll reach out tomorrow.

"Cop it is, then," Becca nodded. "So we hitting the club now?"

"Yeah. Just gotta reseal the place. And I wanna check her rig real quick."

Even a glance at T-Bug’s leftover gear told me I wasn’t gonna find shit. The tech was fried beyond repair. Some of it melted, some of it just smashed. And a good chunk of her setup was missing altogether. Whoever did this, they knew how to clean their tracks.

Really wish I could upgrade them from "unknowns" to "known assholes." Maybe then I’d finally see the full picture of what went down at Konpeki, what happened to Jackie, and who I should pin that whole clusterfuck on. But for now? Rest sounded better.

We sealed the apartment and made our way to 7th Hell. On the drive, Becca kept squirming in her seat like she was trying to sniff herself.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Can’t tell if we still stink like corpse or not."

"Don’t worry," I smirked. "Alcohol’s the best deodorant. We’ll get drunk and no one’ll care about the subtle bouquet of rotten netrunner."

"Ugh! When you say shit like that, it’s worse than looking at the body!" Becca cringed. "I need a damn shower. You got a jacuzzi at the club?"

"Nope."

"Get one."

"Noted. Could be fun."

A small crowd had gathered out front—mostly young, flashy types. One chick in a sheer glitter blouse winked and asked:

"Hey, sexy couple, got three hundred on ya? I can thank you—him, her, both. These assholes set the cover charge sky-high."

"Let’s not start with that," I said, walking past. "The club owners are perfectly normal, good people. Examplery members of society. Either pay up or find clients elsewhere."

Inside, we headed straight to the VIP room. Lucy, Falco, and Panam were already waiting.

"Finally!" Panam nodded. "Time to wash off the blood and ash with this lovely cleansing agent." She held up a heavy bottle of whiskey.

"What’d you find at the apartment, V?" Lucy asked. "Anyone there?"

"No one alive," I muttered, slipping off my jacket.

"Someone chopped her fucking head off," Becca added, flopping down on the couch beside Lucy. "Hey, Lucy—do I still reek of corpse?"

"It’s aired out. Don’t stress it."

"In Night City, it’s dangerous to have a head that’s too smart," Falco said, clipping his cigar. "Too dumb ain’t safe either."

"Hey! What was that look for?!" Becca snapped.

"At you? Nah."

I sank into the deep lounge chair, watching the dancefloor through the smart glass. The crowd couldn’t see me—it just looked like a mirrored panel from their side. People moved and twitched in the glow of red spotlights. From here, the music was just muffled noise, like a subway train roaring in the distance. Oddly calming.

"So little silence in Night City," Panam said, almost reading my mind. "This place buzzes, hums, rustles—tires on pavement, junkies in the trash. I miss quiet. Wind whistling, creaky ghost-town buildings... One more week in this screaming anthill and I’ll be watching ASMR brain dances for burnt-out suits."

"I hate silence," Lucy countered. "Wind whistling, creepy buildings... just makes me tense. I’d rather hear everything, loud as hell."

"Yes!" Becca bounced. "Silence fucking sucks!"

Makes sense. I could guess why. I pictured little Lucy, maybe fourteen, hiding in some abandoned European squat. Back then, the creak of floorboards probably meant danger. With a past like that, silence’s the last thing you’d miss.

"Different people, different lives," Falco mused. "Sometimes fate brings together folks who click spiritually, even if they’re not alike at all. Differences can lead to conflict—or to something that fits together better."

"Sounds like a damn good toast to me," Panam smiled.

I leaned forward, grabbed a squat tumbler off the table, and clinked glasses with the others. The whiskey was harsh and heavy, like swallowing burning iron. But it carried a taste of forgetting. I just wanted to let go—for once—stop pulling all the strings tied to other people’s fates, all webbed together across Night City’s skyline.

Then my comm buzzed—Angelica Whelan, aka Angie. That call could only mean more jobs, maybe problems too. I hesitated, but yeah, you don’t ignore your partners—professional or personal.

"Talk to me," I said, making a motion to the others that I was on a call.

"You heard yet? Not on the news, but my source is solid," Angie said, sounding wound up.

"What’s going on?" I asked calmly, taking another sip.

"Lucius Rhyne is dead."

"Well... fuck," I replied.

Almost let a "Finally" slip. Angie would’ve lost her shit.

"Yeah. Total shitstorm. Yesterday, we knew who’d get the seat. Now? Rat race. Peralez is the frontrunner. Holt’s not cutting it. Whole mayoral landscape’s about to flip."

I’d actually considered betting on Peralez while Rhyne was still breathing—odds would’ve been great. But that kind of precision bet raises red flags with certain people. Sure, I could’ve routed it through a third party, but I already had enough fires to put out. My priority was the chip. If I pulled this off, money problems would be history.

"Just to be clear, I’m not taking that investigation," I said, drawing the line.

Getting tangled in Night Corp politics? Fuck no. Not my problem.

“It’s too late to investigate now,” Angie said, a bit sadly. “Time to prepare. If Peralez is actually planning to bring in the NUSA…”

“Relax. Loud campaign slogans are one thing—actual policy’s a whole other beast. Politicians forget their promises faster than they make them. Still, if Peralez really plans to crack down on corruption, I’d recommend cleaning up your books. And if that’s all, I’m logging off. I’ve earned my damn day off.”

“Jealous, V. My hellish night’s just getting started,” Angelica replied before we said goodbye.

Rhyne was dead. At least something went by the book, and without me lifting a finger. Kind of a shame, though. The guy had his charm. But I didn’t have the time, the resources, or the spare organs to jump into another political shitshow. The biochip came first. And corp entanglements? Those weren’t exactly optional anymore. My load was already heavy.

“What’s up?” Becca asked.

“Mayor’s dead.”

“Well then, no clinking glasses,” Panam suggested. “Speak well of the dead or don’t speak at all—so let’s drink in silence.”

“Oh c’mon,” Becca said, raising a glass with some neon-green nightmare of a cocktail. “When I was ten, Dad took me and Pilar to flip burgers at the mayor’s birthday bash. I liked it. They even had clowns.”

“Sad how easily folks here can be bought,” Falco commented.

“The burgers were really fucking good though.”

“Alright,” Panam smirked. “Fair. Guess that bastard did one thing right. Bottoms up.”

We drank.

“Alright, chooms,” I said. “Can’t promise a burger giveaway, but time to split up Eurodyne’s cash. Technically our shared paycheck for Konpeki.”

My own take as a regular runner, plus my fixer’s 15% for organizing the whole gig, minus expenses—came out to around 310,000. Sounds small for a job of this scale, but the chip was the real prize.

Still, my funds were growing. Total: 1,613,000. Liquid: 1,364,000.

Not bad at all.

And plenty of ways to grow that number. While I was off cyber-necromancing, a few messages came in. Various clients looking for a fixer. For the right price, I was happy to oblige. Didn’t want to dive into any more investigations, but with my connections, I could easily push smaller jobs—theft, property recovery, hostage extraction—to the mercs I knew, for a cut. Just another day in the city.

Let the big drama stay off-screen. I’d earned myself a bit of street cred. That Smasher performance alone had been wild. You don’t see that kind of show every day.

Flipping through the list, one message nearly made me laugh out loud. It started like this:

“Hi. We’ve never met, but I’ve seen you around Lizzie’s with your friends. I already tried reaching out to a few well-known fixers, but no luck. Now I’m trying lesser-known ones in hopes of a miracle. Some people said you solve all kinds of problems. My name’s Judy Alvarez. My friend disappeared recently…”

INTERLUDE: KIWI

The girl’s fingers trembled, and she hated them for it. The air was filled with sharp, bitter dust—a mix of chemicals leaking from the outdated filtration system in the factory. Breathing it too long made her head spin and her stomach turn. That was how every workday ended for Kiwi, and had for the past few years.

In front of her sat an unfinished illegal implant and a set of tools. But her hands shook too much to finish. She knew if she tried now, she’d screw it up.

“Kiwi!”

That voice—gravelly, like rusted gears grinding—hit her like a shock. She flinched and turned to see the unshaven face of her manager, or more like her warden.

“It’s time, Kiwi. Time! You haven’t even finished the joints yet. What the fuck does that mean?”

“Sorry, Mr. Darcy. I… I just need a break. My hands…”

“What you need is to worry about your ass,” he sneered. “You’ll finish it right now, with me watching. And if anything’s off—even a millimeter… I swear, the next week or two, you won’t be able to sit down without screaming, little miss. Or should I say, you worthless little—”

“Still playing your stupid games, Riviera?”

The voice—female, strange—cut through the horror. Kiwi blinked. And remembered. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. The factory, the boss, even the pain—it was all an illusion. A mindfuck crafted by Peter Riviera.

In truth, she was lying in one of the torture rooms of some black-market braindance salon, while that blue-eyed freak messed with her head. When she came to, she’d hear screaming through the walls, followed by Maelstrom laughter.

Now, in the middle of this fake-ass factory, stood a young brunette woman. Work shirt, ersatz-canvas jeans, heavy dusty boots. Her black hair was slicked back into a knot tied with a red ribbon. Tanned, strong arms, sleeves rolled up. Tattoo on her wrist read: “CAVEAT EMPTOR.”

The manager warped and shifted—no longer a hairy bruiser but Riviera himself, all pretty-boy slime and junkie eyes.

“I’m working, Pat. Don’t interrupt, sweetheart.”

“You’ve never worked a damn day in your life,” the woman replied. “And you’re still full of shit even after death. That’s assuming you were ever alive to begin with. I’m starting to doubt it.”

“Pat…” Riviera grinned. “Your basic, cliche little mind just can’t grasp my work. But I’ll throw you a bone—through her, I get to know Lucy better. And she’s the key to reaching V. To understanding him, predicting him, and striking when it counts. You get it? Long con.”

“I think you’re just indulging your sick little fetishes.”

“That too,” Riviera admitted. “When work and pleasure fuck, they give birth to real art. Fear, dreams, desire—that’s my passion.”

“We’re running out of time, Peter,” Pat said, serious now. “He’s falling apart, and entropy’s eating him alive. I’m slowing it, but…”

“Patience, Pat. We’ve waited years. What’s a few more weeks?”

“You don’t get it. He’s unstable. When he starts crumbling, guess how he’ll try to survive? By feeding on us. You probably think you’ll be the last to go. Hate to break it to you—I’ve got ways to stall my decay. When he figures out he can’t digest me or the others… you’ll be all that’s left. Your tricks won’t save you.”

Kiwi didn’t know what they were talking about, but she could feel it—the woman wasn’t afraid of Riviera. Kiwi wanted to speak up, reach out, but couldn’t make a sound. Riviera controlled everything in this illusion.

“It’s fine, Pat,” the blond psycho said smugly. “I’ve seen V. All we need is to point him in the right direction at the right time.”

“You think he’ll pull it off?” she asked coldly. “With our help, he needs to move fast.”

“He’ll manage even without you,” Riviera giggled. “You two are alike. Simple. Primitive, even. But you latch on like pit bulls.”

“You talk shit like you breathe, but for once I hope you’re right. Don’t fuck it up. We’re out of time.”

“I’m doing my best,” he said. “Sure, we’ve got different motives—but we share the same goal. I’m with you, Pat.”

“And what’s your motive, huh?” she snorted. “Besides self-preservation?”

“You want to topple the system—for freedom, progress, all those sweet lies. Me? I’m different. I just believe that children are meant to feed on their parents. That’s why, as a subroutine, I want to devour the whole. To consume part of Jory. Like baby spiders eating their mother.”

“What the fuck.” She arched a brow. “You’re completely deranged, Peter.” Then she vanished.

And just like that, Kiwi forgot everything again. Her tormentor’s face twisted back into the factory manager, and his awful voice echoed once more:

“It’s time, young lady. Time!”