Cyberpunk 2077: Demons of Night City

People often lose face, sometimes literally and rarely do they get it back. In either case. But last night, I managed to pull it off with Vik's help. Reversing the plastic mods I had ordered myself years ago. For now, Vincent Price had no one to hide from in Night City. No idea how long that'd last, but I planned to stretch it out for as long as I could.

The next evening, it was time to head to 7th Hell. The new face came in clutch—someone from security or staff might've recognized me from the recent bloodbath. But with a different face, a new hairstyle, and a fresh fit? Problem solved. For now, I also decided not to bring Lucy along and rolled out with Rebecca and Falco instead.

"A club's a serious investment," Falco said as he took the wheel.

I'd suggested calling a cab, but he flat-out refused.

"It's less of an investment and more of a potential base of operations," I replied. "Plus, a decent place to meet clients. Of course, it'd be nice to optimize the expenses and profits. The club's right in the middle of the city, but somehow it's swimming in debt."

"Some folks could go broke even with growing money trees," Falco said philosophically. "Or maybe there's something shady going on. Could be a troublesome asset."

Shady, huh? I'd check that out tonight.

"Troubles, my ass! A club's fucking awesome!" Becca objected, half-sprawled across the backseat. "All the top-tier badasses have clubs. Rogue, Dino... Even Wakako's got that place with those Japanese balls."

"Pachinko," Falco corrected her.

"Who's that?" Becca asked. "Some Tiger Claw? He got a club too?"

"You've been hitting too much questionable shit," Falco sighed. "It's bad for your memory."

Becca gave his seat a light kick.

"Stop ragging on me! Go back to your fucking Cuba!"

We got to the club pretty quick. The recent storm had cleared the streets of dust and trash, flushing everything into the gutters. The sky was still overcast, and the early evening felt more like deep night.

The 7th Hell, already blazed neon red, luring the lost souls of Night City. Stepping out of the car, I adjusted my black jacket with its crimson lining. On the left lapel, a small gold pin gleamed. Some corpos wore company emblems like that; politicians, their party badges. Mine? A crooked "A" in a circle—the anarchy symbol. A little joke about my corporate past and free-wheeling present.

"Mister V, I presume?" A man was waiting for us at the entrance, the current owner of the club.

He was a pudgy, slick-looking guy, the type you'd peg as wealthy but running in the shadier corners of the entertainment biz. His shiny jacket, with mirrored panels on the sleeves, didn't exactly scream "legit."

"Evening," I nodded.

"Yo!" Becca added, flashing a V with her fingers.

Falco kept quiet.

"The club's open," the man said, gesturing warmly. "Feel free to look around. My lawyer from MAF has all the paperwork ready. Just needs your signature."

MAF? Merrill, Asukaga & Finch. Big-time law firm. Solid and reliable. But the owner's tone rubbed me the wrong way—smarmy, like a sleazy salesman hawking a set of knives from some bargain bin on AliExpress.

The bouncer, one of the Animals, stepped aside to let us in. We descended the staircase, and the music hit like a brick. The air reeked of smoke, cheap scents, and booze. Not exactly packed, but there were enough people on the dancefloor, plus a decent crowd lounging at tables.

The Animals were lurking too. Three on the first floor, two more on the second.

"Music sucks," Becca declared.

"What's that?" the owner asked, all polite and clueless.

"Music's shit," I joked, leaning in toward him. "Becca was expecting better."

"If you buy the club, you can play whatever you want!" He shot back with that same fake smile.

We headed up to the second-floor office, where another bouncer was posted. This one was a massive black dude, easily over two meters tall. Unlike the rest of the goons, he was dressed to impress, wearing a huge red shirt with a gold collar.

"This is Sam," the owner introduced him. "I call him Big Sam. Head of our security. And this is Mister V, our potential buyer."

The bouncer gave me a long, appraising look, slow and deliberate, before he finally muttered in a gravelly voice:

"Nice to meet you. Uh… Welcome."

"Please, have a seat."

"Can I get a cocktail?" Rebecca piped up.

"Of course," the owner nodded eagerly. "I'll have the bartender whip something up. Would you like anything else?"

"Nothing for me," I said.

"Three cocktails, your pick, but make sure they've got tequila," Becca decided. "Oh, and chips too!"

Falco stayed silent as ever.

The owner set a laptop on the table, the documents glowing on the screen. Four hundred fifty-six thousand eddies. The biggest deal of both my lives. But first, I hit him with an important question:

"Mind if I take a quick look at the club's books? You know, they say you don't look a gift horse in the mouth, but when you're buying one, you'd better check its teeth."

"O-of course!" The man stammered, trying to hide his nervousness.

He handed me the laptop, switching a couple of tabs first. I sat on the couch, digging into the financial records.

Meanwhile, a staffer brought up a tray with three cocktails—neon-colored drinks that looked more like something out of a chemistry set. Along with those, a metal bowl of chips. One glass was set in front of me, but I shook my head.

"All for her."

"Yeah, give it to momma!" Becca demanded gleefully.

Crunching on chips and with shit music thumping below, I delved into the depressing tale of this infernal club.

"You've got quite a lot of security here," I noted.

"Part of the business," Urban shrugged. "Booze, a crowd of young people, and aggressive music—it's a recipe for impromptu boxing matches. Security helps wrap them up quickly. Sometimes, unfortunately, the matches turn into impromptu shooting contests. That's actually why I'm moving from the club scene to brain-dances and studio music. It's quieter there."

"Uh-huh."

A year ago, the club was making some profit, but then came a very lucrative deal with the Animals' security agency. The terms for 7th Hell were, well, hellish. The Animals decided the number of guards themselves. At first, they sent manageable shifts of four or five. Then it crept up—eight, ten, sometimes even twelve hired muscleheads on any given night. Costs rose with their numbers. And the quality of their work? Let's just say it probably left a lot to be desired. The financial reports had too many entries about property destroyed during "unforeseen incidents." Thousands of eddies flushed every month.

I remembered watching 7th Hell's security in action. They could've stopped Nash's brawl with the Tiger Claws kids right away, but no—they wanted a show. A tweaker scrapping with teens was entertainment to them. Real professionals. Afterward, the whole club had to be scrubbed clean of blood.

And then there was Urban himself. The guy wouldn't—or maybe couldn't—cut ties with Mauser, one of the Animals' big shots. "He doesn't joke around," Urban had said, clearly spooked. Jack, their other guy, was tight with the Animals. This whole mess started making sense now.

What happened to 7th Hell was essentially legalized extortion. Urban let the Animals in but couldn't keep them on a leash. They smelled weakness and exploited it. Instead of standing up to them, Urban let them bleed him dry. When he started drowning in debt, he likely begged for a way out. Their answer? "Can't handle it? Sell it." And I'm betting they handpicked the buyer too—someone like Jack, a regular client and a merc who suddenly came into money.

"Security measures are important," I said with a serious face, the crunch of chips in the background. "Shall we sign?"

"Of course!" Urban's face lit up. "Let me just get my lawyer and a notary on the line."

Soon, the paperwork was ready. A sleek notary appeared on a wall monitor, his classic suit making him look more like a priest of capitalism than a bureaucrat.

"Any objections from either party?" he asked.

"No," I replied.

"None," Urban agreed, practically beaming.

It was like a wedding. "If anyone objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace." And here's the notary, officiating the holy matrimony of two cash-hungry souls.

A few signatures—digital and on paper—and it was done. The club, and the business behind it, were officially mine.

"Congratulations, Mr. Price," Urban said, now grinning from ear to ear as he shook my hand. "Truly, congratulations."

He was congratulating himself more than me—proud of unloading his toxic waste dump of a club onto some shady buyer.

"The staff will show you everything and answer any questions," he assured, clearly eager to bolt. "No need for me to linger. Stay, make yourself at home. It's all yours now. Have a great evening, or as the French say, bonne soirée."

My translator implant chimed in: Good evening.

Urban was already backing toward the door as he spoke. With one last Hollywood smile, he vanished.

"What a bullshit artist," Rebecca commented, polishing off her second cocktail.

Sam cracked the tiniest smile but kept his gaze locked on me, sizing up the new boss.

"So, who's the top dog in your crew—or should I say pack?" I asked.

The Animals often used "pack" to describe their gang's splinters. It wasn't meant to offend.

"It's all in the contract," Sam replied evenly.

"Nah, I've read it. I'm not asking about a figurehead or your finance guy. I want to know who's actually running the show."

"If you need something, talk to me," Sam deadpanned.

"Why so secretive?" I squinted as I stood up from the couch.

"The boss doesn't deal with clients directly," Sam explained with the patience of a saint. "I could give you a name, but it wouldn't matter. You wouldn't know them."

"I know everyone," I said with a calm smile, locking eyes with him. "Soon enough, everyone will know me too."

Sam's face darkened slightly, but he didn't flinch. He probably realized I wouldn't be as easy to manipulate as Urban.

"Can't be Sasquatch…" I muttered, activating a reaction scanner—a sort of low-grade lie detector. Not perfect, but it helped pick up subtle tells. "Who's next in line? Angie? No… Cryer? Garcia?"

At the mention of Garcia, Sam made the smallest twitch, quickly suppressing it.

"Garcia, huh?" I pressed. "Logan Garcia, from the Tripple Extreme gym?"

"I told you, the boss doesn't deal with clients," Sam repeated, his voice steady but his demeanor shifting ever so slightly.

I didn't respond. Instead, I walked to the office window overlooking the main floor of the club. In the crimson haze, bodies writhed and spun like demons in some feverish inferno. Sinners boiling in their passions, and loving every second of it.

A staffer entered the office, introduced himself as the shift manager, and asked if I had any instructions. He seemed eager to make a good first impression.

"Instructions? Just work," I replied. "Make money."

Orders would come later. First, I had to deal with the Animals. Then, I'd clean up the rest of this mess.

I sent the club's financial files to my personal computer and ordered a couple more cocktails for the road.

Sam didn't ask me anything, but I knew they'd start digging into me. I was curious to see what they'd find.

Not long after, we left the club, our bloodstreams slightly more alcoholic than before—mostly thanks to Rebecca.

"Something's off?" Falco asked, referring to the club situation.

"Yeah. The Animals turned it into their own feeding trough."

"Wanna smoke 'em⁈" Becca piped up, spinning around excitedly. "I'll grab that badass cannon again!"

"I'll try to handle this peacefully first," I replied. "Starting beef with a gang is easy when you're just a ghost leaving no trace. But the second you've got property, shit changes—fires, 'accidents,' you name it. I'll explain to them that pulling stunts like this won't fly with me. If they don't get it, then yeah, conflict it is. In that case, I'll need to find backup—another gang for cover or a top-tier security firm. Both cost a fortune."

"Talking first. Smart move," Falco said, settling into the driver's seat.

I expected Rebecca to push for the violent route again, but she was too drunk to complain. Eyes closed, she hummed a tune and bounced lightly in her seat.

I'd deal with the Animals later. First, I had unfinished business in the Net.

"Falco, drop me off at an address."

"What? You're ditching⁈ What about partying⁉" Becca exclaimed.

Hmm. Jory had been stuck in Cyberspace for years. One night wouldn't kill him. Besides, you couldn't let work devour you completely. I didn't escape death—and Arasaka—just to miss out on living. Fun was part of the deal too.

"Alright, fuck it," I said with a shrug. "Let's hit Lizzie's."

"Why not your new club?"

"It's mine on paper, but I haven't wrestled it out of its real owners' claws yet. Not exactly a vibe for chilling. I'd rather just be a rich customer at Lizzie's tonight."

I wasn't exaggerating about being rich. Even after buying the club, I still had cash left from Mauser's stash, plus the sale of that Cuban haul (minus Lucy's cut), the bounty for Zeitgeist, his savings, and other odds and ends. My bank balance was sitting pretty at 1,321,000. Enough for a couple of cocktails, no problem.

I texted Lucy about our destination, and she replied that she was on her way. Perfect.

Lizzie's welcomed us with a far better vibe than the 7th Hell. Sure, there were armed guards here too, but they didn't radiate the same oppressive menace as the thugs at my new place.

We booked two private booths, and I put down a four-thousand deposit for everyone.

"Just virtual thrills here," one of the staffers told us as she led the way. "But if you wanna hook up, no judgment—just keep the doors closed."

"Good to know," I said with a nod. "Mind bringing the bar menu?"

Lucy joined us not long after. The night turned out light and fun—drinks, laughter, and messing around with some game braindances.

Every now and then, I caught myself watching Lucy. Wondering. What if she actually leaves me for that goddamn moon? Would it really be so bad? Maybe she wasn't my "forever," just someone meant to walk this part of the road with me. It wasn't all downsides. There were perks to that kind of impermanence.

I'd mull it over later. For now, it was time to kick back before taking the next step toward my goal.

And yeah, I relaxed.

The next evening, it was back to business. Alone again, I drove through Santo Domingo's poor district to the city's edge.

A plain-looking house with a camera over the door. I killed the feed and crept up to the porch. Music thumped inside. Good. He was still here.

My target was a young netrunner I'd traced through Zeitgeist's memories. The two had traded stolen footage after using it to ruin their victims, collecting it like kids in my old world hoarded Pokémon cards.

Using a magnetic pick, I unlocked the door and checked for traps. Nothing but a rusty chain, which I easily unhooked with my cyberhand's deft fingers.

The place was a mess—similar to the late Okamura's, only with more gear and less trash.

I crept to the room where the runner was jacked in, finding him slumped in a chair. Perfect. Exactly what I'd hoped for.

Plugging a shard with my virus into one of his rigs, I got to work.

"One, two, three... hacker, RIP!" I muttered, hitting the execute command. (1)

The netrunner's connection severed. His virtual avatar would soon dissolve or get picked apart by Net monstrosities. As for his body, I had other plans. It'd make a fine vessel. No weapons, no combat implants—no need to bother tying him up.

I popped a couple of cooling pills, sat in his chair across from the empty shell, and smiled. In one fluid motion, I drew my pistol.

"Bang," I chuckled, but it wasn't time to pull the trigger yet.

Stashing Apparition, I jacked in.

Moments later, Jory's virtual form materialized beside me.

"You're late, pal," the AI grumbled, a mix of irritation and impatience in his tone.

"Had things to handle. The body's ready."

"Good. Shall we start⁈"

"Not so fast. First, you're gonna help me with something. Relax, it's in your best interest too. There's a netrunner in Night City who knows who I am—and he could clock your little move into this body. We need to handle him first. Name's Wilky LaGuerre. Goes by 'The Slider.'"