Chapter 22

I sat in my chair, unable to shake off the day. Explosions, gunfire, concrete cracking. Even just closing my eyes triggered flashes of today's events.

I glanced again at the Security pamphlet, smirking as I imagined Jenkins and Abernathy's reaction if I transferred to Security. Lucy, too, would be shocked. I told her I'd leave, but here I was, enlisting instead.

But there was one big issue.

Installing military-grade implants, even a runner set, is no small matter. Adaptation courses, tests, meds, and diagnostics. Lots of diagnostics. Lucy's disguise chip wouldn't help here. Neither would my story about experimental implants; it'd only make the reapers in Security more curious. First, they'd have questions, then more ideas, and eventually… well, uncertainty. They might hire me, but they'd probably put me under close watch, maybe even as a test subject.

Then my lie to Lucyna would become the truth—I'd end up as another one of Arasaka's experimental victims. No way. Too risky. It's time to get out, and fast.

I crumpled the brochure and tossed it squarely into the trash.

Still, this day with Security gave me an idea or two. I planned to use the rest of the day to good effect, maybe blow off some steam and think things through. I called a cab.

As I rode, I went over the info I had. According to what I'd learned about the future, Jenkins would soon sabotage the European Space Council and use it against Abernathy. Then he'd try to eliminate her, but she'd get to him first. And I'd get dragged into it too.

So what options do I have? Take Abernathy out first, put in my resignation, and slip away clean? It's risky, and Jenkins would still see my resignation as a betrayal. That's just the kind of guy he is—he'd be fine helping me out as long as I'm playing along, but if I miss a beat, there's no mercy.

Quitting now? Same problem, plus Abernathy could strike from the shadows and spin my exit as a forced dismissal. She'd find a reason, and Jenkins wouldn't lift a finger to save a "traitor."

Disappear entirely? I imagined my apartment in Japantown going up in an explosion hot enough to turn bones to ash. Or maybe I'd use a rental car that'd conveniently blow up, leaving a singed corpse behind. Or skip the fire—just an abandoned car with blood stains and bullet holes somewhere downtown. Poor Vincent. Survived two assassination attempts only to die on the third.

Plastic surgery, fake IDs… I'd reemerge in Night City as just another guy—Vlad Pavlov or Victor Pelevin maybe. The question is whether I'll have enough cash to pull it off.

And if I'm killed, I could always be robbed, too, right? Crime's only getting worse in this city by the day.

I had the cab drop me off in an empty lot and got to work encrypting a message. Fifteen minutes later, I sent Lucyna the first note:

"I'm bailing. Just a matter of days. Can you set up a dummy account? I'll need to clear and secure 300–400 thousand. Clear your schedule for the next couple of days. Gather a few people you can trust in case things go south. Stay sharp."

The first reply came back fast:

"Finally!"

Then she sent me the dummy account info. She must've had several prepped, probably to transfer Kurousaki's money.

After that and Jorge's heist, money shouldn't be an issue for her. This was a whole different level from dealing with personal data shards, so she could easily buy documents and dummy accounts.

"Take off that suit and get down from the tower, V. Can't wait," she added.

"Soon," I replied.

I stopped by a supply store and picked up a reinforced suit for a thousand eddies. The silvery, snug fabric didn't restrict movement, though it wouldn't do much against bullets or blunt force, just knives and shrapnel. Lightweight titanium plates reinforced the forearms. I threw on a vest underneath my blazer.

Back at my apartment, I felt like I was gearing up for a long trip—like I'd packed my bags and was just waiting on a cab to the station. Soon. I'd download a few last files from work, gather my things, and vanish into the shadows of this sinful city.

Before bed, I gave Martinez a call.

"How are you holding up, David?"

"I… I don't know," he answered, his voice hollow.

"Not a great answer. If you feel like shit, just say so. You saw some real horrors out there. That'll shake anyone up."

"They assigned me to a psychologist back at the Academy."

"That's good. Still thinking of staying with the corp?"

Silence. A long, agonizing pause. His dreams and conscience were tearing each other apart.

"What else is there?" he finally asked. "The streets? I was there, Mr. V. Not long, but I was there."

Funny. Main and his crew could've been his best friends, but they'd have dragged him to the depths of cyberpsychosis. But he remembered them as the psychos who wanted to carve out his chrome.

"What did you think of Smasher?"

"Could I… become like him?"

"You mean in terms of chrome? Maybe. Personality? Hard to say. Smasher was always that way. Or worse," I said. "In this city, strength counts for a lot. You'll only start calling the shots in the field once you get better."

"Then I will," he answered firmly.

He hadn't cracked. Just got a harsh lesson and managed to process it.

After signing off with Martinez, I called it a night.

The next workday was routine. The only standout moment was a conversation with Lucas Costa. Usually, he never said anything beyond the protocol basics, but while he drove me to work that morning, he asked:

"Have you thought about Security's offer, Mr. Price?"

"Still considering it," I lied.

"Employees don't transfer departments often, but it happens."

That was the longest line I'd heard from him all month. Were his bosses at Security that interested in my answer? Short on runners over there?

From that day on, I started dragging my feet on assignments, setting them aside for the next guy to handle. Spent more time extracting files.

I'd need some backup just in case things got messy, probably someone from Afterlife. I trust Lucyna, but I don't want her in too deep. She'll be my plan B, my reinforcements if it all goes to shit.

That evening, I packed. Mostly, I was transferring files to virtual storage or hiding hard drives in anonymous locations. We weren't dealing with the European Space Council yet, but I needed to hurry.

The next workday could be my last. Until 5:00 PM, everything went smoothly, but then…

Abernathy called me in. No big deal, right? A department head summoning an employee. But V had barely ever interacted with the Director of Special Ops before. Jenkins quickly slotted Vincent into his pawn lineup, while he served as the department's second power source, clawing for some independence from Abernathy. So far, he'd managed to get by.

Alright… Let's see what the director has to say. Not that I had much choice.

Soon, I found myself at Abernathy's office door. They made me surrender my weapons and go through a scan. Lucy's chip seemed to work; neither of the director's guards questioned the strange ice or the extra chrome.

The doors slid open, admitting me into the den of a corporate beast that devours the souls of its employees. Susan sat at a tall desk, elevated on a pedestal of black glass.

A stern woman's face with black lipstick, it might have seemed beautiful if it weren't radiating a mix of icy disdain and cruelty. Not really my type—I don't fantasize about strict bosses in latex.

Her bright blue eyes were an unnatural shade, too intense to be real, gleaming like gemstones in the dimly lit room.

"Come in, Mr. Price," Susan said, still calm.

There was no chair for guests. I stood on a diamond-shaped crimson rug, like I was at a sentencing.

"Your career's been… erratic," Susan noted with a hint of malice and veiled threat. "Strange dealings with other departments, unexplained independent projects, ignoring instructions."

I didn't even try to argue. It was pointless. This was one of those situations where "you're guilty because I feel like eating you alive." Abernathy was a master at digging up dirt, with or without reason.

"Silent, Price? Nothing to say?"

Soon, I'd be gone, out of this damned tower, lying on a cheap mattress in a cozy apartment with a beautiful woman. Farewell, bloodsucking drones. Spit all the poison you want, Susan—I know you're going to off yourself next year.

"If there's a formal complaint against me, or—"

"Cut the crap, V," the director smirked, feigning sympathy. "Or is that what they call you? All your little shady dealings are on my radar. Getting cramped by corporate rules, are we?"

"As a counterintel division, we—" I started, but Susan interrupted again.

God, her way of talking was insufferable. Did she train for this, or is she naturally this terrible?

"You're mixing with the Claws, killing fixers, raiding their places—acting like a low-level thug. But frankly, I don't care," she sneered, pretending to be merciful. "I have an idea whose sick orders got you on this path. Your problems are just a symptom, V. I'm going to root out the disease. And you're going to help me."

So, that's the play? Somehow, I doubt it.

A holographic screen dropped between us, displaying a perfectly worded report—drafted from my point of view, no less. In it, "I" explained to upper management that my boss, Arthur Jenkins, orchestrated a series of net attacks on Arasaka's partners, then ordered me to zero Kentaro Okamura. Cleaning up evidence of our dirty work.

"I'll give you a moment to go over it. Then you'll sign."

Lately, everyone in Arasaka seems obsessed with making me sign garbage.

"Arthur promoted me to this position. I owe him for that."

"Sure, but I can take you further."

Yeah, right. All the way to the board and then a flick of your polished nails into the abyss.

Jenkins might be a piece of work, but he values loyal, ruthless employees. He's all for cutting down rivals outside the corp, but he protects his favorites in the division. Abernathy's the polar opposite—she'll sacrifice anyone to keep up appearances. To her, every "ally" is expendable, with a short shelf life.

So following her lead is physically dangerous. If I sign, I'll disappear—really disappear, without a trace of "V" left in Night City. Abernathy will just tell them Jenkins wiped me out to cover his tracks.

"I need more time," I finally answered. "Give me a day or two."

Just give me time to get out. But Susan only doubled down.

"Jenkins is sinking, and he's taking you with him. This is your only chance, V. Time's up. Sign it here and now."

Wow, she's unfamiliar with the concept of compromise.

"Director, you're asking me to take a big ri—"

"I'm offering you a chance to survive," Abernathy cut me off. "You're refusing so far. Am I not being clear enough, V? Should I press a gun to your empty skull?"

Oh, so the sweet talk is over. Straight to threats now.

There were two turrets visible in the ceiling, with guards stationed nearby—grunts who followed Susan's orders to the letter.

Stay cool. She's not likely to kill me right here in her office—too messy, even for Susan Abernathy. But tonight or tomorrow evening, outside of work? Very possible.

Whatever. I'm already halfway out the door. I just have to sit through this lecture and then leave.

"Nothing more to say?"

"Correct," I answered with a slight smile. "A responsible employee shouldn't argue with their boss. I'm simply asking for a couple of days to think it over. Such decisions are best made with a clear head."

"Your head might be clear soon enough," Abernathy muttered. "Sign it. Last chance, Price."

No way. There's no version of reality where trusting her ends well. Like Faraday, Abernathy treats her "allies" as appetizers and uses the gullible for dessert.

"Give me time. Just a day or two to think," I repeated stubbornly.

"Get out, Price. I don't like corpses littering my rug," Abernathy sneered, waving a black-lacquered hand. "You might think you're still alive, but that's just an illusion."

Right. Great chat. Time to get out of here—and out of Arasaka.

"Good day, Director," I replied, making a quick exit from the corporate monster's lair.

Fuck you, Susan. You'll be dead soon, and I've still got things to do.

Back at my desk, I tried to shake off the director's venomous words. Enough. I'm done with corporate games. I want to play my own—where I'm the one moving the pieces, not getting moved around the board.

Then Arthur summoned me. Expected. He must have somehow heard about my meeting with Abernathy.

Soon, I was in Jenkins' office. The reception was noticeably friendlier, though Arthur was visibly on edge, standing by the panoramic window, hands clasped behind his back. Evening sunlight streamed in, painting the skyscrapers in gold as AVs buzzed between them.

"What did that bitch want with you?"

Should I tell the truth? I worry it might provoke Jenkins into killing Abernathy prematurely, and things will spiral out of control. No, no, no. Just a couple more days to get out of here.

"She tried to bullshit her way into betraying you, of course," I replied vaguely. "But no one would buy her promises."

"Idiots still exist, you know," Jenkins replied darkly. "Sit down, V."

"What happened, Arthur?" I asked, already expecting to hear about Frankfurt and the Space Council.

"Did something happen? A hell of a lot happened," the exec said, also taking a seat at his desk. "Since Osaka, that witch's been holding a gun to my head. But she hasn't pulled the trigger yet. She still needs me—for things she doesn't have the guts to do herself."

Classic strategy: keep a scapegoat around for the dirty work. Jenkins had to know why Abernathy tolerated him, and that her patience had a limited shelf life.

"What did security want with you?"

"You'll laugh, but they tried to recruit me."

"You didn't say yes, right?"

"No. Of course not."

"Good." Arthur nodded. "Poaching people across departments is a dick move."

He seemed like he wanted to say more, but he just sat there, watching me.

"She'll come after us both, Vi," he said quietly. "It's only a matter of time. We need to strike first."

At that, Jenkins placed a thick stack of cash and a small plastic case on the table. I already knew where this was going.

"Take the shard."

I opened the case, and there it was—a chip right in the center. I slotted it in, and a list of names, photos, and data flashed before my eyes. Everything he'd dug up on her: biometrics, Trauma Team records, names of her closest associates—driver, head of security, her lover, her lover's husband. The plan was obvious: make sure Abernathy could never bother us again.

His words... they lined up almost word-for-word with what I remembered. But how? It was too early for this. Had my interference shifted events? Maybe Jenkins, knowing about my underworld connections, decided to act sooner. Or maybe the successful hack of the Crystal Palace sped things up. Whatever it was didn't matter now. The important question was: does Abernathy know about the plot? Because if she does, she might try to kill me tonight.