V's situation was a bit complicated. On one hand, she vaguely remembered being a player who'd started a new game after the Cyberpunk 2077 DLC dropped, cleared that bullshit The Tower ending, and then somehow time-slipped into the body of her game character right after the Relic extraction surgery—locked out of all combat cyberware.
But on the other hand, V's own memories were crystal clear. Like the cushy childhood in Charter Hill, the ambitious corporate grind after joining Arasaka, the street-level bullet hell after getting canned—and so on. Compared to that, the "player" memories felt fragmented and dreamlike, like that side was the fantasy and this was reality.
So, who the hell had crossed into who?
V mulled it over, her head throbbed—her Intelligence was only 3, after all.
Fuck it, who gives a shit. V had been through too much pain; now she just wanted to live it up.
Bad news: she was Combat 5 trash. Good news: the savings from her "last life" were intact.
Staring at the 20+ million eurodollars in her account, V's unease evaporated. She was stacked like she'd maxed Half-Recoil Chance and Half-Recoil Strength to 100, ready to drop a little inflation shock on Night City.
Sure, 20 mil wouldn't crash Night City's economy, but for one person? Top-tier whale status.
V decided to celebrate life without the Relic torment. Who else was she gonna spend it on when she was poor as fuck except in eddies?
She took one step and froze. On Night City streets, odds of catching a bullet beat catching a cold.
Worse: V glanced down at her bulging "front armor." Legends might play Legends of Runeterra, but she wasn't switching careers.
Fuck it, call a cab.
Snagging Delamain Taxi Corporation's number from a street ad, V dialed up.
"Delamain Taxi Corporation, how may I assist you, sir or ma'am?"
"Old Del, send a ride. Excelsior package."
"Excelsior single ride: 5,000 eurodollars. Daily settlement."
"Send 100 to start." V wired 500k without blinking.
"Package activated. Esteemed client, your name?"
"V."
"One moment, Ms. V. Luxury vehicle en route, ETA 2 minutes 12 seconds."
As a pro AI, Delamain nailed it. Soon V was cruising safe in a Delamain cab, Excelsior perks live: combat mode for armed defense against attacks—strong enough for megacorp elite squads—and if you flatlined, complimentary "from intake to interment" body disposal, pickup to cremation. Night City's fanciest hearse.
Still, V felt exposed. All her chrome locked, stats tanked—worse than a street punk.
Fuck The Tower ending, fuck Myers—that bitch totally set her up!
Trouble? V thrived on it.
She'd dig Myers out of Dogtown's shithole for 5k; blow New US Prez's head off for a can of NiCola.
Stormed Arasaka Tower? White House was jack shit!
First: rebuild strength. Then: settle scores.
V had ridden the highs and lows; her choom was rocksteady.
Cursed Myers the dumbass prez one more time, then V called Trauma Team.
"Trauma Team at your service. How may we assist?"
"Hook me up with Platinum membership."
"Platinum is monthly only: 34,000 eurodollars/month. No annual discount. Covers ammo/fuel on extractions; client pays for equipment damage."
V asked: "Gear loss on me—what about personnel?"
Sweet operator voice: "Trauma Team's chrome loss billed; meat's free."
Classic Night City.
"Fine, Platinum it is. Here's a year upfront." Wired 408k eurodollars.
Operator bounced back 8k.
"You're already Gold—upgrade gets rounding mercy."
Already Gold? V checked the date: 2076. She was still Arasaka—Night City branch Counter-Intelligence #2!
Trauma Team Gold was Arasaka perk. 90% of corp rats were office drone fodder, but management? Not human.
Boss's name? Jen... right, Jenkins!
Nostalgic name. Felt ancient, though months ago she'd smashed gangs—Tigers, Scavs, Maelstrom—scared shitless. Appetizer. For Panam: jacked Militech's Basilisk. For Delamain: hijacked Kang Tao AV. To survive: blacked out the grid, plunged Night City dark. Soloed Dogtown, popped Colonel Hansen and his Cerberus—shared drinks with Prez Myers.
Jenkins, once towering boss-god? Now roadside weed. 2k eddies, V could konk him, trunk him to the Afterlife. Saving Prez Myers? Worth 5k tops.
Ah, Night City, city of dreams... bullshit!
V flashed on sunset overtime—that was her lost youth.
Pulled smokes, bit one unlit.
No need to light. She'd quit for Johnny... started for him.
But 2076. Johnny Silverhand... gone!
V touched her empty neck neural port—like her hollow heart. The guy who'd ridden bullets and blaze with her... vanished.
Melancholy hit thick as post-nut fingers. V shivered, near tears—then burst laughing wild.
"Hahaha, fuck you, Johnny, you prick—finally fucked off!"
"Old Del." V snapped: "Konpeki Plaza!"
"Yes, Ms. V. Choose Delamain, leave troubles at the door."
Night City's best cabs: smooth as pleb lives—stuck forever; fast as poor gonks flatlining. Hit Konpeki Plaza's golden spire quick. V dropped five stars—no noisy fixer cabbie beat quiet AI.
"Gong xi fa cai, welcome to Konpeki Plaza, Deputy V." Front desk girl: pure Tokyo loop accent, hands folded demure, radiating respect.
No shock she knew V—Arasaka property, full employee database.
V eyed wall cam, armed guards. Brain flashed 7-8 ways to pop 'em instant. Then her Kiroshi Optics: The Oracle blued; cam twitched program-fake elsewhere, guard stepped casual, fixed collar-hidden mag.
Nothing blew. Cam intact, guard skull whole.
Chrome functional—basics only.
No more hacking. Just eddie transfers now.
Desk girl blinked—200 eurodollar tip hit.
"I get cranky sometimes. Call it preemptive sorry." V smiled.
Girl flushed—V's looks slayed all genders.
"No, making every guest feel at home is our all-out duty, Deputy V. No need. You're the kindest I've met—even mad, you'd never snap."
"Then you're forgiven." V winked: "Grabbing a drink. Later."
"Yes, welcome back anytime, Deputy V."
Sounded more sincere. Money magic.
Edies, baby—who don't love?
20 mil balance? Even Relic-tortured V grinned.
At the bar, V raised one finger to the stud bartender.
"Hit me. Priciest."
"Priciest?" He scanned V, optics blues—full dossier.
"No offense." Barman's baritone: "But your paygrade? Top-shelf's overkill."
"Oh?" V smirked: "How much per bottle?"
"1,249 eurodollars. Rare as fuck—Konpeki's got two..."
"Both mine." V cut in.
"Eh?" Bartender froze.
V's optics flashed—2,500 wired.
"Extra 2's your tip."
Bartender: "...My bad, had no clue."
"Hold up." Back in seconds with two ornate bottles.
"Open 'em?"
V grabbed one, lit-appraised, confirmed: "This 1,249?"
"Yes." He bowed, hyping: "Kami no Yūsha: Kotodama. Sake-base nanite cocktail, glowing neural fibers suspended. Legend: sip it, your engram joins Arasaka board secret net—for 180 secs while blackout drunk."
"Hah, fun brew. Hate the name. Kami no Yūsha? Bad juju for me."
Dropped it. Smash—1,249 eurodollars in shards.
"Th-this..." Bartender's BCI smoked.
V ground the mess, fanned boozy air, inhaled deep: "Yup—this is how Kami no Yūsha's best served!"
Bartender eyed her like cyberpsycho.
But V was clear... probably.
Gaze hit bottle two—bartender clutched it.
"N-no, not that one!"
V wouldn't. Quarter-prez eddies, but cash was cash—fragrant, foul, clean, dirty. Money innocent; people guilty.
"Open it."
Bartender relieved: "Yes, pouring now."
"Nah." V waved: "On me. You lot drink."
"Us?"
"Yup."
"This fancy shit?"
"Yep."
"Waste?"
"Drunk down? Not wasted."
"Uh..."
"You sling thousands here—for chooms. Tasted the house pour?"
Shook head: "Nope."
"Why? Hate it?"
Face red: "Can't afford."
V pointed: "Your shot now."
Bottle, V, nod—he poured shallow.
"Heartfelt thanks. To your health!"
Toasted V, downed.
"Taste?"
Eyes glistened: "Heaven. First time I feel... human again!"
"You weren't before?"
Bitter laugh: "My call don't count."
V nodded: "Solid answer."
Shared rounds: desk girl, janitors, security, staff.
Sparse pours.
But gratitude real—first time a gonk treated bottom-feeders human.
"Uh..." Bartender: "We wanna buy you one back."
V chuckled: "With your wages? Konpeki spenders?"
"Pool funds..." Deflated: "Nothing too ritzy."
V scoffed: "Fattening cheeks for pride? Street-sleeping next rent?"
Shuddered, stubborn: "Our heart."
"Fine, can't save ghosts from hell. Menu!" V never soft.
Shaky handoff. V glanced: " NiCola."
"Eh? What?"
"NiCola."
"No booze?"
"Nope."
"Saving us eddies?"
"Hah, don't flatter." V laughed, eyed empty stool: "Just... my drinking buddy dumbass flatlined."
Poured full NiCola solemn—like Dionysus' nectar.
Nectar great? Not juice—god.
Like he prized not NiCola, but the gonk chugging it.
Booze just booze. People make value.
"Nosy okay? Why treat us?" Bartender.
V: "Dreamt I massacred Konpeki."
"Just dream."
"Maybe." V grinned, slammed NiCola.
Back in Delamain.
"Choose Delamain, leave troubles. Welcome back, Ms. V. Destination?"
"You pick, Old Del. Cruise the city. Fuck, NiCola's still teeth-cloyingly sweet—need a chaser."
"Affirmative. Destination set: Wild Wolf Bar."