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Extra chapters available on patreon
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Jimmy followed James's instructions like his life depended on it—because it did. He led him into the braindance studio without daring to make a single extra move, his shoulders tight, his breathing controlled, his eyes avoiding everyone's faces.
Behind them, engines rolled in.
Maine and the crew arrived right on their tail, vehicles sliding into position like they had rehearsed it a hundred times. The street outside looked quiet, but the tension was loud enough to feel.
Jimmy swallowed.
"Mr. BT," he asked carefully, forcing politeness into his voice, "how can I help you?"
James patted him—not hard, but just enough to knock his balance a fraction, just enough to remind him who the predator was.
"The famous BT," James said with an easy smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Maine stepped forward, voice firm.
"We need your cooperation. We're arranging a meeting with Director Blackwell."
Jimmy didn't even pretend to resist.
"That's simple. I'll cooperate fully."
His obedience was so immediate that it almost embarrassed Maine. He cleared his throat and added, like it mattered:
"If you cooperate, we won't hurt you."
Jimmy didn't look at Maine. He looked at James.
"Is that right, Mr. BT?"
Jimmy had lived long enough in Night City to know something important:
The man who scares everyone else is the man you listen to.
James pressed down lightly on Jimmy's thin forearm.
"Yeah. If you help us, you're on the same boat."
He leaned closer, voice calm, almost conversational.
"What you need to think about is how to keep our boat from capsizing."
Jimmy exhaled slowly, then finally asked the real question.
"…What exactly do you want to do?"
James tapped Jimmy's head once, like he was tapping on a door.
"I want what's inside Blackwell's skull."
---
The Hook
Preparations began immediately.
And it didn't take long.
Director Blackwell accepted Jimmy's invitation almost instantly.
That told them everything they needed to know.
He wasn't just curious.
He was addicted.
While Blackwell traveled to the studio in a Delamain taxi, Jackie stayed behind to guard Jimmy. The guy looked obedient now, but this was Night City—obedience could be an act.
Time passed.
Then Sasha's voice came through the channel, sharp and controlled.
"A Delamain taxi just arrived. It's him."
James's eyes narrowed.
"Let's go," he said. "Showtime."
Jimmy stood up, forced his expression into something neutral, and walked downstairs to greet his client like it was any other night.
"Mr. Blackwell. Welcome. Please come in."
His tone sounded normal. His face looked normal. His hands didn't shake.
Director Blackwell stepped inside without suspicion.
The only thing that surprised him was the speed.
"This was fast," he commented, glancing around. "Usually you take a month."
Jimmy had rehearsed this answer.
"You're sharp as always," he said smoothly. "Quality material is rare… which is why this piece is special."
Blackwell nodded, pleased.
"I'm looking forward to it."
He trusted Jimmy. Years of business. Years of secrecy. Years of indulgence.
"So," Blackwell asked, "can we begin?"
Jimmy stepped aside, inviting him upstairs.
Private custom braindances required live work—every mind had different limits, different thresholds. That was part of the luxury.
Blackwell walked upstairs, lay back into the braindance chair, and fitted the equipment with the confidence of someone used to getting what he wanted.
The system began to upload his consciousness—
Then a tiny prickling sensation touched his neck.
His eyes widened.
He never got the chance to speak.
A sedative hit fast.
Blackwell's body went limp.
He slumped into unconsciousness like a puppet with its strings cut.
James appeared behind Jimmy like a shadow.
"Well done," James said. Then he patted Jimmy's shoulder, not gently. "Now you're a qualified accomplice."
Maine and the crew stepped out from the dark corner, lifting the unconscious executive and carrying him to a prepared location.
The real work was about to begin.
---
The Dive
Kiwi cracked her knuckles and sat down.
"His ICE won't be easy," she warned.
Director Blackwell's personal defenses were high-end—corporate-grade neural security, layered traps, nasty countermeasures.
But there was time.
They had the whole night.
Kiwi volunteered because she had her own logic:
More work meant more payout.
Sasha didn't argue.
Time crawled.
Minutes turned thick and slow.
Then, nearly an hour later, Kiwi stumbled out of the bathroom, face pale, eyes unfocused—like she'd been dragged through a storm.
Overdrawing brainpower always left a netrunner half-dead.
But she was smiling.
"It's done," Kiwi breathed.
The intelligence Faraday wanted was in hand.
Maine copied a portion and handed it to James immediately.
Then he exhaled, looking at the unconscious corpo.
"Blackwell is yours now."
---
How to Make a Problem Disappear
Killing Blackwell would be easy.
Too easy.
And that was the problem.
A dead Arasaka executive triggers investigations.
Investigations trigger pressure.
Pressure triggers retaliation.
And Faraday? Faraday wouldn't save them. He'd abandon them and pretend he never knew them.
Jimmy surprised them by speaking first.
"There's another way."
Maine's expression tightened as he put the braindance equipment back on Blackwell.
"You sure this works?"
Jimmy nodded, confident now that he was fully trapped in this mess.
"Of course. Ordinary people go insane after experiencing raw cyberpsychosis. Even if Blackwell has discipline, he's just… human."
Jimmy's plan was simple—and cruel.
They would make Blackwell look like he suffered psychosis from illegal black braindances.
In Night City, that wasn't rare at all.
Even neural specialists would struggle to prove sabotage, because the symptoms were real—and the cause was believable.
And Blackwell's own history made it perfect.
He was already a fan.
He was already guilty.
Jimmy leaned in and began the process.
Blackwell's consciousness was dragged into the raw sensory hell of cyberpsychosis.
No softening.
No editing.
No safety rails.
One full experience shattered him.
For safety, Jimmy ran it again.
And again.
And again.
By the fourth run, Blackwell's body twitched like it was trying to escape its own skin.
"Abba… abba…"
His eyes rolled. His neck twisted. His mouth drooled nonsense.
Just before he crossed the final line into complete madness—
James injected another tranquilizer.
"Old D," James said, "send a taxi. My location."
Minutes later, a Delamain taxi arrived.
Maine carried Blackwell into the back seat.
James looked at the vehicle.
"Delete the transit record after the drop."
"Understood," the taxi's sub-AI replied.
---
Corpo Plaza
The Delamain taxi delivered Blackwell back to Corpo Plaza.
By then, the tranquilizer was fading.
The door opened.
Blackwell staggered out.
His eyes were wild, frantic, broken.
His movements were wrong—jerky, violent, unpredictable.
People stepped back in alarm.
A corpo with combat implants and combat chips was dangerous even on a good day.
A corpo in psychosis was a walking massacre.
But Corpo Plaza had one thing in abundance:
Police.
NCPD swarmed fast.
Blackwell moved like a beast.
Then gunfire exploded.
James didn't see every detail after that—the broadcast cut early—but judging by the firepower, there wouldn't be much left of Blackwell to identify.
Night City had an ugly statistic:
NCPD can empty a magazine in under two seconds.
One of the few professional skills they never fail at.
---
Messages
A message popped up.
(You did that to Blackwell, right?)
It was V.
James replied instantly.
(Isn't it obvious?)
V answered.
(That was brilliant. Waste of talent not working corporate.)
James snorted.
(Praise won't get you a discount.)
V replied with cold indifference.
(Not my money anyway.)
Then V went offline.
The intel was too valuable. No sleep tonight. Somebody else was about to be dragged into overtime.
---
Two Boats
Soon after, Maine transferred Faraday's commission fee.
James stared at the incoming credits and smirked.
"…Am I double-dipping?"
The feeling of balancing two deals at once really was addictive.
From the bathroom, Lucy's voice called out.
"What are you muttering about?"
James straightened instantly, guilt flickering for half a second before he smoothed it away.
"Nothing."
But inside, he knew it.
Two boats were harder to balance than they looked.
---
Arasaka's Reaction
High above the city, on the upper floors of Arasaka Tower, an office door slammed.
In the Special Operations director's office, Susan's voice cracked with fury.
"That useless Blackwell! Why now?! Why did he have to snap now of all times?!"
The Gorilla Arms project was about to enter human trials. Blackwell was the lead. And now he was gone—either dead or ruined beyond recovery.
Worse: inside Arasaka, plenty of people wanted that project.
They were waiting for Susan to slip.
And Blackwell just handed them an opening.
Susan didn't have time to argue about whether Blackwell's breakdown was sabotage or accident.
Too many suspects.
Too little time.
She pointed at a subordinate standing in front of her.
"Hayden. You're taking over. Immediately."
Hayden bowed.
"Understood."
But inside, Hayden already understood the trap.
If the project succeeded, Susan would claim the credit.
If it failed, Hayden would be the scapegoat.
The risk was obvious.
The reward was uncertain.
But he couldn't refuse.
That same night, Hayden led a tactical unit to forcibly take control of the Gorilla Arms project.
No resistance.
No hesitation.
They acted before other departments could respond.
Then Hayden made a decision—fast and practical.
If the information had leaked, waiting would be suicide.
So he advanced the schedule.
He ordered the experimental implants transported into Night City.
Test subjects could be found later.
The important thing was control.
As long as Special Operations held the implants, they had negotiation power—even if Susan lost the internal battle later.
It was a logical plan.
What Hayden didn't know was this:
Two factions were already watching.
Almost the moment the transport plan was formed, both Militech and Arasaka's Counter-Intelligence Department became aware.
Spies existed everywhere.
At this level, it was always "you inside me, me inside you."
Counter-Intelligence had the deepest access. Same company. Easier infiltration.
But neither Militech nor Counter-Intelligence could use open corporate force.
It was an unspoken rule.
No one wanted another Corporate War.
That restraint—more than morality—was why Night City's mercenary world thrived.
Corporations used Edgerunners as buffers, as disposable tools.
And this time was no different.
Militech didn't expect a miracle.
But they still issued a commission to Faraday.
Not because they believed a ragtag crew could beat a tactical unit…
But because in corporate competition, sometimes winning wasn't the goal.
Sometimes the goal was simply to ruin the other side's night.
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Extra chapters available on patreon
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