Summary: Back in Night City tracking down the lead Whiskers gave, Johnny meets a few girls — some old, and some new.

Last time on Cyberpunk: Fixers, A grieving Jhonny Silverhand find out that he might just have a chance to go back and change everything. To save everyone.


It has been a week since Johny decided to look into Whisker's offer, he would have boarded a supersonic jet a lot earlier if not for the work he had to finish up with the band at Osaka before leaving.

Now he's back in the one place he's definitely not welcome — Night City. It is a lot hotter than usual today.

He sighs.

He had to visit Rogue Amendiares, but that would have to wait. He was fucking starved and couldn't really go about saving V in his weakened state. He had only himself to blame for getting this weak anyways, so he works on fixing it by walking into a random diner.

Only a year and things seem so different, yet all the same — nameless diner, nameless staff, nameless tiny people, mundane lives, all people never doing anything that will ever make an impact . . . He sighs again as he picks the corner seat against the L-shaped counter.

"Hit me up with something good, and the strongest coffee you've got." He fires off 100 eddies to the store, much more than his breakfast would cost. The girl behind the counter scurries off, like a rat who got the cheese and would rather flee the trap.

With nothing better to do, he turns to the news.

It would appear that the recent citywide hunts are for a runaway sentient A.I. from Hym corp. But that's not all — this AI is said to be housed in a 'ganic body! How do you put code into flesh and blood? Is that even legal?

Of course, in Night City there was always some corporate bullshit going down, that was the price of being a 'free city' — where it was free to steal people's dreams and have your own stolen.

. . . Why is the focus of this hunt on Watson — Tyger Claw territory — instead of Pacifica and the Voodoo boy netrunners? Why hasn't Netwatch been called in? Why is Arasaka sending their ninjas? We're heading towards a jackpot at the daily body count lottery!

Was it sad that to the common man, the news was really just another avenue of entertainment? It was presented as such — like a reality show, an investigative drama, or straight-up live commentary.

. . . This is your man, Stan. Signing off.

"Nii-chan! I wanna sit next to that hot lady in coveralls."

The young girl, going by her voice seemed very entitled and whiny. Not something Johnny was looking forward to. He was the only person in coveralls, he had the top unzipped, hanging loosely around his waist. The other person with the girl sighed before breaking into a coughing fit.

Slightly squeaky wheels approach him and sure enough, a pale girl in stockings and a grey hoody parks beside him. The older teen pushing her wheelchair is polite enough to ask if he's ok with her troublesome sister before sitting down on the other side of the wheelchair and quickly placing her order. She also has the decency to wear a mask with how much she's coughing.

She puts her head to the countertop, face nested in her arms.

She has lush blond hair, probably was from the better-off parts of the city, recently in the dumps. Her sister, who seems to be paralyzed waist down is pretty well-kempt too. Sadly, Night City gives a grand total of zero shits about the kind of person you are, but for today, on Johnny's watch, no one was going to steal from or mistreat the two. He just felt like it.

Johnny was aware that it could all be fake, but fuck it, he was willing to live with that. These were kids, and kids deserved a life.

"Hey mister, stop staring at my sister." The tiny one sounds cute, like the kid who acts all cool but secretly cares. She even had her cheeks puffed up and was looking off to the side.

Johnny chuckles, he dryly notes how his laugh seems sonorous and amused instead of dry and cynical, "She's not my type kid." And then, after a pause, "So, what's your name? I'm Johnny."

"But your not a guy, you have boobs." Her eyes were on him, no longer quite concerned that he had been 'staring' at her sister. Oh sure, be annoying kid, ignore the question.

"Maybe I just identify as a man?" Johnny raises an eyebrow at her, all theatrical, just like V would have been.

She put her finger against her lips in a dramatic show of thinking.

Incoming call from Mr. Hands . . .

"One second kid," Johnny's eyes glow dimly, "got a call."

She slips into an exaggerated pout, but makes no move to annoy or interrupt.

JOHNNY
Find anything?

MR. HANDS
You're more impatient than usual today.

JOHNNY
Your point?

MR. HANDS
Nothing much I suppose.

Had my guy ask about you. Rogue said that she won't have you killed just for returning to Night City.

JOHNNY
What if I'm more than 'just returning'?

MR. HANDS
That's not what you asked of me to find and my merc didn't find out. I'm closing the gig, no questions asked.

JOHNNY
Really wanna get paid fast huh?

I figured you can't operate such a massive network completely anonymously. I was right. One of yours gave me your contact.

MR. HANDS
And who would this individual be?

JOHNNY
I promised to tell you where I got your contact from Hands, not from whom.

MR. HANDS
Fair enough, It's a pleasure doing business with you as usual.

The most mysterious fixer in the city was definitely shaken up that Johnny had found his personal contact, and why wouldn't he be? He was the guy who contacted you before you knew you needed to talk to him.

That said, Rogue's words could be just that — words — but it meant he could approach her just a tad easier.

"Friends, friends, friends . . . You see, our local diner girl is late on her monthly dues and we can't afford to keep this place safe without minimal funding. So why don't you all be good citizens and help out a diner in need?"

In Night City, breakfast was never complete without gangsters making an appearance.

He had drifted off a little too much, but he could afford to.

Sigh.

A bunch of cowboy hat, camo print boys and girls were now blocking both entrances and some idiot pinkette was taking for the group. They kinda looked the part, military, and macho-American in equal measure but there were too many of them. The sixth street was full of techs and veterans — self-sure, dangerous, professional, and quiet. Not this.

Sixth street would never address the customers if their issue was with the owner, no gangster or merc with experience would.

The kid next to him was quick to turn to her sister. He stays her hand. If she was dead to all of this, she could use the nap. The wheelchair girl didn't seem quite terrified though. She's either seen enough deaths on TV to not realize that death is real, or has been on the streets for long enough that she's become numb to this.

Or maybe not, her grip on the wheelchair armrest was considerably tighter than before.

Johnny watches on impassively. He could sigh later. This was a situation he might have to step in and deal with.

"I settled my dues yesterday, I ain't paying again."

Hmm, Johnny was impressed. Diner girl had balls on her.

Pinkette walks up to the counter and fires off a round into the wall before leveling her pistol to the diner girl's head, "Look here sweety, I can't miss at point blank."

The diner girl shuts her eyes tight and was clutching her skirt tightly, "I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do. I don't have that kind of money right now." Her voice is not shaky.

The blond elder sister is still asleep. Odd. Gunshots are pretty loud.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah," Johnny jumps in.

Pinkette turns and just stares at him, "Got a smarty pants here eh?"

Johnny tilts his head to the side, hair falling off his face, putting two purple eyes with concentric rings on display, "Name's V. Contrary to popular opinion, I ain't dead." Then after a second, he slaps down his own Malorian on the table for good measure.

"Doesn't matter bitch, you ain't bulletproof."

She took her time to say that. She's unsure. He sure as hell hoped that was enough, cuz there us no way wheelchair girl was making it without getting hit in a firefight.

Johnny quickly steps across to the girl and drives his mantis blades straight into her shoulder, forcing her onto her knees so hard, he hears something break.

Someone knee-jerk fires three bullets into his side.

He slowly exhales before turning in the general direction of the shooter. It is amazing how easily he is falling into V's flair for drama, "You spoiled my outfit."

Pronounced as if a judgment from the devil himself.

Inside was a different story. If someone could see his biometrics, they'd notice the spike in heart rate. He didn't expect them to actually shoot. He wasn't counting on subdermal armor. This could have gone very, very wrong if he weren't Johnny Silverhand, but he was, it'd take more than some wannabe's to kill him.

"I'm feeling lazy today, so I'd rather not kill you. Pay the woman fifteen kay eddies and leave." Johnny retracts his blades from the pinkette cooly. He could take them all if he wanted, he simply didn't want to shoot up the diner in the process.

The Pinkette's eyes light up for a brief sec and then she all but runs out with the others in tow. Johnny heads back to his corner, "I'm still waiting on breakfast."

He then takes a seat before turning to the little girl, "And you still haven't told me your name yet little girl."

He glances back at diner girl who just ran back into the kitchen and is only half-surprised when he feels a tiny but worn hand brush against his pussy. He supposed that he'd never get used to not having a dick. Said tiny hand slips a finger into him before kneading softly and rhythmically. The sensations roll out through his hips, but he isn't all that aroused yet.

He grabs wheelchair girl's hand.

"Names Rebecca. I'm 22." Another squeeze, "And. I. Am. Not. Little."

Johnny brings his free hand to his crotch.

"I ain't stopping you girl," he repositions her hand through his black hipster briefs, "V's clit is right here." Yep, V's clit, it wasn't his.

A tidal wave of pain radiates out from between his legs. It's a struggle to not make a face.

Wheelchair girl is smug, "Almost eight thousand nerve endings, and many more that branch out into your pelvis. Feels good yeah?" She was pinching his clit as hard as she felt was safe to get a raise outta him.

He just shrugs as the waiter puts some toast and coffee in front of him. Thankfully, the pain eases off when she realizes that she isn't getting a raise outta him.

She sniff's at her fingertips, "They don't smell all that much, can you roll me over to the restroom?"

"No."

She just rests her arm on the armrest, careful not to touch anything.

"You aren't gonna wake up your partner?"

Wheelchair girl beckons to the other girl with her other hand, "deserves the sleep."

"She didn't wake up during the gunfight, hard to believe someone can sleep through that."

"Deaf."

"Kay, so what's your story?"

Wheelchair girl quiets for a while, and Johnny works through his breakfast. If there was one thing he liked about Night City, it was that good food was cheap. He couldn't say much about nutrition or safety, but the taste was just good across the board. His breakfast was no exception — rich cheese with just a tad mushy pasta swimming in its lavish caress, seasoned with salt and pizza toppings, and extremely strong coffee, much more viscous than plain milk, all under 50 eddies — he was savoring every last bite of it.

Wheelchair girl straightens up a bit, voice low, she actually sounded more like an oldtimer than he was, "Used to be an edge runner . . ."

"Mh hmm?"

"Lost my crew, almost the entirety of it."

Johnny supposed he could relate to an extent — the Arasaka bombing, they knew it was a suicide mission, so maybe he guilt-tripped less — or maybe he didn't have a conscience, but these edgerunner punks — street mercs — they only took risks to live from day to day, either very close-knit or very weary of each other. Going by wheelchair girl's tone, they were probably almost family.

"What happened?"

Wheelchair girl counts off on her fingers, "My brother's head was blown off by a psycho." Another finger comes up, "Old leader went psycho, killed his girlfriend before MaxTac got him." Another finger comes up, "Our netrunner and our fixer screwed us. My crush took on too much cyberware to get us out of that shit, he went psycho." Her eyes were slightly wet. "Smasher killed him." She shut her eyes, very slowly bringing up the next finger. "His girlfriend bought a one-way ticket to the moon, and the other guy is just a driver."

"Smasher as in Adam Smasher ye? Heard he died."

"Heard so too, only wish I could have put lead in that bastard's brain." She didn't sound angry, just sad.

"So what's up with blondie?"

"I should have died too." She pauses a second, bringing attention to the sleeping blond, "Kept me alive. Wish I could do something to help but I can't."

"Makes her an even bigger mystery — deaf and benevolent, care to enlighten me?"

"You think I know choom?"

Johnny gulped down the last of his coffee, "fun."

He pushes the wheelchair girl to the restroom. Helped her reach over to the sink. That done, he parkes her back at the counter. Their food was in place, the blond girl was trying to rub the sleep out of her eyes "Uh, thanks for looking after my sister."

Johnny shrugs on his way out.

He gets into the Rayfield Caliburn he had hired for his time in Night City. The internal displays light up doing a very good job of mimicking the outside world — part of this mess, but separate from it, a perfect manifestation of the uber rich in this world of theirs.

He weaves through traffic, mostly just narrow roads with economy cars like the Makagi MaiMai — a door, a seat, and an electric motor — or the Thorton Galena — a tiny depressing family car thats over half a century old — or the Archer Hella — a seventy year old rusty and screechy design so reliable it drove Archer to the brink of bankruptcy — the same vehicle that V first purchased.

"Sure, It'd be the perfect vehicle to have loli's give you oral when driving too."

A quick glance to the side confirms his thoughts — V is right next to him. He's been seeing her on a semi-regular basis. She was always here to make light hearted fun of him. "Shove it V."

"Fine, fine." she is mirroring his hanging blue coveralls paired with black hipster briefs and sports bras. "So how was it?"

"How was what?"

"Having almost eight kay nerve endings light up in pleasure or pain and radiate through your entire body?" Johnny could visualize the playful look on her face while taking about wheelchair girl giving him a handy without taking his eyes off the road, "Better than an impressive dick?"

"No, Dick's better." And why did she like to circle back to the one time he said that she lacked his impressive dick?

Doesn't matter, he had better jobs than debating dicks with a hallucinatory dead person.

"Aww, that's not very nice of you. I could be remnants of V's personality that the biochip didn't overwrite."

Johnny opts for ignoring her in favor of taking in the city. He lived here for years but never quite 'saw' the city. The sunlight filtering through the overhead flyovers, accentuated by all of the smoke. All of the people walking along on the sidewalks alone. The occasional couple flitting around each other. The bald monks walking by, heads bowed in silent prayer. The colorful gangsters. The bunch of kids up to no good. The kiosk owners sweating in front of frying octopi.

There is a red light up ahead, he brings the vehicle to a stop. V is looking out instead of chattering away, he looks the same way. Down the alley are four, five guys with their dicks rammed into mechanical masturbators getting pumped furiously, heads lolled back in braindance wreaths. And a woman, completely naked, more than one mechanical dick and a bunch of stuff tacked on, spasming in the midst of those bodies, also wearing a braindance wreath.

"Like that huh, Johnny?" V was ghosting her hand over his crotch. It is unfair how real it felt.

"This city already claimed those poor fuck's souls," Johnny replies as he babies the accelerator, "treat it as the tragedy it is."

V simply giggles before disappearing. This is Night city — beauty in broken filth.

Johnny skips the upcoming right, turns down the next one, stops right up the dead end. This is the place he had to get to, the afterlife — the neon piss yellow on green signage practically screaming at him through the window. He gets out and walked down the familiar aisle. The same old bouncer still stands by the entrance, he doesn't step aside though.

"Hey buddy, I'm uh here to meet Rogue."

The bouncer's eyes glow red for a bit before dimming, "Rogue disagrees."

Well, it wasn't like he expected to be let in. Rogue would make him dance to her tune first. He isn't up for that, he really doesn't have the time to spare, both cuz of his work with the band as well as for V's sake.

Incoming call from Rogue Amendiares . . .

ROGUE
Johnny, don't even try to force your way past Emmerick, I want nothing to do with you.

JOHNNY
Am I really that predictable?

ROGUE
You're a sick demented fuck Johnny. I will have you put down like the creature you are. Stay away — from me and the afterlife.

JOHNNY
Even if there could be a way to save V?

ROGUE
Even if there was, I want no part in your plans.

"She cut the call big man, is she really that pissed at me?" The question was a rhetorical one. Rogue's call made her stance amply clear.

The bouncer sagely doesn't say a thing.

Johnny muttered under his breath as he heads back out. He expected rogue to chuck him in the freezer, not throw him in the arctic without insulated clothing Knowing how stubborn rogue was, he doubted she would offer to help unless something big changed.

He mindlessly heads back to the car. Considering his current situation and considering Rogue a non-player, finding info on Whiskers would be hard. He supposed he deserves it. If someone he knew was used as a shell for some century-old dick fuck, he would have been pissed too. The only part they missed was the one part where he himself didn't ever want this to happen. V deserved her life, it was hers to live and he took that away from her even if it was unintentional.

There's a loud clang and pain blossoms in his left arm, it's so bad that his vision dims. He instinctively dashes behind the nearest cover. His silver prosthetic was noticeably missing.

Not much ammo could chew through the reinforced titanium-steel alloy — with a caliber that high and range that far consternation he couldn't see his assailant, any move could be his last . . .