Alright, chooms, gather 'round your neural interfaces. It's 2026, and I'm still diving back into the chrome-plated chaos of Cyberpunk 2077's Phantom Liberty DLC like it's a fresh hit of synth-milk. By now, most of you have probably already ghosted through Dogtown, danced with a certain netrunner idol, and screamed at your screen during that one Chimera fight. But I keep seeing the same question pop up in my feed, hovering there like a rogue datashard: "Should I take that weird oath in Myers' apartment?"
And honestly, I get it. When President Rosalind Myers, Commander-in-Chief of the NUSA and owner of a wallpaper pattern that screams "my therapist is an FIA handler," asks you to swear your eternal loyalty to her collapsing government, it feels like a decision that should have massive, branching consequences. You picture soldiers bursting through the door, Johnny Silverhand filing a noise complaint in your brain, or maybe you suddenly get a discount on Militech merch. But here's the spoiler-free truth, whispered from one chrome-jockey to another: it's basically the most stress-free roleplay moment in the entire game.
Let me paint the picture. You're in the middle of the main mission "Lucretia My Reflection," having just fished Myers out of a crashed AV like a very high-maintenance cat from a tree. She invites you to her safehouse, pours you a drink that probably costs more than my entire stash wall, and drops the oath on the table like it's a preem piece of cyberware. The dialogue wheel lights up, your palms get sweaty (or maybe that's just the Sandevistan overheating), and you freeze. Do you kneel? Do you give a sarcastic salute? Do you tell the most powerful person in the room that you'd rather eat a burrito full of broken glass?
Here's what the game doesn't tell you upfront but what my hundreds of hours of testing (and a few intentional reloads) confirms: regardless of what you choose, V still ends up as a card-carrying FIA agent with that shiny new coin. That's right. You can politely decline, you can awkwardly mumble through the oath, you can even try to argue about the fine print regarding dental coverage – and the outcome is mechanically identical. All of Phantom Liberty's gigs, side jobs, relic skills, and those delicious, gut-punching endings remain wide open. So if you're worried about locking yourself out of the secret "President's personal barista" epilogue, don't be.
But hold up – just because the choice doesn't alter the mainframe, doesn't mean it's without flavor. The real juice here is the immediate reaction you get from two individuals who have made your skull their personal airbnb: Johnny Silverhand and the President herself. If you go full patriot mode and recite the oath like you're auditioning for a propaganda ad, Johnny will crawl out of his digital grave to deliver a sarcastic remark so sharp it could slice through Arasaka armor. He'll make you feel like you just pledged allegiance to a squad of corporate-themed killer clowns. On the other hand, if you refuse, Myers will give you a look that could freeze Night City's last clean water supply. She's disappointed, maybe a little betrayed, like you told her that her favorite synth-apple pie recipe is actually from a vending machine. Neither reaction actually changes your standing, unlocks a hidden romance path, or spawns a kill squad. It's pure, unfiltered, theatrical world-building – the kind that makes me love this glitchy masterpiece even more.
Now, I know what you're thinking: "If there's no gameplay impact, why should I care?" Well, that's the beauty of roleplaying an edgerunner with a ticking time bomb in your head. Are you a disillusioned merc that every government is just another gang with better PR? Spit on the floor and refuse. Are you a pragmatist who sees an opportunity to get closer to powerful allies, even if it means swallowing a little pride? Recite the words while mentally replacing them with your own private gig list. The choice is a mirror, not a lever. It reflects the V you've built through hours of side gigs, tragic backstory, and probably one too many questionable dealings with rogue AIs.
And while we're on the topic of choices that don't matter (looking at you, Skippy's pacifist mode), let me throw out a lifeline for anyone still sweating over early decisions. Nothing you do before the tenth main mission – a brutal little number called "Firestarter" – will lock you into or out of any of Phantom Liberty's endings. That's right. You can make every "wrong" dialogue call, mess up a stealth section so badly it becomes a Michael Bay film, and the ending branches don't start growing until that pivotal point. So stop reloading saves every five minutes! The manual save I keep handy is reserved solely for that mission, and I recommend you do the same.
To give you an even clearer view of this delightful nonsense, let me break down the immediate non-consequences like a scatterbrained fixer:
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🪙 The FIA Coin: Always ends up in your pocket. It's the world's most persistent corporate swag.
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🎭 Johnny's Mood: Throws the best shade if you comply. His digital smirk is practically audible.
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😑 Myers' Mood: Looks at you like you just asked her why the NUSA is basically one bad day away from a corpo-takeover.
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🔓 All Content: Every relic, every ending, every chance to get your hands on that iconic sniper rifle – untouched.
In the grand tradition of Night City, where neon dreams come to die and get recycled into cheap upgrades, the oath is just another gorgeous piece of the tapestry. So next time you're in that apartment, pour one out for the roleplaying gods, make the choice that feels right for your version of V, and then save your real stress for the moment you have to decide who to trust during a certain conversation with a certain netrunner behind a certain blackwall. That's where the real chrome-plated heartbreakers lie. Catch you on the flipside, samurai.