Rebecca and Pilar carried the plates Dorio gave them, finding a relatively quiet corner to sit.
The plates were piled with several charred synthetic protein blocks covered in a layer of sticky, artificially glossy orange sauce, alongside a lump of paste-like nutrient gel and two boiled cultured bean pods that barely resembled vegetables.
The food's mixed smell was cheap flavoring and basic carbohydrates, barely masking the warehouse's inherent machine oil and dust odors.
"Fuck, starving." Rebecca grabbed a fork, viciously stabbing into the protein block, taking a big bite and chewing mechanically.
The synthetic meat texture was as bland as always, carrying an indescribable chemical aftertaste, but at least filled the stomach.
Pilar carefully pinched a bean pod with his newly repaired metal fingers but didn't eat right away.
Through his flashy goggles, he watched Maine, Dorio, and Falco conversing quietly on the warehouse's other side, voice lowered: "They're still watching us... Sis, you think the boss really believed it?"
"Eat yours, less talk." Rebecca didn't look up, pointing at his plate with her fork. "Whether he believes or not is out of our hands now. Get exposed now, forget those goodies—Maine will be first to dismantle us for scrap parts."
She swallowed the sticky lump in her mouth, scooping another spoonful of nutrient paste. "Tastes like shit, but gives you strength to take a beating."
Pilar sighed, finally shoving the bean pod in his mouth, chewing tasteless as wax.
"I know... it's just this thing," he unconsciously touched his temple with a fingertip, "too fucking quiet. Used to always have some buzzing, now nothing—actually creepy. And this arm, so light it doesn't feel like mine..."
He shook his left arm, movements astonishingly fluid, even creating faint wind sounds.
Rebecca stopped chewing, green optic implant scanning his uneasy face in dim light.
"Listen, dummy big bro," her voice rarely lowered, lacking usual irritability, "we're still alive, car's not lost, equipment's even upgraded—that's the result. How it happened... doesn't matter."
"Wait till we get the battery he wants, complete the first transaction, let Maine see the benefits with his own eyes—then slowly explain those... weird parts. Say it now, he'll definitely think the risk's too high and cut this connection." She loudly slurped sauce. "Hurry and eat, after eating go check where we can get that damn military-grade energy battery—that thing's not easy to find."
The siblings stopped talking, silently swallowing this typical Night City lower-class meal—efficient, cheap, sustaining life, but offering no enjoyment.
The air mixed with food's chemical smell and their unspoken tension, blending with whispered voices from that end of the warehouse into dangerous dinner BGM.
Night deepened. Most of the warehouse fell into darkness, only corner work lights emitting dim yellow glow and humming.
Maine, Dorio, and Falco sat around a scratch-covered metal table, center floating the holographic projection of the data chip and supply list Rebecca brought back.
"What do you think?" Maine's voice was low, knuckles tapping the table with dull sounds.
"Rebecca's eyes are custom-grade high-end goods. Military tech on the black market doesn't have this clean integration." Falco pulled up data streams for comparison. "Pilar's neural interface repair...
craftsmanship absurdly refined, almost non-invasive, like nanometer-level direct tissue reshaping. This exceeds most street clinics and even corporate medical levels."
Dorio leaned forward with crossed arms, her body casting massive shadows in the light: "But they really came back, in better condition than when they left. That tech solo, whoever he is, demonstrated capability and sincerity."
"Look at this list," she pointed at the projection, "what he wants—military-grade batteries, specific alloys, prototype neural interfaces... these aren't common goods. Getting them takes effort, even risk. But what he's offering back is solid high-level technology and medical care."
"The price is information and these hard-to-get materials." Falco calmly pointed out. "What's a tech solo doing with these things? Doesn't add up. I'm more suspicious it's some corp—maybe Biotechnica, even a new player—setting a trap. Using tech benefits as bait to make us lower guard, have us collect intel or get contraband, eventually becoming test subjects or expendables." He'd seen too many corporate dirty tricks, thoughts always going to worst scenarios.
"Corporate traps are usually more direct, more brutal, wouldn't circle this much, also wouldn't be this picky about 'trash.'" Maine pondered. "But their story definitely has holes. That repair shop, a tech solo capable of this level modification, can't leave no traces. The equipment Rebecca described doesn't fit an abandoned location."
His cyberoptic eye flickered faintly, weighing various possibilities. "What worries me is worse scenarios... maybe involving something... we can't understand." He thought of those urban legends about Old Net remnants, rogue AIs, or more bizarre existences.
"But we need to strengthen, Maine." Dorio's tone was pragmatic. "Recent jobs getting harder to crack, fierce competition, corporate dogs' equipment getting better. If... I mean if, this person really just wants to trade, this is an opportunity for us. The tech support he can provide might be key. These things are hard to get, but with our channels, not impossible."
"Risk's too high." Falco insisted. "Unknown equals uncontrollable. We can't stake team safety on a mysterious figure of unknown origin and his weird requests."
Maine looked at his two most important partners. They represented different angles within the team: Dorio saw opportunity and survival capital accumulation; Falco saw ubiquitous threats and traps.
He pondered long. As leader, he had to balance on a knife's edge. Complete refusal might miss a powerful resource and ally; blind trust might drag the team into an abyss.
"Cautious contact." Maine finally decided, voice steady and decisive. "Falco, analyze the list, assess acquisition difficulty and risk. We first try completing a small part, see what he really wants, what he can give. Start with... that 'Thunder-7 type' high-energy battery. That thing occasionally turns up in scrapyards and old warehouses, but intact ones are rare—worth testing waters."
He looked at Dorio: "Next trade, you bring a few people, watch from the perimeter. Situation goes wrong, withdraw immediately."
Finally, his expression became especially serious: "Everything about this tech solo, limited to us three. Don't tell other team members for now, especially Rebecca and Pilar... I need to observe them more."
Dorio nodded in understanding. Though Falco still frowned, he accepted this relatively prudent plan.
The warehouse returned to silence, but the air filled with a new, tense sense of anticipation.