The desert workshop was immersed in focused, orderly atmosphere.
Maine's crew drove into this open area.
Pilar's recovery and Rebecca's descriptions of that mysterious "boss" and his extraordinary skills ignited curiosity and respect in their hearts, prompting them to come personally—both to witness and to give thanks.
The workshop interior was bright and open. Repaired solar panels infused the space with stable, abundant light. Several homemade work lamps cast soft warm-white glow, merging with natural daylight filtering through windows, making the entire place seem both lively and tranquil.
The air faintly carried heated metal's subtle fragrance, clean coolant's scent, and a trace of barely-there freshness like after thunderstorms—as if a highly precise operation had just been completed.
Maine stood at the workshop entrance, tall frame bathed in light, gaze carrying frank appreciation and scrutiny, carefully appraising Cairo's dark red robes and matte-finish face mask.
Dorio stood at his side, posture relaxed yet steady, eyes full of amazement and gratitude.
Falco enthusiastically observed the workshop's arrayed half-finished devices, hanging tools, and quietly operating homemade equipment—especially that servo-skull hovering aside with slightly moving jaw, firmly capturing this tech enthusiast's focused attention.
Rebecca and Pilar stood to one side, expressions carrying gratitude and nervousness.
Cairo turned around, crimson optical lenses calmly facing the visitors, slightly nodding acknowledgment.
Though the workshop was filled with various parts and instruments, it didn't appear chaotic. Every tool and material was arranged orderly, revealing an efficient, quiet technological aesthetic.
Heavy silence lasted over ten seconds, feeling like a century.
Finally, Maine broke the silence.
He stepped forward, metal boot sole colliding with concrete floor with a dull sound, voice low and slow, carrying undeniable weight:
"You saved my people." He began, gaze unwavering. "Pilar... and Rebecca. This debt, I've noted it."
His thanks sounded solid, without flowery embellishment, but under Night City's survival rules, this was already a considerably weighty promise.
Yet lurking beneath those words was almost tangible pressure and scrutiny.
Cairo's response was exceptionally flat, as if merely processing a routine maintenance order.
"Equivalent exchange. I fulfilled the agreement, they paid 'medical fees.'" The synthesized voice transmitted through his face mask, steady without ripples, completely ignoring Maine's heavy sentiment and veiled probe.
A mechanical tentacle silently slid from his robe sleeve, picking up a data pad from the workbench listing rare materials consumed during Pilar's treatment—value enough to make any Night City fixer gasp.
Maine's brow furrowed imperceptibly.
The other's entirely businesslike, even slightly distant attitude left his prepared follow-up probes hanging.
He took a deep breath, deciding to be more direct.
Desert wind seeped through door cracks, carrying fine sand's friction sounds.
"Rebecca said... you're a 'tech solo.'" His gaze swept across the workshop's creations clearly not belonging to this era—precision mechanical tentacles, archaic-styled yet technically advanced servo-skull, and residual energy traces in the air. "But I've been all over Night City, even participated in corporate wars, never seen... skills like yours. Never seen these things."
He deliberately avoided the word "stuff," choosing more neutral references, but skepticism was obvious.
He paused momentarily, cyberoptic eye glow slightly intensifying, trying to capture Cairo's most minute reactions—though those dark red robes and full-coverage helmet leaked almost no readable signals.
"Where did you come from? What do you want? Why help them?" Questions struck at the core, carrying Night City residents' deep-rooted suspicion of the unknown.
Dorio's body imperceptibly leaned forward. Falco's fingers unconsciously curled. The air spread with a thin yet clear tension.
In the distance, Night City's direction faintly transmitted urban low murmurs, instead highlighting local silence and confrontation.
However, Cairo's reaction again exceeded their expectations.
He didn't evade, didn't fabricate, didn't even show the slightest offense.
Those crimson lenses merely steadily watched Maine, as if already seeing through all his concerns and probes.
"My origin is irrelevant to you, Maine." Cairo's voice remained steady yet carried undeniable authority.
He even addressed him by name, as if intimately familiar.
"As for what I want and why I chose to 'help' them..." His mechanical tentacles elegantly lifted, pointing at everyone: "The answer is simple. I saw your... potential value."
This stunned Maine and crew simultaneously.
Value? In this city that devoured everything, this word often meant exploitation and eventual abandonment.
Cairo continued, tone like stating natural law: "You're familiar with this city's underground rules, possess certain operational capability and intelligence networks. But your equipment is outdated, cyberware implantation crude with poor compatibility—this severely limits your efficiency and survival probability."
His words were like cold code, precisely dissecting Maine's crew's current state.
His optical lenses swept across Maine's heavy subdermal armor, Dorio's drug-enhanced limbs, Falco's cobbled-together sensor equipment, accurately pointing out performance bottlenecks and hidden dangers even they only vaguely sensed.
"Maine, your reactive armor energy distribution efficiency is subpar. Dorio, your tendon soft tissue wear exceeds standards, long-term medication causing accumulating neural feedback delays. Falco, your sensor suite models are mixed, data fusion riddled with vulnerabilities."
With each point, the named person's expression grew graver.
Everything he said was completely accurate.
"And I," Cairo slightly raised his chin—despite the mask, one could still sense that confidence stemming from absolute technical prowess, "can provide technical support beyond your imagination.
From most basic weapon maintenance and enhancement, to customized high-performance cyberware implantation, to specialized equipment for specific missions...
Far exceeding any market circulation goods, even surpassing some corporate laboratory products."
He paused briefly, letting these words' weight sink into their hearts.
Inside the workshop only equipment's low operational humming remained.
"My proposal is: Work for me. No longer these scattered, barter-style transactions. But deeper, more stable cooperative relationships. You collect required resources and information for me, execute specific reconnaissance or acquisition missions.
In return, I'll provide your entire team comprehensive technical upgrades and equipment support."
Cairo's crimson lenses finally fixed on Maine's face, words direct to near cruelty: "This will significantly improve your success and survival rates executing 'high-risk high-reward' contracts. For example, avoiding situations like yesterday where equipment or physical disadvantages nearly caused casualties."
Silence descended again, only wind whistling through metal scrap outside the workshop.
Maine stood in place, coarse facial muscles imperceptibly twitching.
Cairo's words were like a cold, precise scalpel, dissecting his deeply buried anxiety—the team's strength bottleneck, ever-increasing risks, and powerlessness facing stronger contracts.
The other's demonstrated technical prowess was undeniable. Those miraculous methods and everything in the workshop were clear evidence.
The equipment and cyberware he promised were undoubtedly massive temptation—the power they desperately needed to struggle surviving in Night City, even climbing upward.
But—
What's the price?
Completely binding to an employer of unknown origin and eerily unfathomable technology? Losing hard-maintained independence and autonomy? What exactly would his required "missions" be? Would they ultimately drag the team into irredeemable depths?
Corporate wars taught him that behind technology's gifts often lay unbearable price tags.
His gaze swept across those strangely glowing tools, that silent skull. Alarm bells rang in his heart.
Maine's heart struggled intensely.
On one side was desire for powerful force and survival guarantee; on the other, deep wariness of the unknown and insistence on team autonomy.
He glanced at Dorio beside him, seeing the same shock and hesitation in her eyes. Falco's gaze showed more vigilance, slightly shaking his head indicating extremely high risk.
Cairo took in their reactions but didn't press, just stood waiting silently like a probability-calculating machine that had already anticipated this hesitation.
The servo-skull silently drifted to his shoulder, faint light in eye sockets scanning every member of Maine's crew, conducting uninterrupted biosignal analysis.
"This... isn't a small matter." Maine finally spoke, voice more hoarse and heavy than before, each word seemingly squeezed from his chest. "I need time... need to consider. Discuss with my people."
He had to weigh, had to assess this mysterious "boss's" true intentions, had to be responsible for the entire team.
"Acceptable." Cairo's answer was crisp, as if pre-programmed. "But my proposal isn't indefinitely valid. Next time you come, give me your answer. And," he turned to Rebecca beside him, "the first batch of 'medical fees.'"
He said no more, turning toward the workbench, as if already casting aside this negotiation that might determine a team's future, re-immersing in his technical world.
That tall dark red figure, under cold white lighting, radiated a nearly absolute, suffocating technical authority and detachment.
A mechanical tentacle deftly picked up an unfinished component. The laser welding pen lit with blazing blue-white light, sizzling, as if nothing had just occurred.
Maine stared deeply at that figure, gaze extremely complex.
He ultimately said nothing, just exchanging a glance with Dorio and Falco, indicating departure.
The group silently drove from this mysterious workshop hidden in desert ruins, stepping back into wasteland daylight.
Engines roared again, carrying heavy concerns and a choice that could change everyone's fate, bouncing back toward that neon-flashing, crisis-ridden steel jungle.
Behind them, the workshop's lights gradually disappeared beyond dunes, like a secret that briefly awakened then quietly closed again.
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