Chapter 12: The Cog-Greaser's Interrogation
A rhythmic grinding of metal on grit broke the silence, drawing closer like some unearthly metronome.
On the roof, the silent servo-skull's red optics pulsed. It turned with cold grace, its jaw clicking in a silent report, like a diligent familiar acknowledging its master.
Inside the garage, Rebecca and Pilar's hearts hammered their ribs. They held their breath, eyes glued to the hole in the wall.
The footsteps carried an implacable, heavy tread, each impact landing in the space between heartbeats, forcing them to unconsciously match its rhythm.
The first thing to enter their vision was a swathe of deep, dark red. The color was that of dried blood, refusing to fade even in the harsh desert sun. A massive, hulking figure slowly approached, its silhouette completely blocking the light from the entrance.
He was shrouded in bizarrely-cut, ritualistic dark red robes. The hem swayed, hinting at the inhuman, solid, and powerfully augmented frame beneath. Several mechadendrites of varying thickness—tipped with arcane tools and weapons—coiled and shifted like resting metallic serpents from his back and beneath his sleeves, glinting with a cold light.
What was most shocking was that two of the thickest tendrils were casually coiled around the three Slasher corpses, holding them as easily as sacks of grain. Another mechadendrite securely held a massive, heavy power cell that looked immensely valuable.
His face was hidden beneath a complex, archaic helm. Only a pair of compound optical lenses glowed with a steady crimson light, like two burning embers. They first scanned the purged trespassers in the street, dispassionately assessing the scene, before locking precisely onto the garage. The gaze felt as if it could pierce the very walls and see the fear in their hearts.
"Scrap..." Pilar hissed, his voice trembling. He instinctively moved to shield Rebecca, his back pressing hard against the wall as if to draw strength from it. "What... what is that? A fully-borged cyber-psycho? Some new Arasaka or Militech war-mech?"
His terror was palpable, but the move to protect his sister was pure instinct. His other hand crept to the small-caliber pistol at his back, even though he knew it probably couldn't even chip the thing's paint.
Rebecca was just as terrified, her throat dry, her heart pounding. But she forced herself to whisper a retort, more for her own sake. "A-at least he flatlined those Slasher gonks... He's gotta be better than them... A-and the robe... tsk, it's a look. Like a... like a preem-grade techie?"
She was desperately trying to find any element in the terrifying visage to latch onto.
Joric's gaze swept the scene. His internal cogitators assessed the resource expenditure and engagement efficiency, concluding: Acceptable. The data-stream from the servo-skull confirmed the purge was complete and flagged two low-threat bio-signatures still inside the manufactorum.
He strode toward the garage with that same steady, oppressive pace, a walking red fortress of metal and faith. Under the gaze of those crimson optics, Rebecca and Pilar felt an invisible pressure, shuffling backward until their heels hit a scattered tool, causing a soft clank.
He stopped before the barricaded garage entrance, his massive frame blocking all light.
A mechadendrite shot out, fast as an afterimage, its tip stabbing into a weak seam of the barricade. With a sickening groan of tortured metal, the heavy plate that Rebecca couldn't budge was torn away as if it were cardboard. He tossed it aside, where it landed with a deafening CLANG, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Light flooded the garage, illuminating the two pale, cornered figures. It also revealed Joric's full, shocking form. He was easily over seven feet tall, his robes draped over a solid frame of augmetics and alloy. Visible joints and power conduits pulsed with inhuman strength, and the mechadendrites at his side swayed gently, their tips glinting.
The voice that came from his faceplate was filtered through a vocalizer, smooth and devoid of human emotion. It wasn't a simple monotone, but carried a deep, flat indifference, as if he were long accustomed to addressing machines rather than people.
"Unauthorized entry. You have breached my sanctum. State your purpose." His words were precise, carrying the curt annoyance of an engineer whose work has been interrupted, not the heat of a killer.
Rebecca's rebellious streak flared, overriding some of her fear. "Hey! Chill! We were being chased, choom! How were we supposed to know this shithole was claimed? You didn't exactly hang a 'Keep Out' sign!"
She regretted the words instantly, her palms sweating, terrified a mechadendrite would skewer her.
Pilar grabbed her arm and jumped in, his voice fast and desperate. "Sir! Boss! We mean no harm, honest! We're runners, just a job gone south. Pissed off the Slashers, our ride died, we had to hide! We didn't touch anything! We'll leave, right now! Out of your hair!"
He gestured frantically at their nearly-empty bags to prove they were no threat.
Joric's crimson optics swept over them. Data-streams scrolled past his vision, analyzing their body temperature, micro-expressions, muscle tension, cyberware models, and energy signatures.
"++Bio-signal analysis: High stress response, low-grade armament, no significant threat.++" The flat voice returned. He seemed to relax an imperceptible amount, but his data-driven attitude remained. "Identity. Origin. Purpose. You will also provide all effective intelligence regarding 'Night City' and the surrounding territories. The comprehensive nature of your information will determine your final disposition."
A mechadendrite rose, pointing steadily at Pilar, silently commanding him to answer. The gesture was absolute. The precision lens at its tip whirred, minutely adjusting its focus.