Chapter 24: Joric's Proposition
The desert manufactorum was submerged in an atmosphere of focused, orderly work when Maine's crew drove up. Pilar's miraculous recovery, and Rebecca's stories of the mysterious "Boss" and his transcendent skills, had ignited a fire of curiosity and respect, compelling them to come in person—partly in awe, partly to offer thanks.
The workshop's interior was bright. The repaired solar array fed a stable and abundant flow of power to the sanctum. Several custom-made lumen-strips cast a soft, warm-white light that mixed with the natural daylight, making the entire space feel both active and serene. The air was clean, carrying the faint, sterile scent of cooling metal, clean lubricants, and a trace of ozone, as if a highly precise ritual had just been completed.
Maine stood in the entryway, his large frame silhouetted against the light. His gaze, full of frank appreciation and sharp analysis, scanned Joric's dark-red robes and matte-finish faceplate. Dorio stood at his side, her posture relaxed but solid, her eyes wide with a mixture of wonder and gratitude.
Falco, however, was practically vibrating with interest, his eyes devouring the rows of half-finished devices, the hanging tools, and the low-thrumming, self-made machines. The servo-skull, hovering silently nearby with its jaw clicking softly, had completely captured his technician's focus. Rebecca and Pilar stood to the side, their expressions a mix of gratitude and familiar tension.
Joric turned. His crimson optical lenses regarded the visitors and he gave a slight, mechanical inclination of his head. Though the manufactorum was filled with parts and instruments, it was not cluttered. Every tool and component was arranged with an unnerving, perfect order, radiating a cold, efficient, technical aesthetic.
The heavy silence stretched for more than ten seconds, feeling like an eternity.
It was Maine who finally broke it.
He took a single step forward, the thud of his boot on the concrete floor echoing in the quiet. His voice was low and slow, carrying an undeniable weight.
"You saved my people," he stated, his gaze level. "Pilar... and Rebecca. The debt is noted."
His thanks was solid, unadorned, but in the unforgiving currency of Night City, it was a heavy-as-lead promise. Yet, beneath the words, the pressure and scrutiny were almost tangible.
Joric's response was utterly flat, as if he had just processed a routine maintenance docket.
"It was an equivalent exchange. I fulfilled the protocol. They will provide the medical tithe." The synthesized voice from his grille had no inflection, completely ignoring the heavy, human-world implication of "debt" and Maine's probing.
A mechadendrite unspooled silently from his robe, holding a data-slate. It listed the rare materials consumed in Pilar's restoration—a cost that would have made any fixer in Night City choke.
Maine's brow twitched. The man's—the thing's—purely transactional, almost dismissive attitude had just rendered his carefully prepared social probes useless.
He took a deep breath and decided on a more direct approach.
"Rebecca said... you're a 'tech-nomad'." His eyes scanned the workshop, lingering on the creations that clearly did not belong to this era—the precise mechadendrites, the ancient-looking servo-skull, the lingering energy signatures. "I've run all over Night City. I fought in the last Corporate War. I have never seen 'craft' like yours. And I've never seen this."
His question was clear, his suspicion deep-rooted. He paused, the light in his cyber-optic seeming to brighten as he tried to catch any micro-reaction—a futile effort against the full-body robes and impassive faceplate.
"Where are you from? What do you want? And why help them?" The questions were a direct challenge.
Dorio tensed, leaning forward almost imperceptibly. Falco's fingers curled. The air thickened.
Joric's reaction, once again, was not what they expected. He did not evade, he did not lie, and he showed no sign of offense. His crimson lenses simply stayed locked on Maine, as if he had already processed every one of his doubts.
"My origin is of no concern to you, Maine," Joric's voice was as flat as ever, yet it carried an indisputable authority. He used Maine's name as if he had his entire file. "As for what I want, and why I chose to 'assist' them..." A mechadendrite rose gracefully, gesturing to the entire crew. "The answer is simple. I have identified... potential value in you."
That word—value—made them all flinch. In this city, "value" meant "utility," and "utility" meant "disposable."
Joric continued, his tone like a man stating a law of physics. "You are familiar with the subterranean protocols of this city. You possess a certain operational capacity and an intelligence network. But your wargear is obsolete, your cybernetics crude, their integration... flawed. This severely limits your efficiency and survival probability."
His words were a cold, precise scalpel, dissecting Maine's crew. His optics scanned each of them, identifying their deepest flaws.
"Maine, your sub-dermal armor's power distribution is inefficient. Dorio, your myomer-tissue is beyond its service life, and your long-term reliance on combat-stims is creating a cascading neural-lag. Falco, your sensor suite is a heretical patchwork of incompatible systems, creating critical data-vulnerabilities."
With every diagnosis, the faces of his crew grew more grim. He was, in every single detail, correct.
"And I," Joric's head tilted, "can provide technical sanctification you cannot even imagine. From basic weapon re-consecration to custom-forged, high-performance augmetics. Mission-specific wargear that far surpasses anything on your black market. Wargear that would be considered experimental, even by your corporations."
He paused, letting the weight of the offer sink in.
"My proposition is this: You will work for me. No more of these piecemeal transactions. A permanent, stable... covenant. You will be my agents. You will gather the resources I require, the information I designate, and execute specific acquisition missions."
"In return, I will provide a full, comprehensive technical re-consecration for your entire crew."
Joric's crimson gaze settled on Maine. "This will significantly increase your success and survival probability in high-risk, high-reward commissions. It will, for example, prevent near-total asset-loss due to inferior equipment... such as the incident yesterday."
Silence returned, broken only by the wind whistling through the scrap metal outside.
Maine stood frozen, the muscles in his rugged face twitching. Joric's words had cut straight to the anxiety he buried every day: the crew's glass ceiling, the ever-increasing risk, the feeling of being out-gunned and out-classed.
The tech on display was undeniable. The healing of Pilar was a miracle. The promise of such power was an almost irresistible lure, the very thing they needed to climb, to survive in Night City.
But...
What was the price?
To be permanently leashed to this... thing? To lose their freedom? What kind of "missions" would he send them on? Would it drag them into an abyss not even he could fight his way out of? The Corporate War had taught him that all preem tech comes with a price tag written in blood.
His gaze flickered over the arcane tools, the silent, floating skull. Every instinct screamed danger.
Maine was torn. On one side, the desire for the power to protect his crew. On the other, a profound fear of the unknown and the loss of their hard-won independence. He glanced at Dorio, saw the same shock and hesitation. Falco was even more wary, his expression a clear warning of the risk.
Joric registered their reactions but did not press, waiting as a cogitator waits for a calculation to conclude. The servo-skull drifted to his shoulder, its soft blue light scanning each crew member, logging their biometric stress responses.
"This... is a big decision," Maine finally said, his voice heavier and more hoarse than before. "I need time. To think. To talk with my people."
"Acceptable," Joric's reply was instant. "But my offer is not indefinite. When you return, bring me your answer. And," he turned his gaze to Rebecca, "the first payment of the medical tithe."
He said no more, turning his back on them to face his workbench, already dismissing the pivotal negotiation from his processors. His tall, crimson-robed back was an imposing silhouette of absolute, suffocating, technical authority.
A mechadendrite plucked an unfinished component from a rack. The las-welder ignited with a sharp, blue-white hiss, as if the entire conversation had never happened.
Maine stared at that back for a long, complex moment. He gave a look to Dorio and Falco, signaling their departure.
The crew left in silence, driving away from the mysterious manufactorum and back into the harsh desert sun. The engine's roar returned, carrying their heavy thoughts, and a choice that would change all their fates, back to the neon-drenched, steel jungle of Night City.