Chapter 84: The Badlands Bastion
Joric's precise and cold-blooded operations, executed by Moiré, acted like a bucket of ice water, instantly extinguishing the public-facing fury of both Militech and Biotechnica.
While the dark undercurrents still churned, the official bounties on Maine's crew were quietly pulled. The ubiquitous tracking and street-level harassment came to an abrupt halt. Night City's massive news machine quickly moved on to the next disposable scandal.
But Maine understood the corporate doctrine better than anyone. This brief calm was, in his eyes, merely the eye of the storm. He knew a corpo-truce was never born from mercy, only from a cold cost-benefit analysis. The moment they found a more efficient, less costly method of attack, the retaliation would be silent, and final.
"The bounties are gone, but our names are probably at the top of some 'special projects' shit-list," Maine told the crew, his voice a low rumble.
His weathered face was grim, his thick augmetic fingers tapping a dull rhythm on the table. "Before, we were just another crew of mercs with a rep. Now... now we're the 'troublemakers' who made the corps eat scrap and forced them to back down. That means the gigs are gonna get harder, and the eyes watching us are gonna be sharper."
After much debate, the crew made a critical decision: they would not move their main base back to the familiar, gear-stuffed warehouse in Watson. It was too exposed, too well-known. They would instead invest their resources in the derelict town on the edge of the Badlands, converting Joric's "territory" from a temporary hideout into a fully functional, long-term, defensible bastion.
Not everyone was thrilled.
Pilar was the first to complain, waving his slender augmetic arms. "Gods, Maine! There's nothing out here but sand and wind! You can't even find a decent braindance joint! I want a real drink, I gotta drive all the way back to the city! The Net out here is spotty at best! My art—" he gestured to his own colorful, custom-plated chrome, "—is getting sandblasted off!"
Rebecca was more direct, pining for the "noise" and "action." She pouted, "At least in the city, you can always find a fight. What's out here? Watching geckos sunbathe?"
But Dorio and Falco backed Maine's play.
Dorio, her arms crossed, her bronzed muscles looking like solid steel, spoke with calm authority. "Security first. The city's too easy to infiltrate. Every camera, every fixer, every street-rat could be an eye. Out here... we see them coming."
Falco added the tactical analysis, pushing up his shades. "The Badlands is a clear field of fire. No high-rises for snipers. It's perfect for setting up early warning systems. The terrain is complex, with multiple exfil routes. We learn the land, we can lose any pursuit. We build this place up right... it's a fortress."
Kiwi, who had been silent in her corner, her red jacket collar pulled high, gave her own quiet assessment. After witnessing Joric's god-like power—and the corporate-level fury that followed—a remote, hidden location, watched over by that, was the only thing that allowed her nerves to unfray.
"The electronic background-noise is lower here," she added softly. "If... if we need to establish an emergency encrypted link, there's less interference."
Maine slammed his hand on the table. "It's settled. This is our new home. Our bastion. And we're going to make it one."
The great retro-fit began.
They pooled their eddies from the recent gigs, and, with occasional, high-level technical support from Joric—like schematics for efficient power-conduits and simple signal-dampening fields—they began the total overhaul of the derelict auto-shop.
Maine used his old contacts to hire a clan of Nomads. This family, known for their reliability, skill, and discretion, knew the Badlands and knew how to build from scrap. Their leader, a lean, weathered man named Bakk, had the sharp eyes and no-nonsense pragmatism of a true Badlander.
"We'll haul the materiel from the border," Bakk said, gripping Maine's hand. "Market price, but I guarantee the quality. Mil-spec surplus, good salvage from the old outposts. My guys work fast. They know how to build to last."
The retro-fit began with structural reinforcement. The Nomad heavy-haulers brought in thick, composite-metal plates. Workers used hydraulic cutters to tear out the old, crumbling brick walls, replacing them with plating that could stop heavy-caliber rounds. The hiss and bright-blue flash of plasma-welders became the new soundtrack of the desert town.
The windows were a defensive priority. The old openings were widened, squared, and fitted with multi-layered, armored transparisteel salvaged from a military boneyard. Falco designed, and the Nomads fabricated, external hydraulic blast-shutters that, when closed, sat flush with the outer walls.
The roof was stripped and rebuilt with heavy insulation, waterproofing, and a final layer of lightweight, but incredibly tough, composite armor. Dorio, using her new, raw strength, personally helped install several concealed, semi-spherical firing-turrets and periscope-observation ports, all covering the main approaches to the bastion.
Falco dedicated his time to the perimeter defense systems. He and a few of the younger, tech-savvy Nomads used the ubiquitous junk of the derelict town to build what looked like random piles of scrap, but were actually carefully planned barriers. Within these junk-fences, they buried high-sensitivity seismic sensors and wide-angle, low-light optical-cameras. All lines were run with redundancies, leading to a new, small command-center they'd built in the shop's old cellar. At its heart was a server, hardened and encrypted by Kiwi, processing all sensor data and feeding it directly to the crew's comms and cyber-eyes.
The interior was redesigned for function and long-term habitation. The large, open garage was sectioned-off with alloy frames and sound-dampening panels. The area near the main blast-door became the "War Room," dominated by a massive, holo-map of Night City and the Badlands, with a heavy metal table in the center.
The middle of the space became their living area, with repaired sofas salvaged from city-markets and an industrial-style table made from an old CHOOH2-drum. The back was curtained-off into separate sleeping quarters, and a small, heavily-reinforced armory, where all weapons and ammo were now meticulously organized.
Rebecca had even managed to find some drought-hardy, desert cacti and other succulents at a Nomad-market, placing them in the corners of the living area. These stubborn, green, living things, in this new world of steel, concrete, and machine-oil, were a small, but necessary, comfort.
(End of Chapter)