Chapter 85: Construction Complete
Their old warehouse-den in Watson wasn't fully abandoned, but rather downgraded to a forward-outpost and emergency bolthole.
Maine, Dorio, and Falco had meticulously sorted the assets to be left behind: a few well-oiled but non-sanctioned autoguns and stub-pistols, standard-caliber ammunition, basic med-kits and trauma-sealant, a few sets of drab, non-descript civilian clothing, and several crates of long-life ration-bars.
These were stowed in a hidden, shielded compartment—enough to be useful in a crisis, but not a catastrophic loss if the hideout was compromised.
A trusted associate, an old-timer named 'Stitch,' was tasked with watching the place.
Stitch had been a decent ripperdoc back in the day, before a faulty cyber-hand ended his career in precision-work. Now, he ran a junk-stall selling second-hand components. He was quiet, had no deep ties, and, most importantly, owed Maine a life-debt.
For a small monthly retainer, Stitch's only job was to "check the power-conduits" once a week, airing the place out and running a quick sweep for bugs or unauthorized entry. The arrangement minimized risk. Even if Stitch was compromised, the trail would end with him.
The reconstruction of the desert bastion took several weeks.
During this time, the "Sol" Nomad clan's workers demonstrated their characteristic grit and efficiency. They set up a small, temporary camp of heavy-canvas tents on the town's perimeter. When night fell, their campfires would ignite, pushing back the cold and the dark of the Badlands.
Maine's crew supplied ample clean water and food, sometimes even sharing "luxuries" from the city, like real-protein synth-steaks and pre-war-style alcohol.
These nightly fires became a brief, neutral ground for exchange.
Rebecca and Pilar were regulars. Rebecca would trade her prized, high-octane liquor for the Nomads' tales of the vast, unforgiving wastes: how to read the wind and survive a killer sandstorm, where to find water in dry riverbeds, how to deal with mutated sand-vipers and radiological-scorpions, and the internal politics of the other Nomad clans.
Pilar was, as always, obsessed with rumors of "tech-treasure" in old military bunkers, constantly pressing for details.
Dorio and Falco, while less social, would listen from the shadows. Falco, in particular, silently logged every mention of new terrain-shifts, danger zones, and rival warband movements, integrating the intel into his electronic map database.
This interaction, built on a foundation of pure work and trade, helped alleviate the monotony of desert life and gave Maine's crew a much deeper, more tangible understanding of the new territory they inhabited.
When the last weld cooled and the last conduit was laid, what stood before them was no longer a ruined auto-shop, but a silent, solid bastion on the edge of the Badlands.
Its low profile blended with the desolate horizon. Its exterior was unadorned, even crude, but its interior was meticulously planned and reinforced.
Thick composite-metal walls, rapid-seal alloy blast-shields, hidden firing ports, a multi-layered sensor-net, and its own independent power and water systems all combined to form a reliable, defensible ecosystem.
This would be their new center of operations, and their last line of defense, in the long shadow of Night City.
The other, unspoken reason for choosing this location was the proximity to Joric's sanctum.
The hidden, subterranean workshop, with its constant, low thrum and occasional, strange energy-pulses, was an intangible, invisible umbrella of power over the entire territory.
Joric himself remained unseen, utterly indifferent to their day-to-day lives. But his presence was its own deterrent—a holy reliquary and a suspended blade, all in one.
As Maine had put it in a crew meeting, his augmetic knuckles rapping on the new metal table: "Get it straight. We're on our own. The Boss is not our babysitter. But... if we face something we truly can't handle, we at least know which direction to run, and the road is short. That's enough."
This reliance on, and awe of, Joric's power became far more concrete—and was tinged with a new, burning hunger—after they observed Moiré's transformation up close.
Moiré, the "Scalpel" soldier, the Militech elite who had nearly annihilated them at the gas station with her ghost-like speed... had been reforged.
She still retained a human silhouette, which kept her from being too conspicuous. But any experienced warrior could feel the wrongness, the perfection, in her movements. Every step, every turn, was optimized, devoid of wasted motion. Beneath her simple, gray combat-suit was a new chassis, a fusion of unknown-tech and local cybernetics.
But her most terrifying new assets were the Transonic Razors.
They remained perfectly hidden within her forearms until, with a thought, they slid silently into her palms. When activated, they produced no light, no flashy effect, only a low, oppressive thrum. The sound seemed to bypass the ears and vibrate deep inside the chest, inspiring a primal, sickening fear.
On the flat, packed-earth lot outside the new bastion, Moiré and Dorio had "sparred" several times.
The first time, the entire crew had gathered, the air thick with tension and curiosity.
Dorio, after Joric's preliminary bio-enhancements, was a demigod of physical power. The memory of her parrying a Mantis Blade and punching a hole in an APC was still fresh. Her combat style was a brutal, overwhelming storm of raw, physical force, designed to crush and destroy.
They were all eager to see what would happen when this irresistible force met Joric's new, immovable object.
(End of Chapter)