The desert workshop hummed with an atmosphere of inhuman, focused efficiency.
The Mann Team's heavy transport rolled to a stop outside the open area. Pilar's miraculous recovery and Rebecca's accounts of the mysterious "boss" and his extraordinary skill had silenced their skepticism, replacing it with a volatile mix of curiosity and respect.
They had come to pay a debt and assess the cost of their future.
The interior of the workshop was sterilely bright; restored solar panels provided ample luminescence, augmented by various homemade lamps casting a clean, warm white light.
The air carried faint, contrasting scents of heated exotic metals, clean coolant, and the sharp, antiseptic freshness of ozone, the lingering trace of high-precision operations.
Maine's massive frame filled the doorway, his metal boots striking the clean concrete with an authoritative clank. His gaze, a blend of sincere gratitude and hard-earned Night City scrutiny, locked onto Osiris's dark red robe and matte face mask.
Dorio stood beside him, poised and vigilant. Falco, meanwhile, enthusiastically scanned the array of humming, semi-finished devices and bespoke tools, especially the silent servo-skull floating to the side, its moving mandible and eerie glow captivating his enthusiast's attention.
Osiris turned, his crimson optical lenses calmly studying his visitors, and offered a slight, mechanical nod.
The heavy silence that followed felt like a deliberate pressure differential, lasting over ten seconds.
Maine finally broke it, his voice deep and slow, carrying the undeniable gravity of a man whose word is currency in the worst parts of the city:
"You saved my people," he began, his gaze unwavering. "Pilar… and Rebecca. In Night City, that's a debt I won't forget."
Osiris's response, however, was clinical, reframing the profound human concept of a "favor" into a sterile transaction.
"Equivalent exchange. Protocol requires compensation for resources expended," the synthetic voice from the mask was utterly devoid of human cadence, dismissing the heavy human favor in Maine's words.
"The agreement was fulfilled; compensation was rendered." A mechanical tentacle silently extended, retrieving a data pad detailing the astronomical value of the materials consumed—a value that would make any Night City fixer gasp.
Maine's brow furrowed, his prepared diplomatic probe now useless. The other party's purely functional, aloof attitude defied the expectations of any power player he had ever met.
He decided to cut the pleasantries. The wind outside brought the low, chaotic murmur of the distant city, highlighting the quiet tension in the shed.
"Rebecca said you're a 'tech loner'," Maine stated, his gaze sweeping over the creations in the workshop that screamed of technology beyond this era. "But I've run in corporate wars and I've never seen performance like yours. Where did you acquire this technology? What is your objective? Why did you assist them?"
The questions were pointed and suspicious. Dorio subtly shifted her weight, and Falco's fingers tightened unconsciously.
Osiris showed no offense, no evasion. His crimson lenses simply held Maine's gaze, as if processing a predictable set of variables.
"My origins are irrelevant to your current operational parameters, Maine." Osiris's voice remained steady, yet now carried undeniable, measured authority. "As for my objective, and the motivation for providing 'assistance'…"
His mechanical tentacle lifted, pointing deliberately toward the crew: "The calculation is simple. I have assessed your potential operational value."
Maine and the others froze. Value, in this city, that word almost always preceded exploitation.
Osiris continued, his tone like stating a fundamental law of physics: "You possess foundational urban knowledge and decentralized network capability. However, your equipment is obsolete, and your cybernetic integration is crude, resulting in severely restricted operational efficiency and survival probability."
His critique was a cold, precise scalpel, dissecting their greatest, unspoken anxieties. He swept his optical sensors over each member, precisely detailing their technical flaws:
"Maine: Reactive armor exhibits sub-optimal energy dispersal efficiency.
Dorio: Tendon soft tissue degradation exceeds acceptable parameters; pharmacological agents induce unacceptable latency in neural feedback loops.
Falco: Sensor suite model incompatibility results in data fusion entropy."
With each accurate, damning diagnosis, the recipient's posture grew more rigid.
"And I," Osiris slightly lifted his chin, radiating absolute technical confidence even through the mask, "can provide technical support that defies local material and schematics. From advanced weapon optimization and maintenance to custom, high-fidelity cybernetic integration, surpassing current corporate standards."
He paused, letting the promise of power sink into the tense silence.
"My proposal dictates an adjustment to the operational structure: cessation of fragmented, singular transactions. I require a continuous, protocol-driven cooperative relationship. You will procure resources and execute designated reconnaissance or acquisition missions for me. In return, I will initiate a comprehensive technical upgrade for the entire unit."
Osiris's crimson lenses fixed on Maine's face: "This will increase your success metrics and extend your operational longevity when engaging in high-risk contracts. It is an evolutionary necessity, enabling the avoidance of detrimental inefficiencies, such as the near-fatal hardware failure observed yesterday."
The silence that followed was absolute. Maine's rugged face muscles twitched. Osiris had weaponized his team's greatest vulnerabilities. The technology promised was everything they needed to survive and ascend in Night City, yet the cost was their autonomy.
"This… requires deliberation," Maine finally managed, his voice heavier than before. "I require time to consult with my team."
"Understood," Osiris replied, crisp and immediate. "My offer is quantified but finite. Return with your determination. And," he concluded, turning toward Rebecca, "the first batch of 'medical fees' must be delivered upon return."
He gave no further attention to their departure, turning instead to his workbench. The tall, dark red figure, bathed in the clean light, picked up an unfinished component.
A mechanical tentacle extended, and the laser welding pen ignited with a sizzling blue-white light, its focused intensity signaling the end of the negotiation.