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Chapter 53: The Price of Aid
🕑 Added 2025-11-01 10:53:14 +0000 UTCChapter 53: The Price of Aid
In response to Sasha's question and the crew's sudden, desperate hope, Joric merely posed a counter-query: "And why should I assist you?"
A dead silence fell in the manufactorum, broken only by the low thrum of the power core and the soft hiss of the heat exchangers. The hopeful, excited expressions on the faces of Maine's crew were extinguished, as if doused with ice water, leaving only a bitter chill.
Joric's flat, synthesized voice broke the silence, his tone unchanging as it dissected the reality of the situation. "Executing the 'Blackwall broadcast' protocol for Sasha is technically feasible. However, a directed operation against the Blackwall demands a tithe."
"Energy, rare composites, my time, and my specific knowledge are all finite resources. You must provide a justification sufficient to balance this expenditure."
His words were clinically direct. His crimson optical lenses swept over them, as if conducting a necessary, cold assessment. This purely rational scrutiny made Rebecca squirm; she hated this feeling of being quantified.
Maine took a deep breath and stepped forward. His large frame still held a certain presence even before Joric, but his voice was heavy with sincerity. "Boss, this... this will be a life-debt. From me, from my entire crew. Anything you need from us, you just ask. As long as it doesn't cross our line, we'll get it done. No questions."
It was the heaviest oath he could offer as a crew leader. In Night City, a debt from a top-tier merc crew held real weight. He was trying to use their street-level currency—future potential—to buy this critical assistance.
Joric inclined his head slightly, a gesture that was almost a shake. "The concept of 'debt' is too broad, it cannot be quantified or valued. It cannot balance the actual risk and resource-expenditure I would incur by infiltrating the Blackwall protocols. I comprehend the weight of this vow within your social framework, but it is insufficient compensation. The offer is inadequate."
In his logic-engine, an unfulfilled promise was no different from a voided credit-chit. He required a payment that was explicit, tangible, and immediate.
"Then what about me?!" Rebecca suddenly lunged forward, her green cyber-eyes flashing. She almost physically blocked the medicae-slab, her voice desperate and resolute. "You... you modify people, right? Look at me! I... I can be... your... your girl! Your property! Whatever you want! Just help Sasha!"
Her words were blunt, the raw offer of a street kid putting herself on the table as the last possible chip. It was the most "direct" payment she could think of, an act of naive, impulsive self-sacrifice.
Pilar choked, forgetting his own aches. Dorio's brow tightened, and Maine barked, "Rebecca! Stop talking crazy!" He knew she was desperate, but this was a line he would not let her cross.
A faint, almost inaudible hiss of venting air came from beneath Joric's faceplate. His optical lenses lingered on Rebecca's clearly adolescent features and small frame for a moment.
"First," he stated, his voice flat and definitive, "I am not a 'lolicon.' Your physiological profile is... juvenile. It holds no interest. Second, while I retain certain vestigial biological-protocols, my requirements trend toward cognitive compatibility, not crude physical interfacing. Your proposition is inefficient and... irrelevant."
He paused, adding with the same objective, technical tone, "From a bio-compatibility and social-integration standpoint, your offer does not align with an optimal solution. It would be... a distraction."
Rebecca's face flushed crimson, a mixture of humiliation and frantic anger. She opened her mouth to argue, but a hard look from Maine silenced her. A feeling of powerlessness washed over her. Before this red-robed thing, even her own self-sacrifice was valued at zero.
Maine realized Joric wasn't being cruel or toying with them. He was being literal. He was following a cold, transactional logic they still didn't fully understand. He didn't want vague promises or emotional offerings.
Maine took a deep breath, pushing down his own anxiety, and met Joric's deep red optics. "Boss. Just tell us. You know we're not walking away from this. You know we can't pay the market price for what you're offering. What is your real price? Name it."
He was done negotiating. He was ready for the terms.
Joric seemed to acknowledge Maine's directness with a slight nod. He finally stated his conditions, his voice flat and clear.
"My requirement is precise. I require you, Maine, and your entire 'Edgerunners' crew, to swear an oath of fealty. We will establish a formal, hierarchical structure, not this loose collaboration. You will obey my directives. You will serve my objectives. That is the tithe, in exchange for my assumption of the risks and expenditure required to assist Sasha."
"Fealty?" The word hit Maine like a physical blow, triggering his deepest, most primal resistance. As a veteran of the Unification War, he had seen too much corporate and military brutality. He had left that life, built this crew, specifically to escape that fate, to preserve one last piece of independence for himself and his "family" in this city.
To swear allegiance to another, unknown, high-tech "master"? It violated every principle he lived by. The memories of his old squad, dying under corporate guns, screamed at him.
"What kind of 'objectives'?" Maine didn't refuse immediately. He needed to assess the risk. "If it's just a high-risk gig, my crew can take it. We'll pay you back with the score." He was still trying, desperately, to keep their relationship transactional, to keep them as equals.
Joric shook his head again, negating the counter-offer. "No, Maine. You underestimate the future danger, and you overestimate your crew's current capabilities. In your present state—obsolete wargear, flawed cybernetic integration, tactical doctrines limited to 'street-level brawling'—executing the missions I have planned would result in your guaranteed annihilation."
His analysis was cold, precise, a diagnostic report laying bare all their weaknesses.
His voice was clear. "The survival of the crew itself is not my primary consideration—that would merely be a loss of test data and potential assets. But mission failure is unacceptable. It pertains to matters far more significant than Sasha's life, or even the existence of your entire crew."
Joric made no attempt to hide his pragmatic, utilitarian view. This very honesty made it ring true. In his assessment, Maine's crew had potential, but to unlock that potential, he first needed to bring them under his complete, total, and unquestioned control.
