Dorio watched Sasha's devastated state and sighed heavily: "What you should've done was tell us everything straight up, send us backup copies of the data.
Let us figure out how to spread the word, use every connection and contact we've got in Night City.
And you should've done everything possible to survive.
We were already downstairs, even temporarily crashed their security systems—we had a real shot at breaking in to extract you!
But you chose the most extreme, most... pointless way out."
Falco added quietly, tone carrying cold reality: "Biotechnica issued the bounty, yeah, but in Night City, these rewards have limited effect.
Crews with real muscle will weigh whether full-scale war with us is worth the payout. Small-timers coming after us are just suicide runs.
So far the corp hasn't sent their own elite action teams—that's about the only silver lining.
But your stunt definitely didn't achieve your 'don't drag us down' goal. Actually put us in a worse position."
These bone-chilling facts hammered Sasha's heart one after another, shattering whatever self-righteous "sacrifice" value she'd imagined.
Not only had she failed exposing the truth, she'd nearly gotten the whole crew killed and painted targets on their backs with corporate bounties.
Self-blame, guilt, despair...
These emotions coiled like venomous snakes, viciously tearing at her already fragile nerves.
Seeing Sasha completely break down into self-imposed isolation, Rebecca—though still furious—unconsciously lowered her shouting, replaced by frustrated restlessness and subtle heartache.
She violently kicked the nearby tool station with a loud "CLANG," yelling irritably: "Fuck! This is bullshit! Complete fucking bullshit! You ask me, we should just find an opening, sneak into Biotechnica's home base, blow up a few labs! Get payback for Sasha!"
Maine rubbed his furrowed brow, trying to calm things: "Rebecca, cool it. Violence won't solve the root problem—just makes us bigger targets."
He paused, gaze turning toward Sasha who looked like a soulless puppet, tone softening slightly: "But getting the word out isn't completely impossible. I know an independent journalist—can't match News 54's reach, but she's got her own special channels.
Plus... she owes me a pretty big favor.
Maybe we can hand her the data, see if she can get it out there."
Those words were like faint light piercing endless darkness. Sasha's eyes snapped open.
Like grasping at a lifeline, using every ounce of strength, she looked urgently at Maine, voice broken but carrying humble hope: "Data... I... I backed it up... on my private encrypted node... the key is..."
She rattled off a long string of complex passwords and node addresses, eyes rekindling faint glimmers.
Maine carefully noted the information, nodding: "Alright, I'll contact her ASAP. But Sasha, be prepared—independent journalists have limited reach. Even if the story gets out, corporate PR machinery might bury it fast."
Just then, a steady, emotionless synthesized voice cut into the conversation like ice water dumped over that barely rekindled hope flame, making it violently flicker.
"Inefficient and most likely meaningless."
Cairo's tall, dark-red figure had somehow silently approached the medical bed, crimson optical lenses scanning Sasha and Maine.
He'd just finished another analysis round of dimensional transport device data—seemingly drawn by the heated discussion here, or rather, by instinctive judgment of its inefficiency.
"Your assessment relies on emotional appeals, not realistic probability." Cairo's mechanical tentacles unconsciously traced complex geometric patterns in the air, like simulating invisible data streams. "Independent journalists survive in corporate system cracks. She may have publishing will but absolutely lacks capability resisting full corporate countermeasures.
Biotechnica's legal department, top-tier network security teams—completely capable of blocking, deleting, smearing that information before it generates any substantive impact, even making the publisher 'accidentally disappear.'
Your material will likely just become fleeting underground network gossip, unable to inflict any quantifiable damage on corporate stock prices, reputation, or policies."
He paused slightly, optical lenses turning toward Maine: "Your mention of 'PR machinery'—accurate description. Corps firmly control mainstream information channels. They can easily manufacture counter-narratives, painting whistleblowers as mentally unstable former employees or slander agents bought by competitors.
Comprehensive technical and social control analysis puts this plan's success rate below three percent."
Cairo's words—cold and precise—stripped away all warm possibilities, laying bare the bloody reality for everyone.
Maine's crew fell silent. They knew deep down Cairo spoke truth.
In Night City, going head-to-head with corps in public opinion battles—especially against giants like Biotechnica—was like throwing eggs at boulders.
Rebecca's "blow up some labs" was mostly emotional venting. Maine seeking independent journalists was more about comforting Sasha and reluctant attempts at not giving up.
Rebecca's face flushed red with frustration. She glared at Cairo defiantly—rationally understanding his points but emotionally unable to accept such complete negation.
Neck stiff, she shot back: "Then what do YOU suggest?! Just let it go? Watch those bastards walk free? Let Sasha's mom and all those other victims die for nothing?! If the message gets out, SOMEONE will see it! SOMEONE will remember!"
Cairo's crimson lenses focused on Rebecca, that gaze seemingly penetrating her optics to directly analyze intensely pulsing emotional centers in her brain.
"'Someone will see'—such vague expectations lack practical operational value. What we need is ensuring information cannot be completely deleted while forcibly delivering it to sufficient terminal quantities, forming unstoppable opinion tsunamis that briefly paralyze corporate PR response capabilities, thereby triggering chain reactions—like significant stock price volatility or forcing government investigations."
His mechanical tentacles shifted toward the workshop's main control terminal, rapidly pulling up complex network topology maps and data flow analysis interfaces.
"Based on my ongoing parsing of local network architecture, especially 'Blackwall' protocols, I've conceived a more execution-efficient solution."
"Blackwall?" Maine's brow furrowed tight. That word represented the most dangerous, uncontrollable mysterious domain in the network world.
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