Cairo's mechanical tentacles unconsciously traced complex trajectories through the air, like sketching some grand blueprint.
"To complete missions, you must undergo complete transformation. Not just a few new weapons or simple cyberware tuning, but thorough, customized reformation from foundational frameworks to tactical thinking. Only after all this will you possess even a sliver... of possibility completing missions." The prospects he painted were both tempting and permeated with unknown terrors.
Complete transformation? Afterward, would they still be themselves?
These words plunged Maine into deeper dilemma.
On one side was life-and-death comrade Sasha—he absolutely couldn't watch her die. On the other side meant bringing the entire crew, these companions he considered family, into unknown, extremely dangerous territory, possibly losing the independence and freedom they'd desperately maintained.
His fists clenched tight, knuckles white from pressure. Rugged face muscles tensed. Inner turmoil raged.
Dorio stood silently beside him. She felt Maine's body stiffness, understood his inner struggle.
Falco adjusted his shades, gaze behind lenses flickering with calculations and weighing.
Pilar nervously rubbed hands, looking at Maine then at Sasha on the medical bed, finally lowering his head.
Just then Rebecca's voice rang out again, breaking the heavy atmosphere with her characteristic reckless domineering: "Fuck it! What's there to hesitate about?! Maine! Sasha's family! For family, what's selling this life?!"
She whipped toward Cairo, green optics boring into him like branding him on her soul. "Red robe boss! I, Rebecca, keep my word! You save Sasha, this life's yours! You say east I won't go west! You say hit corps I won't drop the ball! Let's fucking do this!"
Her declaration—simple, direct, powerful—stemmed from street's most straightforward loyalty logic. To her, family safety superseded abstract freedom and future risks.
Rebecca's nearly reckless declaration was like a key instantly unlocking shackles in Maine's heart.
He looked around—Dorio's gaze steady, nodding slightly expressing support for Rebecca's decision. Falco pushed glasses, silent but firm. Even usually cowardly Pilar swallowed, shrank his neck, but didn't voice opposition.
They were one unit. Family safety above all, including his obsession with "freedom."
He saw identical determination in companions' eyes. For Sasha, they'd gamble their futures.
Maine exhaled long and deeply, like expelling all chest struggles and concerns.
He raised his head, gaze regaining firmness meeting Cairo's unfathomable optical lenses. Voice low and powerful, carrying determination after setting down burdens: "Alright, boss... you win. As long as you help Sasha...
I, Maine, representing 'Edgerunners' crew, swear fealty to you. From now on, we work for you."
Speaking those words, he felt strange relaxation, like unloading the burden of independently supporting the crew's advance—but also a trace of shadow quietly enveloping his heart. Where would they go?
Cairo seemed to have anticipated this outcome.
He nodded slightly, crimson glow flickering steadily. No excessive joy detectable, only "deal concluded" calm: "Wise choice. Your loyalty trades Sasha's life and... paths to greater power. This transaction—very fair."
To him, this was merely a plan's beginning, another resource and power integration.
"So boss," Maine immediately pressed, needing to know what they'd face, "can you tell us now—that mission requiring us staking lives and freedom—what exactly is it?"
Rebecca also perked up, speculating: "We hitting Arasaka or Militech treasures? Like that underground facility last time?"
Hearing this, Cairo emitted a nearly scoffing short breath through his face mask, carrying undisguised contempt.
"Rob corp stuff? Hah, their 'junk' developed from shallow understanding and quick-profit mentality—worth me going through all this trouble specially assembling a crew to steal it?" His disdain was heartfelt, stemming from enormous differences in technical levels and cognitive dimensions between two worlds.
Cyberpunk world tech in his eyes mostly represented primitive, crude designs and utilitarian applications lacking deep understanding of universe's underlying laws.
Warhammer world tech levels—though superficially appearing rough and primitive—actually contained technological content... you could understand as vertebrates not yet evolved into monkeys viewing spacecraft already reaching space.
"My objectives far exceed measurement by any material wealth this world offers." Cairo's tone stayed calm but implications sent inexplicable chills through Maine and others. "Domains involved—your current knowledge structures cannot comprehend. Premature detailed knowledge benefits you nothing, only adding unnecessary psychological burdens and risks."
He wasn't being deliberately mysterious but judging based on facts.
Explaining multiverse, dimensional travel, even Warhammer universe horrors would only trigger chaos and fear—useless for missions.
He shifted topics, pulling everyone's attention back to reality: "Now your primary mission is surviving and growing stronger. Focus on improving your capabilities.
Modifications, training, familiarizing with new equipment and tactics... these are the only things you need caring about at this stage."
He glanced at Sasha's weak vital signs on the medical bed, continuing: "As for Sasha's situation, I'll maintain progress, but you must understand—invading the Blackwall isn't simple. Though merely effortless for me, still requires time executing.
My time is extremely precious. I need squeezing out time from existing schedules specifically for this—also representing enormous resource investment for me."
Cairo turned toward Maine, tone recovering business-like calm: "Though you've sworn fealty, this doesn't mean I'll unconditionally provide everything. Weapons, equipment, special materials for modification surgeries... these still require 'payment.'
Of course, as my direct subordinates, you get internal pricing—far cheaper than before. Plus priority using my workshop facilities and resources."
Rebecca muttered quietly aside: "Shit, thought latching onto big legs meant freeloading..."
But her face showed little dissatisfaction.
Growing up street-hustling, she knew better than anyone—no free lunches existed.
If Cairo truly provided everything free, that would actually mean costs they'd pay might be even more terrifying—possibly their souls or ultimate exploitation value.
This explicit pricing approach actually felt more "real" to her.
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