Chapter 13: Recruiting the Siblings
Pilar took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. He began to recount, as clearly and in as much detail as possible, their names, their work, how they'd gotten into this mess, and everything they knew about Night City—the gangs, the corps, the major players, the nomad outposts, and the legends of the wastes.
Rebecca would occasionally cut in, her tone abrasive but her intel sharp, both of them trying to emphasize their local knowledge and practical value, desperate to make this terrifying red giant see them as useful.
"Rogue, at the Afterlife? Affirmative, I have heard the name. A formidable asset, according to the data," Joric suddenly interjected. His voice was flat, but it made both of them jump. He knew who Rogue was? "Continue."
Pilar swallowed, his nerves fraying even more.
Rebecca's eyes, however, lit up, as if she'd found common ground. "You know Rogue? Then you know her rep! She's the best damn fixer in Night City! The queen of the whole show!"
Joric's optical lenses pivoted slightly, focusing on Rebecca. "My database has the relevant records. Continue providing effective intelligence. Do not deviate from the primary query."
The siblings had no choice but to continue their report, feeling as if they were in a life-or-death job interview.
Joric listened in silence, his optics minutely adjusting their focus as he fed the information into his internal database for cross-verification. The servo-skull hovered silently at his shoulder, its own lenses glowing as it recorded everything.
When certain, particularly interesting, pieces of data were mentioned, the brow beneath his helm might have twitched, but the logic-cogitators simply filed the information as "potential verifiable data" and suppressed any emotional response.
"...That's everything we know," Pilar finally said, his voice pleading. He felt as if he had just survived a grueling interrogation. "We just want to live, sir. We meant no offense. If it's all the same to you, we'll just get going."
Joric remained silent for a long moment, processing. His massive frame was as still as a red colossus, and the pressure he exerted on the room was immense.
Then, he took one step forward. The clank of his metal pes on the concrete was sharp and clear.
The siblings' hearts, which had only just begun to slow, instantly hammered their ribs.
But Joric did not attack them.
Instead, one of his mechadendrites snaked out with startling speed, moving past them to the corpses. Ignoring the grotesque state of the bodies, it began to precisely and efficiently dismantle and harvest the still-valuable cybernetics, data-chips, and usable components. The movements were a dazzling, fluid display of engineering. He sorted the parts into neat piles on the floor.
The entire process was so cold, as if he were simply decommissioning broken machinery. It was a pure, dispassionate focus on the value of the material, not the loss of life, and that inhuman calm was far more terrifying than any rage.
"Waste is an abomination," he stated, as if sensing their thoughts. "All resources must be utilized to maximum efficiency."
Only when he was finished did he turn his attention back to the two terrified, rigid humans.
"Situation assessed: You are being actively hunted by an armed organization. Your vehicle is non-functional. Your resources are depleted. Based on current environmental data and threat modeling, your independent survival probability is less than eighteen percent." His voice was flat, as if delivering a technical report. "I propose an alternative: You will work for me. In exchange, I will provide sanctuary and necessary life-sustaining resources."
He paused. A tendril snaked to the workbench and picked up a prototype he had been fabricating—a heavy, gauntlet-like power fist, all hard angles and brutalist beauty.
"And high-performance wargear," he added. His lenses seemed to scan Pilar's left shoulder. "Furthermore, I can provide necessary physiological repair and optimization."
The gauntlet gleamed in the light, a cold and efficient promise of power. To the two runners, who had nothing and were moments from death, it was an irresistible temptation.
Rebecca's eyes were instantly glued to it, her fear momentarily eclipsed by a pure, visceral desire for that kind of firepower.
"Whoa... that thing looks like it could punch clean through a wall," she breathed.
Pilar swallowed, his gaze flicking from the power fist to his own throbbing shoulder. Fear, desperate longing, and shock warred in his eyes. "How… how did you know my shoulder was damaged?"
"Your stance and arm's limited range of motion indicate an 11.7% signal decay in the left shoulder's neural network," Joric cut him off. "High probability of improper installation of a low-grade prosthetic, or subsequent impact trauma. It compromises your operational precision."
Pilar's mouth hung open. He had no reply. That level of analysis was terrifying.
"What… what's the job, exactly?" Rebecca asked, her voice much softer now, her eyes still not leaving the power fist.
"Resource acquisition. Information reconnaissance. Miscellaneous processing. Equipment field-testing. Your local knowledge and non-standard operational patterns have a certain utility." Joric's reply was direct, making no attempt to hide their tool-like purpose. "Compensation includes: safety within my sanctum, custom augmentations to improve survival rate—including repairing your neural interface degradation to stabilize firing accuracy—and," he turned to Rebecca, his red optics flashing, "weaponry more efficient and suited to your specific combat style."
Rebecca's eyes got even wider. "More efficient weaponry? Like what?"
"That is dependent on your performance and the resources you acquire," Joric replied pragmatically. "It could be an enhanced fire-support platform, or perhaps more flexible mobility gear."
Pilar shivered, clearly tempted by the offer. Rebecca, too, was hooked, her interest in "more efficient weaponry" momentarily overriding her fear of the red-robed giant.
The siblings locked eyes, a rapid, silent conversation passing between them.
Refuse? That meant facing the Slashers and the wastes, almost certain death.
Accept? That meant working for this mysterious, inhuman techie, losing their freedom, but gaining a chance—a real chance—to live and get stronger.
"Does it come with room and board?" Rebecca suddenly blurted, a last-ditch effort to negotiate something tangible, her eyes still on the gauntlet as if it were a bargaining chip.
The voice from the faceplate paused for half a second, as if the cogitators were parsing a request too basic and non-technical to compute.
"Basic energy resupply and physiological maintenance are guaranteed," Joric finally confirmed, his tone as flat as if he were reading a technical warranty. "This includes synthetic nutrient rations and purified water."