The thick, oil-stained, and rusty metal workbench had been meticulously cleaned, revealing its stark steel original color.
The scrap metal piled on the table, debris and parts salvaged from the ruins, was undergoing a profound material transformation.
Under Osiris' precise manipulation, the plasma cutter emitted a subtle, efficient hum, shooting out a focused beam that precisely etched and separated metal.
Four highly articulated mechadendrites extended from the auxiliary support frame on his back, collaborating like autonomous metal vines to perform high-precision operations of clamping, calibration, and micro-welding.
These discarded materials were reshaped, tempered, and polished, eventually becoming a set of practical and handy tools: various wrenches, pliers, hammers, and a set of clearly marked measuring instruments.
Their appearance was simple, but the center of gravity, grip, and structural strength of each piece had been rigorously optimized according to ancient schema, perfectly conforming to his bionic usage habits.
On the other side, several broken display screens salvaged from discarded commercial brands and old terminals underwent a complex rebirth.
He carefully cleaned each glass substrate, scraping away grime and burn marks, then pieced them together in a mosaic fashion to form an irregular multi-screen display array.
Working chips, capacitors, and circuit boards collected from various corners of the abandoned town were cleverly integrated into a crude chassis riveted from scrap metal plates.
When the last data cable was connected, he initiated the power sequence.
After a flicker and static burst, all screens lit up in sequence, presenting a segmented yet continuously running interface—a bizarre but functional temporary terminal was thus born. The hum of the cooling fan and the hiss of the current became its mechanical breathing.
He took a deep breath, holding the data interface cable in his hand.
The other end of the cable was connected to a physical trunk line extending from within the wall, leading underground, possibly connecting to a surviving network node.
His movements were extremely cautious; the interface slowly embedded itself with a soft 'click' of successful connection.
"Analysis mode active," he murmured to himself, "Let us examine the operational parameters of this anomalous reality."
His manipulators danced across the input devices, rapidly inputting self-compiled access commands: "Establishing stable connection... signal strength minimal, but protocol recognition achieved... beginning to receive and parse data stream..."
Information flowed intermittently onto the screen like a slow trickle. The speed was suboptimal, often accompanied by freezing and data packet loss, with snow-like noise and garbled characters occasionally flooding the display.
But this was no longer the chaotic electronic screeching of his arrival, but parseable, structured information, albeit incomplete.
He greedily absorbed everything.
Broken news headlines scrolled across the screen: **Arasaka questions Militech's new weapon test data...", "Government contract review deadlocked...**
Several blurry, shaky surveillance clips flashed by: neon-lit streets, wildly armed gang members exchanging fire, energy weapon beams and live ammunition tearing through the cityscape.
Immediately after, the screen was flooded with pop-up holographic cyberware advertisements—"Kerenzikov" neural accelerator, "Gorilla Arms", "Smart Link"...
These advertisements were flashy and crudely marketed, permeated with a pathological fervor for augmentation.
Corporations, gangs, cyberware... these familiar yet strange concepts, delivered via fragmented but real data, gradually coalesced, outlining this new world: a reality where the technological progression was brilliant yet twisted, ruled by corporate oligarchs, where violence was endemic, yet body modification was revered—a frenetic and pathologically vibrant ecosystem.
"Interesting... highly interesting," Osiris murmured in admiration, his optical sensors slightly refocusing, data light points reflecting in his lenses.
The technology of this world, especially in biomechanical interaction, direct neural interface, and cyberware miniaturization, displayed unique and bold design choices.
Some solutions were crude but effective, while others were astonishingly intricate, diverging greatly from the Omnissiah doctrine and Martian traditions he was familiar with, yet achieving remarkable functionality.
This observation filled him, a Tech-Priest, with novelty and deep technical inspiration, akin to opening a beautifully illustrated technical Holy Book written in an unknown language.
His first workshop, though crude—with coarse concrete walls, exposed wires, and air filled with the scent of machine oil and ozone—was now operational.
Electricity flowed steadily, powering tools and the terminal; wastewater slowly dripped through a homemade filter bucket, achieving purity; and most importantly, data intermittently flowed into the terminal screen, nourishing his hungry cognitive framework with the substance of a new world.
He stood before the workbench, surveying his creations—the tools assembled from scrap, the self-repairing power and water systems, the cleansed space—a long-lost sense of the creator's satisfaction and mechanical control arose, dispelling the last trace of unfamiliarity from being in a foreign land.
This place was terrible, chaotic, and lacking in formal resources.
But just as he calculated, this was indeed a place where he could begin his work, and even advance the holy cause of knowledge.
He gently placed his manipulator hand, its polished brass plating cool against the skull's crude chrome housing.
The servo skull, salvaged from the wreckage of the disastrous Chronological Displacement Field experiment that had claimed the living form of Magos Theron, flickered rapidly—a recognized I/O signal.
Osiris had preserved his peer's core logic in this servo-casing; a silent, constant companionship.
"Observe, Buddy," he synthesized, his voice modulator dropping to a near-whisper outside the auditory range of his sensors. "This environment lacks the theological impurity of the Warp.
Every crisis here is a repair protocol. I would rather address a hundred non-compliant servo-motors than one Daemonic Incursion or the crude implements of the Orks."
The brief satisfaction faded, and the urgent demands of reality returned to his thoughts.
Next, he needed to formulate a viable resource acquisition plan.
The immediate priority was to locate a high-quality, dense energy source in the peripheral wastelands of this Night City.
The insatiable ancient relic and the miniature fusion core in his body were both absolute energy sinks. Scavenging could sustain survival, but to truly establish himself, he had to find more powerful sources of raw electrical power.
His gaze turned to the terminal screen, pulling up map data and projected energy network information.
Perhaps he should begin with abandoned power nodes, old transmission lines, or the rumored high-energy materials carried by some of the indigenous fauna of the wastelands.
His mind raced, trying to outline the roadmap for his first true resource hunt.
At this moment, in this forgotten corner, accompanied by the low hum of the terminal and the steady drip of the water filter, he permitted himself to savor the sense of accomplishment from remaking his environment.
Night fell through the broken window, and from the badlands outside, vague, distant sounds of conflict emanated. But this small workshop, protected by technology and will, had become a gradually solid fulcrum in a chaotic world.
He activated the miniature laser calibrator, a slender red beam sweeping across the joints of his repair arm, performing nano-level adjustments.
His gaze, however, was already fixed on the next project waiting on the workbench for modification—that would be the first truly meaningful weapon he forged in this world.