Just as Osiris was meticulously planning follow-up matters in the Desert Workshop, the air in Maine's crew's base, a converted old warehouse in Night City's Watson, was so heavy it could almost be wrung out.
Sasha's absence wasn't a simple case of a choom being off-duty.
She was the crew's Netrunner, their eyes and ears during gigs, responsible for intake, system decking, electronic interference, and crucially, covering their retreat. Now, she was laid up at the Boss's clinic, and a gaping functional void immediately appeared in the entire team. A lot of lucrative commissions requiring technical infiltration and delicate ops were now untouchable.
The crew had just signed the biz with Osiris. This should have meant preem chrome and stronger support—a new turning point. However, the concrete benefits had yet to materialize, while the reality of a core member being severely injured created tangible pressure.
The interior of the warehouse was dimly lit, with only a few fluorescent tubes hanging from makeshift wires casting a pale, sickly light, barely illuminating the piled-up junk and modified gear. The members of Maine's crew sat around a scratched metal table, the atmosphere stagnant.
Maine was slumped in an old, seemingly overburdened chair, his massive body causing the chair to groan subtly now and then. One of his chrome arms rested on his knee, his metal fingers unconsciously tapping his knee repeatedly, making a dull clacking sound.
"Everyone's here," Maine finally spoke, his voice low.
Falco silently pulled a few cans of beer from a cooler at his feet, first tossing one to Maine; the aluminum can arced through the air and was caught steadily by Maine's large hand with a soft "clink." He then tossed the rest to the others in turn.
"You all know Sasha's situation," Maine pried open the tab with his finger, a little foam overflowing, and he tilted his head back, taking a large gulp. "She's laid up at the boss' place now, and we can't count on her for a while."
The cold liquid slid down his throat, and he paused, his gaze sweeping over every face present, "The biz is real: no Netrunner, half our gigs are flatlined. Workin' for the boss, we can't always just rely on bullets to clear the way. Who's gonna get the intel? Who's gonna crack the locks?
Who's gonna deal with those damn surveillance systems and network defenses? We can't have the boss personally jackin' in, or expect his metal buddies to handle infiltration. Even if we take on our own private gigs, without Sasha, we're just as lost."
Falco also opened his can, took a sip, and the ice-cold beer refreshed him slightly. "Maine's straight up," he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, "Without a Netrunner, we're half-blind. Intel, infiltration, dealing with sudden e-war—all our weaknesses are hangin' out. Especially now that we're with the 'Boss,' future opposition probably ain't gonna be street-punk level. We gotta fill this void fast."
Pilar nervously rubbed the cold beer can, the metal prosthetics on his fingertips making a faint sound against the aluminum. "I know we need to find someone!" Pilar took a big gulp of beer, the aluminum can creaking in his hand, "But how long has Sasha been with us? That's a bond forged in real combat! Where the hell are we gonna find a reliable choom on short notice now? What if we bring in a corp-rat mole, or some greedy scumbag who'll stab us in the back when the heat is on? We'll all be flatlined!"
He irritably ran a hand through his hair, his mechanical fingers scraping his scalp with a faint sound.
"Then what do you suggest we do?!" Rebecca slammed her beer can onto a crate with a "bang," a few drops of liquid splashing from the opening. "Just 'cause we're scared, we gonna sit here and wait to get ganked? Wait for the next job that needs a door hacked, and we just wave the white flag? Sasha's unique, but there are plenty of Netrunners in Night City who do this for eddies! Just sittin' here whinin' ain't worth a damn! We gotta go find one!"
Her green cybernetic eyes gleamed in the dim light, her impatience stemming more from anxiety about the team's predicament than specifically targeting Pilar.
Dorio raised a hand in a calming gesture, her voice steady and powerful: "Pilar's worries are valid, and Rebecca's words are also reality. What we need now isn't someone who can completely replace Sasha—that's not realistic. Instead, we need someone who can temporarily lend a hand, with controllable risk, someone who can help us get through this immediate hurdle. The most important thing right now is to fill this gap without bringing down the heat."
Rebecca took a breath, as if making a decision: "When I used to hang out at Lizzie's Bar, I heard about a solo Netrunner. They say her work is decent, but she's a loner, doesn't like to stick with crews. I can try to make contact and see. Gettin' her to join us is probably a no-go, but hirin' her for a few temporary gigs might be negotiable."
The information she provided wasn't very specific and carried uncertainty, but it was almost the only reliable lead they had at the moment.
Maine's gaze fell on Rebecca, and he pondered, seemingly deep in thought, evaluating the feasibility of the information Rebecca provided. Only the faint electrical hum of the fluorescent tubes remained in the warehouse.
After a few seconds of silence, he spoke.
"...Alright," his voice was still low, but carried an unchallengeable resolve, "Becca, you follow up on this lead first. Remember, be discreet, don't make a scene. First, dig into her background, see what her rep is like, and if she's gotten into any trouble she shouldn't have recently. We are currently..."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over everyone in the team, enunciating each word clearly, "...just started workin' for the Boss, Sasha's still at death's door, and we still got Biotechnica's bounty on our heads. We can't afford any more heat. Any rumors, even just speculation, must be reported to me first. No one is allowed to make private contact without my approval. Is that crystal?"
Maine's words gave clear direction to their subsequent actions.
The heavy atmosphere in the warehouse hadn't dissipated, but the earlier sense of helpless anxiety had faded; everyone now knew what needed to be done.
Rebecca nodded heavily, downing the rest of her beer.
Pilar's shoulders slumped, and he let out a soft sigh, offering no further objections.
Falco's fingertips quickly slid across his terminal screen again, beginning to filter potential information leads.
Dorio crossed her arms, her steady gaze sweeping over everyone, silently expressing her approval.
To save Sasha, they had decked their future on Osiris. Now, before truly beginning to work for that unfathomable "Boss," they had to find a way to mend this critical functional gap.