The Doomsday Believer
To me he was a warm, affectionate father — but Commander Heyden was, without question, a dictator who ruled this zone by force of arms.
Not that I had any room to complain. I had tried the illegitimate-son route myself precisely so I could make use of that power.
Still, if the Commander went around killing my slaves—no, my talent—like this, we were going to have a problem.
He has no idea the Second Apocalypse is coming, so of course he doesn't understand how precious every capable person is.
I needed a plan before he finished off every valuable recruit I had.
For the moment, though, we had come to the research institute to inspect the combat rations. First things first: meet the director.
"You asked for me?"
The aging research director appeared before us, white hair combed sharply back, his long legs swinging with each stride. Stress had left his complexion poor, but he was a large man — nothing fragile about him.
First time I've seen this NPC up close.
No real backstory, no ambition — a textbook extra NPC who required no caution. Meursault had dealt with him in the course of managing supplies, but I had never set foot in the institute myself. It had never occurred to me, while playing the game, that I might need to develop something like wall-grain pills.
"This is unexpected. Director Meursault, of all people, dropping by."
An NPC with no hidden agenda — his reaction to our sudden visit was exactly that shallow.
"Nothing complicated. Would you be able to show the young master our combat rations?"
"The young master?"
The director looked at me, and something clicked into place behind his eyes.
"So this is the young master everyone's been talking about."
"Yes. The young master has taken an interest in combat rations."
"Combat rations…? The young master has?"
That was all it took. The director lit up with feverish excitement and launched into a lecture on how vital combat rations were.
"At last — a commander who understands the importance of food supply! Our institute has excellent freeze-drying technology, but research into combat rations has always lagged. Always treated as an afterthought. The excuse was that they only matter during suppression campaigns!"
Oh-ho.
Heyden, the previous commander, the one before that — all of them had obsessed over weapons and combat gear and never given combat rations a second thought. Perfect. If the technology had stagnated not for lack of capability but for lack of interest, then a little of my attention could push combat-ration tech forward at a sprint.
And then the director said something that truly caught my interest.
"It has been barely a hundred years since the food crisis right after the Apocalypse… We have no way of knowing when we might face something like that again. We must prepare!"
"Prepare for the Apocalypse?"
The moment I reacted, Meursault leaned in and whispered against my ear.
"The old ones who lived through the aftermath of the Apocalypse often talk like that. That it will come again… They're the last doomsday believers left in this age. That same urge to prepare ahead of time is what made him director of the Zone Security Research Institute."
Ah. So the trauma of the Apocalypse had left him still convinced it would return.
The Second Apocalypse really would return — but people never want to hear the dark news. If I had gone around claiming the Second Apocalypse was coming, I would have been written off as a delusional crank, exactly like this director.
Which meant I had one job: pretend to sympathize with a PTSD-scarred old man and goad him into producing extreme wall-grain pills—no, combat rations.
"I don't think the director is wrong."
"Young master?"
Meursault fixed me with a deeply suspicious look. He knew perfectly well I was not the sort of good little boy who deferred to his elders. But I had not been talking for Meursault's benefit, so it hardly mattered.
The director stammered, startled — as if no one had ever said those words to him before.
"Y-you think my thinking isn't wrong?"
"Until not long ago, I lived in the Slums."
I used the Slums card a little too often, but it always landed. Having a ten-year-old's body only doubled the effect.
"Food shortages… they were never some distant story to me. So if, as you say, preparing now means no one has to starve in the future… then I will support you, Director."
"Young master…"
Pity and pride mixed in the director's gaze as he looked at me.
"Ah—no, this won't do. You came because you were curious about the combat rations, yes? I'll have them ready at once!"
With the director suddenly so cooperative, we did not have to wait long. Something like hard jerky was laid out in neat rows on a metal tray before us.
Combat rations in this world looked like palm-sized hardtack — except they were made from monster meat rather than flour, which made them far denser and tougher than ordinary hardtack.
"These are called dry-meat. Would you like to try one?"
I would have preferred to cut myself first and watch the effect, but I could hardly self-harm in front of the director — Meursault alone would have been one thing. So I simply brought the dry-meat to my mouth.
It dissolved into blue particles at my lips and was absorbed into my body before I could taste a thing. Any player from a Safe Zone, though, would know the flavor description for dry-meat better than anyone. I recited the game script that always appeared when I ate it, word for word.
"Disgusting. Tastes like army boots that haven't been washed in years."
Meursault and the director both stared at me in open shock.
"Why the surprise?"
They glanced at each other, each trying to pass the explanation off, until Meursault finally sighed and answered.
"That is… the sort of thing soldiers who have been through the grinder on the battlefield say. I don't know if you're aware, but army boots are made from monster hide as well — so when rations run out during a campaign, men eat their boots. For a young master who has never set foot on a battlefield to speak like a hardened soldier… both of us were taken aback."
When he finished, Meursault looked at me with something like deep pity.
"…Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I was wondering whether, during your life outside, you might have eaten army boots as well."
As if I would.
"You must have gone very hungry before you came to the manor. That would also explain your interest in meals."
Fair enough. I had demanded dinner gatherings with children my age, even gone hunting so there would be something to eat — and then I had asked about combat rations. Of course he would land on that conclusion. Better that he invent a convenient misunderstanding than wonder why I had suddenly cared about combat rations at all.
Fine. I would lean into the concept.
"I hear half the children who came to the last party will be sent out on suppression campaigns. I don't want those kids going hungry out there."
"You need not worry. Even on the battlefield, we do not starve children."
"Yes! Young master! Please don't worry. By the next campaign, I will develop combat rations every child can eat with pleasure!"
"Really? Then I can leave it in your hands, Director. And I'd like them smaller and lighter than they are now. Children can't carry much weight."
"Smaller… and lighter?"
"Ah… would that be difficult…?"
"No, no!! Leave it to me!"
I gave the boastful director a satisfied smile, and with that Meursault and I ended the visit.
I was still smiling over the acquisition of a useful slave when, in the car back to the Commander's residence, Meursault spoke in his unhurried way.
"I had been wondering why you specifically brought that boy soldier — Darling Outsider — into your room…"
At the name, I looked at him. He met my eyes steadily and asked,
"Did you question the boy about military life? Are you… worried the children will be abused? Is that why you arranged monthly meals — to check on their condition?"
"……"
So Meursault knows I called Darling Outsider in separately after the meal.
I had summoned the boy without telling Meursault precisely because I wanted to know who was reporting on my daily life, and how far. He did not even bother to hide that he possessed information I had never given him.
Well… just as I had planted Taejeong inside the manor, Meursault and the other officers would have planted their own spies.
When I only stared at him without answering, Meursault let out a small sigh.
"'People who will one day be my soldiers'… that was not an empty phrase after all."
"Until now you thought it was?"
"You are still only a ten-year-old child."
Thinking about it, a ten-year-old body had its advantages — but just as many things it locked me out of. If no one took my words seriously, how was I supposed to persuade people to prepare for the Second Apocalypse within ten years?
As if to soothe that worry, Meursault went on.
"I have always thought every human being other than Lady Daphne was a complete fool…"
…Does "every human being" include the Commander, you?
"…but the idea of you becoming my superior does not seem so bad."
With that, Meursault turned his gaze to the window, and I did not press him further.
Come to think of it, still no reaction from the other officers.
I had deliberately made a spectacle of bringing down a mid-sized monster to draw attention — and yet neither the pro-Commander faction nor the pro-Daphne faction had approached me. That was unexpected. Of course, it might simply have been Meursault's surveillance. With the Commander's closest aide watching me with eyes peeled, no one with any sense of self-preservation would come near.
But meeting the dead Batom's son in person had taught me something. I needed to know what the officers thought of me — so I could sort the ones worth taking from the ones worth cutting out.
The problem was that they all pretended, as if by prior agreement, to have no interest in me. Probably because of Meursault.
Well… I wouldn't want to catch the eye of a maniac who put a bullet through his superior's forehead, either.
Nothing for it, then.
If they would not come to me—
I would have to go to them.