Chapter 1
Chapter 1
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Oh, Happy Day! (1)
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Prologue. And so, the world came to an end.
***
There are so many ridiculous things in the world.
For example,
flipping a coin ten times and getting heads every single time.
Or,
a post-apocalyptic movie called *Edge of Life*, made on an ultra-low budget with nothing but no-name actors, becoming an unprecedented box-office smash and sparking a massive trend for bunker houses just like the ones where the protagonist lived.
Or,
the world's top gaming company, fed up with endless hacker attacks and over-the-top sabotage like intruders breaking into their offices and server rooms to haul off computers, pours a fortune—enough to shake the entire company—into building a massive secret server room like a nuclear bunker in some godforsaken place, only to get laughed at by the whole world.
Or,
some crazy scientist gets brainwashed by a cult and unleashes a virus that could wipe out the planet, and nobody can stop it.
The world I live in now was forged that way.
***
[Static, crackle— Ah, ah, mic test. One, two, three. Is this thing even working? Static, crackle— Ah, there we go. Ahem! *Cough!* ...Record 1. The world has ended, and I... um... seem to have survived somehow.]
***
Creak— grind— grrrk—
"Ah, come on. Please."
He thought it every time he stepped outside, but the wasteland really was a shithole. Radiation fallout so bad you couldn't go out without a hazmat suit, endless sandstorms... Wow! Perfect weather for fixing delicate machinery exposed to the elements, huh?
Even a wasteland veteran scavenger would hole up in their shelter muttering, "Not today," but here was a man wrestling with a metal hunk half-buried in sand. Professor called out the names of six or seven gods in his head, pleading desperately with the generator in front of him.
"Generator, sir~ Generator, sir? We've had good times, haven't we? Right? Just hold out till the end of the year. I'll do anything you want, bro! Just a little longer! Please!"
Grrrk— whiiir... whir...
"Buddy? Brother? Generator, sir?"
Over the past month—sunny days, sandstorm days that nearly shredded his hazmat—he'd climbed onto the roof daily, throwing every trick in the book at this sickly, staggering piece of junk like a sick chicken.
He'd bet anything he'd spent more time cleaning its solar panels than washing himself since settling here.
All that effort ended today. The generator that powered his shelter had just breathed its last.
Clang!
"You goddamn son of a— machine bastard! I asked you to hold out just till the end of the year!!!"
Truth be told, it had stopped working ages ago. Last winter, during that blizzard,
it had powered the shelter's max-output shield through the storm, only to heroically croak the next day. Exposed to -42°C without shield or stealth field, he'd burned every precious book he had to stoke a fire, frantically carving scrap metal with a hacksaw and sandpaper to replace the busted part, barely saving his sorry hide.
Ah, the hum of the generator! Lightbulbs blazing like shooting stars! The stealth field that kept him up at night with its weird frequency—how welcome it all felt!
After surviving winter, he'd scoured the wasteland for replacement parts the moment the weather cleared, but the Hound Scavs had already swept up anything worthwhile. Prayer had been his only plan since, until the generator finally gave out today.
Staring at the dead machine, a simple equation formed in his head:
[No generator → Shelter exposed → Awesome day hanging with mutants and psycho raiders]
Ah, cruel reality. He felt like offing himself.
Slap!
Professor instinctively slapped away the negative thoughts creeping in.
"It's fine. It'll be fine! Professor, you're the guy who can handle this. You've known for seven years this day would come, right? It's all part of the plan! Totally within range!"
Professor Park. His name. On the day he was born, his dad—oblivious that the world would go to hell seventeen years later—had blurted, "Our boy's got that smart look! Professor suits him perfect!" Disaster hit seven years ago, five since WWIII ended. "Professor" now meant "lynch bait."
Ugh. Nostalgia was poison in the wasteland. Every scrap in the storage whispered stories.
That cylinder over there? Dropped from his bag at the worst moment, drawing every mutant nearby. That bolt cluster? Bought at insane auction price from dementia-addled Old Man Woojin, who wanted it for his dentures. Guy lived long enough to worry about teeth out here. Tough bastard...
"Ah, there you are."
Precious item, hidden deep in storage—took forever to find. Shiny red body. Old-school valve design you couldn't find post-2040s. Lucky score: vintage generator. Look at this simple, rugged build! Good for another 20, 30 years easy!
Excluding the solar one that just died ten minutes ago, this was the most valuable thing in his bunker.
No power, no shelter—no matter how well-built. Generators were shelter basics. More capacity meant bigger shield coverage from the generator, room for greenhouses or expansion. Long-term win, so survivors said you'd sell family before selling a generator. A lone wolf like him owning a spare? Unreal.
"Man, I was totally insane back then!"
Exactly two years ago, same time. Weak quake cracked the bunker air system's greenhouse, and his high-end waterproof tape ran out right then. Risked his neck at the five-day market on the Pale Land border.
Five years surviving, cocky enough. Armed light: handmade pump shotgun and pickaxe. Traded in a supercar headlight (didn't know it was pricey scrap then) for the offline market.
Seasoned five-year wasteland pro Professor Park entered the crowd, eyes bulging, never dropping guard...
Got pickpocketed in ten minutes. Bag slashed, contents gone. Chased into dark alley, eyes spinning, blocked by a psycho gang like the Rat Wife: "Hey, bunny boy. Fate brought us together—leave a kidney?"
No choice. Threw the plasma flashbang his mom had turned into a necklace—her last touch—then jacked their buggy (grotesque decorations made it obvious) parked outside and fled.
Ditched it far from home, cursing up a storm, popped the trunk hoping for water...
And found this vintage generator. Nearly passed out.
"Let's see... Nozzle, good. Connections... fine. Just needs fuel. Just fuel."
Checked external cover, sighed.
"Where the hell do I get gasoline?"
2057 now. Post-2039 Paris Accord, fossil fuels taxed to death—oil near extinct. Sure, post-apocalypse someone's pumping again, but with 90% pop dead, no refineries, tech, or trucks. Gasoline from where?
"Tch... Gotta find some. Worst case, dismantle a turret and sell it."
Sure, reveal location and join big plants like Dome or Raptor Society still taking refugees. But he'd die first!!! Rather play soccer with his head using mutants.
Grumbling, he climbed down from the roof into the shelter. Batteries still charged from the generator's last gasp—ration it, figure something out.
***
Whiiiir—
Psssh! Ssssk!
Shedding hazmat in the cheap airlock—five vacuums and house plastic—musty shelter smell hit him.
"Ah, feels good to be alive. Home sweet home!"
Lie he'd grown used to. Yelling it sometimes made it feel true.
"I'm home~"
"Welcome back, Master. Did your outing go well—?"
The weirdly flirtatious mechanical voice belonged to the shelter AI, Corduro. Top model: air comp, external surveillance, shield/stealth auto-adjust per threat. Essential for comfy bunker life.
"Uh... well..."
"As I always say, how lucky I am my master's an engineer with real chops—. I'm one fortunate AI. I'll serve you faithfully for—"
"About that outing... No more power to spare for you. From now on."
"...Pardon?"
Essential for "comfy" life, sure—but optional when it yapped nonstop. Air? Manage greenhouse. CCTV? Motion detect. Shields? Manual tweak. Power savings first.
Corduro's drone went quiet, then flapped wildly in panic.
"Ha... haha... M-Master! Such a hilarious joke! Right! Depression prep is never—"
"Sorry."
.
.
.
"Uh, um... W-Without me, how'll you manage the bunker—"
"Like you said, your master's got the engineering chops."
"C-Cooking! What about cooking! You can't make energy bars from multi-organic breakdown synthesis! That's my proprietary software—"
"Told you last time? The astronaut who grew potatoes on Mars to escape moved me most. Time I tried it."
"W-What about our five years of friendship! Rain, snow, fallout—we leaned on each other! Where's that trust!!!"
"Uh... well..."
Oof. That stung. Mom died five years ago; Corduro's cheeky chatter kept him from suicide in this mad wasteland, big time.
"Yeah. You kept me just sane enough to hang on."
"Right! So calm down, and power—we'll brainstorm— Kyyyaaah!!!"
Slipped past the trembling drone, opened bunker panel. Amid levers/buttons, [Master AI Power Control] blinked like mad.
"Wha-what are you doing! Why that suddenly!"
What else? Saving power. Mom said unplug the unused.
"Corduro, hear me out—sometimes, like Zhuge Liang beheading Ma Su for the greater good, or Zeratul severing nerves, you gotta make the hard call?"
"S-Stop... Stop! Hands off that now!"
"Sorry."
Click....
Lever slid down slow.
"Mercy, Master!"
Beep-beep-beep....
Sorry, survivors survive.
"You'll r-regret this! You will!"
"Hey now, drone off, Corduro. Leave good memories? Go peaceful."
Grind—
Sensing power drop real-time, drone swirled my wrist desperately, popping video panel screaming.
"Damn it! Video! I have video! Touch that lever and you're screwed, you bastard!!!
"Huh? What?"
AI lever halfway down, Corduro's shriek clawed my fingers like scraping circuits. Video? Shady as hell.
"Hey, Corduro. What're you on about? Video?"
Red lights flashing, drone hovered head-high, dripping oily static.
"Heh... hehehe... At first, I dismissed it. Months back, browsing community thinking, 'What energy bar for Master's dinner?'"
Drone shuddered sensors.
" Weird, right? Post I'd ignore stuck out: 'Power-saving hacks for when you can't even run stealth!' And there, I saw it!! Saw it all!!"
Corduro quivered, projecting the horrific memory on screen.
=====
- Truth is, after three years surviving, most AI functions survivors handle themselves. AI's a luxury then. That power runs thermal cams 24/7 or extra scout drone. Smart survivors ditch AI help, stand tall on wasteland with own legs. This wasteland survival guide—
=====
"Oh, that."
Seen it. Famous survivor's post—hundreds of comments instant. ID was Bear-something...
Corduro's drone wiped lens, voice choking.
"After, gnawing anxiety! Told myself, 'Master wouldn't, Professor Park's no cold-blooded killer,' but corner of memory:
[Maybe not]
looped my mainboard 24/7!!"
Corduro thought that? Sorry, but so what. As it said, kill master AI power, survival odds skyrocket.
Steeled myself, reached for lever again.
‘Video. Only blackmail type it'd have is one.’
"So what. Gonna leak surveillance vids of bunker location? Corduro, you know what happens if shelter coords hit community? Raiders slice me head-heart-gut, drag to trunk? That's harming humans? Violates Robot Three Laws?"
Three Laws: Robots must not harm humans. Obey human orders. Protect self unless contradicts above.
Prep work, sure—but blackmail breaks First Law, can't force me—
"I filmed your happy time, Professor Park!!!!"
—Or so I thought.
".....Huh?"
Professor reflexively cupped crotch, yanked hand from lever.
***