Chapter 110
Chapter 110
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 110
Chapter Title: Masquerade Ball (26)
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***
“So... you’re saying you’re alive?”
“Yeah!”
“The guy I’m talking to right now isn’t ‘Professor made from Professor’s memories,’ but the real Professor?”
*Gloop— Gloop—*
“That’s what I’ve said eight times now!”
“Then what’s with that arm? Don’t Type 3 mutants only grow on intact corpses?”
“That’s true, but like I’ve been saying since earlier, my case is a bit different—”
“Then you are a corpse!”
“Goddamn it! You thick-headed bastard!”
“What the hell! Does that even make sense? A perfectly alive body turning into a Type 3 mutant’s arm!”
*Clang! Clatter!*
Professor irritably hurled the olive-drab plastic canister amid their looping argument that had been going in circles for minutes. It was an oil drum fastened to what looked like the rear cargo hold of an armored vehicle. Ian and Professor had drained all the fuel left in the armored vehicle, then meticulously scattered it everywhere, ensuring not a single person nearby escaped being soaked.
“P-Please... have m-mercy...”
Ian kicked away the hand grabbing his ankle. Sol’s armored vehicle had barreled after them relentlessly, resulting in a bloodbath. He had a ton of questions.
“Let’s go to a hospital later and get you checked out. See if you’re alive or dead. Anyway, why’d you come all the way here? That guy with all his teeth smashed—that’s the one from earlier today, right? Jack or Sam or whatever, the Executioner deputy.”
*Splash—*
“Yeah, that’s him. Why’d I come? Official business is done, so now it’s personal. Where else would defeated Executioners run to? I considered a few other candidate spots, but no matter how I thought about it, if the blackout had gone as planned, the other facilities—door locks and such—would all be fried, so they’d probably prepared emergency gear in their own building that they could open or manipulate ahead of time. These bastards killed my mom, so I came to hunt them. Why’d you come?”
“Oh, this fucker killed my wife and daughter.”
“Damn.”
“Damn.”
Despite the heavy topic, their calm tones made Ian chuckle foolishly, *pffft*. He could tell they were thinking the same thing.
“Revenge should be as dry as possible, right?”
“Yeah. I thought about hanging him from a pillar and slicing off bits of flesh to feed him, but that’d probably mess up my head big time. Mom’s dying words were to survive, so imagine how heartbroken she’d be if her kid went nuts avenging her and died. It sucks a lot, but let’s go with the wasteland rule: something good for mental health.”
“You little shit, you can even say mature things like that. All grown up. Me, I’ve got a mountain of people to kill besides this one, so if I went berserk on each, I’d burn out. That’s why I’m holding back.”
“We’re barely eleven years apart, and you act like an old geezer. What, eleven years?”
“Eleven years is nearly a third of wasteland average life expectancy, you punk.”
*Clang, clatter.*
Four square oil cans should be more than enough.
The two, drenched in blood and oil, took a breather amid their fidgeting enemies. The armored vehicle’s top deck had less oil and was higher up, perfect for viewing the Executioners and surviving Raptor Society members.
“Now that I think about it, I haven’t even held a rite for my mom. After she passed, I couldn’t do Dad’s either.”
“A rite? Look at this guy. Talks like the world’s best filial son.”
“It’s not like that. Until last year, just thinking of my parents made me scan for a pistol without realizing. Only recently could I face it calmly.”
“Wastelanders are all like that, but your life’s been rough, Professor.”
“You think yours isn’t? How many do you have to kill?”
“How many...”
Ian pulled out a fancy cigar from who-knows-where, grimaced as he rummaged inside the armored vehicle, lit it with a glowing red car cigarette lighter, and came back out.
“No idea? Never counted Raptor Society members.”
“All of Raptor Society? Shit, if you pull that off, Hell’ll give you a medal.”
“*Kuhahaha!* Better than nothing!”
“Ughhhh... No... I can’t die like this... not me...”
Gazing blankly at the drifting smoke, a groan-like voice rose from below. A familiar face. Luwil Bartos, an old comrade of Professor’s, had clearly listed it in that file he handed over. The name was...
“Theo? Executioner Chief Theo Rusker, right?”
*Snap!*
Professor leaped off the armored vehicle and approached the man crawling toward the garage exit. Time to hear what had him so desperate.
*Scraaaape— Scraaaape—*
The bastard crawled frantically, as if reaching outside the garage meant survival.
Until Professor squatted in front of him, blocking the way.
“Wanna live?”
Professor asked sincerely. Even knowing he had no intention of letting him, why was this man trying so hard?
*Huff, huff!* “Professor... so it’s you. You ruined everything. With your pathetic revenge, just because you pitied one old hag’s life—you wrecked our grand undertaking!”
*Click!*
Theo’s blade, swung with all his might, was futilely caught in Professor’s left hand. Less an attempt to kill, more a gesture of defiance.
“Grand undertaking... Isn’t that embarrassing to say? You betrayed because your election pick lost and you wanted to live. Sold out the Dome, sold out your conscience.”
“Why can’t you see that election was wrong!”
Theo used the caught blade as a crutch to haul himself up, clinging desperately to Professor’s hand.
“You served in Executioners before—remember? We originally had exosuit operation rights!”
“Yeah. I piloted a few myself.”
“Exactly, that’s normal! Our original purpose: Surveillance handles internal threats in the Dome, Executioners external! But now? Exosuit rights all went to Surveillance! We lost most power, reduced to a support agency training urban combat tactics out of desperation!”
The man spat blood—no, actually vomited it—as he yelled at Professor.
“That vaunted democracy! The Dome clings to useless relics of the past, turning into a trash heap where politics decides everything! Every time the Surveillance Chief’s snake tongue wraps the council, exosuits, new tactical weapon tests, mission zones, personnel limits—Executioners’ power slips to Surveillance one by one! The inept Executioner Chief couldn’t stop it! No, didn’t want to! He’d taken their bribes long ago, building private domes on the city outskirts for debauchery! Doesn’t that strike you as odd? Huh? Isn’t it weird!”
The man, grabbing Professor’s left hand to rise on his broken legs, slipped on the oil and tumbled. Tears streamed from eyes smeared in blood and oil.
“The world ended, so moral standards must change! We must discard what to discard to move forward! The Dome’s ideology just turns residents into dolls to fatten the elite! That’s why I betrayed! Before these Dome dwellers are drained dry! To accept Raptors, perfectly adapted to the post-apocalypse, truly fighting to survive in this world—”
“Wow, that’s a fresh one.”
“Yeah. They didn’t pull dirty tricks like this when I was around. Raptors must be desperate.”
And right before dying, he spouts ideology? Isn’t this exactly that?
*Clap clap clap.*
Professor cut off Theo’s one-man speech—even injured, he ranted—and applauded. Not anger, just disbelief.
“Ideological reeducation... What is this, old North Korean shit?”
“Even when I was with Raptors, plenty pushed propaganda wars. Red Army this, Black Army that. Thought they were cute idiots, but if it’s come to this, maybe not so idiotic.”
“I gave him a listen thinking there might be some reason, but it was worthless drivel. My ears hurt. Ugh, gross. Gotta wash it off in the rain outside.”
“It’s not drivel! We’re doing this for the masses—”
“The masses. Haha, speak of the devil. You ‘select’ the masses who survive, sacrifice the ‘dregs’ who don’t. Doesn’t even your own logic disgust you?”
“...For the greater good, the big picture, small sacrifices are always needed. The world changed, so morals must—"
“The Underdome gangs you run. People enslaved by the drugs they peddle, canned debtors in sealing workshops. When I was there, Underdome was just a poor neighborhood. Now it’s a slum opium den. And Underdome residents outnumber Upper Dome by 20%, right? Even generously, calling over half the people’s sacrifice ‘small’ is a stretch, no?”
“Don’t get hung up on numbers! Our actions may seem wrong, but! The distant future! When this wasteland dust clears, it’s a controlled burn to stop the big fire— MMPH!”
Professor shoved a torn strip from his left arm’s fatigues into Theo’s mouth, silencing his desperate babble.
“Sad, really. Mom, Luwil—dying at the hands of such pathetic scum.”
Years-awaited revenge, but instead of catharsis, it felt empty.
“That’s revenge for you. Why I tell everyone: keep it calm, like just doing a chore.”
*Drag drag drag—*
*“Kyaack! Squeeee—!”*
Then, from inside the garage, Ian dragged out something noisy, picking up Professor’s words.
“Calm? Know what ‘practice what you preach’ means?”
“Of course. I’m utterly cold. Coldly killing this guy.”
The dragged man was Sol Amar, face a mess of tears and snot.
“U-Uwaaaah! S-Spare me! Please, Ashfield! F-For old times’ sake! When you taught me to shoot! You said it then!”
“Yeah, I remember. Something about your fat absorbing recoil well.”
“Y-Yes! That’s what hooked me on shooting! How much time we spent after! As packmates, Swarm Alpha’s guard! My sharpshooting always at your—”
*Screech—*
*Boom!*
“Ow!”
“Yeah, yeah. Not the fondest memories, but we had some.”
“Th-Then...!”
*Splash—*
Ian dragged Sol from the armored vehicle, beat him soundly, then hauled him onto the broken vehicle, stuffed him through the hatch, and doused him in remaining oil.
“Why pull him out if you’re shoving him back in?”
“Was gonna just kill him, but old memories sparked an idea.”
“What?”
Ian looked up reminiscing, *kuh-huh*, chuckled, and knocked on the armored vehicle trapping the leg-broken Sol.
“When roasting herded pigs, we always baked ’em in ovens.”
“N-No! What’re you thinking! G-Get me out! Please!”
That hysterical reaction—must’ve heard Ian inside. Maybe on purpose.
“Oops, overheard? Stressed meat’s tough, they say.”
*Snap, snap, thud, thud.*
Passing the thumping armored vehicle and groaning Theo, they reached the garage entrance. Rain poured refreshingly, masked earlier by inner noise.
Now, time to end it.
“Hey.”
“Yeah.”
“Gimme a smoke.”
“You gonna smoke?”
“Not me.”
Professor thumbed the thumping garage full of moans, oil-soaked Theo desperately crawling out.
Ian’s face scrunched.
“Them? Why waste good smoke on trash heading out?”
“So they don’t get lost. Straight to Hell—my warm wish.”
“Fuck. This is top-shelf Raptor stuff...”
Grumbling but lighting it without hesitation, Ian handed it over.
“Mmmpf! Grrrmpf!”
Theo had reached the entrance. Alternating glances at the lit cigar and his oil-drenched body, he flailed outward frantically. Blood sprayed from nail-less fingers.
“No need to greet us. Nice meeting you anyway, Theo Rusker. Be good in the next life. This is premium stuff.”
*Flick—*
“Grrrrrrmpf!!”
“Share nicely with the others.”
The cigar, stamped with Raptor logo, flew toward screaming Theo.
Theo’s eyes followed it.
Past his shoulder, hitting his arm, falling—the red ember drops.
*Whoosh!*
“Grmpf! Kyaaaaah!”
Fire spread instantly over him, unsatisfied, racing along his oil trail inward.
*Fwooom!*
“Uwaaaah!”
“Aaaah! F-Fire! Fiiiire!!!”
*Thud thud thud thud!*
“Hot! So hoooot!!! Please get me out! Someone! Pleeease! Aaaah!”
Hellscape of live-burning screams blending with the man’s agony from the heating armored vehicle.
‘Revenge is empty, they say... but not entirely.’
Felt a bit hollow, sure, but watching them writhe relieved something.
Professor, watching from afar in the rain, bowed twice toward the blazing garage.
“...Korea have human sacrifice customs?”
“Nah... but it’s like a big incense stick. Reporting a big job done.”
“*Kuh-huh*, weird guy.”
Professor stood, surveying: the Executioner building spewing black smoke as garage fire spread, the Dome’s bluish shield in raindrops, the massive canyon still steaming.
“It’s over.”
“Yeah. What started from a bad walk ends now.”
*Clank, clank, clank!*
Professor spoke as Surveillance exosuits rushed toward the sudden blaze behind.
“Ian. You’re in decent shape, right?”
“Hole in my thigh plugged with whipped cream, molten sand and glass shards from shelling embedded in my face, shrapnel at least six or seven just roughly counted...”
“So better than me—barely survived gas naked, electrocuted next to Zeus, arm like this?”
“Uh... um...”
*Thud!*
Seeing Ian speechless, Professor flopped onto the ground.
“Explain for me.”
“What? You know most of it! Administration dogs’ll swarm for cleanup anyway!”
“If it bugs you, pass out too.”
Professor closed his eyes amid fading consciousness, Ian’s echo and exosuit megaphones. Rain fell like soft velvet on his fevered body.
***
A week later,
Professor lay bandaged head to toe in a hospital bed.
*Drop. Drop.*
IV dripped saline, nutrients, and various meds into him,
*Beep— Beep—*
Wires from complex machines blanketed his body; grave-faced doctors compared charts and real-time graphs, frowning deeply.
The vast VIP room brimmed with top hospital gear, doctors filling every gap.
Was Professor’s condition truly that dire?
...*Crackle!*
“Goddamn it! Enough already! Yes!”
Not quite.
After Surveillance hauled him in, he woke after two days. First words from the doctor: ‘Much better than expected.’
======
“Hey, Doc. How’s... Professor doing?”
“Hmm... Most obvious is internal burns from electrocution. Luckily, current entered hands and exited feet. Not severe; our Dome’s recovery facilities will have him up soon. Checking if left hand’s odd material helped.”
“Ughhh... where... am...”
“Anything else?”
“A bit of poisoning, skin burns, lung chemical burns, abrasions, exhaustion, etc. No abnormal recovery speed unlike expected—ah, no.”
“I-Ian... water... water...”
“No, keep going. Curious too—what’s that on his left arm?”
“First time we’ve seen this form, but... treating as Type 3 mutant variant. Type 3s vary wildly in shape and traits.”
“Type 3? Don’t they have separate wills?”
“Thirsty... water... please...”
“While Professor was out, ‘it’ tried communicating. Pen and paper notes, even chess with our researchers—ow, doctors! It has distinct will, so classified Type 3.”
“Hyde... figured it was him...”
“Hyde? Know something? Might help treatment—write everything down—”
*Crash!*
“Water! Gimme water, *cough*! You fucks...!”
“S-Subject’s thrashing! Security! Secuuuurity!!”
.
.
.
.
========
Knew it’d be like this the moment I got here. Dome’s obsessed with new tech; knew that ages ago.
“P-Patient! Calm down... treatment’s not done, you need rest...!”
“Not done my ass! I heard you—go home and rest, I’ll heal!”
“He-Heard... us?”
*Murmur murmur!*
*Rustle rustle!*
“No one discussed his condition by his bed, right?”
“None. Told you! It affects the main body too, not just the arm! Eavesdropped with amazing hearing!”
“Breakthrough! Innovation! Optimal tech for humanity’s wasteland survival! Seeing a Type 3 hybrid—the wasteland’s most adapted—with my own eyes!”
“No choice? 3 years... no, 5—keep him here?”
“Saw his records. That monster combat power—how?”
“Shh! Professor hears!”
‘Heard it all, assholes.’
Whispering? With this packed VIP room of doctors-slash-researchers chattering? Yeah right.
Professor learned his status not from powers, but a night nurse on day four who snuck in and spilled. A fan—asked if medical staff could join BDSM.
‘Rumors flying outside... stuck here, how would I know?’
So far just quiet observation, curious about his left arm too, so he endured treatment-experiments. Until today.
*Drip, drip!*
“P-Professor! Treatment’s ongoing! Leaving now’ll...”
“Whatever! Itching to leave. Compile all research data so far and send it. If desperate, formally request via BDSM later.”
*Stampede!*
“R-Really come if we request!”
“To our biotech dept!”
“No! Such nonsense! Hyde born in GG—obviously our data consciousness dept!”
“Crazy talk! New Type 3 form—our new civilization ecology dept!”
“Eeeeek! How many major papers you got? I’m featured monthly in Bio Geo...”
“Ha! Flexing a trash mag? Know how long I was Harvard Biotech prof?”
“Nothing under Nobel!”
*Waaah!*
*Crash crash!*
“Uh... sort it out and message me!”
Professor slipped out, leaving the infighting researchers.
First, ICU to see Vex.
***
***