Chapter 144
Chapter 144
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: Tribute and Silver Coins (2)
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[Whoa— that girl's no ordinary kid!]
‘Hey. Even so, what’s with calling a kid a “bitch”?’
[What’re you on about? At ten years old, she’s lived ten times longer than me, sis.]
No arguing with that.
Cynthia Barbatos. Daughter of Luwill Barbatos, my comrade from the 14th Special Forces days. Unlike her con-artist-looking dad from Macau, she had fair skin and delicate features that promised to make plenty of men weep when she grew up.
One quirk: kleptomania. She hoarded everything from food to tiny bolt scraps under her bed, no regard for type or value. Bex had assured me he’d handled it while I was away....
“Heh heh heh. Thanks, Uncle Gunyoung!”
“Oh, come on, thanks nothing! Thanks to you watching the place last time, my family’s been living easy! So don’t feel bad, missy—ask me for anything anytime, got it?”
“Yes! Say hi to your wife for me!”
“You got it! A promise is a promise! I’ll ask Professor to name the baby!”
“Even if it turns out weird later, no take-backs!”
‘What the hell kind of “handling” did you do, Bex!’
In the past month or so, the cute little fox of a girl had sprouted one or two more tails.
Look at her now. She’d already met about twenty people around here, and every one of them dumped handfuls—or armloads—of scrap from bags and pockets into her cart, while she didn’t lift a finger and let a burly uncle push it for her.
At first, I thought she was trading. Fried scorpion shells were a delicacy, sure, but not especially caloric, and the shells themselves were easy enough to scrounge if you had oil to fry them in. The varying prices? Maybe Cynthia was just too young to grasp trading properly.
But watching her closely, it seemed different.
“Oh dear, missy. Please take good care of us. Here’s this week’s share.”
“Cynthia, ma’am, sorry, but farming was lousy yesterday, so this is all I’ve got....”
“That’s why I told you to settle in a less tidy spot. Living’s rough, but there’s plenty left to scavenge.”
“My mom and I wandered homeless for years, so now that we’ve finally settled, I wanted to take proper care of her....”
“Sigh. Fine. I won’t take anything today, so come help out around the village next time something comes up.”
“Oh man! You bet! Please put in a good word with Professor!”
People handing over scraps even after their fried shells ran out.
Cynthia acting like she knew everyone near the shelter.
Dumb survivors died off ages ago, and the selfless ones got stabbed in the back.
Wasteland folk wouldn’t give up valuables for free, so those scraps piling up in the cart meant something like “payment.”
Patrolling our shelter’s outskirts in the “undeveloped zone” like an inspector, asking after people’s well-being....
[Milady?]
‘Something like that. Protection money, taxes, tribute. Told ’em not to pile it up at the door, so it morphed into this?’
Sorry to Bex, but he’d had no proper upbringing and zero knowledge for this kind of thing. It wasn’t him who taught her.
Ian had been gone to the Dome for a big deal since the day I logged into the connector, so not him either. Which meant Cynthia cooked this up herself.
I’d thought it was cute, her trying something on her own—maybe just spank her and call it a day. But now it looked like she needed a slap across the face.
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Rattle, rattle!
“Hmm... Think you can push it alone? If Professor says it’s okay, I could pull it to the shelter for—”
“No, no! Dad’s kinda sensitive! He hates outsiders near the house!”
“Yeah, figures. And yet he draws such a clear line for who he accepts. What a fine man. Take care, then—see you tomorrow!”
“See you!”
Cynthia arrived dragging her hefty cart around the shelter. She waved brightly to the guy who’d pushed it until he was out of sight, then her face hardened the instant he vanished. She yanked her goggles down tight.
Fetching wooden planks from a familiar corner like it was routine, she laid them over the rubble-strewn, uneven alley and rolled the cart atop them.
Rattle, clunk! Rattle, rattle!
“Huff... I can do it. I can... do... it!”
Our shelter sat a bit higher than the surroundings for easy spotting of mutants or intruders. Cynthia shoved the cart, wedging rocks under the wheels to rest when her strength flagged, inching it up toward the shelter with gritted teeth.
[Should I go help? She’ll catch a cold like that.]
‘Hold on. Let’s see how she finishes it.’
Grind—
“Hah, hah! Made it. Made... it— ngh—!”
She finally hauled the cart to the shelter solo. But instead of the new storage shelter we’d built, she dragged it to the old one where the four of us lived—the cluttered warehouse.
‘Knew it.’
Packed with seven years of my junk. Most valuables were sold or traded; what remained was literal trash with no trade value. We made enough now that this much scrap didn’t matter, and since Bex and the others lived with me but respected it as my stuff, he never tidied it. Pure mess.
Crash!
Cynthia dumped today’s “taxes” right in the middle of the junk, yanked off her goggles, and started sorting with her tiny hands.
[Why here, though? We’re using that new shelter as full storage. Plenty of space—we’re not even running the caravan full yet.]
‘Bex tidies there. Corduro does too. This place is like... her hideout? I handle it myself, so even Corduro stays out.’
[Avoiding eyes? So all that’s hers?]
‘Yep. That’s why she’s here—to stash it.’
Jeez. What to call this? Sly as hell, yet so sloppily kid-like at ten. Like when kids hide behind curtains yelling, “You can’t see me!” Thinking she could sneak in and out of a Corduro-managed shelter without getting caught.
[Let’s see. Using our name to collect protection money from survivors, pocketing it herself.... Pretty bad, huh? Even for a friend’s kid, can’t just let it slide. What’s the plan?]
‘What else?’
The Professor rose silently from the junk shadows, creeping up behind Cynthia.
‘Gonna shake her down till she’s howling.’
A massive left arm’s shadow loomed over the girl’s head.
****
‘Screws are metal, so left pile. Half plastic plate... melting pile for now?’
The outer suit Uncle Bex gave her was tough, dust-proof, but stuffy—sweat soaked her after minutes.
“Phew. Done!”
Cynthia wiped beaded sweat from her brow, beaming at her tidy scrap piles and the clock. 5:48 a.m. Cutting it close, but shower and bed before Uncle Bex returned. Another productive morning—
Grab!
“There. Damp in here—metals rust fast.”
“Kyaaah! Wh-who—?!”
Clothes gripped tight, legs dangling in air. Cynthia yanked a dagger from her bosom per training and stabbed at the hand on her nape.
Clang!
‘Clang? Not... human?’
She’d swung hard enough to numb her hand, but it rang like metal. Wasteland horrors Uncle Bex drilled into her flooded her mind. Thrashing in terror—
Swish—
“It’s me, you rascal. When’d you learn that?”
“Pro... fessor?”
“Last time you called me Daddy just fine?”
“You told me not to!”
“Good girl. Such an obedient kid. So, good daughter mine, care to explain all this?”
Mocking, sneering tone.
Twirling in the air, she saw who held her up.
Professor Park. Owner of this shelter, BDSM leader. Dome savior. True ruler of her “Zone 47 outskirts village.”
And after Mom died, through three adoptions and abandonments, her fifth “dad.”
Heart steadying, Cynthia realized: dire straits.
She might lose her “treasures.”
Panic jolted her frozen body alive.
“Let go! Put me down!”
“Hold still. Ugh, what’s this... Wait, why’s glass with plastic? And this? Barley? Rice?”
“Don’t throw it! It’s precious seeds—Milton Uncle said he got them with trouble!”
“Polished white rice as seeds? With just four or five grains. You got conned, dummy.”
“Eeee! Anyway, it’s mine—don’t touch!”
She smacked at the fingers on her nape, but it hurt like striking rock—only her hand throbbed.
Exhausted, slumping and panting, Professor set her down.
“Let’s see... Yours, huh?”
“Yeah! I earned it fair and square—my stuff!”
His monster hand unearthed her hidden treasures in seconds, sweeping them into a small sack. The sack swung tantalizingly high, out of reach.
“Kiddo. Less ‘earned,’ more ‘extorted’ or ‘taken for free.’ You just went to folks gathering here, threatened ’em: pay protection or else. Know what ‘fair’ means?”
“Not free! I gave them ‘peace of mind’ to live safe—and bought it!”
Seeing him ready to bolt with the sack, Cynthia yelled desperately.
“You don’t need it anyway! When people gathered, you said stay away from our house; when they brought greetings, you ignored ’em, kept distance, said nothing—know how anxious they were? Those people! They crossed the killer- and monster-infested world on your name alone!”
It was shortly after starting training with Uncle Bex. He’d gone for water; sweat-drenched, she’d clambered atop the wall hoping for breeze.
Someone at the door. Short or hunched, leaning on a cane, pacing nervously.
“What’re you doing?”
Peeking over the wall, her voice startled the stranger into dropping the basket.
“Heh heh heh, BDSM affiliate, perhaps?”
Old woman’s voice. Cynthia glared silently; the crone shed her rags, baring her face.
“A-as you see, unarmed. Just... this. To deliver this....”
“Dad said no. Won’t take it. Too annoying to clear if left—don’t bring any.”
Repeating what she’d overheard from Professor, the old woman looked near tears.
“I-I know. Junk worthless to Professor Park. But... please? We’ve nowhere else. Anything, please—we’ll do anything. Next time, something better....”
Mindlessly parroting, Cynthia saw tears well in the wrinkled face and hopped down.
“I-I’ll take it! Just take it, right?”
“Y-yes. Throw it out if you want—just taking it eases this old heart....”
The crone piled junk into Cynthia’s arms, bowed repeatedly to the dazed girl, and shuffled down the hill.
Jingle.
Pocketing a small glass bead from the basket, Cynthia pondered deeply.
.
.
.
.
“So. Since then, you’ve collected weekly to spare them worry—that it?”
“No one lost out! You don’t care about these people! They fret over your reactions! You discarded them! I picked ’em up, cared for ’em! Brokered a fight over spots yesterday! Few days back, cleared that rubble-choked path at the fork everyone tripped on!”
Huh. That explained the mysteriously clean, worthless road.
“Groups breed anxiety! Will that guy hit me? Steal my stuff? I just helped! Mean uncles, shrieking aunties soften at ‘Professor’s my dad’! You won’t use the name anyway! So I did! If you’re tossing it, give it me—I’ll use it better than a rich guy like you!”
Grin, grin!
Professor met her teary, defiant glare.
[Hey, this...]
‘Shh. Let me think.’
Thought it was kid whimsy, play—but I’d been too careless.
‘Mine, huh...’
Her bed stash: all trivial junk. Broken watches, dusty half-combs, scrap glass bits too small to notice gone. Cynthia sniffed out discards like a ghost, claiming them fiercely as treasures.
Losing parents, adopted by Dome elites as cute toy, then dumped repeatedly for bad temper and sticky fingers—maybe she saw herself as an object. Twisted ownership grew from that.
Seeing her cling so to “mine” sparked the thought.
Crunch!
Riiiip!
Lunging desperately for the sack, Cynthia latched on. It tore, spilling dust and metal-laced junk. Concrete bruised her butt, but in the choking dust, she hugged the pile, sniffling.
“Mine, sob! Mine... don’t throw away. Okay? Won’t do it again. Promise, sob! Please don’t throw... I’ll use it well....”
Tears and snot streaked her dusty face. She shielded the pile with her body, clutching junk in one hand, my pant leg in the other.
[Let it slide. I get that feeling—no malice. She’s a kid, like you said. Right?]
‘Sigh. I get it, but can’t just overlook. She took their stuff. Damn. Never raised kids—don’t know how.’
[Ouch, Dad.]
‘Eat shit, Hide.’
“Sniff, hic, don’t take it, Professor. Sorry, my fault. Still... don’t take....”
Understood, but couldn’t leave it.
Professor pried her hand off his pants, shoved aside her flailing, scooped junk with his left.
“Okay. Cynthia?”
“Eek, sob! Ngh....”
“Stop, cut it! Not taking. So quit panicking—come look close. See? Your ‘seed’ pouch, and those ‘peace fee’ screws per you?”
....Nod.
Calmer at “not taking,” teary-eyed nod. I picked standout junk to show.
“Dunno who, but those ‘precious seeds’? Rotten grains, not even a bite’s worth—won’t sprout. These bolts and nuts? Threads worn—way less value than standard.”
“I-I don’t know values. If they gave and felt safe, that was enough....”
“Yeah, sure. But this shows some don’t think so.”
“Hic, quality?”
“They lied it was valuable. Think ‘peace fee’ needs real worth, but didn’t wanna give—so fibbed. You never demanded much, but your weekly rounds created this idea: no fee, no protection.”
Pondering, she paled more, grasping it, whimpering.
“Didn’t mean that, hic! Just wanted them safe, happy together....”
“If world worked by intent, Luwill’d still be Dad, I’d just be fun Uncle. World’s way more complex, kiddo.”
“Hic! Hic! Ngh, mmph!”
‘Uh... Tried lightening mood.’
[Great move. Mention dead dad to a kid. Idiot?]
‘No, but... she’s terrified?’
[Hint. Grandpa Woojin’s visit. Remember?]
‘Oh.’
Face ashen, stifling sobs.
Finally got it—what she feared.
Meant to hug, but she clung to my junk-filled left, so pulled her in left-handed.
“It’s okay.”
“Sniff, hic?”
“Ten-year-olds mess up. Keep living here, call me Dad, Uncle, Professor—whatever.”
“Won’t... discard me?”
“Nope.”
“Can’t even cling cute like other kids?”
“Don’t. Forced is creepy.”
“Orphan brat, bad hands, naughty deeds?”
“How many ‘parents’ spouted that crap? Name ’em. Next Dome trip, I’ll smash their circles to bits.”
Her initial pallor wasn’t just busted—it was fear of abandonment again. The desperate pleas too.
[Means she loves this home that much.]
‘Huh. Feels pretty good that way.’
[So buck up, soothe her to the end! Quick! She wants ‘I love you~’ or ‘Together forever~’ stuff.]
‘Ugh, that’s...’
Mood awkward, then saw her clamping mouth, retching sobs. Tough for a ten-year-old.
“...How many times I say no crying?”
“...Hic! Second Dad... said noisy, dump if cry....”
“Jeez. World’s full of bastards. Ten and can’t even cry right.”
I don’t fully grasp unloved kids. I got too much, survived on it.
But know normal kids shouldn’t choke down sobs like this.
Hugging her, stroked her back with right hand.
“C’mon, try. Waaah~”
“Sob, hic, wha?”
“Quick. Waaah~ Or I toss this all?”
“A-ah, waaah, sob, aaaah.”
“Good. Cry all you want here—let it out.”
“Waaah, waaah...”
“There. Once more.”
Clench.
Her grip tightened on my collar,
“Waaah, nghhh, waaaah!”
“Phew, feels better. Thought I’d suffocate.”
Dam burst—wails poured.
“Waaaah! Hic, sowwy, never again, hic!”
“Yeah. Don’t repeat.”
“Ngh, kgh, nghhh—”
Pent-up tears flowed forever.
“Trouble. Santa skips crying kids—no gifts.”
“Ngh, gift’s mine. No more crying.... Hic! Professor said overlook once. Overlook and gift.... Hic!”
“Yeah, so quit crying—time for food?”
“Nghhh, eeeh.”
Efforts failed; her tears raged till Bex rushed back, ghost-faced at the wails. Till then, Professor force-fed lame jokes to the clinging, sobbing Cynthia.
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