Chapter 148
Chapter 148
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 148
Chapter Title: [Side Story] Boiled Life (2)
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[DAY-1]
The transport chopper dropped me off “near” the 14th Special Forces outpost.
‘Sorry about that. We didn’t report it up the chain, and those guys move around without a trace since the brass lost interest in them. Couldn’t pin down their exact spot. But they snatch supplies right out of the air before they even hit the ground, so if you drop at the supply point, they’ll come grab you quick enough.’
My face all swollen, no duffel bag, just a gas mask in hand, and I’d said I was headed to the 14th Special Forces. The supply clerk gave me a pitying look and handed over a small pack.
Strapped with the supply pack up front and parachute pack on back, I somehow made it down into the jungle.
Parachute snagged in the trees—thirty minutes of struggling. Finally cut it free with the greatsword on my harness and spent another hour hunting for the rifle I’d dropped nearby.
Dragging my exhausted body through the humid rainforest, in less than two hours I was completely spent.
“If I just wait here... that’s it?”
Plop.
Ziiiip—
Not so much a supply point as a clearing where they’d shoved some trees aside. I sat down and opened the pack the supply guy gave me. It was stuffed smartly with practical gear: a poncho liner with a small sleeping bag, blanket, soap. And...
Rustle—
“Oh, chocolate?”
Before I could feel glad at the familiar wrapper, a heavy bass voice rumbled from behind.
Crack!
“Gahk! Ugh!”
A burly forearm wrapped around my neck in an instant. I didn’t even get a chance to resist before blacking out.
****
Acrid smoke. Artificial whir of wind. A space thick with yellowish haze.
‘Son. Don’t give up.’
And my father’s last words.
That dream again. Every night since Dad died, this nightmare.
In the dream, Dad was melting away from the chemical gas, but his voice stayed clear.
‘Don’t give up. You can’t die.’
That dissolving hand reached out, limp and flowing, pulling me into an embrace. I knew he was gone, but I couldn’t help hugging him back.
‘You won’t die, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘You won’t do anything stupid?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s right. That way, my dying for you won’t be in vain.’
Oh, Dad.
Watching him melt into bloody pulp between my fingers, my mind faded once more.
.
.
.
.
.
Jerk!
“Oh, rookie. Tough one, huh? Up already.”
The voice from memory. The last one I heard before passing out.
Wearing just fatigue pants and a tank top, a black guy built like a pro fighter.
He introduced himself as John and explained this was the 14th Special Forces.
“So this is... a military base?”
“I’m dying to ask about that weird pause, but I think I know the answer, so I’ll hold off. Yeah, we’re military. 14th Special Forces. 3rd Platoon Leader John Abrams.”
Professor wrinkled his nose at the sour stench wafting over as the man approached, but shook his hand anyway. Truth was, the smell wasn’t just him—it permeated the whole barracks.
Folding cots with mold everywhere except where people slept, blackened from who-knows-when they were last washed. Rifles scattered everywhere, fatigues modded like high school uniforms in every color. No way this was a normal barracks—more like defeated soldiers had bailed in a hurry.
But above all...
“Whoa! Fresh body armor!”
“Clean blanket!”
“Underwear! Underwear too!”
“FUUUUUUUUCK!!!! Socks! White, fresh socks yessssss!!!!”
A horde of ragged dudes was looting his supply pack.
Head pounding like it’d split, Professor shot John a doubtful look. John scratched his scruffy head.
“Uh... well... resupply, y’know? Fresh gear like that ain’t broke in proper, it’ll glitch out when it counts. So us vets take the wild stuff off your hands, and hand you battle-tested goodies instead. Okay, kid? Get it? It’s unit tradition, culture!”
“Sniiiif—ahhhhh~ smell of factory-fresh goods. The scent of civilization. New undies. Finally free from staring holes through my daily pair like that homo gorilla.”
“Hey MJ, sorry, but I need those undies. My bunk’s next to Samuel’s, y’know.”
“Eat shit, Yeti! Rookie’s Asian! If a bear like you wears ‘em, they’ll turn into a thong! Why not dress up all pretty and whisper to Samuel it’s D-day?”
“...What?”
“Fuck. Welcome to 14th Special Forces, kid.”
John gave up convincing the rookie as his platoonmates stripped off their undies to compare who’s were filthier and more worn.
****
Long ago, there was this baseball manga called Terror’s Foreign Legion.
The 14th Special Forces guys reminded him a lot of those characters.
“Oh my, yes. No need to be so guarded. Me? I’ve got standards, y’know. I don’t touch minors.”
Huge frame, little beard just under the chin. Fatigues so tight they looked ready to burst, and he’d cut the pants dolphin-shorts short.
Samuel Marchetti, aka Mr. Matty, was the one who took best care of clueless new me. Everyone watched with suspicious, worried faces, but he swore it was pure “maternal instinct.”
His hobby was tearing apart ruined clothes to mend them. Today, as usual, he sat by me patching another squadmate’s torn fatigues.
“...Don’t touch me.”
“Hee hee, prickly. I swear it’s not like that. Sure, I’m a bit weird and real, real, real real real hungry, buuut I keep my code. We’re comrades, right? Gotta respect each other if you don’t wanna wake up Swiss cheese in your sleep.”
“Bullshit. So that’s why you took all my stuff and left me crap no bum would wear?”
Matty was sitting next to him now to teach sewing since Professor’s stitches sucked. That day, not just his pack but even his fatigues got swiped while he slept. Now he was trying to make the vets’ discarded battle-worn castoffs usable.
“Looks like they just stole your stuff wild-like, but they were looking out for you. See? Nobody touched that precious gas mask you carry. We touch anything, but stuff with history? Hands off. Right, kid?”
“Some consideration. Steal everything, then make me do all the crap jobs. What army calls that looking out? No need to lie, Matty. I heard it all. Said rookies are useless, so at least bring fat supplies.”
14th Special Forces had a custom: at mealtime, gather at 1st Platoon barracks to eat together. There, he overheard other soldiers. The day he arrived, chopper noise had them all bolting out like primitives spotting fire for the first time, staring at the sky. Then they saw not a big crate but a man dropping, and sighed in unison.
Professor answered bitterly. Matty covered his mouth, laughing like it was cute, then petted his head (tried resisting, but it was like an industrial crane—immovable) and pointed at scattered Special Forces folks with his index finger.
“That’s ‘cause~ everyone’s gotta brace when a rookie shows.”
“Brace?”
“Mm. Fresh guys keep dying on us, hurts the heart, y’know? Sometimes we gotta kill ‘em ourselves. Awkward either way.”
“That many die?”
“Yup. Eight rookies in the last three months. You’re the only one left alive. That’s why they swarmed like vultures and stripped your gear. Even our heartless King Colonel wouldn’t shove a naked kid into the field after his platoon looted every boot and bullet.”
“...Deliberately disarmed me?”
‘That’s what it meant.’
Hearing Matty, Professor thought maybe these rough-looking, rough-talking guys had warm hearts under it all. Then 1st Platoon Leader Luwill approached grinning, waving a crumpled MRE wrapper (from Professor’s supplies), asking around before heading their way.
“Hey, kid! You in?”
“...On what.”
“What else? Game! Sitting idle here drives you nuts fast. Wanna live? Manage your headspace like a pro—that’s soldiering.”
‘Wanna live, huh...’
Luwill’s words brought back his late father. Dad holding him down amid gut-burning poison agony, trying to shove over the gas mask. Professor still didn’t fully get why Dad fought so hard to save him. Betrayal was too vast for a kid like him to grasp.
But this life Dad saved—he couldn’t just throw it away.
“Fine. Count me in.”
Advice from a survivor leading a platoon where rookies all died? Worth hearing. Get close to these guys. Learn to survive from them. Somehow make it out, meet Mom.
Thinking of Mom already lifted his mood, energy surging back. Mental management. Learned something key already.
“Nice! Love the spirit. C’mon, game’s betting.”
“Betting? On what?”
Grin—
“Kid. You. How long you last here.”
Luwill showed the vinyl back. Under each platoon: three days, four days, a week, etc., with Special Forces names Professor was getting used to.
“So... betting when I die?”
“Heh heh heh. Tradition. Your 3rd Platoon’s the richest in 14th now? They probably scarfed all your supplies. Can’t let that slide, so we bet. Platoonmates all-in on rookie’s ‘survival.’ Rest bet realistic.”
“Where’d you put yours.”
“Me? Two weeks. Eyes too sharp—don’t look like you’ll just stand there and die.”
Professor glanced at the packed names, then whipped his head. Matty froze mid-stitch, pretending to stare at distant hills.
“Two weeks...”
Checked the board again. Other platoons spotty with no-shows; 3rd full, every name signed.
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Shepherd: Survival - Hash chocolate bar
M.J: Survival - New medium supply running shirt
Yeti: Survival - New supply undies
Doris
Palmer
Liam
.
.
.
.
Chester King: Survival - 12x steeped Blue Mountain beans 30g
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All the stuff they’d fought over, grinning as they snatched it—every bit on the list.
And next to it, every single period the same.
[Survival]
“Usually counts as full survival if you make it from end of one op to next. Big game, this. 3rd Platoon just threw in undie scraps, but we others bet ‘one night with the girl back home’ or ‘life savings.’ Personal take: 3rd’s getting the sweet deal. You’ll regret passing, kid?”
What to say. Not touched, exactly. Itchy-weird feeling, hard to put words to.
“...Fine by me.”
“Hm? For real? Was just messing.”
“Tradition, right? Korean Natural Born Confucian Man—can’t ignore customs.”
Professor took the pen from grinning Luwill, carved his name at end of 3rd Platoon list.
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Professor: Survival - Head to toe, everything I own.
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“Ha ha ha ha! All-in! Kid, you’re something! This game’s gonna be epic! Ha ha ha ha ha!”
Grimy Luwill’s face split in a huge grin.
Professor, facing him, wore a crooked smile to match the wrinkled vinyl scrawl.
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