Chapter 151
Chapter 151
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 151
Chapter Title: Chapter 10 Lead and Silver Coins (5)
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****
“Hey, Bex.”
“Yeah, Hepburn.”
“Is what I’m seeing right now... correct?”
“Seeing you ask that means I’m not hallucinating.”
We were worried about how to find the scattered guys in this vast Dome after leaving the Inspection Department building, but it wasn’t as hard as we thought.
Bex had bought a sand-colored hood commonly used by wasteland folks somewhere and was waiting in front of the Inspection Department building. And Ian was...
“Sorry, but I’d prefer if you didn’t cling to me, ladies. I’m just passing through temporarily. I already have someone in my heart. Liking me... it’ll only hurt you. If you love yourselves, it’s better to leave my side.”
“Aah, Mushu! Don’t say that!”
“Just stay by my side, Ian. I’m confident. I can gently wrap those wounds of yours and make you look only at me someday. So for now, just stay by my side...!”
I always say it, but Ian doesn’t have an incredibly handsome face. Well, he’s somewhat good-looking. Deep eyes, a bit of a decadent vibe. But his entire jaw looks like a chunk of metal, making him quite bizarre. Objectively speaking, just in terms of looks, I’m better than him, right? So why, just from me showing up,
“Hmm? Oh, time’s up. Well, time to say goodbye. Melina, Tiri, Ajien. It was fun while it lasted.”
“Aaah, no!”
are those girls glaring at me like they want to kill me over how popular he is!
Ian had been here for a decent while, so we checked around lodging spots mainly. And there he was, surrounded by women who looked loaded at the flashiest place.
White fedora, tight dark brown suit fitted perfectly to his body. He stood from his seat looking like a drunken mafioso with his white shirt unbuttoned, pushed through the women, and came out spreading his arms wide with a beaming smile.
“Professor! Feels like almost a month! No troubles?”
“Seems you’re the one without any.”
“Kuhhuhu! Damn right! Strike while the iron’s hot. Can’t sit still when funds and rep are booming, yeah?”
To my honest words, he let out his signature leaky laugh (right then, one woman staring desperately from behind fainted). Then, wordlessly, he pointed upstairs with his thumb.
“Skip this. Let’s talk in my room. Booked one for business stay. For caravans from other zones or scavengers on regular contracts—pretty livable spot.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.”
Unsure what to say to his sudden mafioso casanova vibe, we just nodded and followed him up the stairs. Passing women shrieking like banshees at his casual wave, it hit me anew: the world really has gone to hell.
****
“Suite room? You got some spending habit now? Corduro rubbing off on you...”
“Nah, dude. Rented a small one, but some secretary from Life & Murder’s prez showed up, few words, owner upgraded it free. Didn’t cost me shit, so quit the death stare.”
Ian’s “upstairs” wasn’t just the next floor—it was the entire top of a four-story building, a gaudy suite room. High-end suite crammed with obviously pricey furniture. Kinda ironic having to hike up with no elevator, but whatever—free’s free.
I ask for water, he pours milk for four like it’s fancy, mixes brandy in his, hands me a wrapped bundle from next to the table.
“Here, gift.”
“Gift? What kind.”
“Eh, poking around, stuff popped up that screamed you.”
Inside: two boxes about 30x30cm. Hold up. These look like the ones from the director’s office just now.
“No way...”
Sure enough, opening revealed intricately carved wooden figures.
[No.17 Professor Who Brings an End to the Battle]
“Goddamn real—!”
“Kuhhuhu! Sweet, huh? You blasting that Zeus or whatever. Rare shit? Zone 47 Dome Inspection makes limited run of 50, bigwigs throwing premiums—but saved ’em for us. Oh, Bex. Yours too.”
“Don’t need your shitty pity!”
“That’s our name value—wooden dolls slapping 30,000 seals regular price.”
“Banksy went 600k, this junk fig at 30k...”
“That was special. Couldn’t ID to Dome then, buyers just art weirdos. Dome auction? 10 mil easy.”
“End times... end times...”
“Heroes rise in chaos, they say. End times like you say? More like worship.”
Ian cracks a similar box, sneaks a peek at grinning Cynthia and Bex, gulps that weird brandy-milk sludge, starts spilling the tale.
“That Raptor Society showdown. Breaching Dawn battle here—everyone knows our names blew up. Dome slapped ‘heroes’ frame on us to hush panic, hyped everywhere. Worked like gangbusters. Citizens blanked on ‘Raptors hit central power plant,’ went nuts for new heroes. Bury story with story. Media playbook.”
“Effect way beyond basic.”
Ian points at me like he knew, lights his cig.
“Yup. Merchant me figured big fish incoming. But shit went sideways from my guess.”
“Sideways how...?”
“Dome’s edit vid. Our half-retro weapons Bex and me rocked. Inbox flooded daily—hundreds asking to buy.”
Remembered. Armory haul: hand cannons, monomolecular cutters galore.
“Oh, that. Non-sale items, right? Can’t just snag ’em.”
“Yeah, figured, shut ’em down hard. But curiosity nagged. Leak locks from Dome brass, but devs bust ass on tech, regs chain ’em to piss-pot domestic market? Rage fuel.”
Ian curls upper lip. Know that grin. His ‘devious plot’ face.
“So hit up Dome’s top arms giant, Life & Murder. ‘Got offers like this. Know you’re burning up. Business time?’ Holed in Dome days, no home, just meetings.”
Ian beams proud. But gotta say, sounded iffy. Tech leak from Dome—tech lords of wastes. Not bleeding-edge plasma rifles, exosuits, shields, but our hand cannons, EM gear? Light-years past wasteland AKs, Sten pipe MGs. Market drop? Raptors pounce. Dome handing foes premium boom-sticks? Nah.
“Hey, solid plan... but doable?”
To head off fool’s errand...
Flutter—
“Worked though?”
.
.
.
.
“Huh?”
Ian yanks thick contract: Dome seal, Marketplace mark, Life & Murder stamp lined up.
Snag it, pore over. Rough pulp like hanji, hand-inked.
Legit. Life & Murder peddling near-top weapons outside—via BDSM caravan.
“How?!”
“Kuhhuhu, stars aligned. Clocked Dome cash-strapped on arrival. Usual stiffs hawking flags, doll scraps, side hustles. Snooped—Zone 45 bunker we met at? Gutting for new Dome. Inspection swears no delays.”
No delays... shield bits hush-hush.
“Right...”
“But days in? Weird piles up. Inspection connects—power core access cakewalk. ‘Axel visit,’ counter dude salutes. Tank check...
Snap!
Ian snaps like eureka.
“No exosuits. Zero.”
“Zero?”
“Yup. Axel missioned out. Asked Anne...
“Anne?”
“Armory gal. Reunion vibes thick, where’s everyone? All out Dome perimeter. Not 45. Ring-guard. Sketch, right? Raptor tanks radar-pop 10k out—no scatter-forces needed.”
“...”
Ian scrambles my brain. Clues float solo—missed connector.
Dome cash-hungry. Exosuits guzzle power, cash black hole. No frivolity.
Exosuits: Dome aces. Hidden till city-busters like Raptors, Type 3s.
No Type 3s near—Raptors. But tanks? Radar bait. No disperse dance. Need it? Raptor playbook flipped.
Raptor flip trigger. Seen it.
“Cyborg... too analog. Mech-human? Chainsaw-arm, hydraulic vise guys?”
Mutter-sorting, Ian—mid-brag—stares like ‘who dis?’
“Shit. Wake you beats 8-mil info guy. Spot on. Broker: Raptors fielding prosthetic freaks, super-soldiers guerrilla Dome.”
Confirmed hunch.
Old Great War: graft mech bones/muscles for supersoldiers. Rejection wrecked, fuel sucked—backpack reactors axed speed goals. Shelved.
Exosuit seed stolen by Raptors—now perfected.
“Losing shifts you off head-on...
“Bingo! Dome panic—no guerrilla fix. All exos full radar nabbed some, but stragglers rocket-punch walls, ghost. Citizens freak, media caps. Rush 45 Dome partial ops. Dome grip crushes guerrilla turf.”
Professor brain: Ian intel + director chat mesh. Big bucks outsiders only why. Crunch root. Ian timing...
Crush fix + profit skim found.
“So. Price for leak lift?”
“Kuhhuhu. 30% ask—Inspection suit gets ‘Wanna catch hands?’ Raptors nix GG exchange. Direct only: buyers Dome-trek Life & Murder store, or ‘betrayal-proof caravan’ proxy. 20% tax total take.”
“Proxy proven caravans only. Slick. Our in.”
Direct caps birth our niche. Buyers everywhere—wasteland trek suicide. Caravans haul for bunker rats. ‘Proven’? Dome/Market own or BDSM only.
“Kuhhuhu, week marathon talks. Frails two days sleepless, brains fried. Sweet terms mine. Wimps. Prez 60s, stone-cold.”
Flutter
Flip pages mid-spiel. Tier 1-5 weapons: qty/price/zone caps. Familiar, fresh—all wasteland-toppers. Caravans listed, turf too.
... below caravans snag 13% sales gross.]
Goldman Wonderer, 42~46 zones.
Dome Caravan 40~49 zones.
BDSM, 41~35 zones....
Wait.
“Hey, hold up. This...
“Lethal? Said it! Kids zoned, slipped 13% sales—not rev! High sell? Balloon ours! Price blind—over Dome base all pocketed!”
“Nah, that aside... zones off?”
“嗯, 30s dicey, but no recent beef? Beasts aside, low outflow means high buyers, rad-shelter life no road ambushes.”
No—that ‘no beef’ blew sky-high recent...
Nail this. Fat stacks now—no risk dive.
“Ian. Why chase cash?”
“嗯? Random dumbass? Spiked your milk?”
“Deadass. We loaded. Life set—why grind so hard?”
“Deadass...
Puff.
Smoke-sigh, ditches fedora.
“Wanna.”
“...Wanna?”
“Yup. Why else. Needs boom, earn boom. Shot—pounced. Saw inbound? Village by base.”
“That... why?”
“Play dumb? You’d never idle that.”
Recall: spilled village deets? Zilch.
“You overthink. Simple! Those folks? Solo = kill/flee. Gone = cozy lonely bunker redux. Yay? Nay?”
“That neat...
“Fuck! Pic it—uncomfy or comfy?”
Professor pics: home alleys, old bustle paths. Park Geum-pil bazaar blood, dead forge, duo ghosts. Quiet safe void...
“Uncomfy.”
“Save ’em. You future-gaze too hard. One step now sometimes. Dig? Village ops? Cash tsunami. Dome-lite walls/defs mutant-proof. Crowds = hookups, sprogs. Multi big-shield dust-block? Cozy AF. See? Wants endless! Cash! 200mil? Laughable—hose it. No earn why?”
Gulp, gulp—
Clink!
Ian drains, collars sharp.
“Not you—for me. Home one trashed, two no-go. Dig crew. Deal seals. Risk fine. Wasteland safe? Abnormal.”
Rock-solid, doubt-free. Hits: he’s lived 10+ extra years.
“...Sigh.”
“Issue? Voidable if itch—sucks...
“Nah. Lost again vibe.”
“Lost? Who?”
That raccoon-stache director.
‘Hurry. Pre-‘missing persons’ clock.’
‘Consult team’ stall.
Director knew. Ian locked contract, 30s dive. One-third buy-in—leisure sendoff.
“Fine, roll. Biz, missings hunt, Dome-hope box drops. All-in. Feast till burst.”
“Missings? Boxes? Oi, what...
“No whines post. Locked.”
Professor pats director req pocket, rises.
His words lit real want. No retreat begged.
****