Chapter 153
Chapter 153
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: Lead and Silver Coins (7)
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****
“Fresh food cheaper than preserved rations? Dome’s really lost its mind.”
“That just means their supply lines are that stable.”
“Could we pull something like this off back in our village?”
“Rice, huh... Yeah, ever since my diet started getting a bit more human, I’ve lost some of that feral edge. Wonder if there’s any decent farmland near our place.”
That evening,
we laid out the takeout from a nearby restaurant on the inn’s table and started debriefing over dinner about what we’d done that day.
Ian, skewer of what seemed to be some kind of rodent in hand, spoke first.
“I’ll go. First off, demand for caravan goods is overflowing. Talk of Dome’s near-state-of-the-art weapons is still under embargo, so it’s not blowing up yet, but beyond that, Zone 40 needs more stuff than you can shake a stick at. Skin masks top the list by far. With radiation zones expanding lately, they say in Zones 40 and 41 next door, those masks go for whatever price you name. Then there’s rich folks after rare mutant delicacies unique to the 30s zones, people wanting full sets of old-gen heating gear or key parts from uncharted areas, even requests to track down missing family... Money-making ops everywhere. On the flip side, the 30s zones are clamoring for clean fertile soil, deep drilling rigs, fresh produce, and shield generators.”
Skin masks. Deep drilling rigs. Soil. All requests tied to the 30s zones’ unique traits. Zones 39 through 30, where radiation contamination really kicks in, have wildly different survival dynamics from the untainted havens of the 40s zones.
“Anyway, Life and Murder’s already leaking word to their intel contacts about the weapons deal, so we’ll just deal with the big players who come knocking, and focus on trade ourselves. Industry folks say mask runs alone can give you a ranker-level life.”
“Masks... You mean those guys in Zone 32? The cult freaks obsessed with tech hatred.”
“Yep. Happy Blind. They process special mutants unique to the 30s zones into masks. Ghastly-looking things, but they filter dust, radiation, toxins, chem vapors—the works. They call it ‘proof from the Lord that we can survive with what we have now.’ No need for the old tech that turned the world to ash; we’re doing just fine without it.”
The 30s zones, in short: ‘high-risk, high-reward farming grounds.’
Not ground zero of nukes, but in the fallout radius—nearly everything exposed on the surface is irradiated.
No special gear? You’re not getting in easy. And since people can’t get in, unlike the 40s zones where every scrap of old-world junk’s been stripped and reused, there’s still mountains of usable stuff left. Most generators popping up on GG Exchange? Brought back by scavengers who dove into the 30s zones ready to die. Treasure trove of the old world fits perfectly.
Mutants galore too. Most folks died clean from radiation poisoning, so after all this time, it’s mostly Type 2s lingering, but unconfirmed Type 3s are supposedly way more common than in the 40s—can’t even compare. Some mutated by radiation into unimaginable shapes, mutants and natives alike... The 40s and 30s zones might as well be different worlds.
‘The only time I saw the 30s was that one patrol support run while working for Dome... No real live intel is a problem.’
What I knew was just a glimpse of Zone 39 ages ago and the crash course back then. After years, who’s wielding what influence? What dangers? That’s the big blind spot. Step into turf hostile to Dome by bad luck, and our names go on their missing persons list.
Mulling the 30s zones’ ecosystem, I shoveled a mouthful of mushroom salad, then dumped in three meals’ worth of calorie sticks processed soft as bread.
“Mmm, smack. Soil... Farming demand’s high, but bulk’s an issue, so skip it. Drilling rigs too, right? They want those for less-contaminated deep groundwater, but groups’ll only buy one or two at most.”
“That’s why we grab ’em for sure. Essentials over there—perfect gift to impress new trade partners. Snag a couple sets, lead with long-shelf-life fresh food and our usual wasteland-grade weapons.”
“Wasteland-grade?”
“Tech level that fits the wasteland. Not the near-top-tier stuff from Life and Murder—the old stock we sold before. They wholesale it cheap as partners. 30s zones see tons of fights with mutants and rad-mutants, so big-caliber weapons are hot. High maintenance, break fast—demand’s endless. Show off a Barrett or my hand cannon, they’ll come running in their underwear.”
As expected. Guy’s a natural merchant. He’s way ahead of me here. Can trust him with this.
“So, my turn next?”
With Ian’s report wrapped, Vex shot his hand up.
“I hit the Oversight Division. You know the 30s are... a bit much even with Cynthia tagging along. Can’t leave her home alone either. Village folks are friendly, but can’t fully trust ’em yet, and like Hepburn said, someone might target our place. Told ’em that, and the Oversight guy said they’ll extend patrols to our area while we’re in the 30s. Called it ‘service’ for approving the mission so readily. Cynthia’s going to school.”
“School?”
“Yeah, school. Never been, but it’s where they round up kids for lessons. To reclaim past glory, education first, they say. Most kids rescued from Raptor disposable pilots go there too, lots in Cynthia’s shoes—shouldn’t be hard to fit in.”
“That’s their line. Cynthia, what do you think? Wanna go?”
“...I said I wanted to first.”
Cynthia, picking at her food beside me, spoke up.
“Been nothing but trouble since we got here. Thought I could handle everything alone, but nope. Folks I thought were friends lied like Professor said, and somehow I messed up Uncle Vex’s plans too...”
“Ah, that!”
“Professor, Ian, Vex—you’re all amazing. Heroes everyone praises. Not even in the same league as a nobody kid like me.”
As she started sniffling, Vex floundered, clueless. He’d gone quiet since the village—hit harder than it looked. Cynthia’s self-centered, but no dummy. Today’s chaos probably made her see her place. Village she thought she ran? I show up, instant outcast. Hit Dome, our trio’s the talk everywhere, and she’s the tag-along baggage.
[Arrogant. She put herself on our level at first?]
‘Kids are egocentric. Before six, they barely grasp others exist. Hers is near-zero outside parents, and since they died, she’s had to fend solo—makes sense she’d turn out that way.’
But yeah, arrogant fits my take too.
Because her logic—[Professor, Vex, Ian are top-tier -> So I’ll go to school]—is...
“...Ezel said school makes you great. I’ll be great enough to be on everyone’s lips soon, so until then... don’t come.”
Basically, she wants to stand with us as an equal.
For Cynthia, obsessed with her ‘things,’ being the lowest value among ‘family’ was unbearable. Self-love through others’ eyes? Pride?
Whatever—way too mature, arrogant, and cute for ten. Gotta include solid affection for us three in there too.
Having poured out her ambition in a teary voice, Cynthia stuffed her cheek with salad to choke back sobs and gulped it down.
“Khahaha! Look at this brat—shot up while we weren’t looking! Hey, kid, just crybaby it under the adults, got it?”
Ian, who’d been grinning at the scene, cracked first. His pot-lid hand ruffled Cynthia’s hair wildly; tears welled as she shielded her head.
“Eek, stop! You’re messing up my hair!”
“Khuhuhu! That’s right! As a BDSM member, gotta have that kinda ambition! Right, Vex?”
“...”
“Vex?”
No answer.
“C-Cute...!”
Vex clutched his chest, gasping. Yeah, he’s gone.
“If that’s your call, fine. Wasteland life ain’t great, so a new-gen kid like Cynthia learning something worthwhile? Could be good.”
“...You’ll be gone long? I’ll work super hard, become great fast—it won’t take long, so come back and I’ll...”
Thud.
“We’re not ditching you. Not leaving you with Oversight to run off alone. Just go to school good. Month, maybe two, then we’ll pick you up.”
“Hngh-!”
Nailing her biggest fear, Cynthia burst into the tears she’d held back. Crash! Vex toppled from his spot.
Anyway, Cynthia and village sorted. Hard to find education as solid as Dome’s in the wasteland. Kid’s got a knack for politics—school’ll suit her.
Ruminating on her words, something clicked; I asked Cynthia,
“Ezel told you school’s great?”
“Sniff! Yeah. Wore work clothes, looked beat.”
“Work clothes... Exosuit jumpsuit? Back on watch duty brief.”
Rolling Ezel Leyden’s name, Professor smiled, pleased.
Feels like we’ve got everything.
“Alright, my turn. Before hospital: contract with Oversight Chief, and my condition from the docs. Food-wise, looks like we need extra high-cal for ten people...”
My rundown sobered the playful vibe into serious talk.
****
An hour later, Oversight garage break room.
Ezel, slumped after a near-week sleepless ‘Raptor cyborg guerrilla hunt’ mission, doubted his ears.
“What?”
“You gotta help with our gig.”
The man beaming like he’d won the lottery.
Lately Zone 40’s hottest topic—his longtime wasteland net pal, Professor—hit him with nonsense right off.
Help? Join their trip to the 30s zones, mankind’s hellhole?
“Uh... Professor?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re missing something. Sure, I handle most BDSM diplomacy, but... I’m Oversight, y’know? Exosuit-mobile, tank-battled ‘veteran’ agent. Even with your sky-high rep, in this emergency, they can’t just pull elite like me—”
Snap.
“Words. What?”
Ezel cut off. Professor yanked his collar, shoving a gleaming gold badge in his face.
Crisp gold, skyscraper and dome etched. One step above his own silver vet badge—department head tier, power symbol.
“Why the hell do you have...”
“‘Cause kind, loving Chief gave me ‘department head authority at every station.’ Counter said it’s all set.”
“E-Every station, head authority? Why give insane power to a guy like you...”
“Dunno? Maybe Dome’s great ★Hero☆ got another huge task? Can’t spill yet, but it’s vital for Dome’s future. For such a mission, gotta go all-in—hence asking my top pick for help.”
‘Mission’ from Professor’s lips set Ezel’s wasteland-honed instincts screaming. Don’t go. Disaster incarnate! No way. I joined Oversight high exam for peaceful life, not blood, smoke, and now rads!! Steel yourself, Ezel Leyden! Speak! Flat-out refuse that devil Professor!
Veteran agent-style, Ezel sorted his panic and replied solemnly, clearly.
“You said ‘request,’ so I can refuse?”
“Yep, obviously.”
“Then sorry, but no. As Oversight, can’t leave Dome vulnerable. If a buddy gets hurt covering my spot while I’m off with you in the 30s? Unbearable.”
“...I see. Oh well, can’t force it.”
“...For real?”
“Yeah. Told ya—invitation only. Hate it? Your call.”
‘Yeeeeeeeeees!!!!’
Professor folding so easy? Ezel inner cheered.
‘I did it! Escaped the devil’s grip! Viva democracy! Viva freedom—’
“If you won’t, gotta grab any Oversight grunt. Chief ok’d one exosuit, but bio-locked—only original pilot drives. No you? Someone else. Hmm... This one: John? Nice folksy name. Wanna rad-bathe in 30s with us, smash fanatics, mutants, mystery threats? No? You, Kimmy? Sure, zones I hit last months got wrecked, Raptor bases, even war broke out—but not this time, right? One pal’s guts spilled from side shred, another tanked enough rounds for a mag, but c’mon! Join up! Ezel said no—what can ya do? Yeah?”
“Uh...”
Aaaah. Lord.
Fellow agents’ eyes turned tank-sighting desperate. Professor savored it, smiling ear-to-ear.
“Hooook—last chance. Better with a ‘friend,’ right? Ezel, wanna do vital work in 30s with me? Nah? Cool, your freedom. Dome! Bastion of free democracy! Do you!”
Aaaah. My freedom. Our justice.
Amid seniors’ silent screams of ‘Baby bro! Baaaaby brooooo!!!’ in codes and glares, Ezel teared up, hand raised.
“I’ll... volunteer...”
Slap!
“Gooood—choice! My ‘friend’!”
“Khuhuhu, homo pilot. Let’s get along again?”
“Keeheeheet, sliiiick! Nice workin’ with ya! Angel!”
Professor’s back-slap, Ian’s creepy grin, Vex licking a blade for no reason. Near ink turns black, Ezel thought, tearing up as he spoke.
“Ezel Leyden... sniff! Pleased... to...”
Thus, silent pressure sold Ezel to the BDSM caravan.
****
Two days later. Chilly September morning edging winter.
Two armed trucks. Repaired, modded Hummer revving at Dome’s northwest gate. Trailers hitched to trucks, boxes strapped atop Hummer—clear caravan gearing for trade.
“What brings Chief this early?”
“Long, dangerous road for my folks—waking early ain’t much.”
Professor’s crew faced Chief and guards before the rumbling convoy.
“Hey, you showed plenty heart loading yesterday—overflowing. Even prepped two fresh-off-repair Raptor armed trucks. Our rides alone wouldn’t cover freight.”
“Yours to begin with. Contract gave salvage rights, no? Of your processed gear, non-scrap: that tank, four combat vehicles. Tank needs more fix time—crumpled armor bad, but someone fried internal data link; full ops longer. Combat rides no good for hauling, so swapped to armed trucks arbitrary-like.”
“Works for us. Tank’s mid-range ok, but long hauls? Fuel hog.”
Bluff. Siphon station oil. Could’ve taken if drivable, but no need quibble with Chief.
Handshake with me done, Chief offered hand to new crewmate Ezel.
“Hmm... Thanks for your service.”
“Hohoho... No prob, Chief. Swore to give this body for Dome as agent—gotta deliver. To dust and shatter bones! Grind ’em! Smash body! Handy for cremation! Hahaha! Hehehe!”
“...Th-Thanks.”
“Come back soon! We’ll catch up... hnk! Quick!”
“You bet! Waitin’ on ya, kid!”
“Back fast! Miss me too much? Hit Oversight—comms work!”
Ezel, off since days ago, flustered iron Chief; Cynthia’s teary face closed the brief farewell.
Final checks on cargo and rad gear done, crew boarded. Hummer front: Ian, Vex. Exosuit, batteries, near-top weapons truck: Ezel. Rear: me in long-shelf food and trade truck.
“Alright, roll out!”
Kwarung! Groooowl!
Vroooom-!
Vehicles kicked sand, charging barren wasteland.
Target: Zone 41, next to 46. Last night, via Life and Murder, we quietly shopped near-top ‘Transitional Gear’ to a big scav group there.
***