Chapter 162
Chapter 162
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: Lead and Silver Coins (16)
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Rumble!
The cargo hold of one of the three trucks swung open, spilling out potatoes, carrots, onions, broccoli, and other long-shelf-life vegetables in a massive heap.
No need for fancy displays. Just park on the wide-open lot, fling the hold wide, and neatly arrange the veggies in empty green ammo crates. Done.
They'd lost the trailer on the way, halving their stock, but with their operation goals far from straight-up trading, it wasn't much of a loss.
This much fresh produce would break even at best, but it was more than enough to draw a crowd.
"Alright, beloved brothers of the Dome! We're the long-haul caravan BDSM, straight from Sector 47 Dome! Big-Dream! Small-Margin!"
Clap clap clap!
"W-Wait, backwards! Backwards!"
"Huh? Oh, damn it! Big-Margin! Small-Dream! A trading company selling big dreams at reasonable prices! Check out BDSM Caravan's wares! Eastern lot! Big-Margin! Small-Dream!"
Ian's booming voice from the Humvee echoed through the city's alleys, and one by one, people peeked out from their homes.
Setting up shop smack in the middle of a suspected enemy stronghold? Someone might call it desperate for cash, but this was a calculated, logical play.
No telling how much the enemy knew about them, but thanks to Dana, they had more intel than expected. Key was keeping that hidden.
Hunkering down in a room, guns out, booby traps set—that screamed, "We know your dirty secrets!" Better to play the weary traders who'd gotten their goods snatched by fanatics en route. Might as well make bank while they're at it.
"Th-Those are really all for sale?"
As Ian yammered away from afar in his Humvee, a burly-looking man who’d been eyeing the surroundings mustered his courage and approached.
A salesman’s smile bloomed on the Professor’s face.
"Oh yes, sir! All top-grade produce from the Dome’s latest hydroponic facilities—not that wasteland slop! Harvested less than two weeks ago, fresh as can be! So... how much were you thinking?"
"W-Well... I don't have much in scrip, but I’ve got some alloys scraped together..."
The man glanced around nervously, handing over a pouch of alloys like it was contraband drugs.
A Dome resident—not a wasteland survivor—offering scrap instead of scrip. Illegally stripped from internal structures, no doubt. Black market slush funds.
‘Lucky us. This enemy’s got plenty of cracks to exploit.’
The Professor’s smile deepened as he eyed the man’s odd behavior, so far from standard Dome etiquette.
Peeking into the pouch revealed a jumbled mess of high-grade alloys and scrap iron, scorched and melted in places. Amateur hour—clearly not a pro scrapper.
"Hmm... not much I can do with this..."
"I-I don't need much. It's not for eating—"
"Not for eating?"
"N-No! I mean, it's for dinner tonight!"
Snatch!
‘Gotcha!’
The Dome felt eerily lifeless, almost sinister. Folks eyeing them warily despite the food. This guy handing over black funds with a face like he was heading into battle. Red flags everywhere. These people were terrified, and buying food tied straight into that fear. Food rationing? Ban on outsider trades? Whatever. They had leverage to squeeze their "guest."
"Not for eating, so not ornamental either. Dirt under your nails? Seeds for planting?"
"N-No, no!"
"Hahaha. Fun customer! Dome regs ban unlicensed crops outside approved farms. Taxes aren't that high, but tax evasion? Ballsy."
"N-N-No, th-that's not—"
Caught on a slip, the man trembled in terror, trying to bolt. But the iron grip on his shoulder didn't budge an inch.
Only then did he notice the merchant's left suit sleeve and gloved hand looked unnaturally bulky.
"Y-You... what is that arm...!"
"Just a trader, sir. Big-Margin, Small-Dream! Like you're moonlighting as a scavenger, I've got my side gigs. Anyway, you look like a farmer. How'd you end up seedless? Farmers sleep on their seeds even starving. Eat 'em all?"
"Ridiculous! That's—"
He started to speak, then clammed up like a mussel. Bex, aligning carrot rows nearby, seized the moment, sliding over a pre-packed green wooden crate.
Half fresh produce, half MREs from the station.
The Professor deliberately tore open an MRE pack, revealing retort pouches of beans and meat stew. The oily aroma wafted out, locking the man's gaze. As his hand instinctively reached—
Sloooowly—
The crate pulled away, teasing. Hunger twisted his gut; the Professor knew that look all too well.
"Wh-Why show me this...?"
His tone had flipped to full respect. The Professor draped an arm around his shoulders.
"Reasons? Traders are superstitious. Share a tenth of big profits. Moldy ledgers leak cash. Or..."
Snap!
"Send the first customer away empty-handed, and disaster follows."
The wide-open cargo hold brimmed with goods, hiding a rear space invisible from outside. No original building here—no bugs to worry about. Pure dead drop.
"Nothing major. We're new here, clueless on prices and trends. Can't trade blind. If you know recent Sector 38 Dome food situation, tax quotas, minor rumors—spill. Trader's honor."
The man gulped as an opened MRE was pressed into his hand.
"Tiny favor. That's all for this full crate of chow."
Rattle—
Bex timed perfectly, slamming the hold shut after unloading. Pitch blackness swallowed the pair.
Crunch. Grind, grind. Crunch.
Gulp.
"...Lately, the Dome's been off..."
In that anonymous void, the man finally cracked. The heavy crate slid his way.
****
"Bugs~"
"Check—"
"Double check—"
"Cameras~"
"Check—"
"Double check—"
"Sniper nests~"
"Check—"
"Ah, sorry. Ian handled the booby traps himself, so I couldn't verify those."
"Good. Bombs are his specialty anyway. Finally, some rest."
Plop.
Trading wrapped at dusk. With gains in hand, they hit the recommended caravan inn, ran a 30-minute sweep, and crashed.
Top-floor room in a six-story inn overlooking Sector 38's radio tower landmark. The owner griped about the rich caravan with three vehicles taking just one big room, but better his complaints than getting picked off scattered.
The Professor gazed at the radio tower—old broadcast station patched with ad-hoc buildings—rallying the weary crew.
"You all pulled all-nighters on watch, hawking, intel. Good work. Especially Ezel. Must've been tough mentally."
"...Tough? We three combined barely scratched what you dug up. Where'd you learn interrogation like that? Pro-level."
"Lemme see. Every allied supply run I raided... twenty-one, twenty-two..."
"What?"
"Nah, nothing. Army training."
Flutter.
I brushed off Ezel's suspicious glare, diving into the intel file.
=========
1. Taxes didn't rise, but they did. Admin, Surveillance, Enforcement each collecting separately for a while now.
2. Massive religious rally. Happy Blind followers at the core; weirdly slow crackdown. Witnesses say dispatch was deliberately late.
3. Comms blackout—no GG, no community—for ages. Cut off from outside news, then refugee waves spooked folks. Techs who "fix circuits" all summoned to radio tower. Many never returned.
4. Farm district "serfs" vanishing in droves. Filled with new refugees, but even that's full—son's stuck on blockade duty as monitor, barely home. Comes back silent, leaves quick. -Too detailed for mom's worry. Massacre guilt? Conscription? Newbie?
5. Massive blackout. Official line: Happy Blind sabotage. No emergency shields—full power cut. Radiation decon teams scoured eastern contaminated zones and adjacent, checking furniture to spoons. -Felt like they were hunting something.
==========
Top five chunky bits from civilians.
Solid roots for a day's grind.
"Not one or two issues..."
No single bad apple. White fuzz, black ooze—full rainbow rot.
Bang!
"I'm back."
"Yeah. Good... what's that?"
Snapping from reverie, I turned. Ian hauled in two swollen-faced guys.
"This one's the sniper at nest point. This one's the weirdo ass-wiggling to assassinate the sniper. Only two nests, checked both: one had electronic alarm traps, the other these clowns. Both sus, so I brought 'em."
He dumped the limp pair, flashing a sign.
[Unconscious/Faking]
‘Assassin alone's bad enough; faking knockout to infiltrate...’
Glancing at Ian's signal, I eyed the floor lumps.
Tossed like trash, hostile to each other, awkward poses—no twitch. Elite training.
[Verified]
We were hot potatoes in Sector 38, alright.
Sniper in place the second we checked in; assassin a beat later to take him out.
Tense vibes in 38. Three departments taxing solo—not one outfit.
‘Post-election now. Irreparable rift between them? Beyond infighting, dragging in Raptors, Happy Blind to wipe rivals?’
Three-way war explained their motives easy.
Fresh BDSM arrivals: neutral. Ties to 47 made 'em valuable—no instant kill. Targets probably someone else incoming. Protect... or...
‘Eliminate before rival faction reps negotiate with us.’
Knock knock knock—
"...Not someone reputable."
As if on cue, knock at the door. Bex pressed his muzzle to it, cracking open. A sharply dressed man peered through.
"ID and business."
"...Feisty doorman. Mind stepping aside?"
"ID and business."
Extra mumbled slur. Bex knew his look: small, frail, old face. Add garbled speech—harmless errand boy. Post-opsec announcement, he'd stuck to grunt work: hauling veggies, shifting gear. Unseen gun at head height, the man flashed a sales smile, approaching.
"No need for alarms. I'm here representing the Administration—the real rulers of Sector 38—with a message for you."
Bex signaled me: [Poke him?]
I nodded.
Slooowly.
Bex's thumb crept to the revolver hammer.
Click—
Twitch!
Hammer cock echoed; faint but clear—the assassin reacted.
Professor's watchful eye caught it. Unlike the still one, neck muscles tensed. Insider weighing: warn ally with gun to head or keep faking? Trigger sound broke poise.
‘Admin guy. Jackpot card before play even starts?’
Signaling [Stand down], the Professor flung arms wide to welcome the entering spokesman.
"Oh my, busy officials gracing lowly traders' inn! We could've come to Admin HQ!"
"Hahaha. No...! Ahem! No need. Can't boss distant honored guests. But those folks behind..."
"Hm? Oh, these? New pals from minutes ago. Sit! You came to talk—tea first."
Spokesman froze mid-friendly act. Pants-shitting panic: why's this guy here, trussed up?
I bustled him to the table, then dragged the Admin assassin, slamming him roughly beside me.
Pat pat pat—
Splash!
Pffft! Pffft!
Splaash!
Ezel, all fired up to "carve out Dome rot," poured the spokesman's tea while Bex and Ian grimly shredded the white duvet into ropes.
Atmosphere screamed wrongness.
Fresh white ropes bound assassin's limbs to chair; sharpening whetstone hissed by his gagged ear. Breathing ragged, audible.
Spokesman? Clutched teacup for calm, but shakes spilled it all. Pitiful.
Wiping assassin fallout with leftover duvet scrap, I spooked him further.
"Whoops. Wasted good tea. Luxuries like this are pricey—low yield. You're shivering... cold?"
"Y-Yeah, b-bit chilly. Ha, ha—eek! Hn..."
Leaning in to mop spills, his tremors worsened. Perfect. Mood set.
"Bex."
Thunk!
Bex slammed a razor-sharp dagger into the desk.
"No worries. We're beat, and time's money for traders. Heard you had words. Multitask?"
Lacing fingers, reclining casually. Ian flopped assassin's hand on the table. Breaths harsher—from both.
"I-I see you're b-busy... I'll c-come back, head out t—"
"Nah. This is just manual labor. Like slicing stubborn carrots. Quick. Unless..."
Tap tap. Tap tap.
"Some connection to this guy?"
"Th-That's absurd! I d-don't know any agents!"
"‘Agent’... agent... a-gent..."
"Hng, mmph, ngh! Nngh!"
Spokesman near hyperventilating—holding breath or sobs? Weaker than the stoic assassin.
‘Messenger in enemy turf with two hostiles nearby? This caliber makes sense. Just relay—no risking elites.’
His mind blank with terror, I tossed the bait.
"So. What's the message? Oh, side note: this big guy's a sucker for good stories. Great orator? Might distract him from his task. Haha! Keep it stiff, to the point?"
Fingernail trailed assassin's splayed fingers on table, locking eyes. No words, but ‘You get it?’ drilled into his jittery pupils.
Talk? Sorry—send rank if you want chat. No intro, title—just "spokesman." Discard play. Their move, our response.
"Let's see... From Admin, you said. Dome slipping from your grip?"
"Th-That's..."
Soft-voiced "interrogation" kicked off; Professor grinned.
If only trash like this showed, unmasking the shadows would be easier than thought.
****