Chapter 234
Chapter 234
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 234
Chapter Title: Hunter, Cleaner, and Inspector (2)
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Clang!
“Engine off! Get out and state your affiliation and identi—”
“Hey, good work! It’s BDSM’s Ian! The scrubs behind me are my crew!”
At the outskirts of the residential zone, boasting tight security. As Ian stepped out of the hatch and removed his sunglasses, the soldier who’d recognized him from the start flinched in surprise and lowered his gun barrel.
“An honor, Metal Joe sir! Should I log the headcount as the same as when you left?”
“...Minus Dalia and Mitch. Two people.”
“You’ve worked... hard!”
With the sound of clearance, the steel door—plastered with scrap metal and plywood—slid open to either side. It might look like a scavenger den now, but when it was first completed, it had been a sleek gate packed with the Dome’s latest tech.
The outer wall connected to the gate was crumpled inward entirely, a testament to how fierce the battlefield here had been.
Static—
“Ronnie. Slow down. Kids are running around up ahead.”
[Eheh. Tank commander, you think I’m some rookie who doesn’t even know a tank’s field of view?]
“The short-legged punk stacking blocks on the accelerator to reach the pedal is getting cocky.”
[Hey, if skill grew with age, all the Dome’s old folks would be heroes of reversal by now?]
Tsk. Ian clicked his tongue at the boy’s glib voice crackling over the tank comms. Kids really do take after their environment, huh. The trembling young tank gunner who’d shuddered behind the badly wounded Bex long ago was gone, replaced by this sly-talking 13-year-old with suspiciously advanced development.
Static—
[See, that’s why I said not to let Ronnie and Budlam play together. What kind of idiot makes a 13-year-old a weightlifting partner?]
“Early education is key, or so the guy who told me about your ‘King of the Pleasure District’ days shouldn’t be saying, Dorian.”
[Kekekekeke. Well, he seems satisfied. But we’re already at the refugee zone? Feels like we just crossed the outer wall.]
“Yeah. The refugee camps have spread this far already.”
Ian recalled the outskirts of Zone 47 after the Zone 38 incident, which had turned into a 24-hour warzone.
Fleeing the swarming mutants—and sometimes people who’d mutated right beside them—the survivors had flooded toward the Dome, the nearest place with the strongest military and regional defenses. The Dome had responded swiftly to the crisis, extending their defensive line as far as they could manage and taking in refugees within it. They were survivors from the wasteland, after all—if turned away, they’d surely riot.
Crackle—crackle—
‘...Director Young really isn’t your average guy.’
The reason the deafening roar of heavy machine guns that had assaulted eardrums daily for the first two months was gone now? Director Young had taken drastic measures.
‘Deploy every Electro Pole we have at max output, 24/7, to create an electromagnetic net wall along the outer defensive line.’
It wasn’t a simple decision. The Electro Poles generated the Dome’s electromagnetic net, and they doubled as charging stations that expanded the operational range of Exo Suits near the Dome—a core piece of their defensive strategy.
Built with pre-cataclysm cutting-edge tech, their effect was tremendous, but the problem was that running them like this would burn out their lifespan.
Simple in structure compared to something like Zeus—essentially a kind of transformer—but at current tech levels, reproducing worn parts was impossible.
Thanks to constant operation like this, they’d secured a mutant blockade encircling the Zone 47 outskirts, and life inside the Dome and nearby refugee camps was gradually stabilizing.
Hiss—pssh—
“Pole 238—replace it! Power down! Pull it out slow! If it bends, we’re screwed!”
Grind—rattle rattle rattle—
Like that overheating Electro Pole being swapped out up ahead, most were being run to their limits, rapidly eating away at their remaining lifespan.
One year. That’s how long they predicted the current Electro Poles would last. The powerful electromagnetic net that had blocked Raptor tank rounds would vanish in a year. Along with the Exo Suits’ uncharged operation range, already cut by more than half. When that time came...
‘The war will restart. One way or another. Raptor spies are bound to be hiding inside the Dome’s zones.’
...When it did, the Raptor Society—flush with grotesque biodiesel from mutant corpses, enough to move their entire force without strain—would come charging in. Along with the stench of burning flesh that haunted him like a hallucination, and tanks in numbers so vast the last battle would feel like a skirmish.
Watching refugees huddle near the glowing red-hot pole, Ian wondered if war was an inescapable fate in his life.
The aftertaste of his cigarette was bitter.
“...Tsk. Hey, Dorian. Got any booze left?”
“Huh? No, you’re loaded—why always squeeze your men for—Ow! Y-Yes! I do! I have some!”
“Idiot, I told you not to buy moonshine from the refugee camps. They make more because suckers keep buying.”
“Ughhh, it’s not moonshine anymore. Things are stabilizing inside, and they’re recovering food self-sufficiency. These are made by underworld guys from leftover potatoes.”
“Let me see... Moon Glow? Moon Shine knockoff?”
“Heh heh heh. That’s what the sellers said. The wasteland ain’t a place where moonlight shines proper enough to call it Shine. Gotta reflect the state of the world in the moonshine market too—Gah!”
“Good call. Real back-alley banter. Why not blood-brother it up while you’re at it.”
Thwack!
Ian kicked Dorian’s head—leaning against ammo crate Stone—and took the plastic water bottle he offered.
‘Plastic used to rot and be a problem, but now its durability makes it handy. Go figure.’
Cloudy moonshine in a slightly dented plastic bottle, half-wrapped in paper scrawled with “Moon Glow” in messy letters. Staring at it really captured the current era.
Gulp.
“Kuhhh. Tastes like watered-down crap. How much’d you pay? Anything over 1,500 ceiling and you got ripped.”
“Five thousand. Ah, that’s ’cause I watered it down midway to make it last.”
“Damn it.”
While Ian and Dorian bickered, the armed trucks trailing behind started blaring their horns roughly to peel off the people clinging to the tank with their begging bowls.
Amid the gathering crowd and curses, the Dome’s blue curtain flickered into view in the distance.
****
Bump!
“So, you beat ’em up?”
“Uh... kinda...?”
“No, Mong Boss! Hear me out! If it was just beggars, we’d have shoved ’em off easy, but those bastards were stripping whatever they could—tarps bolted to the deck, fuel, you name it. That’s not on us, right?”
“No, I’m saying you did good.”
In the Inspection Division garage. The BDSM members handed over their tank and armed trucks to the now-familiar Inspection Division maintenance team and split off toward their rest spots. Some had families, others bunked in the refugee zones with folks they’d evacuated with. Ian, who knew full well that maintenance mattered for both guns and people, didn’t meddle much in what his crew did in the Dome as long as they stayed out of trouble.
“Did good? I said ‘kinda,’ but... there were more than a couple with broken bones...?”
“Ian, everyone in the Dome knows your rep. I factored that in when I said you did good. BDSM’s popularity is sky-high—no one’s gonna bitch about you roughing up some thugs. Meanwhile, the Inspection Division gets spam on the community boards: forced labor this, violent oppression that, the banner of freedom’s fallen, blah blah.”
Ralph Montclair. Inspection Division deputy chief and Professor’s kin via Ezel. He’d heard about the outside ruckus and praised them instead.
“Refugees my ass—scavengers and every lowlife are mixed in there. Especially near Zeus Valley; there’s even a decent black market forming.”
“Black market... like this?”
Thud!
Montclair deftly caught the empty PET bottle Ian tossed and nodded.
“Yeah, like that. Moon Glow moonshine’s the poster child. No drugs or weapons yet, so the Dome’s watching it as a sign of market recovery. Swing by later with your crew. Plenty of fun stuff for sale. It’s a valley outside the Dome—no dust, good spot to hang.”
“...Then why’s it a black market? Sounds like a regular market.”
“So we gave permits to the guys acting like managers there... but they wanna stay black market. Better goods than a legit one, apparently?”
Silly story, but it made sense deep down.
“Hmm. Guess I’ll check it out with the guys later.”
“Yeah. Rest up good when you get back—it’s how you survive one more day on the battlefield. Where’s that shortstack?”
“Oh. Bex? Probably picking up Cynthia. Visiting hours soon.”
“...Right. Have a good visit. Rest easy, BDSM captain sir.”
“Hey, thanks. Montclair.”
“Oh, gotta go visiting too, so I’ll be back later, Mong Boss! Drinks sometime!”
“No booze! Bring the BDSM activity report! In Inspection Division format!”
“Already wrote it and stashed in my vehicle’s glovebox~~”
“Which vehicle!”
“Armed truck! Number foureeee—”
Ezel trailed off as he walked away with Ian, voice dragging.
“...That punk. Thought he’d stay a kid forever, but he’s grown up.”
Ralph watched his retreating back, a mix of relief and wistfulness on his face.
Ezel’s leather jacket bore a huge black fist clutching the letters B, D, S, M alongside the Inspection Division emblem.
****
Slurp—
“Not been that long... or has it? Four weeks, right? Ian.”
“Yeah. Not enough for you to pull out all the stops like this.”
Ian didn’t like this Alexander Young guy. Similar age. Sure, bodyguards wouldn’t amount to much in a real fight, but...
Something about talking to him just felt like getting dragged along. Couldn’t shake it.
Nothing about the guy clicked—furniture, cigs, zilch. One thing? The “tea” in that tiny cup was warmed booze.
“Plenty long for someone patrolling the fringes daily. So, how’s Professor after your visit? Much better?”
“...Not sure ‘better’ covers it.”
Yeah, he’d visited. Endured the annoying 15-minute disinfection, surrendered his guns and bombs like they were his own body, dragged Ezel, Bex, and Cynthia along to see the guy.
The body—strung up on an iron frame like a giant mannequin—was definitely smaller, but still around 4 or 5 meters.
Unlike the human shape it was regaining, the gaping chest and hollowed-out innards showed no sign of recovery.
Encased in black hide that even railguns couldn’t pierce—like a bioweapon made flesh.
Watching that lively guy in the screen beside the monstrous body, living it up with game buddies... forgotten emotions surged inevitably.
They said Professor’s current state was more “repair” than treatment.
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‘Professor’s body was exposed to the highest output of the [Box]’s ray that alters lifeforms at their core. That yawning chest cavity and missing organs probably won’t recover.’
‘!!!! Aughhh—! Uwaa! Aughhhh!!!’
‘So... even if he recovers, he’s stuck as a hospital case forever?’
‘No. Luckily, his physical abilities far outstrip human norms, so we can try various approaches. For now, combat cyborg surgery looks like the surest fix.’
‘Oh, don’t misunderstand. Not like Raptor’s junk power-human cyborgs. Think artificial organs and some metal skin plating. His vitality’s top-notch, and the mutant flesh outputs plenty on its own. Aside from a chilly chest, no real difference from before?’
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‘Damn psycho bitch.’
Who’d have thought those weird iron plates and machine parts by the shrunken Professor were going in that body.
Cynthia—putting on a brave front—finally burst into tears. Bex, holding her, mouth twitching like he wanted to speak but only groaned. Ian had clenched his fists white to stifle the scream building inside.
What’s “better” about it? Staring at the broadcast screen’s cheerful guy let him forget reality briefly, but...
Crunch!
This was reality. A monster friend—soon a mechanized monster—and his own powerless self, unable to do a damn thing. Metal Joe, only good for smashing.
Amid the helplessness and self-loathing, Dana had cornered that mad scientist woman, grilling her aggressively on the procedure. Her fearsome intensity even made the psycho shrink back.
“Sometimes... I’m amazed how Dana stays so calm. Watching her stroke those steel-pole fingers, her expression makes me ashamed.”
“Dana’s a strong woman. Hasn’t once asked the odds of Professor surviving. Just endlessly questions what to do after he ‘returns.’ No doubt at all. That he won’t come back.’
“Yeah. Man... that Professor bastard’s got insanely good luck.”
Ian watched the surveillance feed of the four chatting with “that form” of Professor, then downed the booze meant for him in one go. The fiery warmth cleared his foggy, depressed head a bit.
“...Yeah. As long as he comes back alive somehow.”
“We can only throw everything we’ve got at it now. When we finally pull his recovered self from that virtual world back to us, we can’t let him go into shock from that body, right?”
“...Fuck. Feels like shit.”
Gulp!
As Ian slammed the tiny cup’s hard liquor, the director pulled a large bottle from his shelf and handed it over neck-first.
Unlike the fancy bottle, the yellowish paper wrap and charcoal-ground ink name looked familiar.
[Moon Glow]
Seeing it a lot today, huh.
“You drink this stuff?”
“Added it to my collection to commemorate the new era. Moon Glow—potatoes, corn, desert hare liver.”
“Desert hare—that’s highly toxic, right? Scavengers use it as a weapon ’cause it’s so poisonous despite looking like rat bait.”
“Oddly, the liver and gallbladder have no toxin. No idea what lunatic thought to eat the guts of something that kills on touch, but... like the first guy to survive fugu. Anyway, it’s the new era’s flagship brew from a new species.”
“New era...”
Ian eyed the murky liquid, set aside poisoning worries, and dumped the bottle down his throat. Surprisingly low proof, heavy on sweet. And... drinkable.
“...Not bad. New era. New booze. New mecha-Professor. Fuckin’ ridiculous.”
“Thanks for understanding. Took over a week to convince Dana.”
“Hell, might as well make a beam shoot from his solar plexus.”
“We’re trying.”
“Machine guns from fingertips, culverin cannons from knees would be cool too.”
“...You sane?”
“Kuhh hah hah. If he’s becoming Iron Man, go big or go home.”
True to his decisive nature, Ian accepted Professor’s half-android fate and started brainstorming weapon loadouts in his head.
“...Guess I worried for nothing. Was braced for you to go guns-blazing right here.”
The director shook his head at Ian’s grinning face and slid over a binder with the mission details.
As Ian expected, it was about the Type-3 mutants in Zone 45.
****