Chapter 235
Chapter 235
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 13
Chapter Title: Hunter, Cleaner, and Inspector (3)
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****
Ian's face began to twist as he read the commission from the Commander.
Most of it was the usual fare. Type 3 variant outbreak, damage reports, location, the defensive line's got a hole in it so you guys handle it, and so on....
But this commission had a lot of irritating details.
"Let's see.... Am I reading this right? The goal isn't to hunt down and kill this three-headed bastard, but to secure its corpse?"
Slurp—
"More precisely, it's securing and investigating the carcass. The wounded one fled pretty far beyond the defensive line."
"No, wait.... Look, Young. I'm not as dumb as I look—I know sometimes you use a cattle knife to slaughter a chicken. But this ain't that. There are plenty of people who could handle this without dragging us into it."
"That'd be true under normal circumstances. But if we didn't kill it ourselves, that changes things."
"....You don't mean?"
"Yeah. It could be 'that guy.'"
At those words, Ian flipped through the documents with an even more crumpled expression.
Of course, variants killing each other in skirmishes couldn't be ruled out.
Variants were just conveniently called "variants," but strictly speaking, each one was a different species.
Some were aggressive, others like the W or Artist Union types had developed intelligence, some were harmless and docile, and as variant density increased, overlapping territories led to frequent observed infighting.
Flip, flip, flip—
Text, text, text, text, photo.
Ian spotted what he was looking for in the thick stack and stopped.
[Attachment 1: Three-Headed Variant]
"No name yet?"
"We were going to, but with a high chance of death, it's on hold."
The creature in the photo had a head that looked like three faces mashed together, true to its name. If it had more arms, it'd be the spitting image of an Eastern asura.
The second photo showed it fleeing with two of the three faces blown off and its torso shredded.
The third.... wasn't a photo, but a map. Marking the 45th Sector defensive line and the thing's escape route.
"A tracker.... Still operational?"
"The tracker's alive. It's just that the thing stopped moving."
"How many days?"
"A week and a day."
Ian recalled how many immobile variants there were. The Mugler main body, that pathetic 2.5 Type dubbed "Groundbound Spirit" or whatever caught two months ago, Chamber Maid.... Nah, scratch that.
Anyway, this one was completely different from those, so it was safe to assume it was dead.
The question was, who killed it.
"All nearby Type 3 variants tagged with trackers?"
"Golem, Mudskipper, Silk Stage, Amundsen, Paparazzi Salesman—all tracked in real time. Aside from Union types and a few small Type 3s, we've got almost all of them."
"If we factor in every exception, it's endless, so let's assume unknowns aren't tagged. Type 3s don't fight each other that often anyway. So.... something killed this one after it fled nearly 40 kilometers in a straight line from the 45th Sector line.... Gotta be that guy, right?"
"Yeah. No one but the Corpse Tiger could kill a Type 3 variant in that mutant-infested wasteland. Even heavily wounded, it was tough enough that regular firearms wouldn't scratch it."
The Commander tossed another prepped document from under his desk in response to Ian's sigh-laced words.
This one was so thick it was practically a book—extensively investigated.
Atop the hefty file was the name [Buru].
Roaring Tiger Buru. Corpse Tiger. Nicknamed "Claw" Buru. A member of the Artist Union, the mad bastard who'd chased Professor Park around yelling [This one's the one to kill me, my nemesis, my end!] before the Professor ended up like he did.
It reemerged after the 38th Sector battle, right after linking Professor Park's brain to GG's save data and broadcasting the first playthrough.
『Graaaah! My death! Give me back my death! That's not how my worthy rival goes down! Come out! Face me! Professor Park!』
It literally shredded through the variant wave crashing the defensive line, leaped over, and started butchering the soldiers inside.
Even while dodging hastily deployed exosuits and concentrated fire on the run, its sole demand was Professor Park.
"Goddamn lunatic. Talks big about wanting to die, then bolts? If it'd died then, it'd have been happy ending for everyone—him and us."
"Seemed to have a fixed image of his own death. Dying to a crowd didn't fit it."
The Commander closed his eyes, recalling the massacre. Engagement time: about 15 minutes. Fatalities: 130. All trained soldiers—that was catastrophic.
Exosuits weren't operational yet, so concentrating them in one spot would've breached other lines.
His counter for the inevitable return wasn't dedicated defenders or railgun turrets....
It was airing an in-production documentary on Professor Park, unedited.
Amid the scattered files, Ian grinned at the report of that incident.
"Young, you know, sometimes you seem just like Professor Park yourself."
"....Hard to take as a compliment when we all know his antics too well."
"True. The Dome's Commander brushing off everyone wanting a strategy meeting for the enemy's predicted attack and heading straight to the executive broadcast station."
Ian had been supporting the opposite line and missed it, but the uproar was legendary. Already dying to variant waves, now "adaptees" launching organized raids, better disperse and hide, etc....
Slurp—
"It came for Professor Park after seeing the game broadcast. Confirming his obsession target was a critically wounded guy who might stay that way forever without clearing the game? Figured it'd at least stop the rampage demanding the Professor right then."
Result? No need to check. After airing his gaping chest and exposed guts, the attacks stopped. Surveillance confirmed [Roaring Tiger Buru] ID in that "47th Sector Chatroom (2)."
It logged in consistently during monitoring—clearly catching up on [Professor Park's Game Life and Death (Real Death)] religiously.
'That guy's got a weird knack for weird fans....'
Anyway, that was Buru's reemergence. Up to here, no big issue. A fan of streamer Professor Park, praying daily for a clear.
The problem: bored of waiting, it started hunting nearby powerhouses. Anything handy—Type 3 variants, exosuits on missions, armed vehicles. Killed for fun.
Two Type 3 variants, four exosuits, twenty-one armed vehicles fell to it.
No fixed lair, zipping around at high speed.
Sudden Type 3 death? Buru's handiwork.
"....Figures. Thought that cold-blooded bastard was giving us a break for once."
"If Buru killed the three-headed one, it'd need time to recover condition."
"Yeah. Heal up. Spent earnings, so time to blow some cash. Family men see their faces. Damn it all."
Gulp—gulp—
Thud!
"So. What's our job? Fact-check and bounce. Want it dead? Hand over half our exosuits."
"Neither. Your mission: secure the currently stationary 'three-headed variant' carcass."
"Carcass? Dead Type 3 variant's?"
"....Didn't I say 'new era'?"
The Commander gestured, and his guard fetched two more bottles from the chiller.
'Two bottles.'
This wasn't wrapping up quick.
****
"Ugh—urp! Ow, sis-in-law. Sorry. I'm a bit...."
"It's fine. Saw your chat with the Commander dragging on—knew it'd end like this. Vex? I'm good, can you move Ian to the bed?"
....Pat pat.
[Drunkard / Floor / Suitable]
As Dana rose from bed, Vex signed quickly then propped Ian against the corner wall in reply.
Late evening. Back from visiting hours in Dana's room, the group waited hours to greet a plastered Ian.
His flushed face, red to the roots, brimmed with defeat and frustration.
"Cynthia. Clear that vase by the window? Vex, sir, pat his back—"
"Ah, ah, no need.... Urp! Not gonna puke.... Don't. Wasted good booze, no spitting it up."
Slumped in the corner, burping enough to fill the room with alcohol stench, Ian finally looked alive.
Ian was thick-skinned in body and soul, but hearing the air purifier whir like it faced a lifelong foe next to him? Embarrassing.
"Kuhhh.... Better. I'm no lightweight, never lost a drink-off. What's Alexander Young's deal? Desk jockey chugs like that? Face didn't even twitch, damn it."
"Commander Young's tolerance is legendary. Rejects all gifts but booze, and keeping the office booze-free? Everyone in the executive branch knows."
"Huuu.... Bastard. 'Cyborg' my ass—bet he yanked his liver for the latest detox implant."
Pat pat.
[Pointless Fight / Avoid / Combat Power Loss / Negative]
"What, man. But he stands tall, 'No water. Got milk if you're struggling—speak up.' How do you bail? Treating a human metal gear like a kid. Ughhh... Dying."
[Solo Action / 1300-1800 / What Talk / ?]
"Hm? Oh, right. Gotta explain that."
Instead of dredging boozy memory through tangled talks, Ian handed over the Commander's special binder.
Thud—
Papers scattered from drunken fumble. Amid them: variant photos, traits, complex formulas galore.
"This.... what is it?"
"Variants. Ones plaguing the Dome, their traits. Dissection data from captures, etc. You know."
Dana involuntarily inhaled. Variant dissection records. Traits, uses described.
Hottest community debate lately—impossible not to grasp the implications.
=========
[Is it ethical to use parts from 2.5 and Type 3 variants, or not?]
=========
It started with surging unique variant corpses and their incineration-resistant byproducts.
Most common half-baked Type 3s: evolved for self-protection.
Their hides: lightweight as wood planks, yet tough enough to deflect large-caliber rounds, workable without laser cutters—quite usable.
Incinerator folks started smuggling byproducts. With Surveillance confiscating guns like lost limbs, folk in insecure refugee camps bought them for custom protection and weapons.
Started crude: rope-tied armor. Confirmed blocking variant claws on defensive line? Then claws, eyes, glands, even meat. Ripped and repurposed wildly.
Dome banned it, but frontline soldiers facing variants daily couldn't ignore proven performance. Trend: "New Scale Mail" under uniforms from woven hides.
Ethically insane. Even if 2.5/3 Types were monstrous, originals were human.
Harshly: like cannibals crafting jewelry and clothes from human femurs and ribs.
Beyond ethics, humanity's edge: can humans cut and shape human bodies for use?
"That's.... the Dome officially doing it? The group restoring past justice?!"
Stunned Dana's cry got Ian smacked by Vex mid-cigarette reach.
"Ow ow.... Nah, turns out not. Variants seem monstrous, but no physics-defying mysteries. Conclusion: when bulking up, they suck in nearby organics—evidence."
"No mystery.... Scientifically provable?"
"Some. Makes this insane biological evolution, right? Die, body to dust—total energy efficiency or whatever. That tough hide? Carbon from body plus surroundings fused. Like honeycomb or wood fibers birthing new materials—study well-evolved variants, leap tech levels."
Not restoring old tech—creating new.
Why Commander stressed "new era."
"Yeah. Sketchy as hell, sure. But Einstein got autopsied pronto post-death. Research material's fine. Scavenger eyes or Dome kids'—okay."
"But.... perception matters most, right?"
"Yep. Dome—champions of era's last justice—officially using 'variant byproducts' for research or whatever. How that'll look? Obvious."
Siiiip—
Ian trailed off, swallowing words. Needed a smoke now.
Already "Cleaners"—new job collecting, dismantling variant corpses professionally. Black market even had "Apoc Smiths" sorting, processing by trait.
Dome rumor of official byproduct use? Black market to GG Exchange.
Ethics? World where dubious "cheap meat" demand never died—what ethics?
Commander needed all that booze to broach new era: probably this.
"He probably anticipates. Starts research-only, but when variant corpse taboo fades? Dome'll make byproduct gear too."
"Ian. Never faced outsiders' extremes, so no judging them. But Dome's values collapsing okay? Refugees tilting opinion, sure—but built by folk drawn to past values and justice."
"True. Morals, justice. But sis-in-law, reality barrels like trucks or seeps like rain. Frontline daily: truckloads of ammo turn to daily rations. Overheating electro-poles red-hot, frantic repairs. Hits everyone: 'We'll dry up like this. Need alternatives.' Variant byproducts? Perfect for their vague dread."
Ian rummaged papers, pulled a photo sheet.
Game-like bizarre gear filled it.
=========
*Exhibit 7. Deodorizing, grinding device from Type 3 variant 'Cocoon Bird's' cloaca.
=========
"Air purifier from that Type 3 our kids shredded for the incinerator—or thought. Kid's trike power suffices."
=========
*Exhibit 3.
Flame projector from 2.5 Type's gland.
=========
"This.... trophy from raptor scout skirmish. Runs on damn bio-diesel, apparently."
Photos detailed power, pros/cons. End: Dome gunsmiths' assessment, signed.
[Most ready for frontline deployment now]
Flip. Flip.
"38th Sector admin chief. Thought we escaped that maniac's variant wave.... Maybe not. He already warped local ecosystem. The world we live in."
Drunkenly flipping, Ian yanked his target.
=========
*Exhibit 1. Professor Park.
- ~97% body variantized. Brain parts/consciousness still estimated human.
- Most exposed to 'Box' Orpheus energy; near-pure exposure locks body damage.
- Tried metals, prosthetics for defects—severe rejection, paused.
- Recent 'three-headed variant' tissue similarity to subject's. Expected to ease rejection.
=========
Daytime Professor Park pic.
Prepped transplants, half-assembled plamo-like.
Even Vex couldn't block Ian's cig this time—Ian exhaled pent-up frustration in smoke.
"This. Young that fucker always pulls this. Brings irresistible bait, irresistible ask. Says our job's fetch that three-headed carcass. Screw morals/ethics—this we gotta do. Right?"
Fuuu—
Ian laughed hollowly, puffing tangled emotions into smoke.
"....Two days, we roll out. Deep past line, and whatever killed combat Type 3? Extra dangerous."
Rustle—wobble!
Ian staggered up, flicked Dana's forehead as she fretted complexly.
"Eek—!"
"Heh heh heh. Don't overthink. Sis-in-law: game Prof lives. Us: real Prof lives. Best at what we can. That's it first. Urp—"
"....Yeah.... We're tiny individuals to change the world."
"Don't slump too. That moron abed? Tiny individual changed the world."
Unable to stand, Ian—propped by Vex/Cynthia—donned shades atop messy hair.
"Don't look too far, too close. Advance like him."
Click!
'Not too far, not too close....'
Ian's parting words sank Dana in thought. Tiny individual. But ranker with big external sway. What could she do?
Hearing Ian's retching and Cynthia's shrill curses next door, Dana pondered.
****
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