Chapter 237
Chapter 237
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 237
Chapter Title: Chapter 13. Hunter, Cleaner, and Swordsman (5)
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****
Damp, humid air.
A fishy, nose-stinging stench of rotting protein.
People clad in the rags scavengers typically wore, stuffed with who-knows-what, passing by with wary eyes.
Ian took a deep breath, etching every bit of it deep into his chest.
He hated to admit it, but this environment felt all too familiar—uncomfortably so—to someone who'd spent more time in the shadows than the light.
*Now this feels like a proper black market.*
The byproducts market inside was busier than he'd expected. In front of a butcher shop chopping up meat of dubious origin under red lanterns, people in worn hoods and blankets waited their turn. Next to it was a shop selling used blades, clothes, bags, and the like, all showing heavy wear.
Ian strolled past casually, giving the clothes a quick glance. At first blush, it looked like a simple secondhand barter spot, but given the location, plenty seemed suspicious.
*Patched spots are bullet holes. Long stitch marks are from knife wounds patched up.*
*The blades are barely cleaned, edges chipped and unsharpened. A machete like that could fetch full price with half a day's work, yet here it sits.*
Back when he worked as a weapons dealer, he'd seen plenty like it. Goods from scavengers—specifically the type called human hunters.
Stripped from corpses. Or made into corpses first, then stripped.
*No wonder the market seemed too clean, even under Dome oversight. Turns out there was a reason.*
As the shadow economy's byproduct market boomed, it carved out its own turf, naturally drawing in other illicit trades under its wing. Flesh markets, stolen goods. Drugs and moonshine. And of course, the wasteland staple that went without saying.
Ian scanned the passersby through his sunglasses. Hollow-eyed young man. Clacking cheap wooden prosthetic leg. Man in a thick cloak. Nervous-eyed guy clutching a long bundle like treasure....
“Hey.”
Ian yanked the last man's shoulder roughly toward him. A sharp intake of breath, and the gaunt man's hand darted to his chest, whipping out a dagger straight for him.
Ian knew exactly how the guilty reacted. Instead of dodging, he slammed down on the gripped shoulder. The man's blade sliced empty air as he lost balance, and a quick tuck of the extended arm against Ian's side snapped it easily. Pain and realization twisted the man's face.
“Argh! Let go, let me gooo! I paid up fair and square!”
“Shy one, aren't ya? Just asking for directions, and that's too much?”
Ian held the writhing man and nudged the long bundle he'd dropped with his toe, unraveling it. He checked the contents, then turned to the man.
“Gauss Rifle P-Type, huh.... Doesn't match the owner. Even if Dome's dumping transitional gear, owning something like this in an unlicensed deal—hell, in a black market where firearms are banned—must run you several million ceils easy....”
“T-This is headed to Radish!”
“Hoo. Radish, eh....”
At that, Ian loosened his grip on the man's arm. Thinking his bluff worked, the man ramped up, yelling triumphantly.
“Yeah! Anyone who haunts black markets knows how crazy Radish is! Even in White Whale territory, crossing him means death for all!”
“Oh dear. Then touching Radish's goods means I'm a dead man walking?”
“Heh, hehehe! Yeah! Radish has big plans for this haul! Begging won't save you now! I've memorized your face! Your face....”
Rubbing his freed arm, the man inspected his tormentor's face with puffed-up bravado. Backlit by the butcher shop's red glow: huge frame, short hair slicked back, lugging a coffin-sized case....
“Metaljaw....? Of BDSM?”
“Oh. You know your stuff. Even my face? This is bad. Dead meat now, huh?”
Tremble tremble, tremble tremble!
Ian grabbed the stumbling man's head as his legs gave out, baring his teeth in a villainous grin.
“Hey. Got some questions.”
“Eeeeek!”
The man nodded frantically as Ian's face loomed inches away. The crowd had ebbed back like a receding tide from the commotion; the BDSM mark on the big man's back stood out sharp in their eyes.
****
Surprisingly, this black market had a cafe. Not for tea or coffee, mind you—a drug den for weed and narcotics. But they sold decent smokes too, which suited Ian just fine.
The man dragged in by Ian's hand—Auker—seemed much calmer in the vibe. Partly because Ian bought him a drink instead of hauling him outside like he'd feared, and even treated him to a high-end cigar he couldn't dream of affording himself.
“So, you're not here on Dome orders. Here to deal?”
“Yeah, kid. If I was cleaning house, you think I'd come solo? I'd have my crew and Surveillance tailing. Just scouting good weapons to buy. Sell some surplus too.”
“But.... BDSM works with the boss....”
“Seen a dumber bastard? Hey, you said you work for that Radish guy—would you die if he said so?”
“W-Well....”
“Nah? It's business, all business! Dome pays best, so we link up. But we're wasteland operators at heart.”
“Hehe.... True. A powerhouse like BDSM, why bow to some desk-jockey boss? Hell, everyone alive owes their life to BDSM and Professor!”
“Damn right! You get it! Dome doesn't grasp how pricey life is out here.”
“Heh, hehehe! As wasteland scavs and shadow folk rubbing elbows, we know. BDSM carries real weight in the underworld. Major respect!”
“Khuhuhu! I like you! Another round?”
“Hell yeah! No fool turns down free booze!”
Ian clapped Auker's back heartily while quickly scanning the room.
*Weapon dealers mean the overseeing gangs are well-armed. Confirmed two so far: Radish and Moby Dick. This is Moby Dick turf, so those tails outside are theirs.*
What'd Professor do? He'd poke around, grumble like a dog needing to shit, then bam—move. Lacking that knack, Ian had to grab randos and pry.
Lucky break: not unified under one group. Split into at least two factions, and this guy wasn't from the alley's crew.
He'd clammed up on Radish but spilled freely on rivals Moby Dick, lubricated by booze.
“Firearms black market, fine. Prosthetics from mutant byproducts? What's that?”
“How the hell should I know whale hunters' every gig.... But their work's top-notch. Wasteland's crawling with limb cripples, right? Clean貫通's one thing, but bullets mean surgery few can do. Bad luck? Rot and amputate. They target those folks.”
“Fine. But byproducts?”
“Real prosthetics are complex beasts. No tech or factories for fine parts, so it's wood or plastic stubs hooked to stumps. These guys graft mutant bits for better movement. Being body-born, less infection than metal. Plus, BDSM's fancy Professor sparked a fetish for mutant limbs. Demand's high. Somehow got transitional gear too. Rake in cash with weapons and freak shit.”
Ian grilled him, earning a suspicious squint, but the gleaming jaw sold it—guy nodded, convinced.
“Anyway, origins? No clue. Just know they deal that. Spot's as said: alley between flour guy and flesh-loan joint. Real trades inside. Ahem. Booze covers this much. More, and the drunks behind'll smash bottles on my head.”
Auker pointed to men claiming seats around. Shabby cloaks, nursing drinks. Ian had clocked them: bulges under thin fabric screamed Moby Dick muscle. Likely chased the noise.
Ian pondered, then shook Auker's offered hand as he rose.
“Sorry for delaying. Greet Radish for me.”
“BDSM's Metaljaw buys a drink? Only an idiot passes. Good ten-minute chat, well paid. Next time, go easy—no barking.”
Auker grabbed his bundled rifle and vanished.
Ian watched, then—feigning the handshake—skimmed the note slipped into his palm and torched it with his lighter.
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This ain't booze money. It's life insurance.
Moby Dick's ex-Raptor. Walked out or planted? Doesn't matter—scavs've spotted that wheelchair fucker with Raptors plenty. Even legendary HIV's Metaljaw goes solo into their den, he's beehive chow.
Oh, and I don't work with those turnip cunts. Tusknip Delivery does dirty jobs, shady hauls, odd errands, grunt work. Basement pool hall in the gutted building two blocks down from pizza joint. Hit me up if you need. Won't be cheap. Debts clear now.
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“Underworld couriers, huh.... Three zones merged into Dome districts, so back-alley gigs specialized. Gangs diversify.”
Picked a guy with obvious hot cargo to shake down—not average. Freelance muscle bouncing between groups, walking the line. Those types hoard field intel; reliable stuff. Scored a haul.
Info on Raptor-linked Moby Dick and rival Radish. And BDSM—Professor specifically—burned deeper in wasteland minds than expected.
Ian felt the stares, stood.
“Good stuff. How much?”
As Ian rummaged his pockets, the cig-rolling barkeep slid a palm-sized metal case instead of a price.
“No cash needed. Take this. Packed with prime smokes. Heard you puff plenty.”
“....You too? Life debt?”
“Old fart with nothing left—Cubans ain't wasted. Three months back, that Type-3 mutant you guys dragged behind the tank.”
“Three months.... Ah, the striped tomcat with the whip tail?”
“Yeah. Ate my wife and girl. Now I can face their graves. Take it.”
Ian popped the case. Six fat cigars wafted deep, exotic scent from afar.
Grinning, he plucked one; the old barkeep trimmed and lit it.
“Killer stuff, literal. Thanks.”
“Some memories booze and time won't bury. Drop by when they bite.”
“Heh. Daily, then.”
“....Tough road, friend.”
Barkeep shook his head, turning away—time to go. Ian, business done, exited without a word.
Puffing the throat-searing stogie mellowed the murky black market air, feeling downright cozy.
Humming, Ian passed folks flinching at his jacket or tipping hats, heading to Auker's alley.
*Prosthetics.... Raptors ran heavy on those ticking cyborgs. Bound to research body mods. Not prudes shunning mutant byproducts.*
The narrow alley hooked inside, sloping down. Roughly pickaxed ramp to a cement-and-paint basement. Faded parking arm and corner B3 paint hinted at its past.
*Pre-Zeus melt, underground garage. Melted upper floors became ceiling; market rats hollowed it into a lair.*
Further in: hulking brute with complex pneumatic warhammer, woman with machine gun. Stances screamed pros. Ian tensed—body screaming enemy territory ahead.
Woman: both legs. Man: right arm, eye.
Eerily like Raptor's cyborgs he'd seen.
“BDSM's Metaljaw. Live long, see it all. Fire-breathing frog, gut-replaced Raptor shit, now the wasteland-famous spec-ops chief.”
“Amazed? Autograph?”
“Oho! Nice. Metaljaw's dying words—sell big.”
“Cut the crap, Mahler. So, BDSM's boss, bleeding for us fine folk outside—what brings you to the black market?”
Light banter masked kill-ready tension. Ian eyed distances, quipped back.
“Came for fun, caught eyes—believe that?”
“Pahaha! Lisa, this guy's better than me!”
Man gripped warhammer lever laughing; woman fingered machine gun trigger. Ian inhaled deep for the burst.
*Case blocks MG, shotgun the brute first. Narrow hall—rocket hammer swings flatten us.*
Smart pickets, thorough for criminals. Loyalty ignoring self-preservation.
Ian's Raptor suspicions hardened to certainty as standoff peaked—
“Enough! Always spoiling for fights after chow. Weld magnets to the ceiling to drag your asses in on schedule, you fucks.”
Squeaky wheels and grouchy old voice from inside. The pair startled, bolted inward. Angry flustered yells—“Elder!”—old man vs. duo echoed, but Ian stood dazed, no thought to strike their exposed backs, staring at the vanished alley.
Professor, Vex, Ian.
Never spoken, but all pondered once.
Raptor-held Sector 43, acquaintances left behind.
The familiar voice pulled Ian—unguarded—step by step toward the unknown-hostile alley.
“....If BDSM's Raptor, you know we grind teeth! You know how vicious Metaljaw is!”
“Ears ringing, girl. Why I stuck to turrets, no people back then.”
“Then use obedient turrets, not us!”
“Nah. Got furred once.”
Ian's mind clicked impossible puzzle pieces.
Grumpy, stubborn voice.
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‘Those whale hunters—’
‘Deal in cripples—’
‘Skills insane—’
=========
Auker said: group with killer prosthetic work.
Ian knew one such doc. Old man he'd thought dead, rebuilt his blown-off jaw.
Peeking trembling from alley, neon green cross lit his face.
“Holy fucking shit....”
[moby-DICK]
[Woojin Urology]
[Branch 2]
“Goddamn.... What unholy miracle! Whale hunters! Urology!”
Ian stepped out; guns trained from everywhere. He ignored, advanced.
“Old timer.... Fuck, really you?”
Ian flung off shades, disbelieving.
Wheelchair-bound elder. Stubborn face, wrinkled but firm skin, toned arms hinting past prowess.
In wasteland where missing equaled dead, six months silent was fact. Assumed gone with his clinic when Raptors took 43.
Elder Woojin.
“Been a while, lantern-jaw.”
“You alive?”
“Figured you wouldn't plate my funeral spread, so I scraped by longer.”
“Shit.... Fuck!”
Joy burst in Ian's chest, but curses spilled.
Where Elder Woojin's legs should be: empty. Looking a decade older.
“Old timer.... Those bastards.... What the hell....”
“Same old shit. Come in. Tune you up after ages. Got stories too.”
Squeak-squeak.
Ian stared at Woojin's receding back, blank long moments. Until reflex-punching the disarming man's jaw.
****
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