Chapter 238
Chapter 238
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 13
Chapter Title: Hunter, Cleaner, and Swordsman (6)
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****
Screech—screech—
“What happened to your legs?”
“They got cut off. Doesn’t seem like my eyesight’s gone bad, though?”
“I’m not asking what you can see, I’m asking about the details—who cut them off!”
“You wouldn’t know even if I told you.... Ah, but you would, wouldn’t you? That war freak Kessling and his ridiculous bastard in the red cape and bright red uniform. He said there’s no such thing as a free ride in this world—said he’d give me a lift in his car if I just covered gas money. Then he straight-up sliced off my legs and milked me with that machine of his. Got a decent haul out of it, too.”
“...Red bastard. Did he have a beard, by any chance?”
“Yeah. Styled it all fancy, pointing straight up. I could grow one for the rest of my life and all I’d get is a goatee.”
...Crunch!
“Mustang Redalert... Raptor. With Nest on the move, no wonder a Swarm Alpha showed up.... That hack Kessling—I saw him last as just a pack leader. Climbed all the way to direct subordinate of a Swarm Alpha already, huh.”
Ian’s eyes scanned Woojin, who sat in his wheelchair. Besides the empty space where his legs should be, there were plenty of other things that stood out. White scars covering his neck and face. Excessively neat fingernails. A face full of wrinkles like before, but with an awkward expression.
An old man’s nails weren’t that pristine. Unless he’d gotten a nail care treatment somewhere, the logical conclusion was that they’d been ripped out raw and grown back.
The awkward expression was a common aftereffect of electric torture. High voltage coursing through the body didn’t just cause momentary pain—it left permanent damage to the nervous system.
The Raptors hadn’t been satisfied with just cutting off his legs. They’d tortured him too. All kinds of pointless torture, more like entertainment.
Even without trying to recall, memories from the past bubbled up naturally, and Ian ground his molars. Raptor soldiers beating captured prisoners in a warehouse thick with cigarette smoke and booze stench. Tying hands behind backs and dragging them behind vehicles until their feet tore apart and they collapsed dead from exhaustion. Or threatening to kill anyone who fell while hanging them from a red-hot gun barrel. Every time Ian’s gaze brushed Woojin’s body, the scars conjured vivid images of the brutal abuse he’d endured, dragging up Ian’s own past, and the faces of the Raptor founders who’d turned Woojin into this—his own face among them, naturally.
Smack!
Spotting Ian’s breathing growing ragged, Woojin glanced where his eyes were fixed and whacked him on the head with the patient chart he was holding.
“That’s enough out of you. Not everyone gets off easy in the wasteland.”
“...Still. I’ve got no face left to show you, old timer.”
“You damn well shouldn’t. When I was holed up with those beast bastards, do you know how much I was hoping to hear from you guys? Just from the rumors, I figured Professor flipping mountains and seas with mutant powers, Metaljaw the bomb maniac, and psycho Vex with violence, fire, and blood would come charging into Nest any second. I even made secret flares just in case, but you never showed your faces till the end. Tch, heartless bastards!”
Woojin was scolding him with his words, but his face was smiling. His cackling made it clear he hadn’t really expected anything.
“You’ve got a ton of questions. And a ton to tell me. Hm.... Jawbreaker, you free today?”
“Uh.... Yeah. Pretty much.”
“Then go check out the market and grab dinner. We’ll talk then. I’m busy right now.”
After passing through a tunnel that was half underground parking garage, half melted ravine, three massive iron doors came into view. Each had a neon sign: a green cross, a silver coin, and a mark mixing bones and claws. Woojin wheeled toward the green cross.
Ian couldn’t hold back a word at the casual way he returned to work.
“Hey, hold up, old timer. I just reunited with folks I thought were dead, and not even a minute in, you’re like ‘work calls, see you later’? Did the Raptors brainwash you or something? Sociopath surgery?”
“Dead or alive, if I don’t go, they really will die. I left them mid-surgery with their leg chopped off. Let’s see.... Mahmmer? New guy today—when’d I anesthetize him?”
“Uh.... Poured about a 50-degree bottle down his throat, I think.”
“Damn. He’ll wake up soon, then.”
As Woojin pointed with his finger, a pain-filled scream echoed from inside in response.
—Kaaaaah.... My leg.....! Aaaah—Doctooor—
“...Hear that? That’s how it is. So, leave him be and go catch up on old times? Or check out the fun market full of sights and buys, then have dinner with good booze and meat while we swap stories?”
“Goddamn it.”
Woojin chuckled and patted Ian’s butt at his all-encompassing curse of a reply.
“Yeah, that’s the spirit, kid. Liza! Guide him around inside. First-timers need the rundown.”
“But....”
Bang!
Woojin shoved the iron door open with his wheelchair and rolled into the green cross room like he really was out of time. Soon after came sounds like an electric saw or industrial drill, and the nameless patient’s cries turned to even greater agony and pleas.
Leaving behind the echoing begs for mercy or death reverberating like an echo, Ian stood alone with Liza, the machine-armed machine-gun woman.
“...Even resurrected, I wanna beat the shit outta that old man.”
“Ugh, if he weren’t old, I’d just smash that nasty mug....”
.
.
.
.
“Hm?”
“Yeah?”
Having unintentionally agreed on Woojin, the two fiddled awkwardly with their weapons.
“Uh.... A bit late, but welcome to Moby Dick. Big shot.”
“Metaljaw. Or Ian. Either’s fine.”
“I’m Liza. Uh.... That was.... rude for a first meeting?”
“Eh, whatever. In the wasteland, a gun to the head’s just a light handshake if they don’t pull the trigger.”
To be honest, Ian preferred putting a couple holes in anyone—man or woman—who pointed a gun at him first as a lesson. But she was the old man’s subordinate, so he’d let it slide.
Unaware of his inner thoughts, Liza relaxed and spoke.
“Cool as you look. Follow me. Elder asked, so I’ll personally guide you through Moby Dick’s black market. What’re you here for? It’s a maze inside—knowing your goal helps with the tour.”
“Came to smash the place.”
“Hahaha! Good one....?”
Liza nearly admired the famous newcomer’s sense of humor, but her face paled when she saw him rummaging in the alley corner.
“T-Timer? Bomb?”
“Yeah. You think I’d stroll alone into a well-armed faction’s base? Planted some on the way in. Grabbing the ones near the entrance. The surface ones I’ll pick up on the way out.”
“N-Not a joke?”
“Depending, it could’ve been a joke or the real deal.”
Since it didn’t blow, it’s a joke.
Ian stuffed the retrieved bombs into his gun case and looked down at Liza’s stiff face.
“Well then. Miss with the alluring bronze skin like your silver one. Bit untraditional, but may I request an escort?”
Ian bowed exaggeratedly and kissed the back of Liza’s mechanical hand. The metal clank of his jaw against it drowned out the smooch, but with her face twice as stiff, mission accomplished.
“W-What....”
“Khuhuhu. Punishment for jamming a gun in my face right off. Let’s go. Time to see what kinda mess our old man’s stirred up.”
Ian grinned at the flustered Liza, paused before the two non-green-cross doors, then flung open the one with the silver coin neon.
“Oh ho.”
“...Weirdo. Welcome to Moby Dick, Dome Autonomous District’s real black market.”
Amid sweltering heat, subtle neon glows, and eerie flickers from drum-fire campfires, Ian nodded in understanding.
“The outside market’s just fancy packaging. This is....?”
“The real deal. Desperate refugees hauling pricey loot sell it all for a carrot chunk when rations run dry—piles of it.”
“Yeah. Speaking of, our old man.... Was a wild mercenary back in his youth, right?”
Ian nodded, picturing Woojin’s flashy past. It reeked more illegally than the fake outside market, but without the initial disgust. He knew why easily enough.
Clatter-rattle-rumble—!
Right before his eyes: a slot machine spilling 7.62mm rounds instead of chips, and behind it, a gun shop stacked mountain-high with firearms.
“Thinking of blowing a place like this. You’ve come far, Metaljaw.”
“Huh? H-Hey! Wait up! Metaljaw!”
Liza hurried after Ian, who strode inside without waiting for her guidance. His eyes gleamed with the excitement of a five-year-old at Disneyland.
****
“Slot machine? Heh heh heh, my masterpiece. Got 7-rounds? Pop ’em in and spin. All real, usable ammo. M30s. Gothic? Or all-the-barrel-you-can-eat? Wanna sell, lemme know.”
“Number 8, 15, 47!”
“Oho. Big spender to match the build?”
“Gimme everything but those!”
Real gunsmith!
“Hm? Well, well! If it isn’t the BDSM boss gracing my shop? Sample sip on the house! Sweet port wine beats hard liquor for partying! Cheap too! Take it!”
Liquor shop that’d make Chief Geon foam at the mouth for forced confiscation!
“Ohooo. Metaljaw himself? Fancy meeting a fellow industry celeb. You favor e-bombs, but how ’bout some old-school dynamite nostalgia?”
“Hah.... Got nitro glycerin?”
“Heh, telling you ’cause you’re you: mixed mutant secretions with similar properties, wrapped sodium in beeswax....”
Real rare explosive specialist!
“Aaaah. Woojin. You survived for this, no doubt. Truly, old man, you are....!”
“Huff, huff, slow down!”
Ian floated in heaven on earth. Useless cash piled up rotting, every item perfect for him, service top-notch.
Clink clack—
Ian eyed the wooden tags filling his pockets and hands lovingly.
[New Rumchata x 15]
[New Vodka x 100]
[New Dynamite x 30]
[Fire Revolver x 1]
[.357 Rounds x 225]
.
.
.
.
Coming to, the shop owners mirrored his happy grins, and the stall keepers he’d passed tidied up with the same smiles.
Even delivery for bulk buyers like him. Dropping that Aukker guy’s name earlier? They knew him—apparently his gig was black market courier.
“How’s it hit, Metaljaw? Pretty good, right?”
“I’m moving here.”
“...Huh?”
Liza blinked at the unexpected reply.
“When that Professor bastard shows, we take this place or BDSM merges with Moby Dick—I’m living here. Aaaah.... Paradise on earth for one denied heaven.... Moby.... I’m happy now....”
“Hahaha. First-timers all make your face. No wastelander ignores better guns. That’s why we snag the prime entrance spot.”
“Bonus: turn invaders into hives on approach?”
“Plus, if inspectors come, stuff they can kinda deny.”
Ian snapped back a bit at Liza’s words. Right, illegal. Yeah. Original plan: scout shady goods district, torch it if needed.
“So deeper in’s got the totally indefensible stuff?”
“Yup. Elder said guide you, and you seem tight, so showing it. Personally, not sure you should see. Wanna go?”
“Uh.... Gotta.... see, right?”
Ian glanced back like a kid robbed of candy, at Liza, back again.
Tear himself from that gunpowder-and-oil-soaked street?
Heart-wrenching, but with iron will, Ian turned.
“How far?”
“Not too. Building ain’t that big.”
“Good. Quick peek and back.”
He’d erased thoughts of inhuman horrors or sinister plots from the moment he saw Woojin.
Might as well check mutant byproduct uses, people’s reactions, then return to weapons.
Exactly five minutes later, Ian nearly strangled a happily peddling merchant.
****
“Cough, cough, cough! Gack, keh! Ugh.... Blech!”
No fuss planned. Woojin was his benefactor; whatever changed him, this byproduct market and underground black market were his business. Just browse quietly, buy what caught his eye.
Until he spotted a leather jacket identical to his—big BDSM mark stamped on it.
“Yeees~ This is the place! That hot-topic booze! Black market fever hits the surface—sold even in that outer market, rumor says Chief Geon bought crates! Moon Glow! Home of the moon-haze liquor! A taste even a lifelong boozer’s never had! In this vanishing world, taste this monumental new brew! Sample iiiit~”
Crowds swarmed the energetic hawker yelling bare-chested from the platform, clamoring for a bottle.
Problem: that face was too damn familiar.
Dorian. The subordinate who’d first let him taste Moon Glow.
That bastard, selling here.
“Why. The hell. Are you. Here.”
“Cough, cough! Boss, how’d you....”
“How? Howwww—? Sniffed out my caravan-mascot jacket on a joyride subordinate and tracked you, you punk!”
He’d first thought some crazy squadmate sold the precious, symbolic leather jacket, ending up in the black market. Gambling loss, emergency cash—whatever, just that one flowed here. BDSM popular, high demand for jackets. Came close to buy it back....
“Aigoo, boss! L-Listen. Lemme spiiiin—urk!”
“Listen my ass. I saw with my own eyes. When’d I ever teach you punks with words?”
And the owner was here. Passionately hawking some new-era booze.
“Ow! L-Liza! Outsider beating merchant! Heeee—gack!”
“Merchant? What? BDSM side hustle? Startup cash gig?!”
“Cough, no—urk! Ao, seriously! Talk, damn it! Gotta explain to clear the misunderstanding—nooo!”
Grab!
Crash!
Headlocked and pummeled relentlessly, Dorian seized a moment when Ian’s arm loosened, flipped him over, and bolted behind the stall.
Ian, buried in a booze pile, kicked boxes up and rose. Drenched in liquor, murder now blazed in his eyes.
“Khuhuhu. Khuhuhuhu.... Ow, my back. Beat thug punk into shape, trained him, even hooked him up with a real job. And he bites me? Hey. Ready to end it now? Forgot the old days since I went easy?”
“N-No, that’s not—argh! Come on! I got beat till I couldn’t breathe, face flat—overreacting for one toss!”
“Fine fine. Finally get it. Missed my fists? Shoulda said.... Right? No plans till dinner anyway—time to etch manners, dignity, loyalty into your bones proper. Come on, punk! Best shot! Gun, blade, fist! Bring it!”
“H-Hiiiik! S-Spare me!!!”
Ian’s eyes rolled back as he lunged into the stall like lightning. Dorian fled to his sole ally in panic, dragging the two onlookers onto Ian.
One was Liza, his assigned guide. The other....
“Leggo, Budram. Won’t? Mutiny and die. You’re next after that punk.”
“Aigoo boss, bro!”
Dorian’s constant black-skinned bald buddy, Budram.
“B-Boss? Remember what we do meeting psy-3 mutants? Deep breath—deep breath. Good thoughts, nice thoughts. O—give me narcotic peace. Calm down, hear him out slow. Dorian’s got reasons. Just covering for an acquaintance short-term, see.”
“Huff, huff, covering.... for someone?”
“Y-Yeah! We ain’t together long, but intense, right? Betray boss? No way! Right, Dorian?”
“Y-Yeah! Love ya, Metaljaw! Love BDSM! Praise Professor! Praise!”
As Ian seemed to calm, the two begged desperately, pathetic eyes upturned.
Ian steadied his somewhat calmed breath, eyeing knee-crawling Dorian and Budram just out of reach.
“Fuuu.... Right. You two snuck out for fun, stumbled into black market?”
“Yes!”
“Found the real-deal Moby Dick by chance too?”
“Y-Yeah....?”
“Ran into an acquaintance by chance? He was busy, handed off to that punk short-term? And it just happened to be in my sight not even 30 minutes after setup?”
“Uh....”
Sweat beaded on their foreheads; Ian’s smile bared his molars.
“Ahahaha.... World’s full of funny coincidences.... Right? Kinda like fate.... Yeah? Boss?”
“Khuhuhu.... Yeah. Could be. Sure.”
“R-Right?”
“Yeeeah. Me doubting my kids—especially assault squad punks I eat, sleep, shit with daily? Nah.”
“A-Ahaha....”
“Khuhuhuhu....”
Awkward laughs hung between Dorian, Budram, Ian.
.
.
.
.
“...Bullshit.”
“Fuck! We’re dead! Tackle!”
“Waaah!”
Laughter cut—lightning-fast, Ian’s hand dove into his coat as Dorian and Budram launched at him.
As his subordinates, they knew exactly what he’d draw first when reason snapped.
Thus, the grenade from his coat had allies hanging off his arm before it could fulfill its purpose.
“Stop him! Stop!”
“Hold it in, please! That tiny shop’s my cousin’s dream and hope—!”
“Let go, punks! I got cash! Burn it clean, compensate your cousin with money!”
Ping-!
“U-Uwaaak! He pulled it! Pin’s out!”
“Liza!! Call Moby folk! We’re all dead!”
“Yeah! Die, punks! Told ya no trouble, play nice—making moonshine in black market?! Die!!!”
Ian trusted his strength, but against two BDSM powerhouses and prosthetic-armed Liza clinging desperately, he couldn’t budge.
Moby Dick folks snatched the grenade from the raging madman’s hand, re-pinned it. Gawkers who’d gathered for booze gripped weapons, watching the farce.
“...Keh. Good house.... Service killer. Booze and proper snacks too?”
A drunk who’d witnessed it all’s verdict.
****