Chapter 239
Chapter 239
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 13
Chapter Title: Hunter, Cleaner, and Swordsman (7)
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****
Wooin had been busy all day.
He tried to play it cool, but he was just as thrilled to see Ian alive again after surviving that brush with death.
So he rushed through his patients as quickly as possible, hoping to whip up a decent dinner...
“Ugh... Doc... I’m dyin’...”
“My back... no strength in my back. I’ve still got forty more years in me...”
“...Damn bastards.”
The patient load had doubled.
Wooin picked up the stiff medical chart and smacked the bruised, swollen heads of the men one by one.
“Real.”
Thwack!
“fine.”
Thud!
“job.”
Crack!!
“Ouch! Why’s mine hit the edge?”
“Hate the sinner, give him an extra rice cake. Love the saint, give him an extra lash, you idiot.”
Wooin let out a deep sigh as he watched Ian rub his head with a grimace.
How had the quiet young Desmond he’d first met turned into such a rascal?
He shook his head, realizing he was just spitting in the wind. Back when he’d rescued Ian from that scorched hillside, and during his recovery when Ian had been as emotionless as a statue, Wooin had been the only one by his side.
“Fine. How’d you end up picking a fight with these clowns? Fair warning—as head of this medical-hospital hybrid outfit, if you messed with my boys for no reason, I won’t let it slide. Especially not Munglow. He’s the golden goose keeping our skyrocketing med supply costs in check.”
“There... was a bit of a misunderstanding.”
“Oh. A misunderstanding. Best excuse in the book. Romeo and Juliet? The head of the Capulets died from one too. Those reckless teens killing themselves over poison? Misunderstanding. Wanna follow in the footsteps of the ancients? Should I let the ‘misunderstandings’ pile up until I have no choice but to peg you as a Moby Dick raider? Or spill it now?”
Ian chose his words carefully as the old man’s stubborn eyes pressed right up under his chin. Wooin was a good guy, but once he got offended, he’d grumble for over a month.
“Well... I thought these guys had paid their dues and quit the BDSM gig.”
“So what if they did? You lot chase the deadliest battlefields. Who in their right mind would choose that life? Even I’d ditch it for a recipe like this and go into business.”
Wooin clicked his tongue and wiped Ian’s face with an alcohol swab. Ian was built tough and strong, but with two burly subordinates hanging off him desperately trying to hold him back, some scrapes and bruises were inevitable.
“Exactly. I tried to see it that way, but these guys I shared meals with every day suddenly set up a legit business without a word? Felt off. Made me wonder if they never trusted me. And hanging our BDSM jumper there as ‘business bait’ while stabbing us in the back? Pissed me off.”
“So you decked them. But it was a misunderstanding, right? Meaning it wasn’t true?”
“The white twin next to him—the pale one—is the real merchant brewing and selling that Munglow booze. This one just stopped by the Dome and pitched in.”
“Ah, that explains why one of the faces looked off. I know all my crew’s mugs. The black one?”
“Haven’t gotten to that yet. Hey, Budram. What’re you doing here? Don’t tell me you’re Dorian’s long-lost brother or some birth secret crap.”
“If me and him came from the same womb, that’d end the race debate right there. Nah, Dorian said there was a good short-term gig, so I tagged along. Good pay, free booze—who says no?”
Ian, who knew exactly why the burly bald black guy was grinding away at earning cash, couldn’t help but be stunned. Back in the Dome after ages away, and instead of resting, he’s out job-hunting with a buddy.
“Crazy.”
“Pure heart.”
Ian couldn’t wrap his head around his subordinate’s emotions—thumbs-up, flashing a white grin right in front of him—so he turned away.
“Anyway. That one’s here for work, the other tagged along.”
“So it’s all on you, then. Take another hit.”
Wooin lightly tapped Ian’s face with the chart before surveying the tidied sickbay. One compound fracture case, fresh off major surgery where they’d sawed nearly half his left femur. Then rushing to the byproducts market over a fight, alcohol on these lumps’ faces—outside was probably dark by now.
“...You came in looking all grim. Someone worrying if you’re late?”
“A few. Got a comms setup ready, alerted ‘em already. Don’t sweat it. Anyway, looks like no more business here?”
“Got it, kid. Cleared it early before more pops up. Follow me. Skipped lunch, starving this old bones—can’t even talk. Dinner first, then we chat. Plenty to cover anyway.”
The old man wheeled ahead with a grumpy face, leading the three swollen-faced men.
He guided them not to a dining hall but a shelf-warehouse, to a spot stacked with cans. Small tables between shelves, a wood stove—clearly where they ate normally.
“Fresh stuff’s opposite. Pick what you want.”
“Elder, we can really grab anything?”
“Hah, black market boss got that big-hearted vibe us commoners lack! Thanks for the feast!”
At Wooin’s ‘anything goes,’ Dorian and Budram lit up, grabbing various cans and stacking them on the stove. Ian’s appetite stirred too; he added five or six. Nowhere near fresh meat and veg, but the artificial sweeteners from a bygone era brought nostalgic joy.
Canned goods cost more than fresh—rarer.
By the time bellies were full, a round of booze loosened things up, Wooin finally spoke.
“Before we dive in, lemme guess why you’re here. Those black-and-white knuckleheads tight enough to trash a eugenics lab? Personal visit, sure.”
“Metal, you came down fully geared, killing intent wafting, but lit up seeing me—no grudge. So only one reason to trek this deep into the black market. Byproducts market related?”
“...”
Ian nodded heavily, and Wooin tsked, pointing his fork.
“Knew it. That damn guy egged you on. ‘Morals this, new era that.’”
“Spy cam in his office? You know him too well.”
“Only care about what’s blown up or will. Obvious you’d move on this. Hell, I gave a Dome speech on it once. Guy’s silver-tongued. Sounds like ‘new era inevitable,’ but the gaps scream the downsides.”
“...Kinda true, right? Mutants were human once. Ripping ‘em apart for parts...”
Ian trailed off, hard to articulate, and Wooin swished the chart like stirring words from the air.
“Yeah, yeah. Simmer that doubt just right, now storytime. Lemme see... I got nabbed after Dome and Raptor Society threw down, right?”
Wooin’s wrinkled eyes narrowed, distant, peering into the past. He was a man Ian respected for his strength, but even he’d had rough times—his lips twisted recalling it.
“Yeah. Raptor Society pushed to swallow all 43 districts. Reptile bastards claimed my hospital turf, so I went at ‘em... got shredded. Hundreds of turrets can’t stop tanks.”
Ian listened calmly. Casual tone hid fierce battle. Wooin was once a legendary merc himself; hospital had others indebted to him helping run it.
“So... captured. Then like I said at lunch—legs hacked, crippled, stuck doing medical grunt work for them.”
“With your temper? No way you played nice doc...”
“Tch. Stubborn ass paid for it. Thought ‘just die already,’ but that Kessling... beyond scum.”
Wooin paused, beckoning Ian’s bottle. Gulped it down, smacked lips, continued.
“Yeah. That bloodless punk’s threats broke righteous-death Wooin. Damn it, embarrassing in old age. Body old, heart too...”
A booze-laced sigh escaped the old man, his tale flowing among the four.
****
Back then, Wooin figured he’d die anyway. No legs, caught by tank-rolling human-squeezers. Lived enough, no attachments.
So facing torture tools neatly hung on the pristine white walls of the ‘consultation room,’ he stood tall.
=========
“Ptoo! Fuck off. No means no.”
“Hmm. That stiff neck won’t do you favors.”
“Old age stiffens everything. Joints, back. Nothing good comes from you reptiles, so kill me, punk. What, easy barking orders from afar, scary up close? Cherry commander to match the looks.”
Kessling wiped the thick phlegm from his chest, slightly impressed by the unflinching old man.
He’d just had subordinates pour fresh oil—squeezed from a recent prisoner—into the tank right in front of him. Red-tinged stuff taught captives their fate, tamed them. Should’ve broken the old guy.
But he got feistier. Fever raging from half-assed bleeding control, he jammed a hidden needle in the driver’s eye, nearly flipped the car; cursed till hoarse. Even post-torture, same defiant eyes.
Thought he’d die untreated, but nah.
‘...Waste.’
Kessling valued efficiency. Learning the ‘mercenary’ was the hospital director—top back-alley doc around—made recruiting smarter than killing. Hence, personally here amid chaos.
Tossed soiled glove, donned fresh, bent to meet the old man’s stubborn gaze.
“Want in our oil depot that bad? Won’t stop you. But waste that skill? Raptor’d treat a doc like you right. Expanding mechanized infantry, short-staffed medics. Even dung-rolling beats hell—you know the old sayings.”
“Ha! Think beasts turn human by talk? Dung field? That’s why it’s worth rolling in. Your path’s corpse field. Dirt washes; blood on killer hands doesn’t. Keep ‘em alive, they kill more? Been popping to the afterlife lately—karma from my young kills already maxed. Can’t pay doc-life interest, no more debt.”
“So free will says no serving Raptor Society, huh.”
.
.
.
.
Sigh.
Kessling exhaled deeply. Using a 100-resource at 80 or 70 irked his nature, but.
‘Better than zero.’
“Bring ‘em in.”
Signaled outside; subordinates dragged in a line of bound prisoners like dried fish. Kessling checked his pistol chamber.
“This...”
“You know ‘em, old-timer. Raptor troops are vets—kill plenty, but not cage-savvy. Labor, meat, oil—live humans fresher, useful than corpses.”
Wooin ground his teeth at the battered crew: his taciturn burly pharmacist, nurses, live-in old-timer helper his age, and his young granddaughters.
“Don’t love threats. Time sinks, shatters wills beyond repair, drops efficiency.”
Kessling shook his head regretfully, raised pistol, blew a temple shot.
No death cry; body dragged out. Soon, a full yellow-oil PET bottle returned.
One corpse, one bottle.
Kessling lined empty bottles from the corner beside the full one.
Beaten mute, they trembled; no needless words between glaring Wooin and Kessling—he’d talked plenty.
Click. Bang-!
The nurse who brought daily snacks daily crumpled. Returned as full bottle.
“Stop...”
Click.
Bang!
The big pharmacist wrestling stubborn patients for extra meds—full bottle.
Kessling’s mechanical gaze shifted; Wooin’s beastly groans broke.
“Stop... stop! STOOOP! Enough, you filthy beast-!”
Bang!
Thud.
“Ugh... guh...!”
Four bottles filled, Kessling halted the silent slaughter.
“How ‘bout it. One more? Kids small—both barely fill one.”
Wooin bowed his head at the shell-shocked, tearless girls. Knew they’d die by Raptor hands anyway, same end—but instant human-to-resource crushed their lives’ meaning visually, horrific.
“...Where’s the clinic.”
Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.
“That’s it. That attitude, old-timer. Always prioritize Raptor tasks above all. Unless you want the rest filled.”
Kessling wiped blood-spattered face and uniform with white glove, tossed it at Wooin’s face.
“To celebrate restored relations, that oil’s yours. Winter coming—plenty uses. Their last warmth.”
Satisfied, like business done, Kessling kneaded Wooin’s shoulder encouragingly, headed out. At door, turned with forgotten-smile.
“Oh. If keeping those girls, one favor. You’re a doc.”
“...What.”
“If their periods stop, mind their health extra.”
“Wha...?”
Wooin paled, turning. Two staggering teen girls, dead-eyed, mute.
Remembering them playing in his hospital, the shock crushed him.
“All Raptor assets, right? Generational loyalty... love it.”
Hahahahaha.
Dry laughter filled the room.
Wooin lingered on the hand’s feel on his shoulder. Voice. Eyes. Gait. Speech. All. With shame, sorrow, boiling rage.
=========
“That’s how I became Raptor’s doc.”
“Fucking scum...”
A chilling grind—metal teeth on human—escaped Ian at Wooin’s monologue.
****
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