Chapter 24
Chapter 24
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 24
Chapter Title: Chapter 3 For That Handful of Silver Coins (7)
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***
If I had to sum up the impression of this man who called himself 'Metal Joe' in one sentence,
it would be 'heavily armored macho white guy.'
"Try saying that one more time, nice and clear. You're telling me that the moment you laid eyes on my gun— this shotgun I've cherished like a wife for the past few years— you thought, 'Yeah, I need to return this,' right?"
Ah, correction. 'Heavily armored, extremely pissed-off macho white guy.'
"Look, you're the one selling the item, right? 'DOOMgay'?"
"Fick dich selber! I don't sell to idiots who can't appreciate an item's value, 'professor.' That's why I insisted on a face-to-face deal, even if it meant taking a small loss."
'So that's why he requested a direct trade.'
You see guys like this in the wasteland all the time. Obsessed with some weird bullshit philosophy, willing to take a hit just to stick to their rules.
'Or maybe this guy's just loaded enough that a little loss doesn't faze him?'
That explosive he used to wipe out the mutant horde earlier had to cost over 100,000 silvers easy. Spice merchant, huh... Guess even in this world, plenty of folks still crave fine dining.
"Hey, Metal Joe. How about putting that gun down first before we talk..."
"My answer comes first. What exactly about this barrel pointed at your head don't you like? This beautiful curve, the sharp, metallic tang that tickles your nostrils. The grip that hugs your hand soft as a mother's embrace. Tell me, which part made you think this beauty's no good!"
"Well, it's not that I don't like it, but I've got circumstances..."
"Those circumstances better not be enough to overlook this perfection!"
In the cavern where the mutant corpses blazed, Ian's excited voice echoed thunderously.
"Look closely! These magnificent double barrels! Humans have two hands, two feet, two eyeballs! Two is the most perfectly balanced number! These two barrels are like a wife's killer rack, stretched out just right! I've loved this gun my whole life. And you— you look at my love and talk about refunds?"
"No, what I mean is..."
The professor opened his mouth to speak, then glanced sideways at Bex, who was watching them from behind with a 'what the hell is this?' look.
'Well, he's trustworthy enough. It's not some big secret anyway.'
A bit of personal backstory couldn't hurt.
"I really like that shotgun, but I need cash in a hurry, so I have no choice but to return it."
"....Hmph!"
Ian glared at the professor for a moment, then turned toward the door.
"Fine, then I'll hear out your situation and judge for myself. Let's move first. Fire in a sealed space like this— oxygen's gonna run out soon."
"....You knew that and still sprayed explosives like that?"
"How else do you blow shit up if you're fussing over little details?"
"....Is it the concept?"
"It's soul."
Jesus. He's serious.
Muttering that, Ian dragged out a massive angular backpack and two ammo crates as big as his torso from amid the corpses, brushed the flecks of flesh off his gear, and strode toward the door.
Bex had been looking pretty worried since earlier.
"Hangman, just so you know, some scavengers classify Metal Joe as a psycho gang type..."
"Yeah, I can see why."
Recalling some old trend about 'their whole mindset is just alien to us,' the professor followed after Ian, who was thumping off into the distance. He wasn't their enemy yet, and that lunatic's firepower was too tempting to pass up for companionship.
***
As they headed to the next floor, the professor quickly explained his situation.
"....And that's how it went down."
"Complicated shit. No time, so sum it up quick. Profe.... Oh, right, Hangman outside?"
"Hepburn."
"Hangman's right, asshole."
"Hmm.... Hepburn sounds better. Anyway, Hepburn's out here returning his gun because of some debt that crazy AI saddled him with, and then this event pops up in Sector 45, so he teams up with this little guy to clean house?"
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Whatever was in Ian's bag, every step he took while running sent vibrations rumbling through the corridor.
"Pretty much.... Can we go quiet? You're not advertising 'mutants this way,' you know. You'll drag every freak in the neighborhood."
"Stealth's for pussies in baggy underwear. Real men face enemies head-on and pump lead till they bloat!"
"....Hangman, do we really need to stick with Metal Joe? Brainless meathead who doesn't know jack about strategy is just a landmine in the wasteland."
"Ha! Those guys herded the mutants anyway— no stragglers left around! Old man, if your balls are cold, grab a trowel, not a gun."
The professor's attention, which had been alert for any approaching mutants, snapped to Ian.
Scavengers. Herding. Key intel.
"They herded the mutants your way and kept going?"
"Yeah. You know how I fight— flashy style draws 'em in. Was picking off the front-runners on the way down when these ragtag bastards come swarming, dump their trailing mutants on me, and bail."
"Didn't join you going down?"
"Tried to, but they hunkered at the corridor's end and hosed me with suppressing fire. Took a couple rounds to the arm and had to fall back. Mutants filled the hall in the meantime, pushing me back to that spot."
Ian lifted his arm, and sure enough, blood seeped through the bandages wrapped around it.
"Anyway, that's the sitrep. Now let's clarify our deal?"
"Deal.... Specifically?"
"Team up for a bit."
Ian held up two fingers.
"Two things I want. First, mutants I can handle by the hundreds, but people? Messy. I'd appreciate you and your friend helping me out."
"Hmm. Not a bad offer..."
We'd have to tangle with them anyway to reach the shelter at the bottom.
"But tell me exactly what help you need."
"Obvious, right? Romance!"
Boom!
They'd reached the corridor's end, facing stairs marked 'Emergency Exit.' Ian turned back with a grin.
"Warehouse of old-world rich folks! Think they only packed survival essentials? Hell no! Eye-popping priceless paintings, gold bars as eternal currency, and best of all!"
Bang bang!
"These! Machines that make a man's heart race! Lamborghini! Jaguar! Ferrari! Harley Davidson! Ducati! Beasts with engines pulsing like living hearts! Hoo! That's what I'm here for!"
Rrrumble-!
Fist pumping the air mid-rant, Ian set down his angular backpack and popped the lid.
"Help me secure the machines! In return, grab whatever you need, no limits. Especially you, Hangman!"
Slap-
Ian shoved the shotgun—his 'wife'—into the professor's arms like foisting off baggage.
"Refund's on hold. Use her. Feel the difference with your hands between that junk on your back and Meine Liebe! If you still want a refund after, I stake Metal Joe's name on it. That's condition two."
Hmm.... Got a read on this guy's type. Classic. Straight out of a movie. Like a B-grade splatter flick.
"You baby this thing like a wife, but why're you so desperate to sell her to me?"
"Hm? Oh, that."
Scratching his head, Ian pulled a three-barreled shotgun from behind his back.
"Cuz I got a wife with three tits now!"
What the fuck.
"....Earlier you said two's the perfect balanced number?"
"Exactly why it's even hotter! Three barrels! Unbalanced! Chaotic charm! Criminal!"
Thud!
His metal bag clanged open, stuffed to the brim with explosives, firearms, and ammo.
"Go on! Take what you need, no hesitation!"
"....You're a spice merchant, right? Where's the goods?"
"Hm? Right here!"
Ian grabbed a fistful of shotgun shells from the bag, crammed them into the professor's pockets with his huge hand, then rolled one between his fingers.
"These babies. Booze, smokes, and gunpowder! Spice of life, what else? Metal Joe, purveyor of hot spice for bland existences!"
Armed to the teeth with ammo and weapons from his own bag, he bellowed a laugh and headed down the stairs.
"Come on, friends! Time to taste life proper!"
***
Sublevel 3.
The rowdy vibe after Ian joined had long sunk into a heavy silence as thick as the darkness here.
Tap tap.
"[Tracks / Left three / Moving]"
"[Tracks / Right fifteen / Moving]"
On the way down, he'd told Ian ahead of time: Enemies seem pro-level, so approach stealthily without revealing position, hit 'em fast with explosives to start the fight. No noise, follow carefully from behind.
Luckily, he wasn't a total lunatic— grumpy face, but still quiet and compliant so fa—
"Feige Mädchen.... Facing enemies like a scared rat.... Ugh, can't let my lady see this...."
Crunch-!
Not quite. Bex was desperately hanging on, restraining Ian, who eyed his gun with dangerous intent.
'These guys.... They're moving without clearing mutants. Even splitting off squads periodically in other directions. That's encirclement tactics for rear pursuers....'
The professor eyed the quietly clicking pair right behind him.
Tracks showed they still had some distance, even if small.
'Just three of us, so this combat zone's laid for a bigger group. Come to think of it, we saw battle traces coming in, but zero looting. Even skipping valuables, they'd check locked doors, right? No telling what's inside?'
Retracing the path chasing them, the enemy's shape emerged.
'....Not in it for money. Not scavengers.'
Who, then? The professor recalled what he'd seen passing by. Oddly sophisticated booby traps. Methodical, organized movement. On Sublevel 3—shelters in grid with blind spots, narrow paths—setups like they were geared for urban warfare....
"....Dome."
"What?"
"From now on, voice codes for names. Bex is V, Ian is I, I'm H. Memorize."
"Hey, what's going—"
"Voice down. The ones dug in ahead are from Dome. One letter of our names leaks, they'll ID us and our homes in seconds and hunt us down."
"....Trash. No wonder their moves were slick."
"Hangman, why Dome...."
Shh-
"V, mouth again?"
"....H."
"Yeah. Can't say exactly. Guess.... They're prepping for a big clash here. Shaping a battlefield they're comfy with. What foe would make Dome elites prep this thorough, heading this way?"
"Raptor....!"
"Bingo."
"Heh heh heh, Scheisse! I get it now. We're caught in the whales' fight, huh?"
The professor just nodded silently at Ian's question. A guess, but near-certain.
'Dome elites disguised as scavengers targeting Raptors. Don't want traces left. Hiding Dome's presence here. Thinking post-battle fallout. Why? If they want Raptors less interested.... No way!'
The professor ran his hand over the wall he leaned on.
Sturdy outer wall built for nuclear war. Cracked here and there, but water seepage meant good groundwater links, and above all, generators inside to power 70 shelter units. Not the portable ones I want, but massive ones buried deep in the structure. Building with power and durability intact.
'Dome's expanding territory this chance. Use Raptor Society—can't ignore treasure like this—to crush scavengers, quietly kill the entering Raptors, secure the whole building for use. Clean the interior, and Dome techs can fix busted facilities. Restore power, use internal bulkheads to block outsiders. Hold till main force arrives to defend, birthing Dome #2 here.'
Long train of thought, one conclusion.
Caught in real whale fight by mistake. One wrong step, no surviving.
Shoulder tap from behind. Turning, Bex thumbed the stairs: let's bail.
'Wanted to ages ago.... But looks tough, that's why I'm pondering.'
Dome elites entering combat prep.
If Raptors were far, no wasting energy on needless tension. This planned op meant spotters watching external entries, so prep start signals Raptor Society force entered underground.
Tap tap.
"[Rear / Enemy / Many / No retreat]"
Signaling Bex sneaking back and Ian creeping forward to huddle, they hugged the wall tight. Two mutants en route quietly handled by Ian and Bex. Area secured, Bex asked tensely.
"No retreat mean?"
"Raptors' legion likely inside already. Exiting Sublevel 3 fine, but climbing bumps into them."
"If those dog bastards are thick, only way's one of us charging with bombs—"
"Veto."
Spot on, but they always pack miniguns or flamethrowers for fights. Frontal breakthrough's suicide.
"Escape plan?"
"....Rely on luck for now."
Hostiles: three. Dome elites, Raptor legion, mutants. Wild card: mutants.
"If they aim heads well, no worries...."
"Like those street-fighting-obsessed Dome bitches would. They'll plink torsos."
Mutant virus more parasite than virus. No symptoms till full-body spread, activates on host death—seizes control at consciousness cutoff, strengthens and puppets the body.
Fresh corpses post-death: Type 2. Type 2 decays over time, skin/muscle rotting/weakening: common Type 1. Healthy death, body resists till alive during mutation: Type 3, perfect mutant.
Dome research: 90%+ population carriers now. Die without headshot or fire? Rise as mutant.
'In this melee, can't headshot all—most severe wounds turn Type 2.'
Type 2: sharper senses than humans, insane strength/speed. Few mutating mid-fight snowballs chaos fast.
'Use that chaos: carve escape space from battlefield.'
Professor's edges clear.
Nobody knows we're here yet. We roughly know who fights when. And finally....
"Damn. Gotta ditch the machines."
That wasteland idiot hauling impossible explosives. Grenades/bombs in his bag plus surprise factor? Not impossible.
'Best if all my imagination, and those ahead just shrewd scavengers....'
....Step, step, step, step
"....Fuck."
Regular footsteps growing louder from above. Better ditch that hope.
***