Chapter 28
Chapter 28
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: Eyelids (1)
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***
What the hell is this?
The next morning, clutching his pounding head from the hangover, Professor stared at the object sitting right in front of him, lost in deep thought.
[ Huang Dao ]
...Peach illustration, yellow background. Yeah, that's exactly what I think it is. Canned peaches.
The problem was, where the hell did this come from, and why was it already opened?
"Urgh... right, yesterday for sure..."
Luckily, since it had been good booze, the fragmented memories floated up like scraps of film bobbing in his mind.
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"Cheers!"
"Cheers!"
======
"Kahahaha! What, Professor? Your name's Professor Park?"
"Keekee! How does a person get named Professor..."
"And your job's streaming games, of all things! A guy like you! Kahahaha! These are the end times! The end times for sure! Khehehehe!"
"...Since that's how it is, come by often and check in. Eh, screw it! Nothing to be ashamed of! Hey! Pour another round!"
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"Uweeek!"
Tap-tap-tap-tap—
"Chugging hard liquor like that without any snacks. Tiny guy like you sure packed it away."
"Ughhh... I want some warm broth..."
"Whoa there, you're swaying like sand. Can still stand, so you're not that drunk. Be right back."
"Hey, Professor. Where you going?"
"Uh. Just gonna hit the mart downstairs for some ramen."
"...What?"
"There's a mart right below, the mart."
"No, we just barely escaped that place with our lives?"
"You nagging old hag! Don't you worry—! Who am I? The guy who took down those Dome roaches and Raptor war freaks with this one head of mine! I've got it all figured out~!"
"Hey, Bex. He's drunk. Stop him—"
"Lending your bag, cool?"
"No, even drunk, that's too much—"
"Yaaah, living the dream and dying the dream, Metal Joe—scared?"
"Heh heh heh heh heh heh. These punks. Hey, grab the tools."
======
"Whoa! Place is totally empty?"
"Scavengers? Wiped out by Raptors, all bolted. Dome? Got wrecked by Raptors and bolted. Raptors? Our dropped bombs and fireworks took 'em out or scattered 'em? Told ya! I've got it all figured out~!"
"Uuum... ramen, but nothing left at all."
"Grabbed everything they could on the way out, huh. No ramen, no oden stew?"
Rattle—
"Hey, you drunk idiots! Come lift this! Couple shelves down in the canned goods aisle—something's under 'em!"
Creak-creak-creeeak—
"Bex, hurry... my back's gonna snap... ngh!"
"Huang Dao! There's Huang Dao!" "Oooooh!!!"
"Treasure! Hope at the bottom of Pandora's box, Huang Dao under the 45th treasure chest!"
"Fruit snacks!"
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"Sweet!"
"So sweet!"
"Broth! Sugar soaking into my body! Criminal!"
"Hngh, uheeeeng—"
"Ahh, glad we're alive!"
======
...Jesus Christ.
Sure, guys getting drunk together and doing stupid shit was a tradition across time and cultures, but him? Of all people? Risking his life like that!
Professor stared at the dented-looking can, feeling utterly dazed. Bex had been too lazy to grab a knife and just pried it open with his pocket security key. Something about it being tungsten, no scratches or whatever?
"Hoo. What total idiots."
He never could've imagined this before coming here. Teaming up with someone. Getting along with them this well. And... letting loose and having real fun like before the end of the world.
Yeah, yesterday's idiocy was pure fun. For the first time in seven years since the apocalypse hit, Professor had a blast.
"...These past few days' memories alone'll keep the depression away for a year."
Professor chuckled as he eyed the vomit, empty cans, and the two oblivious sleepers sprawled between them.
***
"Hey, you really going off alone? Stick with me and Bex, sell spices in Sector 43 or something?"
"Tsk—wander with you, and I won't die in my sleep? Where'd you even get all that gunpowder?"
"Oh, didn't mention? I'm ex-Raptor. Didn't like their shit, so I jacked a fully loaded armored truck and bailed."
"...Sorry, but you got some kinda impulse control disorder?"
"Kahahaha! Lost this jaw back then too! Bet my bounty’s still up on the Raptor Society nest boards?"
"Been a pleasure, sir. Pretend we don't know each other if we cross paths."
"Keh! Easy for you to say! Professor, after yesterday, you two got bounties on your heads too. Smart hiding your names."
Amazingly, the Humvee—bumper and hood torn off, rear a shredded mess—ran fine aside from being louder. Ian and Bex, with a splint on his leg, stood facing Professor.
"Well... guess this is goodbye."
"What can I say, if that's your call. A man's gotta respect that, no clinging."
"Heehee. Swing by Sector 47 if you're ever there. Oh, Bex! You wrapped up that business? Feeling better now?"
"..."
Bex stared silently at Professor's words, then limped forward and extended a hand.
His weathered face twisted with mixed emotions.
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'Mister! Come with us! 14th Squad Mister!'
'Hey, kiddo. Us misters? We've killed a lotta people. So many, we're not even sure if we're the good guys anymore, y'know?'
'That's why we do stuff like [escort the kid out and stay behind in the hot zone]. Regular good deeds, to prove it to ourselves. So no crying.'
'Uu, huuu...'
'If it's too much, think of it as a little debt! Grow up, spot our squad guys, treat 'em to a good meal. Hey! All set! Lift off!'
'Mister! Misteerrr!!!'
'Have fun! Your life's just getting started! Enjoy it, kiddo!'
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.
.
.
'Have Fun (Have fun. Enjoy it.)'
"Haven."
"What. Why you staring all creepy? Scary."
Professor scratched his head and clasped Bex's offered hand.
Click, click.
Shattered, crumbling memories slotted back into place, one by one. Like fallen blocks, scattered puzzle pieces—memories and feelings reassembling methodically. One, two, three. Again, one.
Bex didn't reply. Instead,
"...Heh, hee hee hee hee."
Not his usual leaky snicker, but a grin wide enough to bare his teeth.
They parted like that. Promising to meet again.
***
Whiiiir—
Pssshhh!
An airlock made from house plastic and five vacuums.
Only downside was holding your breath inside, but nothing beat it for keeping out the dust.
Peel off the suit, open the door, and your nose reacts before your eyes. That familiar flesh-toned gray smell.
Home. Back after a wild four-day trip. Home.
"Maaasteeerrr!"
Ahh, even seeing the culprit of this flashy outing and feeling my heart rot—pure homecoming vibes.
"Daddy brought home the bacon."
"Yaaay~ Did you pick up something nice on the way ba—ugh! What's with the shotgun! No refund?!"
I eyed Corduro's shock at the sleek double-barrel slung on my back and spoke in a stern, dignified tone.
"Say hello. This is your new lady of the house from today onward, Miss Barrel."
"...Weird. Radiation storm outside today? Wasn't in the forecast."
Nah, once I test-fired it, no more love for the pipe shotgun.
Before parting, Ian asked if I still planned to return it. Couldn't say a word.
***
"S-So this is...?"
"Yeah. Your master here's got the skills to turn a return trip into a big payday."
One top-shelf shotgun, wrapped triple in cloth to prevent damage; a painting; a Rolex with intricate movement shining through; a chunky gem necklace. Plus a can of Huang Dao.
Corduro eyed the haul from this trip and fired up his happy circuits at max.
"Ex-Exchange! How much you thinking of listing it for!"
"That... gonna have to think on it."
Thought about it the whole way back, but the situation's trickier than expected.
Ranking groups hit hardest in the Sector 45 treasure grab:
Scavengers > Dome > Raptors.
Scavengers, no need to explain—numbers so thinned, no ambushes on the way home.
Dome lost twenty elites and all their gear.
Raptors took heavy hits too, if less.
Common thread: damage done, but slim pickings. They're grinding their teeth, and suddenly 'professor' lists high-end pre-war goods?
'100% gonna blow up. My life's done.'
They'd sniff it out for sure. Especially that Raptor commander. If he survived, he's gnashing what's left of his teeth—my community ID pops, instant kill order.
"Marketplace same issue. Request anonymity under their name, but Dome knows it anyway."
Hmm... Feels like a thief fencing famous stolen art.
"So what's the plan? Six days till repayment..."
"Thought on the way home. Art buyers are just two types, right? Dome elites, or Artists' Union."
"Right."
"Dome's awkward anyway, so how 'bout direct contact with the Artists' Union?"
"Ooh. Good idea."
Other groups? Who knows. But Artists' Union contact's dead simple.
Professor jacked into the connector, hit community, posted a quick thread.
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Is this something valuable? by professor
Character's offline, so tidying around home—dug up something weird from underground. Like fancy pottery. Anyone know? Reply pls.
*No pic for security
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Typical community bait post—no proof pic, no details. Normies skip on title alone.
Ding-!
[Message received]
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State desired meet zone and coordinates by Artists' Union-W
Greetings. This is W of the Artists' Union.
Can't confirm without details, but sounds like pre-war artifact you dug up.
We preserve inherited knowledge and culture. Happy to appraise and broker sale for free. Message meet zone, coords, time—we'll accommodate.
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Artists' Union reacts to every single post like this.
"Damn. Response on point. Got staff glued to community?"
"But they go anywhere requested? Anyone posts bait, ambushes—easy pickings, right?"
"Lots thought that. Union wiped 'em all, posted proof—stopped after."
If Raptor Society's violence, Dome's old-world order and tech—Artists' Union’s infamous for 'secrecy.' HQ unknown, member count unknown. Elite few, obsessed with collecting old sculptures, paintings, crafts— that's it.
Once, guy set meet two hours after message, arrived one hour early—Union already waiting. Absurd.
"That combat prowess and speed spawned rumors of Type-3 mutants in their ranks. Some Type-3s hunt targets."
"Y-You meeting one alone okay?"
"Nah, fine. Don't mess with 'em, they're the politest group in the wastes."
Professor messaged a four-hour-later spot and grinned easy.
***
9:58 PM.
"...Spot on time."
Dim alley, moonlight sole light—but spotting the white-suited man was easy.
As Professor approached, the man closed his book, tucked it away, and greeted with flawless noble poise.
"An honor to meet you, 'professor.' I am 'W' of the Artists' Union."
Low voice. Proper posture. Stark contrast to the wastes: pristine white suit, dust-free.
'Rumors might be true.'
Not your average group, for sure.
Professor skipped greetings, unpacked his bag first.
"Mutual busybodies—skip the pleasantries. Check the goods."
Click.
The man calling himself W pulled a small flashlight, inspected each item Professor unpacked with care.
"These... exceptionally well-preserved relics. Hard to believe dug from dirt."
"Personal history included in the deal? Mine's pricey."
"No need to snap. We inquire for origins—to illuminate history. Prefer secrecy? Fine by us."
Click.
Flashlight off again, he carefully lifted the watch.
"Start with the watch. R brand—pre-war luxury icon. Craftsman's touch in every tiny part, top designer's pick, name value... Worth buying."
He placed it in a velvet-lined box.
"But the real prize is this painting. No provenance needed. Surviving that hellish war? Grateful to God—and to you, 'professor,' for finding it."
Damn, heart—stay cool. Act indifferent to hike the price.
"Famous... piece?"
"Immensely. Banksy—British painter, graffiti artist. Self-styled art terrorist, anti-war. Surviving in this ruined world? Ironic."
Banksy. Heard of him. Hands, quit shaking.
"So price...?"
"Hmm. Pristine condition. Unique value..."
Swish.
He spread five fingers.
"How's this?"
"F-Five hundred thousand?!!"
"Fifty thousand."
"Oh."
Asshole.
Kimchi soup dreams shattered—brain snapped alert at fifty grand.
"Super famous artist, you said."
"Dominated an era, but not legendary."
"So both for that? Necklace?"
"R watch ten grand, Banksy forty. Necklace gems rare, but workmanship too crude for art. Pass on necklace."
"So post-apocalypse survivor art for two fuel drums?"
"Banksy hated his works fetching high prices. Respect the artist's ethos."
And.
He stepped close to Professor, whispered in his ear.
"Your only buyer, no? Auction on exchange could fetch more—but you're slumming it direct. Obvious why."
"Urk!"
Sharp bastard. Artist my ass—businessman. No lowballing him.
"Two-sixty!"
"Fifty."
"Two-forty!"
"Fifty."
Shing-!
"One more 'fifty' outta you, I'll smash both right here and go home!"
"...One hundred."
"One-eighty!"
"...One-twenty. You win. Our best offer. In a world valuing externals over inner life, buying useless art like this? Only us."
"One-thirty!"
Grrrr!
"Fine... One-thirty. Wiring now."
He pulled a tablet from his bag, tapped rapidly. Professor dug out his battered communicator, linked up.
"Hey, Corduro. Hear me?"
"Yessir! Signal good!"
"Deposit."
"One-thirty grand! Exact!"
Clack!
'Done.'
Professor pocketed the comm, beamed like sunshine, hand out—no sign of the haggling.
"Hahaha, clean deal—thanks. Hope we cross paths on more good ones."
"Indeed... We'll remember 'professor' well."
Packing the painting and watch, he lightly clasped Professor's hand, then vanished into the shadows like mist.
"One-thirty... Not the dream haul, but solid enough."
Six big cans of banned fuel—military grade. Decent payday. Professor headed home light-footed.
Debt left: one-ten grand.
Eleven hours till character wakes. Five days to pay it off.
***