Chapter 382
Chapter 382
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 17
Chapter Title: Preparing for the Trip (5)
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****
After shaking hands with the folks begging for a bite to eat or just a quick grasp of my hand, I roughly brushed them off and followed the woman for a few minutes.
"It's a bit shabby for hosting guests, but we're all just scraping by..."
"Nah, I'm not here expecting royal treatment. It's cozy enough."
She invited us into what she called her home—a tiny one-room shack barely big enough for a finger to wiggle.
Honestly, it was rundown.
Tucked away in one of the most remote corners of the refugee zone, the kind of sketchy spot that screamed "crime alley," it was a dilapidated single room.
The place was so cramped that a bed you couldn't even stretch out on took up most of the space, with just enough room for a desk. So I perched on the desk, Dana sat on the bed, and the woman stood between us, chatting away.
We ended up face-to-face whether we liked it or not.
"It's really not a place to invite others, but I couldn't think of anywhere nearby to talk without prying eyes."
"Avoiding other people's eyes... So it's not just some fan club whipped up on a whim, huh? Church of Light Wasteland Branch."
"...That's right."
Yeah, figured as much. Groups don't just form on a "hey, let's try this" vibe, but keeping them going? That's a whole other ballgame. Especially when money starts flowing.
"Let's see. This shoebox of a room reflects your rock-bottom poverty... Oh, what's your name?"
"Camilla Agneo..."
Her face, her speech—honorifics look awkward as hell on her. Bet she was leading folks even before coming here.
"Got it, Camilla. Anyway, you're the head of a group donating enough to make our guild leader grin ear to ear, yet you live like this. Doesn't scream greed. Hmm... Scavenger background, right?"
"H-How? Were you spying on me from the Dome?"
"Spying? Nah, just basic observation and street smarts. Even the Audit Division grunts could pull this off."
She shows me her own home, and if I don't pick up personal details, that's weirder. But Camilla and even Dana stared at me like I'd grown a second head, so I gave a quick rundown.
"That thing hanging by the bed headboard. Outerwear, right?"
"Yeah. The layered coats wastelanders usually wear..."
"Rags, lots of pockets, crunchy fabric... They all look similar, but Scavengers' gear has telltale signs. See that? Pocket."
Heard this straight from Bex, who's lived as a Scavenger for years.
"Scavengers crash in half-ruined buildings, right? Nights get cold. So they stuff their pockets—those dangling ones—with balled-up plastic scraps or cut-up PET bottles for insulation. Air pockets keep the chill out. First thing they teach newbies. That's why Scavenger outerwear has pockets stretched outward."
"Oh, that."
"And more. Refugees usually haul their prized possessions when they flee. Dome's got booming trade, easy to offload valuables. Shelter folk might bring busted shield generators or generators—enough to not live this broke. Oh, and empty houses? Classic Scavenger. They see beds as 'exposed to other Scavengers,' so they hide valuables in secret spots only they know. All that screams it."
First time I met Bex, he had stuff stashed mid-floor in some building.
Anyway, this woman: Scavenger roots, no greed, yet she built this half-religion, half-social club.
Hmm. If not money, why form a group? That "avoiding eyes" bit nags. Poor refugees' donations go to slum upgrades—investment management? Nah, too sloppy and risky.
"What's the deal? Why drag me here?"
"...People like us wanted somewhere to lean on, somehow."
At my words, Camilla hesitated, then shrugged off her shawl and started unwrapping the bandage on her missing arm's shoulder.
Even the exposed shoulder screamed hardship. Call it work muscle? Face lined deep like late forties, body packed lean and wiry, one arm gone—total warrior woman vibe.
Then, as the stump on that muscled shoulder came into view.
"Huh?"
"This..."
Dana and I locked eyes, flicking between the glossy exoskin traces still on my knuckles and Camilla's shoulder.
Come to think of it, at the dinner, lots of folks had ragged cloaks or shawls draped heavy.
Kang Geumpil. Met him back when "BDSM Town" popped up near my old shelter. Lost contact after the Sector 38 mess. Deep-hooded look.
People hiding their bodies.
Geumpil alive but silent to the outside.
And now, the link with Camilla's shoulder and mine.
"Didn't expect it to grow this big, but word of mouth filled up D-Sector and then some."
Her roughly severed arm bore skin clearly not human—stark against her flesh.
"To us, you're the only one who's recovered from this."
Pinching the lingering blue skin patch on her severed arm with bitter resentment, another Scavenger trait hit me.
They mostly bunk in half-collapsed buildings.
Post-Sector 38 incident. The deranged admin broadcast Orpheus waves from the radio tower—weak output, blocked by personal shelter shields.
Meaning, those without even that got exposed.
"Please, Professor! Don't abandon us! We're... being hunted!"
Thud!
Camilla dropped to her knees, wrinkled eyes pleading up desperately.
"...Damn it. Should've gone to that restaurant."
Muttering like a sigh, I turned to Dana—our pretty intel whiz.
"Cynthia's here, so you figured it's safe? Must've dug deep."
"I did. Mobile assets, central figures, businesses, growth trajectory—all checked. But... nothing."
"Nothing? You?"
"Yeah. No central figure. Until Camilla spoke up today, no one's ever rallied folks like that. They just pool rations for group meals, chat over your videos."
"Hmm..."
"Personally, I thought it was a group to get slum-dwellers reinvesting in their hood—loose spending habits funneled back. Money raised here mostly improves the slums. Figured you'd like it, so I brought you. We hit here often with the 47 chat room crew..."
Dana's eyes iced over, glaring fiercely at kneeling Camilla. Whoa, she's pissed. Guess our girl wanted to show off her skills introducing folks like this. Fair—I puffed up inside deducing "Scavenger, right?" too.
"Easy on her. Not pissed or anything. Groups have goals. But no intel source, and it slipped even 'Speed Wagon's' radar? Suspicious as hell."
"No—"
"It's fine. Lost your sources, shit happens. Monkeys fall from trees, dud shells from Metal Joe's hands—world's like that."
"Exactly! No hidden agenda—!"
"Mutated bodies. Hunting. Secret meets... That stuff stays buried deep inside. Personal survival secret—leak it, you're dead. No outsider intel catches this."
No wonder the mutant byproduct biz sounded too perfect. Industrial revolution era like this? Zero noise? Bullshit.
"Aw, hell. Caught good."
Gazing down at Camilla forehead-planting like a statue, I tallied my week-long plan.
Let's see...
7 days till 4th World ready.
Later means faster pollution, can't risk delaying life-or-death stuff for fun.
Hear her out sloppy, sleep. Wake: 6 days left.
'Hunting. Looks illegal as fuck—handle the hunters? One day? Nah. Byproduct laws now? Drinks with guild leader? Two days? Worst, three? Wrap tight: four?'
My blood-sweat week off.
Mid-sized mess, aftercare pushes five days, two left.
Oh, interviews with 'Completer candidates.' Not just hellos—one day.
One day left. 24 hours.
"...Fuck me."
Ignoring's tough—heard 'hunting' now.
Dome won't legally let kidnappers snatch folks.
Some low-quality imports started a new biz...
"Knew it. Knew this'd happen. Can't have a peaceful week off in my fate. I walk by, shit explodes."
Precisely? World's always problematic. Me not walking by? That's the issue. Damn mental illness.
"...What can ya do? Gotta."
Glancing between kneeling middle-aged one-armed woman and porcelain-skinned girlfriend, I erased my blue-sky date blueprint.
"Alright, spill."
"You mean...?"
"You knew my nosy ass'd bite. Soft for your looks. I'm busy—sum it up crisp. Start to now, what went down?"
"Thank you! Thank you!!"
At my go-ahead, Camilla bobbed thanks, then stammered her backstory.
****
Name: Camilla Agneo. Female. 43.
Sector 50 survivor group. Role: external scavenging and combat.
Sector 50 still has survivors? Radiation's light, not many. Folks ditching long-life hopes for chill death in empty spots over crowded stab-fests.
"Our subway outpost was well-sealed, five suits for outings—not hopeless. Low pop meant plenty parts, scrap. Sold via traders, lived better than most sectors."
Peaceful till one day—folks burst from above, slap-like shock plus skull-ringing tinnitus.
"Radio tower activation?"
"Yeah. Like a loose awl piercing eardrums to brain."
"...Ex-military?"
"Not me, most underlings..."
Huh. Stiff familiarity. Calling survivors "underlings"? That subway was hers. Bigger fish than thought.
Zoned out, skipped useless Sector 50 life, hit main point.
Shock. Tinnitus.
People dropped, she too.
Woke to monster rampage, gunfire hell in subway. Escaped, joined acquaintance survivor group fleeing monster-50 to news-blaring 47. Gun-hand welcomed.
Then, at Sector 48 edge, someone eyed her 'unflaking huge scab' weird.
"Thought infected blister at first. No. Hid as skin disease... till fingertips. Couldn't anymore."
Blue-purple tinged skin, tougher.
Started index finger—thickened, pointed nail. Undeniable.
"After seeing neighbors monsterize and fleeing, outcome obvious."
Exiled as ticking monster.
One water bottle, day rations: survived five days. Big rags hid arm, became Scavenger natural.
Adapted, then new shit.
'Hey, Agneo auntie. Know this?'
'...Phil. Month together, thought you trustworthy trash.'
'Yeah. More faithful than most Scavs. But... that [2.5-type byproduct] riot in Dome. My junk pipe gun handles 1-2, not 2.5... but your body's human? Sorry. Pay too big.'
Bang—
.
.
.
.
"Priest guns blowing in hand? Common for Scavs—垃圾 gear."
"...Helluva survival."
"Cut arm myself. Not cinematic big-caliber drop."
"...No anesthetic?"
Guan Yu and Sarah Connor's kid?
"Hearing gunshot, rushing Scavs snapped me sane-less."
Arm rolls, they fight over it; she crawled free in chaos.
Rag-tourniquet shoulder? No rot, healed.
Auction: her arm fetched big.
Mutation she cut? Crept to shoulder now...
.
.
.
.
Rest predictable.
"Some survival instinct."
"Flattery."
"Wouldn't heal, so eyed treatment."
"...Long-time fan. Researched. Your prior state matched mine somewhat, and you function fine daily."
So, one-armed beggar look joins Dome refugees. Can't flash bod or assets: poor generator grunt.
'Church of Light' culture: "rice bowl together." Slid right in.
"Dome direct help? Those psychos'd salivate and grab, not shun."
"Refugees can't reach upper Dome. Subtle discrimination—old Dome vs. expansion refugees. Won't hear us out..."
Standard. Population exploded refugees, old staff strained. Refugees cause endless murders, not accidents. New Audit hires clueless. Nerves fried.
Even old residents suffer—natural divide. Gov tunes it; our leader's triple-busy. Lower incompetence.
"But reached Audit chief somehow..."
"Ooh, nice moves~ Tough spot."
"Regret: no excess to comp all disasters."
"...Who?"
"No name recall. His mutant-arm glare like exile group's—hid face, fled..."
Correction. Not just incompetent—rotten. Or incompetence extreme?
1-2-3 mutant types trashed, temp 2.5 labels; classification crawling. New mutation? "Lightning struck the well~" is slacking or useless.
Anyway, Camilla bounced from Dome.
Stay: spread visible, hunters swarm.
Or fear true monster turn.
Wanna live.
"So, 'Church of Light Wasteland Branch'?"
"...Fan club joke often. No law says poor only. Gather tons like us, share food, watch vids, booze—funner?"
"Hmm..."
"Knew you'd clear 3rd World ages ago. No clue on mutation, let alone cure—you our hope. Gather slow, donate as Church: rumors reach, you'd come..."
.
.
.
.
That's how.
"Sharp operator."
Looks lady Rambo, acts fox?
"So, lured knowing my big heart? Saint meme? Yeah, lived soft. Spot trouble, grind self helping. Blood-splatter? Hee-haw grin. Sucker."
"N-No, not—"
"Your spread? Folks think 'he cares for his.' 47 chat passes sold millions silings once. Half joined hoping indirect aid."
"And your sick crew~ Hide like Black Mages, pray I blast your dead-end path?"
"Let's be frank."
Nailing points, Camilla drooped, then forehead to floor.
"Yes... Pathetic, but us... nowhere else. Refugees saw mutations, kill us on sight. Scavs, Raiders hunt deliberate. Dome ignores busy. You're last hope..."
Trapped as monsters among people.
Their hope? Mostly bad info. Mine: Hide quirk. Not theirs. Different mutations.
Similar: inhuman traits. Chest alloy pocket, exoskin remnants.
"Enough heard. Can I go?"
"If you leave..."
"Not too late—friends spot. Dana, night market good? Not bedtime, browse."
Rising from desk, Camilla yielded road, resigned. Dana blank-faced trailed.
"Heading out. Dinner hit spot."
"...Thanks for listening."
Camilla, strong, shook regret quick, serene send-off.
Clunk!
Ducking narrow door lintel, carved phrase caught eye.
[Pray. Light everywhere; your gaze proves it there.]
Oho. Familiar oddly. Gregorianus recited endless.
"Real fan, huh? Even know this."
Hmm... Fan. Obscure line, carriage-passby recall? Diehard...
Screee—
"Huuuuh—! Ugh, cramped crouch, stiff."
Crack, pop!
Arms, neck, back loosened.
Door open, stretched, to dazed Camilla:
"That Audit chief—face remember?" "...Pardon?"
"Name no, face yes. Ruminated hate. Bring, recognize?"
Processing slow, her face bloomed water-soaked bright.
"You mean...!"
"Kidding saint-god meme, but pro streamer my job. Fan service days? Work extension."
...Yeah, sucker.
Happy sucker.
"Know byproduct bigwig—ask. Back if needed. Keep secret till. See ya. Oh, bring Geumpil next. Owe him. Moved near me, I left for shield funds—boom, incident."
"Th-Thank you! Professor!"
Argh, damn. GG wrecked me sure.
Vacay torched, steps light. Yay.
Side-eye: blank Dana now beams, clings arm.
"That's why I love you."
"Weird taste."
Anyway, both happy—solid date.
Light steps out refugee zone, Camilla's thanks faded.
Midway, "thanks" to "Raturo." Whatever. She said no real religion. Fine.
****