Chapter 386
Chapter 386
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 17
Chapter Title: Travel Preparations (9)
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****
Hoooow—
“…That’s how it went down. The legendary mercenary doctor Woojin—righteous death and all—became the director of Woojin Urology Clinic, a slave doctor for a legless raptor, and now he’s the owner of Moby Dick.”
“…An old guy like that sure knows how to live out his final days with some real spectacle.”
In the corner of a cramped warehouse in the byproducts processing district.
The story they’d started sharing while sitting roughly on crates ended amid thick cigarette smoke.
“…And those two kids in the story?”
“The older one miscarried in the end. The younger one’s body isn’t in great shape either. Both are basically vegetables, so they need someone to look after them constantly. And if it’s not the old man, they just get terrified and scream. That’s why he’s become this grandfather who has to rush home whenever he gets a spare moment, like earlier.”
“He seemed a bit different.”
“He has changed. A lot. A guy who lived his whole life as a lone wolf ends up heading this massive outfit. A man who retired because he hated killing, and yet he’s probably killed plenty since coming here. Moby Dick wouldn’t have grown this big without some friction. Just look at the guards outside.”
“…He’s not the type to ask for favors, but he said it to me while chuckling like it was a joke. Kesseling. He wants to see that bastard’s head detach from his body with his own eyes before he dies. Malice was dripping from the eyes of a man who’d planned to live out his days righteously. The world’s just… fucking pathetic. No matter how many times I see it.”
“Brother, what’s new about that? Has it ever been any different?”
“[All Regions / Enemy Territory / Reported Matters]”
“See? Even Bex agrees. The Wasteland’s the Wasteland for a reason, right, Professor?”
“…Yeah.”
There was a sense of injustice nagging at him.
He’d fought tooth and nail to return to this reality.
But thinking about it, even now, someone out there was ending their own life just to escape—and that place wasn’t their reality, the Wasteland.
“…The world’s fucked. Shit.”
“Kehehehe, hearing you say that means you’re finally back. Welcome to the Wasteland, Professor Park.”
Ian wore a quintessentially Wasteland expression—a mix of self-deprecation and emptiness—as he tossed over a bottle of booze. The sharp clink! lightened the heavy mood a bit.
“Anyway, I told you so you’d know. You need to understand Old Man Woojin’s situation.”
“Got it. I’ll kill every last raptor and package Kesseling as neatly as possible to bring back.”
“Spoken like a man who gets it. No rush on that front, though. The Dome and the Raptors are bound to clash eventually. Just prep well until then, and when the time comes, deliver them straight to hell, quick and clean.”
The booze was gone, and the mood had loosened.
Everyone’s faces were flushed just right, but no one was wasted. They hadn’t come prepared to get hammered anyway, since he’d said he had business to attend to.
“Now, then. Time to go over what Fresh-Out-of-the-Slammer Professor Park has to say… about mutant byproducts—ones still close to human—circulating on the market?”
“You know about it?”
“Rumors, sure? I don’t stick around the Dome that long. Old Man Woojin, the boss here, would know best… What time is it?”
“[23:00]”
“Too late, then. Four drunk guys barging in late at night might trigger trauma for the kids there. Hey, ex-Inspectorate. You got anything?”
“Like I’d know. I’m ‘ex,’ like Brother said.”
“You still drop by the Inspectorate every time you’re in the Dome. You must’ve heard something.”
“Ah, if it’s that, I can safely say no. The Inspectorate folks and anyone competent in the Dome are hard to spot these days. They’re all busy managing the suddenly expanded Dome territory, hunting down those suspiciously quiet Raptor bastards—who vanish without a trace, no sightings or sounds, just ground vibrations and track marks left behind. To track that, you have to venture deep into the monster-infested Wasteland… Point is, the Dome doesn’t have the luxury to focus on internal affairs.”
“You’ve got a real talent for dragging out a ‘I don’t know~’ Anyway, sounds like no one here knows about the ‘human hunting’ the Professor mentioned…”
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap….
Four men huddled in the narrow warehouse, heads close together. As the finger-tapping on the wooden crate grew increasingly irritable, the shortest one shot to his feet.
“Uh…. Er….”
“Hm? Shortstuff. Got something?”
“[Insider / Entity / Acquaintance]”
Bex started flashing hand signs rapidly, like he’d remembered something.
“Your acquaintance—besides us and BDSM, who else…? Oh, the wife? Rabbit’s in big business, so she might—”
“[Wrong / Acquaintance / Applies to All Allies / Within 20 Meters]”
“Within 20 meters…? Right next to us? Someone we all know, who’s here, working with mutant byproducts….”
“Ah. Could it be?”
“Him?”
Ian and Ezel reacted, and Bex nodded.
‘Ian, Ezel, and Bex all know them. All of us, so I know them too. Nearby, so lives in the Dome, works with byproducts, someone I know who fits…’
Ah, yeah. One guy.
“…Jokass? The one from Chatroom 47?”
All three nodded at his question.
“Probably him. He’s been in the byproduct processing game since the early days. Jumped in when mutant corpses were piling up too fast to burn, and now he’s treated like a pro. Guy like that would know the shady corners of the byproduct market.”
“Could be… yeah?”
Jokass. Player name ‘Jokass,’ a fixture in Zone 47’s chatroom. He’d mentioned moving to the Dome, working cleanup on mutant corpses, and how byproduct processing was the hot new trend. A guy who’d watched the whole rise and fall firsthand might know something.
“But is he here this late? It’s 11 p.m. Guy’s got a family now—he wouldn’t be out—”
“[Target / Night Shift / Family / Weight]”
“Ah.”
“Family’s grown, so he’s here this late.”
Right. He’d been messing around with Nору, and now he was a dad?
Seemed like a family man, stuck working till this hour, slicing up gore in the factory.
“Poor bastard.”
“Poor? He’s always grinning like an idiot. In a world on the brink of population extinction—hell, human extinction—he’s got a growing family~ growing family~ yelling ‘Family duplicates now!!!’ all over the neighborhood.”
“Was he that type?”
“Different from chatroom. Looked kinda sleazy in person.”
Hm. If he’s happy, good for him.
Anyway, if he was right next door, no reason not to meet.
Drreeeak—
“Jokass, huh…”
Everyone was in the Dome—might as well see him.
Mentally running through names of chatroom regulars he often saw, he gripped the doorknob of the smoke-filled warehouse.
Thinking of people to meet brought one to mind.
“Oh yeah, when Bex mentioned his acquaintance earlier, Rabbit came up… You two still meeting?”
“Keuk!”
Bex, who’d been following right behind, froze like stone. The other two, clearing away crates, smirked and closed in.
“Professor Park.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re definitely third place.”
“…Huh?”
“Shortstuff here crashes elsewhere when in the Dome. Not with our stinky kids?”
“?!!”
“Shortstuff at least hits the Wasteland average.”
This time, he froze.
Rabbit.
One of the Completionist candidates, deeply entangled in Gedroits’s plans.
Holder of GG’s [Save/Load] privileges and [Community Admin] access to the GG community—a powerhouse.
Cold, talented, one of the Wasteland’s most famous figures, brimming with ambition.
“Him?”
Smaack!
“[This Place / Quality Goods]”
“No, you’re the real gem once you get to know—you, we all know, but… in love life, honestly, Bex, you’re kinda—”
“[That Field / Professor Park / No Say / Newbie]”
Bex smacked the back of his head like lightning with those signs, then strode out with confident steps.
“Bex Brother speaks truth.”
“Kehehehe. Step it up, third place. The guy we’re meeting was your buddy a few years back—now he’s a dad.”
The other two tossed mocking words as they filed out.
He was left alone in the warehouse, stunned by the blow.
“What’re you doing! Hurry up! We’re going to see Jokass!”
“Uh, yeah…”
What was it? A thick, indescribable sense of defeat.
The guy wasn’t far.
Under bright fluorescents, methodical hands sectioning mutants with overhead cutters.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Ian rapped on the machine he was using, and only then did the guy notice them, powering down the cutter and lifting tired eyes ringed with dark circles.
“Shift’s not over yet—?!”
He glanced over, blinked.
Looked at Ian, Ezel, Bex in turn, back here, stripped off thick gloves, rubbed his eyes.
Like a comic book scene, his dramatic reaction finally settled after they waited.
“Why’re you here?”
“Circumstances?”
Jokass. Speed Wagon, Tteokkeulluk, Nору, Heung An Mandu—seven-year internet buddies. Jokes with boundaries, GG geek rivaling pro info brokers.
“…It’s Jo Case. Gets mixed up with Metal Joe, so just Jokass.”
“Yeah. Professor Park.”
Blood-splattered clear vinyl apron, awkward hand-raise in front of delicately sliced mutant corpse.
****
“…You’ve brought the hottest potato in the industry.”
“Sorry for jumping to business right away. Must be tiring.”
“Whatever, man. We go way back.”
“Know anything?”
“Know it? It’s cost a few people around me their lives.”
Reunion joy was brief. When he spilled what Camilla had told him, the guy’s face hardened instantly.
“…How much do you know about the mutant byproduct trade?”
“Just that it’s not worthless crap like mutt stuff?”
“You know jack. Let’s start from the basics.”
Drreeeak—
Jokass hooked the half-processed corpse on a chain, hoisted it up, sprayed water on the blood-soaked table, wiped it with a rag.
“…You sure that’s okay?”
“Yeah. This type’s blood isn’t usable—trash it. Sit comfy. Metal Joe, you too.”
“No, not that…”
Like a ‘Mutant Anatomy Exhibit,’ chatting with a half-dismantled corpse overhead.
“Alright. First, market structure.”
Either used to it or exhausted, Jokass barreled ahead.
“Mutant corpse processing splits into three: hunt, dissect, process.”
“Not much different from field-dressing deer?”
“Exactly. Just processing beasts under the ‘mutant’ label.”
But the expertise required diverged sharply from regular hunting.
“Key thing in the ‘hunt’ phase: too many mutant types out there. Most are warped human broken imaginations, or mixed with local critters. So varied species classification’s pointless—similar looks, totally different insides.”
“Yeah. No two people alike in the world.”
“That’s why ‘hunt’ needs pros. Beyond danger level, knowing which parts hold value, what to avoid touching, what to target—for viable ‘mutant corpses’ as merchandise.”
Jokass shared early days as cleanup grunt.
Mindless spraying bursting gas sacs into explosions.
Week-long stakeout rubbing mutant shit all over, perfect headshot—turns out brain research value, no takers.
Digging incinerated mutant piles for rumors of high-price Dome kills…
“Bottom line: need trained pros for market goods. No species, so classify by lineage. Thick hide bouncing pistol rounds? Suppress with gas or chems—hide’s the product. Bulging jaws? Likely gland sacs—secure intact. Still rough, but post-classification guides, supply of byproducts boomed.”
“Professional.”
“Like I said, beast hunting. Bear with shredded pelt and burst gall? Worthless. For merchandise, need specialists. Remember that.”
Next, dissection.
“What I’m doing. Same deal. Gently hunted corpses hit auction here, owner set, then guys like me slice for fee by use. Hunt’s eyeballing; dissection tests hands-on sometimes. Easier to show. Wanna see?”
Jokass rummaged trash, pulled clean bone chunk, set on cutter belt.
“Laser cut this—what happens?”
“Uh… cuts?”
“That’s amateur limit.”
Click.
Whiiiir—
Power on, laser blade descended slow over bone.
Then,
Pop!
Rat-a-tat-tat!
Exploded viciously.
“Whoa.”
“See? Blows up. Sharp, so without clear ballistic shields like mine, injuries common. Most multi-jointed mutant bones like that: hardened, retains ductility on heat but expands. Heat it—boom! So waterjet or pass.”
Handling chemical-laden corpses, amateurs die easy. Fewer dissectors/processors than hunters.
“Last, processing. Old Man Woojin, Dome scientists, daredevil gunsmiths. Not my area.”
“Closed structure—no amateurs allowed.”
“Pros, huh? Not for random wastelanders, then?”
“Right. Hunt, anyone’s human hunter, fine. But dissect/process demand experts. Handling remnants of once-human parts. Not just handy—specialized.”
Dome strict regs on byproducts. Humanoid mutants, bipedal tool-users, speech/intellect traces—no kill unless threat, no market if killed.
Violate? Inspectorate raid.
“…Not individual handling?”
“Hands/heads-like selling, auction, experts process in hidden spots. Pros spot fakes instantly. Need group with all that. Moby-Dick scale minimum.”
Not Moby Dick. Woojin’s revenge-driven doctor ego—no human butcher there.
Size and biz like this? Two options left.
“Let Human and… what was it?”
“Snailra Company. Neither top quality, but Snailra’s manpower—deep end slaves, drugs, e-narcotics, illegal add-ons. No such facilities, small scale.”
“One left.”
Let Human. Rat humans…
“Name screams solid group identity.”
“Urgh. Let Human… tough size. Professor, ping Inspectorate?”
“No need. Kids sleeping, don’t bother.”
Professor eyed wall clock. Midnight. Deep dark in the dim valley.
“We’ll handle it.”
“What?”
“Kehehehe. Hell yeah!”
Ezel, raising comms, gaped at the conspiring trio.
“Infiltrate? Or smash front gate?”
“Infiltrate. Haven’t scouted proper. Oh, right. Metal Joe, loan some guns. Left mine.”
“Ungrateful punk. Grab on way. Been too long without my gear.”
“…Heh, Hapburn… hehe.”
“Feels nostalgic, kinda nice.”
Three scheming on entry, structure—backs turned.
Ezel got the huge letters on their backs:
BDSM
Fancy-stitched leather jackets.
Unlike regular members, big initials atop:
H
I
V
Hapburn. Ian. Bex.
Wasteland legends: trashed Zone 45 bunker solo amid Dome/Raptor elites.
Them vs. back-alley top 3—which riskier?
“Hm… figure rest en route. Oh, Jokass, good seeing you. Next time, with others, somewhere quiet. Got work tonight.”
“Uh, yeah, sure. You’re really going?”
“You said go.”
“Didn’t think now…”
Professor loosening up, Ian cracking neck behind. Jokass eyed stretching Bex—same as Ezel.
“Hm… Tell Dome gas explosion. Ezel, head Inspectorate now. It’ll get loud—say me and kids there.”
“Help?”
“Nah, take it slow. Cops show, messy cleanup headaches. These types got grit.”
Raid or leave—uproot if engage.
Back-alley necessary evil, vacuum breeds worse chaos.
Cross rotten line? Scrape clean.
“Debut for this body.”
“Oh, right. Professor, no chest beam? Bribed that doc extra for it.”
“Scum.”
Perfect test new body, good foes.
Meaningful too.
****