Chapter 387
Chapter 387
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 17
Chapter Title: Travel Preparations (10)
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“Phew, smell that booze! Ian, you come here reeking of alcohol to buy guns again? The quartermaster from the BDSM side asked me not to sell to you if you show up drunk anymore...”
“Cut the chatter and raise the shutter, Gail. You know what happens if word gets out that you were hoarding uranium for some mini nuclear reactor bullshit, right? Nuclear trauma is Wasteland 101. All those hot-blooded Wastelanders would come hunting you down to prevent a second tragedy.”
“Hey, why bring up that ancient mistake? It was just curiosity! A guy who lives off selling gunpowder should be allowed a little curiosity! That shit’s like the final boss that ended a whole world!”
“Yeah, yeah. Curiosity leads to crime, then accidents, then ruined lives. Oh, and grab my gun case I left here. It’s fixed, right?”
“I’ve told you a million times, lugging that around will wreck your joints when you’re old.”
The gun shop owner, familiar with Ian’s late-night visits, grumbled as he raised the shutter he’d just closed.
He pulled out Ian’s familiar iron gun case first. Freshly serviced, it gleamed impressively.
Ian slung it over his shoulder and waist with practiced ease, then grinned at the shiny metal chunks filling the interior, just like the serviced case.
“Good. No issues.”
“I reinforced the inner padding since you swing that bomb-and-powder-packed thing around all the time. As for what’s inside, I restocked your usuals.”
“Heh heh heh. Thanks as always. Bill it to BDSM.”
“Already sent yesterday. So, you didn’t just come for the case since you made me open up... What’ll it be this time? I sold you all the new stuff last time, nothing fresh to show.”
Ian handed over the restocked case like it was routine; clearly, he’d ordered from this shop plenty.
“No novelties. Pull out the proven stuff. Got an unarmed ‘young master’ here, need to kit him out head to toe properly.”
“A ‘young master’ at the bottom of Zeus Belly? You brought along a real brain-dead idiot. Why use a guy like that? BDSM that desperate for manpower?”
“Khuh huh huh! Tell me about it.”
Ian glanced back with a go-ahead-and-say-it look, but the guy just stomped out with a sour face, no retort.
“Uh... is that who I think it is?”
“Yup~ Professor ‘young master’ in the flesh. The retard who strutted in here empty-handed, clueless about his place—that’s me.”
“Ah, no! If the Professor needs gear, you should’ve said so! Sorry about that! I thought you dragged in some random irresponsible rich kid...!”
Rattle-clank!
The shutter rolled up, floodlights blazed in the dim shop, and the array of guns I’d seen earlier spread out before me again.
“So, pick something for our ‘young master’? You know how to pull a trigger?”
“Quit messing around. Let’s see... Bulletproof vest that covers the shoulders. Close-quarters urban, so something with good near-range firepower... Shopkeep, got recommendations?”
“Yes! Of course! You’ve been out of the loop down there, so you’re behind on trends—that’s fine! Vests these days aren’t basic ballistic weave; they use composite new materials resistant to all sorts of rounds...”
Clack. Clank.
Snap! Click!
Shing!
The owner pushed aside the familiar guns I grabbed, hawking weird new-gen firearms loaded with attachments.
“Know about cell tech? Mutant byproduct engineering revolutionized not just weapons and gear, but cybernetics too. Oh, you’ve got one already! Decent internal space... Mind if I take a peek?”
He admired the iron plate over my chest while I hunted for a fitting vest.
“Hahaha! Society changed a ton while you were inside! Back then, an unarmed ‘young master’ was just a dumbass. Now? They’re scum. Fleeing mutant waves, dead weight that doesn’t help in fights—people see ’em as irresponsible now!”
He chatted about current trends.
“There, two Galleon autopistols on the house! Walk out like this, no Wastelander’ll call the Professor ‘young master’ again!”
The pro salesman’s pitches worked; before I knew it, I was decked out like Rambo, gear dangling everywhere.
“Khuh huh huh. Fun, right?”
“Pretty novel.”
Stretchy underlayer hugging my body, topped with leather-like bulletproof armor. Vest pockets crammed with five pistols, three rifles strapped to my back. Waist had a utility belt stuffed like a potion pouch, comfy boots, shin-to-knee guards.
“Add the ammo, that’s gotta be 170-180 pounds? Everyone toting this much junk into battle now?”
“Nah, firepower diversified, that’s all. Not that much, but you carry essentials. Stuff like snail cream with miracle-low heat conduction, poison/acid neutralizers. Not like old days where bleeding, shock, and chem suits covered it.”
“[Enemy/Small-mid armed group/Well-trained/Returning rookie]”
“Yeah, yeah~ Got it. Old-timer out of touch with trends follows orders. Go test-fire this crap.”
The two beamed at my heavier load, pointing out uses, while the shopkeep—his shelves half-empty—rubbed his hands gleefully.
“As expected of Dome’s hero, big spender! Total’s 13,947,500 sil. BDSM footing the bill? Package for delivery?”
He reached for the gear; I stopped him, hopped lightly.
Thud—
“...Feels manageable?”
“Saw you snap chains thicker than that from Admin and stand up. Obviously. I tote 150 pounds easy.”
“Ch-changed... ha-habits! Ad-adapt... ing!”
“Yep. High strength’s useful. All this gear, no rattling—clothes hold firm even loaded. Heavier steps are noisier, but you’re scouting ahead anyway, Bex?”
“Obv-viously!”
“Roles same. You spot, cover angles Bex sweeps. I punch through, pour fire. You control damage, command close fights.”
“Hmm, your heavy moves won’t matter then. Op zone’s not huge.”
Shopkeep eyed us as I declared we’d take it all.
Me, wrapped in guns, ammo, armor, grenades stuffed in chest gaps.
Ian buckling his trademark case’s leather straps over his vest.
Bex drawing a knife, glinting it in shop light with a ting.
“...Heading to war?”
“Nah, not quite.”
I waved off the shopkeep’s instant tension, Wasteland-style.
“Rat hunt. Rats.”
“Rats?”
“Yeah. Monsters everywhere lately. Heard there’s man-eating giant rats. Gonna bag some.”
“...Take care. These rats bite hard.”
He pondered, then waved us off.
“Decent guy.”
“Right? Skilled, sharp.”
“...Survival smarts too.”
I smirked at the packing sounds from the shop as we left.
Full war with Rat Humans possible, so he’s bugging out early.
“HIV rep really tanked, huh? No faith left.”
“Yep. Let’s change that tonight.”
“Get hurt on this op? Embarrassing. I’ll command loose; you wreck and loot at will.”
“Keehic, hit!”
“Don’t enjoy it too much. Habit-forming sickness. Stay pro, like it’s just your job.”
Firepower to mindset armed.
Recalling squad leader days, I stepped out of Moby Dick past their smirks.
“Perfect night for rat-slaughter.”
Dawn sky hazy with Wasteland moon glow.
****
Static—
[Aa. EZ-07 here. Gundam One, reception good?]
“Cut the crap, recite the order. You had it, right?]
[Uh, yeah, but... Got caught by the boss while hunting it down.]
“What?”
“Hey, couldn’t find it?”
“No, not that...”
Ten minutes out of Moby Dick’s admin zone—medical, munitions, daily goods combo sales hub.
Full op mode, we started digging for intel everywhere.
Enemy no pushover scavs; even trash-tier, bullets kill us too. No blind charges or sprayfests.
Needed layout basics to test Human Hunter = Rat Human hypothesis via infiltration.
Sent Azel—Admin’s delay tactic—from Exec to fetch Zeus Belly sublevel maps.
1:30 AM.
Guy off pure alcohol all day grabs ex-Inspector’s nape.
[Chief Young got no sleep? Later found out it’s like ‘Beep— I’m Zero, android built post-nuke to uphold democracy gov— aa Democracy— Democracy—’ or some shit? How’s he functional blackout drunk?]
[No clue. Anyway, told him we’re rat-hunting, don’t worry.]
[And?]
[...Zeus Belly’s near Dome econ hub, so no total burn. Wrap before dawn.]
[Oho. Greenlit?]
“Won’t stop us anyway. Asked for combat data from Prof bro’s moves later.]
Chief Young alright. Dome overlord boldness. Civvy mil op in his city? Just asks limit damage, approves. If my war brass were like that, I’d lick boots!
[Oh, found main target. Inspector had prelim intel. How to send? Can’t name every alley.]
[Snap pics on terminal. Yours is latest, has basic display built-in.]
“‘Built-in.’ Sounds creepy.]
[Hey.]
[Sent.]
Flash!
With Azel’s ping, faint light leaked from my chest plate’s seam.
“Got it. Images came through fine.”
“Handy. How view? Projects to your retina?”
“No such thing? Let’s see...”
Rustle!
Huddled in dim market corner, we paged through the thick manual I pulled from my chest.
“D-389 Communicator, Mechanized Infantry Implant Ver. Usage... Can download image files... Transferred files show on side display...?”
“What? So Azel’s images are inside now?”
Clunk. Screech—
“Th-there... it is!”
“Warm inside, perfect for coffee or engine oil in winter. Convenient, Professor.”
“Asshole.”
Click, beep—
“Let’s see... Ah, mirror inside? Shine it so you can see?”
“Ugh, feels like cracking ribs...”
“Oh, sorry. Pull up, not out.”
“You $&@ dog shit!!!!!”
After the hassle, I finally glimpsed the blueprint reflected in the tiny mirror from my chest cavity.
“Hmm... Way different from Moby Dick?”
“Real rat nest? Smart breeding mutants maybe?”
“[Op/Dangerous/Tricky terrain]”
“Narrow passages. Rooms ~10 sq ft max, chained tons. Connections zigzag chaos. Complex as hell.”
Expecting Moby Dick’s vast caves and markets, their zone was a nightmare.
“Narrow entrances. Not just tight—dozens of one-man squeezes.”
“Bottlenecks murder in/out. Tough for quick smash.”
“I know these types. Hidden backdoors they know. Poke front, tails block while heads flee rear. Survivors? They swarm nasty—kidnap family/friends, suicide bombs, arson... This’ll drag.”
Azel’s map was sparse.
Dome knew of illegals, sent agents, but no full probe—manpower short.
Known: Entry hundreds tiny rooms tangled. Rat Human clients name wants in room, 1:1 with handling merchant. Beyond: Unprobed sublevels.
“Deeper than Moby Dick?”
“...Yeah?”
Subs aren’t just dig-holes. Deeper = insane eng knowledge like skyscrapers. Deeper than Moby Dick? By scavs, raiders, crooks? Quick?
.
.
.
.
“Someone helped.”
“Admiral. Dome maybe?”
“Dome... On suspect list. Capital/talent to pull it.”
“Damn. Tough for one-nighter.”
“[Allies/Mobile Strike/Request]”
“Yeah. Too big to solo sleeping. Nail one, real headache.”
Structure screamed big money/tech.
Cash from crime ok, but short-build? Illogical.
[Dome dept head contact barely... But they said enviro disaster, can’t help our kind.]
Camilla said report should’ve gone up, but some Dome brass killed it flat.
Illegal hunters snatching those folks.
“Something tied to legit bigwig. Not wild weed—planted and grown.”
Chief Young’s op? Possible. Does anything for Dome gain.
Dome brass rot? Likely. Overexpanded lately, months grind, rewards? Same pay, bonus crumbs, honor speck. History says underpaid officials corrupt.
Or enemy plant. Raptor Society ghosts suspicious; usually frontal, maybe infiltration shift. Dome took tons newbies lately, vuln to spies. Not stretch.
Need deeper dig.
“Layout kills stealth infil. We three faces burned?”
“Burned max.”
“Disguise tough too.”
Stealth out. Assault out. Blitz out—structure/info lack.
One way left.
“BDSM guys got any rough-looking types?”
“All of ’em.”
“Attach the ugliest, most criminal-looking one. Rest wait outside with you, Bex for breach.”
“...No way?”
Clank, clank, jangle!
Answered by dumping my gear pile.
“Yeah. As customer. Big—huge customer.”
“Hey Professor. That body? Bullet = dead, know? Monster form tanked tanks playing catch. Now? Tough bones/skin human. No regen.”
“Know. Strength/bones left, mostly human.”
Pre-exit check, doc Chaisha warned gravely.
=========
‘You literally returned from death. Means your mutant virus is confused as hell. [Host dead? Alive?] Prior bone/skin/joints/muscles hold old form, so close to death might flip it fully. [Dead after all!] Turns you perfect Type-3 mutant this time.’
‘O. Useful.’
‘No. Even near-death without dying, virus might force-kill you. No second chance. Kills you, mimics memories, full monster swap. No return, no conscious beast. Pure Type-3 like Walking Cane or Old Picture—not Adapter or 2.5s.’
‘...Mood killer.’
‘Remember: Your body’s most unstable in Wasteland. Not just die—near-death = Professor gone, mindless Type-3 rampages city center.’
=========
Tl;dr?
‘Near-human, but bullet turns bomb-human.’
Ian/Bex worries valid, but...
“When’d I ever live superhuman? Bullet kills same as always.”
Pre-mutant Professor cleared Wasteland with peashooter and junk guns.
“Won’t die. Wait signal outside. Breach and smash when time.”
“What you do till then.”
Clatter!
Down to grenades/ammo belt off, I eyed black protrusions on bare skin in moonlight.
“Underground org tied to bigwig.
Man-hunters for mutants.
Me, looks like them per Camilla.
“Dog sees shit only?”
Add action, they’ll peg me easy.
Always, I tricked, infiltrated over frontal brawls.
****