Chapter 496
Chapter 496
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 496
Chapter Title: Chapter 23. Gedroits's Heir, Deul (11)
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Crackle, crackle, crack.
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[Chat Room 47 * Security Filter ** Encryption Level 3 *** For Fuck's Sake, Block the Infiltrators]
+ Player ‘Professor’ has entered.
- Jokasss: Well, well, look who it is.
- Deer Drug Please: Isn’t this the world’s best idol, Professor?
- Holy: Whoa! It’s Professor Park!
- Take a Look: Long time.
- Professor: Sorry. Called you all and showed up late.
- Take a Look: You’re too big a deal now to blame for being late. Who else could tell ☆Dome Expeditionary Force Chief of Staff★ “You’re fucking late, pay up in ceiling credits per hour, you bastard”?
- Jokasss: Haha, he says it.
- Deer Drug Please: We can’t keep his cultural heritage-level alpha male awesomeness to ourselves. Gotta screenshot and post it on the boards.
- Jokasss: Great idea. Let’s do it right now.
- Take a Look: Spare me.
- Heung An Mandu: By tomorrow morning, we’ll be meeting Take a Look disassembled into hundreds of pieces by the fanatics’ hands.
- Jokasss: I’ll handle the disassembly. Good at it with all the work. Like a puzzle, nice and easy.
- Take a Look: Fuck, spare me.
- Deer Drug Please: Oh yeah. I had something to say too. Perfect timing with everyone here after so long.
- Professor: Heard you meet up in real life once a week. What’s with the formality?
- Deer Drug Please: I’m pregnant. Twins.
- Deer Drug Please: Pretty badass, right?
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Pffft! Cough, cough, hack!
“Th-this guy, what the...”
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- Jokasss: ...Lord above. Why pair me with that woman.
- Take a Look: This lowly scum dares wrinkle his brow before the world’s greatest alpha female, Deer?
- Holy: For real? Sis, really?
- Deer Drug Please: Yup. Was living carefree, then suddenly the tampon laundry pile wouldn’t shrink. Went to Moby-Dick for a checkup, and boom, pregnant.
- Heung An Mandu: Wait, how long since you and Jokasss tied the knot? Already popping out good news?
- Deer Drug Please: We were glued at the hip like that—think it wouldn’t happen? In this day and age, not getting knocked up before the wedding is straight-laced as fuck!
+ Player ‘Highway Nacho Man’ has entered!
+ Player ‘Soy Sauce Gaybar’ has entered!
+ Player ...has-
- Highway Nacho Man: OFF DUTY!!! The human generator swapping boiled potatoes and calorie bars for electricity is clocking out!!!
- Soy Sauce Gaybar: Fuck. I definitely switched to BDSM, so why am I off-duty with Dome civil servants?
- Deer Drug Please: Lowly labor drones. This body’s an elite citizen increasing the population! Pregnant women get full labor exemption under Dome policy, bitches!
- Soy Sauce Gaybar: What?!
- Highway Nacho Man: Huh?!
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Idle chatter and shocking announcements flowed naturally. Everyone acted nonchalant, but it had to be a breathless ordeal.
Three weeks since briefing Chief Eng on the Raptor traces. Dome had ordered all survivors under its protection, including Sector 47, into wartime readiness.
To stockpile batteries for the power-hungry plasma weapons, human power plants shifted from shift rotations to quota-based 24/7 operations. Thanks to that, folks with thighs thick as horse legs from years of pedaling were now waddling like newborns from muscle cramps that felt like snapped hamstrings.
A few proven-safe mutant-tech firearms dubbed “mute tech” were adopted as Dome standard issue, ramping up mass production. Naturally, mutant hunters drove out of Sector 47 multiple times a day for materials, dismantlers like Jokasss worked till their joints melted processing the byproducts, and payments were mostly in Dome-issued war bonds.
....And.
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- Professor: ...Hey, newbies. Training going okay? Dome’s roots trace back to old military units. No bullshit boot camp hazing?
- Lightbearer Pope Wasteland Branch Public Recruitment Class 4: Sir! No issues! It’s an honor, Ch-Chief of Staff!
- Holy: Exactly—er, yes sir! If anything, the top-notch gear is overwhelming!
- Professor: Come on, no military formality here.
- Holy: R-right, still awkward?
- Jokasss: Fucking hilarious.
- Deer Drug Please: [SHOCK! Dome Expeditionary Force, Tang Dynasty Army? Insiders Spill the Tea...]
- Heung An Mandu: Newbie! Name and rank!
- Holy: E-Expeditionary Private Holy Martin!
- Professor: Lmao wtf
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Dome, which had maintained a “agent” system via recruitment till now, had reorganized into a proper army for war. From as young as sixteen to folks in their fifties, countless people under Dome’s protection donned uniforms at the call.
With a high ratio of young survivors who’d flooded Sector 47 after the last massive mutant wave, many from Chat Room 47 enlisted too, of course.
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- Deer Drug Please: ...Holy. Didn’t listen to sis? Everyone around you pulling strings for exemptions, supply duty—why volunteer? Brain-fried from a sheltered life, flowers blooming between the wrinkles? Want me to pluck ‘em?
- Holy: Sis. I’m getting mad for real.
- Highway Nacho Man: Us too.
- Professor: Dead serious. Know how much military supplies your dad, the Marketplace boss, funnels to Dome? Stacks of newbie privates couldn’t match it. Heading to the front isn’t the only way to step up.
- Highway Nacho Man: Me? When that cheap conductive implant from my old broken leg kept me off optical weapons, got assigned to expeditionary supplies instead—know how grateful I was? Thanked the heavens I’d cursed my whole life for days. God, Buddha, Jesus, dead parents and ancestors—thanks! I’ll survive again! Hooray!
- Highway Nacho Man: And you’re making me feel like shit. A girl six years younger volunteers for combat, and I’m thrilled pedaling generators!
- Holy: No, that’s—
- Cut the crap and cancel that enlistment now. You’re the Marketplace boss’s precious daughter! You could roll in shit and still have it better than this life—flower beds forever! Why volunteer to die? Pride? Honor? Fuck that nobility obligation shit that burned up with the old dinners?
- Lightbearer Pope Wasteland Branch Public Recruitment Class 4: It’s because we have a “tomorrow” now, sir.
- Highway Nacho Man: What the fuck? So I’m doing this with no tomorrow?
- Lightbearer Pope Wasteland Branch Public Recruitment Class 4: We’re accessing the chat via supply comms. Newbies are all bunked together. We talked a lot during training. Holy’s a special case, but most are just wastelanders. Survivors who know war’s horrors, value our necks. So talks boil down to life and death. My parents and two brothers died in the last war, for one.
- Lightbearer Pope Wasteland Branch Public Recruitment Class 4: Feels weird repping them in this legendary chat with Professor Park here, but most said the same. [No more freeloading, watching others live while we rot day by day], [Server room’s real, and we found it], [Our generation might not be humanity’s last—could go on to the next, and the next].
- Lightbearer Pope Wasteland Branch Public Recruitment Class 4: Sorry, Professor, but someone like you with iron will can’t get it. You blaze your own light through pitch black, but we circle in place flailing till someone lights the way.
- Lightbearer Pope Wasteland Branch Public Recruitment Class 4: That server room news isn’t just fancy tech. It’s proof we can defy the doom of fading sunlight and creeping radiation. Hope that tomorrow differs from today!
- Lightbearer Pope Wasteland Branch Public Recruitment Class 4: So, of course we volunteer. Won’t go back to eating and breathing till we die. Humanity was already dead, hopeless. You revived them, Professor.
- Professor: ...Sounds like Dana.
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Sadly, Dome’s draft was a roaring success.
More sadly, it was because of me.
That kid’s a Lightbearer fanatic from the ID alone (still can’t believe that exists IRL), but objectively, I was the cause.
‘Gotta do something, or the world ends for sure, but feels like we can’t—Professor wouldn’t get it. You don’t even accept helplessness.’
Dana’s words when I moped seeing the uniformed masses.
‘Now we can do something. From a life where yesterday chokes today, to one where my actions leave a mark on the world—a new tomorrow.’
‘Don’t forget: suicide’s the top killer for wasteland survivors. Means they fled [me], the murderer drawing near. Unlike scavengers, over half the shelter folk will join the expeditionaries.’
....Crackle, crackle, crack.
“One week. War starts in one week.”
New recruits mostly knew urban combat or local defense. They just needed standard training to turn individuals into an army.
As the wasteland’s richest, Dome’s stockpiled supplies handled the sudden influx.
The fatal flaw—gear skewed to mounted batteries and exosuits—lacked transport for all those troops and materiel, but GG transport drones, done with Raptor tracing, fixed that.
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- Jokasss: Kinda sucks. If transport drones could haul people too, whole expeditionary force becomes airborne.
- Professor: Can’t be helped. Base spec seals the cargo hold tight. Untuned antigrav panels cause brain-rattling nausea for humans. More time, Dome’d mod ‘em, but gotta hit the enemy ASAP—no room for that.
28 days. Minimum time Dome’s officers and eggheads calculated to gather essentials like radiation bubble shields, maintain and distribute gear, organize units, and finish basics.
Heard twelve Raptor spies caught fleeing Dome already. Long-range comms jammed by Dome, boards managed by Rabbit, personal GG messages blocked by my auth—so they planned to slip the broadcast blackout and report back.
In one week, countless combat vehicles and drones head to the 30s sectors, crawling with radiation and mutants.
“...Corduro. Last confirmed Raptor position?”
“Uh.... Sector 7? Seemed to keep heading south.”
Finally, the Raptor nest—that damn militarist killer cult—showed its tail. Still veiled by thick dust and EMP storms, scale and shape unclear, but location pinned down.
Ssp-
Hooo.
Red glow lit the small dim shelter. Just me inside.
Dana, living with me lately, stays at admin hospital tonight. Newbies get overnight passes post-training before war. Holy’s her friend too.
Creeeak-
BDSM, who’d crash my shelter or Ian’s prefab constantly, skips tonight. No leaving HQ at night pre-war.
Clunk. Hiss-
So, pushing through the cheap decompressor into the shelter—only those guys, as always.
“Hey.”
“Right on time.”
“Not many could hold back the expeditionary chief of staff or BDSM’s number two and three by force.”
“Hep, burn. No lights on, what? On the floor too?”
“Ah, just. Nostalgic, recreating old vibes. Back then, saved power—lights off unless needed.”
“Always so cheap.”
Flop! Flop!
Shaking dust off grimy boots, they crashed on my ratty sofa. Middle spot—my usual—left empty ‘cause big bodies might wreck it, my excuse.
Click, click.
Red glows tripled in the dim shelter.
“Contact with that guy.”
“Doing it now.”
“Really going solo?”
“Can’t all move anyway. Me dipping out’s already a mountain of issues. You two cover.”
“Fuckin’ pain in the ass in every way.”
“Hepburn’s dopamine poisoning.”
Crackle, crack, crack.
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[Personal message from ‘Heung An Mandu’]
- Professor: Yeah.... Mandu. Enough chit-chat. That thing I asked about last time?
- Heung An Mandu: Thanks to the parts flood you sent, practiced plenty and geared up. Not 100%, but more than enough.
- Professor: Coordinates solid?
- Heung An Mandu: Course. Would I skimp hosting the wasteland’s hero, hope, and Chat Room 47’s top output, Professor Park?
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It started with Heung An Mandu’s endless rescue pleas spamming the chat ages ago.
‘Come save me! This is some mountaintop military base, right? No food to scavenge, obviously! Bombed to hell long ago, untouched since! ...Personal reasons kept me! No assets left at home anyway!’
‘F-food’s running out.... Help? Professor, you got a caravan? Coming here for trade?’
‘HELP! HEEELP!!! Mutants black as night swarming the ridge below! I’m dead! Professor! Save me! Save me! I’m going! For real!!!’
Starving to death~ but survived on high-altitude grass and brick-hard military biscuits.
Said dying in the Sector 38 mutant wave, but dumped two fuel drums to burn the dry autumn mountain whole and lived.
Why a scout-trail guy holed up solo in an abandoned base? Wouldn’t spill personal details no matter what.
Thought wasteland drama, stayed to die alone at first. But after hearing he torched the mountain with leftover fuel in the 2.5 wave, changed my mind.
Bombed, he said—but fuel depot’d be gone, so lie. Meant something valuable, hid from thieves.
Not Dome personnel but joined their scout? Probably volunteered as guide, first reporter. Knew the spot from the start.
My head memorized all Dome military maps—no record of mountain base meant scouts deemed it militarily worthless.
Summary: mountaintop base, he knew beforehand, Dome scouts checked but worthless militarily.
In useful-wasteland, one worthless military base: airbase.
Sandstorms and EMPs worse than 2m visibility stole the skies from humanity. Even Gedroits transport drones, tech miracles, crash often in atmo. Lost plenty chasing Raptors that way.
Inaccessible by vehicle on high peak. Built inside ridge for bomb shelter, not summit—hard to scout. Short runway for VTOL jets, undersized base and strip.
In short, the old airbase Heung An Mandu dragged Dome scouts to was a useless concrete eyesore this era.
Precisely, until now.
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- Heung An Mandu: Was a rich guy’s toy back when shelters trended. Zombie flick fantasy—roof screaming for savior in his chopper. Coalition seized and modded into multi-use emergency base.
- Heung An Mandu: Confiscated the couple private planes too, but one dodged the reaper. Wasn’t flyable—just yard eyesore collectible. Museum-grade.
- Heung An Mandu: Dome scouts saw modded base, missed the unshown villa annex thanks to guide Heung An Mandu. Plus, eager to ditch the shit-your-pants psycho guide ASAP.
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Heung An Mandu always bragged: if not cut from the kite string, would’ve been air force ace.
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- Professor: So, it works?
- Heung An Mandu: Obviously.
- Heung An Mandu: [Attached File 1.jpeg]
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The image he sent. Snapped from afar with comm camera on: bearded wildman, filthy with dirt and oil, dancing goofy.
Beside him, crude charcoal blueprint sketched huge on wall, internet-sourced. Behind, crude wooden ramp slathered in hardening resin jury-rigged at short runway’s end.
And at the runway front. Where the dancing grimeball proudly spread arms.
Amid the rust and rot, sole shiny new thing: a red biplane stood proud.
“Fuck, a biplane? No way that’s airworthy?”
“Leisure replica. 2050 model. Near-new.”
“Gonna lose my mind. Really no other option? Gotta fly that?”
“Fine. Packed sturdy chute.”
“F-flying assuming a crash?”
“Fine. I’m tough.”
Jingle-
I snagged the car keys Becks tossed resignedly.
“Won’t take long. Back three days before expedition launch.”
Raptor extermination and Arts Union invite—couldn’t delay either.
Raptors turning south after northbound meant northern goal met. Shaved two weeks off six-week prep.
Arts Union, Collector invite... gut feeling, bit dumb. But instinct.
Everything linking. Gedroits’s game-thoughts bleeding into reality, these non-coincidences.
Third-mutant sense or Professor Park’s near-death sharpened gut after crossing over multiple times—ignored those prickly neck vibes, shit always hit.
Meant subconscious spotted something.
Rising, Becks and Ian sighed smoke clouds.
“Your sister-in-law’s gonna kill us.”
“J-Jokasss, p-preggo’s doing prenatal, won’t k-kill.”
“Deer? Borrowed Krav Maga kill vids for bonding last time. Stabbing dudes with daggers.”
“Uh, oh....”
Leaving the two lost in grim realism, I exited the shelter.
“Be back.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Not stopping you—you never listen anyway.”
“D-don’t p-push.”
“Got it.”
“Truck’s loaded with company-month’s arms. Worst case, blow it all and bug out. Don’t come back bigger.”
“Got it.”
Hiss-
Thud!
Deep night, one armed truck slipped quietly from BDSM-patrolled Sector 47.
Destination: Heung An Mandu’s airbase at the western edge of half-rad Zone 40.
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