Chapter 62
Chapter 62
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 62
Chapter Title: Inside Out (9)
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Insomnia hits hardest when people haven't done what they think they should have, they say. The guilt over it keeps nagging at them, not letting them sleep. On the flip side, people who get their tasks done can enjoy the sweetest sleep imaginable.
"Huuuuh~ Ahhhh. What a great morning. I feel refreshed enough to fly."
That was exactly how I felt right now. Sure, after my call with the Dome staff wrapped up, the two thugs who'd taken major issue with my naming choice had subjected me to some brutal torture. But what could they do about it? The name 'Big Dream' was already sent over to them. Big Dream Caravan. Hmm, nice. Rolls off the tongue perfectly.
Everything was going smoothly. A pleasant morning, a refreshing glass of cool water to wake me up, and...
"Grrmph! Mmph!"
Ian, tightly bound and writhing beside me.
"Oh, Metal Joe. Good morning? How's the tied-up spot? Not too uncomfortable?"
"Grrmmph! Grrrmph!"
"Uh.... Professor?"
"Bex! Good morning?"
"Uh? Oh. Good morning. But.... why's Joe tied up?"
"Oh, this? No big deal. Got some morning chores, so I tied him down preemptively to keep him calm. Shall we head out? It's gonna be a packed day."
Wasteland folk mostly rise early in the morning. With power scarce, daylight is work time, so hardly anyone sleeps in. That's why the Professor, waking up refreshed before sunrise, had meticulously bound the sleeping Ian to make the upcoming tasks even more pleasant, then greeted Bex with a cheerful face.
Scraaaape! Scraaaape! Scraaaape!
"Mmph! Grrrmmph! Grrmmph! Grrraaah!"
Every time the Professor and Bex scraped at something with the tools in their hands, beastly noises leaked from Ian's mouth, his whole body bound tight with a gag to boot.
"Happen, do we really have to scrape this off? Look at his eyes. The second we untie him, he'll charge at us ready to kill."
"You wanna roll around in Raptor-marked armed trucks in Dome territory? If you don't wanna see RPGs raining down block by block as we pass, scrape it clean. Dome's inspector is coming soon, remember? When those Dome bastards say 'soon,' it means they're hauling ass at full speed!"
That was the reason they were scraping Ian's armed truck with rough metal shavings at the crack of dawn as the sun just peeked over the horizon. Metal Joe's attachment to his ride was no joke, so it'd been a godsend to tie him up while he slept. Ian howled like a beast every time a scratch appeared on the truck, as if his own skin was being peeled off alive.
"Think positive. It'll be a bit bumpy, but once we scrape it all off and slap 'Big Dream' on nice and pretty, it'll look great."
Screeeeech-
"Graaaaaah!!"
The Professor deliberately took his time scraping the truck slowly, giving Ian plenty of moment to savor the sound. Revenge really is sweet.
***
The incident happened after the work was done, Ian finally calmed with a promise to scrounge parts to fix his busted Hummer, and the three of them were pumping water furiously with the manual pump.
Creeeak- Creeeak-
"Hey Professor, do we really need this much water? I heard one reason 47's crowded is the abundant groundwater, but even without pumping this much, the shelter's built-in pump should be enou-"
"Shh! Joe! Stop for a sec! Something's coming!"
At Bex's words, the three halted work and perked their ears. Sure enough, soon heavy footsteps thudding even on soft sand and mechanical whirs began approaching the shelter.
"Alright, let's go see. Looks like we have a guest."
It was just past eight in the morning. The Dome inspector was as diligent as the rumors said.
***
Whiiiir- Whiiiir-
"That.... that's it?"
"Whoa. Happen, I've only heard rumors about those, never seen one for real."
"Me too, been in 47 a while, first time seeing one up close."
They'd armed up in a flash and stepped out of the stealth field's range, and not far off, something walking on two legs was approaching. It was human-shaped, but a crude black frame encased the whole body.
"Exosuit.... Fitting welcome from the moneybags."
"Yep. One of the few things pricier than a generator in this world."
"Joe. We'd lose against that thing, right?"
"You even gotta ask? Even if half the rumors are true, it's a monster."
The Professor had no choice but to agree with Ian. He'd piloted one back in Dome. Shoulder-mounted light missile launcher standard, strength assist to lift a whole passenger car. The frame looked mostly exposed, but it had a mini-shield generator too—crank output in combat and you could ignore gunfire and charge straight ahead. Reason Dome obsessed over tech civilization. The war machine that made Dome the wasteland's top faction. And one was approaching the shelter.
'Height about 2.3 meters. Used to be only massive war machines, now they make compact models too? Miniaturization must be to extend runtime limits.'
Looking at it made Raptor Society cozying up to Dome seem ridiculous, but exosuits were a real headache for wasteland use.
Precision machinery meant breakdowns needed experts, and dust-choked wastes meant frequent failures, hard to run long. Even without issues, insane battery drain capped runtime at under 8 hours. Sandstorms forced shields on, halving that. Combat with defense output to block 7.62mm rounds quartered it again. Real combat limit under 1 hour, turning into the pilot's coffin in prolonged fights.
That's why Dome didn't spray and pray like Raptors—instead, they steadily expanded, claiming areas around each new city. One hour runtime, but that hour let them rule near-invincibly.
'Reasons Raptors favor mortars, miniguns, flamethrowers. Rifles can't even dent it.'
The inspector heading our way was wearing one. User and suit both bathed in blood—must've tangled with mutants en route.
'Or maybe smeared it on purpose to assert dominance. Exosuits symbolize Dome's might.'
Whirrr- Whirrrr- Clank!
The inspector strode up, stopping before our trio, popped the exosuit frame open, stepped out, and extended a hand. I grabbed the blood-soaked hand, shook vigorously, and spoke.
"Nice to meet you. I'm the head of Big Dream Caravan, Professor. Just call me Professor."
"Hahaha. Nice to meet you too. From Dome's Inspectorate, 47 Sector Environmental Management Team. You're the famous Professor I've heard so much about?"
"You.... know me?"
"Of course. I'm a fan. Love your streams."
The man, who shook the Professor's hand then plopped a crooked hat from his pocket onto his head, grinned ear to ear.
***
2nd Class Inspector from 47 Sector Inspectorate, Ezel Leyden, didn't want to miss this chance.
"Junior, you sure you can go alone?"
"Yeah, Ezel. You saw the intel—looks like a dangerous area."
"Sheesh, Senior, worrywart much? Who do you think snagged this inspector spot through cutthroat competition? Honestly, in 47 Sector, I'd be fine with just a pistol barehanded anywhere. But Kimi nagged so much I geared up in the suit too."
"Damn right! That caravan's got those spice dealers from 43 making a name, and the group's called BDSM! Gotta be psychos!"
"Aw, c'mon. Respect tastes."
Whirrr- Clank!
Ezel mounted his assigned suit, bio-ID synced, power on.
"Besides, we're not swimming in manpower. If we all bail for this, Enforcement might scheme something."
"True. Sigh. Politics even in this world."
"Heh heh. Comes automatic with democracy. Gotta deal. Alright, hold the fort while I'm gone!"
"Yeah! Be careful!"
"Ezel! Hit emergency if shit hits the fan! Got it!"
Ezel left Dome amid his colleagues' worried farewells. Destination: the shelter of the newly registered 47 outskirts caravan, BDSM.
Truth was, nothing to worry about, thought Soy Sauce Gaybar—no, Ezel.
Type 1 mutants roaming 47? Suit on, one kick shatters 'em. Psycho gangs? Dodge sectors. Survivors? Attacking an inspector next to Dome city? Real insane. No threats to fret.
That's why Ezel pushed hard to go solo to the Professor's shelter. Official chance to visit streamer 'Professor's' private pad. Low risk. Rare opportunity.
'Was kinda curious. Voice modulated, cam off, zero personal info—then suddenly starts a caravan and goes external.'
Dome inspectors meet outsiders often, so psychology's required. Professor struck Ezel as classic shut-in survivor, yet suddenly flipped, exposing info for external ops.
'They say people change near death. Sick or something?'
All questions answered face-to-face.
"Grahhh!"
Thwack!
"Uggh, gotta tell the cleanup crew to hustle. Pop density here, and Type 1s still wandering."
Forgot. Even trash mobs, fight with shield on. Hence mutant blood drenching suit and clothes.
"Bet they'll clean it if I ask."
Ezel hurried toward the three figures by the distant target.
***
The hand-shaker's looks were surprisingly ordinary, unlike Ezel's imaginings.
'From his streams, macho or total brainiac. One or the other?'
Ezel eyed the two flanking the Professor. Right: shades, bushy beard. Frowning hard over a crooked cig. Capping it: fully metal lower jaw.
'Metal Joe—Ian. Famous in 43 as [Spice Dealer], more for custom cigs tossed in service than weapons sold. Lone arms dealer, lately teaming up.'
Week-old intel, bit stale, but close enough. 43's clan stirred over industrial issues, informants quieted. 45's went scavenger disguise for bunker intel, snagged by Raptors, dead. Local info mostly low-quality community scraps.
Glancing left: short, hunched old guy, polar opposite.
'Unknown. Probably the teammate who joined Spice Dealer. Light arms, knees bent slight. Heels up—wary of me. Scavenger? Pretty spry-looking?'
"Hey, Inspector sir. Eyeballing what? Interested?"
Ezel beamed at the burly guy's glare and snarl.
"You bet. Big interest in you all. I'm the inspector? Here to observe, so observing."
"Hmm...."
"Joe, if you're gonna get owned, shut it and sulk."
"See you later, you little shit."
'Member dynamics—extremely close.'
Ezel clocked their closeness instantly from the banter. Wastelanders bristle sharply at everyone. Even groupmates get aggressive—knives out anytime. That aggressive teasing meant zero risk of fallout, bonds inside those thorns.
"Anyway, standing here's silly. Come inside?"
And 'Professor', aka Professor, leading with mask-like smile. Impressively average wasteland face. Bland next to the flashy flanks—like a chubby-triangular Noguchi?
'Commanding naturally. Feels like the leader. But why? Professor just a broke streamer gimmick? Seems trained, but wasteland norm. What links a 43 arms dealer and poor streamer? Ugh, gotta work. Stay objective—but too fun!'
Five years knowing Soy Sauce Gaybar and Professor. Seeing that trollbait punk lead a crew? Proud. And opponent clueless to his identity? Thrilling. Like prepping a surprise party, waiting for the guest of honor.
Zzzt- Zzzt-
Ezel steeled his will amid the stealth field's eerie noise.
'Gonna uncover Professor's secrets this time, big to small! Trade with Speed Wagon for intel swap!'
Heart pounding, he crossed the field. First sight: half-smashed car, common wasteland buggy, and a monstrously huge...
"Raptor's.... armed truck?"
"See! Even scraped, one glance knows!"
"Dumbass! Professor explained! Meaning's in the scraping! Clear statement—not Raptor anymore!"
Their bickering confirmed suspicions. Raptor's armed truck, biggest model. These always escorted by full Raptor legion min. Why here?
Ezel gawked slack-jawed on entry; Ian ambled over, explaining like he knew.
"We stole it and bailed."
"....Pardon?"
"Kid got sand in ears? Stole it and dipped! When leaving Raptors!"
"Oh.... so you're...."
"Call me Metal Joe."
"Metal Joe is ex-Raptor Society?"
"Obviously. Sick of those fuckers, quit. This jaw's from then."
Came casual, snagged huge intel. Ezel noted: [Spice Dealer, Metal Joe—ex-Raptor, watch] / [BDSM—loaded]. Scoped surroundings.
Scribble scribble-
[Facility defense—mid-low: one defensive turret, one active auto-cannon.]
Standard mid-size prefab shelter. Three members, but owning generations of vehicles? Luxurious. No more external intel.
Ezel sketched rough layout, kept bright face, told Professor:
"First, today's inspection purpose? Dome aims to restore law, order to wastes, stabilize world. Thus, collect data on sector locals near cities, judge environmental threats. We get personal info sensitivity, but consider payment for using Dome's safe zone in 47. Appreciated."
"Safe zone.... Most psycho-gang infested sector overall. What joke's that? Black joke?"
"Hahaha, no way. Psycho gangs mean high average lifespan here. Normals die before going mad."
Ezel parried Professor's probe without flinching, proceeded smoothly.
"Now, caravan intro, so check main wares first?"
"Gotta show? Don't flash my goods to just anyone."
"Required check. No harm. Might buy depending on type."
"Fuck. Uncomfortable as stripping to dance. Follow. I'll show."
Feeling Professor and short guy's stares on his back, Ezel trailed Metal Joe to the huge truck's rear.
***