Chapter 87
Chapter 87
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 87
Chapter Title: Chapter 7 Masquerade Ball (3)
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***
“Dome’s money ghosts used their heads well.”
Seeing his friends’ faces stiffen as they neared the central district, Professor decided to explain how things would likely play out, even if just roughly.
“How much do you know about Type-3 variants?”
“Let’s see... They’re extremely strong variants, and unlike Types 1 and 2, they don’t have any particular common traits, and they’ve got all sorts of weird abilities?”
“Hmm. You know nothing.”
With only about ten minutes left until the entrance to the central model garden, there wasn’t time for a long explanation. How to break this down simply...
After a moment’s thought, Professor grabbed a handful of pineapple chunks he’d set aside earlier from the empty pizza box.
“What’s this?”
“Ugh, happen. Don’t mess around with food. If you’re not gonna eat the pineapple, give it to me.”
“I am gonna eat it. I just picked it out because I don’t like it on pizza. Anyway, let’s say these pineapple chunks are a Type-2 variant—freshly manifested from a newly dead body. Juicy inside, agile and strong like a living person on steroids. But a corpse is still a corpse. After thrashing around and taking some hits, or rotting in the heat...”
Professor crushed the pineapple chunk in his hand.
“It turns into something mushy and sluggish like this—a Type-1 variant. Everyone knows up to here, right?”
“That much, me and Bex both know. We see those things every day.”
“Good. Now it gets tricky, so listen up. Oh, Ian, you’re driving, so just listen.”
“Ha! On a road this nicely paved, I could drive blindfolded with my feet. If I crash, you can weld ‘novice driver’ onto my chin. Anyway, what’s pineapple got to do with Type-3 variants?”
At Ian’s question, Professor held up the half-crushed pineapple chunk reverently in one hand, like a sacred relic.
“Bex first saw this yellow chunk and called it pineapple. So, if this pineapple had self-awareness and will, how would it imagine itself looking?”
“Huh?”
“Uh? Pineapple... thinks?”
“Types 1 and 2 are basically viruses manifesting in corpses, but Type-3s successfully manifest in living bodies. Fundamentally different principle. In pineapple terms, Types 1 and 2 are just chunks in different shapes, but Type-3 is like fruit flesh with seeds inside.”
Glancing sideways, he saw Bex straining to understand and Ian focused on driving with a ‘I want a smoke’ face. It’d be hard to get. Even he’d had to reread that 30-page paper he’d posted on Dome’s community forums multiple times to wrap his head around it.
Professor decided to stick to the big picture.
“First off, variant viruses are heavily influenced by the host’s mental state. Think about the variants we’ve seen. Most stumble around like zombies growling ‘uuuugh,’ but some stand out, right?”
Seeing their eyes light up with recognition, something must’ve clicked. Professor had seen cases cited in the paper himself. Variants that couldn’t shoot guns but knew how to swing them. Or ones whose nerves for comfort were rotted away, yet preferred buildings with roofs, and if given bare ground and a spot with a mat, gravitated to the mat.
Behaviors that felt oddly deliberate for dead bodies with stopped hearts.
“Dome’s research says variant viruses are affected by memories stored in the host’s brain after consciousness fades. Not much left—just scraps after oxygen cuts off and most cells die. Like flopping onto a mattress without thinking if it’s there versus bare ground—habits ingrained in the body influence it. Dome researchers guess Type-3 traits stem from this variant virus ‘memory preference phenomenon.’”
“Memory preference... So Type-3, manifesting in living flesh, fully utilizes lifetime memories?”
“More precisely, it follows the strongest lingering image of the self from life.”
Back to the pineapple.
Professor dangled a crushed strand of pineapple, waving it like the fruit shaking a hand.
“If the seed had will, and you asked a newborn one what a pineapple looks like, what would it say? One might picture a tiny room trapped in a giant yellow world. Another a round, spiky body with green healthy leaves, or even a pineapple shrub growing from the ground. Variant viruses instinctively repair the host’s body to restore its original form. Attacking and eating people injects similar raw materials inside to prolong the host’s ‘life’ somehow. Type-3 variants are monsters born from that effort to reshape the body into the image the dying self-consciousness imagined for ‘itself.’”
A battered kid hiding under the bed, thinking they were like a hermit crab in its shell right before death.
Soon, Zone 32 spawned a Type-3 variant with tentacles bursting from its body, carrying an entire giant house on its back.
Eyewitness accounts of something like ash from a massive shelter fire emerging, bearing dozens of charred corpses.
Monsters born as the survival instinct’s final dregs mistake the self-image for the host’s true form and ‘repair’ the body accordingly. That was the known truth of Type-3 variants.
Vroooom—
Explanation done, the three fell deathly silent.
“...How much did you get?”
“Uh... Type-3 variants are monsters made from a dead person’s imagination.”
“If one imagines something like an armored vehicle, we’re in deep shit, right?”
“At least one of you gets it.”
They seemed to grasp the concept, at least.
“The ‘Old Picture’ you faced is one of the more unique Type-3s.”
“How unique?”
“It was born from a self-consciousness unaware of its own death.”
A monster born from an ordinary family man’s extraordinary tragedy.
Old Picture’s self wasn’t limited to its body.
It was a monster that painted itself onto the ordinary streets of the past.
***
You knew when you entered Old Picture’s zone—no one had to tell you.
The landscape shifted from ochre streets lined with worn, half-ruined buildings like someone drew a line, to pristine, elegant old-world avenues.
“So... it made the street like this?”
“No, even Type-3s with all their special powers couldn’t manage this. Dome built the model garden. Oh, there it is.”
The incident site was easy to spot. In the middle of the clean street, half-collapsed buildings and debris blocked the road like a warzone, with people bustling around on top. Seven or eight in wasteland garb, and in their midst, a man in impeccably clean, out-of-place suit.
“Someone from Dome’s here too.”
“Aren’t we too late? It’s our mess—should’ve been here first at least...”
“No, no. We’re not late. Look at the people around that suit. They’re info brokers.”
“Info brokers? The ones who post secret community threads, take payment, and give passwords?”
Professor nodded at Ian’s words.
“Wastelanders are diligent, but this is someone else’s problem. They won’t move until they confirm the situation. See? Old Picture-related, but no old-world clothes? Means they’re not here to help. First to swarm these incidents are usually info brokers.”
“Then why’s the Dome guy talking to them?”
“Media control or something. Don’t want brokers spreading wild rumors and stirring up Zone 47—Dome’d have to deal with the mess. Better to feed them curated info first.”
“Complicated.”
“Price of peace.”
Rumble rumble—screeech!
Their vehicle pulled up to the chattering crowd, drawing all eyes at once.
‘Perfect timing. Looks like brokers from Zone 47 and nearby showed. Incident’s out anyway—time to apologize sincerely, take responsibility, offer compensation, and plant a good Big Dream image.’
Stepping out and meeting their stares calmly, Professor took a deep breath, plastered on a smile, and spoke.
“Everyone’s working hard since morning!”
Murmurs.
As Professor strode into their midst, the brokers whispered among themselves.
“Who’s that?”
“Black... armored truck, trio...”
“Hahaha, some of you already know! We’re, embarrassingly, the culprits of this incident and the newly opened caravan...”
“BDSM.”
“Raptor black armored truck, trio caravan! No doubt! It’s BDSM!”
“Perverts!”
Crackle!
“...Big Dream! It’s Big Dream!”
The brokers murmured at Professor’s desperate shout.
“Using a name separate from the official one?” “Heard they chatted like that in Zone 47’s group chat.” “But it’s already BDSM? I sold info under that name.” “Changing now would...”
“Undermine trust in our info.”
After quick huddle, the brokers beamed back at the group like Professor.
“Honored to meet Zone 47’s rising star, [BDSM]! We’re the locals living off news around here, so if you’re running a caravan, we’ll cross paths often. Hahaha! Nice to meet you!”
Crackle!
Professor’s smile twitched precariously at the reply.
In that short greeting, they’d traded: ‘Spread our name as Big Dream, please.’ / ‘No way. Stick with BDSM.’
Ian patted Professor’s shoulder softly from behind, seeing his mouth corner quake like an earthquake.
“Give it up.”
“Fuck...”
“I’m not from Zone 47, but I’ve never seen a wastelander back off from profit. It’s done.”
“Azel... Azel Laden... I’ll kill her...”
“Want a smoke?”
“Get lost...”
Professor’s bid to rename the caravan even now failed miserably. From the brokers sketching his twisted face stepped a man in navy suit, briefcase emblazoned with Dome’s stark white logo.
“Excuse me. I overheard you’re the culprits? Did I hear right?”
Dome rep. Dressed fully old-world style, so likely here for Old Picture business.
‘Hide?’
[Beep—! No match. Unrelated to your old stuff.]
After checking the face and cross-verifying with Hide, Professor finally extended a hand.
“BDSM’s... leader, ‘professor.’ Call me Professor.”
“Heard a lot. Jack, from Dome’s Zone 47 Enforcement Division.”
Exchanging player IDs and obvious pseudonyms, they shook hands and got down to business.
“From what we know, not ‘professor’ but those two behind you were the instigators. Anything off?”
“Nah, they provoked Old Picture and trashed the model garden, true. I’m here as companion, sharing responsibility.”
“Hmm, makes sense. With so few caravan members, swapping people out ain’t easy. Volunteering for this dangerous gig.”
“...”
‘Tch.’
Jack seemed the typical sleazy Dome bureaucrat Professor imagined. Mentioning personnel swaps first meant toss Ian and Bex, and he’d handle it. Meant as courtesy, but soured Professor’s mood further.
Flip, flip.
“Let’s see... ‘professor’... lives Zone 47 outskirts... Oh? Tangled in something similar years back?”
“...Bad luck.”
“Doesn’t seem so. Repeat offenders usually get harsher sanctions or exile, but...”
Flip!
Jack shoved a paper from his briefcase in Professor’s face.
“This time, Dome’s taking full responsibility for your company’s mess compensation. Lucky you.”
“Dome? So fines, street repair costs, wages for this ‘play’s’ extras—all covered?”
“Yes. Apologies to locals separate, but official costs? Dome—Enforcement Division—covers fully.”
As ‘Why?’ flashed on Professor’s face, Jack leaned close and whispered.
“No big deal. Heard you’ve ties to [Inspection Division]... Enforcement wants to show we think highly of you HIV folks too. If visiting Dome, drop by Enforcement. Chief wants to buy you dinner.”
“...Hearing an unannounced name from others sours the mood, but noted—appreciated.”
“Hahaha, sorry. Enforcement has big ears; info comes whether we want or not. If offended, my apologies.”
Professor spat inwardly at Jack’s slick reply.
‘Dome recruiter tangled in politics. Knows my past, the prick. Hope the ‘play’ blows up in their faces.’
But with the crowd due to their screw-up, no showing sour mood.
Jack, minding the brokers’ eyes, wrapped the private talk and returned to main topic.
“Then leads are ‘professor’ here and...”
“Call me Metaljaw.”
“...Bex.”
“Metaljaw, Bex—you three. Costumes ready, I see. Got a scenario in mind?”
“Hmm... Thinking college kids...”
“Not bad, but this ‘play’ will be noisier than last—more detail needed. We prepped costumes and props; recommend changing. Better discuss on stage, checking site. This way.”
Jack headed into an alley between rubble.
Following, Professor asked puzzled.
“Noisier? ‘Play’ just distracts it while workers screen off and fix the street, right? Noisy college kids should pull attention without shattering its fantasy...”
“That worked till now, but these incidents happen yearly. Outsiders accidentally provoke, new psycho gangs blunder in... Enforcement plans to cut repeat disturbances this time.”
Clunk!
Inside the ruined building emerged dozens bustling about.
“What the...”
“Theme calls for lots of actors.”
From the busy crowd, Jack hauled a large box, set it before Professor, opened it, and revealed contents.
“If it’s alive, aware, controllable to some degree... why not train it?”
Professor, Ian, and Bex gawked in horror at the box.
Inside: third world war-era military uniforms, all too familiar.
***