Chapter 90
Chapter 90
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 7
Chapter Title: Masked Ball (6)
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***
The Professor's plan was simple.
First, lead Old Picture all the way to the final stage according to the scenario.
Even if they pulled off the act without a single gap for a needle to slip through, given the nature of the content, Old Picture would inevitably go berserk at some point.
All his group had to do was gauge the situation appropriately beforehand, slip away, and then enjoy the spectacle of the model garden being reduced to rubble, along with the crowd railing against the Executive Branch for the disaster.
The only risk was that during the process of dragging Old Picture that far, the play might falter and turn the monster's attention on them—
.
.
.
.
.
Pew!
"That's what I thought!
"Professor! What the hell's going on?! Was this part of the plan too?!"
"No way in hell! Those goddamn bastards! Even for the sake of realism in their play, this is way over the top!"
The group had been smoothly alternating between cover and advances, luring the massive monster and its puppets across the streets without issue. But now, faced with the sudden shift, they'd halted and ducked into a nearby alley, raising their voices.
Until now, their opponents had only fired blanks, masterfully advancing the play. But suddenly, they'd switched to live rounds.
"Hepburn! Didn't things end on bad terms with that Executive Branch guy earlier? Maybe they're just trying to kill us outright! From what he said, he seemed to really hate the idea of you still being alive!"
"Yeah, exactly! If I were them, I wouldn't keep a discarded card with a huge grudge against our allies alive to use!"
Kwaaang!
Chunks of debris rained down.
"Son of a bitch! Might as well just kill us and take the loot! We've got weapons! And that key too!"
"But what about the play? It's tied to the Executive Branch's political survival—ruining it just to eliminate a few risks doesn't make sense! Look! Bullets are flying everywhere, but not a single one lands near Old Picture, who's the size of a three-story house. They don't plan to end the play yet! It's just an overly realistic setup! They're hosing down cover right now, but if we poke our heads out, they'll deliberately miss...
Pew-shwoong!
Ting! Clang—
.
.
.
.
"This is a play? Hell yeah! Simo Häyhä would jump out of his grave clapping at this! That's 200% precision shooting! They're gunning for our lives! No time to sit around playing theater!"
Ian cautiously extended his helmet on the end of his gun barrel, only for a bullet to punch right through it. The Professor was speechless.
'They're clearly trying to kill us. And they're highly trained. Pinpoint rifle fire while mortars only smash nearby buildings—probably to avoid accidentally hitting Old Picture.'
No intention of breaking the play. Yet they're trying to kill the lead actors.
"Ah."
A sudden flash of insight hit the Professor. He immediately pulled out that familiar "script" from his pocket.
Flip, flip.
=====
#2 The protagonist's group throws themselves to save a civilian family. The head of the family feels trust in their soldierly demeanor.
#3 The group pushes through hails of bullets toward the extraction point. They comfort the family, experiencing such terror for the first time, and safely reach the extraction.
#4 Play ends. Act according to the situation.
=====
That was the entire directive. The rest was just details on mortar impact zones, cover positions, and how to handle Old Picture.
'Shake hands. Throw themselves to save. Comfort... The whole play is built around soldiers sacrificing for the three families. Build sympathy through their devotion, then kill them right in front of its eyes? No way a simple, idiotic ploy like that would make it feel affection and obey! Even an idiot would know such a plan is doomed to fail! It makes no sense no matter how I think about it. How the hell do they plan to tame Old Picture...'
Clunk.
A cold sensation suddenly pierced his mind.
If you can't understand a single event, blame your own carelessness—you missed a clue somewhere. But if you can't grasp the massive context including that event, go back to the beginning. The premise itself is wrong.
'If it's a living creature that can perceive situations and be controlled to some degree... couldn't you train it?'
'Hahaha! Dome is already buzzing about this. That massive monster, the spectacle of Sector 47, is officially coming under Dome's control!'
"Ha, hahahaha..."
Recalling their words, a hollow laugh escaped him.
He tore down the assumptions built on acquired intel and sifted only what he'd seen with his own eyes.
'The Executive Branch is hostile to allies, trying to use or eliminate us.'
'They're using Old Picture for something.'
'The Executive Branch is one of Dome's core powers. Idiots wouldn't have survived this long.'
'And yet those guys put on an obviously idiotic plan with idiotic oversight.'
'As a result, we—judging it a simple, failing plan—followed their lead, and now we're standing weaponless before Old Picture, who's ten meters from rampaging, taking their live fire.'
Why hadn't he seen it? He'd noticed their hostility. Why judge based on info from the enemy's mouth?
"Fuck. We got played."
"Why? Figure something out?"
"Yeah. More or less. No wonder it felt too sloppy."
The intel he'd trusted crumbled to dust, revealing the truth beneath. Taming Old Picture—an idiotic but grand plan—was just a cog in a truly massive scheme.
Believing even part of what a guy hiding his name said. His mistake.
"Haaah—"
A sigh escaped, but at least he'd realized it now. He'd stupidly walked his neck onto the blade, but it hadn't cut yet. Time to move properly from here.
First, verify the new hypothesis.
The Professor spat on the ground and fixed Ian and Bex with a sharp gaze.
"Anyone got something to scout the outside? Feels like heads will roll the second we peek."
"Nope."
"Me neither. Greatsword's non-reflective treated, but can't use it that way."
"Hmm... No choice. Wait a sec."
"What're you gonna—! Hey! Where you going!"
Dodging Ian's grab, the Professor rolled out of the alley with all his might.
Pew!
Pababak!
Bullets kicked up dirt around him the instant he exposed himself. But the fire that seemed ready to riddle him cut off abruptly once he crossed half the street.
"As expected. It's not that they don't need to continue the play anymore—the protagonist's death itself is part of the play."
The three mannequins hidden in the alley, puppets controlled by tentacles. Old Picture's massive main body exposed in the street center. Standing before it, fully exposed, the Professor took in the enemies lined up blatantly on distant rooftops and windows. For some reason, they wore Dome uniforms. Waving huge Dome-marked flags useless for street fighting. Amid them, something like a silver exosuit—unmanned, probably a mockup.
'A five-story commercial building at the three-way intersection. Right at the end of its patrol route, the boundary line.'
The position felt familiar. Back when he'd first stumbled into the play due to his mistake, the Inspectorate guy directing it had marked it boldly in red on the map: the critical point.
'No matter what, do not let it reach here.'
'Why?'
'This is where its memories cut off.'
'What happens if memories cut off?'
'What happens when a sleepwalker wakes up?'
"It opens its eyes and finds itself dropped in some strange place without knowing how."
Normally, Old Picture reaching that boundary would panic intensely but calm upon seeing the street match its memories perfectly, then return to its hideout—its host's home with the family—and sleep. But if the street differed from memory upon waking at the boundary, it rampages, turning its entire sector and model garden into a kill zone.
'That endpoint is where the host's past memories intersect with Old Picture's current ones. Type-3 variants are living beings, so separate from the host's memories, they accumulate ones accepted as Old Picture somewhere.'
Time to retract the sloppy plan judgment. Quite sophisticated. Old Picture's life mirrors the woman who miscarried and broke: clutching the dead child's corpse, suckling it, muttering "This can't be, impossible," endlessly denying reality in grief.
The enemies' plan gave a new goal to Old Picture, whose life was wandering dark memories denying reality.
Memory cutoff meant the host's life ended here. Family likely met the same fate, so overlap a similar situation— a bonded target dying before its eyes—with the memory, linking past and present, turning mourning to rage, imprinting the rage target.
'The head of a disgraced Executive Branch facing certain political defeat. Obvious he'll get back all the evil he's done the moment he falls. Ways to survive: scramble for position, or easier, surer, self-enriching methods.'
Enemy fire had stopped its hail. They knew. Couldn't camp here all day. Step out, exposed to fire; stay, contradict Old Picture's memory of reaching street's end, triggering rampage. Either way, forced into the open under crossfire.
Tak!
"You crazy bastard! What balls to charge open ground without cover!"
"Just standing there dumbfounded! Out in the open! Thought you panicked and ran to die! Idiot! Fucking idiot!"
Back at the flowerbed with the group, his two friends welcomed him warmly.
"Nah, they won't shoot. Per their plan, we need to die dramatically. Like, in front of confused Old Picture—bam! Headshot style."
"What're you saying? The script changed or something?"
"Nah, it's a ~whoa~ super complex and simple situation."
The Professor pointed at the group in Dome uniforms aiming at them.
"Those guys look like Raptor Society."
"What? Why Raptors all of a sudden?"
"Taming Old Picture—that clown show—was part of a massive play from the start."
The Professor chuckled hollowly.
"They played us good. This wasn't just some election stunt. Executive Branch betrayed Dome, teamed with Raptors to use Old Picture to flip all of Sector 47!"
Felt like a pebble swept in rapids.
Rumors of Raptor activity lately. Obvious reason: new underground bunker in Sector 45. Once security key owner set, 45 becomes new Dome city. Raptors face huge wall from 47 to 45, 43. Endless raiders hate detours—fuel costs a fortune here, longer trips mean likely losses even on good hauls. Production-less raiders sustaining on plunder can't afford it. Raptors pushed to radioactive 30s inevitable, so Raptor Society had to block Dome taking 45.
"Cornered Executive head about to die quietly, Raptors facing periodic rad-fog 30s. Desperate pair hit it off."
"But... we provoking the monster was pure coincidence, right?"
"Forgot? Dome manages all Sector 47. You two weren't heading anywhere specific then, right?"
"Hmm. Yeah. Just joyriding, scouting casually before heading back..."
Ian's mind flashed to that day. Scavenger gang huddled around a burning rusty drum at a fork, arguing loudly. Road blocked by collapsed wall. Alley dimly lit, suspiciously dangerous. To him unfamiliar with the area, paths to avoid.
"...We were herded? Me?"
"Told you. Dome guys are street-fighting specialists. Their home turf. Guiding one car for Executive enforcers? Piece of cake."
My schedule visible via broadcasts, so they timed when I was out, luring key-holding BDSM. Provoke Old Picture. Us naturally taking responsibility, threaten into insane plan. Planning to kill anyway, no holds barred. All set, at play's end, "friendly dying before eyes" imprints Dome-uniformed killer. Then shoot, grenade to enrage fully, flee toward Dome—soldiers rushing out get swarmed by Old Picture.
'Chaos cover: Executive inside, Raptor spec ops outside attack.'
All theater. Massive play staging whole Sector 47. Even "taming" Old Picture a prop to fool enemies HIV, Dome Inspectorate, civilians.
"Mr. Isangguk, that Jack guy—all actors. They looped us big time. Mind-blowing."
True to reputation. Sly, lethal. No escape now—near-perfect dead end.
Ziiing!
Time up. Old Picture's body bubbling; delay more, mismatch triggers rampage. Mortars would rain on their flowerbed.
"Goddamn. Shrimp crushed in whale fight, huh. Shouldn't have come to 47."
"Watch your words. In a way, we stabbed those whales in the back in 45."
"Got the situation. So what's the plan? Monster's still dazed—full sprint escape...?"
"Guys plotting this big wouldn't miss that. Move, become hives. We've lived till now 'cause Old Picture must reach boundary, see us die."
"Then what?! Following script gets us killed!"
"What to do."
The Professor rose slowly, advancing where Old Picture could see clearly.
"Ultimately, theater's made by actors. Key to this: this guy, right? Play ain't over, script says handle end yourself."
That Jack guy mocked me about Old Picture terrorism potential. How he laughed, while plotting exactly that. How ridiculous I must've seemed, bumbling freely.
Can't let it slide. Played extras for free—time for my finale.
"Executive and Raptor pals planned meticulously, but learning years of life-risk project from books, seems they skimped on character insight."
Plan based on Old Picture's motives. But reports missed one fact.
Why.
Why she died. How, when, what circumstance made it grieve so. Why last host memory: gripping family's hands, wandering streets.
The Professor knew part of it. Years ago, end of normal "play," monster wailing homeward—faint psychic memory left.
He tore his short-sleeve shirt under uniform, split between them.
"Wet with spit, cram in ears. Deep as till eardrums scream. I'll make opening—probably pass out. Hold it together, carry me to car."
"Snipers?"
"Can't aim. Book-learned can't handle it. Still, Bex, secure 1 o'clock alley."
"...I'll clear it best I can."
Playful tone hid tension leaking out. Ian watched silent Bex vanish, quietly rolled wet cloth into ears, gripped Professor's shoulder.
"Success odds."
"...60%."
"You surviving too."
"...30%."
"You fucker."
Growl heavy with worry, but Ian released. Knew asking wouldn't change Professor sending himself or another.
"If you die, can't stop Bex."
"Break his legs."
"Won't even try."
"..."
Thud.
No more words, Ian shoved Professor's back.
"Go, gambler. Pray that coin-toss goddess from last time lingers."
"Reassuring."
Odd feeling. 30%. Seven-in-ten death. Yet seeing hulking Bex sniffling to light cig behind, owl-eyed kid aged in grizzled face scanning alley and him with blunt greatsword—strange thought: 'Not bad.'
No death wish, truly baffling.
"Hey! Dojin!"
Confidence laced Professor's shout at monster mid-street, thanks to that.
Mannequin peeking cautiously, gripping family's hands tight; controlling flesh lumps.
Professor grinned wide at them, pressed gun to own chin.
"Good work so far, Dojin. Time to let go—don't wander, go in peace!"
Click... clack...
[What the...]
Bang—!
Trigger pulled without hesitation, muzzle flashed,
Sharp gunshot pierced end of startled puppet's words.
Thud.
Professor crumpled like puppet before mannequin.
[Wha... huh? Dead? Where'd it... Ah... Uh... Uhhh—!]
Bubble bubble bubble—
Puppet shook like aspen, flesh boiled wildly,
Splat—!
Melted formless, seeped into ground.
Professor confirmed main body gone, plugged ears stealthily prone. Blanks up close still shocked with powder. Collar up helped, but head rang inevitable.
Ziiing—
Psychic wave burrowing through headache, from underground.
'Wanted to upscale play, huh... Let's see if you laugh when it grows beyond control...'
Shoes pile, three mannequins left; Old Picture seeped underground.
Not gone.
Grrrrumble—
Kwaang!
Rear convenience store exploded, revealing black ash lump inside.
Every street but Kim Dojin's death spot erupted, Old Picture's colossal flesh emerging shell-cracking, reaching for world.
'Damn... Grown way bigger in years...'
First: Inspectorate provoking to shape model garden.
Second: Years ago, idiot "actor" prodding family talk to "act natural," fully awakening it.
Third: Now.
Third true form: half-burned melted giant, upper body only.
'Its Achilles' heel isn't just losing kin. Trigger: person suiciding before its eyes, its powerlessness to stop.'
"Kraaaaaaaa—aaaaaaaah!!!!"
Kwoooosh!
Scream from monster size of central model garden, massive psychic wave blanketed Sector 47.
'Me... suiciding... perfect! Ngh! No direction... to its rage...'
Thump!
Grinding shattered teeth to endure, Professor failed against point-blank psychic, lost consciousness.
***