Chapter 91
Chapter 91
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 91
Chapter Title: Chapter 7 Masked Ball (7)
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***
Crackle, crackle-crackle, crackle.
“Um... Section Chief?”
“...”
Slurp—
“...Argh! Section Chief Mong!”
Slurp!
“Gah, it’s hot! Let’s just drink the damn coffee, you punk! What now? Can’t you shut your trap for five minutes—no, three? Azel!!”
Unlike the other agents quietly checking their gear or resting during standby, Inspection Section Chief Ralph Montclair was on the verge of a nervous breakdown thanks to his greenhorn subordinate’s nonstop chatter, even as he sorted reports.
“How many times do I have to tell you before it sinks in? It’s already decided! The Chief stamped it! That Old Picture taming op or whatever is under Enforcement’s jurisdiction! One hundred percent! We’ve got no business sticking our noses in!”
“That’s why I’m saying—why are they suddenly messing with a thing we Inspection agents risked our lives to seal away, and that we’ve been managing for years?!”
Azel was dying of frustration. Why the hell did those idiots crawl into the Central District at a time like this, and how did a bunch of crafty bastards who’d stuffed their pockets fat while howling in the hellhole of Sector 45 end up poking the Old Picture of all things?!
Slurp—
Montclair, who’d been silently sipping his coffee in response to Azel’s question, frowned uncomfortably before speaking. The hat, the clothes, the mannerisms—everything about the guy was always a bit off-kilter. Maybe that’s why Azel always zeroed in on his own rough edges so well.
“You know damn well this is a critical time for the Dome—and for us in Inspection, Azel.”
“...”
“No answer? Fine, I’ll take that as you promising to shut up if I explain. Truth is, I barely got any details on this myself.”
“Even you, Section Chief? They’re controlling info all the way up to section chief level?”
“Yeah. Must be that important—and shady. From what I’ve dug up on my own, they handed over nearly half the Underdome interests and spilled every detail of the op outline. The Chief figures their plan’s doomed to fail anyway. Once he’s mayor, those interests come to us regardless, but smoother is better. You know what it’s like over there. Criminals, drug-heads brainwashed into puppets—tracking down every thread in that spiderweb would cost who knows how many lives. Better if it comes clean. Even if that weird project succeeds, it won’t swing the vote much.”
“But... isn’t the problem that it might fail? Two years ago, when it properly blew up, not just the test subjects—all the personnel died! We took heavy casualties in Inspection just containing it!”
“Hm? Weren’t you in Inspection back then? How do you know so much?”
“Public servants know their agency’s history best. It was plastered on the front of the Inspection exam prep book as one of our proud achievements.”
“Huh. Well, anyway—no need to worry that much. Sure, Enforcement competes with us, but flip it: they’re aces if they can go toe-to-toe with Inspection. They’ve dealt with Old Picture rampages before, so it won’t go full berserk with the main body exposed. At worst, some terminal, mannequin-shoe lump thrashing around. Nearby folks might get some mental storm aftereffects, but a few months’ rest fixes that.”
Tap, tap.
Montclair lightly patted Azel’s shoulder, the kid’s face etched with anxiety.
“Heard you’re tight with those BDSM buddies. Relax. Nothing major. Enforcement isn’t that stupid—they won’t push Old Picture to the brink—”
[GRRRRAAAAAHHHH—OOOOAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!]
In an instant, a mournful howl started far off and echoed across all of Sector 47,
Ziiiiing—!
Tragic moments flashing through their minds.
“Ch-Chief? This is...!”
“What the fu—did those Enforcement moron bastard idiots pull this time?!?!”
Montclair, sprawled lazily like a bear in his armchair, endured the familiar memory onslaught and roared like a lion.
“Inspection! All heavy assault units, prep for deployment! Arm with high-density bias shields! Thunder Clap! Rest is improv—whatever’s fastest!”
“Doping protocols? Emergency clearance might take—”
“I’ll take the heat! Cardiac boosters! Neuro stabilizers! Anyone too dizzy—Whale Risers too, get ’em in and move!”
Montclair barked orders like a machine gun while slipping into his exosuit. Even prepped, gearing for suppression took at least ten minutes. If Old Picture reached the Dome and screamed inside the city shields even once, 20% of the population would fall to depression. Not just any—straight-to-suicide severe cases. Time short, intel shorter.
Time to steel themselves. For the greater good, resolve to lay down their lives.
‘Gotta head out barebones, buy time at lea—’
“Chief! Hurry up or what? Legs cramping can’t move? I’ll go solo!”
As Montclair pondered his last rites, Azel—already suited up and blasting open the hangar doors—yelled back.
“Wha... you’re done already?”
“Was gonna sneak out anyway—prepped in advance!”
“That’s insubordination, you punk!”
“Subordinating an order ’cause combat prep’s flawless! Commendation material, right?”
Whirr—clank! Whirr—clank!
Stepping forward in his empty exosuit, Montclair saw Azel—face flushed from doping—already geared.
A motor mouth that never quit for 24 hours.
A spirit unbreakable by any scolding.
Super my-pace, cracking jokes while others flailed, as if depression could go fuck itself.
“No better candidate ready...”
“What?! Didn’t hear that!”
“You’ll get your damn commendation! Move out! Main body exposed means first response is key! We go ahead, hold it off!”
“Wait! Bodycam’s on—say it again! You said commendation!”
“Shut up and max output! Full throttle to target! Sector 47 central, Model Garden! Batteries be damned—highest density! Mental waves get damped good!”
“We’ll talk commendations later! I heard it clear—!”
“Commendation or court-martial—you’ll get one! Go!”
Clang—clang—clang—!
From the hangar linked to Dome’s exterior, two exosuits wrapped in bluish shields burst out, racing toward the chaos.
***
Meanwhile, in Central District’s Model Garden, Ian—who’d braced for impact—took the mental wave head-on and crumpled mid-dash.
“Guhhh! Uwaaaaaah!”
A brutally coercive wave of memories. A monster’s merciless lament, blanking living brain cells and seeding its life within.
Earplugs weren’t enough to block it. Ian, sprawled and straining to rise, had one eye on the rising giant but the other lost in human Kim Dojin’s past.
=====
He was a dad. Just an ordinary one—chained to his paycheck, capping days with post-work beer and baseball, vowing tomorrow while gazing at his sleeping son’s face.
=====
He sees it. The man’s face. Gaunt, weary, but brimming with pride at safeguarding a peaceful day on his own power—a father’s face.
Old Picture’s memories flow like a river through his mind, one by one.
Skyrocketing oil prices.
News blaring daily crises.
Hoarding-empty shelves of ramen, rice, essentials.
Whining kid, stuck indoors.
Wife’s worsening depression.
Ziiiiing—!
The next memory slams Ian back to his knees as he barely rises.
Dojin’s warm gaze at his son pierces Ian’s heart like a blade.
“Damn... you... no wonder old tales are best unheard...”
Memories buried deep in his chest surged up, raging fiercer, more wistfully for all the years suppressed.
A child. He too had a child to protect, a wife he loved.
‘My daughter. My little girl. The moment you took your first steps, I swore to cast all aside and live for you—to be a father whose name you could speak without shame. Yet my hands still never dry of blood.’
Thwack!
Thud-thwack!
Watermelon bursts echoed faintly but clearly behind. One of the rooftop snipers had fallen. Slipped in shock? Maybe for one or two. But when fingers ran out counting them, it wasn’t “accident” anymore.
To survive this world, none escape tragedy. In the monster’s mental storm, they’d chosen to end theirs.
‘Jealous.’
The thought bubbled unbidden in Ian’s mind. He aches to meet them. Longing fills his chest, spilling as tears. The half-smoked cig in his mouth burns down, regrets thick in his lungs.
His gun. Sadly loaded with blanks. Could blanks kill? Jam the barrel in an eye and pull—would shock reach the brain? Finally back to family arms?
As horrific fancy gripped him, slowly raising the muzzle, far off—his watched target—collapsed. The huddled, trembling form like a bug went limp.
Professor. Professor Hapburn. Names varied. Despite the age gap over ten years, Ian secretly admired his young friend. Twenty-four. Pre-apocalypse, college age or fresh salaryman. In the war, just high school.
But he’d survived that dogfight. Not just survived—protected what mattered. In the wastes, folks ditched it first for survival: that feather-light something. On moonlit nights, chill winds whistled its empty spot, bittersweet. He clutched it close, navigating this mad world alone.
‘Quick thinker means heavy thinker.’
Ian saw it. Eyes that’d gone cold killer, witnessing countless final breaths—saw the flicker of conflict with each trigger pull in Professor. An emotion that’d once lingered in his own heart.
‘You always think. Hesitation never slows your moves, but you chew over why they had to die, whipping yourself. Killed to survive. So survived with weight—live worthier for it.’
Not wallowing stupid in guilt tears. Fiercest life-will, whipped by good-heart guilt into stronger flame. In this world, how many laid not spring-weight but other burdens on triggers?
Professor had it. That dazzling thing wastelanders couldn’t endure without reflecting on. None who met him would call trigger-ready him “good.”
But human? Yes. More than any Ian had seen. Not blinding torch of fierce goodwill—but a flame lighting the path for one groping blind dark.
And that light was flickering out before him.
Face relieved, no regrets.
Anxiety roots in his seeking-peace heart. Panic rises unbidden.
Ian knew that face. His wife’s smile, left in the doomed city at the end.
Her voice echoes, hallucinated. Raptor-dog days, scolding blood-soaked hospitalized him—in that same tone.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
.
.
.
.
Hands on hips, fierce—berating Raptor’s most battle-mad killer.
Ian set down the empty gun, grabbed the cig butt with that hand.
Crunch—
“Fuuu—, Molly. Death may have stolen your sweet breath, but not even your nagging, my love.”
Tap, tap, sizzle!
Dusting the nearly spent cig, he ground the glowing butt into the soft flesh under his throat.
Burnt flesh stench and searing pain yanked him from eternal rest’s lure back to the world.
“Molly. You and Johanna... wait a bit longer. Close now, but one more I wanna watch.”
Limbs numb, monster’s grief still churning his head, but Ian figured he could move.
“Guess my life’s shittier than that monster’s shell. Made it this far—why not further.”
Ian resolved to linger a bit longer in this anxious, sorrowful reality.
***
Crack!
Strength returning, Ian bolted to the fallen Professor. Gunshots rang, but no worry—they echoed sideways from on high, not down.
Swipe—
‘Breathing. Not dead yet. Alive!’
But the nosebleed streaming down said otherwise.
Ian had felt his brain mush from afar. Professor, much closer—practically under Old Picture’s nose—must’ve taken denser waves than anyone here.
“...Clench those balls and hold on, Professor! My family’s waving from Jordan’s bank ’cause of you—I dragged my ass back to this shithole wasteland!”
As if answering, Professor’s fingers twitched on his back—Ian grinned fiercely.
“Yeah, no solo escape thoughts, mein Freund.”
Stripping his uniform top to strap Professor tight, Ian dashed two blocks to an alley without pause. Far off, bloodied Vex crawled, stabbing the ground with his blunt greatsword.
Dim-witted pal, but always cleaned up neater than anyone.
***