Chapter 93
Chapter 93
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Vine
Chapter: 93
Chapter Title: Chapter 7 Masquerade Ball (9)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
***
“Ugh... I do have a plan, but explaining it is kinda complicated.”
“Why? Didn’t you read all of the Professor’s memories?”
“That’s exactly why it’s complicated. When you search for someone’s thoughts, it’s not like typing ‘A’ into a search bar and getting just that result. Especially with this shell of a guy—his mind is so full of thoughts that watching them unfold could eat up your whole day without you even noticing. It’s like a damn grapevine.
‘Actually, I did find the plan the Professor organized, but no need to spell it out for them, right?’”
Reading memories was genuinely complicated. If someone thought of ‘apple,’ words like sweet taste, red color, fruit would unconsciously follow, and from there, a flood of related memories would branch out.
But who was he? A freakish lifeform born from within someone else’s consciousness.
Hyde had already sifted through the Professor’s tangled memories to find the ‘simplified Old Picture countermeasure for Ian and Bex.’
=====
1. Buy time. The berserk state unleashes powerful psychic waves. Last time, they echoed across all of Sector 47, so everyone in the sector heard it this time too. The Dome definitely picked it up, so stalling a bit will bring the Inspection Bureau swarming like bees. Leave the rest to the pros.
2. No telling how many Execution Squad forces are committed here, but they’d have left sympathizers inside for the Raptor raid. The city’s core controlling total output and the turret control center for city defense—terror attacks are guaranteed at both. With the Inspection Bureau away, if even those fall, the Dome becomes a sitting duck. They’ll have to intervene. Their own staff aren’t civilians, so just rattling them a little will help big time.
3. Once the Raptor ambush is thwarted and the Inspection Bureau’s exosuit unit returns after handling the Old Picture, they’ll hit the Raptor forces from behind. That ends it. Just mop up the stragglers.
Conclusion: Drag it out in the truck, head to the Dome when reinforcements arrive.
=====
A neatly organized memory, laid out like it was meant for someone’s eyes—probably a message to Hyde in case he lost consciousness. Something like, ‘Follow this and you’ll be fine.’
It was a solid plan. Prioritizing the group’s safety, letting them dip in just enough to make an impact before pulling out.
That’s what dissatisfied Hyde.
‘First time out in this world. Giant monsters like that! Sworn lifetime enemies! Reliable comrades! And this cargo hold packed with killer weapons! Just brushing past it all? No way in hell. Absolutely not!’
Safety mattered. If the shell—the Professor’s body—died, so would he.
Following the shell’s rules mattered too. Rampage outside, ignore the crisis, ditch everything to goof off, and he’d become a total pariah. The shell would never plan for Hyde to come out again.
But most importantly, whatever he did had to be fun enough to satisfy him.
Tower jacking in Tobrun? Fun as hell. Wrecking a mage tower that gripped an entire city, going toe-to-toe with a Rank 6 mage.
Clashing with a demonized lich black mage? No contest! Adrenaline surging on the edge of death! Thrill! Ecstasy! He’d have been pissed if they hadn’t called him!
‘Fun. I want to have fun! Joy, sorrow! Hope and despair, happiness, misery! Every stimulus is precious! Ahh, it’s fun! The shell’s precarious life is so damn fun!!!’
Since his birth, everything Hyde had truly experienced—beyond the Professor’s memories and vague sensations—were life-or-death clashes with strong foes or crises delivering intense emotions racing up his spine.
Those moments had etched themselves into Hyde’s soul as his real ‘life.’
Hyde had long been addicted to that rush.
“First off, gotta throw down with that big lug.”
That’s why Hyde’s mouth spat out a plan utterly divorced from the Professor’s.
He’d follow the Professor’s will: save the group, defend Sector 47 from the Raptors, ensure survival. But the method? That’d be his way.
“Damn it. Can’t just slip past after all...”
“Exactly. Looking at what it’s doing, it’s more skewed toward psychic than physical. And now it’s gone berserk? So where’ll draw the most of its attention~?”
“The Dome... right?”
Smack!
“Correct! It’s where the most ‘minds’ are concentrated, after all. No clue why it’s projecting its past onto others, but there’s gotta be a reason for that kinda thing, yeah? So the spot to blast the most memories with one scream? Inside the Dome’s walls, overflowing with civilians, right?”
‘Huh? Just grabbed the first thing that popped up, but saying it out loud... it actually makes sense?’
Up to the part about the Old Picture’s weird psychic waves having a reason—that was quoting the Professor. But the rest? Blown out to convince Ian and Bex. And damn if it didn’t hold water.
‘Whoa... night and day compared to peeking from inside. This hardware’s top-tier!’
Hyde’s take on using the Professor’s brain directly. He’d been in constant brawl mode before; this was his first shot at complex thinking. One thought branched out instantly—almost too fast to track.
Hyde was starting to love the outside world more and more.
“A-alright. What’s the reason? We’re supposed to stop the Old Picture from hitting the Dome?”
“‘Cause we wanna live?”
Hyde fired back at Bex’s question without a second’s hesitation.
“Check it. Raptor Society: famous for mobility, firepower, iron discipline. Dome, on the flip: street fighting, mechanized infantry, fortress defense... nah, stronghold defense. Quick military rundown. Dome never loses in their home turf, especially urban defense. You know why.”
“No kidding. Old guy worships gunpowder, but even he was floored by the Dome’s ancient civ defense arsenal... jaw on the floor, like it’d drop another inch.”
A mandatory three hours daily of manpower generation for the insanely dense population. Massive power buildup, fueling ancient civ city defenses.
The Dome boasted firepower rivaling ancient civ peak in urban defense.
“Yeah. Ancient civ defense guns. Kandal-grade railgun mounts, plasma walls, deflection super-magnets... that’s the Dome’s worldwide rep. But those key facilities? Crazy complex startup sequences. What if the Old Picture barrels in with that bulk and hits ‘em with one massive [Kuuuuaaaang~]?”
“...City grinds to a halt.”
“Boom! Civilians, troops, staff—everyone clutching heads, bawling ‘Waaah! I’m a worthless slug! I wanna die!’ Execution Squad prepped that play 100% for drama, but even without it, proper provocation means high odds it’d hit the city. City paralyzed, no staff to fire up ancient defenses, black lizards swarm the downed fortress...”
“Raptors... take Sector 47.”
Clap clap clap clap!
Hyde clapped theatrically, winking at Ian as he reached the conclusion.
“Yup! Finally that rock head’s rolling! Whole HIV crew’s wanted by Raptors. No more holing up in the Professor’s shelter. Escaping Raptor turf? Tall order. Run and they’ll nab you quick. You know what Raptors do with captured humans, right? Metaljaw, ex-Raptor—you’d know.”
“...Bio-diesel. Makes me wanna puke, so drop it.”
Slurp!
Hyde wiped drool pooling unbidden. Raptor pals—cannibal dinos by name—shared his tastes. Squeeze out the oil from spent humans. Oil hogs like Raptors, hunting gasoline subs, hit genius with ‘bio-diesel.’
“Anyway, it heads to Dome, we’re all dead. Half-ass block it, eat a [Kraaaang!], brains to mush. If we’re drawing aggro anyway, need one hell of a haymaker. Something to shut its scream down hard.”
“Firepower... we loaded some in the truck, but this okay? Professor packed it for his plan.”
“Nah, don’t sweat. He thought it was the usual play. After show’s over, hand ‘em out free—apology to Sector 47, BDSM image rehab. Promo B-stock to you gun nuts, but primo gear for norm survivors. More than covers a day’s blackout.”
Yeah, ultimately pinned on losers’ fault, but whatever.
Screech-!
Ian braked at Hyde’s words, sitting still.
“Why? What?”
“...Tch. Your speech patterns are starting to sound just like the Professor.”
“Ooh? So? Feelin’ closer now?”
“Nah. Even more repulsive. Get out! Means we gotta whale on that monster big time—gotta gear up.”
“Ooh! Gear up! Show me guns! Lemme shoot one—gyaaah!”
Ian booted the door open, shoving the flailing Hyde out, then hopped down to pop the cargo hold.
Rattle—thunk!
“Pick what you like. Especially shorty—you go small and punchy, I know, but this ain’t necking people, it’s monster hunting. I’ll pick yours—”
“Wooooaaah!!!”
Ian turned at the massive cheer while recommending gear to the uneasy, silent Bex tailing him.
“Guns! GUNS! Weapons! Powder! Real ones! Not memories! Actual guns!”
There, Hyde dove into a mountain of wooden crates, prying lids with a crowbar.
Click! Clack clack!
“Beretta 92! Made by Italian Beretta! Defined an era! Mmm~ gun oil smell! Bled so much from years of use, reeks of blood!”
Thunk!
“FN P90! Nicknamed soccer ball! Professor hated this one! Special forces days—thought-dead guy raked ‘em with this, clipped Professor’s leg, killed a squadmate! Saw that memory dozens of times. Real thing?!”
Way more expert and manic than expected.
Bex glanced at Ian unwittingly. Back when they scavenged, new guns got that exact reaction from him.
“Uh, um... you know your stuff... real well?”
“Damn right! Professor’s memories—gun ones replayed hundreds of times! That’s the same model from the gun shop at his first offline market. Drooled buckets, too pricey. This saved his ass at Tarrel Ground Defense. Could go forever...”
Clack!
Hyde yanked a massive revolver from the junk pile.
“This one. S&W M500—special to me. When Professor slung spells in that other world, imagined this to fire blood-forged rounds.”
Ian nodded at the gun Hyde cradled like treasure.
S&W M500. A beauty.
Long barrel, 5-shot revolver cylinder.
Fires .500 S&W Magnum—like the Desert Eagle .50AE supercharged, nearly double the energy.
Manly as hell, but weight, capacity, practicality tanked it. Ian wasn’t big on pistols anyway, so promo stock.
‘...Maybe not so bad after all?’
Seeing Hyde idolize the beast like a fangirl at a concert, Ian’s gaze softened warmly.
“Ahem! Parasite... Hyde. Got more taste than I thought.”
“Heh heh heh. Can I take this? Shell knows how to shoot—plenty usable!”
“Ahem! Fine, whatever. Ammo’s in the corner—grab it.”
“Thanks! Really, Metaljaw! Gotta test it right no—!”
Thunk!
“Wooowooo!!! Grenades! M67! Apple nickname from the round shape!”
Thump.
“Boom stuff! BOMBS!!!”
Thump thump! Boom! Boom!
Hyde, thrilled like a kid at Disneyland first time.
Ian’s heart raced watching him—Professor’s face, eyes devouring the arsenal like life’s greatest treasure.
Professor and Bex: great pals, but one regret.
Ian had dreamed for years. Killer weapons in front of you, someone to geek out over them for three sleepless nights—same tastes.
Parasite in Professor’s body or not, its soul differed. Triggered and fused, like his—gunpowder and bullets mad.
Sniiiiff!
Ian failed to tame his goofy grin.
[It threatens my life for sure... but somehow, I can’t hate the bastard.]
‘Ahh, Professor. Never got that line till now.’
“Hey, Hyde.”
“Yeah? Don’t say... can’t have this?”
“Can’t? Take whatever. But apples are anti-personnel, range sucks on muscle power—situational dud now. How ‘bout this grenade launcher instead?”
“Ooooh! Grenade launcher! Killer!”
Kuh huh huh!
Hee hee hee!
Ian and Hyde, vibe syncing, forgot the crisis in weapon geek-out.
Bex, fiddling an RPG in the corner, eyed them with rising dread.
***
Clank—clank—
Clank—clank—
“Listen up, idiot. Reinforcements in about 15 minutes. Till then, we two stall the Old Picture.”
Ralph Mongclare addressed the rookie Inspection Bureau agent beside him, eyeing the Old Picture’s colossal form looming distant.
“Even with suit shields blocking some psychic waves, can’t fully tank ‘em in that state. Two, three hits max—we’re out. So yank its focus full on us first, then bolt full throttle.”
“Drawing that giant’s aggro... peashooters won’t cut it. Dance in its face?”
‘Maybe this moron’ll be fine. If depression had legs, it’d dodge him on purpose.’
Mongclare thought of his subordinate, Ezel—lighthearted amid his own desperate charge. Farthest from depression? This slacker punk, no contest.
“That’s why we got that. Thunder Clap.”
No plans dragging another on suicide run, but Ezel’s pre-mounted exosuit gear was too vital to leave.
Thunder Clap: post-first messy Old Picture subdual with heavy casualties, developed for big mutants.
Two parts: compressed battery and gauntlets. Shorts insane power through suit-mounted gauntlets—crackling zap like thunderous applause, hence the name.
‘Eight, no seven Thunder Clap suits, could’ve aimed to take it down... but no dice. Still, enough to grab attention.’
Downsides: melee only, drains power fast—limits shields and aux. Vs. Old Picture? Tank thinned waves point-blank.
“...Sorry. Dragging a newbie like you into hell for no reason.”
“Aw, c’mon. Would’ve gone solo anyway. Thanks for coming, Chief!”
“Funny bastard. Survive this, you’ll go far, idiot!”
Clank! Clank!
Hearts steeled, two exosuits hit central sector. As they prepped charge, something odd caught their eyes.
“What? Someone... already drawing it?”
“Not bad news. Means someone beat us to aggro... might dodge contact till main force arrives. Black-painted heavy truck... Raptor? Raptor armed truck shape, no marks though. Recognize it? Gunfire says they’re gunning to hook it hard.”
“Dunno... no telephoto scope, hard to...!!!!”
Ezel’s eyes flashed. Professor’s shelter visit: markless black armed truck. Execution Squad-forced play with Professor’s crew.
Link ‘em: truck driver’s ID was obvious.
“My god... why’re they always at the epicenter of shit...”
“What? You know... whaaat, where you going!”
Clank, clank!
“Hey! Wait! No need for us to bait first anymore! Idiot! Hey, you m—”
Ralph tried stopping his suddenly bolting subordinate,
“Got reasons—going ahead, Chief!”
“You bastard, stop right there! Hey, hey!!!”
Clank clank clank clank!
Ezel was already charging the armed truck—and the terrifying Old Picture hot on its tail.
***