Chapter 36
Chapter 36
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 36
Chapter Title: The Female Colleague
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'A woman?'
A plain-looking woman glanced around as she walked into the alleyway.
Contrary to expectations, Ras's colleague was a woman. The name Lloyd alone had made me assume it was a man.
Well, there's no law saying women can't work in this business.
She didn't look like the type who'd turn heads, but who knows what secrets she hid. She might even go around pulling spines out of people.
I stood up from my spot and waved at her.
"Over here."
"Why the hell did you want to meet in a dump like this?"
"It's not the kind of talk you do out in the open."
"Fair enough. But..."
Lloyd approached me. The friendly smile she'd worn moments ago twisted into a puzzled tilt of her head.
"Didn't you retire? What are you still doing in that getup?"
"Huh?"
"Isn't that a work uniform?"
She pointed at my clothes as she said it.
The mimicry organ's pheromones don't affect me, so she had no idea what I really looked like.
In the game, the mimicry organ made you appear as the target right before they died...
When I devoured Ras, he hadn't changed clothes. He'd passed out drunk in his work uniform.
From what Lloyd was saying, it seemed reality worked the same way as the game—the mimicry replicated the target's final appearance.
The mimicry organ even copies clothing.
The organ acquires genetic data and uses it to produce hallucinatory pheromones, but it doesn't rely solely on genes. It compiles info from auxiliary organs—like vision—to create a far more precise illusion.
It gathers visual details on clothes, shoes, buttons, wrinkles, and such, then overlays them onto the body shape constructed from genetic data for the final hallucination. That's why it can't replicate other outfits—only what the consumed target was wearing gets applied.
Didn't think of that. If the clothes don't match the situation, it could raise suspicions.
In the game, no one clocked you from mismatched gear. Players didn't swap out combat suits just to stroll into a city.
People might notice the illusion glitching in Unpleasant Valley, but never because of suspicious equipment.
This is reality, so details like that matter. Gotta watch it from now on.
If Lloyd hadn't pointed it out, I could've been in real trouble.
I brushed it off with a vague excuse.
"Nah, just didn't have anything clean to wear."
"Tch, dress properly, will ya? Retired and still slacking... Huh?"
She clicked her tongue, about to say more, then clamped her mouth shut. Her face scrunched up.
"What's that weird smell? It's been hanging around..."
"Cut the crap. You know all about brokers, right?"
"We talking about this here?"
"Too many ears in bars."
"Yeah, not something to blab about."
She nodded and pulled a USB from her pocket.
"Broker trading info's all on here. You get one day before the files lock. Check it quick."
"Picky bunch."
"Comes with the territory. I'll ping you the broker's contact from my comms."
She took out her communicator. The dim alley lit up faintly from the device's glow.
She input the contact and hit send. My comms buzzed in my hand.
S?
The message showed the broker's initials and number. Probably a precaution in case someone got nabbed—kept things vague with initials.
"That's it. Now let's grab a drink."
"Sure."
As I checked the screen, she playfully nudged my arm.
"What's with you and booze all of a—Huh?"
The touch felt nothing like human skin. She flinched in shock.
The mimicry fooled the eyes, but not touch. If someone grabbed me, they'd feel my true form. That alien texture must've tipped her off.
The guy waiting in the alley wasn't Ras.
"Wh-what the hell are you?!"
Lloyd stammered, backing away.
I had the broker info and contact. She was useless now.
I lashed out with my long tail, coiling around her as she tried to flee.
"Help... Mmph!"
Before she could scream, I clamped her mouth with a combat arm.
She thrashed in confusion at the invisible grip.
She knew the visible man wasn't Ras, but the pheromones still worked. Touch registered multiple arms and a tail, but sight locked her on Ras. She'd probably see just two arms, the rest invisible—like some transparent monster had her.
"Mmmph... Mmm..."
Lloyd's eyes begged for mercy. Her plain face was a mess of tears and snot.
Pathetic sight, but my mind was made up.
I squeezed with my tail. Her spine snapped. The light faded from her eyes as her head lolled.
Handle the body here.
I devoured Lloyd's corpse on the spot.
She tasted utterly average. Not bad, not good—just meh. Honestly, a step above Ras's neighbor's sandwich.
Now I can mimic Lloyd. Next up...
Contact the broker. Head home, check the USB, decide on a meet.
I licked up every drop of blood from the ground, then slipped back into the secret passage.
｢Prey smell.｣
[Zzuzz zuzz (Ate dinner and came back)]
｢Where's mine?｣
Ah.
Next time, leave some scraps for No. 26.
-
Sander, who worked logistics at the harbor district warehouse, had a side gig.
Supplying exotic creatures to suit the refined tastes of Mega Corp's elite.
Simple terms: smuggling. A crime, sure, but Sander didn't see it as wrong.
Talent unused is a sin in itself.
True Mega Corp thinking. He picked a hustle that leveraged his position.
His job meant constant contact with the smuggling animal control team, so he pitched a win-win to their boss. They jumped on it.
They fed him seized creature intel; he fudged warehouse docs to ship 'em off-planet.
A year-plus of corrupt collusion between two agencies. Sander had even built police ties, turning into a real player broker.
If not for the board, he'd have enough credits by now to bail to another planet.
Damn board. Ruining my shot.
30 days till the board meeting, starting yesterday. City-wide security was cranked up, making covert creature hauls a nightmare.
Bastards. After all the cash I funneled 'em, and they can't crack this?
Harbor chief's direct order left even bureaucrats helpless. Sander didn't know that.
"Hey, Sander. Heading out?"
"Later."
"Cool. Night."
Once the coworker left, Sander pulled his personal laptop from his bag. Password in, and the list of creatures for smuggling popped up.
All that money sitting there.
Everything marked 'Scheduled.' Supposed to load onto an off-planet ship that morning, but surveillance was too tight—no opening.
Harbor lockdown hit outgoing cargo too, screwing brokers like him.
Creatures meant for quick export slumbered in containers. Just one day late, but losses piled up. Sander tsked.
His comms buzzed. Screen showed 'L'.
"Tch. Told her the heat's on."
L's message was short: Outspacer trade request.
Someone wants that?
Sander cocked his head. Outspacers were ultra-dangerous; traders were rare.
Smuggling happened, sure—the frozen ones in harbor storage were seized by the control team.
But no one had asked him for an Outspacer since.
Another message pinged as he pondered.
"Hm. Cult in admin district buying."
Usually he brokered, but they'd lined up the buyer this time.
Control team boss must've hooked 'em up.
Guy was sharper than he thought, networking with admin cults. Sander whistled low.
Cults made sense for Outspacers—they hoarded rare beasts and artifacts.
Admin district's good. No off-world ship needed.
Would've nixed an export, but intra-planet move? Easy.
Sander sent back meet spot, time, and credit demand to L.
Spot: crane by harbor container yard, like always. Time: 10 PM, same as usual.
Not his first rodeo; buyer'd handle the rest. He was about to drop it when a reply hit.
"...Wants to bump it to dawn?"
Sander's brow furrowed. He always set time; buyer never changed it. Without him, no smuggling— he held the power.
Why now?
Heat at peak, they request trade, then shift time? Shady as hell.
He mulled, then hit call.
Signal tones, then click. Voice came through.
｢Hello?｣
"Hey, what's the play?"
｢Huh?｣
"Never changed time before."
｢Oh, that. Night shift...
"Night shift?"
About to press, he paused.
Recalled coworker mentioning some idiot busted smuggling Mountain Crawler pups.
"This about the Mountain Crawler?"
｢Yeah. Place is chaos.｣
"Tch, rough. Shift to another day?"
｢They want it ASAP.｣
"Fine. Dawn at 1, right? See ya."
He got it now, ended the call.
Smuggling Outspacer meant faking storage and transfer docs. He booted his work PC.
Mid-fudge, doubt crept in.
Even cults trade at dawn?
Once suspicious, it snowballed. Request wasn't wild, but Sander couldn't shake the bad vibe.
Need insurance.
He grabbed comms, dialed.
"Me. Need you for backup. Yeah. Spot? 1 AM sharp."
His personal bodyguard lead.
Shady deals drew heat sometimes. He always brought muscle.
Don't care the angle—mess around and drop dead.
His crew: ex-military, cops. Elite fighters, kitted in low-grade exosuits and lasers. Past rowdy clients tucked tail at the sight.
A animal-shit sweeper? They'd piss themselves.
All under control. Sander relaxed, dove back into work.