Chapter 37
Chapter 37
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 37
Chapter Title: Broker S
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‘Broker S. A cautious one, huh.’
Seeing how he called right away the moment things felt off, the guy’s got nerves of steel. If he’d caught even a whiff of suspicion from our chat, he’d have bailed on the deal in a heartbeat. Dodged that bullet.
‘Can’t blame him for being paranoid, though.’
After checking the USB Lloyd gave me, I had a pretty good read on who this guy was.
‘Logistics Team’s seized goods manager, or maybe a Port Security guard.’
Only those two could legally load confiscated creatures onto a ship following proper procedures.
The Logistics Team handles all cargo arriving at the port, so fudging paperwork would be a breeze for them.
A Port Security guard could tamper with the surveillance cams. Of course, given the current climate, blanking them all out would be tough, so they probably just disable a few during transfers.
‘Could even be both.’
Someone from Logistics might’ve greased a guard’s palm.
Either way, he’s no top brass, but not a grunt either—just a solid mid-level operator. Smart enough to smuggle for years without getting pinched.
Put simply, not an easy mark to take out.
Anyone with real pull comes with baggage.
‘Rush in and chow down, and it turns into a headache.’
Unlike day laborers like Lloyd or Russ, if S is mid-management, he’s got connections. Him vanishing suddenly would raise red flags all over.
Plus, from what I could guess, he’d already lobbied at least two teams.
Confiscated Creature Management and Port Security. Who knows how many more.
Criminals stick tight; if he ghosts, they’ll hunt.
Even if I mimicked S and tried to resign officially, a key player like him wouldn’t just walk away clean. If they call me in from work, I’m screwed.
‘But using S to siphon seized creatures has limits too.’
I told him I found a buyer—total BS, obviously. The kickbacks I can pay him are capped. Credits from the schmucks I’ve eaten ain’t stacking high.
Most folks in this residential district are day laborers or blow their daily haul in the entertainment zone. Next-door guy had some savings, but Russ is flat broke.
‘Guy calls over a time change? He sniffs no cash, he’s gone.’
How to milk this guy long-term without a hitch?
Not impossible. Just needs luck on my side.
‘Outspacer Gene Essence.’
One of the Outspacer’s traits could fix this. Snag it via Predation Effect, and Broker S becomes a non-issue.
‘Deal wraps, I eat the Outspacer. Play from there.’
The broker handshake’s half-done. Barring screw-ups at the meet, it’s mine. Too many variables now—reevaluate post-feast.
‘Plenty to handle before heading out anyway.’
Beyond broker stuff, loose ends like Russ. Lloyd needs resignation processing too.
After offing Lloyd, I used his communicator to email Confiscated Creature Management his resignation. After-hours, no team leader pingback.
Wrapped Lloyd’s exit, clock hit past midnight.
Rendezvous closing in.
Left sleeping No. 26 and slipped out.
No entertainment district crowds here—just weary cops and androids patrolling the streets.
I dodged their eyes, sneaking into the underground secret passage.
‘Container unloading yard, eh.’
Path’s lousy with cams. They’ve probably blacked some for illicit trades, but best steer clear.
‘Auxiliary organ can sniff EM waves.’
Out the manhole, I tuned into my auxiliary organ. Evolved thicker, longer tentacles under my jaw twitched at my command.
Dawn’s asphalt tang, steel and aluminum wafting from container forests. Faint subway rumble below, the megacity’s ceaseless pulse.
Port district still buzzed my senses.
Auxiliary organ sifted external stimuli, isolating cams’ thread-thin EM signatures.
‘Three cams ahead.’
Slipping between stacked containers, I skirted cam spots. Some were dark, as expected.
‘Tied in with security after all.’
Dead cams? No sweat, breezed past.
Soon, motion signatures pinged—ten bodies total. Nine armed to teeth.
‘Hah.’
Thought he was extra jumpy, but backup? Bold.
‘Not the cakewalk I hoped.’
Activated mimicry organ, stepped into view.
Under container crane’s red lamps, all ten heads snapped my way.
Center: bald, fat guy—Broker S—nodded hello.
“You made it.”
“Who’re they?”
“Ah, ignore ’em. Insurance.”
Hard to, with faces like wanted posters. Laser muzzles locked on me.
‘Power play.’
Mostly powered armor humans, cyborgs. One sore thumb stood out.
‘A Wolff.’
Wolffs: shapeshifting humanoid sapients with beast heads. Half-man, half-beast—bodies and senses outclass humans.
S’s female Wolff already wrinkled her nose, glaring.
My mimicry’s pheromone-based. Works on Wolffs, but unease hits harder than most.
‘Wrap this quick.’
No upside lingering with a Wolff. Cut to chase.
“Where’s the goods?”
“Stashed in that cryo-container. Password post-payment.”
“Got it.”
“You know the drill. Plug this account.”
Handed me a laptop. Program for direct credit transfer to his personal account.
Checked next-door’s PC earlier—no hiccups.
‘Balance was razor-thin, though.’
Transfer cleared. S closed the laptop, pleased.
“One headache gone.”
“Headache?”
“Outspacer. Whoever the freak buyer is, grabbing something that dangerous. Cults are beyond me.”
“Yeah.”
Played along as S trashed my fictional ass.
In-game lore, Cults and Outspacers are foes—story and mechanics both.
Outspacers aim home to Vortex One’s ruin.
Need galaxy-spanning psy-power, so they farm Cults.
Why not extract psy-genes for hives? Outspacers can’t use psy-powers.
‘Vortex One stripped their whole race.’
No psy-traits except one psy-attack resistance.
Innate resist blocks weak stuff, but strong psy-tech shreds them. Minimal defense, poor counters.
‘Cults counter hard.’
Cults: psy-masters. Most psy-techs of any playable race.
Bypass Outspacer resists easy.
Frail bodies, psy-arsenal Cults vs. horde-makers weak to psy Outspacers. Forums endless debates.
‘Sounds like IRL they don’t beef.’
Confirm with real Cults maybe.
Anyway, broker biz done—time to bounce.
“Deal’s sealed. I’m out.”
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“Your Cult hookup’s the team lead, right?”
“Uh? Oh, yeah.”
“Guy’s no slouch. Hook me up too?”
“With what?”
“Cult connects. Cut me in on future deals. Just you and me, L.”
Influential broker alright, sniffing opportunities. Bad for me—longer talk, harder to fool.
“Sorry, pass.”
“Tch. Shame.”
“Later.”
Smacked lips, waved bye—but another halted me.
“Hold up. Stay put.”
“Kate? What’s up?”
The stopper: Wolff, Kate. Wolf-headed, she approached, sniffing.
“He’s shady.”
“Shady? Dealt with L plenty.”
“Can’t pinpoint, but hiding something.”
“Hiding?”
S’s face iced over.
“Oi, explain.”
“Pardon?”
“Kate’s nose beats most Wolffs. Heard security’s weird— you a plant? Grab him.”
His guards leveled guns, closing slow.
‘Down to this, huh.’
Game Wolffs don’t fully pierce mimicry. Kate special? Or IRL senses buffed?
‘Later. Kill all but S first.’
Hoped smooth, but oh well.
Their mess now. Tail-stabbed Kate beside me.
“Kek!”
Weird wolf yelp as thigh gushed, dropped.
Low-grade powered suit—no real armor. Without built-in shield high-end, no block.
“Kate!”
“Damn bitch!”
Ignored neurotoxin-frozen her, charged guards.
Mid-leap, eight muzzles rained lasers. My body—flesh-forged tank, traits stacked—no scratches.
Combat arm slashed nearest human.
“Gurk!”
‘Two down.’
Shattered jaw, out. Thorn-bone to next cyborg.
Spike pierced skull, skewered human behind.
‘Four.’
“She’s camouflaged!”
“Heads down!”
“Hiiik!”
Before corpses hit, I vaulted air. Target: tallest cyborg. My dive blanched him.
“Kwaaak!”
Pinned, four arms shredded. Thin suit shredded like paper.
“Aaaak! Help!”
“Fuck!”
To them: two arms flailing, allies shredded by invisible. Guts and gears spraying—S choked like strangled fowl.
“Sh-shit! We can’t!”
“I’ll hold! Evac VIP!”
Scarface barked. Three guards hauled S fleeing.
“Uwaaaa!”
Backpedaling, las-rifled me. Red bolts splashed harmless. No plasma or gauss? Untouched.
Laser futility hit—he stopped.
“Damn...!”
Ditched rifle, drew sonic blade stick—same as raider’s on research ship.
‘Pirate too? Same crew?’
Space Dogs pack ex-military mercs. Similar moves, gear—retired split paths?
‘Both die same.’
“Over my corpse.”
Pro spirit, no mercy. Tail swept ground wide.
Scar dodged jump, but thorns impaled gut. Pupils blew; blade up block.
Reflex solid—wrong foe. Sonic snapped with screech.
“No way!”
Short charge, horned head rammed flank. Thick horn pierced suit, churned organs.
“M-monster...”
Shook head, flung impaled. Half-torso gone, dead before roll.
“U-uuh...”
Solo Kate, paralyzed, quivered eyeing me.
‘Wolff. Perfect.’
Wolffs: shapeshifters, playable—count for evo.
Approached her.
‘No more Lloyd disguise needed.’
Resignation done, broker link nuked.
Kill S or trait-up and puppet—Lloyd obsolete.
No mimic need, Wolff genes fair game.
Deactivated mimicry. Pheromones faded as membrane sealed vents.
“U-uuh!”
Monster true-form: her eyes quaked. Writhed escape—futile. Neurotoxin net bound her.
Four arms clamped tight, maw yawned snake-wide.
“Euuuk!”
‘Bon appétit.’
Maw crunched head whole. Muscles twitched death throes, slackened.
‘Hm.’
Wolff head decent. Fur aside, tasty tier.
‘Cat-like.’
Juicy burger vibe. Threshold up since first cat—no thrill rush.
‘Rest later.’
S and guards fled. Chase, then feast.
Dragged corpses cam-blind.
‘Good.’
Auxiliary pinged: not far.
Hunt on.