Chapter 10
Chapter 10
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: Random Encounter (5)
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A scorching heat rose from the hotdog.
The juices bursting from the main ingredient.
The tangy-sweet capitalism of ketchup and mustard.
Mysterious, crisp vegetables.
And the soft, comforting texture of the bun enveloping it all.
'Perfection.'
The harmony of carbs, fats, and proteins.
"Grr..."
The hotdog could be called the most rational food in the world.
This thing... it's actually delicious once you start eating it.
Popping it in the microwave inside the grocery store had elevated the entire hotdog category one step closer to perfection.
A hamburger?
That's just a knockoff hotdog.
Anyway.
After devouring about ten of them...
"Damn, that hit the spot..."
"Can't you spare just one leftover?"
"That guy's the real deal. He's not just eating the hotdog—he's topping the sausage with fried bits and chicken breast. ...I'm not quite at that level."
A few homeless folks stared at my hotdog, drooling greedily.
This was outrageous...
I flashed them a fierce glare, and they smacked their lips before settling for sandwiches instead.
"Don't be too harsh."
The self-proclaimed young homeless guy who called a giant dumpster his home—the one who'd introduced himself as Michael—spoke up to the others.
"Can't you let the hotdog thing slide? He even went out of his way to heat them up before tossing them."
"Fair point."
Eating frozen chicken straight from the package cold was no easy feat.
Seeing them gnaw on tough food pitifully, I'd warmed some up in the microwave out of sympathy—and one even shed tears of gratitude.
"Sniff... Hotdog Man..."
"...It's been so long since I had warm food."
From my perspective, it was just stuff that was getting discarded anyway. Instead of dumping it in the trash, I'd microwaved it and shared.
These "classic American cyberpunk homeless" types—covered in tattoos or scars, beards growing down to their chests—gazing up at me with big, puppy-dog eyes like giant dogs.
Clap!
Michael clapped his hands, drawing everyone's attention.
"Just to be clear."
"What now?"
A well-fed wild animal doesn't lash out.
Uncharacteristically for thieves, robbers, or dumpster-divers, they all listened quietly to Michael.
"Our Hotdog Man here just threw food in the trash. We picked it up and ate it—that's all."
"So what?"
"It's very important."
Michael didn't flinch under the gaze of dozens, shoulders squared like he was at a debate.
He spoke with clear pronunciation and tone.
"Listen up. Our friend, Hotdog Man, took a huge risk to help us."
God, please stop calling me Hotdog Man.
"As you all know, in Risk City, corporate rules from the Big Ten often outweigh the so-called city laws."
City laws? Big Ten corporations?
Unfamiliar terms flooded in, but the question mark over my head went unnoticed, so Michael pressed on.
"City laws aren't completely ignored, though. For example, security gets better the lower the area number—thanks to the urban security maintenance laws."
Oh, interesting.
I nodded to myself.
The others, already in the know, just listened intently without reaction.
"Of course, we're all here at the bottom for our own reasons. No need to dwell on what you know."
Teacher, I still don't get it.
I'd skipped strategy guides pre-game for clickbait with busty thumbnails, so my basic lore was zilch.
All I knew?
Flashy explosions from the trailer. Boom! Magic circuits! Tactical prosthetics! Gene-mod monsters!
Asking questions in this serious vibe felt awkward.
I just munched my hotdog and absorbed Michael's words.
"Here's the key: those Big Ten rules I mentioned. Military, medical, transport, education, manufacturing, comms—the skyscrapers tying Risk City together."
"Get to the point."
Exactly what I wanted to say.
So, TL;DR in three lines?
Already past that.
Michael shrugged off the raised voice.
"What we need to watch is the food cartel rules. You know—Mac & Ham, Coil Foods, Soma Company."
I checked the hotdog bag while listening.
『Manufactured & Distributed by: Mac & Ham Co.』
Got it.
Michael spotted me and pointed.
All eyes turned to me.
"Our Hotdog Man knew the risks and did it anyway."
"?"
What did I know?
I just tossed it to him instead of the trash at his request.
"By city law and corporate rules, expired goods transfer ownership—not to the seller, but to the city or corp."
"Whoa, news to me."
I agreed with the mutter.
Me too.
"Corps don't collect them, so it's mostly lip service. Dump in trash to 'return to city,' and sellers are off the hook."
...Hold up.
"If someone reports our Hotdog Man, it could be trouble legally. Corps could sue. Even unrelated—if someone claims food poisoning for bounty, corp strike team burns the store tomorrow and hauls him off."
Michael cleared his throat and wrapped up.
"...That's why other stores don't share discards."
Normally, I'd joke, 'What? Some scholar? I got a 2 on my college entrance exam—let's duel.'
Didn't expect physical danger from improper disposal.
Murmurs rose.
Not just me—others looked grave too.
Clap!
Michael clapped again, refocusing them.
"You know people can't be trusted. A hundred folks, a hundred lives."
"Fuck yeah. If not for my betrayal in Area 23..."
"Exactly. Could be a rat among us."
Tension built.
Graver, more cautious.
"So our job's simple."
What was this guy's old gig?
"For tomorrow's food, our peace, to protect Hotdog Man."
I never promised tomorrow.
But it was already routine for them.
"Hotdog Man didn't share expired food—he just tossed hot trash."
"Right, so we scavenged it."
Michael bit into his cooled sandwich.
"And we stick together."
They raised their expired goods high.
I just stared blankly.
"Hotdog Man risked it all for us nobodies. Get it? The process, the result, the noble sacrifice!"
"No, I didn't think that far—"
"The name of our savior!!"
Listen to people.
Their gazes turned fanatic.
Like looking at a martyred saint.
This was getting scary.
"Hotdog Man! Hotdog Man! Hotdog Man!"
Should I wave...?
As I ascended to honorary mayor of Area 49 amid their overwhelming support...
Wha—Bogers?
My face soured instinctively.
Before I could process...
"Why are there so many bums here?"
"Ugh, trash stench. Bleh."
"What're you looking at? Eyes down!"
From the opposite side of the lot, a gang of broad-shouldered thugs approached.
Some were the punks from before. After days in this world, I could tell.
The homeless were just passersby.
These guys were the real locals of the area.
My hunch was right—the homeless slunk back at their arrival.
'Let's assess.'
Bogers Gang or Burgers Gang—who knows. But these newcomers were connected.
They specified "special Random Encounter."
Ignoring the homeless, they stopped in front of me.
Thick muscles, trapezoids like triangles.
One even flaunted a skinless cybernetic arm—like Lego. How'd he do daily life with that hook-hand?
Not your pirate captain.
Anyway, no normal civilians here.
"You're the one feeding that crazy kid?"
"...Crazy kid?"
Who names their kid that?
While I puzzled...
"The kid we see around here. Black hair, face covered. We know, so just answer."
I knew who they meant.
What had she been up to?
Chased by gangs?
I nodded casually.
"Probably?"
"Hah, figures. Don't know your outfit, but you're fucked solo. Or maybe bait from the start. Tough break."
What outfit?
The gang drew pistols, aiming at me.
"Boss said leave a warning. Beehive corpse should do."
Three of them.
Oddly calm.
Muscles relaxed naturally.
First, disarm...
"?"
Before I moved...
"What the hell are you doing?!"
"Hah, filthy bums. Who're you yelling at...?"
Thugs' faces twisted in confusion.
"...Huh?"
Dozens of homeless formed a wall, pressing in.
"Daring to point guns at our Hotdog Man?!"
Homeless with pipes and such ambushed them.
Crack!!
Skull-crunching freshness.
I saw what "beaten like dust in the rain" meant.
Onomatopoeia? "Dongki-dok koong dererere."
No rain, but the impacts were crisp and satisfying.
'Hmm...'
Moments later.
Thugs sprawled like Yamcha after Recoome.
Michael, now with a bat, stepped forward as spokesman.
"Don't worry. No one around here touches Hotdog—er, Man—while we're around."
"......"
"Just trust us."
I rubbed my face dry.