Chapter 18
Chapter 18
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 18
Chapter Title: Extremely Enjoyable Shopping (4)
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A few days, or perhaps just a few hours.
Such a short amount of time.
Yet it filled me with such anxiety.
[……Ah.]
But fortunately, it seemed our boss hadn't forgotten about me.
[Looks like you got yourself a communicator.]
"Yes. I had no choice but to borrow some bills from the counter. Consider it an advance on my wages—I'll replenish them later."
[Do whatever you want. You're the manager of that grocery store anyway.]
Unlike my worries, Christine was treating me with the exact same attitude as when we first met.
I pictured her indifferent face beyond the invisible communicator screen.
[On the flip side, let me know if you run out of money. I haven't checked, but it's not like the business is booming anyway.]
"That's true, but…."
I couldn't help but ask at this point.
Most businesses aim for 'profit' after all.
Charity work excepted, of course.
"Is that really okay? You're losing a considerable amount of money just on this grocery store."
[It's not about making money…. If I wanted to earn some, I wouldn't have opened a grocery store there in the first place.]
I got to hear the shocking origin story of the grocery store.
[It's just a hobby anyway. Oh, I never told you that, huh? Yeah, it's just a hobby. Doesn't matter if it goes under.]
Holy moly.
No wonder there were so many weird things about it.
"A hobby?"
[Yeah, a hobby. I originally planned to run it unmanned, but since I found you in the dump, I figured I'd save one more person in the process.]
"I'm extremely grateful from my perspective."
Who runs a grocery store as a hobby?
In a famous slum, no less.
[You disposed of the expired products like I told you, right?]
"O-Of course."
[Why the stutter? Don't tell me….]
My words caught in my throat.
I had disposed of them properly.
Just not in the trash can—into the stomachs of the homeless.
[You handed out the food yourself?]
"…Y-Yes."
I had nothing to say, even if I had ten mouths.
This was something Christine had warned me about beforehand.
Thinking back, I was a total failure as a grocery store manager.
I couldn't even properly defend the store, and I'd turned it into a free soup kitchen for the homeless with expired goods.
If Christine could reach through the communicator and grab me by the collar, she might've gone full yellow-skinned cartoon family with a "WHY YOU LITTLE…!"
'My self-employment life ends here.'
Really disappointing, but from now on, maybe I should head to a broker's office and
start climbing the mercenary tech tree: 'Saint of the Mercenary World', 'Rising Sun', 'THE Urban Legend'.
Yeah, what kind of cyberpunk life is part-time work?
I'd been sick of the 'Hotdog Man' nickname anyway—this was a good chance to evolve into 'Condog Man'.
[Hmm…. Well, can't be helped. I half-expected some variables once I put a person in the store.]
"…Thank you!"
[So, relax your face.]
She couldn't see my expression over a voice call, yet Christine snickered as if she could picture me perfectly.
I swear I'd heard something similar before.
A light snort tickled my ear through the communicator waves.
She didn't sound upset.
Or maybe she'd just expected me to screw up no matter what.
[Since you mentioned sharing the food, I'll tell you this: that grocery store was originally meant to provide proper meals to the locals there.]
…Pardon?
[I called it a hobby. But it can't interfere with business, so I told you to trash the expired stuff.]
"So that means…."
[It's just the difference between letting them take it themselves and you handing it out directly.]
Christine continued matter-of-factly.
[Of course, we can't let some idiots gut the golden goose. That's why there's the security turret.]
"Hmm…."
I pondered briefly before speaking up.
"Should I just throw them out from now on? Might cause issues later."
[Nah. What crazy corporation would care about reports from Area 49?]
Unlike Michael's concerns, Christine was utterly nonchalant.
[City laws from the city government, corporate laws made by corps themselves—regulations are messy…. But it's all about pretext.]
"Pretext?"
[Yeah. As long as no one makes a fuss about it, no big deal—]
Right as Christine's words continued.
Thud….
A heavy sound came through the communicator.
Like something dropping.
Very similar to a construction site with planted explosives.
"…What are you doing right now, by any chance?"
[Oh, sorry. I'm at work.]
Oh no, I'd been holding up a busy person.
Given her personality, she seemed more workaholic Holmes than slacker Lupin.
No idea what job involved bomb-like blasts, though.
[It's fine. Not like I'm swamped or anything.]
Thud…. Thud….
Didn't sound like it.
But if she said so, who was I, a third party, to argue?
[So, what's the reason for the call? You didn't just contact me because you got a communicator and got excited, right? That'd be kinda funny if true.]
Crisis moment arrived again.
This wasn't technically my fault,
but I was the cause, all the same.
"The grocery store entrance…."
[Entrance?]
Hard to say it myself.
I sent Christine photos of the utterly wrecked grocery store entrance.
Ah, sent the last photo by mistake.
Anyway.
Michael had the homeless clear some debris, but the entrance was still gaping open.
Christine went silent as she checked the message I'd sent.
[…Did a high-explosive bomb go off or something?]
Wow, first time hearing Christine's voice tremble.
Even she couldn't stay calm in this unprecedented mess.
"Not a bomb, but a truck missile hit dead-on."
[You okay?]
"Lucky, yeah."
[Makes sense, or you couldn't have called….]
Christine quietly sighed.
[How the hell did this happen?]
"It's complicated to explain over words."
Roughly: I gave heaps of food to a poor, starving slum girl's family, and the gang boss who couldn't stand the sight pressed the truck missile button on the grocery store….
Hard to imagine Christine grasping such bizarre circumstances.
After a moment's thought,
I summed it up neatly.
"Some pervert was targeting a kid, so I helped out and it ended up like this."
Perfect explanation.
PROFIT!
[…Sounds like a story I wanna hear in detail when I have time. Later, not now.]
"Sure. I'll spill the whole tale then."
[Got it. I'll contact a building repair company myself.]
Phew.
One more headache solved.
Nova had been staring sadly at the wide-open wall with her lenses sometimes.
Should be fine now.
"Sorry anyway."
[You did a good deed. No need.]
Christine chuckled heh heh heh,
and I awkwardly haha'd back.
A short silence soon settled in.
"……."
[…….]
Only the breathing from the communicator indicated the call hadn't ended.
The shadows of the neon signs grew longer.
Suddenly, I took in the dazzling cityscape far in the distance.
Hologram billboards in the sky flashed blatant text and images,
flyers seemingly made of magic floated about, playing skin-tone videos,
and beyond them, endless skyscrapers pierced the sticky smog clouds, dyeing the city.
But.
Like moviegoers and the film, Area 49 and the city center were distant—oh so distant.
The only real sound was the crackling sparks from the dying drum fire.
I quietly spoke up.
"Mind if I ask one thing?"
No reply, but I took it as a yes.
I scratched the scar on my nape.
The swelling gone, now just a rough sensation remained.
"…What kind of treatment did you give me?"
Not the core question.
Not why I fell into the game, but about my current body state.
"This clearly isn't normal."
Temper a bit hotter aside.
Even a small 9mm bullet packs at least 400J kinetic energy—enough to pierce muscle and shatter bone.
But that bullet didn't penetrate me.
It even crawled out on its own, gauging the moment.
(Meaning it popped out as the hole sealed.)
No wonder Bogers suspected me of being a magic user.
Though I had no clue if magic flowed in my body.
[Hmm…. You won't like hearing it.]
"Can't help being curious."
['Curiosity killed the cat.']
"And the box too."
[…??]
A Schrödinger's cat joke, but sadly, she didn't get it.
[Fine. I'll tell you.]
"Thank you—"
[Later. Not now.]
That damn 'later'.
"…I'm curious now."
[What does a Level 0 know anyway? I'll tell you when the time comes.]
I frowned at the sudden unit mentioned.
Leveling was key in the open-world action RPG Risk City.
But her 'level' felt different.
…Rumble.
Another explosion rang out.
[Gotta hang up for real now. Call if anything else. I'll save your number.]
"Wait, you're turning me into Captain America and—"
Click. Call ended.
I let out a deep sigh at the blank communicator screen.
…….
Complaining to Christine, who picked me up, cared for me, looked after me, and even saved my life.
Not like a sulky kid.
A bitter self-loathing hit me.
Still, couldn't help what bugged me.
"Tch…."
The moment I reflected on my mistake.
Yeah, yeah.
Something'll happen.
I indifferently brushed off the now-familiar woman's voice.
Leaning on the building railing,
I blankly gazed up at the bizarre cyberpunk sky.
"Life…."
They say no one knows what the future holds.
True indeed.
Who could've guessed that buying a game on 75% discount would land me living in its world?
Am I stuck here forever?
"No idea…."
A melancholy unfit for me engulfed body and soul.
Along with a grumbling stomach.
"…And now I'm starving again."
'I'm so depressed I could eat….'
Fits perfectly.
Paradoxically, that hunger made me feel truly alive right now.
Yeah, gotta eat to live.
Bread, not rice, but whatever.
Moping here broke wouldn't solve anything.
Anyway,
Bogers Gang issue done, wrecked store handled by Christine herself.
Now just rolling around the warehouse playing with the communicator.
That's what I figured.
The next morning.
Chatting with Michael, who now naturally commuted to the grocery store.
"So, guys who can throw a punch are called Level 1?"
"Yeah, more or less…. Ranks, hierarchies, circles—varies by person, but 'level' is the most common term I know."
"Hoo…."
As expected, the walking wiki.
This cleared up the curiosity from my call with Christine.
"Conditions to level up…."
Then, a sleek limousine pulled up at the grocery store entrance.
…Whoa.
Random Encounter my ass.
Never thought I'd see a car moving on these old-town streets.
For real.
Flying ships overhead these past days, but not a single car.
Screech.
Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication, they say.
The jet-black limousine looked like mere contact would mortgage your life.
I forgot my part-timer duty to say 'You can't park here.'
Just gawked with mouth agape.
And then.
Vrrr….
The rear window cracked open just a sliver.
Through it poked an envelope with an antique emblem.
…….
Whatever.
As I thought casually, someone tapped my shoulder.
Turning, Michael pointed at the envelope sticking out the limo window.
"…You should take it."
"Do I have to?"
"If I know what it is, absolutely."
Don't wanna.
…Won't explode, right?
I took the envelope oh-so-carefully.
The window closed soon after, and the car silently retreated the way it came.
Michael sidled up behind me, eyes wide as he checked the envelope's design.
"Yep, invitation alright."
"Invitation?"
"…You don't recognize this emblem?"
As I frowned, Michael hurriedly added.
"A stylized bullet, trajectory, and trigger. For sure."
Uncharacteristic tension creased his usually calm face.
"…It's the Sparo Rapido Family crest."
"W-Wait, I'm actually clueless, but 'family' means…."
"Yes."
Michael nodded.
"Mafia."
Shit.