Chapter 19
Chapter 19
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: penny
Chapter: 19
Chapter Title: A Rather Painful Outing
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Family.
A word meaning relatives in English, usually used to refer to peaceful households living in places like Tteokip Village or Springfield.
But every situation always has its exceptions.
This word took on another meaning through a movie released in 1972.
—Mafia organization.
Here, the term 'mafia' has come to be used in modern society for groups like the Japanese Yakuza as the Japanese Mafia, Mexican gangs as the Mexican Mafia, and the Chinese Triads as the Chinese Mafia...
It became a synonym for criminal organizations, so I won't bother elaborating on just how massive its impact was back then.
Even I, living in the 21st century, thought of a Sicilian Mafia boss petting a purring cat whenever mafia organizations came up.
"—And that's where the Sparo Rapido Family comes in. Their detailed history dates back before the Turbulent Era, but unfortunately, it's lost media known only from books. Anyway, the key point here is that it's an organization with that much history and secrecy."
As always, Speedwagon—no, Michael—was explaining things to me.
"The Sparo Rapido Family. One of the three organizations that effectively control Area 49. Think of them as the most traditional mafia, and it'll be easier to understand. Ah, and now I have to explain the three major organizations..."
"Hold on."
I stopped Michael, who had been talking nonstop for nearly 10 minutes.
It wasn't out of concern for his throat, though.
My ears felt like they might bleed, but that wasn't actual pain either.
"What's wrong?"
"This is genuinely out of curiosity..."
While subtly conveying that I had zero interest in mafia history.
I pointed at the 'other homeless people' around us.
"...What the hell is this situation?"
The empty lot behind the grocery store building.
One homeless guy was holding up a half-broken light overhead to illuminate the area, while another adjusted the brightness minutely with a torn reflector.
And it didn't end there!
On one side, a homeless person played a partially broken instrument, providing noir-style background music.
(It was vaguely similar to Sinsegye music.)
Another roasted hotdogs well-done over a drum barrel fire and laid them out on a table.
...And it still didn't end there!
Finally, right in front of me and Michael stood someone flipping through pages of a comic drawn in a retro mascot character style.
"What's with that drawing?"
"Ah, one of the homeless guys used to draw comics as a hobby. We got his help."
My question was 'why did you draw that,' not 'how did you draw that.'
For the record, the art style was close to Volt Boy.
Michael had said he'd explain mafia history to me, and in less than 30 minutes, he'd assembled all these people and props.
What the hell is this guy doing?
He was definitely ex-corporate; ridiculously competent in the most useless ways.
The point was the 'useless' part right now.
He could've just explained verbally, but gathering people for this setup was bizarre.
"Reports like this prioritize form and face. I know what worries you, Hotdog Man. But from my position as your aide, I have to act differently—please understand that much."
Aide my ass.
Ignoring my cold stare, Michael looked around at the homeless folks.
"It's all thanks to Hotdog Man's thick personal magnetism that they volunteered themselves."
"Great meal today too!"
A gruff voice chimed in from behind.
Thick personal magnetism (expired groceries).
Of course, they were half-joking,
But the other half seemed sincere, which was the problem.
"Shall I continue the explanation then?"
What could I do in this situation?
You can't jump off a moving train.
Things had clearly spiraled out of my control, and stopping them now might lead to even weirder antics next time.
I waved my hand vaguely, and Michael cleared his throat, signaling those around.
Ting, ting ting...
With the music from the broken instrument, the explanatory comic flipped to the next page.
"......"
I just noticed.
The one holding the light reflector wasn't a homeless guy—it was a familiar-faced girl.
...What are you doing there?
She seemed so enthusiastic that I couldn't even say anything.
The overly friendly briefing, simple enough for a 5-year-old to understand, finally ended.
The homeless perpetrators dispersed with satisfied looks.
"...So basically."
I summarized the 20 minutes of info I'd heard in one sentence.
"That mafia group regularly sends invitations to big and small organizations around, saying, 'We live in a lawless area, so let's all get along roughly.'"
"Exactly. From what I heard, it's to help the groups get familiar with each other."
"...Where'd you hear that?"
"From documentary-style videos and wiki entries on Cyber Web—"
Namuwiki much...?
Michael continued calmly.
"The important part is those 'big and small organizations' you mentioned. They can't gather every single group in Area 49."
A round gleam lit up in Michael's eyes.
He's reading Namuwiki again.
"You can't mix hostile groups or even one-day flies that barely qualify as organizations."
Clap. With a practiced handclap to draw attention, Michael wrapped up.
"In short, our organization meets the Sparo Rapido Family's criteria."
"We don't have an organization..."
And again.
Since when are we the same organization?
Truly baffling.
...Though we do share expired food.
"They don't see it that way."
"I'm so depressed I want bread..."
"...Why eat bread when you're depressed?"
Such an insensitive guy.
I sighed and glanced at the 'Bogers Gang truck' parked in the alley corner.
Near the truck, some homeless folks lounged against it or chatted in groups.
To outsiders, it looked like they were just resting and hanging out.
"Yeah, Hotdog Man. Leave the truck to us!"
"We'll guard it tight so no one steals it!"
They were handling security themselves.
For the record, I hadn't said a word...
Anyway.
I realized the invitation from that Rapido-whatever Family was tied to my building revenge spree.
Any Korean knows what hordes of CCTVs and dashcams can do.
No need to mention in this cyberpunk world with advanced tech.
I thought blowing up the Bogers Gang hideout would end any fallout,
'Suddenly a mafia family.'
Quite the headache.
Any second now, some black-coated dude with a cigar and Thompson submachine gun might smash Prohibition-era style.
But I couldn't ignore the invitation.
Even half-listening to Michael made it clear they wielded massive influence in Area 49.
I pulled the invite from my pocket and checked again.
In hard-to-read cursive:
『Abel Anderson, you are invited.』
—14, Old Central Sector Blvd, AREA 49.
—Up to 2 companions.
My fake name was on it.
My ID said my real name now, but whatever.
'Time's late evening.'
Date's...
......
Tomorrow.
I slowly looked up.
There stood Michael and—somehow already there—little Liberra, waiting for me.
Liberra stood on tiptoes, straining to point.
At the tip: 'Up to 2 companions.'
"No."
Like last time trying to go to the Bogers Gang, why was this pint-sized kid insisting on tagging along to something dangerous?
To my firm refusal, Liberra puffed her cheeks naturally, then deflated them quick.
"...I'm not a kid, ugh. I mean, what I'm saying is. Urgh..."
She had something to say but looked frustrated to death.
Even stomping, a kid not reaching my chest just looked cute.
She was still on tiptoes.
Kids that age wanting in on adult stuff isn't weird.
I looked down at Liberra's crown (her face half-hidden by hair) and gently stroked it.
"What if something dangerous happens there?"
"Urk..."
A tremor through my palm.
Moments later.
As if by magic, Liberra's shaking stopped.
"......"
Like she'd made a decision.
The kid slowly lifted her head.
Her black hair flowed sideways with gravity.
Her delicate, defined features almost looked mature.
Resolute eyes gleaming like gold.
And then.
Liberra vanished completely from in front of me.
"...??"
Before I could question it.
Something poked my side.
"I'm going no matter what."
I learned something new.
No matter how tough the muscles, they still itch.
"...Hold on."
I whipped my head that way, but no Liberra.
How is she this fast...?
Like she vanished into thin air.
The world didn't slow like in fights,
But her speed was still absurd.
"I'm going no matter what."
"Just listen for a sec..."
"I'm going no matter what."
And a childhood memory flashed by.
Back when I was babysitting my little sister.
—Mine!! Danbi's!! Not leaving till you buy it!!
—Heh heh, your name isn't Danbi.
—Shiiiiiit!!!
Some weird YouTube influence?
A bizarre creature (my sister) throwing a tantrum in the department store kids' section, thrashing on the floor.
The terrifying stubbornness only kids that age show.
"I'm going no matter what."
"No, let's talk it out first..."
"I'm going no matter what."
"...Please stop poking my side."
"......I'm going no matter what."
For the record, per Michael's testimony from witnessing top-tier battles,
This scary ordeal lasted over 30 minutes.
"Fine, I'll take you! Just stop..."
In the end, I had to give up.
Heading to a mafia gathering with this kid.
Or say yes and ditch her at departure...
"You'll get mad if you leave me behind."
"...Did I say that out loud?"
"......"
Beyond Liberra's messy hair, a weary vibe peeked through.
Damn, she read my mind.
"...Okay. I'll definitely bring you."
Yeah, what could go wrong?
Plus, with moves that quick, at least she'd escape fine.
Liberra eyed me suspiciously, as if doubting my sincerity.
Then.
"...Heh."
She let out an age-appropriate giggle.
Seemed unintentional; she clamped her mouth quick.
Michael acted like his tagging along was a given.
So the three of us could just go.
I looked at Michael and Liberra.
......
A sudden thought slipped out.
"But, is it okay to go like this?"
Poor girl boss: one.
Active homeless: one.
And grocery store manager: one.
Politely put, our outfits weren't clean.
Simply: rag-quality right now.
Michael nodded at my words.
"...Still, matching a basic formal party dress code would be best."