Chapter 23
Chapter 23
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 23
Chapter Title: A Very Painful Outing (5)
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‘...Ugh, I’m exhausted.’
Even though I hadn’t really done much.
Mental fatigue was hitting hard.
Well, yeah.
Just a few days ago, I was an ordinary citizen and job-hunting student, and now I suddenly had to put on a “relaxed” act in front of (terrifying) gang members.
It was only natural that I’d be worn out.
‘...At least things worked out well.’
I recalled the mafia boss’s face.
Along with the voice questioning my identity.
And that inexplicable favor.
‘...My head hurts.’
Things had gone too smoothly, and now it was a problem.
Explosions are art.
Honestly, it was more like a meme.
Unfortunately, this world had no tales of ninjas chasing the title of Hokage.
‘He really loved it that much.’
I pictured those flames flickering with joy.
The more unique the taste that others can’t understand, the greater the joy of sharing it.
Humans are social animals.
Everyone, knowingly or not, wants their story understood and empathized with.
‘But I didn’t expect this much.’
I scratched my head and checked my terminal.
Until now, the only number saved on my terminal had been [Christine]’s, but now a new one had been added.
What was this mysterious message?
What else? A message from some mafia boss.
‘Luciana.’
That name felt incredibly heavy.
Even getting a division commander’s personal number wouldn’t be this burdensome.
Anyway.
I pondered a reply for about 30 seconds.
Then I realized we’d already walked out of the mansion.
Screw it.
I sent back the same ‘^-^’ and pocketed the terminal.
I filled my lungs with Risk City’s cold air and looked around.
The other members vanishing with their vehicles.
And us?
Obviously, we’d walk.
There was no public transport in these bottom-tier districts without laws or police.
There was something similar in the new city streets, but sadly, our area was the bottom of the bottom: the old city streets.
This is why people should live near the capital with convenient transport.
What can you do?
No bus or metro? Then walk.
“...When am I supposed to walk all this?”
I let out a sigh and muttered to myself.
It was also a bit of an icebreaker.
Aimed at the two who’d been silently clamping their mouths shut since leaving the mansion.
Michael, hearing my mutter, bowed his head apologetically.
He usually kept a smile or poker face, but now he looked utterly dejected.
Like a slightly squished frog.
“...Aren’t you going to ask more?”
“Ask what?”
“Didn’t you hear about me?”
My brow furrowed slightly then relaxed.
He was probably referring to the info from the mafia boss—Luciana.
Considering the Bogers Gang hideout explosion was just days ago—yesterday, even—the Sparo Rapido family’s intel was impressive.
What was it again?
“Michael Dillon?”
“...Yes.”
Was he feeling sorry for hiding his identity?
He hadn’t seemed like he was trying to hide it from the start.
So eloquent, capable, even inciting the homeless.
A real cult leader.
I lightly kicked a stray pebble on the ground.
Area 49’s old city streets were in terrible shape, even being generous.
Cracked pavement everywhere.
And the ant-hill-like additions to buildings.
But that wasn’t all.
Between the undulating buildings rising and falling, the cyberpunk scenery peeked through—
Neon signs sparkling in place of the moon, illuminating the city like a dreamscape.
The smoggy, sticky clouds were still hard to get used to, though.
Should I sacrifice myself to fight pollution by selling paper straws instead?
I gave a silly answer amid idle thoughts.
“What’s there to ask?”
He was still a lost homeless guy, no change there.
Michael was Michael.
And.
“Who in the world has nothing they want to hide from others?”
Unless they were transcendent like Jesus or Buddha.
It was impossible.
“Me, you, and even our little kid.”
This didn’t even require separating cyberpunk from reality.
I was hiding that I’d fallen into a game, and surely everyone had some unspeakable secret.
Mentioning the kid made Liberra flinch hard on her shoulders.
Hard to read her face under the big mask, but no idiot would think nothing was up from that reaction.
‘Like her age being a lie or something...’
Just for example.
“Nothing to ask, nothing to say.”
Our “group” was barely held together by scraps from the grocery store anyway.
A threadbare connection at best.
The other homeless too.
If I declared no more food sharing starting tomorrow, they’d probably revert to cyberpunk average morality and try class-changing to thug or thief.
Ah.
“...If that was you feeling hurt I didn’t pry, it’d be kinda creepy.”
No rainbows in my heart.
What if this crazy Michael bastard was planning to kill all penguins except Antarctic ones or something—
“...No, I’d hate that misunderstanding too.”
“Right?”
“Yes, very uncomfortable...”
I almost seriously wanted to hit him.
Anyway.
“If you want to talk about yourself, I won’t stop you, but I won’t get mad if you don’t.”
“Even though I deceived Hotdog Man?”
“What’s that?”
I mentioned a faint possibility.
“...Did you siphon goods from the warehouse? Dodging the turret’s eyes? Wow, impressive.”
“No, not that.”
Almost startled me.
“Then you didn’t deceive me.”
“The fact that I was corporate...”
“You said it before.”
What was it?
When we first met, with all the homeless gathered.
“If there’s a hundred people, there’s a hundred lives. From what I heard, none of those homeless had a circumstance without some injustice.”
Some betrayed after running a restaurant.
Some quit mercenary work.
So why not someone who fled corporate life?
“So cut the weird talk. Let’s get walking. Everyone else already drove off.”
True.
They’d vanished quick during our short chat.
I trudged ahead first.
As I walked silently, footsteps followed from behind.
“...Thank you.”
The girl’s grateful whisper rode the cold wind, but I pretended not to hear.
Greetings are for face-to-face.
A natural smile tugged at my lips.
“Ah.”
Right.
I’d forgotten for a sec.
The grocery store.
Still smashed up.
They say a person’s face reflects their life.
The store with its entrance wrecked was as good as totally broken.
My slightly good mood soured again.
Christine said she’d fix it...
No word yet.
Though I’d only contacted her two days ago.
Still, with cyberpunk tech, it should be fixed in hours.
I really wanna cry, boo-hoo...
I strode toward the now open-terrace-style grocery store.
I’d just parted with Michael and Liberra.
Familiar whirring sound.
A turret descended smoothly from the intact ceiling.
“Yeah, good morning.”
(Note: current time is dawn. Closer to midnight than noon.)
I ignored Nova’s baffled reaction and flopped onto the chair behind the counter.
Yawned and sprawled like a limp octopus.
“Not sleepy, but sleepy...”
Exactly that feeling.
Improved stamina wasn’t all upsides.
Just sitting blankly, eyelids started drooping bit by bit.
Inhale once, exhale once.
Focusing on calm breaths, consciousness drifting to dreamland...
Right before slipping in.
The lowered turret body nudged the chair— “tap” for me, but more like a “thunk” given its size.
Almost toppled forward.
Dad’s not asleep yet...
“What.”
The turret’s barrel spun smoothly.
Pointing inside the store, to the sink.
“Saying wash up before sleep?”
“Too annoying...”
The moment I said it, the turret’s lens lit red menacingly.
Sorry. Spare my life at least.
I shot up from the chair.
Well, I’d been out.
Sleeping dirty without changing would leave me sticky tomorrow.
Heading to the warehouse, I stripped and tossed my clothes; the repositioned turret stared.
A bit burdensome.
Come to think of it, I hadn’t paid much attention to the grocery store’s pet turret—Nova—lately.
Was this how Tom Hanks felt sending Wilson adrift?
But this wasn’t a deserted island or typhoon.
I walked toward the turret.
“Nova.”
Full name: NovaRec-A41.
I shortened it to Nova ’cause it’s a mouthful.
Military turret, but movements weren’t totally rigid.
Just now, it forcefully woke me from trying to sleep dirty.
Meaning it had near-human awareness and judgment.
No idea what level Christine’s “decent AI” was...
‘...No, wait.’
Thinking about it,
Even a normal dog robot could be made to talk to people.
That guy’s name was probably...
“...Say that again. What?”
“Come to our house for a house call.”
Walter, owner of Walter’s Recycle Shop, marveled at his own patience for not splitting the visiting guest’s skull.