Chapter 147
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 147
Chapter Title: #Peep show grey (4)
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The patrol ended when the night sky finally cleared. Easterly winds blowing at sunset in San Francisco were a rare occurrence, and the thick fog had been pushed all the way to the bay's entrance. Thanks to that, breathing became easier in the latter half of the patrol. Cold night air unfiltered by a gas mask. It smelled foul, but it beat the stuffiness.
The open view wasn't as dark as expected. The last night of February, even without a moon in the sky. This was thanks to the lights in the bustling districts. Even this city had its entertainment. Several luxury passenger ships made up the bulk of it. One had even been decked out in Orca Black's territory.
Seeing it, Winter recalled an unpleasant voice.
"Lieutenant. Enjoyment is an essential part of life. Humans are animals that can't live without it."
Wrong person, but not wrong words.
After returning and logging the patrol report, the ship's intercom called for Winter. Team Leader Chadwick was waiting in the rec room. No rush, take his time.
The hallway to the rec room was noisy all the way. Gunshots of various calibers, explosions. And screams. Winter tensed for a split second, then relaxed. The clue was the sound of bullets thudding into something. Concrete texture from a few. The firefight was definitely on a screen.
Opening the door drew eyes. Briefly. People returned to their own downtime. Drinking, playing pool. Chadwick was watching a movie. A zombie flick, of all things. Winter sat across from him, but he didn't look away from the screen.
Winter sank into the sofa. It felt good. No rush anyway, he'd said.
The movie was classic B-grade. Makeup, effects—all cheap somehow. But the actor was A-list. His name popping up with intelligence correction screamed mainstream fame. What caused the gap? Winter figured manpower, facilities, budget. Hollywood was gone. LA's top studios were now part of massive ruins.
The screen cut abruptly. Chadwick grumbled.
"Damn, right in the good part. Cable's the problem. Too many mid-show ads."
The ad was for a firearms company. A heavily armed woman locked eyes with the viewers. She started talking while disassembling her rifle.
"What’s the greatest gift a parent can give their child? Love? Of course. I love my kids too. The key is how you show it. One-sided affection isn't true love. Kids aren't parental property. We have to think. What truly benefits them? How long can we just protect them unilaterally?"
Clack. The last part of the disassembled firearm hit the table. Now she began reassembly.
"My opinion? Teach them to fight. Give them the ability to protect themselves from the plague and all other threats. This isn't optional. If your child can't handle a gun, you're neglecting your parental duty."
Click. Holding the fully reassembled rifle, she pitched to the viewers.
"Manageable 5.56mm recoil. Textbook-light weight. Outstanding reliability with almost no malfunctions. Fires 6,000 rounds without maintenance, up to 30,000 with proper care. State Armory's AR-15 is the perfect gift for your child."
A chuckle escaped at the textbook line. Not because it was a lie. American textbooks were passed down generations. Built tough, hence heavy. An unloaded rifle might match a book's weight. Civilian guns had different specs anyway.
But equating guns and textbooks? Impressive rhetoric.
One more striking thing: the ad showed a mother gifting a rifle to her daughter.
"It has a stock... Laws change? Gotta check."
Rifle sales to civilians had always been restricted. Gun ownership was for self-protection. Full-auto was excessive firepower. Exceptions only for qualified few, in permissive states.
Still, pre-apocalypse citizens easily got rifles.
Because legally, they were pistols.
Rifle vs. pistol? Three criteria: barrel length, full-auto, stock. Barrel under 41cm, no full-auto, no stock? Pistol. So civilian "rifles" had a stubby rod instead of a stock.
Pizza-counts-as-vegetable country.
Useful info anyway. Civilian armament quality upgraded. Could face militias if feds collapsed.
Next ad was firearms too. Different angle: guns as fashion.
"In an era where everyone carries a gun, satisfied blending in? If it's inseparable, it's fashion. Express your style with practical, beautiful patterns. You're special. Christy & Co upholds the beautiful right of American citizens."
"......"
The lineup flashing by was tempting. Materials, coatings differentiated from standard guns. Unisex appeal. Aesthetic patterns doubled as camo. Designed that way: New York pattern, Texas pattern, West Virginia pattern, etc.
Not entirely new marketing. Pre-apocalypse, 320 million Americans owned 300 million guns. No more buyers, so they pinked up killers and sold to preteens.
Post-apocalypse just justified it.
Ugh. A sob from beside him. Turning, Winter felt conflicted.
"Lieutenant. Such sad ads, right?"
Nathan Chadwick, eyes wet. Hard to read. Overemotional from the joint he's smoking? Acted? Or mad? Possible.
Called "team leader" casually, but Supervisor rank was huge. Different agency, but outranked Joanna. Hierarchy where top-down was quicker than bottom-up. Military equivalent: field-grade officer.
Makes sense. Might negotiate with Chinese remnants solo, or make bigger calls. CIA wasn't soft. Sent capable guy.
'Assume facade. Field agent that rare... With "Deception" at play, "Insight" quiet makes sense.'
Winter's "Discernment" was expert-level. Pro spy could counter.
Even without buffs, he read most people. Rare not to. Raised watchful. But now? Vague.
Mask or not, presence or absence both issues.
Silent Winter got ramble from Chadwick.
"Fear's eating society. First-graders pack pistols in class. Dreaming of future Winter Lieutenants. Farmers stack walls, electric fences. Used market? RVs, buses gone. Bury 'em all. Poor folks' bunkers. Oh, pitiful."
He ranted: discount stores limit canned goods, antibiotics per person; estimated civilian ammo stockpile 500 billion rounds; cults, racists rising. TV ads? Slice of fear-driven economy.
"Sadder still: citizens fear only public threats. Leak this op? Mass panic. Ha. No duty to ignorance? Protect it anyway."
"Yeah......"
Winter's lukewarm reply made the CIA exec laugh suddenly. Deep drag on joint. Glowing ember. Real weed? Doubtful.
"No grim face. Joking. Heard you're always razor-sharp. Maintain combat readiness? Right?"
"Never know when trouble hits."
"Nah, that'll snap you. War hero tops charts, but such a timid straight-A type? Prime bully bait."
Saying so, empty hand fumbled sofa side. Pulled a beer. Placed on table, nudged. Wobbled to Winter. Budweiser shook, steadied shivering. Chadwick spoke.
"Hey, Lieutenant. Meal's order, rest's duty for soldiers? One drink. Others gripe rations small, you skip? Waste."
Booze rationed here. Far rec room, no-bartender bar: folks nursing tiny bottles.
Word spread. New boy officer doesn't mingle.
Fair misunderstanding. Winter rarely shared downtime since joining. Direct or journal time-skip. Latter: virtual persona trained on him. Early world, offered choices; now gone, deepened learning. So progression mirrored his will.
Reason existed.
'Previous overseer really die to enemy?'
What if. Many rule-breaks here. Farm weed. Red-light districts. Rescuable citizens with current forces. Protection top nominal priority for both agencies.
What else? Overthinking.
Winter popped the beer. CIA exec grinned, raised his.
"Cheers."
Clink.
Gulped. Booze. Drunk plenty across runs, still no taste. Fake? Maybe. Heard intoxication simulated well. Too well—hated losing control. Even here.
This much fine. No "Addiction Resistance," but combat buffs toughened body beyond normal.
"Ooh."
Chadwick grinned, pleased as Winter drained it.
Winter asked.
"Call me for that?"
"Hm? Oh, no. Damn, forgot real reason after calling."
Movie restarted, he handed thin file.
"What's this?"
"Sealed Command request. Your fan gifts overload warehouses. Can't check, just stored. Now no space, even need to clear filled ones."
Liberation op imminent. Prep phase, personal stuff hogging warehouses? Problem. Gifts undelivered due transport limits. File outlined handling.
'No big deal.'
Winter read. Handwritten by Army Seal Commander General Schroeder.
"Transport shortages unavoidable, but sorry for neglecting citizens' goodwill to you."
Why commander care? Odd, then understood next. Public opinion.
"Frankly: except Christmas special flight, undelivered gifts draw flak. At least explain to public, they say. Ask restraint. Fair point, oversight. Headache: politicians exploit. Your popularity unprecedented. Fire reached White House."
"So, Lieutenant Winter. If okay, letter agreeing discard expired food, sell rest. Voice recording too, public-safe. Defense handles sales, private eval. Funds to your pay account. Should satisfy you, public."
"See enclosed contract. Gifts your property, could get sensitive."
"Again, sorry. My role: let fine soldiers like you focus. Failed duty. Hope not coercive. Understand broadly."
"Sign off. Respect your loyalty, devotion. US Army General, Terrence Schroeder."
Everything blows up. Winter felt pathetic.