Sound Judgment

The matter before the Waste Disposal Squad was the disposal of the dead.

"Weren't there two sentries? Where'd the other one go?"

The man Jeongguk had called the Gentleman, and one sentry.

"Let's clear what's in front of us first. Bound to be more inside."

It was familiar work. A comrade's death came more often than a cold, and in a sense it was their trade—under the government's classification, a corpse counted as waste. A part that had outlived its use. No reason it ought to be treated any differently.

"I'm telling you, everything's got its pros and cons."

"What does?"

"Dying out here. You end up a mess, sure, but at least we can gather you up and put you in the ground."

"And you call that a pro...?"

"Better than dying and never knowing where you end up, or how they get rid of you. At least it's your own people doing it."

"What does it matter, once you're dead?"

"You all heard him? This one doesn't care what happens after. If this bastard kicks it, we don't recover the body. That's the rule."

His comrades agreed with vicious enthusiasm.

"Can't a man talk? I was just saying... It's not like HQ hauls off everyone who dies up there either."

"True enough. Last one they collected was the kid who died because Myung Hwa-young wouldn't operate, right?"

"Pretty sure."

"But did he really die because he didn't get the surgery? What if he would've died anyway?"

"Why won't that bitch just die?"

The corpse went onto the waste cart with barely the face covered. They didn't have the supplies to wrap it properly down to the feet.

"So what does everyone think of Myung Hwa-young's offer?"

They kept at the body in silence, absorbed in the work.

"Why's nobody talking?"

Myung Hwa-young's offer. More precisely, an offer the Postman had relayed in her name, claiming it was her will: from here on, for any wounded in the Waste Disposal Squad, she herself would see to it that headquarters extended every convenience it could.

"I was sure somebody would start yelling, A deal with Myung Hwa-young? You out of your mind? Not even that?"

"And you?"

One of the ones who'd been keeping quiet opened his mouth.

"You go first. Sounds like you've got plenty to say."

"Me? Well... maybe it's because I actually watched Myung Hwa-young operate."

She'd rushed the Gentleman into surgery. In the end, he was a corpse all the same.

"I hate to say it, but he died anyway, so the medical supplies—just like Myung Hwa-young said—"

"Wasted, is that it? You looking to die?"

"She was trying to save him, wasn't she? A life was on the line. You don't even try?"

"Or maybe she staged the whole thing, so we'd watch the supplies burn when the surgery failed."

"I figured she was just going through the motions to score points with us."

"Either way, it's galling."

"You think? Looked to me like she was really trying."

"Mm... me too."

"Hard to picture that Myung Hwa-young operating even as an act."

The underground, quiet until then, grew loud in no time. Everyone who'd had their mouths clamped shut a moment ago started putting in their piece.

Once the ruckus had run its course—

"Speaking of the Postman, though."

"What about that lunatic."

"He forced his way through the Human Meat Factory, right?"

Hauling the wounded there, the Waste Disposal Squad had witnessed more than one sight they couldn't believe.

"First time in my life I've been received like honored guests."

"And it was the Human Meat Factory, of all places. I kept thinking, what the hell is this."

"We do not touch that lunatic. I've got a bad feeling."

Something they'd heard from someone high up in the Human Meat Factory.

The Savior hadn't said it for the Postman's sake. He'd only judged that the Postman had to stay safe if they were going to receive the promised air-raid intelligence without a hitch. Even so, to anyone listening, it landed as threat enough. This was the Human Meat Factory, after all.

"Whatever the Postman does is none of our business. It's not like we'd have any reason to set him off in the first place."

"You all remember yesterday? That maniac just hurling bombs at the ceiling. Didn't look like it even occurred to him he might die."

"That's exactly the kind you really have to avoid. A bastard with no tomorrow."

And then—

"But... isn't Myung Hwa-young the Postman's colleague? Yesterday's whole fit was over him, too. So what can we even do about her...?"

One of them dragged into the open the thing the rest had only been whispering around. The underground went quiet again, and nothing continued but the endless work of disposing of waste.

I'd been sure Dr. Myung would never board.

"And here I thought you weren't interested."

"Me? I'm interested. When else am I going to see something like this."

"That's not what you said a minute ago."

"Ah, that was because I had business with the squad leader."

"Business?"

"And since when have you been so interested in me?"

"I'm not."

"Then what am I supposed to do with that."

She knocked my shoulder on the way past and dropped into the seat one over from Clock-out Man.

"Strange seats. Sit right beside someone and you're guaranteed to touch them. Can't be what they meant. For luggage, maybe?"

So Dr. Myung had had business with the squad leader. Whatever he'd said, it seemed to have stuck with her.

Apologizing costs nothing. Simple enough for a child to grasp. But even a child can't always act on what they understand, because sometimes it means setting down things more precious than money.

I didn't know what had passed between the two of them, but if Dr. Myung had decided to give ground, that was astonishing. You could beat that woman to death and she still wouldn't do a thing her heart wasn't in. So if she'd taken a step back, the impulse had been real. How she'd managed it, I couldn't say. One thing seemed certain, though. After the surgery failed, she must have apologized to the Gentleman—and meant it.

"Doctor."

"Hm?"

"What's your relationship with my bro?"

"Hmm... You were a hunter too, so you know that man pretty well, don't you?"

"Can I say I know him well? Wouldn't swear to it."

"Talking like that means you know him well enough. I can speak plainly, then. I was his personal physician, back when he was an instructor."

"Okay. Figured you were that Dr. Myung I'd only ever heard about, but I wanted to make sure."

"...What did you hear? No—more importantly, why do you keep talking down to me? You're not even a hunter anymore. You've confirmed who I am. Act like it."

"You're demonstrating it beautifully right now. Heard this is exactly how you act. Correct!"

"..."

"No need to look so wronged. We're the same age, for one. Hello, my friend!"

"Ha."

Dr. Myung got up, and the next thing to catch her eye was an insurance advertisement. After that, the handholds. Then the automatic doors. The exact route Clock-out Man and I had already taken.

He'd heard the explanation once already, so it was easy to let him take over for me. Convenient—except not a word of it was right.

"Watch close. Grab the handle like this, and—hup!"

"Hanging off it like that—what are you even doing?"

"What do you think? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Working out. Shame to waste the whole ride. Your turn. Try!"

"Nnngh—hup! Nng... ghk!"

"No muscle, or is the body just heavy?"

While Dr. Myung muttered and rubbernecked around the car, Clock-out Man held something out to me. I couldn't make out the shape at first. Look closer, and it was his Backscratcher—the one I'd thrown when I brought the ceiling down. So it hadn't only been the monsters that got wrecked.

"Throwing this for the finishing blow the second the ammo ran out—very nice! But why did it have to be mine..."

In his other hand, he was holding mine too.

"Go see Min Yeo-jin, explain what happened, and get a new one."

"Already the plan. No problem!"

Next he held out a sack. Cores dug out from under the rubble, then. Spoils a boss-grade had spilled.

"Twelve in all. We decided to split them four each."

"The General's idea?"

"Was it? I just figured four each was obviously fair, so I can't even tell you who said it first. I mean, it's not like I don't know your contribution was the biggest, bro! But some other ratio between three people is a little...?"

Fair enough. The colors, though, were another matter.

The General had said he'd divided them right. Had he?

"Open it and check the colors. We split them so you'd be satisfied. You won't feel shorted."

Inside were three yellows, standard grade, and one green, the very highest. Clock-out Man showed me his share as well: two yellows, and two reds, the lowest grade there was.

"And the General?"

"Same as me."

So my cut was the largest. A proper distribution, as these things went. Even so—getting the General to agree without a fight.

"Bet that took some work."

"Huh?"

"The General must've grumbled."

"Ah, that part I remember clear. Splitting the colors like this—that guy brought it up first."

Hm?

When the General reached the vicinity of the Human Meat Factory, the search party lying in wait showed themselves.

"You've returned, sir!"

"Whew! No word from you at all—we were worried."

"We were set to move the moment the sun went down. Did ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠something happen, sir?"

Without a word, the General handed over a sack.

"C-cores? This many!?"

"Whoa... How many monsters did you have to smash, sir?"

"No wonder you were gone so long!"

The search party hurried to lift the weapons off his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠back, one after another.

"Sell every last core. Eighty percent of the going rate or better, and you dump the lot."

"Sell them...? What do you mean, sir?"

Their bewilderment was entirely reasonable. This was a settlement famous for refusing all contact with the outside.

"That Postman bastard is sending a man to trade. Very tall. Arms and legs, unusually long."

"But... wasn't the Postman dealing with the Savior?"

"Word is he'll trade with whoever's in front of him. Doesn't pick his partners."

"Where did you hear— Ah, never mind, sir!"

"When he shows, sell. He'll buy every one of them. Count on it."

"Yes, sir!"

"The rest of you return at once. Adjutant, you stay."

"We'll head in ahead of you, sir!"

The conclusion he'd turned over the whole way back: he would cancel the operation.

"Is there something you need done, sir?"

"Call off the investigation into the Postman."

"Sir...? But the men have already all deployed. Some of the operational funds will have been spent—"

"Doesn't matter. Recall every one of them. If they made contact with any outsiders, shut those mouths. Funds already spent will not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be recovered."

"Understood. But why, sir?"

The reason was perfectly rational.

"The bastard is more of a threat than I thought."

"Then we prepare even more thoroughly—"

"No amount of preparation will matter. No point fighting a battle you lose."

"I'm not sure I—"

"And he isn't just one man."

"Sir? I thought he was a postman who ran alone..."

Faces flickered through the General's mind. The Savior. The squad leader. The doctor. And the lackey.

"He isn't alone. There are people he keeps."

"Well, he's a civil servant in name, at least. Isn't that only natural?"

"The ones tied to him were never easy marks to begin with, and every last one of them stands on his side. That's the problem. I nearly went over myself."

"...?"

"Anyway. That's how it is. Cancel the operation and call them all back."

He had felt it plainly: he had been beaten clean in his contest with the Savior, and turning the result around would not come easily. But the word give up did not exist in the General's dictionary. He had merely decided that the Postman, and the Postman alone, was someone to avoid.