The First Button Snaps - Part 3
I woke up feeling like I'd fallen asleep in a house on fire in the middle of summer.
"......"
A gray ceiling devoid of dreams or hope greeted me. For a split second, I wondered if this was finally hell—but then my whole body started aching, confirming I was very much alive.
I barely managed to sit up, and chunks of dust and debris rained off me like gravel. Ptoo. My mouth felt packed with sand, so I spat it out, sending a cloud of ash or dirt—or probably both—scattering through the air. The gritty texture lingering on my tongue confirmed it.
Staggering to my feet, I stumbled outside and finally pieced together what had happened. The building where I'd been trading barbs with those idiots before getting hurled here? It was gone. Not a trace left.
To reiterate: my official first commission had gone straight to shit.
The room's haze of cigarette smoke was thinner than a few hours ago. Simple reason: a lit tobacco pipe sat alone on the synthetic resin pipe tray.
And the old man who'd been chain-smoking it like a fiend? Right now, he was sitting in front of me with a terrifying scowl.
His eyes bulged wider than the tiny glasses perched midway down his nose, and he sat in utter silence.
"...Who the... hell..."
After an eternity of silence, the old man's mouth finally opened. His lips quivered, and he hadn't touched that pipe he'd been sucking down like his life depended on it. This was no good.
"I told you to chase 'em out... not blow the damn building sky-high!!"
From what I could tell, his lungs had to be artificial or mechanical. No way natural ones could belt out volume like that. Watching him roar so fiercely that the lingering smoke scattered, I hacked up a lung.
"Keh-lok."
Still coughing out the dirt and ash clogging my throat.
Whether it was the sword wind I'd blasted forward, my desperate Step Thunder Flash hurling me backward, or both—somehow, I'd survived. Though not without tumbling like a shipwreck survivor, smashing through a neighboring building's shutter with my body, shattering its glass rear wall, and rolling across the floor to escape the inferno.
"Kek... kuh-luk."
I tried to muster a defense, but my throat felt raw and blocked—only coughs came out.
"If you've got a mouth that works, then speak up, you little shit!!"
The old man shot up from his chair, lunged across the desk, grabbed my collar, and shook me like a ragdoll.
"Kek...! Kuh-luk! Kraaak...!"
I'd surged my inner energy too hard and flung sword winds like a madman just to stay alive—my body had zero strength left. So I flopped around like a reed in the wind from his bony arms.
Ugh... just a bit more shaking and it'll come up...!
"Kwaaak!"
A couple more violent yanks on my neck, and the blockage burst free. A black clump of ash splatted onto the desk.
"Wait! Kuh-luk... wait...! It's out. Voice works now, so hear me out...!"
"Just drop dead, you worthless punk!!"
Finally, the beggar intervened, and the old man let go of my throat. Who knew that scrawny, nicotine-stained frame packed such power? Even after the beggar pried us apart, he glared daggers at me, huffing and puffing.
"I've got my side too. You didn't mention those bastards were cooking up some freakish weapon!"
"Weapon...?"
The old man, still fuming, blinked rapidly at my words.
...Was that pipe not tobacco but some sedative? I debated shoving it in his mouth right then as I answered.
"Crox Corp's energy projector or something? They reverse-engineered it into their own weapon..."
"Crox?"
Slippery name, but yeah, something like that. No way I'd correct him now—he'd probably keel over from rage. I shut up and nodded.
Luckily, my call was right; he clamped his mouth shut, face grave.
"Come on, think about it. How was this guy supposed to blow up a building? You saw that blue light too, right?"
"......"
Under the beggar's mediation, the old man snatched up his pipe and puffed away furiously again. By the time the room choked with fresh smoke—like he might be gassing me out to cover up the failed job—he finally spoke.
"Hoo..."
Or not. Just a sigh.
Mouthing silently, adding more smoke, he tremblingly removed his glasses. Everyone knows: trembling hands taking off glasses to clutch your face? That's the wind-up to rage. I tensed my neck—just in case.
"...An accident, hoo... yeah, it's an accident..."
Face buried in his hands, sighing smoke-laced gusts, he muttered, "Yeah, an accident. An accident."
"Don't you dare say it like that!"
He flared up again, lunging for my throat.
"Calm down! Calm your ass down!"
The beggar grabbed him in time, averting disaster.
"Hoo, hoo..."
As the old man deep-breathed his way to zen, a hypothesis hit me.
"That building—was it yours, old timer?"
"...Yeah. You goddamn bastard."
He glared like lasers might shoot from his eyes, grinding his teeth.
"What a way to spend my twilight years. Aigo..."
"So before this geezer blows a gasket and drops, explain exactly what went down."
"When I first cracked the door, I stood off to the side in case bullets flew."
"You charged straight in...?"
"They said it was just techies, so maybe I figured I'd scare 'em off easy."
The old man trembled anew, looking ready to erupt, but the beggar soothed him and nodded for me to continue. He was hooked.
Under that gaze, I detailed everything from opening the door onward.
"......"
"......"
Once I'd wrapped the tale of those three idiots' friendship, tragedy, and madness, a bizarre silence blanketed the room.
"...So that's how..."
The beggar and old man spoke almost in unison.
"Who knew they were total nutjobs."
"Who knew luck could suck that bad."
Different verdicts, but the irrational fury aimed at me had ebbed. I relaxed my neck and slouched comfortably.
"What kind of moron straps an untested energy projector and Photon Furnace to their body?"
"And at that exact timing, psychotic symptoms kick in and boom—full Psychotic breakdown?"
I quietly raised my hand.
"Question."
"...What?"
The old man grumbled curtly. Mood still sour, but he'd grasped the demolition wasn't my fault—or those three's explosion wasn't. Softer tone.
"What's a Psychotic?"
"......"
"......"
The silence and stares stung. Normally, no human man could hurt me, but those looks of pity and disbelief? They smarted.
"Where the hell you been living, some backwater?"
"...It's the catch-all term for psychosis from mismatched Implants or procedures beyond your limits. You don't even know this? Lived in a cave or what?"
They sneered like I'd grown a second head. Brushing off the disdain, it clicked why the glasses had gone berserk: dude was borderline Psychotic already, then the arm gadget pushed him over.
"Got it. So what's next for commissions?"
As he fumbled his glasses back on—nearly stabbing his eyeball with the frame from shaky hands—he rasped,
"...For now... we'll start slow, from the basics."
"I'm beat today... get lost."
I extended a hand to the old man relighting his pipe with trembling fingers.
"Looking forward to it. Name's Isan."
"......"
Too sly—he didn't give his name, just let out an inhuman roar and charged me again.
"What the hell happened to make you look like that?"
Blanca's first words hit me as I fled the old man's raging eviction notice.
I glanced down at myself. Singed jacket, shirt, and pants torn to hell, body a mess of scabs and wounds. Silver lining: no serious burns.
Surveying my wreckage, I crossed my arms and opened solemnly.
"Nothing..."
"...Don't tell me that explosion earlier—you did it?"
She cut in casually. Close enough to assume guilt? Pondering, I opened to protest.
"...Why assume I did it? Normally, you'd worry I got caught in an accident, right?"
"What the hell did you even do..."
No mercy, straight perp treatment. I fought back tears. Why the total lack of trust?
"For real, wasn't me. The idiots squatting in the building were messing with some weird invention and blew it themselves."
I spoke pure truth, but got only skeptical side-eye.
"Invention?"
...?
A voice two tones higher than usual pulled my gaze back. No racist, but her face—twice as bright as normal—shone before me.