Cry Cry: Amon's Rainy Birth and Faithful Dawn
Rain poured down on a stormy night. From a basket left at the gates of the orphanage, the wail of a newborn baby echoed.
Hearing the cry, a nun sighed and carried the infant inside. For this orphanage, tucked right next to a brothel, finding a basket with a fresh baby at the door wasn't all that rare.
The nun laid the newborn in the incubator donated by an orphanage alum who was now a doctor, praying as always that the child would thrive despite their scarce resources.
100 days. Infants brought in like this usually had their fate sealed around the 100-day mark. And this one had safely passed that hurdle.
Only then did the nun relax and give the baby a name: Amon. It meant "love." True to his name, Amon grew strong and healthy under the nuns' loving care.
On the 200th day...
"Ah mmu... Ahmmu..."
"That's right. Say 'mama.' Come on, mama."
The nuns crowded around Amon, whose babbling was just starting to form words, clapping in encouragement. Though not born from their own wombs, the moment this foundling called them "mama" for the first time was one of the few joys that made their grueling orphanage life worthwhile.
Amon kept mumbling words with 'ㅇ' and 'ㅁ' sounds.
"Eummun."
When that word slipped out, the nuns burst into laughter. Who would've thought he'd say his own name before "mama"? This kid's definitely destined for greatness, they said.
But the fully formed word that followed from Amon's lips far exceeded their wildest guesses.
"Amen."
"???"
The first word of a child truly bound for greatness.
"Hmm. Looking good today too..."
The boy muttered to his reflection in the mirror. Inside it, a handsome youth with slightly tousled black hair, thick brows, and a warm face met Amon's gaze. His subtly droopy eyes might divide opinions on their charm, but no one could deny they were a striking feature.
Amon was satisfied with his looks once more. No makeup or special care, yet he figured he could pass for an actor. He had that confidence.
And why not? This was the character face he'd meticulously crafted using every resource at his disposal.
'Phew. What a relief. Thank you so much, Goddess.'
Every time he glanced in the mirror, his faith in the Goddess swelled within him. Sure, he was grateful for the second chance she'd given him, for whispering kind words that bolstered his self-esteem. But nothing fueled his devotion like realizing he'd been reborn into this face out of all possible ones.
At age three, when his features started taking shape, Amon had offered prayers of thanks to the Goddess. He'd even donated half his pocket money from the orphanage up to that point.
Gazing at himself now, he couldn't help but flash through the nightmare faces that might've been his: bald tentacle expert, Nakadashi magical girl Pretty Aphro...
'Oh, Lord.'
Had he reincarnated into one of those, he'd have seriously contemplated resetting his life at three. No, this face was the one from his past life—the character he used for deep story immersion. For hunting Easter eggs, uncovering hidden lore, chasing true endings, or perfect happy endings.
He'd grown fond of other faces for speedruns or gimmick plays, but reincarnating into one? No thanks.
Thankfully, the Goddess understood human hearts. She'd granted him the face he desired most.
'I'll faithfully pay my tithes this weekend too.'
Now fifteen, jobless, with income limited to subsidies and pocket money from odd chores, Amon still tithed diligently. Even if it got tedious, a morning wash and mirror glance reignited his faith, ensuring he'd never skipped once.
Of course, in this punk world, tithes went not to the Goddess but to the potbelly of some priest. He knew that well. But it didn't matter. What counted was the heart.
In this bleak society that dismissed love and religion as nonsense, no amount of pressure could shatter his beliefs. They weren't that fragile.
Appearance check complete. He finished washing up and stepped out of the bathroom. Friends lined up for their turn.
"Good morning, everyone!"
Reactions to Amon's greeting split into two camps.
"Morning, Amon."
"...Tch."
The first from his close pals, the second from those who found him annoying. Once the latter dominated, but a decade of consistent greetings had won over most.
After washing, breakfast awaited. Today's menu: meat. And meat tomorrow too.
Tech had trashed human dignity, but progress wasn't all bad. At least the orphanage's pittance of a budget could fill kids' bellies with meat.
Ironically, in this punk world's America, meat was cheaper than veggies. It varied by country, but here, the price of veggies for one meal bought meat for six.
Thus, orphanage meals skewed heavy on meat over vegetables.
Amon sliced his synthetic meat patty in half and popped a piece in his mouth. It tasted close to a hamburger beef patty. But to him, who'd eaten real beef before, it felt off—scent, fat, texture. They mimicked cow meat well, but not perfectly.
He swallowed mechanically and gave the rest to the girl beside him.
"Huh? You're not eating?"
The silver-haired girl, ponytail swaying, eyed him and the meat alternately. Her name: Sonia Perfumrose. Abandoned—no, entrusted—at the orphanage a month before Amon.
Amon replied with a vague smile. "You know I can't eat much meat."
"Because of the off-flavor?"
"Yeah."
Pitying her childhood friend who struggled with the gaminess, Sonia devoured his share along with hers. As the meat slid down her throat, her ample chest rose and fell briefly.
Amon averted his gaze. The world might be mad, but he had normal sensibilities. No lust for a fifteen-year-old girl. Just guilt watching her polish off both portions.
'Sorry.'
The real reason he couldn't eat much synthetic meat wasn't gaminess. In his past life, Amon loved meat so much, pork belly grease and soju flowed in his veins instead of blood.
But here, facing it conjured production memories that killed his appetite.
'How could anyone eat that.'
Among insects, larvae and beetles bred exceptionally fast—surpassing cows and pigs. In a world prizing efficiency and profit above all, bug-based synthetic meat wasn't odd. Human rights? Throw 'em to the dogs. Bug meat? Big deal.
Locals ate it fine knowing the source. Sonia too.
But not him. Ignorance might let him stomach it, but he knew too well. A game side quest raiding a synthetic meat factory showed the processing in gruesome detail—4K thanks to his high-end PC. It traumatized him off burgers for weeks.
Seeing it on his plate? He patted himself on the back for not puking right then.
At least self-awareness of his growth spurt kept him hitting minimum protein needs.
'It's not bad for health.'
Surprisingly, purely health-wise, synthetic meat beat real beef. No antibiotics or hormones for bugs. Even in this punk world, food factories maintained strict hygiene—good for the body.
For health... Amon silently thanked his childhood friend again for eating the bug meat—er, synthetic meat—in his stead.
Post-breakfast, Amon's routine was outings. Hand in hand with Sonia, he left the orphanage.
School? A luxury for orphans. Instead, they headed the opposite way—not to learn, but to practice.
The pair approached a creaky sign: Johnson Merc Brokerage.
As with any mercenary joint, it wasn't aboveboard, so they descended to the basement. Opening the door unleashed a wave of booze stench from the bar welcoming them.
Weaving past mercs clanking mechanical arms, Amon beelined for the counter. Opposite, a bartender polished glasses. An elderly goat beastman with goatee and horns.
Amon hailed him. "Grandpa Johnson, got any hot gigs?"
"Kid, watch your mouth—people might misunderstand."
The old man chided in horror, his right cybernetic eye whirring as it contracted and dilated, mirroring his shock. Even in this hellhole world, no one openly armed minors for jobs.
"Say it like that, and I'll get busted. Call 'em errands."
Johnson, legit merc broker owner, never assigned actual merc work to teens. His "errands" were literal—chores.
Amon nodded vigorously, correcting himself. "Right. Any errands today?"
"Got it. Sonia tagging along?"
"Yep."
"Alright, something suitable then."
The old man waved warmly at Sonia beside Amon, jotting a chore list on the back of a torn contract. Front-side merc details? Beneath notice.
——————
• Wilton's Butcher Shop: One box sausages
• Dominic Pizza: One box frozen pizzas
...
• Tommy's Forge: Kitchen knife
Mostly bar ingredients. Amon stuffed the paper in his pocket, grumbling inwardly at the volume.
He checked the promised pay: laughably low compared to regular delivery wages. But he hid it. Johnson hired orphans cheap—haggling now meant zilch pay.
Knowing this, Amon accepted without complaint. Johnson was generous, relatively.
"The knife's urgent, sorry. Deliver it first?"
"Leave it to me."
"Bonus on top."
"Won't say no."
At least add-ons paid reliably.
Amon and Sonia exited. Shedding booze fumes, acrid smog greeted them.
Amon filled his lungs with exhaust and stepped forward. Another day surviving in Punk City.