A Sly Workplace Survival (1)
I had finally come to learn a little about this world's history.
Since there was no other way, I'd had to dig for every last scrap of it myself, all while being treated like some crazy woman who'd crawled out of a hole in the ground after living there for years.
From what I'd gathered, the northern reaches of this world held a vast, barren wasteland known as the Demon Realm.
A being called the Demon King had appeared there like a comet, and starting from a single small tribe, he had conquered the nations of the Demon Realm one by one, until at last he achieved its unification.
Under the Demon King's leadership, the Demon Realm had coveted the fertile southern lands and invaded the Southern Human Realm, and so war broke out — and at this point, the writer's limits as an author became painfully clear.
Barely two years into the war, the Demon King got his head lopped off by the Hero's ragtag commando party, and just like that, the war was over.
Word had it that the Hero's party had crawled into the Demon Realm without even packing food, surviving through "local procurement" (written as such, read as *looting*), and fought the entire campaign without a shred of support.
These were the people charged with humanity's very survival, and they were supposed to be such a disorganized mess? Give me a break.
Come to think of it, if the Demon King got taken down by clowns like that, he must have been such a pushover that I couldn't even begin to imagine it.
Anyway, the war that had swept across the human realm and drowned it in terror came to an end, and peace arrived.
The members of the Hero's party shot up to stardom overnight, and their adventures came pouring out in the form of poems and songs.
The burned cities were rebuilt, the refugees returned home, and the human realm healed the wounds the Demon King's army had raked across it, entering an age of prosperity.
It was the kind of story that brought a fond, satisfied smile to your face.
If this were a novel, that would surely have been the ending.
"Heh heh heh heh. Fuck. That actually warms my heart, for real."
But the problem was that all of this had happened more than fifty years ago.
More than fifty years past the ending — a peaceful era in which the war that gambled the fate of the world meant absolutely nothing.
I had become a resident of that era.
Only now did I understand why the tutorial that was supposed to start with "Hello, I am God" never appeared, and why no status window ever popped up.
Because I hadn't been transmigrated into a novel at all.
I was nothing more than a stray scrap that fell into this world long after the story was finished, thanks to someone's mistake.
And no one extends kind consideration or friendly tutorials to a discarded scrap.
"Yulia! You're spacing out again! Aren't you coming out?!"
"Wh-what?"
The door flying open made me flinch.
It was the woman with the big fox ears, her face twisted as she shouted.
Ever since my first day working here — when I'd asked why she was wearing animal-ear accessories before opening hours and gotten my ear yanked for it — she'd been permanently irritated with me.
You could have at least mentioned there were beastfolk around, you know.
"I'm on my break right now?"
"Ha. Are you insane? Where does a newbie get a break? You rest when everything's already done, got it? While your seniors are working themselves to the bone?"
"Yeah. I think a break time is a basic right—"
"Out. Now."
"Aagh! My hair! Let go, you bitch!"
"Takes one to know one!"
What did you say? The literal embodiment of a rag, calling me that.
And so I was dragged out by my hair, right back onto the floor.
The moment I stepped out, blaring music so loud it could burst my eardrums greeted me first of all.
Humans sprawled unconscious over the bar tables, oblivious to the fact that their pockets were being emptied; bastards clinging to the legs of passing staff; others wearing neckties around their heads like headbands, playing pretend golf-swing games.
It was a scene that wrung a sigh out of me just to look at.
"Ha. Fucking hell…"
Then, suddenly, I felt eyes turning toward me.
This wasn't the paranoid delusion of some school loner who whined that everyone was always staring at him.
Even the men lounging around with women draped over them ran their gaze up and down me like a scanner, and then showed no intention whatsoever of looking away.
The fox-eared woman clicked her tongue at the sight, then shoved me firmly forward.
"Tch. The regulars keep asking where you ran off to."
"…"
Stumbling from the push, my long legs were left on full display.
A skirt so short that the slightest movement would expose everything underneath.
A top so tight around the waist it bordered on suffocating, showing off every curve and putting my chest front and center.
Without a single excuse available, it was the unmistakable getup of a whore.
Still, I hadn't sold my body yet, so I wasn't a whore.
Then again, considering I'd had my virginity forcibly taken without receiving a single coin, maybe I was actually worse off than a whore.
"Yulia! Over here! I called for you!"
"Yes, sir…! C-coming right now!"
"No need to come wobbling over in such a hurry, my dear. I've been waiting ever so long to see our Yulia. What on earth do they keep booking you up for, hmm?"
"Ahaha…"
There he was — that reeking pig from last time.
Every time I looked at this guy, I felt a little guilty for having called the bespectacled otaku pig a pig.
Compared to this bastard, that guy was merely pleasantly plump.
The whole walk to his table, I could feel his gaze pouring over me.
Maybe the paranoia hadn't come with the otaku trope after all — maybe I'd developed it after arriving in this world.
I could finally understand why the term "eye rape" had been invented.
With a monumental effort I kept my mouth from twisting, walked over, and sat down beside the pig.
"Now! Kneel right here, Yulia!"
"Excuse me?"
"I have something to give you. Quickly. Yes, there you go, good girl. What excellent form!"
"…"
Apparently the customer intended to tip me.
The posture for that was fixed and standardized.
The moment I knelt and pressed my palms together, the pig burst into hearty laughter.
"There! A copper coin!"
"Thank you so much!"
The copper coin clinked out and landed in my palm.
If you're going to tip, hand over silver or gold, surely.
Still, a customer who tipped even a copper coin belonged in the top one percent, honestly.
There were plenty of bastards who'd play all night and slink off without leaving a cent, conscience entirely unburdened.
"Oh ho! We're not done yet. Keep that hand out. *Hack! — ptui!*"
"Th-thank you…"
"You've gotta savor it, right? Hmm?"
"…"
Of course. There's always a price.
I stared blankly at the thick, yellowish slime he'd spat into my palm, then tilted my head.
I could have faked it, but this pig in particular was the type who needed to see you swallow it down completely before he felt satisfied, so I had no choice.
The moment I licked it all up and into my mouth, an unbearable wave of nausea surged up.
A smell that would make you believe it had come out of the other end rather than the front seized my nasal passages in an instant.
Trembling all over as I fought not to vomit, I finally managed to push the filthy thing past the back of my throat and swallow.
"That's it! Well done! Here, one more copper for you!"
"Thank you, sir…"
With a bright, ringing sound, a copper coin clattered and rolled across the floor.
The instant I scrambled to snatch it up before someone's boot crushed it, I felt a solid thump against the back of my head.
It was the pig's enormous trotter, petting me.
And even long after I'd found my grip on the coin, I had to stay bowed there, receiving his baptism of athlete's foot and dead skin upon my poor, innocent hair.
Every fiber of my being wanted to jump up and deck him right then and there.
Of course, ever since the time I'd impulsively cracked a customer's head open with a bottle and gotten dragged out of the bar and nearly beaten to death for it, I'd made a point of not putting stupid thoughts into stupid action.
Fuck. How did it come to this…
So yes, if you asked me whether this wasn't exactly the life of a whore, minus the part where the body gets sold, I'd have nothing to say in reply.
Not that I was entirely without excuses.
I hadn't given up yet, for one.
I had tried — desperately, endlessly — to hold onto the bare minimum of human dignity.
And yet I simply couldn't find a single thing a woman could do for a living in this city.
Even borrowing money proved impossible; without any memories or record of myself as the Saintess Yulia, I had no way to prove my identity.
A job that came with both lodging and wages and was open to women basically meant noble households' maids, and no such household was going to hire a woman of unknown origin and unverifiable status like me.
And with a baby in tow besides, everyone turned me away at the door without even asking for my story.
I searched the entire city and couldn't find a single place that would take in me and my little monster.
Except for exactly one — this bar.
It was the very bar where I'd had a beer on my first day in this city.
When I remembered the owner saying I could work here and came back, mercifully he hadn't changed his mind.
In exchange for letting me use a small storage shed in the back alley as my home, I signed a one-year contract.
I still remember how the owner burst out laughing when I insisted we put it in writing.
Verbal agreements cannot be trusted.
People, even less so.
The only thing worth trusting in this world was a contract bearing a stamp.
"Gulp gulp — my, what a hearty drinker! I do love how our Yulia has such a healthy appetite. Come, sit right here beside me."
"Yes, sir…"
The momentary reverie ended, and I was yanked back into reality.
Sitting in the seat half-annexed by the pig's enormous backside, a stench wafted up from somewhere deep in his armpit.
I nearly scrunched my face up right then and there.
Shift's almost over. Just hold on a little longer.
Endure a bit more, and it's done.
Time remaining… two hours. Fuck.
But two hours would pass quickly enough — pouring drinks, singing my throat raw, smelling his shit-breath, and nodding along to whatever stories he spouted.
I forced myself to take comfort in that thought.
Because I didn't think I'd survive otherwise.
"You look even prettier than usual today, Yulia. Did you put extra effort into your makeup?"
"I'm not wearing any makeup."
"Whaaat? Don't lie to me! My wife pulls that same kind of half-assed lie! Let's see. Come closer. I'll wipe it off with my spit and check."
"Ugh. Th-that's a bit…"
"Oh, it really is bare? Shall I scrub a little more thoroughly, then?"
"Um… sir? That hurts…"
"Hahaha! Sorry! Sorry, our Yulia… So, shall we wrap up this round and head upstairs for the second course? This is boring, isn't it. Let's go do something fun instead."
The second course.
A term coined by idiots who think their language turns refined just because they've dressed it up.
In plain terms: I'm getting a buzz, so let's head off to bang now.
"One moment. I don't do after-hours. It's clearly stated on my booking sheet that I'm excluded from it…"
"I know! Do I look like I've got holes where my eyes should be? Have you already forgotten the two whole copper coins I gave you, Yulia? Hm? Do I look like some sucker made to be milked for money?"
"N-no, sir…"
The pig's sweat-slick hand clamped down on my thigh.
That enormous hand kneaded my thigh, pushed my skirt up, and kept creeping higher and higher.
Worse, the pig was getting so worked up his voice kept rising, and his spit was spraying all over my face.
Ah. I really can't survive today.
"Answer me! Do I look like a sucker or not?!"
"Ha. Fuck it, seriously—
"…?!"
I couldn't take it anymore, and it finally came out.
No taking it back now.
Sweeping my bangs back as I rose to my feet, I saw the unmistakable bewilderment flash across the pig's face — and it was hilarious.
"You don't look like a sucker."
"Wh-what? Hm? Yulia, what did you just—"
"You don't even look like a human being, you pig."
CRACK.
I grabbed the ashtray and smashed it across the bastard's skull.
With a dull thud, the pig's head dropped, his body swayed sideways, and he toppled face-first onto the floor.
Eyes rolled back in his head, he didn't so much as twitch again.
"…Ah."
There goes my shift.
I held out for so long, and in the end…
Looks like I'll be working very, very late tonight.
What am I going to do if my baby starves to death?
But even that worry lasted only a moment before my tangled thoughts turned crystal clear.
What do you mean, what if she starves? What's there to do about it?
Frankly, it'd be a blessing for me.