Ch.103Work Record 016 – New Recruitment Period (2)

In this world, there are too many bastards who need a bullet in their head. It’s not a big problem. I’ve never been short on bullets.

A busy day always feels too long. Even though it’s still daytime, the corridor windows of my apartment building are completely sealed off with lights turned on instead. It’s always like this when the smog is this thick.

I return home, wash off the smog residue, and stare out the window where nothing is visible beyond an inch, like a blank white wallpaper, before drawing the curtains. I skim through the routine news reporting hundreds of new respiratory disease cases.

I still couldn’t properly understand the mindset of purists. Original bodies—I couldn’t comprehend why they clung to such things. Isn’t high performance better?

The only explanation I could offer was that perhaps they were attached to their original bodies the same way one might grow attached to a long-used pistol. That much I could try to understand.

I pick up my unused Belwether pistol and examine it. I didn’t have much attachment to it. A tool is just a tool. I put it down and check my small malice. This is the better tool.

I spent that day somewhat lazily, continuing these pointless thoughts. Lately I’ve been too busy to think about things like efficiency. A drink or two doesn’t wash away the fatigue.

I ask about Ms. Eve, who mentioned sending those four families back, then have a quick dinner of synthetic retort food before falling asleep without even bothering to train. I wake up at dawn to the sound of wind.

The smog is clearing. The gusting wind easily disperses the lingering smog. When air flows, concentration adjusts. I could see Changcheon Robotics’ large drones flying around.

Just as Farmers Corp dreams of reviving California’s specialty wines, Changcheon Robotics dreams of blue skies. I’d heard that at Changcheon’s headquarters, they hadn’t seen blue skies for years.

They adapted. They adapted and survived. Everyone did. When you wake up at dawn, you can see how the city endures in this wasteland that has forgotten even the concept of self-purification.

After getting a bit more sleep, the smog is noticeably thinner than at dawn, leaving only the usual acrid air. I put yesterday’s gas mask back in its container. At 7:30, I head to the office.

President Yoon and Enzo were there. President Yoon gave me a slight nod as I entered.

“Ah, you’re here. We received a call from the Vegas folks yesterday. They want joint processing of the work Arthur transferred to them, and since it concerns public safety, Belwether readily approved.”

Vegas folks… Ah. Their company name was rather awkward to mention in an official setting. Belwether’s “public safety” probably didn’t refer to those purists. It meant the safety of visiting employees-citizens.

“They’ve located the targets through cerebral matter scanning, and in coordination with Farmers Corp, we’ve learned that the perpetrators are hiding in one of Farmers’ abandoned Wasteland Restoration Research Facilities, closed due to groundwater contamination issues.”

Those two were probably the ones who died most peacefully in this case. The information processing team would have sifted through their cerebral matter before tossing them into the organic waste bin. A fitting end.

A virtual screen appeared before me showing a building schematic. It had Farmers Corp’s favorite dome-shaped exterior with an interior that extended straight underground. A mushroom-shaped building that went fourteen floors below ground.

“Since closure costs were higher than abandonment, they only took the information and equipment, leaving it deserted in the wasteland. Even so, basic systems were still operational, so they could have hidden there.”

There was certainly no one to pressure them to handle it properly. Nobody cares what happens in the wasteland. Even Chance had been dormant for decades.

The schematic showed a message indicating that below the fourth basement level was permanently sealed off. That was fortunate in its way. In high-rise buildings, one could jump, but deep underground, there were often no options.

“Ah, yes. Understood. Since it’s a cleanup operation, it should be straightforward. When do we depart?”

“Originally we planned to move according to official business hours, but considering it’s an entertainment establishment, that would be their busiest time. So it was just decided that we’ll go at 4 PM.”

That seemed like an appropriate time to deal with criminals who lived by night. Along with those words, a mission summons dropped into my computational assist device. 7:30 was indeed too early.

I finally felt like I was back to my normal routine. Taking a deep breath, I spoke, allowing myself to feel a sense of excitement despite it being somewhat inefficient.

“Though I’ve never officially been absent, it still feels like we’re all working together like regular office work. Is it strange to act excited about work?”

“Not at all. We’re also looking forward to working together after so long. Personally, I’m even more excited. You’re not an offliner anymore.”

Maximum efficiency. President Yoon was still a Belwether retiree. I head to the locker to get my combat suit. Since our destination is the wasteland but our final target is inside a building, I didn’t bother with camouflage.

For indoor purposes, a grenade rifle would be excessive. That’s for hunting non-standard targets—like Adrian who lost his mind, or perhaps it would have been useful for the Special Operations Division.

Most firefights during my time in the security department happened indoors, so the carbine I customized based on those memories was a perfect tool. I pack my small malice, plenty of carbine magazines, and flash grenades.

Flash grenades were unbearable without an enhanced body. Even with my Type 4, an unexpected detonation would temporarily incapacitate me. For criminals, it would be more than enough.

That armament should suffice. After tucking a high-frequency knife into my waistband, I walk out of the changing room in just my combat suit. Finally, everything felt like it was back to its original color.

The hazy Los Angeles sky with sunlight filtering through, the smell of gun oil from my hands, and two well-maintained guns. As I started enjoying these things, time passed faster than expected.

A message said the others had already assembled. Kay, who lives nearby, arrives first. Vola arrives next, and Ms. Eve, who lives farthest away in the ruins, arrives last.

Vola, who as usual wore no shirt, just reinforced bulletproof plates over a body where mechanical prosthetics whirred inside, wearing only suit pants and a jacket, tapped my combat-suited side and asked:

“If they’re Vegas folks, are they the bitches from Sin City? As far as I know, they’re the only notable mercenaries from Vegas.”

“Ah, yes. That’s them. Do you know them?”

“You bet. They say they fight with military AI chips that drones used during that war implanted in their necks. I’ve always wanted to meet them. Looks like I’ll get to fight alongside them today.”

Chance, who was listening to this conversation in my head, began outputting voice internally. It was a quiet voice.

“Agent Arthur Murphy. I just heard that Sin City’s, [censored], company employees use AI chips from wartime drones. Is this true? Please answer so only I can hear.”

Chance is inherently unable to swear. That’s one way to put it. I transmitted my answer mentally while verbally responding to Vola. Thinking one thing while saying another wasn’t particularly difficult.

If you want to keep something secret from others, there’s no need to suspiciously pause the conversation. For whatever reason, Chance never speaks without cause.

‘It’s probably true. If they’re military AI chips, they’re likely from wartime military use.’

“They had full-body prosthetics, but weren’t they still using their original human heads? Is that different from flesh?”

I asked to keep Vola talking while listening to Chance’s response. Vola output a laugh and gently pushed my shoulder. Grinning as if to say “don’t be silly,” she said:

“Of course it’s different. Logically, isn’t it strange that people who were just escorts in Vegas became excellent mercenaries? They replaced everything for a new life. Their faces…”

“I request the source of your information that these AI chips predate that war. Do you know?”

‘Talos, security team leader at Pitts & Morrison’s Los Angeles branch.’

I also listened to Vola’s answer. People who had seen the ugliness of flesh to the point of digging deeper with a shovel wouldn’t choose flesh bodies.

“They keep them to remember who they originally were. Why, there are many like that, right? People who make death masks of their faces before replacing their bodies with full prosthetics.”

“There are plenty. Even I would want to make something like that if I had to live with my face completely removed, replaced by a crudely depicted mechanical face forever.”

At least a quarter of Vola’s face was still human, unlike the Special Operations Division people whose bodies were completely replaced with machinery to the point where they no longer felt human.

There’s a reason why people in client-facing professions avoid using prosthetic hands and eyes, or if they do, they use high-end ones with invisible seams. Chance’s voice returned.

“May I request that you later ask Pitts & Morrison how they handled the artificial brains of the drones used to make these AI chips?”

I answered naturally and was about to respond to Vola when the timing overlapped. I separated the voice in my head from the voice in front of me. Speaking jokingly with a smile:

“I do have a few pictures from before my replacement. Want to see them?”

‘Sure. But why?’

“If you show me, I’d enjoy looking and occasionally teasing you about them. Except I’d be fine even if you punched my side like you do to others.”

Vola lightly punched my side at that. The gesture was more playful than anything, and with my combat suit on, I felt little more than a dull thud. She output a laugh.

Another virtual screen appeared in my vision, showing a mercenary with nearly three-quarters of her body already replaced with prosthetics. A blonde woman with Vola’s distinctive hair tied back in a ponytail.

Under a tank top, only her left shoulder, forearm, and upper abdomen remained flesh. Her eyes were definitely the same, but somehow her expression seemed softer now than then.

Chance, who had been quite silent, quietly output his voice. It was monotone and stiff, but somehow unstable.

“I cannot recall. More precisely, I do not know. While organizing forced operation commands carelessly sent by Caltech students, I identified several commands that arrived while I was in standby mode.”

I answered while listening to Chance. I belatedly wished I had excused myself for a private conversation instead of relying on my multitasking abilities.

“The eagles are dead. The exile in the Caucasus is over. I will return the fire. These are three-sentence statements that are hardly commands, but they came through the official command system.”

That’s definitely not the command format used by those nationalists at… Homeland Security or whatever. If it were a code, Chance would need a codebook in his memory. It’s not that either.

If the command remained in other drones’ memories, it would be an official command; if not, someone simply breached a secure channel to send a meaningless message. Better to find out.

‘Alright. I’ll ask and let you know. So…’

“Until just now, you were looking at Ms. Vola’s pre-full-body conversion photo.”

Thanks to Chance unnecessarily repeating what I already knew, I smiled briefly before speaking to Vola. The intense multitasking test was finally over.

“Somehow you look much more relaxed and comfortable now than back then. That’s not just my impression, is it?”

“It was much more comfortable. Back then I was struggling to find decent cardiopulmonary replacements. Now I’ve not just ordered but assembled a pretty good full-body prosthetic myself. How could I not be comfortable?”

The reason part of the left side of her body wasn’t replaced with prosthetics was simply due to a lack of parts. She was addicted to modifications to an extreme degree. She casually took off her suit jacket.

Bulletproof plates covered her like skin, and underneath, well-woven artificial muscles and metal cables moved instead of muscles. Her body emitted drive sounds rather than heartbeats.

“And the result is this flawless body. I’m constantly upgrading, so there’s no feeling of being chased, which is nice. You wouldn’t know what that feels like since you didn’t build yours yourself?”

“The satisfaction of building your own body is something only those who’ve assembled their own full-body prosthetics can feel. Looks like you’ll be taking point again today—aren’t you going to put on additional armor plates?”

Vola, who had casually thrown her suit jacket on a hanger, gestured as if to say not to worry, then attached heavy bulletproof plates and lifted a body bunker that seemed like only she could use.

This job was a cleanup operation, but also involved rescue. The shield would be useful. Especially for a full-body prosthetic user who could hold a carbine like a pistol in their other hand. She slung the body bunker over her back.

I could certainly lift it too, but my center of gravity wouldn’t be properly balanced. Full-body prosthetics like Vola’s were heavy, and that heaviness itself could be helpful.

Everyone else finished their preparations. Kay and Enzo also put on bulletproof vests, and after briefly listening to Kay whining about how heavy the vest was, we prepared to meet the Vegas mercenaries.

While waiting for the car from Sin City’s bitches, Ms. Eve approached me and showed me a syringe. It had quite a sharp tip.

“The Vegas mercenaries are all full-body prosthetics, so among the field staff, only you and I have human bodies. Actually, just me. Check if this syringe can pierce your skin, Arthur.”

After removing my glove, I pressed the syringe against my fingertip, but there wasn’t even a sign of the skin being pierced. Instead, I bowed my head to show the life support device attached to the back of my neck.

“It doesn’t seem to go in… but I already have something connected to my body, so it should be fine. I have pretty decent bulletproof performance anyway, right?”

“That’s because you’re always assigned dangerous work. Don’t get hurt, Arthur. If you do, treat it immediately. Understand?”

Having learned that the sharp edge in her voice meant she was full of concern, I felt no confusion. Nodding, I reached out to gently pat her head.

She dodged, of course, but when I followed with my hand and patted her a couple of times, she leaned her head slightly toward my hand. I heard Sin City’s combat vehicle arriving in front of the office.

“You worry too much about Belwether’s biological weapon. Take care of yourself too, Ms. Eve.”

Though it seemed rather workaholic to be happy about this… truly happily, it was time to work.