Ch.115Work Record 018 – Headhunting (4)

I enjoy the scenery of Santorini, which no longer exists, until evening. While I could occasionally see blue skies, blue oceans were something I could only witness in virtual reality, photographs, and videos.

It looks just like those oranges in commercials where juice bursts out. That’s just staging. In reality, taking a big bite only results in juice messily dripping down your hands and chin. It’s an illusion.

Yet they say the blue ocean isn’t an illusion. Detroit was close to the nationalist zone, wasn’t it? I might be able to see a real blue ocean on the East Coast. It would be nice to stop by on my way back.

We split the cost evenly. Now Ms. Eve’s paradise at 20 credits per hour won’t be the crude virtual reality they used to provide as rewards at Hollow Creek, but Nature & Nature Company’s Santorini package.

We made enemies of dictionary tables of contents and word definitions. Throughout life, people create their own meanings for words. To me, salvation meant something similar to the arrival of reinforcements, but not to Ms. Eve.

The meaning of the word “Eve” has changed. The meaning of the phrase “paradise at 20 credits per hour” has also changed. The easiest way to erase graffiti is to paint over it.

Today, instead of convenience store beer, I had a glass of whiskey with Hive Company’s synthetic honey. Ms. Eve chuckled when she saw that freelancers get one free drink.

“I should bring you here more often, Arthur. The staff tense up when they see your face, and the bar gives you their signature drink for free… This seems like the proper treatment you deserve.”

“I’m more comfortable as a regular employee of Nightwatch. Actually, even this is quite burdensome.”

When I lightly swirled my glass to show her, Ms. Eve leaned on the table with her elbow. This isn’t strong enough to get drunk on one sip.

“Why, don’t you like people being afraid of you?”

“I don’t have such bad taste.”

Ms. Eve’s finger tapped the tip of my nose as she leaned in. Her low giggle resonated.

“Yet you show me your bad taste all the time? Enjoying watching people blush is also bad taste, Arthur.”

That comment made me laugh in return. As we were giggling together, Ms. Eve rested her chin on her hand and began staring intently at my face. The hand that had poked my nose now caressed my face.

“You really are quite frightening. Sometimes when you talk, I hear the sound of a beast howling. When you talk about pleasure, I mean. No, not a beast—more like some unknown monster. Beasts can’t make human expressions.”

It’s exactly what I thought when looking at Mr. Günter. The face reflecting his Berlin, and what I said about the man who forged even madness into creating Belweder Industries into Belweder Corporation. I briefly reminisce about old Ahab.

Have I become more like Mr. Günter than I thought? Perhaps I have. After all, he was the biggest turning point in my life. Perhaps he wanted his own madness to be inherited.

And I inherited it well. Before Ms. Eve could say she didn’t mean it in a bad way, I decided to tell her I understood. It was absolutely not a bad thing to me.

When I heard the sound of a beast howling instead of Ms. Serena’s voice, I decided to work for Heroism & Hope Corporation. This was a milestone.

“I know you didn’t mean it badly. I just spoke first because I didn’t want to hear Ms. Eve apologize. It’s not bad, right?”

“What I meant was that real beasts can’t do this. Yes, I didn’t mean it in a bad way. Rather, it’s something I want to emulate. I’ve always said so, haven’t I?”

Everything becomes so simple. Do what you want to do, and fighting alongside those who don’t force unwanted things upon you is all I can do.

No. That’s not all. I shouldn’t draw the final mark on the speedometer. There must be a way for me to kill the cult leader and bring down Hollow Creek. At least one way must exist.

I will kill the cult leader. I’ll impale him with a harpoon like Walter. I’ll tear down Hollow Creek until not one stone remains on another. I can do that much. Vengeance overturns revulsion.

Still, I won’t become someone Noah and Simon would be ashamed of. There must be a better way than ramming the front gate of Hollow Creek’s headquarters with a van. This is just a research project.

It will be enjoyable. After reminding myself of my purpose, I smiled kindly again. Ms. Eve, who had been emptying her glass while facing me, came to my side and rested her face on my shoulder. Cold as always.

The bar was crowded. Time remained time even while we were in virtual reality, and by the time we came out, mercenaries who had finished their daytime work were filling the bar.

That wasn’t particularly important, nor did it feel that significant. I sometimes had a narrow field of vision. It’s not a trait I dislike.

Ms. Eve, who had been rubbing her cheek against mine like a cat, emptied her glass and lifted her head to look at my face up close. A redness began spreading from around her cheekbones, gradually diffusing outward.

As I looked back at her face, pleasantly wondering which would come first—her moving closer or the blood flow spreading—this time the reddening was faster.

Acting as if nothing had happened, Ms. Eve lowered her head and rested her reddened cheek on my shoulder again. It was warmer than before. That subtle temperature difference was quite enjoyable.

Her grumbling voice was clearly audible even amid the bustle filling the bar. It’s not noise cancellation.

“Next time I’ll have to try after emptying two glasses.”

“Next time will probably be after I return from fieldwork, right?”

“By then, I’ll either become a more courageous person or a more shameless one. I’ll do it. I don’t want to make you do it and then feel depressed if you turn out to be unnecessarily skilled.”

That made me laugh again. Ms. Eve, pressing her cheek firmly against my slightly shaking shoulder, spoke again with a somewhat sharper voice.

“Don’t laugh. You’re skilled at everything. You’re someone who grew up too quickly.”

“At least I never wished to become an adult as a Christmas present… Still, I’m really not skilled at that.”

“Even so.”

She seemed just too embarrassed to lift her head. I enjoy the evening in a human way. Empty the glass, not getting drunk at all thanks to detox capabilities, and leave the bar. I had to drive Ms. Eve back.

I ride her bike, using the chance to have my own bike with autopilot follow us as I drive the Sepulveda. The ocean visible beyond the protective wall was dark, unlike what I saw in virtual reality.

The only things living in there were marine purification organisms released by Farmers Corporation. In this high-speed era, only the most excellent or the most tenacious survive.

After dropping her off at her hideout in the ruins, I said goodbye by touching foreheads while still wearing helmets with her slightly tipsy face, then headed back to the apartment complex.

Today, gunshots were again echoing from the drug addicts’ street near the apartment complex. I was about to turn my bike around, thinking a mercenary company assigned to the task would arrive soon, when I noticed something strange about the gunshots.

They sounded like they were from a silenced gun, but they were too quiet even for that. It seemed like they were using some tool other than a gun.

While gunshots were everyday occurrences, deliberately using something other than a gun made it unusual. Since it was near my home, I parked my bike and took out the gun case from under the seat.

This is why I always carry a carbine. My helmet had bulletproof capabilities, so I switched the semi-transparent display to black and headed toward the source of the gunshots.

The stench of drug addicts lingered, but something important was missing. There was no sound of breathing. I nudged one collapsed addict with my foot, and he fell forward.

There was a round hole in the back of his head, particularly in the nape where proper working people typically have life support devices installed—a hole that looked like it was made with a cookie cutter. That gun-like sound had rung out at least seven times.

Instead of tracking further, I immediately connected to Belweder security team. There was no need to face off one-on-one with a criminal killing people in back alleys, especially if they were leaving bodies behind like Hansel and Gretel.

If company employees had been killed, the assault department would come, but for dead drug addicts, the mobile department would respond. It would take 15 more minutes. They weren’t coming for the drug addicts. They were coming for city security.

That muffled noise rang out again. I confirmed the direction and followed it, maintaining cover, staying just close enough to hear the sound.

At that distance, I could hear many things. Another gun-like sound rang out, followed by footsteps, then a voice:

“What a herd of livestock for life. No one kills them, so they live. That’s why when submerged in rainwater, they don’t even think about swimming, let alone standing up, and they drown. May Santa Muerte be with you.”

Santa Muerte. That’s a term used by undertakers who kill people trapped in brain prisons. I’d heard it before when chasing undertakers. The perpetrator was probably an undertaker.

They were a cell organization, mostly gangs with comrades trapped in brain prisons. Only high-ranking undertakers could speak with such ideological overtones. High-ranking ones are dangerous.

I thought keeping my distance while following was the right move, but then I heard a voice from beyond the alley. It was a young woman’s voice.

“Instead of helping people up, you just shoot them dead? You’re completely a murderer…”

A gunshot rang out. Before I could even feel the urge to curse, my body moved first. I confronted the perpetrator in the middle of the drug addicts’ street where no lights reached.

The woman who had spoken was sitting down with her helmet removed. He had aimed for her head immediately. Trying to reason with an ideologue who wouldn’t listen was a mistake to begin with. Fortunately, she wasn’t dead.

Such people probably have their own stories, but that doesn’t matter at all. Ignoring others’ stories is an implicit agreement that your own story can be ignored too.

Opposite me stood a man wearing a camouflage poncho with a skull stamp on his bulletproof helmet, light reflecting off it to create a blurred image. In one hand he held a pistol, and in the other… some cylindrical object.

“With so many soft weaklings like this, this city is full of such walking corpses…”

Neither of us was inclined to listen before shooting. I steadied my breathing and pulled the trigger without listening, aiming for his torso hidden by the poncho, but as expected, it was covered with body armor.

Bullets didn’t penetrate his pelvis either. Pretty heavily armed for someone hunting drug addicts. Realizing I had no intention of listening, he immediately took cover behind a nearby car.

I ran simultaneously. I lifted the woman lying on the ground—either a mercenary or a civilian who foolishly believed she could scold a serial killer with words—and took cover behind a concrete wall of a nearby villa.

Seeing she was wearing a helmet, she was probably a mercenary. I pushed her deep into the parking area before returning to the edge of the wall. I needed to keep him contained until the mobile department arrived.

I prepared for shots from a low position since he was hiding behind a car, but the gunfire persistently came at head height.

I don’t think I’ll be able to complain about headhunting being tiresome anymore. Headhunting was far better than head hunting.

An ideologue targets what they believe must be targeted, not what’s efficient. That man was an undertaker. Ideological undertakers worship death, and Santa Muerte must be related to that.

I recalled the corpse I’d seen. He had targeted the nape where life support devices are typically installed, even though there was none. He was definitely trying to kill. What had he said about the drug addicts?

He called them livestock for life. Does he think they’re as good as dead because they have no will to live? That must be it. When the woman spoke, he used the term “walking corpses” with displeasure.

I needed to provoke him. If he exposed himself, I could shoot his limbs to subdue him, and if I could keep him talking, I could buy time until the mobile department arrived.

“If you can’t penetrate the helmet and target the life support device anyway, why not aim for more practical spots, Mr. Undertaker?”

Bullets hit and penetrated the concrete wall exactly where my voice came from. It was close range, but his marksmanship was impeccable.

The fragments hit my helmet, but that wasn’t it. The drug addict’s nape had a clean penetration wound like it was made with a cookie cutter.

He was hiding a weapon with better penetration than what he was shooting now. I didn’t want to risk going out recklessly and dying for the third time. Dying even once is too much.

From now on, I’ll keep flash grenades and a bulletproof vest under my bike seat too. It seemed that level of preparation was necessary to handle unexpected encounters.

I was quite satisfied with this standoff. The aching in my chest and stomach would tell him I was carrying a rifle, so he wouldn’t easily expose himself either.

Of course, the same applies to me. Saying “I’ll just take a couple of hits and catch him” is not something you should say lightly, even wearing armor with ballistic plates. I just needed to hold out for 10 minutes.

To make him think this was a real firefight, I minimally exposed myself a few times to return fire. But the undertaker had good instincts.

“Waiting for backup, mercenary? Very ideal. I don’t understand why such ideal people always hate us. But if you wanted to talk, you should have answered from the beginning.”

“I didn’t expect someone preying on addicts who can’t resist in a drug addict street to be such a coward wearing full body armor. Can’t be helped.”

“I have an obsession with safety. Better to be a living donkey than a dead lion. But a dead corpse is better than a walking corpse. Corpses should properly be dead.”

With those words, I heard the sound of a van accelerating, and footsteps of the undertaker who had been taking cover under a car boarding the van. I didn’t immediately expose myself.

“I didn’t want to kill someone living earnestly, so that’s good. Hasta la muerte! See you next time you die.”

“Just close the door, you headhunter bastard! Belweder mobile department is coming right now!”

When I deliberately made a sound by scraping the floor with my shoe sole from behind the concrete wall, bullets immediately pierced the air in front of the wall. Again, he didn’t use that high-penetration weapon.

Hypothesis one: it can only be used at close range. The possibility wasn’t low. The mercenary I rescued didn’t die either. But it wasn’t high either. He might have thought a pistol was sufficient for such a helmet.

Either way, there was no reason to recklessly expose myself. I had rescued the mercenary who got involved and learned that among undertakers, he was called the Headhunter, matching his actions. The van departed.

I tracked the van’s direction by ear. The vehicle headed south. It would probably go toward the coastal road. This was good work considering I only had a carbine with my outdoor clothes.

If I tell the mobile department what I’ve observed, Nightwatch might get priority assignment to catch that guy. There was no time to relax. I needed to check on the rescued mercenary’s condition.