Ch.221Outside. The Daily Life of a Faceless Fixer (2)

My original plan was as follows:

1. Recruit volunteers.

2. At the entrance of the ruins, in a thoroughly secured situation, have them be recognized by the security device.

3. Then send in someone with a smaller build to demonstrate that the security device doesn’t recognize them.

I was planning to prove that the security device is dangerous to people above a certain size, and use that as evidence to persuade our client.

But they went and cut off their arms before I could even finish explaining.

I gathered my other colleagues. Though this neighborhood has developed some mysteriously advanced technology like some cyberpunk wuxia setting, emergency treatment is still important.

“Everyone except one person! Let’s reattach all the arms!”

Fortunately, they all used high-frequency blades. The cutting surface from a high-frequency blade is clean. If they had cut with amateur technique and the cutting surface was irregular, we wouldn’t have been able to fix it with standard equipment and would have needed to call in specialists—we’d already be operating at a loss.

I couldn’t help but sigh. My colleagues are all good people, but the problem is they don’t listen properly. They either listen halfway or take jokes seriously.

If I jokingly say, “The weather’s quite humid today, should we start a fire?” they’d respond with, “We anticipated that and have collected bombs in our basement.” That’s the kind of people they are.

Still, they’re easy to work with because they fulfill requests well and don’t stubbornly insist on unnecessary things. If we had fought due to stubbornness, I would have been the first to desert.

“What… what is this…?”

Mr. Lutegan was perplexed. So am I.

But as a professional, I can’t show my bewilderment to a client. I’ve already been quite bewildered, but I need to salvage the situation from now on.

“Haha, I apologize for this. My friends are a bit hasty. I was going to show you the recognition specifications of the security device first, but they went ahead and cut off their arms.”

I check the time. What I pull out is an hourglass. Advanced watches with magical circuits may be precise in measuring time, but they pose greater risks when contaminated by other dimensions.

It’s common to accidentally create a Terminator by bringing precision machinery into an extra-dimensional contamination zone. Even though my eyes can read contamination levels in real-time, it’s better to minimize unnecessary risks.

“Let’s see. The bonding kit takes about a minute to work… Yes, please wait about three minutes to be safe. I’ll show you.”

***

Show what exactly?

Lutegan had been overwhelmed since the moment the dozen or so fixers silently cut off their own left arms without any explanation.

Ortes was approaching those who had cut their arms, examining their wounds.

“Oh? Weren’t you left-handed?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then you should have cut off your right arm, not your left. I asked Mr. Lutegan to cut his left arm because he’s right-handed.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Ortes helped the left-handed fixer to his feet.

“This person will be the one whose arm we won’t reattach! Everyone else, hurry and get your arms reattached!”

None of the gathered fixers objected to Ortes’s words or judgment. Lutegan recalled someone else’s assessment that “when you meet Ortes, you either die or go crazy.”

All the fixers under Ortes’s command must have gone insane.

The most extreme evidence was the sound.

The sense of discomfort Lutegan had felt at the meeting place with the disguised Ortes—the extremely restrained sounds.

None of those who had just cut off their own arms screamed in pain. Only calm breathing continued.

‘How…?’

How could someone make people like this? Brainwashing?

“Now, follow me!”

Ortes urged Lutegan with a cheerful tone. The determination to enter the ruins that had been so strong just moments ago began to fade.

“Wait…”

“I’ll show you directly. Hey, you there! The one with the reattached arm! Go inside the ruins now!”

Isn’t that basically ordering someone to die? Sending a fixer recklessly into ruins where who knows what might be sleeping.

Moreover, he had just declared with his own mouth that there were traps. Ortes’s order was essentially a suicide command.

The designated fixer didn’t seem to think so. He headed toward the dark maw of the ruins as Ortes instructed.

Neither slow nor fast. Lutegan felt that sense of discomfort again.

The stride was too consistent.

It wasn’t difficult. A practitioner of martial arts or someone with enchantware implants could easily repeat such precise movements.

But shouldn’t they be approaching cautiously right now, rather than with such “consistent” movements?

Ortes spoke.

“Fifteen steps forward. Then three steps to the right. Stop, then two more steps forward. Take a deep breath.”

A gentle, almost soothing tone. The fixer approached the deep darkness inside as if being sucked in.

“Now, take one step forward and the security device will activate. First, there will be heat rays from below your feet. Then disinfectant spray will follow. It’s called disinfectant, but that’s from a giant’s perspective. Think of it as strong acid. Retreat at full speed as soon as you step in.”

Without hesitation, the fixer took one step forward with the same precise stride as before, then immediately retreated at full speed.

That’s when it happened. The foothold where the fixer had stepped turned red-hot, and flames that could easily burn the lower half of a person’s body rose up. Then, green liquid dripped from the ceiling. The disinfectant, upon contact with the heated floor, bubbled violently and vaporized.

The eruption of deadly acidic mist. Ortes patted the escaped fixer’s shoulder.

“Good work. When you go back, tell them you should receive additional hazard pay, and let’s withdraw early today.”

The fixer nodded and joined the withdrawal team. The moment he stepped on the trap and fled was like a meticulously choreographed scene from a movie.

“Well, this is what I wanted to show you first. Looking at this, it seems the acidic mist will take about 10 minutes to settle. Let’s take a break.”

***

During that time, Lutegan approached the fixer who was heading to the withdrawal team. He grabbed the fixer’s shoulder.

“What is it?”

A businesslike formal speech. While Ortes’s formal speech had a strange undertone of snickering or mockery, these people’s speech was truly mechanical.

“How… how can you do that?”

“Are you referring to the boss’s work instructions?”

Boss? Thinking this was quite a businesslike expression for what seemed like a religious group, Lutegan nodded enthusiastically.

“If there had been a trap Ortes didn’t know about, or if the timing had been off even for a moment, or if he had intended to deceive you, you would be dead. So how?”

No, it wasn’t about how. Questions about the reason for this fanatical trust swirled in Lutegan’s mind.

“Why? Why can you trust Ortes like that?”

A strange light flickered in the fixer’s sunken eyes. It was closer to madness than intelligence.

“If we follow the boss’s words, we don’t die.”

“What?”

“We all know this. If we walk as he tells us to walk, speak as he tells us to speak, and breathe as he tells us to breathe, we don’t die. His guidance is certain and his instructions are clear.”

Lutegan felt fear crawling up his spine. The instinctive terror felt when confronting something one could never understand.

“Client, do you know what our company’s involuntary resignation rate is for formal employees?”

The term “involuntary resignation” was just a euphemism for disappearance or death during operations. Lutegan shook his head.

“It’s 0%. Everyone who leaves our company walks out on their own two feet, with their bodies intact.”

“What about those who don’t trust Ortes?”

“They are not formal employees.”

The deaths of those who doubt the revelation, those who deliberately make wrong choices, are not counted—that was the fixer’s answer.

Were these deaths from wrong choices accidents? Or were they silenced by the followers of the Ortes cult? Lutegan’s fear intensified.

“The involuntary resignation rate for probationary employees is around 6%.”

Lower than expected.

“That’s because the boss knows that even such people can repent and return to his embrace. It’s mercy bestowed upon those who haven’t yet opened their eyes.”

It was like saying they let them roam free like livestock that would eventually be slaughtered, because they would ultimately fall into his grasp. Lutegan steadied his breathing, which had become irregular from fear.

“What about the 6% who died?”

“They include those who deliberately refused the boss’s instructions, or those who overestimated themselves and moved ahead of the boss, resulting in accidental deaths. We don’t initiate hostilities against probationary employees.”

At this point, Lutegan sensed he had asked too many questions. He had shown his suspicion of Ortes too directly and too frequently.

“…Why are you answering in such detail?”

“The boss ordered it.”

“What?”

“He said to answer customers’ questions as thoroughly as possible. It’s a courtesy service for customer satisfaction.”