Ch.267Kanun Company Work Log Page 053 – Neither Fleeting nor Glorious (4)

I felt the urge to jot down all the names he mentioned, but I didn’t want to arouse suspicion. As I listened quietly, he continued with a gentle smile, carefully choosing his words.

“Well, let’s start with Miguel. Miguel gathered the others. You could almost call it a company. Though Miguel said we don’t need permission from megacorporations to decide who we are.”

Was he someone who had been influenced, or was he the one doing the influencing? From what I was hearing, he seemed to be the latter. It would be natural to assume he was the source of the problem.

“That’s true. We’re enough to decide who we are. Kanun became a partner company of Fitz & Morrison because we met good people like you, Pedro.”

I mustn’t deny his reality. For this man, that’s his world. Denying someone’s world is just an invitation to fight. To help or extract information, I need to coax him. That’s what I must do.

Am I doing the right thing? Clearly, I appeared to be sympathizing with someone who had strayed down a strange path under the influence of a dubious person during difficult times. My fingertips trembled slightly.

I quickly concealed the trembling. November hadn’t been looking at my hands, but he might have noticed. I moved on naturally, listening to his friendly yet somehow alien voice.

“I’m not one to judge such things. When I was among the nationalists, my comrades all looked like the worst kind of people… but they were, well, quite good actually. Anyone can be good.”

“Yes, right? So, what kind of person is Miguel? I already understand he doesn’t trust megacorporations.”

Am I asking a kind person about his friend? Or am I asking a potential terrorist about his associate? The feeling is simply confusing. Nevertheless, I continue.

“He doesn’t trust those megacorporation bastards, and he’s good at speeches. For someone from the Los Angeles back alleys, he lived honestly. Then he gathered skilled mercenaries and created our… what should I call it? Anyway, he created us.”

The unpleasant feeling I got from this confirmed I was likely asking a potential terrorist about his associate. He skillfully adopted a stance as if holding a gun with both hands.

“He fights with a submachine gun in each hand, and he’s quite good at it. He jumps around using jump jets like Market Keepers. He can infiltrate second or third floors without needing rappelling gear.”

November began speaking as if quite pleased. The person he met at the end of his depression was someone he considered capable. Naturally, that would make him happy.

“Oh, and… yes, there’s Mine too. She’s our rifleman along with Miguel, specializing in high-frequency blades. She’s energetic and… well, pretty. That’s not what you were expecting to hear, was it?”

Flustered, I waved my hands and looked toward Riley. I already felt like I had betrayed her just by asking Arthur what his relationship with Riley was.

November looked at me, then at Riley, and burst out laughing. Perhaps we’re always obvious people. At this moment, being obvious wasn’t such a bad thing.

“Not at all, I see. Miguel is still a kid at heart. He talks about how everyone in this city is suffering, but when you look closer, there are many people living their own lives. Still…”

I couldn’t tell where his rational judgment ended and where his dependence on someone who filled his emptiness began. Perhaps people are just this complex. We were the same, after all.

“From my experience, Miguel’s words are closer to the truth. Honestly, how can we know what’s right and wrong? Once you believe in something, you just stubbornly live by it.”

His comment about living stubbornly gave me a clearer picture of who he was. He didn’t fully believe Miguel was right, but he believed following him was a good thing.

That’s why he could dismiss minor flaws as simple imperfections. People with convictions are hard to sway. Should I give up trying to persuade him? I didn’t want to.

There was so much I wanted to say, so much I felt I needed to say. And the fact that all these thoughts pointed in opposite directions pricked at my conscience. I had to decide one way or the other.

“Oh, right. I told Miguel about you folks, and he said he’d like to meet you too. He suggested tomorrow or the day after. What do you think? Interested in meeting him?”

I was definitely interested in meeting him. If they were meeting us, it likely meant they hadn’t planned anything dangerous for that day. I could gather information during the meeting and report back afterward.

“It would be nice to meet him, just like we met Pedro. Should we choose the location, or will Miguel…?”

“When I said we’d be coming to get treated, Miguel said we should return the favor next time. He said he hates not being able to properly host guests even more than he hates megacorporations, so he’ll set it up in the city center.”

Hearing “city center,” I thought less about the good restaurants and more about Belvedere and Fitz & Morrison’s surveillance network operating there—evidence that I was still on guard.

“That works for us. My employees and friends would be happy to get an extra day off. We won’t bring guns, and I assume the same goes for your side?”

“No, no. Bring them. Mercenaries might occasionally go out without proper clothes, but never without their guns. If you come without guns, our team members will look down on you.”

I didn’t understand why not carrying a gun when meeting people you don’t need to be wary of would be cause for disrespect. There have always been people who mistake kindness for weakness.

“Ah, if that’s the case… I guess it’s better to bring them. I wish we were meeting someone who preferred not to carry guns.”

Come to think of it, Arthur never went out without his gun either. Even now, despite his casual attire, that distinctive pistol was always at his waist. Had I ever seen him fire it? Probably not.

Even when working together, he would handle the enemies behind us and leave only those in front for us to deal with. It felt… how should I put it? Mature. Not brandishing a gun, that is.

We drank more with Pedro at his expense, but gained nothing further. All we learned was that Miguel was an excellent mercenary who had gathered some decent people around him.

There was no way to know why Miguel thought that way, or why he wanted to appear dangerous—or why he was becoming such a dangerous person. It was a lack of intelligence.

After returning to the company, I contacted Fitz & Morrison’s Mercenary Management Department. I reported the insurgents I’d discovered, naming Miguel and Pedro, but was told there was no special information available on them.

I hoped it was just talk, or if not, that they weren’t completely insane… Anyway, we’re meeting tomorrow. If I report immediately after meeting them, we should be able to prevent the worst.

All that remained in my heart was regret about Pedro. I felt sorry both for not being able to help him and for using him. I decided to believe that at least the meeting with Miguel was his suggestion.

That day was a complete day off, and the next day we headed downtown in Kanun’s armored van with heightened tension. It was a place we rarely visited. Kanun’s targets generally lived on the outskirts of the city.

Looking at downtown Los Angeles through the coated windows, even though the outside was clearly grayer than the inside, it seemed as if the world was divided into places with color and places without color at the window’s edge.

The people here were ordinary office workers. As lunchtime approached, megacorporation employees who didn’t need to rush back to work after a quick meal of pseudo-food substitutes were starting to stroll the streets.

Those people surely had their own life worries and concerns, but they seemed to live in a world painted with color. Was I working this hard to protect them? Perhaps I should say yes.

But in protecting them, I was also protecting the lives of those who called the city outskirts home. There was no need to make distinctions. They were all people of this city after all.

Driving through the city center, we arrived at a restaurant that didn’t use pseudo-food substitutes for its main ingredients. It wasn’t exactly high-end, but certainly better than pseudo-food—a place that straddled an ambiguous line, much like our current situation.

Pedro was waiting on the first floor. But his attire was strange—he was dressed for work. If that was the case, it would have been much more natural for Kanun to bring guns too. He should have told us.

We were already quite warm wearing bulletproof fiber t-shirts underneath our clothes, but our outfits were still relatively light compared to his completely different setup. Following Pedro, who waved lightly at us, we headed to the second floor of the building.

As we entered the restaurant, a drone acting as a waiter flew toward us, but Pedro stopped it with a single phrase. It was a statement without context.

“They’re with us.”

But the drone heard those words and flew back. Going upstairs… Miguel was sitting in the innermost seat. He looked somewhat younger than in the photos I’d seen.

His age might be similar to mine. Arthur didn’t look particularly old either, but he didn’t have that same mature atmosphere. However, the hand Miguel extended was definitely a metal prosthetic.

Normally, people would paint such prosthetics to avoid glare, even if it looked a bit tacky, but his was clearly polished silver metal that gleamed brightly.

As the CEO, I stepped forward and grasped his hand. He deliberately squeezed hard as if trying to establish dominance, but I endured the numbing sensation in my hand until he finally let go with a deflated expression.

He also had guns clearly tucked at his waist—two submachine guns like Riley’s, though much larger in caliber. His prosthetic hand must be an expensive piece.

“So, November. These are the Kanun folks? The boss… well, not screaming when I crushed his hand shows he’s got guts, but I don’t understand why you suddenly wanted to introduce them today.”

Pedro said he wanted to introduce us? We were clearly under the impression that Miguel had invited us here. I glanced at Pedro, who smoothly told a lie.

“It’s not bad to catch the last train. Besides, they’re officially recognized by Fitz & Morrison, even if they’re at the bottom rung. They’ll definitely be useful to us. The plan isn’t set in stone, so we can modify it.”

This meeting wasn’t Miguel’s idea. Pedro didn’t dislike us as people, regardless of our view on megacorporations. Perhaps he felt the same kinship I did.

I briefly considered that Pedro might have hastily arranged something because of this. As I slowly moved my hand toward my pocket, one of Miguel’s companions—Mine, probably? Yes, likely Mine.

One of the mercenaries Pedro had mentioned touched my wrist with a high-frequency blade still in its sheath. She removed the sheath again with a smile as if it were nothing, but it drew everyone’s attention to me.

“Ah, sorry! It’s a mercenary habit. When someone suddenly reaches for their pocket, I wonder if they’re drawing a gun. What were you trying to do?”

I pulled out the lens that allows me to see the HUD, which was in my pocket along with my phone. It seemed like I could defuse the situation, but the dining atmosphere would be… terrible.