Ch.284Work Record No. 040 – Faith Alone (4)

I emerge from the back of the exhibition hall, having accomplished all my objectives. Making contact with Los Soñadores will have to wait a bit longer… Nevertheless, I’ve been preparing to kill Hollowwood Creek one way or another.

The cult leader probably believes he’s special and fortunate. That’s why he receives all that worship, and why he believes Hollowwood Creek has somehow survived through the era of upheaval.

This is about stripping away that specialness. It’s about telling him he’s not the only one who can become a god rising from the wasteland, and that his luck is running out. It’s something to enjoy.

Just killing the cult leader won’t be enough. I’ll tear down everything he believes in, one by one. I’ll take away his Belwether backing, deny his specialness, and leave not one stone upon another.

I laugh softly as I see Mr. Enzo giving me a satisfied smile. Somehow I’ve come to be treated with approval by everyone… but there’s nothing wrong with being an admirable person.

“No matter what I do, it seems I can’t rise above being just a ‘good kid.’ Not to the level of being ‘impressive.'”

“Well, I’ve known you since you were an anxious, betrayal-scarred rookie mercenary.”

Just as he says… there’s nothing better than what I am now compared to being that anxiety-ridden rookie mercenary. I decided to smile back.

I’m living well. I have some unfulfilled desires, but… they’re similar to wanting to go to the beach in summer. I just need to wait for vacation time. It’s just a short wait.

I get on the bike that Chance left in the parking lot and head toward the ruins. It’s quite a dangerous season these days. A city with a minimum temperature of 12 degrees year-round was always a place with high discomfort levels.

Moreover, the strong Ashwood Gang collapsed due to Belwether’s machinations, and those who failed to become Polaris under T-Enter, which came in and pacified the ruins during the subsequent uprising, have all already died by my hand.

Then, as is natural, the fight to become the owner of the lawn continues. If the fighting intensifies, Belwether will mow the lawn, so this is a period of quiet yet petty fights that don’t cause major disturbances.

The petty method is outsourcing. They hire the strongest operators their gangs can afford to try to castrate each other. After this storm of operators passes, the uprising follows.

I don’t like it. The fact that the neighborhood where my loved one lives is such a place… and the fact that those who make it that way are still alive simply causes me displeasure.

I’m not expressing displeasure for any particular reason. Simply, what I encountered the moment I entered the ruins was… the work process of those operators. Of all places, it was in front of my Eve’s house.

I saw an operator repeatedly striking a bald gang member, who seemed to have been caught while trying to escape, with a prosthetic hand that had spikes embedded in the knuckle area. Judging by the skeleton tattoos all over his body, he was a fanatic.

He heard the sound of my approaching bike and looked in my direction. I was wearing the Boogeyman helmet Mr. Günter gave me, but I was only famous in this city. Not enough to be known in other cities.

The Santa Muerte fanatic who had been reciting prayers while turning the corpse into a mass of flesh and implant debris slowly got to his feet. He addressed me in Mexican Spanish, in a somewhat mocking tone.

“Why don’t you just pass by, Boy Scout? Mother Death has shown mercy. My job is to pulverize these bastards, not collect tolls.”

I wonder when this city will ever see backpack-carrying tourists. I got off the bike. I cut him off as he tried to speak again in somewhat clumsy English.

“What? Can’t speak Mexican Spanish? So…”

“I can.”

It was a simple statement, but the intention was clear. I had no intention of listening to him. And when I had artificial skin attached to the back of my hand, I was the type who showed no implants on my body.

That’s why preliminary research is important in this line of work. If you jump at an opportunity just for money without knowing what’s in the city you’re going to, misfortune follows you like a creepy stalker. You encounter it in places like this.

The Santa Muerte fanatic, who had already wiped the spikes on the back of his hand clean of blood, bone marrow, and metal fragments by rubbing them together, started running toward me with crude auxiliary brace devices. This time, I had a few more things to be mindful of.

Usually, my Eve’s hideout had its doors open, but today they were locked and the garage door was forcibly closed. Protective. Doors that only close when there’s someone to protect.

If there were Creek escapees inside, I didn’t want to start with a bloody first impression. So even the process of him wiping his hands felt quite unpleasant.

I couldn’t tear him apart as usual. I kicked his approaching knee to make it bend backward, took care not to splatter blood, and caught his falling head with both hands as his posture collapsed.

Normally, I would have crushed it right there with force, but right now I was about to meet my Eve. As I hesitated, I easily dodged his swinging fist by tilting my head backward.

I pierce his ear with my middle finger extended. After twisting my wrist a couple of times, I pull it out. His tank top was already covered in blood, so I wiped my finger on the jacket he had taken off and left beside the scene, then threw it away.

Still feeling quite uncomfortable, I wiped my fingers several times, and Chance’s voice naturally came to mind. I was glad I had left house management to him.

“Agent Arthur Murphy, I’ve put disinfectant wipes in the bike’s compartment. I recommend wiping your hands to remove the smell of blood before you go.”

“Ah, thanks. I’m meeting Eve, and I didn’t want to look like a blood-covered, fight-obsessed mercenary to the other Creek escapees.”

Am I actually a fight-obsessed mercenary? Not quite. I would have tried talking if he wasn’t a fanatic with a hobby of killing people to offer to Santa Muerte, or an operator involved in gang fights.

As I wiped my fingers with the plastic wipes Chance had prepared, which smelled strongly of alcohol, I heard shouting from deeper within the ruins. Probably the gang that hadn’t hired the fanatic.

“The operator the nuns sent is dead!”

Even though they’re called nuns, they’re probably fanatics covered in Santa Muerte iconography or skeleton patterns. During that war, real Catholicism was considered “European-like,” I was told.

Instead, Santa Muerte worship originated in America and wasn’t suppressed much, resulting in this. Yet the federal government often used the most European names of Greek and Roman gods.

A bunch of gang members rush toward me. After poking at the dead operator, who had no external injuries but was bleeding from his ear, they look at me and ask. They’re scavengers with cheap implants all over their bodies.

“Ah, so… Hollowman, was it? Whatever. Anyway, since you took care of the operator those bitches sent, we’d like to show our appreciation…”

Hollowman was one of the nicknames I was called when I was actively hunting mutants, so I decided not to make an issue of it. I spoke leisurely.

“You want to show appreciation?”

“Ah, uh, well… Anyway, you did kill someone who was bothering us. No, I mean, if you’re offended, we can just pretend this never happened…”

I looked at the scavenger speaking in a frightened voice. As it happened, there was something I could take from them as payment, so instead of extracting a small evil deed, I said. I tried to make my voice gentle.

“Then, I’d like you not to make any gunshot sounds and stay quiet today. The people inside the house get scared. Okay? Not just the person living here… but people trying to somehow get employee-citizen status in the ruins.”

“Well, if that’s all… No, we should strike before those bitches call a new operator, but…”

I raised my hand to show him the hand that had killed the Santa Muerte fanatic operator who had been hunting their gang members. He closed his mouth. I nodded for him to continue.

“But, I said ‘but.’ Listen… to the end. So, yeah. We’re not the kind of guys who cause problems. We like good modifications but don’t have money, and stripping corpses is just the easiest…”

“Get to the point.”

“Well, I mean, I understand… Yeah.”

I nodded to indicate approval. Showing off in situations like this wasn’t my style, but if it meant having one quiet day, I was willing to put up with cringeworthy posturing.

“If you’re really worried, go tell those guys waging this assassin war that the Boogeyman said this: If there’s a disturbance today, the ruins’ population will be cut in half, and the survivors will need night lights for the rest of their lives.”

Another silly Boogeyman joke. It was too cringeworthy to say with sincerity, so my tone was dry, but dryness was enough for them. The scavengers ran away.

I hope they consider it luck. If they think they’ve received some kind of immunity, luck will cease to be luck. I didn’t watch their retreating figures for long.

As I briefly pulled my parked bike toward the door, the mansion door opened with a creaking sound. Perhaps the house needs repairs.

The fact that we had the third floor as our private space wasn’t bad at all, but there would be nothing wrong with living in a more comfortable place.

As for ways to counter Hollowwood Creek… it might not be necessary after the warnings I’ve already given. There was already a precedent of an inquisitor causing trouble in this city being arrested.

I pull the bike in, force open the garage door that had been forcibly closed, park my bike, and head to the front door. I see my Eve, Mr. William’s hologram… and a little girl hiding behind that hologram.

The little girl sees me and gently waves her hand. I wave back. My hand smelled a bit of alcohol, but at least it didn’t smell of blood that might frighten the child.

I naturally wrap my arm around my Eve’s waist and bury my face in her hair, lowering my head. After habitually nuzzling a few times, I pulled away and said:

“I think we should buy a car and a new house. No matter how safe this place might be for Creek escapees… you know how noisy the neighborhood has been these past few days.”

“Have you become so fixated on not wanting to look like a woman taking advantage of a young man that our patient Arthur is getting frustrated? If so, I wouldn’t mind reconsidering.”

She was someone who had said she didn’t want a house I bought unilaterally unless she could contribute half, but… that was simply a statement born out of affection. Something that could bend gently.

“At this rate of not taking advantage, I was about to suspect you had some other motive for approaching me.”

When I returned her silly joke with one of my own, her fist hit my chest, even though she knew my body was covered in shock-absorbing skin.

“Ah, I need to talk with Mr. William for a moment…”

“Come here, Eve. That guy is the Boogeyman I told you about. If anything happens to you, that Boogeyman will suddenly pop out from somewhere.”

My Eve pushed my back once as if telling me to go quickly, and started telling the little girl about me. Honestly, she believed a lot of exaggerations and misinformation at face value.

I enter the room with Mr. William. As soon as I enter, a video starts being transmitted. It was footage from a camera attached to an unmanned post set up for Creek escapees.

It was something I had requested before. A camera and a Bible. Those two things in an unmanned post. They might have an effect if they nominally speak of mercy and love as a religion.

Unlike the clumsily written scripture by the cult leader, it’s a book with stories compelling enough to enchant people for at least thousands of years. Is “enchant” the right word? Efficiency enchants people and makes them move toward ideals. That must be right.

Efficiency is the god of this high-speed era, and God is just a deity from before that war. If an expression applies to efficiency, it should work for gods too. The door of the closed unmanned post begins to open.

This time too, the inquisitor who came to collect the contents seemed quite surprised to find that the unmanned post contained only a Bible. What he held in his hand was also Hollowwood Creek’s scripture.

Sighing, he follows his orders, taking out the Bible and putting in Hollowwood Creek’s scripture. He seemed to start reading while sitting on the unmanned post with his helmet removed.

Pastor William Weber’s voice came as if providing commentary. He knows Hollowwood Creek. Very well. He knows how it was born and how it degenerated into its current form.

“In Hollowwood Creek, the Bible is still a book to be respected, a book that represents the origin. But… it’s just explicit. It’s not distributed, nor is it treated as particularly important in religious life.”

If they made it forgotten instead of banning it, I could understand why he knew so much. As he started reading the bookmarked section, Pastor Weber began speaking again.

“It’s the beginning of 1 John. I told him to mark the passage about repentance… does that seem like a good idea?”

I bring up a virtual screen in my mind and search for the passage. It starts with the part about deceiving ourselves if we say we have no sin, and continues to the part about being able to have sins forgiven through repentance.

“It won’t have an immediate effect. Even for someone who’s developed discomfort in their heart while capturing escapees, right now it’s just… curiosity and mental discomfort. Because they don’t know who prepared it.”

In the end, the inquisitor muttered “Just empty, tempting words” as if chewing them up, and used a flamethrower to burn the Bible.

The god he believes in tells him he’s doing the right thing, and the god he doesn’t believe in tells him to repent of his sins. Since his own heart leans toward the one he doesn’t believe in, he’s uncomfortable.

Is this when religious people blame themselves? The reason why words they don’t believe have persuasive power seems to be… they believe it’s because their own faith is lacking. I examine his reaction as if tasting it by licking. I interpret.

“Still, I think you did very well. Please continue to stimulate that inquisitor’s guilt. When enough doubt has accumulated and he stops burning the Bible… let’s go visit him together.”

“Are you going to show yourself to him and tell him to follow me instead of the cult leader?”

“That would reveal our intentions. I’ll subdue him, so please just ask him not to touch the unmanned post. Make him contrast himself using the flamethrower with us who had many opportunities to kill him but didn’t.”

To rebuild, you must first tear down. If they rebuild what has collapsed into the Hollowwood Creek fanatic we don’t want… we just need to tear it down again and make them rebuild.

We will show mercy as many times as needed, and offer something sweeter than the words of a senile cult leader. There will be no torture except for his own guilt gnawing at him.

After that… we can create the insider we’ve been wanting. The security vulnerabilities that one Hollowwood Creek inquisitor can create in the church are limitless.