Ch.294Work Record #041 – Irresistible (7)

The only thing I can be certain of right now is that the Witch of the Wasteland is an anomaly former. There are countless questions I cannot comprehend.

The simplest and most critical question is why the abducted members refuse to return. It’s not that they can’t escape. They’re choosing not to escape.

Considering it’s “the Witch of the Wasteland” rather than “Witches,” the possibility of there being more than one anomaly former isn’t very high. A single anomaly former can’t incapacitate that many people.

If they’re the type that uses visual stimuli, they could only control one person at a time. With auditory stimuli, they could certainly affect more people, but even anomaly formers need to sleep eight hours a day.

When the witch sleeps, the captives could simply escape and return to their original base. If such a situation were to occur, those bound by the anomaly former’s abilities would surely bring back the witch’s head.

So there must be something voluntarily keeping the gang members there. I spoke to the only one I could have a proper conversation with in this situation. I said to Chance:

‘Alright, Chance. It seems we have a problem to put our heads together on… First, why aren’t the gang members escaping from the Witch of the Wasteland?’

“Information is insufficient, but inferring from the baseline data… it’s likely not due to anomaly formation. Anomaly formers have been noted for their secrecy, not their strength.”

Even Bellwether’s reason for hunting anomaly formers was the possibility that they secretly preserved technology from the war era, not because they thought anomaly formers could overturn the world with their abilities.

‘What about option B? I’m thinking they might serve as a spiritual leader or religious focal point. You saw what I did with just one weather observation drone and a handful of flower seeds?’

“I cannot give a definitive answer about such emotional elements, but considering the Mojave Desert is essentially in a state of anomie, I believe it’s entirely possible.”

The people of this wasteland needed something to do every day from nine in the morning until six in the evening.

Anything would do. As long as they could create a routine and repeat it, they didn’t care what it was.

That’s why Los Payasos practice murder art, and Los Soñadores imitate religious rituals. They make the process feel rewarding, make it somewhat enjoyable, and make it difficult to break down.

Los Soñadores find fulfillment in the belief that God will help them, while Los Payasos find satisfaction in ranking each other’s terrible “works.” The Witch of the Wasteland could use the same method.

So… in the worst case, I might have to fight against devotees who don’t know that Zarathustra has come down from the mountain and only remember the old god who desires asceticism and sacrifice.

El Sueño is a god who enjoys sharing his overflowing power and ability with those around him. I am someone who wants to test the limits of my abilities through the puppet show of El Sueño and whale hunting.

Either way, neither of us desires unnecessary sacrifice, nor do we tell people to practice asceticism if they want to see power and authority. We are people who neither let ourselves be dragged by dogs nor strangle them.

We simply run with the dogs. Feeling the taste of freedom in the wind, sometimes fearing freedom to the point of irresponsibility… while wanting others to taste this freedom too.

El Pastor always looked at my words as if they were stars. Sparkling and beautiful, but seemingly too far away. After writing down my answers for an hour, he asks with curiosity:

“But, El Sueño, your rituals… they seem so different from Santa Muerte whom I served, and from the god that Hollowed Creek worships. In a good way, I mean. Might there be a reason for this?”

El Pastor has been diligently writing down everything I’ve said, from before La Roca woke up until now as she recovers. It’s somewhat off-putting behavior.

I wanted people who could understand my words and express them in their own way, not people who would write down my words and recite them as prayers.

But I decided to be patient. There are limitations to the image injector. And with a mountain of problems to solve, I couldn’t personally grab each member and repeat the same words.

So I needed my own Ananda and Sariputta. I needed someone to write down my words and help seduce Los Soñadores. El Pastor was fulfilling that role perfectly.

Thanks to Hollowed Creek, I could also reduce some of my hostility toward religious people. One way or another, I couldn’t criticize someone who efficiently fulfilled their duty in their position.

So I decided to answer sincerely, once again producing the voice of a god, or rather the synthesized sound of the Calliope module preset-saved under that name.

“The reason is simple. I love this joy and enjoyment. Love is not about holding something close, but about letting it go and wanting to see it roam freely through the world.”

I wasn’t saintly enough to be free of possessiveness. My Eve is my Eve. But this joy, at least, I wanted as many people as possible to know.

Joy is refreshing. Pain has no meaning. Pain that doesn’t kill me only leaves lasting disability and deep trauma.

Sometimes pain might seem to accomplish something, but in reality, it’s just a belated realization of the brilliance of joy that pain took away and what that joy had given.

By the time La Roca finished arming herself and came looking for me a few days later, the remaining Los Soñadores members were also talking about enjoyment and pleasure. Though still with clumsy, silly jokes.

They would make lame jokes to each other when they thought I wasn’t looking, like telling the cook that they could “enjoy” some meat tonight if there was cultured meat. That was enough.

Even if it was just a joke, once words stick to your lips, they soon seep into your heart. People live by what they speak. That’s why I try not to live spewing curses.

Showing ability is my job. I can’t expect them to follow a path I haven’t shown them or walk a path they can’t follow. La Roca enters El Pastor’s room, which has now become mine.

She was dressed quite modestly. She wore jeans with a bulletproof vest over her T-shirt, a helmet with a faint display on her head, and carried a dusty rifle.

“Damn, how many days have I wasted, our Dream Seed? By the way, this is a good idea. Saying you’ll rescue the guys the Witch of the Wasteland took.”

“We’re short on manpower. And if the Witch of the Wasteland spreads oppression and sadness rather than joy, then it’s my duty to deal with her, Paulina.”

Paulina nodded, tying her long, rough gray hair into a ponytail.

“Then let’s go quickly. I’m curious to see what kind of god would make El Pastor create a scripture.”

Once again, I activated my optical camouflage, got up, went behind her, placed my hand on her shoulder, and deactivated the optical camouflage from my hand. I whispered to her, who seemed somewhat more comfortable:

“If there are those who believe without seeing anything, there must be those who don’t believe even after seeing everything. You may continue to doubt. Act as if you’re asking me to prove myself, and try to extract a little more of what the organization needs.”

“Seems like you’re trying to make me the devil’s advocate.”

“Not at all. Your moves simply amuse me. Read some of the scripture El Pastor is spreading. It will be a useful book.”

There was no easier way to spread belief than to make someone constantly doubt me and then captivate even that person. I reactivated my optical camouflage and walked into the corridor with her.

El Pastor was waiting for us outside the door. Whether he had heard the conversation from inside, he began to address the visible gang members even though I was invisible and only La Roca walked out.

“He’s here with us, though you can’t see him. If anything happens here while we’re gone, he’ll come back.”

He’s a really good person, except for the fact that he sees me as a real god. Most people simply greeted with a brief “El Sueño,” but some knelt like undertakers and called my name.

According to preliminary research… they were El Pastor’s followers. “Fanatics” who treated me like a god after hearing El Pastor’s well-packaged description of who I am. La Roca snapped:

“Tell him to show himself if he wants to receive greetings. What is this? Bowing to empty air. Besides, El Sueño is just a human in a power suit. He can’t… do all that.”

Some people agreed with her words. Those who said El Sueño was just a capable megacorporation agent… let’s call them the “skeptics.”

The skeptics needed to disappear, and the fanatics needed to increase. Perhaps the ideal ratio would be seventy percent believers and thirty percent fanatics.

If I had to distinguish, believers would be those who follow my words, and fanatics would be those who make my beliefs their own. They would embrace joy as Bellwether fanatics embrace efficiency.

Those fanatics were essential for the organization to function even after I stepped away from this work. Just as Bellwether can survive without Mr. Günter, ideally Los Soñadores should survive without me.

El Pastor and La Roca bickered a bit more, but La Roca prioritized finding the missing members, and El Pastor prioritized following the will of the god. The argument didn’t last long.

They got into a vehicle stamped with Los Soñadores’ emblem and fitted with wasteland driving chains… and to ignite El Pastor’s faith, I didn’t get in the car.

Since the El Sueño body I wore was indeed a closed-circuit power suit, chasing after the moving car was no trouble at all. Quietly following them was simple in this perverted masterpiece.

The vehicle drove for about an hour and a half before arriving at a corner of the wasteland. Combining Chance’s data with Fitz & Morrison’s data… it was once a small town with a water source and about two hundred residents.

Now only traces barely remain. A well-maintained grave with a sixty-one-star American flag flying and some unrecognizable melted marks are all that welcome us.

The fact that the grave is well-maintained and has a flag flying suggests they don’t harbor ill feelings toward the federal government. As I slowly survey the surroundings, La Roca’s voice comes through the communication channel:

“This is where the Witch of the Wasteland appears most frequently. I heard there’s a hideout nearby, but she even kidnapped the few guys we sent to investigate…”

Since I was already standing next to the vehicle that had arrived kicking up dust, I revealed myself in front of La Roca, who had her elbow on the window and her gun barrel raised, showing her there was no need to communicate electronically.

“Damn it, if you’re right beside me, say so. Anyway, yeah. I’m not sure how we’re going to find the Witch of the Wasteland from here…”

Is there even a need for that? The Witch of the Wasteland seemed to have already found us. There was a place where the flow of air around us was blocked. The Witch of the Wasteland was hiding somewhere, in a way similar to mine.

When the wind blew, I could hear the faint sound of fabric fluttering, almost inaudible. I turned toward where the sound was coming from and stared into the emptiness that resembled me.

English or Mexican Spanish? After a brief consideration, remembering the condition of the grave with the American flag, I spoke in English:

“Show yourself, witch. I can see you. Very clearly.”

At my sudden words, El Pastor and La Roca began pointing their guns at where I was looking. I needed to appear mythical and fearless.

I approached the person covered in optical camouflage fabric that fluttered in front of them. Then, along with the sound of the wasteland wind, I heard a zipper being pulled down… followed by a voice:

“Stop right there and let’s talk. I heard the Dreamers were cooperating with some bastard, and you’ve got good instincts, kid. But this is my front yard. My territory. If you just barge in like this…”

Below the lowered zipper, an old woman’s face appeared as if floating in empty space. Her eyes were… fragmented. They were made of fractals, images that affect the human nervous system.

At the same time, naturally, my body wouldn’t move. It’s a familiar sensation. The pressure characteristic of mutants who lock down the nervous system. My entire body was receiving signals from an external entity telling it not to move.

There’s no priority in how the human body moves. I slowly took a deep breath, relaxed my muscles, and overlaid a command to be comfortable. While maintaining my posture, I forcibly overcame her ability by overlaying commands.

Maintaining my posture was to create an opening, and perhaps part of the performance. She approached me closely, skillfully blinking one eye at a time. Her ability usage was well-trained.

“They said you were something special, but you’re nothing. Just like all you kids. This old lady was created by the finest minds in this country. Unlike you lot fighting over sewers…”

She muttered through a mouth missing several teeth, loading slug rounds into a shotgun in front of me as if dealing with a nuisance. She aimed the barrel at my head while leisurely loading it.

“I don’t want to associate with you. If you were stupid and obedient, I might have taken you, but cunning and inscrutable ones are really not…”

This seems like the perfect timing. I grab and twist the shotgun barrel that’s come right up to my face. I throw it away with brute force, and consciously moving my body that had been resisting her ability, I grab her head.

I didn’t crush it immediately. I pushed back the hood with optical camouflage function that she had over her head, revealing her frizzy curly hair, and looked directly into her eyes. I resist her ability.

“I was clearly courteous. I let you know that I knew you were there, and I asked to talk. But, yes. It’s regrettable that I keep meeting those who betray my faith in people.”

She bulged her eyes as if trying to inject that image into my mind again, and without throwing her or doing anything else, I put her down while maintaining eye contact. I knelt on one knee to match her eye level.

Facing that bizarrely anomaly-formed gaze, consciously resisting my body’s attempt to stop every moment, I spoke. My tone had to be gentle, and fortunately, I knew the origin of the mutants.

“You’re a bird that knows how to fly. You’re proud of your wings. Your wings carry the scent of the north wind. Yes, a lab rat from Kaktovic playing witch here, hmm?”

“What kind of bastard are you to say such…”

She blinked at the word “Kaktovic” that came from my mouth and took a step back. Watching her draw a pistol from her waist, I raised the Calliope module’s output to maximum and scolded:

“Quiet.”

Along with the single word spoken in a raised voice, high-frequency tearing sounds and low-frequency vibrations that made the body tremble and tingle poured onto the Witch of the Wasteland.

She soon convulsed painfully and dropped the pistol from her hand, but she was enduring without kneeling. As if acknowledging her willpower, I spoke without inflicting more pain:

“That’s right. I didn’t come here to take what’s yours. I’m just curious about how you’re enthralling those I’ve prepared and keeping them by your side. Won’t you show me your sparkling dream, little witch?”

Despite my clear compliment, deep fear settled in her eyes. How many times in her life had she seen someone whose ability didn’t work, or who appeared that way?

How many times had someone mentioned Kaktovic to her? It must all be firsts. I picked up the pistol she had dropped, pointed it at my temple, pulled the trigger all thirteen times, and continued speaking.

The gunpowder residue and remnants couldn’t stay on the power suit and slid off, and the smoke couldn’t stick to the helmet of the power suit and dispersed. From within, creating a flash in the middle of my face, I continued:

“You’re always a diligent child, so if you had any moves left, you wouldn’t accept a deal… but you have no moves left, do you? Get up and guide us now. I’m starting to get bored.”

At my mention of getting bored, El Pastor, who had been standing behind me still frozen, barely managed to make a grunting sound. It seems like a warning to the Witch of the Wasteland.

It’s not a warning for her sake. Knowing that boredom is the sore spot of the god of joy, he wants to show off that he, as a devotee, knows this fact.

The Witch of the Wasteland, with a terrified expression and a trembling jaw, looking up at my flashing face, zipped up her hood to cover her eyes. Only then could the two behind me move.

The power suit’s cameras captured La Roca raising her gun barrel, and I raised my hand to catch the bullet aimed at the Witch of the Wasteland with my palm. After making a tsk sound, I whispered to La Roca:

“Stop, Paulina. Humans make mistakes and gods forgive. You shouldn’t put your fear and anxiety before my will, right?”

This should be enough for El Pastor to expand the volume of scripture. Only after seeing me block the bullet did the Witch of the Wasteland slowly rise and say:

“I’ll take you if you promise not to shoot. And in return for taking you, I’d like to be able to ask a few questions.”

“I promise both. You just need to take us and show us. If what you’re doing is more enjoyable and pleasurable than what I’m trying to do now, I might help you.”

I continued to bestow mercy and goodwill. It was purely to intimidate. Favor without cost and agape have long become fearsome things. All of this was seduction and deception.