Ch.93Work Record 014 – Forging a Harpoon (2)

“Then, I’ll stop by for a bit and come find you. See you in a little while.”

After waving my hand lightly, I’m alone again for a moment. I head toward Zone C, looking at an advertisement claiming no additional charges for virtual reality experiences.

Other areas had some customers, but this small corner of the shopping complex was deserted. Only one receptionist sat at the desk listening to music, rising only when she saw me approaching.

Freelancers probably aren’t that common to see. Not many people would use custom manufacturing services either. I approached the counter and greeted her comfortably. I wasn’t nervous.

“I hope I haven’t made your comfortable workspace less comfortable by coming here? Ah, I’d like to place a custom order for a cold weapon.”

The receptionist asked with a somewhat puzzled expression. She seemed to be thinking something similar to Bola.

“Um, by cold weapon, do you mean like a sword… Ah, you mean something like what they’d use at G Entertainment?”

“No, a harpoon. For decorative purposes, with just minimal weapon functionality. I checked with interior design companies too, but you know? It looks crude unless it’s made by people who actually make weapons.”

Wanting someone dead is no longer something to be ashamed of, but that doesn’t mean I should brandish it proudly everywhere. The lies came smoothly and habitually.

“That’s true. Well… I have a company in mind, but their representative is a Pure Human, so it might be difficult today. You know what day it is, right? Do you have times when you can’t take calls?”

I left a message saying anytime after 8 PM except Wednesdays and Thursdays would be difficult, filled out a few simple forms… and learned how much a custom-made item would cost. Even without all the functions, the price was jaw-dropping.

Next month’s salary will be gone on this. Is living paycheck to paycheck the right way to live? I still didn’t really know what the right way to live was.

I’ll probably get a call tomorrow or the day after. So all that’s left for today is… just enjoying the day in this shopping complex called Hive.

Before that, I tried to contact Ms. Eve, but only received a message saying she had set her status to Do Not Disturb. She’s probably helping evacuate Hollow Creek escapees from within the city.

Today wasn’t a particularly good day to go outside. Not for pursuers either. The city’s surveillance system had returned to normal levels last night, so now would be the best time to escape. I wish them luck.

This city doesn’t stop functioning without me. Everyone is doing their best to carry this city on their backs in their own way. Belwether decides which direction it gets pulled.

I leisurely bring up my HUD and scan the floor. I approached the Kanun Company people I had registered. Seeing them checking Belwether’s standard rifles, it seemed things had really loosened up.

The purchase seemed to be almost complete, and even the attachments were Belwether products. They really seemed to be selling exactly to standard specifications. I gestured to Ms. Laila asking if I could interrupt briefly, and she stepped aside.

“Belwether’s daughter is pretty and well-built, but you know?”

When I said what people typically say, the gun shop owner smiled. He grinned as if it were too much.

“When sending to a party, it’s better to dress it up with Fitts & Morrison products. I was trying to be the wise old weapon dealer giving advice to rookie mercenaries after confirming the purchase, but…”

“Ah, I also have a desire to become a cool freelance mercenary who gives advice to rookie mercenaries. You should have moved faster.”

Both the gun shop owner and I burst into laughter simultaneously. The Belwether attachments came off, and Fitts & Morrison products were attached instead. These were actually better to use.

Belwether creates good overall frameworks. They kill people effectively, aren’t too heavy to carry, and are comfortable to hold. But in return, they lack any outstanding features. They’re standard specifications, in both good and bad ways.

Fitts & Morrison is the opposite. They’re extreme. Their weapons have excessive performance but equally excessive drawbacks, but for attachments meant to enhance a specific aspect, their craftsmanship was necessary.

Except for the vertical grip. For something that simple, Belwether’s obsessive craftsmanship created products that fit the hand better. The optimized weapon was placed in a box and handed over.

The packaging box was quite nice too. The smooth honeycomb pattern rising from the black plastic gave it a very futuristic and sophisticated look. A mercenary named Noah received the box, bowing his head in thanks.

He had an ordinary appearance. Fairly long blonde hair that covered his eyes and ordinary brown irises. If he weren’t an offliner, I probably wouldn’t have recognized him on the street.

A man watching him from behind—with messily unkempt beard and a somewhat shabby, idle appearance—approached me and casually extended his hand.

“If they’d kept trying to sell it like that until the end, I would have flipped the table. Should I thank you for stopping it? Simon Verami. Noah is my sister’s son. If my sister were alive, she wouldn’t have allowed him to be a mercenary.”

“What parent in the world would want their child to live as a mercenary? When you tell people you got a job at a mercenary company, the first thing they ask is ‘in administration?’ right? They don’t want their kids shooting guns for a living.”

He stroked his beard as he listened to me, then smiled. His voice, asking with a grin, was quite sharp.

“People like us can’t be like that. If I don’t smell gunpowder somewhere, I can’t even sleep well. Right?”

He approached quite intimately, but I didn’t think we could become friends. I wasn’t like that.

“If I were that kind of person, I wouldn’t have earned a freelance contract. Being on a security team is better than mercenary work, and a desk job is better than being on a security team. That’s what I believe.”

“Then why are you doing mercenary work? Looking at your age, you should be preparing for employment. Your experience seems too short to be a freelancer.”

I laughed casually while accepting his obvious wariness. There was no need to get angry at understandable caution.

Contrary to Simon’s words, this Noah… Verami if they share the same surname? If he’s his sister’s son, they might have different surnames. Anyway, he was doing mercenary work. The implication was obvious.

He was simply being cautious about a stranger approaching his blood relative. I spoke casually.

“I did what I believed was right. Refusing some jobs, giving my all to others, dying twice and coming back, having all my activities censored. Before I knew it, I ended up here. That’s all there is to it.”

It was a sincere statement, but he made a deflating sound as if disappointed. I decided to consider it a natural reaction—I wouldn’t have believed someone who said such things either.

“A typical model student. It’s surprising you even know how to drink.”

I laughed softly at that remark. If I was a model student, I was Belwether’s model student. I still couldn’t become such an exemplary person.

Meaning I do a good job as a single mercenary, I lightly tapped the small evil deed at my waist before speaking. The fact that I was carrying a reinforced service pistol that special operatives might use could change his mind.

“I believe there’s nothing to gain from being hostile to others. This city isn’t so bad to live in, even living like this.”

He clicked his tongue as if displeased. Remembering he was in front of his nephew, he quickly put on a friendly smile, but there was no humor in his muttered words. My approach had failed, it seemed.

“Only for those with intact limbs and abilities. Anyway, Laila said she’d buy drinks, so let’s go up. I’m satisfied having given my nephew an early Christmas present.”

We take the elevator up to the bar on the first floor. The Kanun Company employees entered under Simon’s name, as he had the longest experience, while I entered under my own.

It was quite an old design. Unlike Mr. Gunter’s place, which was more like a simple diner, this interior was quite luxurious, using properly expensive wood for the decor.

It’s a place where mercenaries can easily indulge in fantasies. The Hive sells fantasies. There’s no reason to reject fantasies. If it’s a pleasant fantasy, just enjoy it while you’re in it.

Sitting at the bar, a single glass was pushed toward me. A glass of whiskey with a slightly honey-like viscosity. The android bartender politely pointed to a sign saying freelancers get one free drink.

Was I really more of a big shot than I thought? The most burdensome things I’ve felt since becoming a freelancer are goodwill and recognition. I didn’t think I was someone who deserved to be elevated so high.

Still, the drink tasted good. The slight viscosity was unfamiliar, but it was deeper and better than synthetic ale or artificial whiskey. After leisurely enjoying one glass, I put it down.

Ms. Riley, watching me, burst into a short laugh. Swinging her legs dangling beneath the bar stool, she said:

“This feels strange, you know? ‘Meritocracy is good!’ I say, but when I see someone more capable than me getting special privileges right next to me…”

“You think, ‘What makes that person better than me?’ I feel the same way. Probably.”

I excluded Mr. Gunter from this sentiment. He was someone who proved his right to privilege just by standing there.

As I was leisurely reminiscing and waiting for the next glass, I heard something hitting the window and bouncing off. It sounded like a small pebble. Someone was throwing stones or something similar at the first-floor window.

Among the city’s gangs, there were those who targeted only days when the smog was thick like this. The Smog Crawlers. They conducted both new gang member recruitment and terrorist acts only on days with thick smog.

They claim to hide in the smog created by mega-corporations to do whatever… but they weren’t environmentalists. If they were, they wouldn’t have smoke-shaped tattoos and go around shooting.

At that moment, a human bartender walked out to the Hive’s bar. He lightly tapped the happy hour bell to gather the attention of the mercenaries in the bar and said:

“Six Smog Crawlers outside! Five are gang members and one seems to be a newbie. Anyway, any table that handles them gets a glass of Hive’s special synthetic honey whiskey each! Volunteers!”

They seem to have come for the initiation test of a new member. I picked up my small evil deed and raised my hand lightly. It’s only right to earn my drink. The bartender quickly scanned my face and license, then shouted:

“Well, well. We have a volunteer… Tsk! A freelancer! I’d like to introduce you like a wrestler, but… all I see is censored text with redactions. No betting pool since the odds would be fucked! Got it?”

I took out the gas mask from my waist and placed it on the bar before standing up. I shook my head at Ms. Riley who was handing me her gas mask, then grinned at the bartender. Enjoyment is everything.

“If this is entertainment for the Hive, shouldn’t you at least set up betting? Let’s make it fun. I’ll do it without a gas mask, so open the betting pool. And send the feed to my view too.”

Despite not wearing a gas mask, most of the bets were placed on me. I quietly pushed open the middle door of the building, then the main entrance where the lights were on despite it being daytime, as visibility was less than a meter. It didn’t make a sound.

Even through the howling smog, I could hear the gang’s voices. A voice slurring from drug intoxication leaked into my ears.

“Hey, wait. Wait a minute. Did you see the light flicker at the door just now? Someone seems to have come out, so wait. Newbie. If you shoot that guy dead, you’re a Crawler!”

All gangs are the same. They’ll use you like a slave under the pretense of fulfilling your need for recognition. Even without lowering my second eyelid, my vision wasn’t impaired. My breathing was fine too.

Judging by the sound, they were about ten meters ahead. It was obvious someone was trying to lure me out. I inhale lightly. Among the acrid smell of smog, there was a slight human scent mixed in. There was no problem determining their direction.

I walk leisurely, hiding my footsteps. My shock-absorbing skin doesn’t make a sound. Even as I approach step by step, they’re just whispering among themselves. I kept listening.

“If we set off a flare, we’ll see the silhouette because of the light. Don’t be scared, just shoot, kid! Those guys are the ones who shot and killed all your brothers and sisters anyway!”

I turn the selector switch to three-round burst. It seemed best to shoot them one by one so I could confirm who died and who survived.

I approach until I can hear their breathing. The distance was just over two meters. Even through the white ripples of smog, I could see the man in front of me raising his hand. A flare gun.

I grab the wrist raising the gun. I raise my small evil deed to aim at his head, and without particular hesitation, pull the trigger. Despite three shots firing in succession, the muzzle barely wavered.

The gunshots are muffled in the sound of rippling smog. Without a silencer, the noise of the small evil deed reverberated around us.

Seeing someone raising a submachine gun nearby, I grab the muzzle and turn it. With each flash of muzzle flame, I could see the fear filling the face of the gang member with the smoke tattoo. I kicked him in the stomach.

His body, thrown by an irresistible force, lands among the other gang members. They all lose their balance and groan. Kindly revealing their position.

I couldn’t see ahead, but the sounds, sweat, body odor, and smell of adrenaline revealed their location. I slowly turn the muzzle direction. Seeing four people clustered together, I switch to full auto and pull the trigger.

Fifteen bullets poured out almost instantly, and what started as the sound of people being hit and clothes tearing turned into the sound of meat chunks splattering by the end.

Dozens of thumbs-down emoticons flood the Hive bar’s betting screen. Betting should have been more cautious. Believing it wouldn’t be my responsibility anyway, I kept it hidden.

There was only one reason Belwether didn’t eradicate gangs. Cost-effectiveness, that’s all. Even if you kill all of these, others with different concepts would just appear.

So, they just leave them alone as long as they don’t seriously harm the company’s and city’s interests. Sometimes those who try to duck below the minimum threshold for eradication raise their heads like this.

This is the appropriate result. The right thing. I kicked the fallen flare gun up with my toe and caught it in my hand. Seeing that the barrel had been cut to prevent it from flying far, I shot it upward.

The flare flies briefly. With a light explosive sound, it emits a red light that lingers in the air momentarily. The newbie in front of me didn’t have a smoke-shaped tattoo. He had already dropped his gun and had his hands raised.

Then there’s no need to shoot him dead. With three rounds left, I turned the selector switch back to three-round burst and turned around. But then I heard the sound of someone picking up a gun from the ground. I could hear the heartbeat.

It was pounding loudly, revealing a state of tension. I heard the small metallic sound of a muzzle tip slightly scraping against the asphalt floor, and I pulled the trigger.

Three bullets pierced through the cerebral matter that had made the wrong choice, and the betting ended. People who bet on the freelance mercenary’s victory barely got their principal back.