Chapter 136: Highball

Specialists.

There are people you can call that.

The proper word would be experts, but since this was a battlefield, let us dress it up a little and call them specialized types.

Shinzo was one.

So was I.

And Halloween, Goodman, Highball too.

There was nothing complicated about it.

Smile Company was, in truth, a gambling unit made by gathering specialists who, once their pattern fit, were as strong as anything could be.

I was a specialist in sniping.

And Highball was a specialist in fire.

Officially, he belonged to the Craftsmen’s Guild. More precisely, to the front side of it, or perhaps I should say, to a cleaner company funky enough to run a domestic-helper dispatch service out of the same office. A bulbous-nosed mohawk bastard. A huge man with a rustic smell to him.

Highball.

At the very least, he was insane enough that the people around him rated him as being on my level.

Where the average number of Monoz a person could contract with was ten, Highball had thirty-one.

And what he wanted from every single one of them was: combat engineer.

If I compared them to my Monoz, that meant Sheep Unit and Monkey Unit-level manufacturing, plus Snake Unit’s poison production. Leaving individual quirks aside for the moment, he had made all thirty-one learn that and drilled it into them.

The Centipede he wore was a custom Akagane, made by Tatara Heavy Industries. Akagane already had heavy armor, and his had been made harder, thicker, and heavier still. Without help from his Monos, even running in it would be difficult.

One step, and the ground sank in the shape of his foot.

It made noise.

It was slow and heavy, and despite that, it loudly announced, I am here.

A massive target.

But each of those steps was a step from the god of death.

The weapon he carried was a flamethrower.

A cleaner who sterilized everything with fire.

That was how Highball fought.

Well, after all that rambling, what I wanted to say was this—

I lost the bet.

“Hoooound? You know what the best drink in the world is? What, highball? Wrong. That’s number two. Number one iiiis… booze you drink on somebody else’s money!”

Gyahaha.

At the counter, the red-faced mohawk laughed his ass off.

“…”

By contrast, my mood was in a terrible state. I was nibbling away at the nuts they had served as a snack like a squirrel, trying to distract my lonely mouth, but I did not feel especially distracted.

“…Could you at least show a little restraint?”

“That’d be tasteless, Hound. My motto is, when someone else is buying, drink happily and drink without holding back.”

“How wonderful. So wonderful I might cry, you arsonist.”

I spat the insult.

Arsonist.

Yes.

Arsonist.

And an arsonist’s specialty shines brightest in enclosed spaces.

So all you had to do was make one.

That had been the judgment of Smile Company’s captain, the only non-specialist in a company full of specialists.

He had me and Halloween clean up the enemies around the nest, shaving down their forces while cooperating with the units on the other fronts to seal the holes in the bugs’ burrow. Naturally, they did not forget to fire in the gas shells Highball’s Monoz had made.

Thirteen minutes after my bet with Highball began, that much was finished.

Two minutes left.

At that point, I was certain I had won.

Then one minute after Highball ignited it, burning down the Insectum that swarmed the reduced number of exits, black smoke began pouring out of the anthill’s windows, as if announcing the operation’s completion.

Using a near-perfect 3D map created by acoustic measurement, he built a near-perfect arson plan that reached every corner of the nest with either fire or smoke.

The deranged brain of a deranged arsonist had produced the optimal answer, and within fifteen minutes, he had steam-roasted the bug nest.

Underground, there were Armor Roll pupae.

They had turned white, like boiled shrimp.

Grasshoppers burned away without ever jumping.

The new Armor Ants had been smoked cleanly to death.

A talent in a direction different from mine.

A talent specialized in mass slaughter.

And now the owner of that talent had set his sights on the contents of my wallet.

“Master… I’ll have something too.”

I could not do this sober.

I see.

So this was that kind of mood.

***

The alcohol started to hit, and the little things began to matter less.

From some distant, distant memory, someone’s words came back to me.

—When you’ve got a report to write, do it drunk. It moves faster that way.

“…”

I had the feeling I had remembered something profoundly useless.

Well, fine.

Details.

Do not worry about it.

There was a plate of fried chicken sitting in a vague border zone where I could no longer tell whether I had ordered it or Highball had. I grabbed a large piece with a leaf of garnish lettuce and bit down.

Juice burst out.

A hot rush of meat juice spilled from the corner of my mouth. I wiped it roughly with the back of my hand and tipped my glass back.

I would not say I understood what made alcohol delicious, but I could enjoy it to a reasonable degree.

“Oh? Nice. Very nice. That’s some good drinking, Hound. —But you don’t get it! Fried chicken goes with highball! That is the world’s choice!”

“…That…”

I drank.

Glug, glug, glug.

“Bwah.”

“…as in the ingredient?”

“Ha-haaa! Good joke, Hound! Treating me like food, huh! …That was a joke, right? Your eyes are way too serious. Scary as hell.”

Of course it was a joke.

Do not insult me.

You look tough and unpleasant to eat.

As I sat beside Highball having that conversation, three new customers came into the bar.

Mercenaries.

People in the same line of work, most likely.

The place was emergency-built, slapped together in a hurry. A tavern prepared for soldiers. It was basically a remodeled container, so seats were scarce. Aside from the counter where Highball and I sat, everything else was open terrace seating where sand blew in every time the wind moved.

That was probably why.

One of the three glanced at the counter, apparently thinking to clear some seats, and came toward us with a grin or tried to, before the other two grabbed him and held him back.

“Idiot, stop! That’s Highball from Cleaner!”

“The guy with him is Doggy House’s Hound! You’ll get killed!”

I heard voices like that.

Highball fluttered his hand at them in a lazy little hiiiii.

Over there, they stiffly waved back with a strained, “…H-hiii.”

“…”

Somehow.

For some reason, I tried waving too.

“—Eek.”

A scream.

No one waved back. They ran away.

“…”

A little lonely.

“Your bad name’s getting around, Hound.”

Highball chuckled.

Highball, drinking a highball.

How many was that now?

“…Are you called Highball because you like highballs?”

“That’s part of it. But I’m with Cleaner, right?”

“Yes.”

“And for disinfection, you use alcohol.”

“That’s a different kind of alcohol.”

“Better if you can drink it, isn’t it?”

“…”

Was it?

I did not really know. With my head warmed by liquor, it felt like something that did not matter. No, I would probably think the same sober.

In other words, it did not matter.

“Still, there had to be a cooler name.”

Gin, or vodka, or something that sounded like it belonged in a shadowy organization.

“You think some slick name like that suits me?”

“…I see.”

For a giant with a bulbous nose and a smell of the countryside about him, the slightly stupid ring of Highball did seem to fit.

That kind of conversation.

I did not give him my real name.

I had no intention of asking his.

He did not give me his real name.

He had no intention of asking mine.

—Highball and Hound.

For the relationship we had found on the battlefield, those words said everything.

***

Huff, huff, huff.

Breathing.

Beast smell.

And a wet nose making a full-power declaration of, I am very healthy today.

“…”

Waking up because that had been shoved into my ear was, honestly, a fairly terrible way to start a morning.

I had not pushed myself too hard this time, so there was no hangover left behind. I was even properly dressed. And yet, when I opened my eyes, I was lying on the wooden floor of the tavern.

It had only just been built, so the boards were still new. That did not make them suitable for sleeping. My body hurt.

When I sat up, a bread roll came trotting over.

Not breakfast.

Rudo.

I had no memory of bringing him to the tavern last night. Morning had come, I had not returned, and he had probably come to collect me.

How diligent of him, so early in the morning.

I rubbed his belly, ruffled his head, and finally grabbed his nose and breathed a long, geh-fuu, alcohol-scented breath over him.

After several explosive sneezes—bshun, bshun—he gave a low von of protest.

“…”

I stared blankly at Rudo as he did.

The alcohol had not fully left me yet.

He should forgive this level of mischief.

“You’re awake, Touji?”

A familiar woman’s voice.

The heavy boots were probably to hide her inhuman legs. Loose camouflage cargo pants, a black tank top. She had gone to the trouble of hiding her legs, but her inhuman right hand was left bare.

Upturned eyes like a little kitten’s.

Golden hair.

E.B. was there.

“Here. Hand.”

She held out her hand, so I took it.

With Tooth strength, she pulled me up, then held me as if to support my unsteady feet—and hugged me like I was a stuffed toy.

My face was buried in her chest.

She sniffed me.

“You stink of alcohol.”

I received a scolding.

Thanks to alcohol making me sweat, my body probably smelled more of sweat than liquor. I wanted to wash my hair. Thinking that, I peeled E.B. off me.

“Why are you here?”

“I’m free now. I’ll help over here too.”

Heheh. Happy? You can praise me, you know?

She rubbed herself against me like a cat, demanding praise. I ruffled that kitten’s golden hair a little roughly.

“…What about the camp?”

“Situation’s bad, so we’re breaking it up. Arawn and the Craftsmen’s Guild agreed to take people in. Oh, Tatara Heavy Industries sent supplies.”

“I see…”

Since Arawn’s young lady’s son-in-law, Shinzo of Doggy House, was the representative, Tatara Heavy Industries had probably held back a little. Still, I was grateful they had sent supplies. Good to know they still seemed interested in staying friendly.

“We don’t get much information about the other battlefields here… Anything else?”

“Yeah. Simple version? The Insectum are obviously wrong. They’re trying to wipe out humans, Tooths, and Bubbles. Wars are starting everywhere.”

“I see…”

“Soon, humans and Tooths are apparently going to confirm a ceasefire agreement and form an alliance. Ah, this is, you know.”

E.B. closed one eye and went, “Shh.”

Please do not tell me information that has to stay secret.

I checked the surroundings.

No one was paying attention to us.

Highball was gone.

There was a note on his seat. Wobbly drunk handwriting.

Thanks for the feast—somersault♡

Annoying.

I crushed the note in my fist.

“There’s a heart… Did you cheat on me?”

“…With a mohawked old man?”

“Cheating with a mohawked old man!”

“…”

Why do you sound a little happy about that?