Chapter 23: Interlude II — The Doghouse

I like drinking, and I suck at gambling, so I’m always broke.

They say life is beautiful when it’s simple. And man, isn’t that the truth.

Which is why that morning was beautiful in its own way. After all, I’d woken up from a drunken stupor, having blown all my earnings at the tables.

I had a hangover. That slow, pulsing headache wasn’t quite bad enough to skip work with a clear conscience, but it wasn’t letting me off easy either.

Normally, I could’ve just called in sick, but today was my turn on “Watch Duty.” Not that any clients were likely to want a wreck like me, but if I didn’t show up when I could have, I’d get fined.

And since I hadn’t earned a damn thing yesterday, the last thing I needed was to start today in the negative.

It’s a dangerous world these days. We’re smack in the middle of a war with aliens. Just staying alive is risky business. Unless you’ve got a death wish, you’d better be prepared.

A good home, a tough bodyguard, top-notch equipment—none of that comes free. You need money. Money, money, money.

I’ve got a “decent” set of skills, so I turn those into cash.

That’s why I work at the mercenary tavern, Soldier Saloon: Doggy House.

It’s run by a military company of the same name, based out of the Artisans’ Guild. That’s my workplace.

***

I pushed through the swinging saloon doors, and the scent of liquor and gunpowder hit me.

Aside from the lack of medicinal stench and the few guys with dangerously sharp eyes who were somehow sober, it looked like any other bar. I dragged my half-awake brain along toward the counter, trying to coax it into functionality under the morning sun.

Behind the counter stood the usual mountain of a man with a face like a potato.

Maybe it was the look, or maybe it was the fact that the potato salad on the menu was weirdly delicious, but someone had called him “Potato Man” and the name stuck.

His scalp was perfectly bald, yet he clung stubbornly to that overgroomed Kaiser mustache, as always.

Potato Man, polishing a glass with hands surprisingly delicate for his size, looked utterly bored. Maybe there weren’t any big jobs on the docket today.

“Make me something to eat, Potato Man.”

“You got money?”

“What do you think?”

“…”

He got the message from the way I shrugged and, without a word, set out a glass of water and a small dish of salt.

“You can’t be serious, Potato Man! Have you no heart?!”

“Don’t ask for food when you don’t have a cent, Haruhiro. Don’t you have any common sense?”

“Left it in my mom’s womb.”

“Then go dig it up. And while you’re at it, have breakfast with her.”

“She’s under the ground, man.”

I lowered my tone a bit.

“I know. Which is why—here.”

He pulled a shovel out from behind the counter. The message was clear: go dig.

“You’re a damn bastard, Potato Man. This is where you’re supposed to feel sorry for me and give me a hot sandwich. And what the hell is a shovel doing behind the counter anyway?! What about hygiene? Huh? Hey, Potato Man, if you don’t want me reporting you to the Health Bureau, you’d better give me a decent brea—”

“Customer, you wanna know how to use a shovel properly?”

The sharp edge of a metal spade hovered near my throat.

Following it up to its source, I saw Potato Man, now calling me “customer” with the coldest smile in the business.

I knew how to use a shovel. Which is exactly why I decided to leave before he showed me the wrong way to handle one.

***

He walked in right as I was basking in the pity of my own puppy, shamelessly clinging to that mercy.

There was a scent about him—something exceptional.

The tang of gunpowder. The lingering trace of death. The unmistakable smell of someone who takes lives.

A hound. He had the scent of a dog—one of the few top-tier elites in Doggy House, the kind permitted to bear the title of “Hound.”

Everyone else on “Watch Duty” noticed. So did the freelance mercs who’d come to pick up jobs. And of course, Potato Man did too.

The fact that he immediately started prepping potato salad in silence meant he really liked the guy.

A young man entered, accompanied by twelve Monoz units and one small puppy. His sharp gaze swept across the room. That was the eye of a sniper. I’d seen that look before, in an old man I knew. If that’s the case, then the long object strapped to his back must be a sniper rifle.

He moved with subtle tension in his step and took a seat at the counter.

“…Your order?”

“I’m here to register.”

His voice was low, rough around the edges, hard to catch—and yet it stuck in the ear. But his positioning was awful. Damn it. If I hadn’t messed around and just parked myself at the counter like usual, I’d be able to hear them properly.

I’m not the only one watching him. And Miss Marry—one of the big sisters—is on the move. If a Puppy Walker like her is getting involved, does that mean he’s someone’s apprentice puppy? But if that’s the case, where’s the master?

Too many questions. My thoughts circled round and round. But before all that, there was something I needed to do.

“Alice.”

“Yup! On it!”

I gave the cue to the golden-furred, adorable puppy.

Alice had already picked up on “the scent.” That’s all it took—she bolted toward him without hesitation.

I didn’t know whose puppy he was, but there was no doubt—I needed to get in with that guy.

He said he was here to register, which meant he’d be taking the registration exam. If I could tag along for that, perfect. I chomped on the fries Alice had ordered and watched her throw herself into it.

“Haruhiro!”

And for some reason, they called my name.

Thrown off, I stood up and headed over.

“What’s up, Potato Man?”

“I want you to observe the exam.”

“…Me? Seriously? I mean, I get that guy looks like he’ll bring in money, but this is a puppy registration, right? Wouldn’t it make more sense to ask Alice or the lady?”

“If I send either of them, they might not come back. He’s not a puppy, after all. And conveniently enough, we’ve got a nasty job lined up for him. I want to see how he handles it.”

I was only getting more confused. Then the guy gave a slight bow.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Touji. Sniper.”

And with that, he pulled out the custom dog tag exclusive to Doggy House—the mark of a true Hound.

Oh no. No, no, no.

“A Hound,” he added.

“—”

My hangover evaporated instantly. But my whole body locked up. I didn’t know how the hell to react.

No way. Did he actually inherit it? That old man never passed it on. He even made it crystal clear no one could inherit it, not even a sniper ranked 5. And this guy—this guy—

I stared at him, unblinking.

Yeah. His eyes were bad news.

“—”

“?”

“—…”

“Woof woof.”

Don’t you start barking at me.