#they contain multitudes. of bugs | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thepinkpanther83 · 2 months ago

Text

And They Were Roommates (Pt.19)

Chapter Nineteen: “Soup, Sickness, Stardom”

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Previous Chapter: Chapter Eighteen: “Man Flu” Next Chapter: Chapter Twenty: “A Feast for the Dysfunctional”

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Nineteen: “Soup, Sickness, Stardom”

The coffee pot gurgles behind you like it’s mocking your existence.

You’re hunched over the counter in Eddie’s faded Hellfire Club shirt, trying to remember if your body has always felt this… off. It's probably just the lack of sleep. And the cold. And the fact you spent last night dodging a man who whined like a dying poet and then actually vomited with enough flair to earn himself a posthumous Oscar.

Yeah. It’s definitely just that.

The bathroom door creaks open behind you. Eddie emerges, steam trailing after him like he’s some mythic creature risen from the swamps of Vicks Vaporub. His hair is damp, curls clinging to his face, and the sleeves of his hoodie are too long, hanging past his fingers like he’s shrinking inside of them.

“You look alive,” you murmur, handing him a mug of black coffee.

“I feel like I won a war I wasn’t trained for.” He sips, eyes fluttering closed. “You’re an angel. I saw you in a dream. You were feeding me soup on a flaming pirate ship.”

“You told me I was pudding.”

“Multifaceted dream. I contain multitudes.”

You open your mouth to sass back- but something shifts. That same off feeling from earlier tightens just behind your ribs, nausea cresting so suddenly that your mouth waters.

“Ugh- shit.” You shove your mug down and bolt past him toward the bathroom.

Eddie flinches, dodging instinctively as you rush by. “Whoa- what the hell?!”

The answer comes in the form of retching.

You don’t even get the door all the way closed.

He hovers uselessly just outside, pacing in his socks. “Oh no. Oh no, did I actually infect you? Are we in some twisted co-sick AU now?”

You groan a reply, forehead pressed against the cool porcelain.

“I told you not to kiss me yesterday,” he laments, guilt already pooling in his tone. “I was like, ‘no babe, I’m a biohazard’, and you said, ‘you taste like cherry cough drops,’ which was hot but dangerous.”

You groan louder.

He gives the door a gentle knock. “Babe? Sweetheart? Please say something that’s not puking.”

You finally catch your breath and croak, “You’ve cursed me.”

“I knew I was patient zero.”

You rinse your mouth, dragging yourself upright. He’s waiting outside the door, hair puffing up wildly as it dries, a little furrow of worry between his brows.

“Back to bed,” he says firmly, guiding you with a hand on your back. “Doctor Munson will now be taking care of you. I’m certified in… vibes. And tea.”

You chuckle weakly, collapsing onto the couch as he tucks the same blanket around you that he’d dramatically flailed in yesterday. His hands are warm, lingering on your shoulders.

He disappears into the kitchen for a minute, clanking around like a well-meaning but incompetent nurse. When he returns, it’s with dry toast, a full glass of water, and a ginger ale he probably fished from the back of the fridge. The toast is unevenly buttered. The water has one of those bendy straws in it for no reason. You could cry.

“This is awful,” you mumble through a bite.

“I know,” he says proudly. “I’m horrible at this. But I’m here.”

You look at him- still pale, still sniffling a little, and your chest aches, though it’s not just the bug that’s got you off-kilter. He’s looking at you like you’re fragile and precious and his.

Something churns inside of you, but it isn’t the toast.

You’d gone back to bed, you’re not sure for how long. You’re not sure what woke you first- the sunlight slicing across your pillow or the faint, ragged strumming of Eddie’s guitar from the living room.

Your stomach churns again before you even move.

At first, you chalk it up to the lingering scent of cold meds and used tissues clinging to the walls like ghosts of the night before. But then you sit up- too fast, and the room tilts.

“Shit-” You lurch out of bed, one hand slapped over your mouth as you barrel toward the bathroom again. You barely make it in time, gripping the cool porcelain as your body revolts.

The sound of strings stops mid-strum.

“Babe?” Eddie’s voice is muffled, tentative. “You okay?”

You wipe your mouth and flush before croaking out, “Guess you really are contagious.”

There’s a pause. Then: “I’m really sorry, babe.”

You emerge a few minutes later, pale and sweaty, and find him standing awkwardly in the hallway. His hair’s still wet from his shower, damp curls sticking to his neck, and he's wearing the same ratty Corroded Coffin hoodie you thought you’d stolen weeks ago.

“C’mere,” he says, tugging you gently into his arms. You resist for a second, but your knees disagree, and he’s warm, solid, even if he smells faintly of eucalyptus and day-old soup.

He kisses your forehead, frowning. “You’re burning up.”

“You just fried your own brain with cold meds, Munson. Maybe your internal thermometer’s busted.”

“Still.” He tucks you closer, his voice unusually soft. “Let me take care of you today.”

You start to protest, but he’s already steering you toward the couch like a sleep-deprived nurse with a vendetta. You’re tucked in with Sir Reginald III guarding your feet before you can blink.

“I made more toast,” he announces. “And tea. Like a real nurse. Nurse Munson, at your service.”

You glance at him, skeptical. “The toast better not be burnt.”

“It’s not burnt,” he scoffs. “It’s… crispy. With flavor.”

He disappears into the kitchen just as your stomach flips again. You will yourself to breathe through it.

He returns a few minutes later balancing a plate, a mug, and- of course, a paper crown for you.

“Thought you should be queen for the day,” he says, plopping the thing on your head. “Since I was king of suffering yesterday.”

“You’re still a drama king.”

“True, but now I’m a functional drama king.”

You’re finally starting to feel halfway normal again when Eddie’s pager buzzes loudly against the coffee table. You both stare at it like it’s some kind of cursed relic.

He groans. “If that’s Gareth again, I swear to God-”

The shrill ring of the house phone interrupts him.

You blink. “...Okay, that’s weird timing.”

Eddie scrambles off the couch, blanket trailing behind him like a tattered cape, grabbing his pager as he goes. “That’s my bat signal. I can feel it.”

He nearly slips in his socked feet rounding the corner, grabbing the receiver off the wall-mounted phone like it's a live grenade as he checks his pager message.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just presses the phone to his ear and walks a few steps away, eyes wide.

“Hello? ...Yeah, this is Eddie Munson. Who’s- oh, hey! Yeah, I got your page- right, yeah, my girlfriend and I were just sick- what? No, not that kind of sick- what? No, man, not like that- look, what’s up?”

You watch him pace, running a hand through his hair as he listens. Whatever he’s hearing makes him perk up like a dog at the word walk. You swear you see the fever lift off him like steam.

He turns toward you, eyes wide and electric with something dangerously close to hope. You raise your brows.

“Okay,” he says into the phone. “Yeah. Yeah, I can be there. Just tell me when. Thanks- seriously. Alright.”

You watch, toast halfway to your mouth, as Eddie’s posture shifts- still sick, still tired, but suddenly alert. Listening hard. His mouth moves fast, hand running through his curls. His tone is serious. Polished, even.

You barely catch the tail end: “Yeah, I can talk more- give me a second, let me grab a pen.”

He spins around, eyes blazing.

“I think this is the call, sweetheart.”

You blink. “The call?”

He talks for a bit longer, taking notes. He hangs up with a clang and just stands there for a second, staring at the phone like it might ring again and change its mind.

“…Well?” you finally ask.

He turns to you, stunned. “They want us back.”

You blink. “Who’s us?”

“Corroded Coffin!” he grins, suddenly animated, fever forgotten. “That guy from the gig- he said we’ve got a sound. Wants us to come in and talk about doing another show. Maybe a set at the Hideaway or somethin’ I don’t know. He said maybe even a studio day down the line if we don’t screw up.”

You just stare, watching the way his shoulders lift like someone finally told him he was allowed to dream again.

He mouths to himself: Local. Producer. Wants. To. Book. Us. Again.

He grins so big it almost splits his face. “Baby, we might actually get to do this.”

Eddie Munson might actually be going somewhere.

You’re already along for the ride.

And suddenly, even with your stomach still lurching with sickness and your head pounding, the whole morning takes a sharp left turn.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Eddie's voice is gentle but persistent, his brow furrowed so hard it looks like it might snap off his forehead. He's crouched by the front door, one boot already tied, watching you wrestle yourself into a pair of sneakers like it’s a full-body sport. You’re pale, and when you pause to catch your breath, he makes a noise in his throat like a suspicious cat.

“I’m fine,” you insist, dragging the heel of your palm across your temple. “Just- didn’t sleep much.”

He doesn’t buy it. Of course he doesn’t. Mother Hen Munson is in full cluck this morning.

“You look like you got your soul sucked out by a ghost,” he mutters, standing up and brushing his curls back with one hand, the other already reaching for the tote bag he stuffed full of last-minute ‘just in case’ items.

“Gee, thanks. Really building my confidence here, Eddie.”

“I’m serious.” He hoists the bag and starts ticking off fingers like a man possessed. “Tissues. Cough drops. Thermos. Tea. Extra socks. Those ginger things Wayne swears by, even though they taste like boiled regret.”

Your eyes roll so hard they almost fall out of your head. “Did you pack me an overnight bag or a survival kit for Everest?”

“Not that it’ll be today, but it’s an hour long drive to a place with no CVS and questionable plumbing,” he says, utterly unrepentant. “If you die of a cold mid-gig, the band’s gonna look real stupid accepting our Grammy posthumously.”

You smile despite yourself, cheeks pinking just a little. “You’re such a drama queen.”

He shrugs, strapping the bag over one shoulder. “I contain multitudes.”

But then his eyes soften again, and he steps in close, resting a calloused hand against your forehead like you’re breakable porcelain. “You really sure, sweetheart? I’ll call the guys. We don’t have to do this today.”

Something about the way he says we squeezes your heart in a way you’re not quite ready to examine.

“I’m okay,” you tell him again, gentler now. “Really. Just... need the wind in my face and some loud-ass music.”

Eddie nods slowly, still not convinced, but willing to let you win this one. “Alright. But if you faint mid-power chord during practice, I’m catching you and finishing the solo.”

You smirk. “As long as I go out to your greatest hit.”

“‘Hot for Teacher’ it is,” he grins.

“Eddie.”

“Fine, 'Crazy Train.’ Happy?”

You laugh. It sounds like gravel and sunlight. And for now, that’s enough.

You settle into the passenger seat of Eddie’s van, the door creaking shut with a stubborn thunk. The vinyl squeaks under your weight, and for a second, the silence hangs heavy, save for the soft purr of the engine and the click of Eddie’s lighter.

He cracks the window and takes a drag, not even trying to hide it.

“You know that’s not tea,” you murmur, nose wrinkling.

He exhales out the corner of his mouth. “It’s medicinal.”

“You’ve got VapoRub in your pocket and tea in the thermos. Pick a side, Munson.”

“I’m on my side,” he croaks, then coughs hard enough to make his eyes water. “And my side needs nicotine.”

You don’t argue. You don’t have the energy. The wave of nausea that slammed into you back in the apartment is retreating for now, but it’s left a salty, metallic taste in your mouth and a pressure behind your eyes like a hangover that forgot to bring the party first.

Eddie glances over as he shifts into gear, his hand lingering on the stick like he’s debating pulling the van back into park.

“You sure about this?”

You nod once, quick and decisive. “I need air. And motion. And not to feel like a sick slug under a heat lamp.”

Eddie snorts. “That was poetic. Gonna write that one down for the next album.”

“Put it right after the one about puking into the void.”

He grins and nudges your knee before pulling out of the lot. The engine rumbles like a beast with indigestion, and the city blurs past in autumn-time browns, yellows and oranges.

It’s quiet for a few minutes- peaceful, even. Then Eddie reaches for the tape deck with a look of solemnity usually reserved for funerals or Metallica bootlegs.

“Brace yourself,” he says.

You arch a brow. “For what?”

“For the ultimate motivational playlist.”

You don’t get to argue before the speakers crackle and wail with the unmistakable opening riff of Dio’s Rainbow in the Dark. The volume is too loud for this hour. Too loud for two sick people. Too loud for the van, which shudders like it might just vibrate into another dimension.

You wince, gritting through a spike of nausea. “Jesus, Eddie.”

“What?!” he shouts over the music, eyes wide and innocent. “It’s classic healing frequencies!”

“You’re gonna heal me with metal?”

“Metal, sunshine, and the promise of pizza on the way back.” He pauses. “Mostly the pizza.”

Despite everything- despite the pounding in your head and the fog in your limbs, you let yourself smile. You roll down the window a few inches and let the wind slap your face. It helps, a little. Just enough.

He glances sideways again, this time a little longer than safe. “You sure you’re good?”

You nod, slower now. “Yeah. Just- keep driving. I’ll tell you if I need to puke again.”

“Please aim for the bucket,” he says, gesturing vaguely to the old 7-Eleven bag crumpled near your feet.

“Oh my god, Eddie.”

“I’m just saying, this van is vintage. If you ruin the carpet, we both lose.”

You roll your eyes and tip your head back against the window, the thrum of the van and the guitar solo humming through your bones. Outside, the buildings start to give way to trees and signs for cheap motels and diners. You're not sure what waits for you at the end of this adventure, but you know one thing for certain:

If this is the start of something big, you’re not letting Eddie do it alone.

The van pulls into Gareth’s driveway with a groan of brakes and a final, dramatic sputter like it’s sighing relief. The house looks the same as always- brick with a crooked mailbox, garage door half-jammed open and the unmistakable hum of amps and muffled drum thuds leaking into the afternoon air.

Eddie throws it into park and shoots you a look, part nerves, part defiance.

“Ready to ruin their day with amazing news?”

You smirk. “As long as I don’t throw up on any of them, I’d call it a win.”

Eddie reaches across the console and gives your hand a squeeze, warm and dry despite the lingering congestion in his face. “Rock ‘n roll, sweetheart.”

Inside the garage, it’s full-band chaos in full bloom. Gareth is behind the drum kit with no shirt and too much energy, Grant’s wrestling with a tangle of cords near the amp stack, and Jeff’s hunched over his guitar like it’s whispering government secrets.

They barely notice when the garage door creaks open and Eddie strolls in, triumphant as a cat dragging in a mouse.

“Ladies and gents!” he croaks dramatically, voice still rough from his sickness. “Your fearless leader has returned- with backup.”

You follow a beat behind, arms crossed, leaning in the doorway as Gareth flings a drumstick into the air and catches it.

“No way,” he grins, standing up with a clatter. “Thought you were half-dead yesterday.”

“Three-fourths dead, actually,” Eddie says. “But I was resurrected by the gods of potential opportunity.”

Grant glances over, eyebrow cocked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eddie pauses for effect, then grins wickedly. “We got the call.”

He lets it hang in the air.

Jeff squints. “Like… a phone call?”

“Like a producer call.” He wiggles his fingers theatrically. “Local guy. Rick Altman, he says we should meet up with another guy, Nate Caputo. Owns a studio out in the sticks- Live Mike. Rick wants to hear us. Booked us a demo session with Nate.”

The garage goes quiet except for the soft fuzz of a speaker that’s still powered on. Then Gareth drops the stick he was spinning.

“No shit.”

“No shit,” Eddie repeats, beaming. “Wants to hear what we’ve got. He said he liked the sound from the last gig- word got back to him from that guy who was there. We made a blip, boys. A real one.”

Jeff slowly sets his guitar down and runs a hand through his hair. “Wait. Live Mike Studios? That place is legit. Like… tape-to-reel, analog everything, high ceilings, bad coffee, good acoustics-”

“Hour out of town, central Indiana, middle of nowhere, real deal,” Eddie confirms.

Grant stares, blinking. “He’s gonna record us?”

“Well, we’re gonna record for him,” Eddie clarifies. “But yeah. He said bring a set. Give him something that sounds like Corroded Coffin raw, but tight.”

Gareth whoops and grabs Jeff in a messy, full-body hug. “Holy shit, dude!”

“I told you those extra rehearsals weren’t a waste,” Jeff yells back.

“Guys,” Grant says, eyes huge. “Do you think he has, like, a snack table?”

“Oh my god, Grant.”

You slide into the garage fully now, leaning against Eddie’s side as the band continues to spiral through disbelief and excitement. He lets you rest there, arm slung around your shoulders, hand rubbing absent circles against your sleeve like his body needs to keep moving.

“So,” you finally say, “When do we go?”

They all turn to Eddie.

“This weekend,” he says. “Saturday. He had an opening. We’ll head out early, lay down two- maybe three tracks if we don’t implode. I already called off from work.”

“You-” Gareth looks like he might cry. “You didn’t even tell us before calling off?”

Eddie shrugs. “Some risks are worth taking.”

Jeff grabs a sharpie and starts writing something on the wall behind the amp stack- DEMO DAY: 11/15 in big, crude letters.

You feel a warm coil of pride wind in your chest. It’s messy, it’s sudden, and no one here has showered in what seems like a while- but it’s real. It’s something. And they’re doing it together.

Eddie glances at you, voice lowering. “You still good to come?”

“I’m not letting you drive an hour out into the cornfields of Indiana without a co-pilot,” you say, deadpan. “What if you get a nosebleed halfway there?”

He leans down, brushing his nose against your temple. “Then I’ll bleed on the tape. Make it punk.”

You nudge him. “Promise me you won’t stress about this. Just do your thing. Be you. You’re ready.”

He holds your gaze a little too long, lips parting like he’s gonna say something heavy- but Jeff interrupts with a loud clap.

“Okay! Game plan: we meet here Friday night to rehearse, pack up gear, maybe sleep a few hours. Leave at dawn. No coffee for Grant after midnight, no energy drinks for Gareth ever again, and Eddie- don’t lick anything weird before we go.”

Gareth snorts. “Dude, he always licks something weird.”

Eddie just grins. “Not this time. I’m saving my weird for the demo.”

It’s been a week since Corroded Coffin laid down their demo, and Eddie’s practically glowing- mostly healthy, loud, and riding the high like he was born on stage. You wish you could say the same about yourself. The nausea’s stuck around like an uninvited guest, hovering just beneath the surface.

The van rattles to a halt in the gravel lot of The Riff House- a punk haunt tucked behind what looks like a shuttered mechanic shop. The building leans with age, graffiti tags crawling up the brick like vines. Its neon sign flickers weakly, buzzing like a dying bug in the hazy afternoon light.

Eddie kills the engine and grins, eyes already scanning the front door like he’s home.

“Not the Hideout,” he says, unbuckling with flair. “This place has a real stage. Monitors. A green room. The toilets flush. Baby, we’re basically famous.”

From inside, the low hum of a bassline pulses through the walls- steady, alive, and unmistakably loud.

Eddie turns to you, his fingers still drumming on the steering wheel. “You alive?”

You groan, peeling your forehead off the window where you’d been leaning. “Barely.”

He reaches over, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a gentleness that contradicts his usual bravado. His fingers linger a second, warm against your clammy skin. “You look like shit, babe.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, swatting weakly at his hand. “Real confidence booster.”

“Hey, I’m just saying- if we’re gonna charm this guy into giving us a shot, we might need to play up the ‘tragically ill but still rock’ aesthetic.” He grins, but there’s concern in his eyes. “You sure you’re up for this?”

You take a deep breath, willing the nausea to stay at bay. “I’m not letting you walk in there alone.”

Eddie’s expression softens. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something sappy, then seems to think better of it. Instead, he just nods and grabs the tote bag from the backseat. “Alright. But if you puke on the producer, we’re blaming it on the burritos we ate on the way up here.”

You snort, pushing the door open. The fresh air helps, even if it’s laced with the scent of stale beer and gasoline. Eddie rounds the van, slinging the bag over his shoulder and offering you his arm like some kind of gallant knight. “M’lady.”

You roll your eyes but take it, leaning into him more than you’d like to admit. “You’re such a dork.”

“Your dork,” he corrects, squeezing your arm.

The inside of The Riff House is exactly what you’d expect- dim lighting, sticky floors, and the kind of ambiance that makes you question your life choices. A few patrons glance up as you enter, but most are too absorbed in their drinks to care.

Eddie scans the room, his grip on your waist tightening just slightly as he spots a balding man in a leather jacket waving from a corner booth. "There's our guy," he murmurs, voice dropping into what you've dubbed his "business Eddie" tone- lower, smoother, with just enough confidence to mask the nerves.

You can feel the shift in him- the way his posture straightens, the way his fingers tap a silent rhythm against your hip like he's already playing an invisible guitar solo. He's electric right now, vibrating with the kind of energy that makes people either want to follow him or get the hell out of his way.

The producer- Rick Altman, if you remember Eddie's rambling correctly, stands as you approach, extending a hand. "Munson. You look like hell."

Eddie grins, all teeth. "You should see the other guy."

Rick snorts, then glances at you. "And you must be the infamous girlfriend. Eddie here wouldn't shut up about you."

You manage a weak smile. "Sounds about right."

Eddie squeezes your side, his thumb rubbing small circles through the fabric of your shirt. "She's my good luck charm," he says, and there's something in his voice- something soft and private, just for you, that makes your stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with nausea.

Rick motions for you both to sit. "Alright, let's talk business. You got the demo?"

Eddie's already pulling a cassette from his back pocket, sliding it across the table like it's a winning poker hand. "Freshly remastered. Gareth nearly cried when I made him redo the drum track six times."

Rick raises a brow. "Six?"

"Seven," you correct dryly. "But who's counting?"

Eddie shoots you a look that's half exasperation, half fondness. "Traitor."

The conversation shifts into talk of gigs, studio time, percentages- things that would normally have Eddie vibrating out of his skin with excitement. But every few minutes, his hand finds yours under the table, his fingers brushing your knuckles like he's checking you're still there. Like he's making sure you're okay.

And when Rick finally leans back and says, "Alright, kid. Let's do this," Eddie doesn't whoop or fist-pump like you expect, he just exhales, long and low.

Your breath catches for half a second. Just long enough to register the weight behind those words. He wouldn’t say things like that lightly, not when it’s real. And this? This is real.

Rick eyes the two of you for a beat, like he’s seeing more than what’s being shared. Eddie snorts and slides you closer to him in the booth, pulling you close without a second thought, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You lean back against the cracked vinyl, letting the noise of the venue fade as Rick dives in.

“We’ve got a window,” he says, already pulling out a folded calendar and a battered notepad. “Caputo’s got another act pulling out of a weekend slot in December. I’ll get you on stage, record a video, then we can book you in the studio again for a fuller session- maybe five tracks this time. Think you can swing that?”

Eddie nods, fast and eager. “We’ll be ready. We’ve got more material. Tighter, heavier.”

Rick scribbles something down. “Good. You got a following yet?”

Eddie smirks. “A cult one.”

Rick chuckles like he’s not sure if it’s a joke. “Start pushing your sets. Flyers, zines, hell, write your band name in Sharpie on every bathroom stall from here to Bloomington. You want this to go somewhere, you gotta make some noise… on and off the stage.”

Eddie nods again, more serious this time. “We will.”

You glance sideways at him, noting the set of his jaw, the fierce little glint in his eye. This isn’t a dream anymore- he’s treating it like a job. A purpose.

Rick eyes you again. “You gonna be there next time, Miss good luck charm?”

You meet his gaze, a hand on your stomach like it might calm the tiny storm still brewing low and slow. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Rick nods. “Alright. I’ll put the date on hold. Don’t make me regret this, Munson.”

Eddie flashes that feral grin again. “I only disappoint authority figures.”

Rick laughs- like really laughs this time, then tosses the calendar back in his bag and rises. “I’ll be in touch. Keep your phones on and your asses in gear.”

He’s gone before either of you can say more.

Eddie exhales slowly, letting his head tip back against the wall. “Holy shit.”

You reach for his hand under the table, threading your fingers through his. “It’s happening.”

“It’s happening,” he echoes, almost like he doesn’t believe it. Then his voice drops low, teasing. “Think you can survive a full month out in the middle of nowhere with me while I become a rock god?”

You smirk, biting back a wave of queasiness. “As long as you promise to get famous enough to buy me ginger ale whenever I want.”

He grins and leans in, bumping his nose against yours. “Deal, baby.”

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be tagged!

@justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin

Masterlist

43 notes · View notes

cleverwolfpoetry · 1 month ago

Text

Psycho-pass Movie Novel Chapter 8 Complete

Note before reading: sentences in italics represent the character’s thoughts; sentences between square brackets are phone/radio conversations or the voice of dominators or other electronic devices.

At the gate of Shambala Float, Tsunemori was asked to leave her weapons. She was a little irritated at being treated like an enemy, but she didn’t consider the government forces to be her allies either. She reminded herself that she had gone so far with her actions on the battlefield that it couldn’t be helped.

Surrounded by soldiers of the National Military Police soldiers, Tsunemori was forced to walk at gunpoint. After a lift to the top floor, she was taken to the courtyard of the National Military Police dormitory. There, a grim-faced Nicholas was waiting for her.

“…No matter how important you are as a guest, our patience has a limit…��

“Important guest? You tried to kill me.”

“It was because you were working with a guerrilla.”

“That was part of the investigation.”

“Why can’t you understand that this is ‘our country’? You are confined and will be forcibly repatriated to Japan on the next airfreight.”

Repatriated? Finally, Tsunemori’s expression changed. With a look of steel on her face, she moved closer to Nicholas, and in response, the other soldiers threatened her with their weapons. Nicholas despised Tsunemori and was wary of her. But Tsunemori hadn’t expected him to see her as such a threat. She was prepared for house arrest, but not for repatriation. It was highly unlikely that the soldiers would even allow Tsunemori to open her mouth.

At that moment, the soldiers in the courtyard suddenly stood at attention.

Footsteps approached and Nicholas looked suspiciously in their direction to see Chairman Hang.

“I’d rather you didn’t make important decisions alone.”

“Your Excellency Chairman…!”

“There is no need to repatriate her. Send her back to her room and put her under supervision.”

“But… !”

“Silence! I have my doubts about the way the National Military Police have acted recently. And I am the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces.”

“Yes, sir…”!

This time Nicholas changed colour.

“That was too harsh. As you know, she is a guest... an inspector from the Japanese Ministry of Welfare. Please, take that into account.”

“…”

Chairman Hang’s leniency created a feeling of mistrust in Tsunemori.

The guesthouse was located in a corner of the Sky Gardens of Krita Yuga. Tsunemori returned to her assigned private room, a cottage-style loft structure. She had been forced to return. Two security drones and two soldiers stood guard at the door of the room. She was effectively under house arrest, but she felt she had been saved from forced repatriation.

“Well, then…”

Tsunemori checked the radio wave signal in the room using the sophisticated portable terminal provided to the inspectors, and then carefully checked the power supply, lighting and communications systems. — She discovered that the holographic TV system embedded in the wall had been bugged. She was not particularly surprised. The display on the portable terminal showed that the bathroom, which also contained a toilet, was indeed unmonitored.

Tsunemori entered the bathroom bringing along her self-moving suitcase. First, she took out her notebook, then she opened the cosmetics pouch that Karanomori Shion had hidden, which was filled with the Public Safety Bureau’s ‘Pill bug’ micro-drones.

Tsunemori entered the empty bathtub with the notebook in her hand. As she gave a command on her portable terminal, a multitude of pill bugs began to move simultaneously. The micro-robots rolled around under the power of their macromolecular motors, spreading out through the drains and ventilation fans.

They explored the area from the quarters of the National Military Police to the nearby Chairman’s residence and the surrounding Government Headquarters. It took time, but in the meantime Akane operated the notebook. She found a relay node[1] in Shambala Float and connected to it wirelessly. Careful not to leave any traces, she fed it the hacking programme she had received from Karanomori via her portable terminal. As soon as this was accomplished, a hologram appeared on Tsunemori’s portable terminal with the words [Private Network Established] and [Satellite Communication Online].

“Sorry about this, Shion-san. Can you hear me?”

[Oh, Akane-chan.]

The time difference between SEAUn and Japan was two hours. Karanomori was usually at work at that time. She had tried to communicate with her, thinking that as long as there were no major incidents, she would pick up right away.

[Yes, of course. The programme I gave you seems to be working. So, what’s going on?]

“I’m scattering the pill bugs all over the place. These guys can fool the security equipment in this country. Please check every single psycho-pass diagnostic device installed in buildings and on the streets.”

[What do you hope to find? The Sibyl System is already running there, isn’t it? In that case...]

“The System may not be working fairly. Selectively check the relevant equipment within the Special Ward, especially that of the Military Police. Check that the cymatic scans are really measuring accurately.”

[A detective’s intuition... sort of thing?]

Tsunemori laughed at Karanomori’s words.

“It’s not like that. It’s the result of a series of considerations.”

[Okay. I’ll go all out.]

The pill bugs started the search. The collected data was transferred to Tsunemori’s computer, from where it was sent to Karanomori in Japan via satellite through a private network .

“One more thing. The collars used to monitor latent criminals here in Shambala Special Ward are also made in Japan, right?”

[Shouldn’t they be?]

“Could you please find a code to unlock them under the authority of the Public Safety Bureau?”

[It’s a piece of cake, but... will you be all right? The Military Police won’t be all too pleased, will they? ]

“I am long past the stage where I act by worrying about people’s moods .”

— The Old Town, where the guerrilla clean-up had come to an end. The camp of Desmond’s mercenaries had been set up in a large, abandoned theatre that occupied one corner of the city. Armoured vehicles, transporters and two powered suits had been brought into the atrium.

Kougami’s hands were tied with reinforced plastic bands, and he was suspended by chains from hooks in the ceiling. His upper body had been stripped naked, and he was covered in bruises from being beaten and kicked.

The man torturing Kougami was a large, muscular Frenchman — Weber. Rutaganda, Babangida and Bun looked on. The Russian, Yulia, had just returned from buying local alcohol and food. Yulia tossed a bottle of whisky to Rutaganda and a bottle of beer to Weber.

Having got his drink, Weber stopped hitting Kougami and took a break.

Rutaganda approached Kougami instead. After putting the whisky on the table, he reached into his survival kit and pulled out a small pair of first-aid scissors.

Medical scissors with a thin, knife-like tip.

Rutaganda opened the scissors and placed them on Kougami’s nipple. The cold blades touched the muscular chest, and the man involuntarily frowned at the repulsive sensation. Rutaganda pinched Kougami’s nipple with the tip of the sharp scissors. A little more force and it would have been cut off.

“First of all, I can’t shake off the suspicion that you were acting as a military advisor to the guerrillas under someone else’s orders.”

Rutaganda inquired.

“Actually, didn’t you have contact with the Japanese Tsunemori even after you left the country? To what extent does the Japanese government know the real situation of SEAUn? ... That’s what we want to know.”

“It would have been much easier if I had had the support of the Japanese government…”

Kougami defiantly held his ground.

“What makes you think that? You’re the one who’s supposed to have connections with the Japanese government, aren’t you? Shambala Float is a division of the Ministry of Welfare…”

“Don’t you care about nipples? How about here, then?”

Rutaganda placed the medical scissors on Kougami’s crouch. He clamped them around the base and, as expected, Kougami’s face contorted at the feel of the blades touching the sensitive area.

“…Do it!” Kougami said.

“It doesn’t sound like you were acting,” Rutaganda put the scissors back in her bag. “Even men have less fun when they lose their nipples. You should be grateful for my kindness.”

“…These aren’t regular army methods. You’re mercenaries, right?”

Kougami countered. Rutaganda laughed.

“I was surprised to find that the guerrilla military advisor I had heard so much about was Japanese. I thought that country was nothing but a phony, spineless rubbish, with all the Sibyl and other bullshit.”

“It’s true that I don’t have a place there anymore.”

“Did you leave the government service after receiving a professional training? But as a mercenary, you are third-rate. Above all, you have no eye for choosing your employers.”

“Don’t lump me in with your hyenas. I don’t just live by trailing the scent of blood.”

“Well, that’s the kind of nonsense that only a former detective would say. There are those who are eager to write slogans saying that in the ideal state of violence there is both law and justice. In a world where states have collapsed, there is a ‘privatisation of violence’. This is because the monopoly of organised violence is the essence of the state. When violence begins to spread, it becomes ‘infrapolitical’[2]. Organised violence as an economic activity, with social resentment as its source.”

Kougami laughed scornfully.

“ ‘The wretched of the earth’[3], eh? A post-colonialist mercenary is hard to deal with.”

“Huh? You’re not only skilled, but also educated? More and more interesting.”

Rutaganda raised his eyebrows, somewhat impressed.

Then he released Kougami’s bonds.

“What?” the mercenaries shouted in surprise, but Kougami was the most surprised of all.

— What is he up to?

“ From what I have heard, your fellow guerrillas idolised you. Did you inspire them with some reassuring ideologies?”

As he said this, Rutaganda lightly adopted an orthodox boxing stance.

Then Kougami finally understood.

He wanted to test Kougami’s skills a bit more... that’s how it was.

“…no idea.”

“Hmmm. But I wonder. Sure is that when I talk to you, I feel strangely uplifted. It’s like listening to Wagner’s music.”

“These are words I’d rather hear coming from a glamorous, beautiful woman. Hearing them from a man just gives me goosebumps.”

Hearing this, Yulia from the gallery tilted her head and wondered ‘Is he referring to me?’ But Kougami was focused on Rutaganda, and the beautiful woman was out of sight.

“That talent of yours is precious, Mister Japanese. You’d make a good agitator. You have a special charisma that can stir up anger and focus resentment.”

Kougami tried Rutaganda’s skill test.

After the torture, his condition was close to the worst. Just lifting his arms made every joint in his body ache. And yet, when Rutaganda gave him that ‘come at me’ attitude, he couldn’t help but do so.

Kougami tried to hit him but failed. Due to the pain and his diminished strength, his punch was too long. Rutaganda easily dodged it and counterpunched him.

Rutaganda’s left fist was human, but still effective. Two more jabs from Rutaganda. Kougami did not dodge and continued to receive sharp, fast punches.

This is good boxing — . Even at my best, it will be hard to beat Rutaganda, Kougami thought. A left punch alone had almost knocked him out.

In a hazy state of consciousness, Kougami still managed to put together a plan.

— Rutaganda’s right arm must be made of a special alloy.

The left, of course, is a decoy. A diversion. The real punch will come from the right.

Kougami dared to throw a jab.

He wobbled but dared to throw it anyway.

Then he waited for Rutaganda’s right hand.

The sound of the blow, the pain. The skin of his cheek torn. The taste of blood filling the cut mouth.

Finally — the long-awaited right came.

(— I did it!)

Rutaganda threw a right straight and Kougami matched it with a left hook.

A cross counter.

A steel fist was driven into Kougami’s face, but he also landed a powerful blow.

“…!”

The mercenaries’ eyes widened at the sight. It had been a long time since they had seen Rutaganda take a beating — No, it was the first time since they had formed the mercenary group. Weber almost dropped the bottle of beer he was drinking and quickly grabbed it on the way down.

The damage was worse for Kougami.

His knees trembled and he fell.

But Rutaganda’s feet wobbled as well.

Kougami hadn’t been able to defeat Rutaganda with a single blow, but he was doing what he could now.

“No way! That’s awesome.”

Laughing, Rutaganda pulled out a gun from his belt. It was the revolver pistol he had taken from Kougami. He pointed the muzzle of the revolver at Kougami, who had fallen to the ground.

“It’s rather modest, but we have our own community. Eventually we want to build up our forces and form our own military clique. When that happens, we’ll need not only the usual leadership skills, but also the ability to excite and captivate the masses.”

Rutaganda poured whisky onto the pistol he was holding up. The highly alcoholic drink poured down the barrel of the gun onto Kougami. It seeped into the wounds all over his body. Kougami groaned involuntarily at the burning pain in his nerves.

“How about it? Do you feel like joining us? We'll give you the opportunity to hone your skills and set the stage for you to be able to use them to their fullest.”

The mercenaries scowled at Rutaganda’s proposal.

“He… hey! Leader…”, Babangida said with a confused look on his face.

Rutaganda ignored the voices of his subordinates and continued.

“If I hand you over to my client like this, you’ll be dead anyway. I’m saying that I’m giving you a chance to live.”

“I don’t see how that’s better than dying, don’t expect me to be grateful.”

Wet with whisky and enduring the pain, Kougami spat out resolutely. Rutaganda was about to say something when he received a call on his portable terminal.

[Is he still alive? The male target.]

It was from Nicholas Wong of Shambala Float.

“Yeah. Can I kill him yet?”

[He still has some use. Bring him to me.]

“…copy that.”

Rutaganda ended the call and shrugged at Kougami.

“I would have liked to give you some time to think it over. Too bad, that was poor timing.”

The doorbell rang in Tsunemori’s room. She was now under house arrest by the National Military Police. In this situation, only one person was using the intercom. Tsunemori, who had her laptop open in the bathtub, invited her maid, Yeo, into the room.

“Excuse me. I see you’ve returned to your room…”

Yeo had brought the meal on a tray cart. Porridge with chicken, fried egg. A spicy salad. She was tempted to eat it all, but for the moment she held back and just gulped down a glass of mineral water.

Tsunemori moved her face closer to Yeo.

“What?”

“Stay calm.”

Tsunemori grabbed Yeo’s hand and pulled her into the bathroom. There she pressed her portable terminal against the girl’s collar and entered the code she had received from Karanomori. This unlocked the collar, which came off and fell to the floor.

“Th-this is…” a confused Yeo said.

“Calm down and listen to me. I need your cooperation.”

“… cooperation?”

“To expose the abuses committed by the National Military Police.”

“…!” Yeo’s eyes widened in surprise.

“It’s okay. If I can’t prove that there’s corruption in the Military Police, you can just say I threatened you. Then you won’t be charged with a crime.”

“… Are the National Police really corrupt?”

“There’s no doubt about it. So much so that I could stake my entire career on it.”

“But”

Then it happened. Suddenly, Tsunemori’s vision began to sway. Her knees were shaking, and she could not stand properly.

I’ve been drugged. — When? The mineral water just now! Yeo betrayed me? In any case, the enemy beat me to it. The next moment, realising she was in a bad situation, she used her remaining strength to retrieve the notebook she had left in the bathroom, switched the pill bugs to autonomous control, and executed the command to erase all data. She left the rest to the Karanomori.

Yeo ran out of the bathroom.

“Yeo-san…”

Tsunemori ran after her on shaky legs.

The door opened and Nicholas and his soldiers burst in. The drug had made it impossible for Tsunemori to resist, and she was tied behind her back with a plastic band.

“…!”

“I did as you said!” Yeo clung to Nicholas.

“Now you are really going to take off my brother’s collar, aren’t you? His illness is progressing and a high level of medical — ”

“I’ll have a good think about it.”

Nicholas pushed Yeo away and drew his gun. He shot her carelessly in the head.

“Tsk!”

“Don't kill the woman yet. We’ll arrange for her to die together with the guerrilla’s military advisor. It’s the least suspicious way.”

“Why did you kill Yeo-san?!”

Tsunemori’s mouth barely moved as it should have.

“The gun I just used was the one I confiscated from you,” Nicholas said triumphantly.

“Inspector Tsunemori shoots and kills the maid in order to escape. She runs outside and tries to join the guerrilla leader. Then we rush to the scene and shoot the inspector and the guerrilla to death... We used to be able to deal with the troublemakers more easily, but now we have to be very careful with the Sibyl System, right? ...”

“I knew you guys weren’t getting read by the cymatic scans. The scanners in this city have been fooled.”

“Oh? Do you have proof?”

“You just killed someone!”

“If the Sibyl system doesn’t complain, no action is a crime. Isn’t that so?”

Laughing, Nicholas poked Yeo’s corpse with his toe.

“In other words, this woman was just trash who deserved to die. That’s fine with me.”

Tsunemori looked at Yeo’s corpse. She had been a beautiful girl, but now most of the back of her head was gone and pieces of her brain were spilling out of the large gaping hole in her skull.

— A person like her shouldn’t have been killed. Tsunemori bit her lip in frustration.

NOTES TO TRANSLATION:

[1] Relay node: radio stations that cannot communicate directly due to distance, terrain or other difficulties sometimes use an intermediate radio relay station to relay the signals. A radio relay receives weak signals and retransmits them, often in a different direction, as a stronger signal.

[2] Infrapolitical: Adjective of infrapolitics. Infrapolitics refers to the study of political actions and consequences that occur below or outside the realm of official political structures and processes. It examines the physical, social, and political infrastructure that supports urban life, including how it can be used for both oppression and resistance. Infrapolitics explores how individuals, groups, and institutions engage in non-traditional forms of political expression and action.

[3] The Wretched of the Earth is a book by the philosopher Frantz Fanon. In this case, Rutaganda’s speech is not a direct quote from the book but rather a personal elaboration based on it.

Please, no repost outside of Tumblr.

translation by cleverwolfpoetry @ https://cleverwolfpoetry.tumblr.com/

#psycho pass translations #gekijouban psycho pass #chapter 8 #kougami shinya #tsunemori akane #rutaganda desmond #wong nicholas

26 notes · View notes