Chapter 2: Punk City's Human Boy

Whimper. Whimper.

A rainy night.

The cries of a baby could be heard from a basket placed in front of the orphanage door.

The nun, hearing the child's cries, sighed and brought the baby inside the orphanage.

In this orphanage, located right next to a brothel, finding a newborn baby in a basket in front of the door wasn't a particularly rare occurrence.

The nun laid the newborn in an incubator donated by a doctor who grew up in the orphanage, and as always, prayed that the baby would thrive despite the limited resources.

100 days.

Children brought to the orphanage in this manner usually had their fate decided within 100 days.

And this child successfully passed the 100-day mark.

Relieved, the nun finally gave the baby a name.

Amon.

It meant Love.

True to his name, Amon grew up healthy under the nun's love.

And on the 200th day.

“Ah Mmm... Ahmmm...”

“Yes. Mama. Try it. Mama.”

The nuns surrounded Amon, who was starting to speak, and clapped their hands.

Although he wasn't their biological child, the moment the foundling called them "Mama" for the first time was one of the few joyous moments that compensated for their arduous life at the orphanage.

Amon continued to mumble words containing 'ㅇ' and 'ㅁ'.

“Ummn”

When that word came out, the nuns burst into laughter.

To think he'd say his own name before "Mama."

This child would surely grow up to be someone great.

But the next word that came out of Amon's mouth... was far beyond their expectations.

“Amen.”

“???”

Truly, the first word of a child destined for greatness.

***

“Hmm. Looking handsome again today...”

The boy muttered while looking in the mirror.

In the mirror, a boy with slightly curly black hair, thick eyebrows, and warm, handsome features met Amon's gaze.

His slightly downturned eyes might receive mixed reviews depending on who you asked, but no one could deny they were charming.

Amon was satisfied with his appearance today as well.

He hadn’t even bothered with makeup or special care, and he already looked like an actor.

He had that kind of confidence.

Well, it made sense, considering it was a meticulously crafted character creation he’d spent countless hours perfecting.

‘Whew. I’m so lucky. Thank you, Lady Goddess.’

Every time he looked in the mirror, Amon's faith in the Goddess grew stronger.

Of course, he was grateful that she had given him a second chance and whispered kind words to build his self-esteem.

But his faith never grew as much as when he realized which character creation he was born with.

When he turned three and his hair grew out, revealing the contours of his face, Amon offered a prayer of gratitude to the Goddess.

He even tithed half of the allowance he had received from the orphanage.

Looking in the mirror, Amon imagined the faces he could have been stuck with.

Phimosis Specialist

Nakadashi-san

Magical Girl Pretty Afro

‘Oh, Lord.’

If he had been reincarnated with any of those appearances, he would have seriously considered resetting his life from the age of three.

Amon's current appearance was the one he used in his previous life for characters he wanted to immerse himself in the story with.

Mainly for uncovering Easter eggs, hidden backstories, getting the True Ending, or pursuing a perfectly happy ending.

He had grown somewhat fond of his other character creations, using them for speedruns and concept playthroughs, but being reincarnated with those appearances was a different story altogether.

Fortunately, the Goddess understood the human heart.

She granted Amon the appearance he desired most.

‘I’ll be sure to tithe diligently this weekend too.’

Amon was currently 15 years old.

He had no job, and his only income came from welfare and small errands, but he still diligently tithed within those means.

Even when tithing became tedious, his faith blossomed every time he washed his face and looked in the mirror, so he had never once missed a tithe.

Of course, he was well aware that in this punk world, the tithe went not to the Goddess, but to the potbelly of the chubby Priest.

But he didn't care.

It's the thought that counts.

No matter how much this dreary society, which dismissed love and religion as nonsense, pecked at him, his faith wasn't so fragile as to crumble.

Enough appearance evaluation.

He finished washing his face and came out of the bathroom.

His friends were lined up outside the bathroom door, waiting for their turn.

"Good morning, everyone!"

There were two distinct reactions to Amon's morning greeting.

"Good morning, Amon."

"...Tch"

The former were Amon's close friends, the latter were those who found him annoying.

Initially, the latter group was overwhelmingly larger, but after he consistently greeted them for over 10 years, most of them now returned his greetings.

After washing his face, breakfast awaited Amon.

Today's meal was, once again, meat.

And it would be meat for the foreseeable future.

Even though technological advancements had led to the degradation of human dignity, progress wasn't all bad.

At least the orphanage's meager budget could secure enough meat to fill the children's bellies.

Ironically, meat was cheaper than vegetables in the punk world's version of America.

The difference varied from country to country, but at least in the America where Amon lived, the money for one meal's worth of vegetables could buy enough meat for six meals.

Thanks to this, the orphanage's menu consisted mostly of meat.

Amon cut the Synthetic Meat patty, today's menu item, in half and put it in his mouth.

The taste was roughly similar to a hamburger patty.

However, to Amon, who had tasted real beef patties in his past life, there was a slight awkwardness.

The aroma, the fattiness, the texture.

They had recreated beef as best they could, but they hadn't quite reached perfection.

Amon swallowed the Synthetic Meat and gave the remaining half to the girl sitting next to him.

“Huh? Aren’t you eating?”

The girl looked at Amon quizzically.

The girl with silver-blue hair tied back looked back and forth between Amon and the meat.

Her name was Sonia Perfume-Rose.

A girl who had been abandoned... no, entrusted, in front of the orphanage a month before Amon.

Amon answered with a vague smile,

"You know I can’t eat a lot of meat."

"Because of the smell?"

"Yeah."

Sonia, pitying her childhood friend who couldn't eat much meat because of the smell, ate the meat heartily in his stead.

Gulp-

As the meat slid down her esophagus, her ample bosom briefly expanded and contracted.

Amon averted his gaze.

Even though the world had gone mad, Amon still had normal senses.

He wasn't attracted to a 15-year-old girl.

Instead, he only felt sorry for her, seeing her empty his portion along with her own.

‘I’m sorry.’

The reason he couldn’t eat a lot of Synthetic Meat wasn’t because of the smell.

On the contrary, the Amon of his past life loved meat so much that his blood vessels flowed with pork fat and soju instead of blood.

But after coming to this world, every time he faced Synthetic Meat, he remembered the production process and found it difficult to eat much.

‘How can anyone eat that?’

Insects, particularly larvae and beetles, have remarkable reproductive capabilities.

Even surpassing cows and pigs.

In a world where efficiency and profit took precedence over all other values, Synthetic Meat made from insects wasn't a particularly strange foodstuff.

In a world that had abandoned human rights, what was insect meat, anyway?

Therefore, people born and raised in this world ate Synthetic Meat without a problem, even knowing its insect origins.

Sonia ate it just fine, knowing that.

But not him.

If only he didn’t know how it was made, then maybe he could eat it without picturing it in his mind.

But he did.

He pictured it vividly.

There was a side quest in the game where you infiltrated a Synthetic Meat factory, and the process of handling larvae and insects was shown in detail.

And in 4K, no less, thanks to his good computer specs.

That scene had traumatized Amon to the point where he couldn’t eat hamburgers for weeks.

It was that bad even when he saw it through a screen, so imagine it on his plate.

Amon considered it a feat that he wasn’t vomiting right now.

At least, aware that he was still growing, he ate the minimum amount of protein needed for his development.

‘It’s not bad for my health, at least.’

Surprisingly, Synthetic Meat was actually healthier than beef.

No antibiotics or hormones were fed to insects.

Even more surprisingly, unlike what you'd expect in a punk world, hygiene in food factories was strictly managed, making it healthy.

Healthy, it was...

Amon once again sent a silent thank you to his childhood friend who ate the insect meat... no, Synthetic Meat, for him.

***

After finishing his meal, Amon's next task was to go out.

He left the orphanage, hand in hand with his childhood friend, Sonia.

School?

That was a luxury for orphans.

Rather, the place Amon was heading to was on the opposite side of town from the school.

Not a place for learning, but a place to put learning into practice.

The two headed towards a rickety building with a sign that read <Johnson Mercenary Agency>.

As was typical of mercenary work, it wasn't a respectable profession, so they headed underground.

Opening the door, they were greeted by a bar filled with the pungent smell of alcohol.

Passing by mercenaries clanking their mechanical arms, Amon went straight to the front.

He saw the bartender wiping glasses behind the counter.

The bartender was an elderly man with a striking goatee and goat horns.

Amon spoke to the goat Beastkin bartender.

“Grandpa Johnson, got any hot jobs for us?”

“Boy, someone might misunderstand you if they hear you say that.”

The elderly man admonished Amon in alarm.

As if reflecting his emotions, his right cybernetic eye repeatedly contracted and expanded with mechanical whirring.

No matter how messed up the world was, they didn't give minors guns and send them to work.

At least, not openly.

“If you say it like that, I’ll get arrested. You have to call them errands.”

And since this old man, called Johnson, was the owner of a legitimate Mercenary Brokerage, he didn't give mercenary work to children.

The errands Johnson mentioned weren't euphemisms, they were actual errands.

Amon nodded and corrected himself.

“Yes. Do you have any errands for us?”

“Alright. Sonia’s with you today, right?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. I’ll give you something suitable.”

The old man waved kindly at Sonia next to Amon and wrote down the list of errands he wanted them to run.

The errands were written on the back of a torn contract.

The personal information of the unknown mercenary written on the front was of no concern to the old man.

The list was completed, and Amon received it.

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- Wilton's Butcher Shop: One box of sausages

- Dominic's Pizza: One box of frozen pizzas

.

.

.

- Tommy's Blacksmith Shop: A kitchen knife

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The errands the old man asked the children to run were mostly for ingredients to be used in the bar.

Noting the large quantity again today, Amon stuffed the paper into his pocket.

Amon checked the promised payment.

It was a ridiculously low amount compared to the hourly wage of a typical delivery person.

But Amon didn't show it.

The reason Johnson hired orphans for deliveries was because it was cheaper than hiring delivery people. If Amon demanded more, he wouldn’t even get that much.

Knowing this, Amon accepted the delivery job without complaint.

At least, Johnson was one of the nicer ones.

“The kitchen knife is a bit urgent, so I’d appreciate it if you could deliver that first.”

“Leave it to us.”

“I’ll give you a bonus for that.”

“I won’t refuse.”

At least he was reliable when it came to bonuses for additional requests.

Amon left the brokerage with Sonia.

Escaping the smell of alcohol, acrid air greeted them.

Amon filled his lungs with exhaust fumes and started walking.

Another day, another hustle in Punk City.