Mob No.32: “Since Mr. Roans is on vacation, taking a job would be life-threatening for me. So I don’t intend to accept any requests for a while.”
After lunch with Kruss, I went to the factory district’s industrial area.
Lined up here were factories of all sizes, producing everything from home appliances to weapons, military gear, instruments, machinery, bikes, vehicles, ships, aircraft, spaceships, androids – if it’s mechanical, you can find it here, they say.
And where I was headed was the place I bought my ship the Patchwork from.
I purchased a used model there, and built it up by replacing and attaching various parts.
The factory is called Dorg Maintenance Works, and repairs all kinds of things.
In addition to commissioned work, they also repair and sell discarded or acquired items.
My home appliances and ship weapons all come from here too.
“Yo, oyaji, it’s me.”
“Oh, long time no see. Looks like you’re still alive.”
The one who greeted me as soon as I entered the factory was the president here, Mr. Bill Dorg.
He’s an elderly man, but his small stature, muscular build, protruding belly, and bearded face have supposedly earned him the nickname [Dwarf] from neighbors and fellow mechanics.
And befitting that [Dwarf] nickname suggesting he’s a skilled craftsman, his mechanical skills are top class. Rumor has it development divisions from dozens of top corporations have tried to recruit him.
I address this Dorg-san, whom I respect and am close with, as [Oyaji].
“Somehow staying alive.”
“So whatcha here for today?”
“I wanted to request an overhaul.”
“Some big damage happen?”
“Since Mr. Roans is on vacation, taking a job would be life-threatening for me. So I don’t intend to accept any requests for a while.”
Oyaji knows Mr. Roans.
Apparently he looked after Oyaji when he was still active.
“Dunno why, but dock’s open right now. Bring it by 10 tomorrow. Form’s on the usual shelf, fill it out.”
“Got it. Thank you.”
During our conversation, Oyaji kept working on some vehicle engine.
As I was filling out the overhaul request form,
“Say, don’tcha ever think of getting custom-made personal weapons installed?”
Oyaji suddenly asked.
Mr. Roans asked me the same thing before.
Apparently once you start earning decent pay, you start wanting that sense of uniqueness from custom equipment.
Oyaji apparently gets requests like that too.
But my answer is decided.
“When they break down or run out of ammo, repairs and resupply aren’t readily available. And they cost a lot.”
Custom means limited creators, which means using special materials.
If it breaks down or needs resupply, it causes extra hassle, plus materials can be expensive.
Mass produced goods that are easy to obtain and cost effective are better.
Of course, I do feel the romance of custom pieces, but I don’t have the guts to bet my life on them.
“As steadfast as ever. The guys nowadays desperately wanna mount them.”
“Well, I guess the radar. I wanted a powerful one after all.”
Though it was expensive, the 20 billion km radar is still mass produced.
“Right, guys who can’t even handle mass produced stuff tryna get custom pieces, useless.”
Apparently Oyaji takes custom orders, but rejects obvious newbies and useless guys.
Even if they’re nobles.
But he probably gets away with it because of his skill.
Maybe Oyaji has noble blood himself.
The next day, after leaving my ship with Oyaji, I headed to the guild.
To find the person Mr. Roans mentioned, and do my firearms training.
Under the thinking that [Mercenaries should be able to handle weapons to some degree], mercs have mandatory annual firearms training.
It’s usually done at year-end, but this is a good time so I’ll get it done.
I got to reception just fine, but at a glance the counter Mr. Roans used seemed to have a new female receptionist, as a crowd had formed there. Aside from that, I didn’t see the person Mr. Roans mentioned anywhere.
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After searching for a while to no avail, I called Mr. Roans.
“Hello?”
[Oh, what’s up? Rare for you to call.]
I could hear resort chatter in the background.
“The male receptionist you mentioned isn’t here.”
[That can’t be right. His name’s Alphonse Zeistol. I heard he’s diligent and does his job properly. He finished training and was supposed to take over for me.]
[Oh right, since he was delayed by an accident near the gate, and I had my flight time, I just left instructions for him.
If he’s not at reception, he might be organizing documents inside, so ask a staff member.]
“Got it. I’ll check.”
After ending the call, I asked a passing male staff about a Mr. Alphonse Zeistol.
“Ah, [him]? He’s over there.”
The male staff pointed in the direction of Mr. Roans’ counter.
Come to think of it, with Mr. Roans gone, it makes sense for that spot to be vacant.
However, that was where the crowd had formed for that new female receptionist.
And looking closely, there were even some women mixed in.
Peering through a gap in the crowd, the receptionist was indeed small-framed with delicate features, blonde hair, and blue eyes.
However, not short hair but long, silky hair elegantly tied into a single braid.
Moreover, looking around 16-17 years old, a beautiful girl.
The minimum requirement for reception is high school graduate or equivalent certification, so she’s at least 18-19 without a doubt, but that’s quite the baby face.
And the voice was unmistakably a girl’s.
Considering the male staff has no reason to lie, that [beautiful girl] being [male] is certain.
In other words, the Alphonse Zeistol Mr. Roans left in charge is a so-called [trap]!
That Roans! A guy for sure, but no different from a girl!
Alright, I absolutely won’t go near.
But I have to go through reception to submit the training application.
Well, it’s usually done at year-end anyway, so I can just do it normally.
I should ask Mr. Roans when he’ll be back first.
As I tried to leave,
“Excuse me. You’re Mr. John Uzoss, correct?”
someone called out to me.
“Y-yes, I am, but who might you be?”
No need for formal speech.
I nervously turned around, and
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Alphonse Zeistol. I’ve been assigned to reception duties starting yesterday.”
The one who had been at reception, who looked like nothing other than a girl in a suit, Alphonse Zeistol, had left the counter and greeted me with a smile.
All the guys crowded around the counter earlier were now silently glaring at me, and I could clearly hear voices like:
[Why’s he get a personal greeting?]
[I won’t allow that ugly creep near my Al-kyun!]
[No! I don’t approve of them as a couple!]
“U-um, nice to meet you too. Was there something you needed from me?”
He probably identified me from documents, but I don’t know why I was called out to.
“Until Mr. Antonio Roans returns from his leave, I will be handling his duties, so I look forward to working with you.”
His [smile] as he greeted me looked like a demon’s grin.
I’m sure that’s not his intention though.
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