Chapter 472: Radiation Sickness
As Ryo advanced, he used his auditory sensors to capture fragments of surrounding conversations.
On the way to the Administration Office, he passed an area resembling a notice board.
Some announcements were posted on it, the paper looking somewhat aged.
A few of them were commending individuals and teams who had made contributions to the maintenance or technological restoration of the "Core," listing their names and the extra rations or contribution points awarded.
The language of the announcements emphasized dedication and glory toward the "Ancestral Heritage."
But near the notice board, and in the leeward corners of some buildings, residents gathered in twos and threes to rest. Their hushed conversations revealed a different kind of information.
"...the anti-radiation medicine quota at the medicae clinic has been cut again. They say it's to prioritize the supply for the Core Zone."
"Heh, it's always that excuse. My father's coughing up blood got worse last week, but his application for extra healing gel was rejected."
"Keep your voice down... there's nothing we can do. Who told us we can't live without the Core? Without it, we are nothing; we would have turned to ash in the wasteland long ago."
"But this price... my daughter is only twelve, and her hair has already started falling out..."
"At least we are still alive, still able to trade tech for a bite to eat. People outside couldn't get in even if they wanted to."
These fragmented conversations, combined with his observations of the residents' health conditions, pointed to a clear fact: this community possessed technology far surpassing the wasteland average, but its technological source, that "Core," simultaneously posed a continuous and seemingly unavoidable threat to the residents' health.
Resources, especially medical resources, were clearly skewed toward activities directly related to the "Core."
Ryo linked this information with the anomalous radiation cloud he had scanned earlier.
The radiation continuously leaking from the STC system was very likely the root of this "price."
House Van Saar relied on the STC to survive and develop, but the STC was also slowly eroding their lives.
He did not linger too long at the notice board or crowded areas, proceeding toward the Administration Office as directed by the guard.
His optical lenses quietly recorded the routes, the locations of defensive nodes, potential surveillance blind spots, and those exhausted faces bearing worry or suppressed endurance.
This small town appeared orderly on the surface and possessed impressive technological capabilities, but internally, there clearly existed a profound contradiction forged by technological reliance and health attrition.
This might be an exploitable entry point.
The tavern was located at the intersection of a secondary corridor in Junktown. The storefront was not large, pieced together from salvaged metal plates, and the lettering on the sign was somewhat mottled.
Ryo pushed open the heavy soundproof door, and a smell blending low-grade synth-amasec, machine oil, and sweat hit him in the face.
The interior of the tavern was dimly lit. The primary light source came from a few low-power pendant lights above the bar counter, along with sporadically flickering, malfunctioning neon tubes on the walls.
There were not many people in the tavern, scattered around a few tables.
Most patrons wore standard grey-black hazmat suits; some had unfastened their collars, while others placed their helmets within reach.
The volume of conversation was low, masked by a deep background noise and the hum of the recycling ventilation system.
Ryo walked to the bar counter and ordered a glass of the most basic synth-amasec.
The bartender was an expressionless middle-aged man who mechanically completed the service without any superfluous interaction.
Holding his glass, Ryo chose a relatively concealed spot at the end of the bar. With his back against the wall, this angle allowed him to observe most of the tavern's interior.
His auditory sensors were tuned to high-sensitivity mode, filtering out background static to capture fragments of surrounding conversations.
A group at a table near the door was discussing work.
"...another conduit corridor was discovered at the eastern excavation site. The structure is fairly intact, but the radiation readings are on the high side."
"The people from the tech department will go over to evaluate it tomorrow. Hopefully, we can find some useful standard interface ports."
"Let's hope so. Those data crystals we found last time took three months to restore, and it turned out most of them were corrupted."
The topic at another table revolved around health.
"...the new batch of anti-radiation meds issued by the medicae clinic doesn't seem as effective as before."
"I heard there's a shortage of raw materials, so they diluted the concentration."
"Damn radiation sickness... my father has been coughing terribly these past two days, can't sleep at all at night."
"The maintenance shifts in the Core Zone have increased again, but I haven't seen any extra contribution points."
"Stop complaining. Getting into the Core Zone is an opportunity. Earn some more contribution points, at least you can trade them for better filter cartridges."
These fragmented pieces of information aligned with Ryo's previous observations: a community conducting technological excavation and restoration around the "Core" (STC), universally plagued by radiation sickness, with strained medical resources and an internal hierarchy based on contribution to the "Core."
His gaze swept across the entire tavern, finally resting on a corner deepest inside.
A young man sat there alone, wearing a hazmat suit bearing the heraldry of House Van Saar. However, the style was relatively old, with subtle fraying marks on the elbows and shoulders.
His head was bowed. In front of him sat a nearly full glass of cloudy synth-amasec; the condensation on the glass indicated it had been sitting there for quite some time.
Unlike the other patrons who occasionally conversed in low voices, he maintained an unusual silence, as if isolated from the surrounding clamor.
Suddenly, an uncontrollable, violent fit of coughing erupted from him.
He hunched over sharply, his shoulders heaving violently. The coughs were muffled and continuous, carrying a distinct chest resonance, sounding exceptionally abrupt in the relatively quiet tavern.
He hurriedly covered his mouth tightly with one hand, using the other to brace against the tabletop to steady his body, but faint wet traces seemed to seep through his fingers.
A few gazes from the surroundings briefly glanced his way, carrying a routine scan, but they quickly moved away, returning to their respective glasses or companions.
No one stepped forward to ask or express concern.
Those gazes carried an accustomed apathy, as if this was merely part of the daily background noise. They even vaguely revealed a trace of imperceptible avoidance, as if afraid of being tainted by something foul.
Even the bartender merely cast a glance in that direction, his expression unchanging, before continuing to mechanically wipe the already spotless glass in his hand.
The coughing lasted for about fifteen seconds before gradually subsiding, finally turning into a few heavy, ragged wheezes.
The young man straightened up, his chest still visibly heaving. His face appeared even paler under the dim light, and fine cold sweat beaded on his forehead.
He glanced at the untouched glass of synth-amasec, his eyes revealing physiological exhaustion and a deeper, almost despairing agony.
Subsequently, he buried his head deeply once more, returning to his previous state of stillness, as if trying to completely hide himself away.
Ryo's sensors clearly recorded this scene: the acoustic characteristics of the cough indicated severe lung tissue damage; the reaction patterns of the surrounding crowd showed this condition was common and disregarded in this community; the young man's isolated location and body language both pointed to his marginalized status within the society.
His violent coughing, accompanied by specific chest murmurs, highly matched the symptom patterns of the "radiation sickness" described earlier.
This person, not only in a worrying physical condition but also possessing weak social ties, was a potential breakthrough point for information.
Ryo slowly took a sip of his synth-amasec.
He had found a potential source of information, a breakthrough point who was likely dissatisfied with the status quo and in desperate need of help.
He needed to find the right moment to approach this young man in a manner that would not arouse suspicion.
(End of Chapter)