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墨書 Inktalez
Carter and Jack's argument grew increasingly heated, their voices loud enough to be heard down the street, attracting the attention of several passersby. Some stopped to watch the two men shouting at each other like drunken patrons in a bar, while others hurried past, seemingly afraid of being caught up in the nonsensical dispute.
"You just refuse to believe that the world can actually change, don’t you?" Carter glared at Jack, his grip on the beer bottle tightening as he nearly spilled it on his shoes. "You’d rather sit here and complain about the government, complain about the system, than have the courage to reach out and seize an opportunity!"
"To hell with your 'opportunity,'" Jack scoffed, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "What do you think this is? A hero's rise story? Reality isn't a movie, Carter! Do you even know where you are right now? This is a rundown corner bar, not some damn congressional hall! You're just a Veteran; they'll use you and then kick you aside just like the government did before!"
"They won’t do that!" Carter shouted back, veins bulging on his forehead, his anger nearly boiling over. "Rain is different from those Politicians—he’s real—"
"Real?" Jack rolled his eyes dramatically. "I've heard that word so many times I'm about to puke. 'Real'? If he were really real, why isn’t he on the front lines? Why hasn’t he eaten spoiled rations in the trenches? Don’t give me that 'real' crap, Carter. You’re just a pawn for him to rally those at the bottom; once you’re no longer useful, let’s see if he even remembers your name!"
"You don’t understand—"
"I understand better than anyone!"
The two men were nearly nose to nose now, like two enraged bulls ready to charge at any moment.
Marco sat quietly off to the side, watching it all unfold without saying a word or attempting to intervene—he knew that speaking up would be pointless; these two idiots would only shout louder.
But just then, Tommy, who had been slumped in a corner, suddenly stood up.
This movement surprised everyone because Tommy had just moments ago been sprawled on the floor like a pile of useless flesh, clutching a bottle of cheap liquor and mumbling incoherently.
Now, however, he was swaying as he stepped between Carter and Jack, pushing them apart with both hands.
"Enough!" Tommy's voice was hoarse and slurred, thick with alcohol. "What the hell are you two Mechanical Insects arguing about?"
Carter and Jack paused for a moment, exchanging glances filled with equal confusion.
"…What insects?" Jack furrowed his brow, looking at Tommy as if he were insane.
"Mechanical Insects!" Tommy's bloodshot eyes widened as he spoke earnestly, as if he had just uncovered a cosmic truth. "Don’t you see? They’ve been here all along! The government, the military, those damn Politicians—they're all their puppets! The world we live in is just their farm; when the time is right, they’ll open the gates from below and let those massive Mechanical Insects crawl out and devour our flesh!"
"…"
Silence.
Carter, Jack, Marco, and even the passersby stopped in their tracks, looking at the man who had just been completely drunk but now resembled a doomsday prophet with confusion etched on their faces.
"What the hell..." Jack rubbed his nose bridge, seemingly stunned into forgetting how to retort by Tommy's words. "Tommy, what the hell are you talking about?"
"This isn't nonsense; it's the truth!" Tommy waved his arms, his tone growing more urgent. "They've buried antennas in our bones, you know? Every time you feel that ringing in your ears, that's them adjusting the signal, getting ready to launch the final control!"
Marco lowered his head and took a swig of his drink, finally unable to suppress a laugh.
"Alright, Tommy, shut up," he shook his head and said lazily. "You've had too much to drink."
But Tommy paid no mind. His eyes widened as he whispered, "Do you think I'm joking? One day, when you hear the sound of the sky tearing apart, you'll understand..."
With that, he swayed like a machine suddenly deprived of power and then fell back to the ground with a thud, continuing to drink himself into oblivion.
Carter and Jack exchanged glances; the anger they had felt moments ago had been doused by this absurd interruption.
"You know what?" Carter sighed and rubbed his temples. "I suddenly don't feel like arguing anymore."
"Same here," Jack shrugged and raised his bottle, shaking it in Tommy's direction. "To our Mechanical Insects."
"Fuck you," Carter replied grumpily but still clinked his bottle against Jack's as if it were some unspoken reconciliation.
The three of them fell into silence again, each sipping their drinks. This kind of quiet was as natural as breathing for them.
This was their daily routine. Ever since they were forced into retirement, they had passed the time like this—one bottle after another—sitting at the entrance of this dilapidated bar, watching the city run its course while remaining disconnected from it.
They had grown accustomed to this life; or rather, it was the only pastime they could afford.
When they ran out of money for drinks, they would play cards.
At the bar entrance, there were always gamblers. No matter the time, someone would be there drunkenly clutching crumpled bills, hoping for a stroke of luck and dreaming of turning their last bit of savings into something more.
At that moment, they would begin the gambling game.
The rules were simple, and the outcomes were random—at least for those clueless fools.
The three of them tacitly divided their roles: one dealt the cards, another distracted the gamblers, while the third switched cards, hid them, or exchanged knowing glances to decide who should win and who should lose.
Their goal was not to wipe everyone out in one go; that would be foolish and too risky. A true con never lets the prey realize they are being hunted.
So, they always "just happened" to lose a few rounds, creating an illusion for the drunken patrons that this was a fair game. Then, when the atmosphere was just right and the stakes began to rise, they would make their move.
The winnings were evenly distributed among the three of them; no one took it all, and no one was overly greedy. This was key to the longevity of their scheme—they created a facade of "luck turning."
Sometimes, a hapless gambler would start to suspect something, but Marco always managed to silence them with a few sharp remarks. If that didn't work, Jack would deliberately lose a hand, returning a bit of money to keep those fools thinking they still had a chance to recover their losses.
Carter was the quietest of them all, always wearing a stoic expression like an emotionless observer. But when he acted, his precision was unmatched, leaving no trace of error.
Eventually, as the gamblers had drunk enough and lost nearly all their money, it was time to disperse.
Then they would take those hard-earned bills into the bar, buy a few bottles of liquor, and continue sitting at the entrance, drinking away that dirty money until it vanished in the froth of their beers.
This was their life—a never-ending, helpless cycle.
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