“Requesting landing permission. Identification signal... uh, civilian transport ship Sperm Whale.”
The traffic controller on the other end of the comms sounded blatantly irritated as he assigned me to Dock 4 in District 7 of the Hex Colony.
I was wedging a five-hundred-meter-long behemoth into a cramped civilian dock. Normally, transport ships of this size only frequented hub stations along major trade routes. Shoving such a giant into a backwater colony—and a civilian dock at that—was likely seen as the height of absurdity.
Passing through the massive airlock, I set foot on an alien world for the first time. Well, technically, it wasn't "soil." It was the inner wall of a gargantuan metal cylinder, transformed into a pseudoground by rotational gravity.
“Ugh, the stench...”
The moment the hatch hissed open, a powerful wave of "life" punched me in the face.
It was the smell of burning waste oil, damp air heavy with a mixture of excrement and body odor, and the pungent, stinging scent of cheap synthetic spices wafting from somewhere nearby.
It was night and day compared to the sterile, hospital-like interior of the Sperm Whale.
My vision was filled by a sprawling slum where rusted pipes crawled over every surface like swollen veins. Garish neon signs flickered and buzzed, screaming advertisements in some unrecognizable language.
The crowd was just as chaotic. I saw thugs with high cybernetic-enhancement rates, sub-humans with skin covered in scales, and humans with mean, predatory glares.
“Now then, time for some information gathering... or rather, figuring out my next move.”
I stopped before a grimy kiosk—a public terminal—tucked into a back alley. It was a public citizen registration system. I needed to check my status before doing anything else.
Back in the game, I had been a 'Galactic Federation Honorary Citizen' and even held permanent residency on the luxury resort planet, 'Eden Prime'.
Clinging to a faint spark of hope, I placed my hand over the biometric sensor.
Authentication complete. ...No matching data found. Unregistered biological signature.
“...I knew it. Dammit.”
The screen flashed 'Unregistered' in mocking red characters. Apparently, three thousand hours of glory weren't even worth a line of code in this world's database. My permanent residency, my peerage—all of it had been flushed down the drain.
The person standing here now was nothing more than an "unemployed man of no fixed address."
“Sigh... Well, moping about it won't fill my stomach.”
I sighed and tapped the screen to open the 'Mercenary Management' tab. It offered same-day registration without an ID, daily pay, and zero compensation in the event of death. It was the kind of arrangement that would make a sweatshop look like a charity, but I couldn't afford to be picky.
I quickly registered myself under the name "Akito." I forgot to mention, my full name is Akitoshi Inamori. Not that it matters—who am I even explaining this to? Regardless, I’d managed to secure a basic ID tag and the bare minimum rights required to travel through this universe.
Rummaging through my pockets, my fingers brushed against something hard. A 'Credit Chip'. In the game, these had been nothing more than loot containers for currency.
While the ship's digital accounts had been wiped clean, it seemed that—just like my equipment—whatever had been physically inside my pockets had made the trip.
There wasn't much, but it was probably enough to cover a meal.
“Food... I need food.”
I tucked the ID card into my coat, and my consciousness immediately linked back to my complaining stomach. Amidst the chaos of the slum, my nose caught a scent coming from a specific direction.
In this filthy air, it was a smell that stood out as unique—the nostalgic, savory aroma of something stewing.
...It’s probably just something seasoned with chemical flavorings, just like those cubes, I told myself. My brain understood that, but my body had reached its limit. My legs moved on their own, pushing through the crowd as if drawn by a magnet.
I found the stall. A massive stockpot was bubbling away atop a stove made from a modified oil drum.
“...Actually looks pretty good.”
But the moment I leaned in to get a better look, my face contorted.
The contents were grotesque.
There were purple crustacean shells, chunks of mysterious greenish meat, and things that looked like eyeballs boiled down into a thick mush. Unidentified gray scum was caked thick around the rim of the pot.
And yet, the steam rising from the pot smelled like the real deal. It carried the scent of salt and animal fat. It had the smell of life—something the 'Tasty Cube' lacked entirely.
It looked like a nightmare, but I figured all stews probably looked like this during the cooking process. At least, that’s what I told myself.
“Old man, give me a bowl.”
I held out a Credit Chip with a trembling hand. The stall owner—an insectoid with four arms—fixed me with a stare from his bulging compound eyes.
“You got it. Want toppings? Throw in an 'Acid Sac'?”
“Yeah, whatever. Just give me something edible...”
The owner scooped up a ladleful and was about to pour it into a bowl when—
Grab.
A rough, calloused hand shot out from the side and seized my wrist.
“Huh?”
I turned reflexively. Standing there was a middle-aged man with heavy stubble, wearing a battered combat suit. He had cloudy eyes like a dead fish, but the grip on my arm was as strong as a vice.
“...Don't. You'll die.”
“What?”
The man spoke in a low, gravelly mutter.
“The meat from that 'Swamp Crawler' hasn't been prepped right. See those purple lines? Those are neurotoxin canals. Eat that, and your internal organs will melt in three minutes. You'll die while leaking your own liquified insides out of your backside.”
“...”
I looked back into the pot. Sure enough, the cross-sections of the meat chunks were marbled with vibrant, poisonous-looking purple veins.
“...Are you serious?”
“The old man running this stall killed two rookie mercenaries just last week. Apparently, the taste isn't half bad for species that are immune to the toxin, though.”
The man let go of my hand and pulled a flask from his coat, taking a long swig. The sharp, heavy scent of alcohol drifted over.
“Kid, you look like a fresh arrival. Around here, there’s nothing less trustworthy than a 'delicious smell'.”
I stared blankly at the steaming, lethal soup. I could swear I felt my stomach let out a tiny shriek of terror.
“Then... then what the hell am I supposed to eat?!”
“Hm? Well, that’s obvious.”
The man jerked his chin toward a stack of cardboard boxes at a neighboring stall.
“The 'General-Purpose Synthetic Food Tasty Cube'. Safe, cheap, and packed with nutrients.”
There, piled into a mountain, were the same hateful silver pouches I had spent the last several hours gagging on.
“...You’ve got to be kidding me.”
A dry, hollow laugh escaped my lips. It seemed this galaxy was intent on declared war against my stomach.
The insect-man at the stall is just selling what he can eat himself, so...
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