Chapter 98: The Second Orange Weapon and the Dance
Ron slept like the dead—literally like the dead.
He crashed from noon on the first day straight through to the next morning, then casually wolfed down some nearly expired cheesecake that Penny had brought home from the Cheesecake Factory before falling back into a coma-like sleep. He didn't surface again until the following afternoon.
When he finally woke up completely refreshed, the system, which had been dormant for ages, delivered some welcome news.
"Congratulations, host, for earning the approval of plot character Arthur. The host has received Arthur's gift: Perfect Infiltration (Heavy firepower to eliminate everyone in the target zone is solid strategy, but you still need to maintain your core assassin skills—master-level infiltration techniques. You've earned them.)"
Ron's heart sank reading the first half of that description, but he felt relief wash over him at the end. Thank God it was a legitimate skill. If it had just been some gimmick he'd improvised to impress Arthur, what would he really need a system to teach him about overwhelming firepower?
The sensation was identical to before. Initially no physical effect, but as the skill transfer began, dizziness set in, followed by crushing fatigue, until the knowledge was fully integrated.
Ron understood this as a side effect of his brain processing massive amounts of new information, like how your hands get cramped after gaming marathons.
Ron closed his eyes, and sure enough, his mind was flooded with knowledge he'd never possessed before. He could now confidently walk downstairs to grab a bag of Doritos and then pick every lock in the entire apartment complex.
Not only that, but Ron noticed that in its holster, the M1911 pistol Arthur had casually given him yesterday was now emanating a brilliant orange glow!
Just like last time—when Old Jack first gave Ron his gun, it hadn't glowed. Only after Old Jack truly acknowledged Ron's skills did his Smith & Wesson begin radiating orange light.
To use the terminology from those crappy mobile games, this was the aura of legendary-tier equipment!
Ron had only possessed one orange weapon so far, and it had proven incredibly useful. Was he about to acquire a second one? He wondered what special properties this one would have.
Ron excitedly approached the weapon, drew it out, and held it reverently in his hands like a sacred relic, checking its stats through the system interface.
However, the weapon's properties completely blindsided him.
"Suicide M1911 Pistol (Rock Island Arsenal Collector's Edition), previously owned by everyone from a Navy officer in the Korean War to the legendary assassin Old Harry. This firearm possesses mystical properties, granting its user a peaceful death."
Fearing he'd misread the description, Ron went through it again. As expected, this "legendary" weapon served no purpose beyond providing a peaceful death.
"Are you kidding me?!
What am I supposed to do with this thing? A peaceful death? Isn't that supposed to be a special service for the enemy? Am I supposed to use this to off myself?!"
Ron thought the weapon's abilities were absolutely ridiculous. He'd probably never use this piece of junk, but since it was a gift from his team, he didn't have the heart to trash it. He simply stashed it in the far corner of his system storage.
Ron depended on that space for all his quick-draw surprises. Unfortunately, it was only a tiny 3x3x3 meter cube—27 cubic meters total—barely enough room for a compact car, so he was limited to his small arms collection.
This thing wasn't even as useful as the P90 he'd casually snagged from the assassination company yesterday. That weapon glowed purple and had just one simple feature, but it was incredibly practical.
"P90, manufactured under extremely unusual circumstances on the production line. Feature: Completely recoilless."
That single attribute alone made it superior to everything else. If that property could be applied to Ron's revolver, it would be perfect.
"Grumble!" Ron's empty stomach interrupted his system browsing, dragging him back to reality. He was starving.
But when Ron habitually headed to the Williamsburg Diner, a hole-in-the-wall joint in this sketchy neighborhood, the door was locked tight with a sign reading "Closed for Private Event."
Not far away, parked in an old, beat-up 2002 Lincoln Town Car, four figures—one massive and three regular-sized—sat clustered together eating pastries.
The largest figure was obviously a Polish woman squeezed into an evening gown. Her considerable bulk, emphasized by the low-cut dress, resembled a flesh-colored mountain. Ron immediately recognized her as someone from Max's circle.
"Well, well!" Earl, who knew Ron best, was first to greet him: "If you're here to play Prince Charming and rescue some damsels in distress, you're a little late to the party. We already got ourselves a fairy godmother!"
"Sophie," the Polish woman wiggled her hips and pressed up against Ron in an overly flirtatious manner: "The fairy godmother, that's me."
"That little tiara really completes your look today," Ron complimented halfheartedly while subtly creating some distance: "Can someone fill me in on why everyone's dressed to the nines? Are we celebrating the Fourth of July early? If I remember right, that's not until next Wednesday."
Han came over enthusiastically to shake Ron's hand: "Nah, it's Max and Caroline. They're headed to some fancy gala tonight. We were all gonna go together, but Oleg's ride crapped out on us."
Oleg shrugged helplessly: "Sophie, I told you my cousin was bringing tools to fix the car within thirty minutes."
"You said that an hour ago, and now those two sweet girls have been gone for twenty minutes." Sophie kept complaining.
Ron started piecing together the situation from their conversation.
Max and Caroline were planning to crash an upscale charity ball, hoping to bump into some influential magazine editor and get her to sample their cupcakes in exchange for promotional coverage.
Unfortunately, Oleg's repeatedly resold luxury sedan died practically the moment he turned the key. In Sophie's words, "He's the kind of man who creates more problems than he solves."
"Can you tell me which hotel they're hitting? Maybe I can lend a hand. Without proper invitations, it's gonna be tough for them to get past security."
"The London West Hollywood in Beverly Hills." Sophie scooted closer, continuing her aggressive flirting, which made Oleg burn with jealousy. But having just been chewed out, he didn't dare speak up and could only glare at Ron with murderous envy.
Ron was completely uncomfortable. While he appreciated curvy women, Max had the perfect proportions, not... how to put this delicately?
If Max was a sleek Mustang, then Sophie was a heavy-duty pickup truck—one of those oversized gas-guzzling models that breaks down if you look at it wrong.
Ron decided it wasn't wise to stick around much longer.
"Thanks," Ron said, accepting the small cupcake Sophie offered and popping it whole into his mouth. He swallowed without chewing, immediately satisfying his hunger. "Pleasure meeting you, Ms. Sophie, but I think my ladies need some backup. Catch you later!"
With that, Ron hopped back into his car and peeled out, leaving Sophie standing there staring wistfully at his taillights. "So damn sexy... I wish I could get with a man like that. I really don't know which of those two sweet girls he's calling his princess. They're so lucky!"
"Maybe it's both of them," Earl muttered under his breath.
(End of Chapter)
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