Reincarnated as a Mushroom?-Chapter 76 - 75: The Strip Between Worlds and the Toothy Men Who Wait There

Chapter 76: Chapter 75: The Strip Between Worlds and the Toothy Men Who Wait There

Chapter 75: The Strip Between Worlds and the Toothy Men Who Wait There

Ecumenopolis 4 — the planetary colossus named with all the creativity of a bureaucrat choking on his own tax forms — was, like its six kin, a monument to contradiction. One of the seven glittering nails in the coffin of the Spartari solar system’s ecological sanity, it loomed like a world halfway between divine ambition and cybernetic madness.

Ronnie had done a solid job painting the place with words on our approach, but words, even well-placed ones, are like trying to describe a hurricane with a haiku. Seeing the planet in person was something else entirely — something that pressed up against my eyeballs with the weight of scale.

At the equator, Ecumenopolis 4 bloated out at 150,000 kilometers of full planetary waistline. And the world, rather poetically, had split itself in two — not by politics or faith or language, but by aesthetic schizophrenia.

The northern hemisphere was a planetary mosaic of contradiction — great verdant jungles snarling with vines, deserts shimmering with heat-ripples and irradiated ghosts, vast plains stretching into eternity like yawns made of wheat, cragged mountains bearing teeth like gods, and a few scattered oceans glittering like warpaint on a titan’s cheek. Even from orbit, I could see the cities pulsing with artificial auroras, their lights dancing in woven nets like the people were collectively flexing their civic pride for the whole galaxy to see.

Then came the southern hemisphere, and holy mother of tone shifts — a concrete hellscape, an endless cyberpunk cancer metastasizing from pole to pole. No oceans. No climate. Just a planetary nervous system of chrome towers, pixel storms, retinal burn, and the constant hum of industry eating its own entrails. A city that never slept because it was too wired on corporate paranoia and neon sugar.

Ronnie had told me it was safe, mostly. But the deeper you plunged into the concrete intestines of the south, the more the gangs ruled in silence and blood.

We drew closer — our ship gliding on carefully regulated thrusters toward a space station that hung in orbit like a priest’s ring. Most ships docked here — all of them, actually. Civilians weren’t allowed direct planetary landings. Something-something pollution, something-something flight control, something-something don’t let the peasants breathe rarefied air.

We almost docked.

Then the comms lit up.

"VIP Designation #18202422, you are cleared to land in Special Class Landing Zone— krrzzt—"

The message was cut off mid-sentence, as if someone yanked the speaker away by the collar. What followed was a voice deeper than guilt and more energetic than a sugar-snorting sergeant. It roared through the ship like a choir of vibrating bass strings.

> "Negative. Override. VIP Designation #18202422 is hereby authorized to bypass orbital protocol. Full planetary access granted. Proceed directly to the Strip Airport. Over and out."

A beat. Then the original, clearly out-ranked voice returned — now meeker, now smaller.

> "...Understood, sir."

I looked at Ronnie. Ronnie, who should’ve been smug, was instead blinking like a man who’d just been told gravity was a suggestion.

---

Elsewhere, on the orbital port, a man in a red-and-black military uniform — with epaulettes sharp enough to slice bread and a moustache that had probably committed war crimes — set down his comms crystal with a grin that could strip paint. His face radiated something between genuine excitement and restrained madness. He looked around, making sure no one noticed the sharp carnivore teeth he couldn’t quite hide when he smiled. Satisfied he hadn’t been caught fang-baring, he stabbed himself in the thigh with a pen — hard.

Pain was a good deterrent for thinking about his family.

Not now, he reminded himself. Later. When it’s safe. When we’re all home.

For now, he resumed his act. The role was called ’work,’ and he played it well enough not to get court-martialed.

---

Ronnie explained, as we dipped past orbital control, that being allowed to actually land on Ecumenopolis 4 was about as common as finding a vegan warlord in a butcher’s guild. Civilian ships weren’t permitted entry due to atmospheric preservation treaties. The air was to remain as clean as possible for the moneyed and the genetically pampered.

Most transportation was either ground-based electric vehicles or — if you had the right amount of zeroes in your bank account — a tightly restricted personal flyer. But us? We were going to a place called the Strip. Not a strip club, though that would’ve made more sense. This was a 500-kilometer slab of semi-private land, starting just north of the equator, where the elite could glide in and out without touching common infrastructure. freewebnoveℓ.com

The name made me chuckle. Probably not the intention, but hey, I’m allowed my little victories.

The descent was smooth. Ronnie flew like someone who’d been raised on star maps and cockpit chairs. We landed like a whisper across silk — the ship gliding to a halt on the Strip’s shimmering runway, the lights blinking in lazy approval.

I left Ronnie to do his thing and retreated to my quarters to gear up. My power armor pack was waiting, humming softly like it missed me. But the real surprise wasn’t the armor.

It was Kimchi.

She was standing in the center of my room like a model frozen in divine pose. A black crop top hugged her torso, and a pair of sleek tactical pants coiled around her hips like they’d been poured onto her. Her usual combat armor had been abandoned in favor of something... freer.

"O-Orchid—you—" I fumbled, still instinctively calling her by the wrong name. "You look fucking gorgeous."

Kimchi beamed, pleased. "Thank you, Irvine-mate. Orchid still finds these garments alien, but they are loose and breathable enough that they do not trigger my dermal combat instincts."

I slung my pack over my shoulder, and my hand moved with a mind of its own — straight to her ass. Because when someone looks that good in pants, decorum dies.

She didn’t flinch. Just smirked with a little curl of her lips, as if I’d passed a test she’d written.

---

Ronnie met us at the cargo hatch. Onyx was still curled up in my mind, curled into a dreamball and purring psychic static into my thoughts. We disembarked into the terminal, walking toward what looked like a customs checkpoint. Except... the guards didn’t check shit.

They all froze mid-step, then touched their helmets like someone was whispering straight into their skulls. A second later, they stepped aside in perfect sync — stiff, robotic, respectful. Like they’d just been ordered to treat us like royalty.

I assumed it was Sophia’s doing. The Mother of BioCult, the ever-smiling psycho-savant who’d somehow taken a keen interest in me. I made a note to thank her. With words. Probably.

The night air was cool and dry, a surprisingly nice change after ship-stale ventilation. "So, Ronnie," I asked casually, "how long’s the ride from here to your place?"

"Normally? Fifteen minutes by air cab. But Mother instructed us to avoid drawing attention. She’s already calculated that our presence will attract interest, so we’re to take a land vehicle. Two-hour ride. It’s waiting around the corner."

Fair enough.

We were led to a matte-black electric car with no windows and the kind of sleek aerodynamic design that screamed either ’I’m rich’ or ’I sell drugs.’ I guessed both. The doors opened with a hiss.

And out stepped a wall of meat.

The guy was six-foot-four, built like a shipping crate with arms, and wore clothes that looked painted onto his bulk. His voice was even more absurd — gruff, exaggerated, like he was auditioning for a B-grade cop drama.

"Oi, crumb. You Ronnie?"

Ronnie blinked. "Uh, yeah, that’s me?"

"About fucking time. I’ve been roasting in this tin can for hours. Lady Sophia said to wait. I assume one of you is the asset?"

His eyes flicked between me and Kimchi with all the grace of a blunt knife.

Ronnie nodded slowly. "Yes. The man. I assume you’re hired help, not inner circle?"

"Yeah. Contracted metal. She’s hired me before, but don’t let metal into her house full-time. Y’know the rule."

I had zero idea what ’metal’ or ’crumb’ or ’pip’ meant, but it all sounded deeply illegal and oddly affectionate.

With no more banter, the man shoved himself back into the front seat, folding like origami. Ronnie looked at us. "You two in the back. I’ll ride shotgun with our new friend."

Still hand-in-hand — well, hand-on-ass — Kimchi and I slid into the car. The interior was lush, soundproof, and smelled faintly of mint and ozone. The guy up front offered a courtesy warning.

"If you two want some privacy, there’s a blue button by your knees. Hit it."

"Thanks," I said, already pressing it.

A solid barrier slid into place, cutting off the cockpit.

---

Up front, the driver grunted and adjusted the controls before glancing sidelong at Ronnie.

"So, crumb... who are the lordlings in the back? Sophia paid me more credz than I make in three months for this trip."

Ronnie’s jaw clenched, his tone like a dagger pressed to velvet. "The woman’s important. The man? Very important to Lady Sophia. My advice? Drive. Forget they exist. Pretend this ride never happened."

The driver gave a raspy laugh but nodded. "Alright, pip. No need to rattle your saber. I get it."

He meant no harm. But he also meant curiosity. Dangerous thing, curiosity. Especially when it butted heads with Sophia’s plans.

The driver didn’t ask another question.

Smart man.

The car rolled on, southward, into the concrete artery of a planet that had forgotten how to sleep.

---

End of Chapter

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