The bonfires of the Hock Trading Caravan's impromptu market cast a frenetic, dancing light across the packed earth between the town wall and the line of silent, beast-drawn vehicles. In barrels that had once held things far more innocuous, scavenged timber and chunks of petrified rubber spat and hissed, painting the gathering crowd in shades of lurid orange and shifting shadow. Strung between the hulking carriages and buses, lengths of ancient fairy lights—their plastic casings cracked, their bulbs a mismatched assortment of colors—winked on and off with a sputtering, magical insistence. In the Wasteland, this was the pinnacle of festive illumination, a gaudy beacon of civilization and transient plenty.
Stalls unfolded from the sides of wagons like mechanical blossoms, displaying a tantalizing, if grim, harvest. Bolts of cloth that might once have been curtains, tools worn smooth by forgotten hands, tins of unidentifiable food, and an arsenal of weaponry ranging from sharpened scrap to a few lovingly maintained firearms. It was a carnival of survival, and the people of Cinder Town, their faces etched with a hunger that went beyond food, wandered through it with a new, unfamiliar boldness.
Old Man Hock, presiding over this spectacle with the weary air of a ringmaster, felt a peculiar mix of satisfaction and deepening unease. The satisfaction came from the steady clink-clink-clinkof bottle caps falling into his strongboxes. The unease came from the source. These were not the desperate, one-time purchases of starving scavengers. These were considered transactions. A man bought a twist of rough tobacco, not with his last cap, but with a small handful. A woman, her arms still dusty from the well-digging, bartered a portion of her day's rice ration for a faded but whole cotton dress. Children clutched newly acquired, palm-sized knives, their eyes wide not with desperation, but with a kind of grim pride. They were all spending. They all had something to spend.
They're working for him, Hock realized, the truth settling in his gut like a cold stone. And he's paying them. In food. In water. In caps.It was an economy, however rudimentary. It spoke of reserves, of a terrifying confidence. Hock's initial assessment of the "Harry Potter Michael" character required a swift, brutal revision. A fool with a windfall would hoard, would lord his power with petty cruelty. A shrewd operator invested, built loyalty, and created a system that generated more wealth. The man was not a lucky scavenger; he was a competitor.
His earlier attempt at a shakedown, orchestrated through his grumbling guards, now felt like a clumsy, dangerous misstep. The memory of the Ogre's earth-shaking bellow and the slow, grinding emergence of the Sherman tank's cannon from the alleyway was still fresh. It had been a masterful, wordless rebuttal. Hock was a businessman, not a warlord. His power was in mobility, in goods, in the delicate balance of threat and bargain. He couldn't afford a war of attrition with a town that had a functioning tank and nothing to lose. The calculus had changed. If he couldn't take, he would trade. And trade well.
Nearly an hour into the market's lively hum, the man himself appeared. Harry Potter Michael moved through the throng with a casual assurance, Old Gimpy limping at his heel like a malignant shadow. Hock smoothed the front of his checked shirt, put on his best negotiating smile—a network of wrinkles around eyes that missed nothing—and strode forward.
"Lord Michael! The market welcomes you!" Hock boomed, his voice the practiced, hearty tool of a lifelong salesman. "Allow me, as your host, to provide a personal tour. I have some singular items I believe will be of… particular interest."
Michael inclined his head, a gesture that was neither warm nor cold. "Lead on, Mr. Hock."
The tour began. Hock was in his element, a connoisseur of scarcity. He stopped before a stall where heavy, block-like objects were lined up. "Fully charged lead-acid cells!" he announced, as if presenting crown jewels. "Forty amp-hours each! Enough to light your charming tavern for a week! A token of our new friendship… just five of those delightful spicy strips per unit. Or five caps, if you prefer."
He watched Michael's face closely. The man glanced at the batteries, then at the dim, fairy-lit sprawl of his town. A man with a hidden Vault, Hock reasoned, might have generators. But a man playing lord in a backwater would crave this taste of the old world—music, light, a symbol of control. Michael's eyes held no spark of desire. Only a flat assessment.
"No need," Michael said, and moved on.
Undeterred, Hock steered him to the next wagon, its side opened to reveal stacked crates. "Libations! From the finest 'Atomic Vodka' to the humblest grain beer. I have surplus. As a gesture of goodwill, ten percent off all alcohol tonight!" A guard, on cue, offered two dented tin cups filled with the clear, viciously potent vodka. Michael took one, sniffed, and his nose wrinkled in an expression of such profound, instinctive disgust that Hock felt a fresh jolt of surprise. He didn't just refuse; he was offendedby the offering.
The refusals came in a steady, disquieting rhythm. Michael looked at the reinforced, fat-tired bicycles—"mobility for your guards, my Lord! A man's daughter is a fair trade for one of these elsewhere!"—and shook his head. He passed by stalls of patched tents, salvaged boots, bundles of precious antibiotics (likely expired), without a flicker of interest. Hock's patter began to feel hollow even to his own ears. This wasn't a negotiation. It was a dismissal. The man didn't want the staples of Wasteland life. He either had them, or he considered them beneath him.
Finally, as they reached a quieter corner near the command truck, Michael stopped. He turned to Hock, the firelight painting one side of his face in gold, the other in deep shadow. "Mr. Hock. I appreciate the tour. But I'm not in the market for… amenities." His voice was low, matter-of-fact. "My needs are specific. Gold coin. Bullets, of any caliber. Functional firearms. Bulk grain. I will pay in bottle caps, or in the packaged goods you saw. I can take any quantity you're willing to part with."
He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, and temporary magical contracts. Scrolls, bindings, that sort of thing. I have a use for those as well."
Hock's mind raced. Gold coin was for high-tier trade with the real city-states. Bullets and guns were carefully metered out to prevent any settlement from growing too strong. This was a shopping list for someone building, or fortifying, something substantial. The Vault theory solidified. This man was provisioning a hidden redoubt.
"Lord Michael," Hock began, choosing his words with the care of a man disarming a bomb, "guns and ammunition… the quantities I can release to any one township are, for the stability of the region, necessarily limited. And gold… it is a rare medium of exchange here. Bottle caps serve well enough, do they not?"
Michael's smile was thin, understanding. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that was almost swallowed by the crackle of the nearest fire. "Of course. Stability is important. Tell me, Mr. Hock… how is the road? The long hours in the saddle of your truck? Not too… taxing on the constitution?"
A cold, entirely personal recognition flashed in Hock's eyes. The years on hard seats, the questionable diet, the stress—they had taken a specific, painful toll. A thronely affliction, the bane of leaders and long-haul drivers across history.
Michael continued, as if discussing the weather. "I find travel so trying. One needs certain… comforts. Pharmaceutical comforts. On my next procurement run, I could likely source a selection of medical supplies. Antibiotics, painkillers… even specialized topical ointments. For inflammatory conditions. The sort of thing that makes a long journey, or a council meeting, much more bearable."
The world seemed to narrow to the man's calm face. The market noise faded. The ache that was Hock's constant, unwelcome companion gave a sympathetic throb. Medicine. Real medicine. Not just broad-spectrum antibiotics, but targeted relief. The value was astronomical, not just in caps, but in personal agony alleviated. And what he could sell the remainder for in Winnar…
All thoughts of quotas and regional stability evaporated. This was no longer about arming a potential rival. This was about securing a miracle. The shrewd merchant vanished, replaced for a fleeting second by a suffering old man presented with the key to his own private hell.
He didn't trust his voice. He simply thrust his right hand out, the gnarled fingers steady despite the turmoil within. His eyes, locked on Michael's, held a desperate, unmistakable avarice.
"Done," Old Man Hock croaked, the word a sacred vow in the flickering, trash-fire light of the Wasteland night.