The mud squelches under my boots. Every step feels like I am pulling my feet out of wet cement. Even though my "Gilded Veneer" skill makes my boots look like expensive leather, the mud beneath them is very real. It is thick, black, and smells like old oil.
I am thirty feet away from the merchant's shack. The light from his lantern is small and yellow. it flickers in the wind, casting long, shaky shadows across the piles of broken metal. To a normal person, this place is a dump. To me, right now, it is a battlefield.
I stop for a second to catch my breath. My chest feels tight.
[STAMINA: 18/100]
[WARNING: ILLUSION STABILITY DROPPING]
The edges of my silk sleeves start to go fuzzy. For a heartbeat, the grey, dirty rags underneath show through. I grit my teeth and force my mind to focus. I have to believe the lie, or he will see right through me.
"Focus, Lucius," I whisper. "You aren't a dying man. You are a bored prince who took a wrong turn."
I straighten my back. I lift my chin. I walk into the circle of yellow light.
The merchant is sitting on a crate made of rusted iron. He is a big man with a face that looks like a crumpled paper bag. He has a thick, grey beard stained with something green—probably the cheap "Synth-Tobacco" the poor people here chew to forget their hunger. In his hand, he holds a scanner that hums with a low, annoying sound.
He doesn't look up at first. He is busy poking at a pile of glowing blue wires with a screwdriver.
"We're closed," he grunts. His voice is deep and sounds like stones grinding together. "Come back when the fog clears. And don't try to sell me any more 'Pre-War' glass. I know a bottle of soda when I see one."
I don't say anything. Silence is a powerful tool. If you speak first, you are asking for something. If you wait, you are the one in charge.
I stand there, bathed in his lantern light. I let him see the "silk" of my suit. I let him smell the fake expensive spice scent the System provides. I wait for the smell of the scrap-heap to lose the fight against my fake perfume.
Slowly, the merchant looks up. His eyes move from my polished boots, up my legs, to the sharp cut of my jacket. His screwdriver stops moving.
He blinks. He blinks again. He looks behind me, searching for a guard or a private shuttle. He sees nothing but the dark, stinking trash.
"You..." he stammers. He stands up so fast he knocks his crate over. "My Lord? I... I didn't see you there.
His eyes are wide. He is looking at my "Dignity Rating" without even knowing it. To him, I look like someone who could buy his entire shop and turn it into a footstool.
"The air down here is disgusting," I say. I make my voice sound cold. I make it sound like I am offended that I have to breathe the same oxygen as him. "Is this how the 'Lower-Half' lives? It's a wonder you don't all choke."
The merchant wipes his greasy hands on his pants. He looks terrified. "I apologize, Great One! The filtration system in the Sump is... well, it hasn't worked since the Great Crash. May I ask... what is a man of your status doing in the Scrapyard?"
I feel a sharp pain in my head.
[STAMINA: 15/100]
The suit flickers again. I quickly put my hands behind my back so he won't see my fingers trembling. I need to finish this fast.
"I am looking for a specific item," I lie. I make it up as I go. "A prototype core. It was lost during a transport from the Upper Spires. I tracked the signal to this... pile of filth."
The merchant's eyes light up. Greed is starting to replace his fear. That is exactly what I want.
"A prototype core?" he whispers. "I haven't seen anything like that, My Lord. But I have many high-quality parts! Very rare! Please, come inside. It is cold out here, and the Collector Drones will be out soon."
"I have already dealt with a drone," I say, waving my hand as if it were a fly. "It was... annoying. It tried to scan me for debt. I almost had it melted for its impudence."
The merchant gulps. He pulls open the creaking metal door to his shack.
The inside of the shack is small. It is filled with the smell of old grease and ozone. There are shelves made of scrap wood, piled high with glowing tubes, dented helmets, and bags of "Fate-Dust." In the corner, there is a small heater that glows a dull orange. It's the first bit of warmth I've seen in this life.
My eyes land on a small table. There is a bottle of clear water and a plate with a hard, brown biscuit on it. My stomach let out a loud growl.
The merchant freezes. He looks at my stomach, then back at my face.
I don't look embarrassed. I look angry.
"My body is not used to such... low-grade atmosphere," I hiss. "My metabolism is reacting to the toxins. Give me that water. Now."
"Of course! Of course!" The merchant grabs the bottle. He hands it to me with shaking hands.
I take the bottle. I want to chug it in one second. I want to pour it down my throat until I can't breathe. But I don't. A "Lord" doesn't drink like a thirsty dog.
I open the cap slowly. I take a small, elegant sip. The water is metallic and warm, but it feels like heaven. It hits my dry throat and I feel like I might cry. I force myself to stop after three sips. I put the bottle down on the table with a loud thud.
"Acceptable," I say.
I look at the brown biscuit. It looks like it's made of sawdust and sugar.
"And that?" I point a finger at it.
"Just a nutrient cake, My Lord. It is... very humble. You wouldn't want it."
"I will be the judge of that," I say. "I need to test the local food supplies for a... project I am working on. Hand it over."
The merchant hands me the cake. I take a bite. It is dry and sticks to the roof of my mouth, but it gives me an instant hit of energy. I can feel my brain clearing up.
[STAMINA RECOVERY: +5]
[CURRENT STAMINA: 20/100]
I have a little bit more time. Now, the real con begins. I need a place to sleep, and I need a way to turn this man into my servant.
"Tell me, merchant," I say, leaning back against a dirty shelf as if it were a throne. "What is your name?"
"B-Barlow, My Lord. Just Barlow."
"Well, Barlow," I say, narrowing my eyes. "You are in a lot of trouble. The item I am looking for? It carries a 'Soul-Mark' of the Imperial Bank. If the Auditors find it in your shop, they won't just take your credits. They will take your life-span. All of it."
Barlow's face goes pale. He drops his screwdriver. "But I don't have it! I swear!"
"I know you don't," I say, stepping closer until our faces are inches apart. I let him see the cold, dead look in my eyes. "But I can make it look like you do. Or... I can tell the Auditors that you helped me find it. I can make you a hero of the Upper Spires. Which would you prefer?"
Barlow starts to sweat. He is trapped. He is looking at a man who has a trillion-dollar debt, but he thinks he is looking at his only chance to escape the mud.
"I... I want to help, My Lord! Please! Tell me what to do!"
I smile. It is a slow, dangerous smile.
"First," I say. "You are going to give me a clean bed. Then, you are going to tell me everything you know about the 'Fate-Market' in this district. If you lie to me once, I will make sure the machines find you before sunrise."
I sit down on his only chair. My "silk" suit shines in the orange light of the heater. I am still a fraud. I am still broke. But for the first time, I am not the one being hunted.