"That's better," he said, watching the lines begin to flow smoothly. The bottleneck was gone, and the metallic clink-clink-clink of chips entering the treasury accelerated into a steady, hypnotic hum.
Thomas ascended even higher, hovering near the peak of the central mast. From this vantage point, he overlooked his entire domain: the glowing neon sails, the hundreds of fog-shrouded figures laughing on floating sofas, and the prismatic lights of the disco balls cutting through the grey abyss.
"I've cracked the formula," he smiled. "Status is the ultimate currency. But to keep it, I need more than just one face."
His mind went back to the original seven. He knew from the snippets of conversation he had recorded that at least four of the others were "Big Names"—monsters of the Central Sectors who commanded respect.
If a video from The Golden Hand could bring in hundreds, what would happen if he had a "Hall of Fame" featuring five or six world-renowned legends?
