The heater in Barlow's shack clicks and pops. It smells like burning dust, but the warmth feels like a blanket against my skin. I sit in his only chair—a dented metal stool—and try to keep my back straight. A "Lord" doesn't slouch, even when his muscles feel like they are melting.
Barlow is scurrying around the small room. He is clearing junk off a workbench to make a space for me. He moves fast, his heavy boots thumping on the metal floor. Every time he looks at my "silk" suit, he bows his head a little lower.
"Forgive the mess, My Lord," Barlow says. He wipes a thick layer of grease off a table with a rag that is even dirtier than the table itself. "It is not a palace. It is barely a grave. But it is hidden. The Drones don't come inside unless I trigger the silent alarm."
I nod slowly. I take another sip of the metallic water. I need to ask questions without sounding like I don't know the answers. A con artist never asks, "How does this work?" Instead, he says, "Remind me of the local Way."
"The alarm," I say, my voice sounding bored. "Tell me, Barlow. How much is the bribe for the local Collectors these days? I haven't dealt with the Sump-Level machines in... quite some time."
Barlow pauses. He leans against a shelf filled with broken glowing tubes. "Bribes? Oh, the machines don't take bribes, My Lord. Not anymore. Ever since the Fate-Market went digital, the machines only care about the Ledger. If your 'Karmic Debt' is too high, they harvest. If your 'Credit' is high, they bow."
I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the cold air.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: FATE-MARKET DATA UPDATING]
[CURRENT DEBT: 1,000,000,000,000 CREDITS]
[INTEREST ACCRUED SINCE WAKING: 450 CREDITS]
The numbers in my head are moving. Every minute I sit here, I am getting poorer. I need to understand how people actually get "Credits" in this dump.
"And the common people here?" I ask, waving a hand toward the dark window. "How do they pay their interest? Surely they aren't all 'High-Tier' like me."
Barlow laughs, but it sounds like a dry cough.
"They don't pay it, My Lord. They trade it. Life for Luck. Luck for Life. That is the Market."
He walks over to a small, rusty safe in the corner. He punches in a code, and the door creaks open. He pulls out a small, clear glass bottle. Inside the bottle, there is a swirling blue mist. It looks like a tiny cloud trapped in glass. It glows with a soft, pulsing light.
"This," Barlow whispers, holding the bottle up.
"This is one week of 'Good Luck.' A scavenger found a rare engine part today. The System saw his 'Achievement' and rewarded him with this Luck-Vial. He sold it to me for three days of 'Life-Time' so he could buy a bottle of synthetic whiskey."
I stare at the blue mist. It is beautiful. It is also horrifying.
"So," I say, leaning forward. "You buy their luck, and you sell it to the people in the Mid-Spires?"
"Exactly," Barlow says, nodding his head. "The rich people upstairs have everything, but they always want more 'Fate.' They want to make sure their children are born lucky. They want to make sure their investments never fail. So they buy the luck of the poor. It's a clean cycle."
A clean cycle. The poor stay unlucky and die early, while the rich stay lucky and live forever. It's the same story as my old world, just with more glowing lights.
"And what happens," I ask, my voice dropping to a whisper, "to someone who has a debt so large... it cannot be measured?"
Barlow shivers. He puts the Luck-Vial back in the safe and locks it tight. "The Great Debtors? They don't last long, My Lord. The 'Collection Angels' come for them. Those aren't drones. Those are... something else. They take the soul and turn it into 'Raw Fate' to power the city's lights. It's a one-way trip to the Furnace."
I look at my hands. They look like silk and skin, but they are shaking. I am the Great Debtor. I am the fuel for the city lights.
[STAMINA: 12/100]
[WARNING: DIGNITY AT RISK. EAT OR REST IMMEDIATELY.]
I can't keep the "Gilded Veneer" up much longer. If I pass out, the illusion will vanish. Barlow will see a starving man in rags. He will realize I am not a Lord. He will realize I am "Fuel." And he will probably sell me to the nearest Collection Angel for a week of clean water.
"I am tired, Barlow," I say. I stand up, making sure to move slowly so I don't stumble. "The journey from the Upper Levels was... taxing. Where is this bed you promised?"
"Right here, My Lord!" Barlow points to a small cot in the corner. It has a thin, grey blanket and a pillow that looks like it was stuffed with rocks.
I walk over to the cot. I feel like I am walking on air—not because I'm a Lord, but because I'm about to faint.
"Leave me," I command. "I must meditate. If you wake me before the first bell of the morning, I will make sure your soul-account is frozen."
Barlow bows so low his forehead almost touches the floor. "Yes, My Lord! I will be right outside. I will guard the door myself!"
He scurries out of the shack and slams the heavy metal door. I hear him sliding a bolt into place. He isn't just guarding me; he is making sure his "prize" doesn't leave.
The moment the door is shut, I let go.
The warmth leaves my body. The black silk suit vanishes. The smell of expensive spices disappears. I am back in my cold, grease-stained rags. My skin is grey and covered in scrap-heap dust. My ribs stick out through my shirt.
I fall onto the cot. The blanket smells like old dog and wet metal, but I don't care.
[STAMINA: 2/100]
[SKILL DEACTIVATED]
[SLEEP MODE INITIATED]
As my eyes close, the red numbers are still dancing in the dark.
1,000,000,000,450...
1,000,000,000,451...
I have to find a way to make "Fate" tomorrow. I have to find a way to be the luckiest man in the world, even though I am the one with the most debt.
I have to pull the biggest con of two lifetimes.