Walking into the nightclub's penthouse felt like entering a space almost sacred in its exclusivity. Panoramic windows served as its walls, blurring where the inside ended and the outside began.
If adrenaline struck you just right, you might be tempted to sprint toward the glass. But that thick, transparent barrier wouldn't do much to stop you from taking a wild plunge.
Down you'd go, plummeting like a stone.
The atmosphere was filled with the scent of verbena, mixed with marijuana and the rich smell of pricey liquor. It thickened this luxurious showroom of vanity and underlying tension, where the floor was cold marble, glistening under the soft light.
This was the Verified Very Important Patron Lounge #001.
Its decor was nothing like the typical neon-lit Hexoset style one might expect. Instead, the lounge had lofty ceilings supported by beautifully carved beams, and ornate walls lit up by halo orbs in elegant glass sconces.
The lighting cast a dreamy glow over the plush noir velvet furniture and bioluminescent steel table. It was an enchanting sight, giving the impression that the room itself was suspended in a vast mirrored universe.
An entirety of glam and gloss immersed the young, affluent patrons in a meticulously curated den governed by wealth and status. All of which did little to mask the unmistakable musk of indolence and illicit power oozing from the figure sitting across the table.
Outside the expansive windows, the skyline of Argona stretched out in all its glory. Vast, indifferent, with towering spires of cylindrical buildings reaching upwards into a protective force field.
A thin crescent moon hung in the sky, casting a silvery sheen over the city's artificial lights.
Moonlight poured in through the narrow slits in the curtains, spilling tidy rectangles on the shiny floor. The only detail that seemed out of place in this serenity was the holographic dancers, gracefully moving up and down the poles in the room's corners.
Clad in tiny V-strings and braziers embellished with rhinestones, they wiggled their hips, flicked their hair, and twisted their pixelated bodies in provocative animations.
It was hard to say whether these virtual vixens were trying to seduce the occupants gathered here or simply part of the extravagant setting of this affair.
Then there was Broco Aqqa, a stout Monger in his fifties.
You could easily tell that this man was a sleazy piece of shit. Even during introductions, he had that undeniable presence, magnified by black eyes that sparkled with a hint of greed.
Naturally, he assessed everyone around him, deciding who would be easy pickings for his next deal. Ah, you know his type - the ones who saw potential clients as nothing more than fodder for their schemes.
Broco was completely bald, save for the walrus-like moustache drooping down his chin. It gave him a somewhat comical yet intimidating appearance. Sprawled out in a tall armchair, and by the looks of the deep imprint beneath him, he'd spent countless hours lounging in that very spot.
Clearly, he was a man who enjoyed his comforts.
The velvet seemed to snuggle his buttocks, as if it knew it had a job to safeguard a kingpin.
A dark maroon suit clung to his round physique in a way that suggested expensive tailoring. He casually rested his left hand on the armrest, where plumes of smoke curled lazily from a joint tucked between his heavily ringed fingers.
Obviously, he had a thing for bling too, and the glint of oversized rubies, onyx and emerald only added to his menacing demeanour.
Flanking the Monger were two armed Peculiars who looked as tough as nails.
Styx, a humanoid body with bovine features - broad shoulders, thick arms, and an imposing presence. Large, curved bull horns swept backwards from both sides of his head, where thick, dark dreadlocks adorned with gold beads flowed down his back.
There was something brutishly charming about the way his bovine ears were slightly floppy at the tips, pierced with gold hoop earrings.
On the right was lanky Mhode, light-skinned, wearing a purple coat with wide lapels. He wore a faint, self-assured smirk despite the disfigurement on his face where long, pointed ears framed his slicked-back blond hair with an undercut.
Both lapdogs had their eyes on their master, instinctively aware that his every decision was theirs to enforce.
There was a relatively fresh, gnarly scar snaking from above Mhode's eyebrow down to his square jaw, giving some character to his otherwise rugged look. The skin around it was taut and pale, with some puckered areas where it hadn't healed properly.
Thick staples bit into the flesh, barely holding the torn skin together.
There was a third Merc around, but she'd been sent downstairs to fetch the runners bringing in the precious mana stones.
Not that anything less was expected of Broco, but his security detail looked more like a pair of street thugs than seasoned professionals.
These vicious kinds of tough were the type you'd cross the street to avoid.
Styx was especially imposing with the way he adjusted his grip on the hefty machete slung over his shoulder.
Meanwhile, Broco remained unfazed in his cushy seat, only glancing over at the affluent Peculiars sitting across from him. It was an attempt at power play, a game of patience, of control, and he clearly assumed he had the upper hand.
That amused Traore, the handsome young Peculiar with eyes the colour of amethysts. He lounged comfortably on the left side of a plush velvet couch. Adorned in a chic, matte sleeveless top with a high neckline and wide-legged pants, he exuded an effortless charm.
Smooth oval formed the shape of his face, perfectly framed by a tidy crop of short, jet-black hair that accentuated his sharp cheekbones.
When the soft lighting in the room hit him just right, the streaks of purple tattoos on his fair complexion shimmered, drawing attention to the muscular yet gentle arm casually resting around the shoulders of the woman next to him.
It was a tender, almost protective gesture - not too tight, but enough to imply an intimate bond between them. With his legs slightly apart in a surprisingly relaxed posture, he seemed entirely at home in the lavish surroundings.
Nestled close to him was Cleome, her flowing auburn hair beautifully braided with gold threads. She rested it on his shoulder, completing the intimate scene they painted together.
Her silk dress draped elegantly over her lap and spilled over Traore's legs.
She was nothing short of breathtaking, possessing the soft, unlined features of youth - smooth fair skin, a cute little button nose, and almond-shaped turquoise eyes. The symmetry of her features was almost unnervingly perfect.
Broco watched this tableau of intense beauty and obvious affection before him with a nasty squint, and he could hardly suppress the disgust that shuddered through him at the sight of his new clients.
It rose in his throat like venom.
Observing them, he curled his lips into a tight, displeased line, and he crinkled his nose as if he had just caught a whiff of something rancid.
To him, these Peculiars appeared like exotic birds that had foolishly escaped from a petting zoo and landed smack in the middle of his establishment. Their audacity in displaying an absence of fear in his domain, where everyone else was armed and itching for violence, was truly astounding.
There was no trace of the nervousness he was used to seeing from his regular patrons.
Yet, it was impossible to overlook one undeniable detail: these Peculiars were wealthy, and their fortune allowed them this kind of privacy.
As the owner of the clandestine establishment that is Hexoset, Broco had long since learned not to question the identities of those who darkened his doorstep. No matter how unusual they appeared, Peculiar or Normie, his job was to indulge their whims and surpass their expectations.
However, when random clients like these suddenly show up asking for rare mana stones, backed by seemingly limitless Aures, even the most seasoned Monger was bound to get suspicious.
It was a troubling thought, especially since Traore and Cleome looked young enough to be his own kids. The very idea of them waltzing in and casually throwing around Aures for such precious items was downright alarming!
Broco couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right, and in this line of work, instincts like that were often proven right.
"Feelin' a little too relaxed, are we?" Broco rasped, finally putting the half-burned joint down with a thick, yellowed finger. His voice rolled out like gravel, deep and rough, almost like sandpaper against dry wood.
It grated on the ears, making it clear he wasn't in the mood for pleasantries.
He took another moment to scrutinise the couple, looking for chinks in their armour.
"Ya call me up, askin' fer five fuckin' Venerites and then stroll in here like yer both on a romantic date?"
The words slithered from his chapped lips like a curse, a hiss, an incantation meant to drive out darkness.
Traore, on the other hand, gave a lazy little grin that didn't quite match the intensity of his extraordinary eyes. Calm and collected, he dodged Broco's aggression without even bothering to meet his gaze, speaking in a pleasant baritone.
"Now, denying my beloved her comfort is certainly not how I envision kicking off our little rendezvous, Monger."
He tilted his head toward Cleome, who shot him an appreciative look before turning to size up Broco.
"And considering we're on the cusp of securing an asset that's worth infinitely more than the trinkets you've got littering this place, I strongly advise you take a hit of that thing," he said, casually pointing at the joint dangling from Broco's fingers, "and maybe chill out a little. We're not here to waste your time."
Picking up a long-stemmed wineglass from the polished table in front of him, Traore cradled it with an effortless elegance. "Unless, of course, your little display of friendliness on the way here was merely playing the part for your patrons?"
He took a slow sip of the golden wine, letting the moment linger as he finally made eye contact with Broco, who wore a furious scowl.
The calm demeanour of this creature was a physical irritant to Broco, making his piggish eyes twitch. He took a deep drag from the joint, its glowing end flaring bright orange. Then he expelled a thick cloud of poisonous smoke, momentarily obscuring Traore's face but not his bright purple eyes.
"Friendliness," Broco echoed, relishing the unpleasant word.
"Ah, yes, suttin yer might call a ruse…a necessary act fer the clientele, if yer will. Kinda like that…costume yer flauntin'," he said, waving his joint dismissively in Traore's direction, as if swatting at a fly.
Cleome remained rigid in her seat, the slight smirk on her lips hinting that she found the verbal sparring entertaining. Still, she seemed almost bored, like a predator watching a pesky little critter just within reach.
But at the Monger's jab, the glow in her eyes grew bolder. Malicious. A subtle grimace followed. Given that she'd chosen Traore's outfit herself, her reaction was understandable.
It didn't go unnoticed by the Monger, though.
Broco's eyes glinted, as though he were feeding off her anger. He leaned back in the armchair, which protested painfully under his weight.
"There's no virtue in good looks if you don't know how to use them," Traore countered smoothly, gesturing to his outfit, from his impeccably tailored garment to his glossy black loafers.
"This here is just a tool. And when tools are used the right way, they bring in the coin. Which, let's be honest, is the only language that matters in a dog-eat-dog place like this."
He let that statement sink in, smiling in such a fake manner that his teeth practically gleamed. Somehow, the already thick air seemed to drop a few degrees as silence stretched on.
Still, it hung heavy and awkward.
Broco narrowed his eyes, his satisfaction quickly replaced by a hint of indignation. He tried to suppress it as he reached for a bottle and poured himself a generous glass of whiskey.
"The only true language, huh? Aye, perhaps yer onto suttin there, Traore," he said, letting the name linger, heavy with implied threat.
A subtle nod from the Monger made Mhode a step forward, clarifying the implication without needing to utter a word.
The Merc cracked his knuckles slowly, deliberately, as if gearing up for a fight.
"But we're past the welcome party, aren't we? It's time to dive into the meat of things. The price is set; the deal is made. But know this: Broco does no business with kids. Only grown-ups."
Then a forceful WHAM.
Broco slammed his hand on the table, enough to make the chipped ashtray jump but not enough to spill his whiskey. The amber liquid sloshed a bit against the rim.
"Five fuckin' Venerites! That's half a million Aures yer lookin' at right there on the open market," he shouted.
"I could have that much in my vault by midnight if I chose to flip 'em to the Kansurs instead of messin' around with yer fancy startup operation!"
Traore didn't seem thrown off by Broco's outburst in the slightest. In fact, he looked as if he was expecting it. After all, the Monger was well known for his volatile temper. He set his wineglass down on the table with a delicate clink.
The golden liquid sat calmly, undisturbed.
Broco carried on with his sharp squawking voice before Traore's silky tone took over. It carried an undeniable undercurrent of authority as it reverberated through the room.
"You should be aware, Broco, that you're negotiating with an Exonite. We're not like the Kansurs, who'd just send a band of mercenaries to forcefully take what they believe is rightfully theirs, leaving you with nothing but a heap of scrap."
He leaned forward slightly, his luminous purple eyes locking onto Broco's. They were so vibrant, almost hypnotic, that Broco felt a slight dizziness.
Perhaps this creature was trying to control his mind?
"We're not barbarians here, Monger. We aim to trade. Your treasures for our Aures."
Oh, how disgusting was the confidence rolling off this child's tongue.
"Let's skip the chatter about inferiorities or age; half a million Aures don't mean much when the asset you hold is crucial to EXON. If you're just after money, we can offer you a sum that would eclipse your vault. But first…"
Traore leaned in closer, lowering his voice even more, "We need proof, Monger."
If looks could kill, Broco's would in a heartbeat. However, his expression screamed a realization that he was up against someone way slicker than he expected - these damn Exonites.
From what he knew, they were a relatively new operation with a specialisation that was incredibly niche: growing artificial seeds called Folicules. Folicules were bio-engineered to harness mana to create what they termed xenobotanical life.
They had a whole project around it known as EXON: Engineered Xenobotanical Organism Nexus.
In their peculiar way, those plants were alive.
They grew, adapted, and bloomed, existing as a reality that was neither truly organic, magical, nor mechanical, but somehow a triad of all. The beauty of their creation lay in the fact that these plants didn't need soil or sunlight; they thrived purely on energy and design.
With enough mana, a single Folicule could live for over two decades.
But to Broco, it seemed like a pretty stupid project.
Who the fuck cares about immortal plants? Just grow some regular flowers for the sake of aesthetics and call it a day!
Still, as he watched Traore and his bitch Cleome, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was a lot more going on here. They were able to acquire intel on his new shipment on short notice, which implied that they had serious backing from influential investors who actually took the project seriously.
See, that alone made him uneasy.
If it were true, he was dealing with folks far above his status. And that could spell trouble he simply couldn't afford. He was merely a black-market broker.
Skepticism gnawed at the Monger. Having learned to trust no one and nothing unless it jived with his own gut feeling and logic, right now, all of that was screaming that this whole situation was a precarious gamble.
First, his scavengers came across an anonymous Wing Quill with coordinates to Venerites just lying around in Oakeman. He thought it was too good to be true, but then he saw the video feeds of those crystals with his own eyes!
Just as he was trying to wrap his head around this unexpected win, these "Exonite representatives" sent him a Wing Quill, eager to purchase the very Venerites he had unearthed.
Broco sank deeper into his plush velvet chair, feeling hesitant as he glanced between Traore and Cleome, frantically searching for a tell.
Raising two fingers, he summoned Styx, who held out his hand.
Broco pressed the burning end of his joint onto Styx's exposed skin hard enough to leave a fresh burn mark. Styx didn't flinch, even with the sizzling and the acrid smell of burnt flesh. On his dark brown hide were other scars, old white circles marking the places where similar things had happened before.
Traore's expression shifted to one of obvious dislike; his narrowed gaze barely revealed his pupils behind his lowered eyelids.
Evidently, he was unimpressed.
This bastard saw Peculiars as an affront to the natural order in which he believed Peculiars should be desperate, exploitable, and beneath him.
Yet Traore kept quiet, so as not to give Broco a spark to light his fury. He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white.
One wrong move could ruin everything they've done to infiltrate this place.
Cleome, on the other hand, was visibly disgusted by Broco's pathetic display to assert his dominance over his enforcers. It was perhaps also a warning to her and Traore, in case they dared to mess with him.
But fuck that, who did he think he was?
She quietly expelled a frustrated breath through her nose, her face hardening into a scowl. Cleome was ready to leap across the table and claw at the Monger's face.
But just then, muffled sounds meandered through the room, getting louder by the second. Thudding footsteps followed, accompanied by the quiet voices that sounded like they were…. arguing?
That caught everyone's attention at the last possible moment.
The affluent Peculiars exchanged quick, intrigued looks and instinctively turned toward the source of the sound.
As did Broco and his Mercs.
Seizing the momentary distraction, Cleome discreetly pressed a hidden button on her HoloSmart. A little gadget disguised as a fly buzzed out of her open purse, flying through the air to scan the lounge inconspicuously.
It was a parting gift from Dret, made just for this event; whatever happened from here on out had to be caught on cam.
The handle rattled, and the door swung open to show Vesir. The runners were trailing close behind her, standing side by side. With sky-blue eyes and soft curls, the taller one had two bags over one shoulder and a look of mild relief as he rubbed the back of his neck.
The shorter one was busy yanking her laces tight on her boots before standing up.
Her mussed black hair streaked with white cascaded down her shoulders, and she tilted her head to the side, much like a predatory bird. With a fierce glare aimed at Broco, she shouted,
"Broco! I swear, I'm just itching to bash your brains in right now, but you're still owing us for what we worked for!"
The familiar, yet unexpected fierceness of her declaration made Broco bristle with indignation. Visibly, apparently, because his face flushed with surprise and outrage. And oh, the reaction from Traore was priceless - he let out a hearty laugh, clearly amused by the show.
Cleome, unable to contain herself, covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her giggles, which only seemed to make Broco more agitated.
"This little bitch…" he said through gritted teeth, glaring at Ratelsi.
With an exaggerated groan, Timoth dragged his hand down his face, the lines of stress on his forehead deepening as he sighed heavily.
"We literally just agreed not to start with that…" he muttered under his breath. He shot Vesir an apologetic glance, but she merely raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her expression expectant, as though she was waiting for the fireworks to begin.
Timoth continued to rub his neck with a weary exasperation, shifting from foot to foot, as he cast a sidelong glance at Ratelsi, who was still focused on Broco.
"Come on, Ratel," he whispered. "Not right now. We just got here, for crying out loud."
But Ratelsi was completely tuned out to his words.
She took another half-step forward, lifting her chin defiantly,
That annoying pile of offal she had for a boss had to know she was pissed the fuck out of her mind with him. Even if she couldn't exactly tell him why. Her glare remained trained on Broco as Vesir led the runners into the spacious lounge, seemingly unfazed by any of the interactions taking place.
As they approached, tiny fish inside a massive aquarium practically charged at the glass, flaring their fins in excitement at the arrival of new guests. Ratelsi's fingertips brushed against the glass, and she watched in fascination as the fish curiously followed her movements, darting back and forth playfully.
However, as they passed the couch where the clients were seated, Traore felt a sudden hitch in his breath. Drawn by a force, he felt a very particular energy in his marrow that needed no introduction.
His pupils dilated so wide that they almost overtook the colourful irises of his eyes as he sensed the unnatural density of arcane energy Ratelsi reeked of. It filled the room so quickly that it oozed from her pores, leaving glowing footprints in her wake - footprints that only he could see since only a Mawborn could identify another of their kind.
He cast a sideways glance at the woman, recognising the essence she exuded with an instinctual certainty. It bypassed rational thought entirely and spoke directly to the survival part of his brain.
There was no doubt about it: that was her.
Ratelsi Ozias.
The real reason they had come to The Basin under the guise of Exonites! The name didn't even exist. But she…she did and was exactly as Eliàna described - Strong. Incredibly so.
Yet, unbeknownst to him, Ratelsi was acutely aware of his gaze raking over her. She felt the weight of his smiling, attentive look. The corner of his lips lifted ever so slightly. How he focused on her with such intention made her feel like the only person in the room.
Ratelsi suddenly stopped, then turned to look.
Her bright, malachite eyes caught his, interrupting his thoughts. She mischievously tilted her head to the side, and he shuddered slightly at the intensity of her stare.
Caught off guard, Traore immediately averted his eyes, scolding himself for being so overt and obvious with his interest.
A chuckle escaped Ratelsi's lips as she continued on, thinking unspoken was the knowledge that this meeting's offerings would be delightful.
"Here."
Vesir came to a halt, pointing the runners to a two-seater couch wedged between Broco and the client's. Timoth started unpacking the bags onto the table. Meanwhile, Ratelsi settled herself comfortably, draping an arm over the backrest and crossing one leg over the other.
Traore exchanged a knowing glance with Cleome, who nodded discreetly towards the fly buzzing lazily above the verbenas. Traore winked at her, and Cleome, her beady green eyes fluttering downward, felt a warm blush creep up her cheeks.
A long, heavy pause followed.
Finally, Broco broke the silence. "About time yer showed up, Timoth," he remarked, clearly unimpressed. Timoth's lips curved into a feigned smile as he responded, "Ah, if I knew you craved my presence this much, I would've arrived sooner."
It was all bravado, of course; the tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife, making him wonder what had transpired between the Monger and the clients before they arrived.
Broco snorted dismissively, his gaze lingering over the goods spread out before him. Silently counting what had been delivered, he took a long drag from his joint.
But then, his demeanour shifted almost instantly when he noticed, with growing annoyance, "It's incomplete."
His sharp, irritated voice made it clear he wasn't in the mood for jokes.
Turning to Ratelsi for an explanation, she merely rolled her eyes in exasperation. A flick of her head threw her long, white bangs out of her face, revealing determination and barely masked frustration in her features.
Digging into her pockets, she pulled out the capsule, still wrapped in the same inconspicuous manner they'd originally found it, and gently placed it onto the table.
A ghostly blue light erupted from the depths of the tabletop, bathing the capsule in laser grids. Suddenly, five jagged crystals weaved themselves into an intricate three-dimensional projection. They rotated slowly in a circular formation above the capsule, making it accessible from every angle for everyone to inspect.
Broco reached into the projection and began to navigate the data. Swiping right, he flicked through the Venerites one by one. As each crystal moved to the centre of the display, several scrolling technical specs - purity levels, energy resonance, molecular stability - expanded beside it.
He scrutinized the third crystal longer than the others, his brow furrowed, before flicking it away to reveal the final two.
Meanwhile, Ratelsi glanced up, only to meet steel in the depth of Cleome's deceptively calm eyes, and intrigue in Traore's enchanting purple orbs.
They held her there, and Ratelsi could tell by the sharp, hawk-like look they threw her way that they were studying her.
Dissecting her from the inside out. Analysing who she was.
Oh?
Her gaze involuntarily passed over the tendrils of Traore's runic tattoos. She didn't trust him one bit, but she couldn't look away. There was something persuasive about him. Something mesmerising about the way he sat, with one arm resting on the curve of the couch, while the other wrapped around the woman's waist.
And how effortlessly he controlled the air around him, as if he were a part of it.
The glow of the halo orbs carved sharp lines across his face, accentuating the cut of his cheekbones and the hardness of his jaw.
Ratelsi's eyes lit up, and a crooked grin tugged at her lips.
It really was them!
The tattooed dude and the stunningly beautiful woman Macaque talked about. Everything - from their attire to the way they carried themselves - made it obvious where they were from. Balun.
Seeing them in the flesh and so close added an electric jolt to the already pressurised situation; it made everything feel alarmingly real.
At the end of this meeting, thanks to them, she and Timoth would get twenty per cent of the amount paid. For both of them, that's forty per cent instead of their usual total pay.
Yet, with no more information to go on, she was left to speculate.
Who were they? They were clearly onto her, looking at her from time to time. What did they want?
Each guess was worse than the last.
For a split second, she seemed panicked, and then her usual deadpan mask returned.
Ratelsi decided to focus on the dynamics in the room instead. She would observe how the clients reacted and try to decipher what they intended to do with the Venerites - and perhaps, with her.
It was as if she'd caught their interest, and Traore in particular seemed to be expecting her presence.
Maybe one of them was EXON.
If EXON were a person, that is.
However, Timoth was itching to make his exit. He bit the inside of his cheek under the pressure of his own frustration. Even here, on the brink of finalising their contract, the atmosphere felt stifling with uncertainty.
Just the way he stepped back to sit down after unwrapping the capsule spoke volumes - he stared at Broco, eyeing him with obvious distaste.
Seemingly satisfied with his gifts, a smirk tugged at the corners of Broco's mouth. He tugged the primary interface downward, making the holograms collapse into a single point of light and vanish.
"Perfect," he muttered, nodding. "They're exactly as promised."
The runners breathed a sigh of relief, looking excitedly at each other.
This was not lost on Cleome, who suppressed another chuckle. The corners of her mouth twitched involuntarily at the somewhat sentimental scene.
It caused a palpable confusion in the room as everyone turned to look at the Peculiar, who began laughing out loud.
It was both inappropriate and oddly light-hearted given the stakes at play.
"Apologies, your runners are quite amusing in the way they react to you," Traore said to Broco, whose upper lip curled into a sneer. The lines of his forehead creased, shadowing his expression with irritation.
Was it mockery? A slap in the face? It certainly felt like it.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Broco's voice thundered through the room as he slammed his fist on the table. The force caused two wine glasses to lose their balance, teetering before crashing down onto the floor.
Glass shards exploded in a shower around them, ice cubes skittering across the marble.
The pricey whiskey pooled ominously at their feet, messy, as stunned silence fell upon the space.
Cleome's laughter eventually subsided.
Meanwhile, Mhode immediately took to cleaning up the mess, while Vesir tended to Broco's injured hand.
Bored malachite eyes almost rolled into Ratelsi's skull at the whole scene. But then, as if a light switch had been flipped, those eyes sparkled with mischief when they fell on Mhode. The staples on his cheek were hardly an aesthetic look for anyone, and a band-aid plastered over his smashed nose added to the overall hilarity of his condition.
A week had passed since then, yet it was obvious he was still in pain - she could see him wince every now and then - but he maintained a facade of nonchalance, determined not to show much how it hurt.
Ratelsi followed his every move, hoping he would notice.
And when he did, she smiled in such a cheerful manner that her canines practically gleamed. " You look nice with your little boo-boo," she waved.
Mhode curled his lips in a sneer and scoffed, trying to restrain his seething frustration.
"Diese verdammte schlampe.." he muttered under his breath.
It wasn't easy trying to stay professional for the sake of his boss and the company, but a sharp glare filled with visible disgust seasoned his features, veins bulging on his temples.
Oh, how she'd love to see more of that.
You'd think a Peculiar like Mhode wouldn't look at his kind that way, the same way Normies do. But working with people who exhibited prejudiced traits day in and out could change anyone's perspective. Eventually, you start to act like them.
Pathetic!
To Ratelsi, that was a weakness in spirit and will.
Timoth, who had been watching them, let out a loud snort before quickly turning away.
After what felt like an eternity of awkward tension, Vesir finally finished wrapping a fresh bandage on Broco's hand, where a blotch of crimson had already stained the gauze.
Yet despite the pain and the unsavoury circumstances, Broco's greedy gaze remained fixated on the capsule sitting on the table before him.
The mere thought of finally obtaining the Venerites filled his face with an ear-to-ear grin.
With obvious impatience, Timoth spoke his next words in a clipped tone, "We're sorta in a hurry to get out of here. So, can we just wrap up this shit, get paid, and never see each other again?"
His growing exasperation, mirrored by Ratelsi, was palpable.
But Styx wasn't having any of it. "Not so fast, sport. You know the rules - Thumbleaf test, first." He waved a handheld scanner in front of him with an air of authority that put Timoth on edge.
The Thumbleaf test was a bizarre yet crucial part of their contract. It was a safeguarding measure to authenticate the goods by a magical leaf seal embedded on the item. A normal scan would've been enough proof of authenticity, but even that can be forged nowadays.
If the thumbleaf glowed green, it meant the item was all clear and undamaged. If it glowed red, well, that was the fire alarm of the Mongers, giving them the right to refuse payment, confiscate the item, and even sue if the goods were legitimate.
But in this particular case, there was no thumbleaf.
Ratelsi knew that. Timoth did. Maybe even Broco as well.
It was now that Traore and Cleome became acutely aware of the ticking clock bearing down on them. Discovering that there wasn't a thumbleaf spoke of a quick but inevitably dangerous end to this meeting.
Styx's fingers were almost grazing the capsule's surface when a soft chime from Broco's HoloSmart suddenly echoed through the stillness. Styx froze mid-reach as Broco's AI assistant intoned,
"ALERT: Your account has been credited with Æ300,000,000. Your new balance is-"
The Monger turned it off.
Silence stretched, eerie, thick and suffocating.
The only sound was the residual hum of Broco's HoloSmart shutting off. Styx straightened himself to face the wide, unblinking eyes of his employer.
It suddenly felt forbidden to speak.
Even Ratelsi found herself holding her breath. A stunned blink, followed by rapid fluttering as she processed what she'd just heard. Timoth sank in his seat, instinctively searching for something solid to latch onto, until his fingers found the armrest.
Sixty million Aures.
His eyes trembled in disbelief as he mouthed the words, "No way…"
Sixty…million… That was how much they would get paid.
The number was obscene! It was an eye-watering sum of money!
The kind of Aures could buy you a small fleet, or a controlling share in a mid-level mining operation. It was a hefty price tag attached to silence, compliance, and even guaranteed death.
Oh, benevolent Liyuen…
The stakes had never been higher.
Traore let a slow, utterly joyless smile creep across his lips.
"Well, Monger," he purred. "Looks like we can skip the thumbleaf test and just get straight to handing over those Venerites. Such a pleasure doing business with you, truly."
The runners, feeling victorious, shared a fist-bump.
Double pay? Fuck yeah!!
They were practically buzzing with adrenaline, thinking about the wealth that would soon be theirs.
But Broco remained oddly silent.
His invocation of the thumbleaf test had been a desperate gambit. Without the seal, he could declare the whole deal void, hang on to the Aures already transferred, seize the Venerites, and eliminate witnesses.
Yet, as he sat there, the rictus of surprise on his face was hardening into a mask of grim understanding. He was being outmanoeuvred.
Yes, there was no doubt about it. Who in their right mind transfers three hundred million without even blinking an eye?
All to avoid the thumbleaf test?
Broco's eyes, now filled with savage intensity, darted between the so-called "representatives." They shifted onto his own runners, Ratelsi and Timoth.
Ratelsi didn't flinch. In fact, she welcomed his attention with her teeth bared in a triumphant grin.
"So?" she said, her voice dripping with impatience. "How 'bout you pay us up so we can get the hell outta here, huh?"
The feverish glitter in her malachite eyes was hard to miss. Sixty million Aures? That was no laughable amount! The woman was almost salivating at the thought.
So much so that she scooted even closer, those eyes never leaving him as she waited for some kind of response.
"Oi, c'mon, what's the holdup?" she pressed, beginning to frown.
But Broco wasn't having any of it.
In his mind, he frantically searched for the fault line in his immaculate plan to keep the Venerites for himself. It didn't sit right with him that three hundred million of someone else's money had just funnelled into his account without a hitch.
"Yer really think 'tis da end o' the deal?"
Broco's voice, tight with controlled fury, was directed at Traore. He completely ignored Ratelsi's probing.
The woman threw a murderous look in his direction, itching to explode with words that were sure to ignite a full-blown fight.
But Broco still had more to say.
Pushing his whiskey aside, he pressed on. "Yer think yer can just buy yer way outta the thumbleaf test? That thing's collateral, y'know? Yer pass, yer get the stones. Yer don't, yer lose yer Aures… and yer lives."
Traore looked at the Monger with such a dull gaze that it was as if the man in front of him did not exist. Then, letting go of Cleome, he crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned back with an air of arrogance.
"Ah, Monger. Still clinging to the script, I see? How quaint."
Casually nodding toward the capsule, Traore said. "We know there's no thumbleaf. Quite obvious it was, from the start, that you'd use that absence as a justification to seize the funds and the Venerites. That was the play all along, wasn't it?"
Ha! I knew it! Ratelsi's eyebrows shot up with a fleeting smirk.
This was all Broco's plan from the get-go.
But in truth, she was off the mark.
Traore was aware that Broco had been suspicious of the Venerites' authenticity from the start. After all, the Wing Quill and their arrival as representatives were too much of a coincidence to ignore.
But no matter.
At this point, his suspicion was irrelevant; this meeting was unfolding just as they had planned.
The Mawborn was present, and tangible evidence of Broco's clandestine dealings was caught on camera. They would take the girl, and the curtains would drop on this whole charade.
Yet for that to truly happen, Broco had to be painted as the mastermind scheming to claim everything for himself. It just so happened that he actually wanted to, which played right into their hands.
They were at the final act in Eliàna's plan.
Cleome slid a data slate across the table, not to Broco, but to Styx. As the Merc caught it, she finally broke her silence in a soft accent.
"Read it, Styx," She ordered. "What you're looking at is a legally binding, encrypted contract, and it's not something you should take lightly."
Styx flicked the slate on, and a holographic display sprang to life. It projected a matrix of clauses and sub-clauses written in an annoyingly minute script. The Merc had to squint as he quickly scrolled to the execution summary, and his eyes widened almost imperceptibly as he read the key provisions.
"Boss," Styx stated, adopting the submissive tone of a devoted lapdog, but with an edge of tension in his voice.
"Go on..." ordered Broco.
Styx nodded.
"The transfer of 300,000,000 Creds was the agreed-upon activation fee for an immediate transfer of ownership and physical release of the Venerites from their escrow location," he read aloud, fingers dancing across the screen.
"Furthermore, this contract stipulates that in the absence of the 'Thumbleaf Collateral' --- which it correctly identifies as missing," Styx turned to his master in disbelief, "Broco Aqqa forfeits all claims to the stones and waives any right to harm the buyers physically."
Ratelsi let out a loud, amused laugh at this, clearly entertained by Broco's predicament. Timoth just watched the scene unfold, thoughtfully.
Broco's complexion went from florid rage to an ashen grey. A meticulously rewritten contract had been used to checkmate him.
These Peculiars were anything but amateurs.
Like him, they were sleazy bastards who had effortlessly exploited his own greed against him.
The 300,000,000 was basically a legally mandated transaction fee that activated the immediate release of the Venerites and protected the buyers.
How did I not see that coming!?? Broco fumed internally.
"Aw, look at the bright side, Monger," Traore chimed in with a wicked grin spreading across his face. "The money is non-refundable. You get to keep all the Aures, but we walk away with the merchandise. A pleasure doing business, indeed."
Broco could only stare in disgust, his face contorting with frustration and a desperate impatience that made him look a bit unhinged.
His eyes darted around wildly, and all his sophisticated calm had completely shattered like glass.
The unthinkable was unfolding before him. The sight of Traore and Cleome walking away with the Venerites - the ultimate goal he was willing to risk everything for - was too much to stomach. Regardless of the ridiculous number of Aures in his suddenly worthless account!
"Fucking circus animals," he spat venomously, bitterly.
He snapped his fingers, and in an instant, the room was charged with the cold threat of steel. Weapons were drawn in a blink, aimed with precision at the bewildered clients and runners.
"Circus animals, you say?" Traore's grin vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by an expression of utter boredom. It was as if the Mercs were merely holding toys, not pointing heavy-calibre pistols straight at him, Cleome and, surprisingly, even the runners.
Traore evaluated the situation, reading it like a book. Broco's instinct for dominance and retribution had clearly overtaken any sense of profit or self-preservation.
It was Ratelsi who first reacted to the mounting danger. Her narrowed eyes followed the laser dot from Vesir's gun dancing over her sternum to Timoth's forehead, causing his heart to race a little faster.
He whispered to Ratelsi. "I don't like this one bit."
"No shit. Just stay alert. Anything can happen now," she whispered back.
"Monger," Cleome warned, her voice low and dangerous.
"You just took three hundred million Aures. Forcing this confrontation will result in a fallout that will make you lose everything you've worked for. We have the crystals. Let us walk."
Broco sat up straighter, leaning forward with feverish intensity. The outcome of the transaction was blinding him, wrapping him in a cloak of rage, making him almost foam at the mouth.
"I don't give two fuckin' shits about the money!" he roared. "Yer embarrassed me! Yer rewrote the contract and stole my prize from under my nose! I want that capsule, and I'm gonna get it! Fuck you!"
Turning to his Mercs, he yelled hysterically, "Kill them! Every single one of them, KILL THEM ALL!"