The limousine came to a smooth halt inside the factory's internal docking bay. The airlock cycled with a heavy, pressurized hiss, sealing out the smoke and the noise of the riots outside.
The droid chauffeur opened the door.
Vance stepped onto the metal grating. He was immediately flanked by four heavy security droids. They didn't hold weapons; they held scanning wands that hummed with high-frequency energy.
"Mandatory sanitation and security protocol," a computerized voice announced from the ceiling. "Arms raised. Feet apart."
Vance complied. He knew this was coming.
A ring of blue light descended from the ceiling, passing over his body. It was a molecular scanner, capable of detecting chemical compounds measured in micrograms.
"Contraband detected," the voice droned. "Left cuff. Polymer-encased chemical vial."
A droid stepped forward. It ripped the button off Vance's sleeve and crushed it. A small puff of neutralizing powder vanished into the air filtration system.
"Right heel. High-density ceramic blade."
The droid knelt and tore the heel off Vance's boot. It tossed the hidden knife into an incinerator chute built into the wall.
"Molar implant. Bone-conduction transmitter."
Vance tensed. If they removed his tooth, he would lose contact with Nyar.
"Bio-signature matches host bone density," the scanner corrected itself after a tense pause. "Classified as non-explosive. Allowed."
Vance exhaled slowly. The biological camouflage held. But physically, he was now defenseless. No chemicals. No knives. No tricks. He walked through the inner doors wearing nothing but his suit and his wits.
The doors opened into the banquet hall.
It was a grotesque display of wealth amidst squalor. The room was suspended on a platform above the factory floor, where massive grinders sat silent and waiting. The table was set with white linen, silver, and crystal, illuminated by a chandelier that swayed gently from the vibrations of the cooling fans.
At the head of the table sat Gluttony.
He was a mountain of chrome and flesh, so large his chair looked like a throne. His stomach was a transparent, reinforced glass furnace, glowing with a dull, hungry orange light.
To his right sat Greed, tapping on a datapad, looking bored and impatient.
Vance walked toward the table. As he approached, he took a deep, deliberate breath through his nose.
Outside, the wind had carried only a trace of the factory's condition. Here, in the enclosed space, the truth was undeniable.
The air around Gluttony reeked.
It wasn't just the smell of oil or food. It was a sharp, stinging scent of Ammonia that burned the back of Vance's throat. It was far more concentrated than before, leaking from the seals of the giant's armor. Mixed with it was the distinct, acrid odor of Scorched Insulation—the smell of wires melting under extreme heat.
Vance's eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses.
The cooling system wasn't just failing; it was critical. Gluttony was cooking from the inside out. Every movement the giant made released a fresh wave of that chemical heat. He was a dying star trying to hide its collapse.
"You look light, Mr. Vance," Gluttony rumbled. His voice was wet and distorted, amplified by a speaker in his throat. "I trust security was thorough."
"Thorough enough to ruin a good pair of boots," Vance said, limping slightly as he pulled out the chair at the opposite end of the table.
He sat down. The heat radiating from Gluttony was palpable across the distance, like sitting in front of an open oven.
"Let's skip the pleasantries," Greed said, not looking up from his screen. "Time is money, and you are costing me both."
"Agreed," Gluttony slammed a heavy metal hand onto the table. "I am hungry. The reactor needs fuel."
"Then let's eat," Vance said.
"Not so fast," Gluttony grinned, his hydraulic jaw grinding. "This is not a charity kitchen. This is a game of chance and capacity."
Gluttony gestured to the droids standing in the shadows. They wheeled forward a cart filled with covered silver platters.
"The rules are simple," Gluttony explained. "We order for each other. You choose my dish. I choose yours. We eat until one of us... expires."
Vance looked at the cart. He knew what was under those lids. Poisons. Radioactive isotopes. Heavy metals.
"Fair enough," Vance nodded.
"But," Greed interrupted, finally looking up. His eyes gleamed with a predatory light. "Since I am the sponsor of this event, I have added a clause. To make things interesting."
Greed tapped the table. A holographic display materialized between them, showing a digital counter.
"The Auction Rule."
"Before each dish is served," Greed explained smoothly, "you may bid for the right to alter the course. High bidder can swap the dish, force the opponent to eat double, or add a special... seasoning."
Vance went still.
He looked at Greed. He looked at the infinite string of zeros in the banker's account displayed on the datapad.
Then he looked at his own notification log. [Assets Frozen. Balance: 0.]
This was the trap. It wasn't just a eating contest. It was a financial execution. Gluttony would use Greed's money to force-feed Vance poison, while Vance wouldn't be able to spend a single credit to save himself.
"I see," Vance said, his voice cold. "A pay-to-win game."
"Capitalism at its finest," Greed smiled. "Shall we begin the bidding for the first course?"
Vance leaned back in his chair. He smelled the Ink and Cold Copper of Greed's arrogance. The banker thought he had already won.
Vance didn't panic. He looked at the two monsters facing him. One was physically overheating; the other was financially omnipotent.
He needed a lever. And he needed it before the first plate hit the table.