Chapter 2 : Learning the System
The maintenance tunnel smells like oil and rat droppings. Home sweet home.
I found this place eight hours after selling out Grax—an access shaft beneath Level 1287 that the city forgot about decades ago. The emergency lighting still works, barely. Enough to see by. Enough to hide from Security patrols that occasionally sweep through looking for squatters and spice dealers.
The curved durasteel walls trap the cold. I'm wrapped in a salvaged thermal blanket that probably came from a Republic transport. My breath fogs in the stale air. The System interface hovers in front of me, casting blue shadows across cramped quarters.
900 credits. Not enough for food, shelter, and weapons. I need to prioritize.
"Analyze the problem. You're good at this. Break it down."
The catalog has expanded since that first desperate search. Or maybe I'm just seeing it clearly now—thousands of items organized by source universe, subcategorized by function. The prices still fluctuate. I watch a Mass Effect M-8 Avenger rifle shift from 3,200 to 2,800 to 3,500 credits in thirty seconds.
[ PRICING INSTABILITY PERSISTS ]
[ ESTIMATED STABILIZATION: 50 TRANSACTIONS ]
[ CURRENT TRANSACTION COUNT: 1 ]
Forty-nine sales to go before I can trust the prices. That's assuming the System isn't lying about stabilization.
I navigate through the menus with practiced thought-commands. The interface responds smoothly now—my neural integration must have finished. Categories expand and collapse: Weapons, Armor, Equipment, Vehicles, Technology. Each universe gets its own section. Halo. Gears of War. Destiny. Titanfall. Even obscure stuff like Strike Vector and Section 8.
The vehicle section makes my stomach drop. Warthogs for 50,000 credits. Pelican dropships for 200,000. A UNSC Frigate listed at 25,000,000 with a notation:
[ STORE LEVEL 3 REQUIRED FOR CAPITAL SHIP PURCHASES ]
[ CURRENT LEVEL: 1 ]
I close that menu before the temptation kills me.
The new Appraisal function sits in the corner of my vision, pulsing softly. I haven't tested it yet—too busy finding shelter and avoiding Security. But now, in the relative safety of this forgotten tunnel, curiosity wins.
I focus on the rusted pipe running along the ceiling. The interface flares:
[ APPRAISAL ACTIVE ]
[ ANALYZING TARGET... ]
[ INDUSTRIAL PIPE - DURALLOY COMPOSITE ]
[ CONDITION: SEVERE CORROSION ]
[ SALVAGE VALUE: 5 CREDITS ]
[ REPAIR COST: 45 CREDITS ]
[ RECOMMENDATION: SCRAP FOR MATERIALS ]
The information floods my brain in an instant. I know the pipe's composition, its structural integrity, where it's weakest. The knowledge feels foreign—like someone else's memories grafted onto mine.
A headache blooms behind my left eye. Sharp, pulsing pain that makes me wince.
"So that's the cost."
I appraise a chunk of broken duracrete. Same result—instant information, worse headache. The pain intensifies with each use, building from annoying to debilitating. After five appraisals, I'm squinting against the throbbing in my skull.
[ WARNING: NEURAL PROCESSING STRAIN DETECTED ]
[ APPRAISAL FUNCTION USES BIOLOGICAL PATHWAYS ]
[ EXCESSIVE USE MAY CAUSE NEURAL DAMAGE ]
[ RECOMMENDED DAILY LIMIT: 15 APPRAISALS ]
Fifteen. I can work with that.
I scan the tunnel methodically, cataloging everything. The damaged datapad in the corner shows 120 credits if repaired—components are intact, just needs a new power cell. A forgotten tool kit holds 80 credits worth of salvage. Basic resources that other squatters missed.
Then I spot it: a package wedged into a gap between wall panels. Wrapped in waterproof polymer, sealed with industrial adhesive. Someone hid this deliberately.
The Appraisal function triggers:
[ SEALED PACKAGE - CONTENTS UNKNOWN ]
[ SCANNING... ]
[ GLITTERSTIM SPICE - GRADE B ]
[ STREET VALUE: 800 CREDITS ]
[ BLACK MARKET VALUE: 600 CREDITS (QUICK SALE) ]
[ WARNING: CONTRABAND ]
My hands shake when I pry the package free. Eight hundred credits worth of spice. Enough to buy proper weapons, food, medical supplies. Enough to get out of this tunnel and into something resembling civilization.
Also: completely illegal. Possession alone could get me ten years in Republic detention. Dealing? Twenty to life.
I stare at the package. My old-world morality screams at me—this is stealing. Someone hid this here. They'll come back for it. Taking it makes me a thief on top of everything else.
But my stomach is empty. My ribs still ache from injuries I don't remember getting. The 900 credits won't last a week.
"Nobody knows it's here. If they did, they'd have retrieved it already. This is abandoned property. Salvage rights."
The rationalization feels hollow even as I think it.
I take the package anyway.
Finding a buyer takes three hours. The Lower Levels are a maze of competing criminal enterprises—go to the wrong one and you're dead. Go to the right one and you're merely robbed.
I target a maintenance worker I've seen twice: human, mid-forties, wearing a Republic utility jumpsuit that's too clean for actual maintenance work. He frequents a cantina two levels up, never talks to anyone, and pays for everything in untraceable credit chips.
Black market facilitator. Has to be.
I approach him in the cantina's back corner, keeping my voice low. "I have something. Looking for a quick sale. No questions."
He doesn't even look up from his drink. "Not interested."
"Glitterstim. Grade B. Six hundred credits."
That gets his attention. He eyes me—takes in the blood-stained clothes, the desperate edge I can't quite hide. "Stolen?"
"Found."
"Same thing down here." He drums fingers on the table. "Four hundred."
"Five fifty."
"Four fifty. Final."
I take it. The transaction happens in thirty seconds—he inspects the package, nods, transfers credits. No names exchanged. No witnesses. Just business.
[ CREDITS RECEIVED: 450 ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 1350 CREDITS ]
[ NOTE: NON-SYSTEM ITEMS SOLD WITHOUT SERVICE FEE ]
I freeze. Read that last line three times.
"Wait. Items not purchased through the System don't incur fees?"
That changes everything. If I can source weapons locally and resell them, the System won't take a cut. It only taxes transactions involving its catalog. The loophole is obvious in retrospect—the System makes money by selling things to me, not by monitoring every credit that changes hands.
My mind races with implications. I could buy damaged weapons, repair them with Appraisal guidance, resell at markup. Source black market tech and flip it to the right buyers. Build capital without constant System fees bleeding me dry.
The headache from earlier has faded to a dull throb. I head back to the tunnel and spend the next four hours testing the Appraisal function's limits. Fifteen appraisals per day—I use thirteen, saving two for emergencies. Each scan teaches me something new about the Lower Levels' hidden economy.
By the time exhaustion wins, I've identified: three more spice stashes (total value: 900 credits), a cache of stolen Republic rations (400 credits), and a damaged blaster rifle that I could repair for 50 credits and sell for 300.
Not bad for a day's work.
That night—or what passes for night in the eternal twilight of Level 1313—I lie on the cold durasteel floor and think about the future. The System wants me to sell weapons. Every notification, every quest, every mechanic is designed to push me toward arms dealing. It doesn't care about morality. It cares about transactions.
And I'm starting to understand why.
The Clone Wars are three months old. Geonosis already happened—the Republic is mobilizing, the Separatists are consolidating, and both sides need weapons desperately. Supply chains are stressed. Black markets are flourishing. A dealer who can provide reliable, high-quality equipment from "off-world sources" could make a fortune.
I pull up the System interface and start making lists. Potential clients. Upcoming battles I remember from the animated series. Planetary conflicts. Refugee crises. Every war crime and tragedy becomes a data point in my mental spreadsheet.
The guilt I expected still hasn't arrived. Just cold calculation and the growing realization that I'm good at this.
My datapad—purchased for 200 credits yesterday from a Toydarian junk dealer—pings with a new message. I don't recognize the sender. The text is brief:
"Heard you supplied Krall's crew. Need something similar. 5000 credits available. Meet tomorrow, 1400 hours, Sector 8 cantina. Come alone."
I stare at the message. This is how it starts. One job leads to another. Reputation builds. Before long, I'll be just another arms dealer in a galaxy full of them.
The difference is, I have an entire multiverse's worth of weapons to choose from.
I send the confirmation and close my eyes. Tomorrow, I'll take the next step. For now, I need sleep.
The System interface pulses softly in the darkness, painting my makeshift shelter in shades of blue. Somewhere above, the city churns on—millions of lives stacked on top of each other, all trying to survive in their own way.
I'm just one more.
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