Chapter 9: 9. Capitalist

Like most pocket realms, the Plundered Vault did not truly exist within the Material Plane; it was more of a metaphysical representation of Mammon’s soul, his Will imprinted upon reality.

Technically the entire space was considered the Vault, but the vast majority of it was empty, save for the statue of its creator in the center. This glorious Colossus strained even the mind of a Prince of Chaos to view in its entirety. A mortal would mistake its toe for a golden mountain whose peak was lost to the unreachable heavens.

Upon one of its outstretched palms stood the Temple. A simple name for the only building within the Plundered Vault, but it resonated with deep Meaning. Every radiant colonnade, every glowing mosaic, held great, soul-shuddering Truths.

Keeper MCXII scuttled across the last stretch of the golden plain separating him from the Temple. He had journeyed across the Colossus’ palm for a thousand spiritual years in order to consult with his brethren. The Miller Situation had escalated beyond him. He required guidance.

In the meantime only seconds had passed back on Earth, so his physical avatar had not yet regenerated its wounds here. He suffered through the ignominy of his savaged face and the constant stream of ichor leaking from his eyes. If he didn’t know he was unworthy of its attention, he would have sworn the Colossus’ regard sometimes settled upon him, feasting on his suffering.

How truly absurd, that one of the fragments of Mammon’s Fourth Incarnation was dishonored so. Such a long trek to the Temple was most uncommon, though surely he would not be denied at the Gate of Greed.

Admittedly, prior to his resettlement on Earth, Keeper MCXII had languished for countless years on a newly-integrated planet in some backwater galaxy. There he had barely sold more than a few knicknacks to the survivors before they all died off. Lord Mammon frowned upon Inefficiency as much as any other sin impeding his ever-growing stockpile of wealth.

While Keeper MCXII technically was part of Mammon, deep down he had to grumble about how unreasonable his boss could be.

After all, the failure of Store MXCII on the previous world was hardly his fault. A matter of terrible luck, being forced to associate with such feckless barbarians. True, he had a few suboptimal ways of operating his particular franchise--at least according to the Store Handbook. But that was only from a limited perspective on what it meant to be greedy. Not allowing guides and charging some of the worst rates in the cosmos led to bottom-tier Conversion and Retention, sure, but it also meant that he topped the charts when it came to Profit Margin.

After another two centuries, Keeper MCXII pulled up to the Gate of Greed. Through his Diamond Eyes he observed the massive statues standing guard at either side of the rune-covered entrance.

Each one was formed from at least a dozen fragments of the Second Incarnation, also known as the Warmongerer. They were so far beyond his ken that any attempt to glimpse their Text resulted in nothing more than a serious migraine.

At the sight of the pathetic Keeper both statues cycled their souls. Unfathomable spiritual pressure descended upon his shoulders, forcing him to his knees in front of the Gate.

A slot opened in the golden, rune-covered expanse at about eye level.

A pair of inset diamonds glared down at him. “You dare show your face?’

For some reason Mammon had chosen to make the original Keeper into an old woman, though he usually preferred a masculine avatar. Many visitors had tested the haughty grandma over eternity and found themselves wanting.

MCXII focused all of his Will behind raising his head against the suppression field of spiritual gravity. They made eye contact, but Keeper I refused to maintain the connection and [ Link Souls] with him. He could scarcely imagine a more obvious slight.

“You are not welcome here, Mixie,” she said.

MCXII gnashed his many rows of teeth. “Do not use the nickname from that insipid savage. I am no better and no worse than any other Keeper. Including yourself, First. Any idiosyncratic part of my nature is Mammon’s intent, unless you harbor some doubts regarding the Plan? Perhaps you wish to inform the Alpha he has committed a mistake? That part of his soul is an aberrancy, worthy of mockery?”

Keeper I snorted. “You have not stepped foot within the Temple for millions of years, Mixie. A castaway fragment such as yourself will be corrupted by outside influence in far less time. Yes, even such a pathetic trickle of customers will leave their mark.”

“Then allow me entrance into the Temple once more,” said MCXII. “Purify and repurpose my soul if necessary, as long as I am not forced to travel with that imbecile.”

Keeper I grunted her laughter for six months before deigning to respond. “Your encounter has been reviewed by the Priests of the Third Incarnation. I have never seen such a pathetic contract in my life. Take any object from your Store? Were you so terrified of a level four Disciple, Mixie? Could you have possibly drifted farther from the Path if you tried?”

“My Store contains useless baubles. Assuming he could even identify the most expensive product, what does that compare to the damage of a sustained battle?”

“Money. Is. Money.” Her voice held incontrovertible finality. “You are to accompany the mortal known as Roman Miller. Too long have you harbored this pathetic anxiety about interacting with other minds and leaving your Store. Even beyond running your franchise, Keepers have a duty to seek new inventory. If you cannot bring yourself to make sales and acquire treasures from the Progenitors of Earth, then at the very least you can discover some for yourself.”

“This is against my nature,” MCXII complained. “You are causing me spiritual trauma.”

“Then adapt.”

The slot slammed shut.

[ Have fun, Mixie. ]

Keeper MCXII--no, officially Mixie, now--pressed his forehead against the ground, every fiber of his being thrumming with terror. Even after the statues released their spiritual pressure and the eyes of the Colossus focused elsewhere, he remained in that position for a millennium, hyperventilating, eyes squeezed shut, wondering what the fuck he had gotten himself into.

 

* * *

 

After less than five seconds of staring off into space, the ghoulish shopkeeper nodded. “So it shall be.”

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Roman took a step back in surprise. “What?”

He had expected Mixie to argue, maybe throw in an extra treasure or something to wiggle out of the vague deal.

Travel together? The bastard had killed Birch, even if Roman had been considering the same thing himself. It was one for him to entertain thoughts about harming another person who had pointed a gun his way, another for this eldritch horror to turn a man into a popsicle for listening to Roman’s entreaties.

Mixie shrugged, though his face held a trace of reluctance as well. “Your request is within the parameters of the deal. It has been accepted.”

Roman grinned awkwardly and set his giant cup of Heartroot Elixir aside. “Yeah, but I mean, didn’t the big guy make me into a nemesis? You’re, like, required to hunt me down.”

“Well,” said Mixie, “as amusing as the prospect is, that does not mean I have to slaughter you forthwith. This can easily be circumvented. For instance, if I allow this measly Bounty of fifty fragments to reach somewhere in the millions, you shall fetch a much tastier price.”

“Oh.” Roman rubbed his chin. “Can’t your boss call off the hounds, then? Can’t imagine it’s going to do me much good.”

Mixie offered an awkward and very toothy grin of his own. “The Greed Accords are quite strict. Mammon would not violate one of his Truths over such a paltry matter. Trust me, foolish mortal, there are few things I would enjoy less than cavorting about this lowly world with a sack of perishables such as yourself. It appears that I have been tasked with exploring, despite my protestations against the matter.”

Roman pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can you at least unfreeze Birch?”

“I could, but I have no desire to clean up that puddle. Your pitiful physiques cannot tolerate having every cell frozen for any length of time.” Mixie waved one of his hands in dismissal. “I imagine this forced partnership shall not last long. I would not be surprised if that flesh bag of yours explodes before the first daily reward is even distributed.”

Roman’s ears perked up at that. Finally he stopped crouching behind the shield to better examine his new companoin. “First daily reward?”

Mixie frowned. “Your guide has not seen fit to inform you of the important details.”

“Kind of a busy night so far,” said Roman, feeling compelled to defend his friend.

“The Chaos Playground is a self-contained ecosystem. Organic and spiritual matter are recycled and redistributed. Nothing is lost beyond the minimum permissible entropy. Of the approximately three hundred million survivors, I should suspect at least half shall not make it through the night. That is being quite generous. Their matter shall be recycled into rewards for the survivors. This shall continue as long as you people keep dying.”

Roman tried his best not to consider that too deeply. He had once heard that everything is made of stardust, recycled for a new purpose. Other people’s bodies being reshaped into a shirt or pair of boots wasn’t too much different, right? He tried his best not to look at the glacier where Birch was encased like an insect in amber.

“In that case, should we stay here?” he said. “No one is going to overpower us when we have all these treasures.”

“Let this be made clear: you have no treasures. They are mine, and you shall have none of them.” Mixie finally hopped down from the counter, stretching his arms out.

A heavy satchel made of a suspicious leather material swooped across the Store and landed at the shopkeeper’s feet. It unzipped itself, and moments later a flood of herb-marked packages from the counter display surged inside. Frosted refrigerator doors swung open and scores of bottles flitted out, diving into the seemingly-endless satchel without so much as a clink of glass. While it was an impressive quantity, it still paled in comparison to the entirety of the store’s supply--apparently Mixie’s personal allotment had its limits.

Then the entire armory wall shuddered. Mismatched plates of armor, bits of boiled leather, and sheets of chainmail whipped into the shopkeeper, covering his body from the waist up. A thick skirt of liquid quicksilver wrapped itself around his hips, allowing greater mobility for the cluster of legs Roman knew hid beneath those robes. The prismatic shield was torn from Roman’s hand and settled onto Mixie’s back like a tortoise’s shell.

After several layers of disjointed armor covered the shopkeeper from the neck down, the weapons came next. The phoenix sword next to the Potion Dispenser vibrated frenziedly before flying away. It joined six other swords attached to his hips, their elemental-themed handles forming a disjointed rainbow. An ancient flail containing a sinister aura attached itself to one forearm, and a staff made of opalescent wood splinted his entire left arm to the point it was immobile. Various smaller weapons slapped themselves to whatever space looked most available, with no aesthetic concerns to hold them back.

When the storm of flying objects ended, Mixie stood there proudly, bristling with a devastating arsenal of weaponry and looking like an excited child’s sketch of a mechanized suit of power armor.

With his new [Soul Circulation] skill, Roman could see the threads of energy the shopkeeper used to manipulate the flying objects, ruining the mystique somewhat. Still, it was an impressive enough technique; the fine control Mixie demonstrated was far beyond Roman’s ability to overload his hands until some of his chaos energy seeped into the target.

As loath as he was to admit it, maybe he’d be best off getting on the Keeper’s good side. He opened his attributes screen one more time, glanced at his negative Charisma, and sighed. Looked like that would be a long term project.

“I’m guessing that means we aren’t saying here, then?” he said.

“The Chaos Playground is not meant to reward those who hide in the shadows.” Mixie looked around his Store. If Roman didn’t know better, he would’ve thought the shopkeeper almost looked sad. “By morning some monster far beyond my ability to handle would show up and destroy the entire building. Do not think I will forget about you forcing me from my home.”

Roman sniffed. Even if Mixie was a fountain of treasures and knowledge, he would have to do something about that attitude sooner rather than later. If he couldn’t win the shopkeeper over with his negative Charisma, he might have to find some alternatives. Mixie might be packing some serious heat, but Roman thought it may be possible to humble him outside of his home territory.

Mixie crouched down and managed to extract a wrapped herb from the depths of his bottomless satchel despite the unwieldy flail attached to his forearm. With a precise slash of soul energy, Mixie opened the package and shoved its verdant contents into his mouth. Roman tried to memorize the flow of energy behind the technique. Projected energy could cut things? What if he could infuse his chaos energy into a long-range attack?

“What level are you, anyways?” said Roman.

“What an absurd question.” Mixie pointed his staff-splinted arm at Roman in what he must have intended to be an intimidating fashion. “I am a Keeper. We are not base savages like yourself that gain strength from combat. Through exploration and trade we become indomitable.”

Roman narrowed his eyes. “Okay, so what level are you?”

“Well, if you must know, I am level two.”

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