After meticulously reviewing every possible scenario, Thomas watched the clock tick over to noon.
"Confirm full Flea Market activation?" the mechanical voice prompted.
"Confirm," Thomas replied.
A momentary lag rippled through the Flea Market interface before resolving. Simultaneously, 5 million Apocalypse Coins and 1 Calamity Coin vanished from his inventory.
Unseen, countless survivors across the ravaged world heard a ding. Confused, they turned to each other for answers, only to freeze mid-sentence. A new tab labeled "Flea Market" had appeared on their chat panels. Curiosity piqued, they clicked it, revealing a clean, intuitive interface.
Three options greeted them: Buy, Sell, Search.
Clicking "Buy" revealed two sub-options: "Requests" and "Market."
The "Requests" page was simple, allowing users to post requests for specific items and offer prices.
The "Market," however, was a cornucopia. Dozens of categories unfolded before their eyes: Weapons, Armor, Medical, Keys, Ammunition, Supplies, Other. Each category branched into further subcategories, facilitating efficient browsing. Weapons, for instance, included AK Series, Assault Rifles, Submachine Guns, Carbines, Light Machine Guns, and nearly twenty others. Armor was divided into Vests and Plate Carriers. Medical included Trauma Treatment, First Aid Kits, Pills & Tablets, Injectables, and more. Ammunition was the most granular, categorized by caliber and function, with dozens of options. Keys and Supplies were equally extensive.
The sheer volume of choices was overwhelming. Yet, hundreds of items were already listed. Survivors gasped in disbelief, then scrambled to purchase what they could. Most were met with a stark "Insufficient Funds" message. Only then did they register the prices, each one drawing a sharp intake of breath.
"Damn… that's highway robbery! Who's this seller?" They clicked on the black-hooded avatar to find the name: Black Market Merchant. A collective groan echoed across the wasteland.
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Meanwhile, those who successfully purchased high-grade items were also cursing. "What the hell? It said 200,000 Apocalypse Coins, but it took 210,000! A 5% fee? That's outrageous!"
Oblivious to the survivors' reactions, though not entirely surprised, Thomas focused on Tessia and Eight Lop.
"You both see the Flea Market interface?" he asked.
They nodded vigorously. "Yes, Boss! It appeared just a moment ago."
"Tessia," Thomas instructed, "besides managing the market with Eight Lop, keep an eye out for any sellers who don't seem like regular survivors. Log any unusual activity. And, uh, buy me a pair of black leather pants. I need them for something."
"Of course, Boss."
Thomas handed Eight Lop a pistol. "Try listing this on the Flea Market. Let me see how it works."
Eight Lop nodded, taking the pistol and navigating the interface. Moments later, he confirmed the listing.
Thomas opened his own Flea Market panel, navigating to the pistol category. A smile spread across his face. Eight Lop's rabbit avatar, listed as "Eight Lop," appeared alongside the pistol.
"So that's what 'all life forms in the Apocalypse Game' means," Thomas mused.
As if to confirm his theory, Tessia reported several unusual sellers. A middle-aged woman in a lab coat offered medical supplies and food. Several men in their forties and fifties listed weapons, ammunition, armor, tactical gear, helmets, hats, and backpacks. A man in gold-rimmed glasses offered weapon attachments, tactical accessories, and even a few modified firearms.
One name caught Thomas's eye. He clicked it instantly.
Sergey Arsenyevich Samoylov
The letter from "The Mechanic" to Caban flashed in his mind. Comparing the details, a grin of excitement lit up Thomas's face.
"So you're the Mechanic!"
He immediately added Sergey to his watchlist. It wasn't time to make contact yet.
These initial sellers seemed to act as a catalyst. More and more vendors popped up on the Flea Market, tentatively listing a few items at first, then quickly expanding their inventory.
Then, Thomas's fake luxury items attracted their first buyer. Tessia called him over, a strange expression on her face. The buyer's avatar was Mad Dog.
"Well, shit…" Thomas chuckled wryly as he watched Mad Dog purchase one of the fake luxury items for hundreds of thousands of Apocalypse Coins. "I guess that's what you call returning to its rightful owner?"
But aren't you supposed to be moving today? How do you even have time for this?
Thomas shifted his attention to the virtual map, intending to check on the Trading Center. But his gaze was drawn to the Crimson Cabaret. As he took in the scene unfolding there, his brow furrowed in concern.