Chapter 15: Hoodie & Mask

It had been four days since I found the safety deposit box, and I still had nothing. The frustration was building, and it wasn’t just because of the box. We were surviving on what remained of my hotdog stand's inventory, and Lois wasn’t handling it well.

“I don’t want any more hotdogs!” Lois shouted, throwing a tantrum.

“Sorry, but all we have are hotdogs. Just pour some ketchup on it,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light.

The hotdogs were all the frozen leftovers from my old hotdog stand. With little liquid money, we had no choice but to eat this stuff. Even I was getting tired of it. I looked up recipes online, hoping to find something simple yet different, and came across a scrambled egg recipe. To be painfully honest, the only thing I knew how to cook proficiently was hotdogs. My superpower had erased my past life's memories, and even cooking a simple sunny-side-up egg had become a hellish affair.

I cracked some eggs over sliced hotdogs, onions, and tomatoes. Some eggshells got into the frying pan, and the pan was scalding hot. I hesitated for a moment.

“What should I do?” I muttered to myself, tempted to use my power to resist the pain and pick out the eggshells. I shook my head. “Nah, it should be fine. Eggshells have calcium, right? Or is it vitamin E?”

I served the scrambled eggs for lunch and dinner. Lois seemed to like them enough not to complain, and that was a small victory in itself.

Hours passed.

While Lois was already sleeping, I was still working on the safety deposit box. What was it? I tried any number I could think of: a combination of her favorite numbers, her birthday in reverse, and even her code number back in the Dome.

“This is bullshit,” I muttered under my breath, feeling the frustration boil over.

I tried zero-zero-one-three.

Silence.

The seconds stretched into an eternity. Then, a soft beep broke the stillness.

It finally opened.

“This is bullshit!” I exclaimed, unable to believe my luck.

I recalled zero-zero-one-three from the game ‘Versus.’ It referred to the unfortunate soul who would appear in multiple characters’ story modes as an obscure Easter egg. In the game, zero-zero-one-three appeared as a tragic vanilla character used to explain different narratives. In Ebony Knight’s story mode, it was said she killed zero-zero-one-three.

“Focus, me!” I admonished myself, shaking my head. “Zero-zero-one-three is inconsequential.”

I opened the safety deposit box, and there they were: gleaming gold bars displayed in all their glory. This should be enough to cover Chet’s price and the cost of living for months and maybe even years if we were frugal.

I had to be careful about who I exchanged the gold bars with. A kilo of gold was worth around eighty thousand credits. Kane City had four major gangs vying for supremacy. These gangs were the best customers I could ask for. They’d definitely be liquid enough to move around the amount of cash a gold bar’s worth. If I were a legal citizen, I could have just gone to a bank immediately. I could also go to a money exchanger or a pawnshop. The problem was, that I’d be selling at an immense loss. Moreover, most pawnshops were connected to a gang or another. In the end, the gold would still end up in a gang’s hands.

“There is a market in gold though, so I’d hate to make a loss,” I muttered.

Unlike cash and credit bills, gold was much easier to launder. Would gangs buy gold? Money was money, in the end… It didn’t make sense to buy money with money, because, in the end, ‘gold’ was still money! The reason why gangs would buy gold was because of the black market. Gold was used as the currency for the black market because gold was untraceable. It wasn’t the same for credits, whether they were digital or paper cash.

“What should I do?” I wondered aloud.

I was still interested in selling at a pawnshop despite the loss. If I did sell to pawnshops, I would at least have no direct involvement with the gangs behind them. However, this would lead to another set of problems—the enforcers monitored the selling of gold rather strictly. Even if the government’s lapdogs had no way of proving whether the gold was legal or illegal, they’d have their eyes on me. This meant conducting a background check, which would reveal irregularities in my records, thus prompting them to look for me in the government’s system.

I’d be found out as an illegal and I’d have a criminal record as a stateless immigrant. Chet’s fakes would work if I was caught jaywalking, littering, or just being questioned on the streets. I’d flash them my national ID, and it would work. As long as it wouldn’t come to being held in the precinct, I’d be fine. But to an IT guy, the fake would immediately be seen through.

“Ah, shit. It looks like I have no choice—the gangs it is,” I resignedly concluded.

At a galactic scale, gold didn’t hold the same worth as it did before interstellar travel was invented. The standard had become energy-based credits. Paper bills existed because they were, in truth, special government-issued bonds directly connected to a certain amount of energy in kilowatts. The only reason gold still had a use in these times was that criminal organizations very rarely managed to spread beyond a planetary scale. Virtually, it had never been done before, all thanks to the World Order’s brutally strict immigration policies. This was why the World Order looked heavily upon illegal immigrants.

Why was gold used as currency in the first place even now? There were plenty of reasons, but the main one was that criminal organizations were forced to adapt to using gold for engaging in large deals and operations. Gold was relatively rare, and its scarcity had long made it valuable. Every planet had a limited resource of gold, thus the rarity. Its natural rarity meant it held intrinsic value, an essential characteristic of a good currency.

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Such progression might have led society to perceive gold as equating to crime and criminals. However, that wasn’t the case because of the existence of jewelry and precious stones. If criminal organizations didn’t deal with gold, they’d deal with precious stones.

If anything, wealth and luxury could be often associated with crime…

I hauled the gold bars and stuffed them into a duffel bag. When I realized they were too heavy, I switched to a rolling suitcase.

“It should be around a hundred and fifty kilograms,” I muttered as I finished packing a dozen gold bars.

What was next? Research. I needed lots of research.

Most of my knowledge of Kane City came from gossip. I connected to the internet using the laptop. The hideout was special in a way, equipped with pre-functioning IP spoofing that would regenerate now and then. This setup made it possible for me to use the internet without the fear of being easily tracked.

The city was filled with hardened criminals—some were losers from other places, some were made here, and others seemed to have just appeared out of nowhere.

“What do we have here?” I mumbled to myself, scanning the information. “There’s the Kane Chaplaincy.”

The Kane Chaplaincy had an unknown number of members and fluid territories that quickly changed hands or were just ignored. They were basically a group of cultists with an unknown number of superhumans. They were a creepy mysterious bunch.

“Nah, I should forget them,” I decided. I didn’t want to be brainwashed.

Next. The Devil Fish Clan, who occupied the entire bay to the south, seemed like a worthy candidate.

From what I knew, they loved gold. Their symbol was a smiling Sahuagin—a green-scaled fish-man carrying a trident. According to folklore, these creatures were vicious, predatory fishmen. Evidently, the Sahuagin wasn’t just a symbol; it referred to the boss of the gang itself. They had only one superhuman among their ranks: the boss, an aquamorph who could turn into a fish-man creature with unique psychic abilities, like talking to fish, summoning rainstorms, and self-replication.

I browsed the internet, digging deeper into the Sahuagin’s MO. It turned out they were heavily involved in drug trafficking. The Devil Fish Clan had a presence in multiple City-States, which meant they were quite global. The Sahuagin was rumored to be a powerful replicator, with most of the gang members supposedly being Sahuagin clones—or at least, that was the theory.

I sighed, realizing the scale of their operation. “I should give up… They’re too rich.” Moreover, the Sahuagin had a reputation for being cannibals and sporadically insane.

This left me with two candidates: the Dead Whore from Eastern Kane and the Masters of Steel from Western Kane. It seemed like an easy choice.

The Dead Whore specialized in brothels, catering to the elite, and also dabbled in the blackmail business. Meanwhile, the Masters of Steel focused on racketeering and violence—they were involved in robberies, the hitman business, and, ironically enough, the bodyguard business.

“I should make a deal with the Dead Whore,” I decided.

I had two reasons for this choice. The first reason was that the Dead Whore had a named character as its gang boss. It was better to play against a character I already knew than to venture into the unknown. The Masters of Steel’s boss was an unnamed character—a nobody from the game I knew. Since I didn’t know Steel’s boss’s temperament, there was a risk of accidentally offending him. I had no intention of starting any fight. The second reason was that I could never lose against the Dead Whore’s boss. It was a total power mismatch, tilting fully to my advantage.

“I’m going out,” I told Lois, already preparing to leave.

“Where?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the book she was reading.

“Business,” I replied, keeping my response vague.

Lois glanced up briefly. “I can take care of myself, but don’t be gone for too long. I’ll be lonely.”

“Copy that,” I reassured her.

It was raining outside, so I picked up the foldable umbrella and went on my way.

The rain fell in a relentless, rhythmic patter, forming a shimmering curtain that blurred the world around me as I headed to the familiar thrift store. Each raindrop seemed to whisper memories of morality I’ve desperately clung to. The sidewalk glistened like a polished mirror, reflecting the muted colors of the city under the grey sky. The soft sound of my footsteps, accompanied by the occasional splash in a puddle, echoed along the deserted street, reminding me of the comforting familiarity of this path.

I entered the thrift store, the familiar "Thrifty Nook" sign hanging just outside, swaying slightly in the wind. I folded my umbrella and left it by the rack. Inside, the air was thick with the musty scent of second-hand treasures, each item steeped in its own unique history. The clerk behind the counter caught my eye—a different person than I remembered. This one was a young woman, her punk-styled aesthetics a sharp contrast to the old clerk's plain demeanor. I figured the previous one must have quit.

I made my way through the aisles, my fingers trailing along the edges of shelves and the fabric of vintage clothing. I stopped at a black hoodie, pulling it from the rack. Its simplicity and anonymity appealed to me. Continuing my search, my eyes landed on a blank mask resting on a shelf, its stark whiteness catching the overhead lights. I picked it up, noting the way it felt smooth and cool against my skin. The eyeholes were large enough to provide a clear view, and its plain design would suffice for what I had in mind.

Satisfied with my finds, I approached the counter and held up the hoodie and the mask. "How much for these two?" I asked, ready to make my purchase and get on with my plans.

"A hundred and ten credits," the clerk replied, her voice steady and devoid of interest.

It was a chump change, so I handed over the credits without hesitation. "Here," I said, placing the money on the counter.

She took it without a word, her fingers expertly counting the smaller bills before nodding in acknowledgment. I headed towards a small partition in the corner of the store, a makeshift changing room hidden behind a tattered curtain. It wasn’t like I had anything extravagant to change into, but given my situation, discretion was paramount. I pulled the curtain closed behind me and quickly removed my shirt, revealing the bulletproof vest underneath—a precaution I had taken after a quick rummage through Lois’s stash.

The hoodie fit comfortably over the vest, hiding it completely. Next, I slipped on the blank mask, adjusting it until I was satisfied with the fit. It was a simple disguise, but it would serve its purpose. I stepped out of the partition, feeling the eyes of the clerk on me for a brief moment before they returned to her magazine.

Before leaving, I paused by the counter and used my power to influence her memory, ensuring she’d forget my visit entirely, leaving memories of the white-masked man instead. It was a simple act, but necessary given the nature of my errand. With my business concluded, I grabbed my umbrella and headed back outside.

So why exactly was I leaving her suspicious memories? They were seeds…

Knowing Dead Whore, they’d try to track my traces once I try to contact them. The investigation would lead them here in the thrift store, where they’d get nothing but a very vague recount of a witness. This was my way of increasing my mystique with the goal of creating a false sense of self-importance.

They’d go, ‘Who is this guy? Where did he come from? What are his interests? Is he a new player?’

To the Dead Whore, I would appear as an enigmatic figure, however, one they weren’t totally unable to control. They’d drop their guard around me, once they’d have established the preconceived notions that they were a step ahead of me.

I needed Dead Whore to take me seriously if I wanted them to buy gold from me.

“Still raining, huh?”

The rain had not let up; if anything, it had intensified. As I stepped out into the downpour, I felt the water bounce off the fabric of the umbrella, a rhythmic patter that accompanied my every step. I imagined I must have looked like a dark, obscure blot moving through the rain, my form rendered almost invisible by the blackness of my clothes and the umbrella. It was exactly the effect I needed as I made my way towards my next destination.

“Whoring house, where is that again?”