Over the next week, Alfred, now naming himself Forseti, the Vanguard of the oppressed, went to private businesses that worked in the shadows of New York. He talked to underground weapons dealers, professional assassins, weapon inventors, along with other various shadowy figures in the Big Apple Underworld.

He asked each of the people he met about gear for getting into places unnoticed, weapons for silent kills, skills required for an assassin, and other such topics. Each person was rather shocked at his youth, but did offer their advice when he told them his cause.

“I’m here to end the oppression of the class system. For too long have the rich and powerful sat in their protected nests of lavish comfort while the working people suffer like slaves and trash beneath them. No more will the rich be able to do whatever they want because they have the money to escape punishment.

“From this point on, the people in high society will be judged equally, and for all of their sins. Money will mean nothing more than a way to obtain food, shelter, and objects of personal pleasure, and it will never lead to defining power, status, or who is better or beneath you.”

Many times, after saying his speech, the people he requested advice from called him the “Assassin of Heaven”, the “Spirit of Final Judgment”, or something similar. Soon, when he walked into a weapon smith’s shop, he was greeted by nickname, despite not knowing who the man was.

“Well, look at that, the young Assassin of Heaven has come to visit my shop,” said an older man behind a shop counter. The man had gray hair with streaks of white, which was combed neatly atop his head. He wore a black Metallica shirt under a pair of dark blue denim overalls that had burn spots all over them.

“You know who I am?” Alfred asked, cautious of a potential fight or run-in with the authorities. He slowly approached the counter, looking at the various weapons hanging on the walls.

Swords of various lengths lined one wall , a mace hung near the door, several compound bows above the counter, a rack of hunting rifles and a glass case of knives and handguns to the left of the counter.

The older man chuckled. “Yeah, seems like the whole underground is talking about you. A teenage kid on a mission to demolish the class system. Some rumors say you’ll start a revolutionary crusade for the working class, others say you’re secretly an angel of judgment sent from heaven.”

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Alfred walked up to the counter and put one hand on it. “In that case, I’m sure you won’t mind if I ask to see your grain stores, would you?” He said that, remembering a suggestion from an assassin he talked to by the name of Mr. Black. He’d told Alfred to find Harlow Perrison, and say “grain stores” so he’ll know Black sent him to view his private weapon storage.

“Come with me.” Harlow said, his smile turning serious as he went to a door behind the counter. He took out a skeleton key and unlocked the door. Alfred followed him to a desk in the back room, where Harlow opened a drawer and pressed a hidden button.

Behind them, a bookcase with very few books opened like a door and revealed a staircase leading down. Harlow went to the opening and began walking down the stairs, and Afred followed him.

“I’ve been working for the New York underworld for forty years now. Can’t really apply my skills in weapon making anywhere else except under military contract, so I began making weapons for the people who work in the shadows.” Harlow said as he and Alfred descended several stories.

“You’re the youngest customer I’ve ever had, but maybe that’s a good thing. Young people have the most determination to do things and the biggest imagination on how to do them. Maybe you will actually reach your goal.”

Alfred walked on behind the old man in silence. Then, after another three flights of stairs, they reached a large room filled with wooden boxes, shelves, and tables, each piled or filled with many different kinds of weapons.

Shelves upon shelves of small, handheld crossbows, darts, throwing knives and stars, various guns, ranging from rifles, marksmen, submachines, and pistols; multiple daggers, even a longsword and two katanas.

In boxes lay many devices that looked like explosives, many jars of chemicals, plastic bags of various powders, several items that looked like military grade flash, smoke, and frag grenades.

“I see you are well supplied. Many military grade weaponry, I see. Friend in the military salvage business?” Alfred asked, picking up a pistol with a silencer.

“MW11, extended magazine, thinned carbon fiber and rubber mixture for the silencer, and strengthened grip for more control. I personally customized the attachments and designed the material formula for each one. You’ll find no other fun with more perfectly suited attachments on the planet.” Harlow said proudly.

“Same goes for all my firearms and the attachments. All customly designed for the weapon, and made with a unique material formula to achieve peak performance.” He continued, gesturing to the other shelves, tables, and boxes of weapons.

“The grenades are all also made by me with salvaged military equipment, and the gas and smoke ones are all specially made with my own personal formula.” Harlow said, finally boasting about all his items.

Alfred stood silently for a moment, thinking, then smiled. “I have a list here that many of these items will help me cross bits off. I have enough money for any reasonable price you name.” He said, gesturing to the duffle bag of cash he’d hid behind his back. “Let’s get to work.”