Chapter 7
RYCHNE
Human economics is an abomination.
The entire system runs on fragile variables and half-truths, strung together by invisible threads of assumed trust and outdated infrastructure.
There are codes and identifications and paper bills, actual paper, printed with the faces of long-dead warlords.
I stare at a dollar bill in the browser of my compad, turning it this way and that with a flick of my fingers, and cannot determine how this shredded tree carcass holds any intrinsic value.
Yet it does.
And I need it.
Strength means nothing on this planet unless it can buy groceries and plumbing repairs.
Fortunately, I am not without tools. The compad hums in my palm, softly pulsing against my skin like a second heart.
It’s still cracked from the crash, the interface jittery, but the core systems are sound.
I initiate a full decrypt on local municipal servers, skimming like a ghost through death records, digital tombstones etched in code.
Hundreds of names. Dates. Coordinates. Details.
One, in particular, catches my eye.
Gregory J. Wilmont. Deceased. No surviving relatives. Retired civil engineer. Modest savings. A man who existed just enough to matter, but not enough to leave behind a paper trail that would raise flags.
Perfect.
I graft my fabricated identity onto his record.
Adjust the metadata. Inject Alliance-grade false entries into Earth’s antiquated systems. Tax filings.
Credit history. A small freelance consulting firm listed under the innocuous title “RJ Financial Solutions.” The bank flags the sudden activity, but I reroute the alert into a mail server that’s still delivering spam about discount hoverboards.
Within ninety minutes, Richard J. Wilmont is not only real—he’s boringly credible.
I lean back in the creaking chair I salvaged from a dumpster and let out a slow breath.
“I am now...a tax person,” I whisper.
The words feel like treason.
Back home, warriors are forged in fire and ceremony. Here, I am built from keystrokes and PDFs. But survival is survival.
The next part is harder.
Real estate acquisition.
Even with digital credentials in place, Earthlings are absurdly concerned with something called “employment continuity.” I doctor a few pay stubs.
Craft a social media presence. There is, apparently, an entire platform dedicated to images of breakfast. I post a bowl of oatmeal with the caption “Fuel for spreadsheets.” The algorithm rewards me with three likes from bots peddling cryptocurrency scams.
Humans are so weird.
I find a modest dwelling listed as a foreclosure special. Single story. Weather-worn siding. A detached garage that sags like a dying beast. It’s exactly the kind of place no one would look twice at.
And it’s directly next to Vanessa Malone’s house.
That gives me pause.
There are other listings. Other zip codes.
But the compad’s predictive heuristic, based on subtle environmental patterns and celestial alignments, pings with a rare probability spike when I linger on this address.
It’s the same anomaly that flickered when I touched her hand.
The same algorithmic static I felt during the Jalshagar surge.
I am not a creature prone to superstition.
But even I know better than to ignore the Grand Design when it tugs.
I authorize the purchase.
In less than twenty-four hours, Richard J. Wilmont becomes the proud owner of 209 Prairie Lily Court. The house next door to the woman whose very scent short-circuits my neural relays.
Fate is a cruel strategist.
And yet, I feel something dangerously close to anticipation as I confirm the closing documents and falsify a mortgage signature.
My ribs ache as I move. The burns on my shoulder itch under the synthetic skin overlay. Every muscle screams for rest, for regeneration, for the safety of a Vakutan medbay.
Instead, I am crouched on the floor of an abandoned radio shack, surrounded by stolen Wi-Fi, posing as a man who files 1099 forms.
I should be furious.
But I’m not.
Because for the first time since the jump tore me from time and space, I have a place to go. A plan. A foothold on this bizarre little world with its ketchup monuments and warlike squirrels.
And maybe a reason to stay.
The hardware store smells like a dying battleship.
Not in the usual sense of scorched wiring and ozone, but something more.
.. insidious. The place reeks of old sweat, rust, fried circuit boards, and an unmistakable whiff of artificial butter.
My olfactory sensors struggle to categorize it—popcorn, maybe?
Burnt. Over-salted. Slightly damp. Like someone tried to weaponize movie night and gave up halfway through.
I step inside, ducking beneath a flickering OPEN sign. The ceiling fans creak like neglected mech joints, their rhythm mismatched. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, bathing the narrow aisles in a sickly yellow glow that reminds me of emergency beacons on a failing cryo-pod.
There’s too much.
Too many objects, too many colors, too many labels screaming in capital letters: FASTENERS. SANDING DISCS. BUG B GONE. The human fixation on acronyms and mascots bewilders me. Why does a spray designed to repel insects require a cartoon lizard wearing sunglasses?
I pick up a wrench—heavy, forged steel, decent balance. I rotate it slowly, testing grip points and weight distribution. It would make an excellent emergency cudgel. The rake beside it, longer reach, more fragile tines, better for light territorial defense.
“You need help, buddy?”
The voice is nasal, disinterested. The clerk behind the counter doesn’t even look up from his phone.
“No,” I reply carefully. “I am hunting…bolts. Screws. Rotational clamps. Also,” I pause, “a soldering wand. Possibly a containment valve.”
That earns me a blink. “You mean like...a soldering iron and some PVC fittings?”
“Yes. Those. I would like those.”
I collect the items I believe will be useful: duct tape (a marvel of primitive adhesion), zip ties (criminally underrated), two steel pipes (blunt, multifunctional), and something called ‘Liquid Nail’ which, judging by the label, might be some kind of bonding agent—or perhaps a weaponized grooming product. I don’t ask questions.
As I pay in cash—Earth currency now loaded discreetly onto a prepaid card—I notice them.
Three males, clustered near the exit. Early twenties.
Leather jackets. Jeans that hang too low.
They’re watching me with that particular human expression I’ve learned to distrust—something between amusement and aggression.
Predators. Low-tier.
The smallest one nods toward me and mutters something I catch through the comm-bead in my ear.
“What kinda accent is that? Russian? Martian?”
The others snicker.
Outside, I keep my head down. No sudden movements. No signs of engagement. I tuck the bag under my arm and step into the alley that cuts behind the hardware shop, heading back toward the road.
The moment I turn the corner, they follow.
Of course.
My steps slow. My breath evens. I center myself—not in fear, but in resignation. Conflict is inevitable. I am not eager for it, but neither do I shy away.
“Well, well,” the tall one drawls. His voice is thick with local bravado. “New guy's got a funny walk.”
“Funny everything,” the squat one adds, cracking his knuckles. “You from Canada or somethin’?”
I glance over my shoulder.
All three of them are in a loose semi-circle. Sloppy formation. No discipline. No strategy. Their posturing is designed to intimidate, not actually follow through.
Unfortunately for them, intimidation is not a field in which they hold advantage.
“I advise you to step back,” I say, calm and low. “I am armed with a wrench and an extremely short fuse.”
“Did he just threaten us?” the squat one laughs, stepping forward.
The third—broad, with a chin like a tactical shovel—cracks his neck. “I think he did.”
I drop the bag gently to the pavement and stretch, slowly, deliberately.
“This is your one warning,” I tell them. “Leave. Now.”
They don't.
Of course they don't.
The broad one lunges first.
He swings wide, a telegraphed punch that would’ve embarrassed a training cadet.
I duck beneath it, pivot, and plant my elbow in his gut with just enough force to expel his breath and his dignity.
He folds forward and I guide him—gently—into the open dumpster to the left. He lands with a sound like a wet drum.
The second one—squat and fast—tries a hook. I intercept it with two fingers, twist lightly at the wrist until he drops to his knees, gasping. I tap the nerve cluster just below his ear. He slumps unconscious.
The tall one freezes.
I stare at him. He fidgets under my gaze.
“Your friends are not dead,” I inform him. “Only...reconsidering their choices.”
He swallows. “Wha—what are you?”
“A taxpayer,” I reply flatly. “An extremely punctual one.”
He bolts.
I collect my bag.
There’s a certain clarity that comes after violence—especially when it’s clean. No fatalities. No bloodshed. Just a tactical correction of someone else’s poor judgment.
Still, my body aches. The burns on my back tug under the skin illusion. My knees protest. Earth gravity is softer than Vakutan Prime’s, but the weight of it still drags.
I walk back toward the street, the sounds of traffic and birdsong filtering in like nothing happened. No alarms. No retaliation. Just sun-warmed pavement and the distant scent of barbecue smoke.
I don’t smile.
But inside, I admit something I’d never say aloud.
Maybe... I like it here.
I walk back from that alley like nothing happened.
But I log everything.