"Some people are so busy looking down on others that they don’t notice the ground opening up beneath them." — Unknown.
Micah didn’t move. He reached into his satchel, pulled out the leather pouch containing the Liquid Flux Condenser, and set it on the glass counter.
The sapphire glow from inside the pouch immediately caught the attention of the couple who had been walking past. They stopped. The woman nudged her companion and pointed.
Greg’s eyes dropped to the pouch. His smile flickered.
"What is that?"
"Appraise it and find out," Micah said.
Greg hesitated for a moment, then reached for the pouch. He loosened the drawstring and tipped the vial out onto the counter. The glass cylinder rolled once and came to rest under the overhead light, the sapphire liquid inside catching the glow and throwing blue reflections across the polished surface.
Greg picked it up, held it to the light, and squinted. His expression shifted from contempt to confusion, then back to contempt as he apparently decided he didn’t like being confused in front of an audience.
"What is this, some kind of joke?" He set the vial down with a clatter. "This color is wrong. Completely wrong. Any genuine Flux consumable worth selling at this counter is emerald green. Standard military issue. Standard corporate production. Every single one. Green."
He tapped the glass with his fingernail.
"This is blue. Bright, ridiculous, circus blue. Which means one of two things. Either this is some cheap synthetic dye mixed with tap water, or it’s sewer runoff with food coloring."
He looked up at Micah with a grin that was all teeth and zero warmth.
"I’m going to guess you mixed some blue dye from a craft store with water from a public fountain and put it in a nice bottle hoping nobody would notice. Am I close?"
The couple behind Micah was openly laughing now. A second pair of customers had stopped to watch, drawn by the growing commotion.
"So let me make this simple for you," Greg continued, raising his voice just enough to make sure the audience could hear. "This is a scam. A bad one. The worst I’ve seen this week, and I’ve seen three. Now, I can call security and have you dragged out of here in front of everyone, or you can put your little science project back in your bag and walk out on your own. Your choice."
Micah’s eyes hardened behind the mask. He could feel the weight of the crowd’s attention pressing against his back, and the heat of embarrassment crawling up his neck. But he didn’t flinch.
"Test it," he said.
Greg blinked. "What?"
"Test. It. You’re an appraiser, right? That’s what the badge says. So appraise it. Run it through your equipment. Check the Flux density, the purity rating, the molecular structure. Do your job instead of standing there running your mouth about colors."
The crowd went quiet.
Greg’s face turned red. The kind of red that starts at the collar and climbs upward in stages. His jaw clenched, and the smile vanished completely.
"Appraisals cost money," Greg said through tight lips. "A formal corporate appraisal at this counter is ten thousand credits. Upfront. Non-refundable. Whether the item turns out to be real or fake, the fee is the same."
He leaned forward, planting both hands on the counter.
"So. Do you have ten thousand credits?"
Micah said nothing.
Greg’s smile came back, wider this time. "Didn’t think so."
He picked up the vial and held it between two fingers like a dirty tissue.
"I’ll tell you what. Since I’m feeling generous, I’ll offer you one hundred credits for this. Right now. Cash. You can take it down to level one and buy yourself a hot meal and a pair of shoes that don’t have holes in them."
He set the vial back on the counter and crossed his arms.
"One hundred credits. Take it or leave it."
Micah reached across the counter and snatched the vial out of Greg’s fingers.
The movement was fast enough that Greg didn’t even have time to close his hand. One second the vial was between the clerk’s fingertips. The next it was back in Micah’s palm, tucked safely inside its pouch.
"You’re a blind fool," Micah said. His voice was cold and flat, completely stripped of emotion. "You’re looking at a genuine miracle and you can’t even see it because you’re too busy admiring your own reflection in the counter."
The crowd that had been watching from a distance went quiet.
Greg’s face changed. The smug grin collapsed, replaced by something raw and ugly. Red flooded his cheeks first, then climbed up to his ears, then spread across his forehead until his entire face looked like it had been dipped in boiling water. A vein appeared on his temple, pulsing so hard it was visible from three feet away.
His professional pride had been wounded, and in front of an audience no less. Micah had just called him out, openly and without hesitation, and the people standing around the counter had heard every word.
Greg’s hand moved under the counter. Fast. Deliberate.
CLICK.
The sound was small, barely audible over the market noise. But Micah caught it because he was watching Greg’s arm, not his face. The clerk’s shoulder had shifted in a specific way, the kind of movement someone makes when they’re reaching for something they’ve reached for many times before.
A panic button.
Greg straightened up, smoothed his tie, and adjusted his collar. The smile came back, but it was different now. Tighter. Nastier.
"Security!" Greg shouted, his voice cutting across the third floor like a knife. "Security to the premium counter! We have a thief!"
Every head on the third level turned.
"THIS MAN!" Greg pointed directly at Micah, his finger shaking with theatrical outrage. "This masked individual is attempting to peddle stolen military contraband at this counter! He is carrying restricted, illegal substances and trying to pass them off as genuine Flux consumables!"
The crowd swelled. People who had been browsing other counters drifted over, drawn by the drama like moths to a flame. Within seconds, a semicircle of spectators had formed around the counter, their phones out, their faces eager.
Two guards arrived less than thirty seconds later. They came from the east escalator, moving in a fast jog that was clearly practiced. Both wore full black body armor with the Syndicate’s crest on their shoulders. Their faces were hidden behind tinted visors, and their hands rested on the hilts of energy batons strapped to their belts. The batons hummed faintly, a low electric buzz that said these things were fully charged and ready to use.
The lead guard was broader than his partner, with shoulders that strained against his armor plating. He stopped two meters from Micah and looked him up and down. The masked face. The torn brown jacket. The cheap pants. The scuffed boots. No appraisal robes. No Syndicate credentials. No visible identification of any kind.
His posture shifted immediately. The conclusion was written in his body language before he even opened his mouth. Masked stranger in cheap clothes at a premium counter. Accused by a licensed appraiser. Carrying suspected stolen goods. Guilty.
"You," the lead guard said, pointing at Micah. "Hand over the vial. Now. It’s being confiscated as evidence pending investigation."
He unclipped the energy baton from his belt but didn’t activate it. Not yet. The threat was implied.
"And put your hands behind your back. You’re being detained for attempted fraud and possession of suspected stolen materials."
The second guard moved to Micah’s left flank, cutting off the escalator route. They’d done this before. The positioning was textbook. One guard in front, one on the side, nowhere to go.
Micah didn’t move.
He stood exactly where he was, the pouch containing the Condenser held firmly in his left hand, his right hand hanging loose at his side. His posture was relaxed, his breathing even, his head tilted slightly to one side in a way that made him look bored rather than threatened.
The crowd noticed. The guards noticed. Greg noticed.
"The item is genuine," Micah said. His voice carried across the counter without raising. "I demand a professional appraisal. A fair one. By someone who actually knows what they’re looking at."
The silence lasted about two seconds.
Then the crowd laughed.
Not a few people. The entire semicircle of spectators erupted into open, derisive laughter. Someone in the back actually doubled over, slapping their knee. A woman near the front covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking.