The sun had climbed halfway up the rooftops by the time David drained the last of his coffee. The morning quiet in the Menagerie was deep, broken only by the gentle hum of the fridge and the low, steady purr of Sissy from her sunlit enclosure. Even so, the weight of their earlier conversation still pressed around Jeremiah's shoulders — a heaviness not entirely unpleasant, but unmistakably real. Billy floated in his bowl on the counter, his golden eyes tracking David as he set his mug down with a final, resolute clink.

"Well, lad," David said, pushing his chair back, "I reckon you've got a busy day ahead of you." He stood, stretching until his joints cracked, then fixed Jeremiah with a smile that was all warmth and steel. "Remember what I told you. Watch out for your own, but don't let fear run the shop. Trust yourself. The world's always on the cusp of something. May as well help it tip the right way."

Jeremiah managed a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Mr. Roger… David. For all of it."

David's eyes crinkled at the corners. "I'll stop by again soon. If anything strange stirs, you'll let me know, aye?" He tipped an imaginary hat to Billy, who rewarded him with a bubbly trill, then stepped into the gentle glare of the morning street. The bell above the door jingled softly behind him.

For a long moment, Jeremiah simply stood in the hush, listening to the echoes fade.

He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders as if he could shed the heaviness left behind by talk of karmic threads and cosmic threats. What he needed now was to ground himself in the present — in the world of dust motes spinning in the light, the worn warmth of scuffed floors beneath his shoes, the aroma of coffee brewing in the corner, and the playful clatter of kittens in their enclosure. Jeremiah set about tidying the counter, straightening adoption pamphlets and adjusting the pastry display, each small act a quiet declaration that this space, at least, was within his control.

"I need to make this place great," he murmured, his voice swallowed by the soft hum of the shop.

Not just for himself.

Not just for Sarah's legacy.

Or the System's goals.

Those things all mattered, but there was more. His gaze drifted to Billy, watching as the tiny kraken spun lazily, tentacles curling and uncurling in the dappled light. Jeremiah needed the Menagerie to become a shield. A tangled weave of lives and stories and connections so dense that Curtain Fall could stare Billy in the eye, and never suspect what he truly was.

And the best way to do that was to ensure the Mystical Menagerie became something truly… special.

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Thursday, September 29th, 2253 - 11:27 am

The Mystical Menagerie.

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The bell above the door chimed, its bright ring cutting through the hush of late morning. Jeremiah glanced up to see the same large man from the day before, filling the threshold with his massive frame. He moved with the slow certainty of something carved from stone, boots thudding across the wood as he strode inside. Sunlight caught along the pale scars that ran across his hands and knuckles, hints of a rough history that didn't quite match the careful precision in the way he moved.

He didn't offer a greeting or even a glance in Jeremiah's direction, simply made his way to the back shelves with that same quiet purpose. Jeremiah watched as he selected not one, but two cans of cat food. The man's scarred hands handled the tins with an unexpected care, stacking them precisely before making his way to the counter.

Jeremiah raised a brow at the sight. They were all a rather fancy and expensive brand, all things said. Something you would expect to see on a premium shelf in Central. He'd only even stocked a few of them to make the shelves stand out. Not really something he had expected to sell quickly, let alone three cans in two days.

The man didn't seem to notice. He simply pulled out his wallet, battered, old, the leather creased, stained with age and use, and it took him a moment to work a few bills loose with those heavy, scarred fingers.

"Morning," Jeremiah said, keeping his voice open and friendly as he scanned the cans and rang up the sale. The man only grunted, gaze hooded and unreadable, but there was no edge of threat in it — just a kind of reserve. He slid the coins across, waited for his change, and accepted the receipt with a brief nod.

Jeremiah handed over the bag, curiosity tugging at him. He wanted to ask, but before he could, the man had turned away and made for the entrance.

As he passed Sissy's enclosure, the man paused and met her eyes. They glared at each other a moment, before his gaze fell to the small bundle of kittens sunbathing below Sissy's ledge. Nothing in the man's expression changed, but he lingered for a heartbeat longer before turning back around and exiting the shop.

Jeremiah stood still, hands on the counter, watching the door swing shut. He wondered what stories trailed behind that man, and what ties kept bringing him back. It was the sort of question that might never have an answer, but in a city like this, every customer carried their own silent world behind their eyes.

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The lull was brief. Jeremiah had just begun to reset the register, fingers absently arranging the receipts, when the peace shattered with a burst of jangling bells and boisterous chatter. The street hawker from the day before pushed through the door, practically towing an older woman in his wake. She was slight and wiry, her eyes sharp as broken glass, her long hair pulled into a gray braid that swung like a tail as she surveyed the shop. Her clothes, once a riot of color, had faded into a soft, patchwork tapestry — not gaudy like you might see in Central club, but storied in the kind of worn threadbare way that spoke of years of use and pride.

She paused just inside the threshold, unimpressed by the neat rows of stock or the cozy cafe nook. Her gaze swept the shop, lingering only long enough to dismiss each corner with a curl of her lip. But the hawker's enthusiasm refused to be dampened. He all but bounced on his heels, barely able to keep still.

"I'm telling you, Ma, it's magic!" he crowed, waving his arms as if he might conjure coin from thin air. "Got nearly a hundred and fifty credits for just the stuff I scavenged this month! Didn't even have to haggle — just dumped it in, and poof! It gives you these 'mark' things you can exchange for credits!" He gestured grandly to the Quantum Teller Machine, the hulking device gleaming by the back wall.

The woman gave a dismissive snort, her voice rough as gravel. "That junk you dragged home from the alleys? Only magic about that is if it doesn't break someone's foot." Her eyes narrowed at the QTM, suspicion and curiosity warring across her weathered face.

"Just watch! You gotta see this," the hawker insisted, already rummaging in the bag thrown over his shoulders for another batch of oddments — a broken piece of machinery rusted with age, what looked like a cracked tablet, and a couple of old transit tokens, the kind they used to use for bus fare before they switched to the digital passes. He practically danced to the QTM, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Jeremiah was watching.

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He fed his offerings into the tray, pressed a few buttons, and waited as the machine hummed and flickered, not even bothering with the privacy screen this time. The payout this time was meager: only three marks.

After a moment, the machine chimed, and the screen flashed his payout: 3 marks.

The hawker's face fell, his bravado evaporating. "That's it?!" He jabbed at the screen, voice rising in disbelief. "You gotta be kidding me!"

He rounded on Jeremiah, agitation written plain in every line of his body. "Hey, shopkeep! This thing's busted! I know what I brought last time — you telling me this stuff isn't worth even half that?!"

Jeremiah smoothed his vest, doing his best to offer a calm, reassuring smile as he stepped around the counter. The hawker and his mother were already bickering in low, sharp tones near the QTM, the man's hands waving in frustrated disbelief as he jabbed at the payout screen.

Jeremiah raised a hand in greeting.

"Let me take a look," he offered, keeping his voice mild. "Sometimes these machines can be a little touchy."

The hawker stepped back with an exaggerated huff, arms crossed tight over his chest. His mother simply regarded Jeremiah with sharp, skeptical eyes, as if daring him to pull a trick.

Jeremiah leaned in and tapped at the QTM's interface, calling up the system diagnostics. The screen pulsed, then filled with a clean sheet of green lights and reassuring checkmarks. He opened the payout log, running a quick check of the last transaction. Everything was in perfect order — no errors, no shorted calculations, no sign of malfunction.

Turning back to the pair, Jeremiah kept his voice steady, but apologetic. "Everything looks normal. The machine's working fine. I can even show you the breakdown, if you'd like."

The hawker's brow furrowed, his voice rising. "Then why'd I get so much less?"

"Well, let's see what it says," Jeremiah replied, motioning them closer to the screen.

He tapped the display and brought up the detailed breakdown. A crisp chart shimmered into view, each item neatly listed beside columns for intrinsic, potential, and personal value. The bar for intrinsic was barely a silver, while potential wasn't far below that. The personal value line hovered near zero — almost hollow, as if the machine itself sensed how little the items meant to anyone at all. At the bottom, a plain sum appeared in stark black: three marks.

"Take a look here," Jeremiah said, tracing a careful finger down the chart. "The QTM's magic doesn't just measure what something's made of or what it might sell for. It tries to calculate what's special about an item — how much effort went into finding it, or how much it mattered to the person bringing it in. Sometimes something simple, like an old keepsake or something you worked hard to get, can actually be worth more than what it looks like on the outside."

The old woman's scoff was quick and sharp. "Effort? Sentiment? What's next, telling me this box can read my fortune?" Her eyes glinted with suspicion as she leaned closer to the screen. "Smells like Wyrd business to me, all smoke and mirrors. Don't think I can't tell when someone's spinning stories for desperate folk." Her gaze flicked up to Jeremiah, her voice lowering to a suspicious growl. "What's your game? Lure people in with a taste of easy money, then drain them dry until all that's left is empty pockets?" She shot a hard look at her son. "This is why I told you to watch out for Central schemes."

Jeremiah flinched internally, even if his uniform stopped him from showing it.

"I don't set the values," he replied calmly. "The machine handles everything. I'm just the host — think of it like the old banks used to do with ATMs. All I do is keep it running and let folks use it. What it pays out, or how, isn't up to me."

The old woman made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort, shaking her head in disbelief. "Heard it all now. And you fell for this, boy?" She gave her son a smack on the arm, her tone part scolding, part exasperated. "Let's get out of here before he tries to sell you moonbeams next."

"But Ma—!" the man protested, but she was already stomping toward the door, scarf swinging like a banner behind her. He cast one last, frustrated look at Jeremiah before slouching after her.

Just before she crossed the threshold, the old woman paused, glancing back at the QTM. For a moment, her eyes narrowed. Not with mockery this time, but with a shrewd, calculating glint. Something in the machine's silent, inscrutable presence seemed to unsettle her.

Then, just as quickly, the mask of skepticism slid back into place. With a last huff, she stepped out onto the street, her son trailing behind, and the bell above the door chimed. The Menagerie fell back into the gentle hush of midday, the QTM humming quietly in its corner.

Jeremiah watched the door settle shut behind the skeptical pair, the bright midday outside slipping back into the soft hush of the Menagerie. A faint sigh escaped him, more disappointment than irritation, as he moved back behind the counter. He dusted his hands off on the front of his vest, glancing around at the tidy aisles, the lazy sunlight angling through the front windows, the soft scuffle of kittens in their enclosure.

It was tempting, in a quiet moment like this, to let sour feelings linger. But Jeremiah refused to let the doubts of one stubborn customer define the day. Besides, there was always something waiting for his attention.

He reached for the ledger and had barely set pen to page when a sudden shape loomed out from the shop's back corner, making Jeremiah's heart skip a beat. He turned, and nearly jumped as Lewis stepped into view, hands tucked into the pockets of his coveralls, a sheepish grin beneath his perpetual five-o'clock shadow.

"Stars, Lewis," Jeremiah said, breath returning with a weak laugh. "Thought you were one of the cats for a second."

Lewis shrugged, looking abashed. "Didn't want to interrupt you with all the commotion. Figured I'd wait till your hands were free."

Jeremiah relaxed, smile genuine now. "You're fine, really. What's up?"

Lewis brightened a little, pride flickering in his eyes. "Just wanted to let you know — the courtyard's done. Finally. Took me longer than I wanted, but every bit of rubble's cleared, new stone's set, even got the center tree pruned." He rocked on his heels, uncertain for a moment, as if hoping for approval.

Jeremiah beamed. "That's fantastic. I can't wait to see it. You did good work, Lewis. Thank you."

Lewis ducked his head, but Jeremiah didn't miss the way his shoulders straightened a touch. Still, there was a hesitation in his stance, a weight that hadn't lifted yet.

Jeremiah tilted his head, voice softening. "Something else on your mind?"

Lewis glanced away, fidgeting with the strap of his tool bag. "That thing you said. About the QTM. Is it… really true? About how it works?"

Jeremiah nodded, not missing a beat. "It is. I've seen it myself. Wouldn't have half of this store if not for that machine. The payout is… difficult to get your mind around, sure, but it always seems to know when you put in the effort — or when something really matters." He shrugged, lips quirking. "Magic, right?"

Lewis frowned, skepticism flickering in his eyes. "But… it's not a trick? There's not some catch I'm missing?"

Jeremiah couldn't help but laugh, the sound easing the last of his own tension. "Try it out for yourself and see."

Lewis flushed, scratching at the back of his neck. "Ah… I was just asking… it doesn't matter. Not like I have anything worth trading anyway."

Jeremiah paused, thinking. Then, a spark of inspiration. "Didn't you just clean up an entire courtyard full of junk and debris?"

Lewis blinked, caught off guard. "You mean… that old rubble and garbage? You think the QTM would take that?"

Jeremiah shrugged, grinning. "Why not? You worked your tail off these last few days to get it cleared. If the QTM doesn't think that's effort, then maybe the old woman was right and it is a scam."

Lewis hesitated, half-convinced and half-doubtful, but the possibility was too tempting to pass up. "Well, I guess it can't hurt to try…"

The next half hour passed in a flurry of activity. With Jeremiah's help, Lewis hauled bag after bag of debris and battered refuse through the shop — old bricks, broken tile, hunks of twisted metal, even a bag of shattered glass swept from the southern wall. The growing pile beside the QTM looked absurd, but Lewis squared his shoulders and began feeding each offering into the machine's wide, hungry tray.

The QTM hummed and flickered, its screen blinking as it assessed the debris. Jeremiah hovered nearby, arms crossed, more amused than expectant. But then the machine let out a cheerful chime, and the payout flashed across the display: 25 marks.

Lewis stared, open-mouthed, sweat gleaming on his brow from the effort. "Twenty-five? For all that?" His voice was hushed, as if afraid to speak too loud and shatter the miracle.

Jeremiah grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. "Told you. Hard work pays off, literally."

Lewis studied the number on the screen, still wary. "I guess so… though, what are marks?"

Jeremiah smiled and beckoned him closer, tapping through the QTM's menus. "Marks are a specialty currency for the store. Any purchase you make with marks will have a rather big discount. That's not all they can do though." He opened the exchange menu. "If you want, they can also be directly exchanged them for credits through the QTM — see?" He demonstrated, running through the exchange process. When the conversion rate popped up, Lewis sucked in a breath.

"That's more than I make in weeks — just from hauling garbage?" He looked down at his hands, then around at the tidy shop, amazement and a touch of hope warring in his eyes. "I don't even know what I'd spend it on…"

Jeremiah chuckled, nudging him toward the far end of the counter. "Come on. I'll show you something special."

He led Lewis to the glass display case, the afternoon sun spilling across rows of hand-labeled Beast Talismans — each humming with their own faint magic.

Lewis stared down through the glass, awe painting his face.

For a moment, the Menagerie was silent except for the hum of the QTM and the soft purr of Sissy from her sunlit ledge.

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