"Redrim," Vil said. His voice fell to almost a whisper. "I already know you aren't the original Iskandar Redrim. Just who are you, really?"

I stared. "I'm just a walking trash can with paladin armor."

"Fair," he said. "Forget I asked."

He took a deep breath and looked around. It was a brisk sunny day, and everyone seemed to be in high spirits. The festival or celebration or whatever was happening in the coliseum was a constant source of cheering, and everything seemed at ease.

Nearby a group of strapping young men dressed as musketeers--wide-brimmed hats included--escorted a young child, and as soon as they rounded the corner, a young woman hurried to greet them with wide smiles. The child broke from the formation to hug the woman, the laughs were shared by all. They said their goodbyes, and the musketeers went their separate ways.

Vil leaned in for a whisper. "Those are the local police. Steer clear of them." He raised his cloak hood over his head, and it prompted me to do the same. "Come on," he said. "We need to know how much a ship will cost."

We started off toward the back of the city, the ocean-facing part. Where, usually, the docks would be.

"Why not an airship?" I asked. "Do they still run airships through here?"

"Too expensive," he said.

We walked down the line of wagons and carriages and trolleys, most filled with goods, some being unloaded, some empty. Several merchants and tradesmen were milling about, doing their day-to-day thing here. On our left, the street. And on the other side, a row of small houses with colorful awnings.

We approached the end of the wagon parking zone, the unloading zone, the whatever-fucking-zone, and noticed a strange lavender-colored building at the end. There was a sort of cordoned-off section that snaked its way into the entrance, and there was a short line of people waiting. These weren't just ordinary people, either. Judging by the regal outfitting--the gold trinkets, the jewelry, the rings--they were certainly upper class. When we got closer, we saw that it was a portal company.

Teleportation! Of course. I had forgotten all about those abilities since becoming a trash can. Having to do all this pedestrian traveling was something I never had to worry about back when I was a max leveled paladin. Granted, the spell was incredibly rare to obtain and used a monumental amount of mana--not monumental for my old paladin body, of course.

Speaking of paladins, as we continued to pass the group, I spotted one. He was the spitting image of my youth--maybe less attractive, weaker, and just overall more gross-looking--but he reminded me of... me. Over his armor, he wore a heavy fur coat, and his arms wrapped over the thin waists of a dainty healer and an archer woman. The paladin said something too faint to hear, and the women laughed and blushed and cozied up so close to him--eugh!

It stung seeing this. Was this jealousy? Impossible. I had a harem of my own. At least I used to. I had forgotten all about it. I had been so focused on surviving as a rogue trash can, then on saving and finding Jenna and getting revenge on that bitch Marianna, that the entire harem lifestyle had just been out of mind. Once this was over, then I would rebuild. After I got my old body back, of course.

"How about a teleport?" I told Vil. "Let's check the prices."

"It'll be too expensive," he said. "But sure."

Across the length of the lavender building was a bulletin board list of items. Most were irrelevant community-related garbage--odd jobs, construction notices, daily news, that sort of thing--but besides that, a list of prices was printed on a large black and purple poster.

PORTER JOHN'S DISCOUNT PORTS

BIG PORTS, SMALL PORTS, WE GOT 'EM ALL

NEW YEAR FESTIVAL PORTS FOR OLD YEAR PRICES!!!

TAKE A VACATION TODAY

TELEPORTATION RATES

LOCAL: 50g

LOCAL EXPRESS: 100g

LOCAL CUSTOM: 200g

REMOTE: 200g

REMOTE EXPRESS: 400g

REMOTE CUSTOM: 500g

ASK ABOUT OUR MEMBERSHIP PROGRAM TODAY

Warning: Internal discomfort may occur.*** Porter John's and its affiliates hold no responsibility to the shape* and originality* of the portee with the use of its portals. Money-back guarantee only in select locations.* Do not request the destination portal to be within one meter of the entrance portal. Unintended* consequences** may occur.

"It looks like about a grand for us together," he said. "How much money do you have--wait, nevermind, I remember. You're broke." He turned to me. "I have 170 gold. That's for me. If you think you can come up with your 500, then I'll try to come up with mine."

"You didn't need much convincing," I said.

"I'm not convinced yet," he said back. "If you don't think you can make it happen in the next few hours--"

"I don't think 170 is enough for a ship ride," I said. "If we have to make some money today to make the difference, we might as well make a little more and pay for the portal."

He crossed his arms, and his eyes traced around in the dirt. Then, he nodded. "Fine. We'll just need to make some money. Any great ideas?" He looked up at me, and I could see in his eyes that he already had the answer. It was as though he was testing me.

"I'm a recycler," I said. "I can make anything, and I can sell even more."

***

First, we needed to find a merchant. Any type of merchant. Preferably one who needs raw materials. The guys back in the unloading zone weren't good. They sold carpets. I didn't make good carpets. Too rough. I wanted something nice and easy and familiar, like a blacksmith. Ingots were easy.

So we headed toward the market, and we walked down the dirt and cobblestone streets, between the lively colored houses, down dark and cluttered narrow alleys, and found a large market square, filled with market square noises. The place was packed with people and vendors sitting beneath their little striped awnings and behind their desks and stalls, goods all piled on their counters and in baskets and boxes, and one could not help but bump into people with every other step.

It was never this packed back in the old days.

We stopped at the first smith we could find--a toolsmith. A sort of bald and bulging-faced guy that looked more frog than human. I asked him how much he wanted for iron ingots. He told me to "fuck off," he said.

"Wow, dude," I said back. "I just needed to get rid of some product."

"You ain't gotsha a licenshe. I can shmell it."

"You can smell my lack of license? What kind of license do I need to sell fuckin' blocks of iron?"

"If you have to ashk," he snorted, "then you ain't gotsha a licenshe."

Vil tugged my arm. "We need to leave."

I stepped closer to the frog man. "Listen here, you meaty fuck. Ten gold per ingot. It's a steal."

He blinked, then turned his head with a snobby little tilt, a sort of dramatic tilt that told me I needed to look where he was looking. And when I did, I saw those musketeer cops again. They were walking and enjoying the sights, but they were headed right toward us. This shit eater would rat me out.

I pulled away. A fight here would kill a bunch of people, and I was honestly too lazy to want to deal with it. Not because I cared about the people. I didn't care about people. I was just lazy.

Vil and I pushed through the river of people and out of the market square. We paused in a dark alley. The narrow path was littered with junk--pots and pans and old buckets, discarded furniture, and broken statues, that sort of thing.

"We'll try the black market next," Vil said. "I was unaware they passed new laws concerning trade licenses. The place is still about as strict as you remember, just less... religious."

"It would seem so, yes."

"Actually, that gives me an idea." He stroked his chin in thought. "Most weapons are illegal in Eurusia."

"What like swords?" I smiled. "I can make a decent sword."

"And guns," he said. "If we can find a black market vendor, we might be able to sell some rifles."

"You mean I can sell some rifles," I said. "Remember, this would be my share. If I get more for me, then maybe I'll toss you some pocket change after." I smirked.

He rolled his eyes. "I won't argue the point, Redrim. Don't forget our objective."

He stepped away, and together we headed out in search of the black market.

It didn't take long to find. It was like the market square, only less colorful. And less busy. And so much terribly more sketchy, as all black markets tended to be. It was more of a market rectangle than a market square, and we found it on the edge of the city, right along the massive city walls, and right where the slums ended. Or began. It was hard to tell with the slums.

We walked between the line of tattered merchant stalls, glancing around at all the wares they had to offer. A shifty-eyed old man had what looked like wooden swords and daggers with handwritten prices scribbled right onto the blades. A gaunt and tired woman sold scrolls of some various kind. And another person was a vendor of what looked like bottled potions.

"Here," Vil said.

I looked over to see what appeared to be a pawn shop. I could tell it was a pawn shop because it was shaped like one. The building was sort of shoved in between two other buildings, the windows packed with stickers of prices and sales and old attempts at marketing. Also, it said PAWN SHOP all across the door.

We stepped in. The bells on the door jingled, the door creaked shut.

The inside was what one would expect out of a black market slum pawn shop. The air was thick with a kind of strange fog that smelled vaguely of plants. There were two isles, short, so narrow that I had to sidestep through just to avoid knocking things off the counters. And by things, it seemed they sold all sorts of strange trinkets--jewelry, weapons, dirty magazines.

"Come on in, come on in," said the hoarse-voiced shopkeep. He seemed the sleazy type, with thinning and receding hair greased back. He wore sunglasses a bit too small for his boxy head. His pencil-thin mustache was somehow scabby, and he had an apparent habit of picking at it. He tried to show off his body in a too-tight pink collared shirt, but he had the figure of a typical lesser male.

The glass counter he sat behind was littered with paper advertisements taped on, and behind him, shelves packed with his marginally more expensive items. Jewelry, mostly.

Another guy sat nearby in the corner on a three-legged lawn chair., resting his arms and legs on various sized stacks of old magazines. "Man," he said. "That's a nice suit of armor, there, pal. You must be one of those paladin-types." He had a thick mustache and long hair that covered his eyes. In his mouth, the hose of a type of smoking device--I forgot the name--but I knew the smoke was a hallucinogen. I know because I tried it before, but the smell from this was somehow... off.

"Yes," I said.

"Haha, nice." The guy took a long drag from the hose, and something out of sight bubbled. He exhaled, and the smoke further thickened the fog of the room.

The shopkeep propped his elbows on the counter and swayed his head around as he studied us. "Alright, gents. What'll it be? Obviously, you're not here to shop."

"You buy guns?" Vil asked.

He stared, looked him up and down, then me, then rubbed his hands together. "What have you got?"

I stuck my hand into my side--the shopkeep narrowed his eyes in curiosity--and I drew out a rifle I had made on the walkover. It was a generic bolt-action, no ammo included. Because of my size and the size of my slot, these rifles had a slightly shorter barrel, which might have explained why the shopkeep's eyes lit up upon seeing it.

He took it with care, feeling the weight of it. He rubbed his rough hands across the recycled wood stock, pulled the bolt back to check the chamber, then the trigger-action-receiver, and he double-triple checked the rifling.

He narrowed his eyes up at us with a sly smile. "Where did you get something like this? It doesn't even have a serial number."

Vil answered for me. "Telling you would defeat the point, right?"

The shopkeep grinned. "Alright. I can do 50 gold." He set the rifle behind the counter, propping it up in the corner, and he reached into his safe for the coins.

The stoner-assistant grunted as he stood, and the magazine stacks shifted around. "Alright, boss. I'll be takin' my lunch now."

The shopkeep scoffed as he counted the money. "Whatever, just don't take too long. We'll be busy today."

"Haha, yeah, man," the stoner said. "Very busy." He snaked his way through the isles and out the door. The bells clinged. The door creaked shut.

"Don't worry about him," said the shopkeep. "He's new." The shopkeep handed over a roll of coins wrapped in paper. Vil reached out for them, but I took it instead.

Vil said, "How many more do you want?" He looked at me. "We can make... however many you're willing to pay for."

The shopkeep's eyebrows raised, and he picked at his mustache. "Well--" he cleared his throat, "Do you have any more on hand?"

I reached into my slot and started pulling them out. I had four more rifles, and I set them on the glass counter. They sort of clicked and clacked as guns for some reason tend to do when you stack them in a pile.

When I was done, the shopkeep checked the pile, then bent back to his safe for the money. "I won't ask how you can fit all that in armor," he said. "But if you keep bringing, I'll keep buying." He slammed down four more coin rolls.

I took them. "We'll, uh, be right back," I said.

I nodded to Vil and he to me, and he shuffled back through isles and out the door. The bells jingled. The door creaked shut.

"Any longer in there, and I would've suffocated," Vil said.

"It didn't really bother me," I said.

"Because you don't have lungs. Because you're a recycler." Vil thumped his chest and coughed. "You seem to have this under control. Shall I wait here?"

"No need," I said. "Go do whatever you want." Really I just wanted him to fuck off so I could be alone again, if only for a few moments. "Go find work or something. We'll meet back at the portal company in a few hours."

He stared, unamused. "I'll be sure to bring my share," he said.

"Good luck," I said back. I grinned, but it was hard to tell with this metal mouth.

He went left, and I went right, searching for a sort of out of sight area for me to shove dirt into my face. I found a place between a few tents, and I started digging, shoveling armfuls of dirt and grass and pebbles into my trash can mouth like some kind of deranged animal. At this point in my life, I had somehow, for some ungodly reason, acquired a taste for dirt.

I had the taste skill, sure, and I've tasted some god-awful things--human flesh, spider blood, poisons--but dirt? Dirt was comfortable. It was familiar. A sort of default resource that was everywhere, tasted bland and hearty and whole, and with enough of it, I could transmute the resulting Earth Element into anything I wanted.

When I ate enough for about 10 more rifles, I went back into the shop. I shuffled in, offered them to the shopkeep, and he paid.

He stacked the rifles in the corner, and he struggled to find room for them. "You know how business is," he said. "If I have too much of something, I'll need to lower the price. I can only take more for 10 gold."

"Deal," I said back.

I left, fully satisfied with my blossoming mercantile skills, and was about to head over to my little dirt feeding site for another load when I stopped.

I had lots of money now and an easy way to make it. I had, for all intents and purposes, nearly infinite money. This was easy! Since I had the cash on hand, I stepped over to the black market vendors to do a bit of trash can shopping.

Most were selling relative junk. Stuff I didn't need. Stuff I could make already. Stuff I didn't care about. But there was one lady--an older woman with too much makeup who looked like she should be running a brothel instead--she was selling strange potions. A bunch of bottles of various sizes and shapes, all haphazardly organized in several spice racks.

I could always use a new recipe, never knew when I would need it, so I picked a few up.

+1 Health Potion, Level 50 (Uncommon)

+1 Mana Potion, Level 40 (Uncommon)

+1 MP Regen Potion, Level 10 (Common)

+1 Energy Drink, Level 1 (Common)

+1 Confusion Tincture, Level 10 (Rare)

The damage was about 250 gold in total, but I wasn't worried. Instead, I eyed carefully another potion that glowed pink. The handwriting on the label was a bit smudged, but it sold for a whopping 100 gold.

"What is this?" I asked.

"Hmm? Oh, that old thing?" she said. "That's just bottled charisma. It works the same as any charisma spell." She brought out a few potions, both pink and seemingly repackaged from test tubes with cork stoppers. "We have a male version and a female version."

My mind went wild. This was certainly a potion that could emulate a seduction spell! If I could manufacture this--

"I'll take one," I said, trying really hard not to sound too excited.

"Which one, deary?"

Well, I was a male, or at least a male-presenting trash can, so, "Male," I said.

She chuckled in that sort of way lusty older women tend to chuckle. "Of course, dear."

I paid her and put it into my vending slot with the rest. I would eat them later, but I didn't want her to think I was a complete lunatic.

+1 Charisma Perfume, Male, Level 50 (Rare)

Perfect. I was down some cash, but it wouldn't matter. Using my near-infinite alpha male genius, I would recycle the potion, use a diluted version on myself, and score an even better deal from that pawn shop.

Hmmmm.

New Recipes unlocked.

+1633 Blood Element

+297 Fire Element

+1036 Water Element

+14,850 XP

"Cassandra," I said. "Make me a charisma potion that I can use. I only need enough to make shopkeepers like me more."

"Of course, Imsi," she said. "I will craft you a potion according to your specifications, keeping in mind your current charisma rating."

I grinned. There was no way this couldn't work. Hell, even as a walking suit of gunmetal grey armor wrapped in a spooky hooded cloak, my charisma was high enough as it was.

Hmmmm-click.

+1 Charisma Salve, Level 50

I took it out. It was kept in a little jar, a sort of mushy substance and not a potion like I thought.

"Uh, Cassandra?"

"The salve will activate once it is rubbed on your body."

I shrugged. I dipped in a couple fingers, scooped up a healthy serving of this glittering pink mess, and rubbed it on my chest, a bit on my neck, on my cheeks, and a little bit on my thighs. I used the whole jar, just to be sure it worked, and I... sparkled.

"Cassandra, why was there glitter in that salve?"

"The recipe calls for glitter," she said. "It is a vital part of the enchantment."

I shrugged it off. I had essentially rubbed glittery blush makeup all over my body and cheeks, and I was now a blushing trash can warrior, but it was no issue.

Now, no human would be able to withstand my ultimate negotiation ability.