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Story submitted in February 2026 by Clara Verrier-Beauchesne

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“It’s real gold. You gotta bite it, that’s how y’know.” The bartering merchant explains to the maximum of his brain capacity as he places the coin between his teeth, the rotten black of them jarring against the bright gold. “Ain’t no mistaken it. Seems like Saint-Plutus is smilin’ upon me.” He winks. Deplorable behavior. 
“Yes, of course.” I don my best smile. “Where did you get it?”
“Y’know what, it’s funny, I was just walkin’ by the inn the other day and found it, right there in the mud. I thought it looked funny, but…” No use in him finishing that sentence. I wave a hand and grab the gold coin, now atop a mound of ash that once was a dim-witted merchant.

Saint-Dionysus Inn, boisterous and bestial, I relish in it. The folks are all too busy fighting and cursing to care for the unfamiliar – all but the barkeep.
“I’ve seen you people aroun’ before,” she states mistrustingly, “fine-attired gentlemen, bringin’ trouble.” Interesting. I wonder how often they have been here since we first tested the environment.
“Well,” With the tip of my thumb, I spin the gold coin between my index finger and the wooden bar counter until its shining odd pattern catches her eye, “I assure you, I am only looking for information.” 
“I ain’t telling you a thing ’til I have reasons to… What d’you say your name was?”
“Zeos.”
“Zeos, you understand information is all I’ve got goin’ in this li’l dance, yeah?”
Smarter that one.
“Fine.” In the air, I trace a line from her left eyebrow down to her bottom lip. “Tell me who gave you that scar. I will take care of it.”
Right on target, no folks are easier to manipulate.
“Some fella came paradin’ that cursed thing,” she points to the coin, “said he killed some fool on Saint-Hermes to get it. Then, he got too loud, got on people’s nerves, so a few patrons beat him bad outside,” I try to hide a smirk as she continues, “though they didn’t care much in the end, left it in the mud with the fella’s body. Not sure what happened next.”

As I leave the inn, a jealous urine-smelling hot head with greasy blond hair follows me out. At the first dark corner, I take care of it with the wave of a hand. Unfortunate. He was strong, valuable, but I am a man of my word.  

On the edge of town where few ventures, Saint-Hermes Street is a regrettable sight. Only a few barely-standing-shacks remain, held on to by the tormented, the sickly and the old. Its stench is offensive as drunken souls sleep in their vomit like it is a mundane thing. This cannot be the path to the study, no matter the evolution of the environment since my last visit, I am aghast at this poor maintenance. A few paces away, amidst all the filth, a man – young and strong – stands out like a gold-plated statue in a sea of corpses. He angerly recites a story as folks hang on his every word. 
“I wanted that thing so bad, but that maggot, Lenice, stole it while I was busy bloodyin’ that odd-lookin’ man. Woulda killed him too if Lenice didn’t distract me! You just wait ’til I get my hands on him, I’mma kill him instead!”
“He is already dead, unfortunately.”
The man spins around abruptly, fire in his eyes. A primal thing. 
“Not my doing, of course.” I clarify.
He eyes me up and down. “How is there another of you here? Where are y’all comin’ from?”
“Excuse me?”
“I ain’t no fool, that man spoke and dressed like you, looked like nothin’, but he was strong. I almost got tired beatin’ his arse.” He pauses, waiting for a reaction that will not come. “You’re next, you outlandish bastard!”
“Well, hold on.” I pull the coin out of my pocket. “Is this what you are looking for?” Greed lights up his eyes. “If you tell me where that man you beat up ran to, I may bring you more of these.” 
The man takes a step forward.
“Make no mistake,” he stops at my unphased voice, “I am the strongest of my people and I will call upon them if there is need to.” I let the thought linger.
Fine,” he finally answers, “He ran to the black ruins.”

Once at the black ruins, I find the underground tunnel and the teleportation chamber it leads to rather easily. The environment may have changed, but the tunnel’s weaving path has not.

At destination, a man, one eye swollen shot and the other analyzing a vivarium, is too focused to notice my arrival. Insubordination. 
“Plutus!”
Surprised, he drops the digipad he was holding. “Chief,” he bows his head, “I must apologize, I did not hear you come in.” 
I throw the coin to his feet, “What is this?”
“They are ready, sir. I assure you.”
“Ready? You made them weak, and dumb, what exactly do you expect them to do with coins, with money?”
“If I may, sir. I understand they are different than what we are used to, but we should not undervalue their love and kindness. They will do great things; I am sure of it.”

I approach the vivarium and zoom into an altercation between a few larger kids and a smaller one, they are beating him up for food. I fail to repress a smirk. Plutus may be on to something. “Well…” I begin but stop short when the bruised and bloodied child begins to cry. Ugh, weak. A woman then runs to him to give him a loaf of bread and hug him. Ugh, weaker. 

“What in the world, Plutus! We can’t sell this!”
“But… sir… with all due respect, there is something there.”
“Fix it. Or this experiment is over.”

***

Hundreds of years later, the experiment is ending. With proper guidance, folks have been bred to become weapons. Love still holds on but weakens every second. 

Buyers have finally shown interest.