Phin exhales, staring off into the far corner of his shop. His head lay comfortably on his folded arms, his frail 18-year-old body hunched over the counter.
"Phin's Seed Appraisal," read the bold letters painted across the shop's awning. When he was still selecting a name for his business, three years ago, Phin had enunciated those three words countless times to ensure that it flows smoothly off the tongue.
In his wandering daydreams, Phin's attention is drawn to his name - a frequent object of his own scrutiny.
Why was I named Phin? Well... there was ol' PhinEAS, the toxin addict from 24th Street. Or maybe DOLphin, as in the mythological creatures who once roamed what are now known as the Pits of Hell.
Phin subconsciously shudders as he remembers the tales about the Pits of Hell; for miles, you could only see the ravenous, flailing appendages of Spinelaces - or, formally, Virellaria asphyxiata - splashing in those murky waters.
But Phin... just Phin. And not even Finn, like that kid from grade school who brought his family's prized Seed for show-and-tell. Just Phin.
~Ring!!
A stocky, bearded figure cautiously enters the store, clad in heavy-duty boots and a thick jacket. In his hand he clutches a small brown satchel whose contents clink softly as he walks.
'Good day, sir, how may I help you?' Phin cheerfully offers, hastily fixing his posture and folding his hands behind his back.
'Month's worth of scavenging', the man replies gruffly, unzipping the satchel. 'Heard you're the best Appraiser around here, so I just decided to give it a try.'
'Ah! I wouldn't proclaim myself to be the best, haha, but I'll definitely be able to supply some top-notch appraisals for you,' Phin laughs it off, accepting a fistfull of glowing Seeds.
He peruses over the peanut-sized objects, prodding and turning. Seeds are remnants of deceased Florae (sing. Flora), which is the general term used to denote the sentient, monstrous plants that rule the wilderness beyond the Fortress's walls. Imbuing minor magical enhancements upon consumption, Seeds are highly sought after by the wealthy, who are typically the only ones who can afford them.
Hm... truly an impressive batch. Phin smiles, carefully scrutinizing a Seed bearing a curious set of markings. Occasionally, the Florae just outside the walls would drop Seeds, and the 'profession', of madly running out and grabbing as many as you can before getting impaled or worse, became known as Scavenging.
The Fortress's government - the Regals - did not care; if anything, a smaller population would ease resource tensions - one of the many cruel ironies of Earth, year 2254.
Scavenging is quite profitable, though mostly luck-based: the typical Scavenger isn't able to tell Seeds apart by marking patterns or properties, so they aren't able to selectively stockpile valuable Seeds. Additionally, with every second they spend outside of the Fortress's walls, they risk a horrible fate to the unforgiving Florae - meticulousness is simply impractical.
As a Seed Appraiser, Phin's job is to evaluate the properties of Seeds and determine their marketable value. Although Seeds of a common Flora species share properties, the magnitude of their potential can vary, and rare genetic alterations may completely change the Seed's classification.
'Ah, a Cerulefloris sanare - Weepingblue - Seed; that'll surely get you far. Roughly 40% positive on potential...' Phin holds up a pulsating blue Seed, and a smile blooms on the barded man's face.
'How much do you estimate it to be?' the man excitedly asks.
'At least 700... oh, yes, I forgot you're a newcomer. Don't worry - I log everything for you. No charge.'
Shuffling through the remaining Seeds, Phin's finger pauses. 'Oop, that one's definitely corrupted. I wouldn't recommend putting that on the market if you value your future,' he notes, picking up an otherwise ordinary-looking Seed. 'It's a shame, really - not that it's your fault. Serpentaria fractilis - Fractroot. Rare one, would have fetched a fair price.'
The customer nods graciously, despite his misfortune. 'Thank you for pointing that out. How can I pay?'
'20% of estimated price, refunded if your Seeds sell for below 70% of the estimate. Corrupted ones not included,' Phin replies, furiously scribbling as he finalizes the man's value spreadsheet.
Reaching out to the counter, the man places several gold and silver Credits (coins), all bearing the Fortress's insignia - a crown adorned with flowers. Phin likewise returns the Seeds to the customer's hands, apart from the harmful corrupted one.
'Thank you for your business,' Phin smiles, collecting his Credits. 'May your trading succeed.'
As the man leaves, Phin closes his eyes, sighing peacefully. There's a sort of beauty to this mundanity... he thinks. Of course, it's not like any other lifestyle would suit me better. I'm not strong enough to become a Botanist, not charismatic enough to pursue Regal affairs, and too damn stubborn to slave my life away in a corporate.
Since his childhood, names have been an integral part of Phin's life and a keystone symbol of his erudite nature; his seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of Florae is a product of years of devouring every single intellectual resource he encounters.
Lost in his daydreams, Phin soon dozes off happily, head resting in his crossed arms.