The Torrance bungalow, Fred's inherited stucco refuge, felt less like a home and more like a tactical base of operations. The small dining table was now covered in relics: the $20,000 Patek Philippe watch, the tarnished brass sextant, and the brittle, rolled vellum fragment, carefully extracted from the sextant's base using surgical tweezers and Dusky's steady hands.
Dusky, perched on a kitchen stool, looked like an exhausted conspirator. He was holding the Patek watch like a newborn baby.
"Twenty thousand dollars, Fred. One day. I knew you were smart, but this is… this is like you're cheating at the universe," Dusky whispered, still trying to reconcile the mild-mannered former spreadsheet jockey with the man who moved faster than sight.
"I am cheating, Dusky. But only because the universe gave me the playbook," Fred replied, hunched over the parchment.
The vellum was ancient, smelling faintly of salt and incense. The Appraisal Log was screaming at him, but this time, the data was complex and contradictory.
Appraisal Data Log: Object: Mithraic Star Map Fragment (First Segment).
* Origin: Uncertain. Predates known human charting by approximately 1,500 years.
* Composition: Vellum (Goat skin), naturally preserved. Ink base: Obsidian powder mixed with an unknown organic binder.
* Coded Content: A segment of the ecliptic plane, overlaid with symbols corresponding to the Pleiades cluster. Contains geographical coordinates for the next fragment (Antwerp, Belgium).
* Warning: The Aetherium energy signature is encoded into the ink. Acquisition of this piece is now known to Janus.
The final line chilled him. Acquisition of this piece is now known to Janus. His enemy, the powerful force chasing the meteor, somehow knew what he had done almost instantaneously. This wasn't just a race for gold; it was an escalating hunt where his every successful move alerted the opposition.
"I can't read this language," Fred said, pushing the vellum back. He had perfect recall now, his memory retention operating at nearly 3x efficiency, yet the symbols were alien. "It's pre-Sumerian, overlaid with a star chart."
Dusky leaned closer. "This is where I come in. I've been pawning artifacts since I was twenty. That script… I've seen versions of it in old occult texts. We don't need a linguist. We need someone who understands the history of things like this."
Fred immediately thought of Elena, the highly regarded, and equally suspicious, auction house researcher mentioned in his future knowledge—the woman who would later become his colleague. He needed an educated ally, and fast.
But first, he needed more capital and a cleaner win to shake off The Curator, Theodore Vance.
The next day, Fred drove his beat-up sedan to the outskirts of Long Beach for an industrial container auction. This was a jump in class—the stakes here ranged from empty metal boxes to thousands of pounds of unsorted merchandise. The buyers were hardened pros: liquidators, salvage experts, and resellers who knew exactly how to look fierce and bid cheap.
Fred's physical enhancement had subtle, unexpected benefits. His 2.5x musculature gave him an imposing presence he hadn't possessed before, and his nerves were iron-clad, his perception of the environment totally controlled. He felt the constant, quiet hum of power under his skin.
He moved through the lot, his X-ray vision cutting through the thick steel walls of the containers, peering at the secrets inside.
Container 44-A: Auto Parts. Value $1,200.
Container 44-B: Used Electronics. Value $4,500.
Container 44-C: Plastic Resins. Value $800.
Then, he stopped at Container 44-D. It was heavily secured, its paint scarred by shipping labels.
Fred focused his sight, letting the X-ray vision pierce the metal. Inside, the container was mostly filled with old, dusty theater equipment—costumes, lighting rigs, and heavy ropes. Nothing immediately valuable. But then he saw it: tucked into a hollowed-out section of a wooden stage riser.
Appraisal Data Log: Object: Collection of Late 19th Century French Oil Paintings (Miniature).
* Origin: Paris, France, 1888-1892. Artist: Henri Béranger (Post-Impressionist, highly influential on early Fauvism).
* Composition: Oil on linen, wood frame. Condition: Excellent, protected by climate control within the riser.
* Value: *Each miniature: $40,000 – $60,000. Total collection (12 pieces): $600,000 – $750,000. *
The number hit him like a physical blow. Three-quarters of a million dollars. The wealth he needed to start funding his global treasure hunt, secured in a stage prop.
The auctioneer, a fast-talking man with a gravelly voice, reached Container 44-D.
"Alright, folks, 44-D! Theater company went bankrupt in Seattle. Looks like a whole lot of old lighting rigs, velvet curtains, and junk. Minimal value here. Opening bid: Five hundred dollars!"
The bidders barely stirred. This was the exact kind of lot professionals avoided—too much bulk, too little yield.
"Five hundred," a voice called out casually.
Fred recognized the smooth, cultured tone instantly. Theodore Vance, The Curator, was leaning against a black Mercedes, his linen suit immaculate even in the industrial dust. Vance didn't look at the container; he looked directly at Fred.
Vance was here not for the theater props, but for Fred. He was testing him.
"Five hundred, I have five hundred!" the auctioneer yelled.
Fred knew he had to act. He also knew Vance would follow his lead, thinking Fred had spotted a smaller, hidden gem. Fred had to throw off the trail.
"Ten thousand dollars," Fred announced, his voice ringing out, startling the small crowd.
A collective groan went through the assembly. Ten thousand for a container full of theater junk was insane.
Vance narrowed his eyes, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. Ten thousand was a bid for something truly valuable, but not that valuable. Fred's power increase was giving him superhuman confidence, a sense of rightness that overshadowed the risk.
Vance slowly raised his hand. "Twelve thousand."
Fred had to break Vance's nerve, or he would drive the price up forever, suspecting a high-value antique was buried inside.
Fred fixed his gaze on the Curator. He let his X-ray vision blur the world around Vance, focusing only on the man himself, reading his pulse, his slight tension, the very thread of his expensive suit.
"Thirty-five thousand dollars," Fred said, stepping forward.
The crowd gasped. The auctioneer looked ecstatic.
Vance's composure broke for a fraction of a second. Thirty-five thousand? That was a price for high-end scrap metal, not old lights. The gamble was too extreme, the reward too unlikely, unless Fred was completely reckless—or completely insane.
Vance, who operated on calculation and history, couldn't rationalize the number. He lowered his hand.
"Passed! Thirty-five thousand, once! Thirty-five thousand, twice! Sold to the young man!" the auctioneer slammed his gavel.
Fred had won the container, but more importantly, he had shaken his enemy.
Vance walked slowly toward Fred as the auctioneer collected the payment.
"A bold move, Mr. Fred," Vance said, his voice smooth as aged scotch. "A man who buys theater props at the price of a small car either knows something or is spectacularly reckless."
"The theater is a passion, Mr. Vance," Fred replied, meeting his gaze steadily. Fred's 2.5x enhanced body felt absolutely fearless.
Vance smiled—a cold, humorless expression. "I saw your slight of hand at the flea market, acquiring that unremarkable sextant. I've seen that before, that unnatural intuition. I hope for your sake, you are merely reckless. The other option… draws attention from people far less polite than I am."
Fred knew he was talking about Janus.
"I only care about my acquisition," Fred stated, signing the papers.
"Then allow me to make you an offer," Vance said, pulling out a slim card. "Find me a buyer for your Patek Philippe. I'll give you a clean forty-five percent of its final market value—no questions asked. It's an easy exit, Fred. A quick, clean return to your old life."
Vance was offering a test, a way out, or a confirmation of Fred's new path.
Fred took the card, his enhanced memory instantly cataloging the details of Vance's private London address and phone number. "I appreciate the thought, Mr. Vance. But I think I'll keep the watch. I'm starting a collection."
He didn't wait for a response. He had a hidden fortune to excavate and a strange vellum map that told him his next stop was Antwerp. The spreadsheet life was finally, definitively over.
That evening, the bungalow's security was fortified, paid for by the Patek Philippe, which Dusky quickly fenced to an independent buyer for a clean $19,500. Fred had the first $750,000 of his treasure-hunting career locked away in a shipping container, but his mind was already across the ocean.
"Antwerp," Fred said, pointing at a map of Belgium. "The Star Map says the next piece is hidden there. In a location corresponding to the star Algol."
"Algol. The Demon Star. That's encouraging," Dusky grumbled. "Look, Fred. Before we go international and start looking for Demon Stars, we need help with the language. I know a guy who knows a woman who works in the antiquities department at UCLA. Name's Elena. She's smart, ethical, and her expertise is exactly this kind of early celestial notation."
Fred felt a flash of recognition. Elena. His Appraisal Log had mentioned her as a future colleague. The universe was lining up his allies before the serious confrontation.
"Set up the meeting, Dusky. But tell her nothing about the meteor, or the X-ray vision. Just tell her we found an ancient, high-value navigational chart in a junk lot," Fred instructed.
Dusky nodded, then pointed to the vellum. "Just so you know, Fred. Once we bring in an expert, there's no going back to simple auction flips. This is the big league."
Fred looked at the vellum—the start of a global quest. His body was thrumming with 2.5x capacity, his mind sharp, his wallet full. He was no longer running from his failures; he was sprinting toward his destiny.
"Good," Fred said, a dangerous glint in his electric blue eyes. "I'm tired of playing in the minors."