The Santa Monica Airport Flea Market on a Sunday was a chaotic symphony of human aspiration and discarded junk. The air vibrated with the smell of old denim, grease from food trucks, and the faint, sweet decay of forgotten wood. This was Fred's new classroom, a low-stakes proving ground for the powers he was still trying to rationalize.
Dusky, walking beside him, looked deeply uncomfortable. He wore his usual uniform of faded black jeans and a worn band t-shirt, but his face was a mask of professional cynicism.
"This is beneath us, Fred. We're scraping the bottom feeder's barrel," Dusky muttered, navigating around a stroller stacked high with vintage vinyl. "The real money is in the big estate sales, where the rich dump grandpa's mistakes."
"The rich are watched, Dusky. Here, we're invisible," Fred replied, keeping his voice low. "Besides, I need the clutter. I need to learn to separate the signal from the noise."
He had spent the last two days trying to practice at home, using his X-ray vision to read the contents of his refrigerator through the door (mostly expired mustard), and appraising every piece of inherited furniture (low-quality maple, high sentimental value, zero market worth). But the sheer density of objects here was a shock.
The Item Identification Log was a constant, buzzing murmur in his mind.
Object: Ceramic Garden Gnome, mass produced, Taiwan 1998, $5.
Object: Stained Glass Lamp Shade, lead content high, $30.
Object: Box of Unsorted Costume Jewelry, 99.9% base metal, $15.
It was overwhelming. He felt like a librarian trapped in the main repository, where every book was screaming its title and Dewey Decimal number simultaneously.
"Focus, Fred. Just look for something that feels wrong," he coached himself, muting the X-ray overlay and relying only on the Item ID flash triggered by concentration.
Dusky led him to a stall overflowing with tools, rusted license plates, and old sporting equipment.
"This guy, Manny. He's got the good kind of junk—the kind that hides something valuable because he's too lazy to look," Dusky explained, picking up a heavy, tarnished trophy. "Like this. Solid brass, probably worth $50 for the metal."
Fred focused on the trophy.
Appraisal Data Log: Object: Brass Plated Cup, Zinc core, Trophy World 1985. $12. History: Given to a local bowling league champion. Mild disappointment associated with the win.
Fred pulled his hand back, unnerved by the final line. Mild disappointment? His power was bleeding into the emotional history of the object. He was acquiring a low-grade form of psychometry.
"No, leave it. It's zinc core, Dusky. Pure scrap," Fred said, startling his friend.
"How did—never mind. You got a feel for the metal, huh?" Dusky said, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
"Something like that."
They moved deeper into the market, the sun climbing higher, forcing Fred to squint as he scanned the tables. He needed to make a score soon. His meager savings felt terrifyingly thin.
His first attempt was a predictable failure. He spent fifty dollars on a "vintage" leather satchel that his power identified as a high-quality 2005 reproduction. He'd ignored the ID log, convinced the quality of the leather felt old. Dusky gave him a long, silent look.
"The lesson isn't just seeing the truth, Fred. It's trusting the truth, even if it contradicts what you want to see," Dusky said, rubbing his temples.
Fred nodded, the humiliation stinging. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and re-centered his perception. When he opened his eyes, he consciously let the X-ray vision wash over the next stall, which was dedicated to ancient electronics and battered luggage.
The sight was dizzying: hundreds of intertwined circuits, the glowing filaments of old bulbs, and the dense, packed coils of copper wiring. Then, in the corner, half-buried under a pile of obsolete camcorders, was a small, locked mahogany box.
Fred focused his internal lens. The X-ray vision easily penetrated the dark wood. Inside, resting on frayed velvet, was a watch.
Appraisal Data Log:
* Object: Patek Philippe Calatrava, Reference 3919J, 18k Yellow Gold.
* Origin: Geneva, Switzerland, circa 1990.
* Composition: Gold (75%), Calfskin leather strap (deteriorated), Internal mechanical movement (Caliber 215 PS).
* Value: Current auction estimate (excellent condition): $18,000 – $22,000.
* History: Owned by a small-time director. Sold in 2005 to cover a gambling debt. Forgotten in this box.
Fred's heart leaped. Nineteen thousand dollars. Tucked away in a box marked "$15 - All In."
The vendor was an elderly woman wearing thick reading glasses, scrolling through a tablet.
"Excuse me, ma'am," Fred said, his voice unnaturally calm. He pointed to the mahogany box. "That little box. It looks interesting. Is it included in the fifteen dollars?"
She glanced up, barely registering him. "Oh, that's just a broken lockbox. The key is gone. Fifteen bucks, take it all."
"I'll take it," Fred said instantly, pulling the cash out.
Dusky watched the transaction with a puzzled frown. As they walked away, Fred placed the box in Dusky's hand.
"It's gold, Dusky. A Patek Philippe Calatrava, 18k. It's worth twenty thousand dollars."
Dusky stopped dead in the middle of the crowded aisle. His cynical mask crumbled. He looked at the locked, dusty box, then back at Fred's intensely focused blue eyes.
"You're telling me… you knew that?"
Fred's muscles tightened in anticipation, a faint, internal electric current running through him. The air seemed to sharpen around him. He felt the subtle increase in his physical capacity—a minor surge past the 2x threshold. He was now operating at approximately 2.2x his normal capacity, enough that the crowded noise of the market didn't feel deafening, and he could track the movement of two dozen people simultaneously.
Just then, a hurried shopper barreled past, clipping Dusky's arm and sending the wooden box flying. Time seemed to slow. Fred's vision zoomed in on the tumbling mahogany. Before Dusky could even gasp, Fred had smoothly shifted his weight, extended his arm with impossible precision, and caught the box mid-air, the delicate catch cushioned by the new, effortless strength in his wrist.
It was too fast. Too clean.
"You okay?" Fred asked, handing the box back.
Dusky was breathing heavily, his eyes wide. "I… I didn't even see it fall. You moved like a damn ninja, Fred."
"Just lucky. Fast hands from all that spreadsheet work," Fred lied smoothly, learning to weave the truth into plausible absurdity.
They made their way to the edge of the market, where the antique dealers gathered in quieter, more serious conversation. Fred, scanning the surroundings, noticed a presence.
Standing near a display of antique maritime tools was an older man. He was tall, impeccably dressed in a linen suit that seemed out of place in the dusty environment. His silver hair was slicked back, and his face was etched with the weariness of someone who had seen too much history. He held a small, antique magnifying glass, but he wasn't looking at the artifacts. He was looking at Fred.
Fred instinctively focused his Appraisal power on the man.
Appraisal Data Log (Person):
* Object: Theodore Vance, Antique Appraiser and Collector (The Curator).
* Current State: Heightened interest, suppressed suspicion.
* Composition: Human male, age 68. Expensive tailoring (Savile Row), signet ring (17th Century English family crest, authentic).
* Motivation: Acquisition of objects with true, untainted lineage. Distrust of the 'New Money' market.
The Curator, Theodore Vance, had seen the impossible catch. He watched Fred and Dusky walk away with the unremarkable mahogany box, and a faint, knowing smirk touched his lips. He knew that box contained nothing of value to the naked eye. He also knew Fred had acted like a man who knew exactly what was inside.
Fred felt the weight of Vance's gaze, a cold prickling on the back of his neck. His powers had given him a tool, but they had also given him a target marker.
"We need to find a fence, Fred. This Patek is too hot for The Gilded Cage," Dusky said, still amazed by the watch's potential value.
"Wait," Fred said, stopping at the last table, which held a bizarre assortment of ancient maps, globes, and navigational tools.
He reached out, his hand hovering over a small, tarnished brass sextant. It was unremarkable, covered in verdigris, and marked $50.
Appraisal Data Log:
* Object: Tarnished Brass Sextant, manufactured Lisbon, Portugal, 1890s.
* History: Used by a merchant mariner in the Atlantic trade. Stolen 1955. Concealed compartment in the base.
* *Contents (Concealed): Small, rolled piece of vellum (parchment), highly brittle. Containment seal matches known materials of the Mithraic Star Cult. Value: Priceless.
Fred froze. Priceless. Mithraic Star Cult. This wasn't a twenty-thousand-dollar watch. This was the start of the crusade.
He glanced back. The Curator was still watching, now taking a step toward the navigational table.
"Dusky," Fred whispered, urgency thick in his throat. "I need you to cause a distraction. Something big. Right now."
"A distraction? What for, Fred?"
"That sextant. It has the map. The one I need."
Dusky didn't argue. He understood the desperate intensity in Fred's eyes. Taking a deep breath, Dusky reached over and purposefully knocked over a leaning stack of antique nautical charts. The charts exploded in a white paper avalanche, sending the vendor into a panicked, cursing frenzy.
As the commotion erupted, Fred paid the bewildered vendor fifty dollars, grabbed the sextant, and with his enhanced speed, melted into the chaotic crowd, clutching the key to his new life and the attention of his first true enemy.