Roric 'DataWeasel' Klane hunched over his flickering console in the cramped, overheated booth he rented by the hour in the heart of Sector Gamma-7's data markets.
The air seemed suffocating with a thousand competing data streams as the scent of stale synth-coffee, recycled air, and low-grade desperation became thick enough for his taste.
Outside the thin plasti-glass partition, bodies shuffled past. They were info-brokers whispering deals, code-runners mainlining raw data and scavengers hawking corrupted memory chips.
It was Roric's element, the grubby, chaotic ecosystem where information was the apex predator and he was a moderately successful scavenger and information broker near the top of the local food chain.
He grinned, revealing synth-chrome teeth that needed polishing. Another payment notification had just chimed in his private, heavily encrypted account.
45 Qi-Credits from the Crimson Abacus Syndicate. Easy money. All he had to do was keep his digital ears open, monitor certain Lower Layer cultivation forums and gig-work dispatch boards before flagging any unusual spikes in a cultivator's performance or whispers of 'alternative financing' that didn't bear the Syndicate's bloody thumbprint.
This new source of easy Qi infusions someone was peddling? Amateur hour.
They left ripples a blind cyber-mole could track. Roric had already fed the Abacus three potential leads based on forum chatter and cross-referenced energy signature anomalies near known independent cultivator hangouts.
The bounty was just public pressure used to flush them out of hiding. His back-channel info was what would really let the Syndicate stomp out this nascent competition before it got inconvenient. And Roric gets paid handsomely for his trouble.
He sipped his lukewarm coffee, already planning his next move.
His primary investment, the nest egg he was slowly building to maybe, maybe afford a Tier-2 nervous system upgrade someday in order to raise his comprehension level, was tied up in Synth-Kelp Futures, specifically Contract SKF-4B.
It was a volatile market, dependent on unpredictable aquaculture yields from the toxic coastal farms and the fluctuating demand from nutrient paste manufacturers. However, Roric had a good feeling.
His own proprietary predictive algorithm, cobbled together from stolen market data and black-box analysis modules, indicated a strong probability of a price surge within the next cycle due to anticipated supply chain disruptions.
He had sunk nearly 90% of his liquid capital, almost 200 Credits, into SKF-4B Call options. If it paid off, he'd not just double his money, it could very well rise to triple or quadruple the amount.
He checked the SKF-4B ticker again.
Stable. Slightly up from yesterday.
Good. He allowed himself another small, self-satisfied smirk. Playing the markets was risky, but the rewards… they were the only way someone like him could ever hope to climb out of the Gamma-7 data-dens. Thankfully, he took his time to learn the ropes. If he remained a scavenger, it would take decades and perhaps his own lifetime to climb out of the Lower Layers of Neo-Tian.
He turned his attention back to his monitoring feeds, setting up alerts for keywords related to Qi infusions, breakthroughs, and sudden financial windfalls among known unaffiliated cultivators.
The Crimson Abacus paid for results and Roric intended to keep delivering. His reputation as DataWeasel, the guy who could find anything for a price, depended on it.
Suddenly, his console flickered violently. Multiple alerts screamed across his vision, not from his monitoring feeds, but from his financial platform.
[ALERT: UNUSUAL MARKET ACTIVITY DETECTED - SYNTH-KELP FUTURES CONTRACT SKF-4B!]
[ALERT: MASSIVE SELL ORDERS PLACED ON SKF-4B VIA MULTIPLE ANONYMOUS PROXIES!]
[WARNING: PRICE PLUMMETING! MARGIN CALL IMMINENT!]
Roric stared, his blood running cold. What the hell was happening? SKF-4B dropping? It made no sense! His algorithm predicted a steep rise! He frantically pulled up the detailed market data. It showed an inexplicable, massive dump of sell orders hitting the market simultaneously from dozens of untraceable accounts. It wasn't organic market movement; it looked coordinated. Artificial.
Panic selling erupted instantly as other traders reacted to the sudden plunge. The price of SKF-4B crashed through the floor like a plummeting mag-lift car.
[MARGIN CALL ISSUED!]
[ACCOUNT DEFICIT DETECTED!]
[AUTOMATIC LIQUIDATION OF ASSETS INITIATED TO COVER LOSSES!]
"No! NO!" Roric shrieked, slamming his fist on the console.
He tried to manually close his position, cut his losses and maybe salvage something. But the platform was already executing the margin call automatically.
His Call options, bought with the expectation of a price rise, were now utterly worthless as the price collapsed. The system sold them off for fractions of a Credit to cover the widening gap.
He watched in horror as his account balance evaporated.
150 Credits… 100… 50… 10… 5… gone.
Worse than gone. The margin call liquidation wasn't quite enough to cover the speed and depth of the crash.
[ACCOUNT STATUS UPDATE: LIQUIDATION COMPLETE] [OUTSTANDING DEFICIT: -18.7 QI-CREDITS]
[ACCOUNT FROZEN PENDING SETTLEMENT]
Negative eighteen Credits. Account frozen. His entire investment, his nest egg, was wiped out in less than sixty seconds by a seemingly impossible market event.
He felt dizzy, nauseous even. The cramped booth suddenly felt like it was closing in around him as the recycled air felt thick and unbreathable.
Who? Why? Was it a rival data-broker trying to ruin him? A glitch in the exchange? Or… was it targeted? Could someone have known about his position, his reliance on SKF-4B?
He frantically tried to trace the source of the massive sell orders, but they vanished into the labyrinthine anonymizing relays of the black market exchanges. Untraceable. Professional.
The implications hit him hard. All of a sudden, he became broke. And not only that, he was in debt to the trading platform. His account was frozen!
His reputation relied on access to data and capital. Now, both were gone.
He couldn't afford the hourly rent on this booth past the next day. He couldn't afford his favorite synth-kaf. He couldn't afford anything.
As for his lucrative deal with the Crimson Abacus? They paid for information. An insolvent, account-frozen DataWeasel was useless to them.
They wouldn't bail him out. They would mercilessly cut him loose, maybe even collect his outstanding booth rent via kneecap rearrangement.
The 45 Credits they had just paid him? Likely already swallowed by automated platform fees, trying to mitigate his negative balance.
Heck, the Celestial Revenue Bureau might even find him once they notice his sudden plummet to beyond poverty. His negative balance would naturally be flagged in their systems.
He slumped back in his worn chair, the synth-chrome gleam gone from his teeth, replaced by the dull grey of despair.
One minute, he was on top of his small, grimy world, dreaming of upgrades. Then, the next, he was less than zero, facing eviction and potentially hostile former employers.
He didn't know how it happened, but he knew one thing for sure: someone, somewhere, had deliberately, expertly, and utterly destroyed him. The Weasel had become the prey. And in the ruthless data markets of Sector Gamma-7, prey didn't last long. The smug grin was replaced by the cold sweat of sheer terror. He was ruined.