The bottles stood in quiet defiance of time. Dust had settled over their necks, yet the labels remained legible.
Dates read 1817,1901, and 2025.
Numbers that once held weight in civilizations now reduced to memory. Each inscription was carved in dialects long extinct, languages that had not been spoken aloud since the fall of the satellites.
Cain's eyes scanned the rows with measured interest. He recognized a few of the symbols from Arthur's old lexicons. Some were military rations dressed as prestige while others, true remnants of pre-collapse indulgence.
Relics of a forgotten calendar.
It was a whisper in his mind, a reminder that the only year that mattered now was 1228. The year of the Godslaying Calendar. The year civilization remade itself under duress.
Cain resisted the urge to ask questions. Curiosity could be useful, but discipline was the currency of respect. He kept his gaze steady, not drifting too long on any one bottle, and reined his thoughts back to the present.
A subtle movement drew his attention forward.
The bartender had approached without fanfare. His frame was slim but straight, dressed in a sharply pressed black suit. A single mask covered one eye, smooth and jet-black, its design clearly ceremonial rather than technological. The other eye, sharp and unblinking, remained exposed.
No words were exchanged. None were necessary.
The mask shifted ever so slightly, its sculpted flame-like brow arching upward. It could have meant welcome. It could have meant warning. Cain had been taught that in the Syndicate, gestures mattered more than words.
He nodded once. Not too fast. Not too slow.
It was not submission. It was not pride.
It was readiness.
And the game had begun.
A faint shimmer appeared in front of Cain.
A holographic interface unfolded in silence, its edges precise and translucent, hovering just above the polished surface of the counter.
A scroll of options began to slide upward, revealing vintage liquors and regional rarities long thought lost to history.
He did not marvel. This was not the time to admire relics.
Names drifted past his vision.
Château de Goulaine. Aged Absinthe Classique. WW1 Reserve Cognac.
Each line carried the weight of an event, a ruined province, or a fallen dynasty. Most were not beverages. They were markers, codes, and tools of message exchange.
Cain stopped on a single item. It was not exotic, not rare, not worthy of collector debate.
He selected coffee.
The price flashed.
[5 Gold]
Cain checked his reserves. He had exactly 10.
He made the purchase without hesitation. In a place like this, the drink was not a luxury.
It was a statement. A coded request for information. A marker that he was here to speak and was prepared to pay.
Without a sound, the preparation began.
Beans hovered upward from an unseen panel. They disintegrated mid-air, ground to exact uniformity. Water coalesced from the atmosphere, pulled into a hovering orb that pulsed with kinetic heat. Steam hissed. A compressed stream pierced the grounds.
There was no spillage. No excess movement.
"Would you have the gentle extract of almond, or the full-bodied grace of the cow?"
"Almond, please."
From a second spout, a pale sap slid into the blend with geometric precision. The final product hovered, unshaken, before gently settling into a matte-black ceramic cup.
Cain's eyes tracked each motion. Not in admiration, but in analysis. The bartender's movements held the balance of a gunsmith, the discipline of a surgeon, and the poise of a duelist.
It was a performance. One meant for someone who would notice.
Then bartender's mask flared with twin pulses of light. Subtle, measured, and deliberate.
Cain's heart did not skip. His memory, however, engaged at once. Julius had drilled the code into him during their final weeks aboard the fortress. Arthur reinforced it through situational drills.
Two pulses meant permission.
Not an invitation.
A prompt.
Cain nodded slightly, mirroring the gesture from earlier. He leaned forward just enough to close the distance. His voice, barely above a whisper, broke the silence.
"Might I inquire as to the finer offerings in this region, Esteemed Keeper?"
It was neither a request nor a pretense. It was the beginning of the exchange.
The bartender did not answer in words. His knuckles rapped the counter twice. The sound barely rose above ambient. Cain's terminal vibrated softly, the sensation light enough to go unnoticed to any untrained ear.
A data packet had arrived.
Cain did not check it. That, too, was part of the ritual. To open a file too early would signal greed or carelessness. To wait showed understanding.
Instead, he returned the nod. No words. No smile. No thanks.
He then lifted the coffee and took a careful sip from the opening in his visor.
It hit his tongue in waves.
Bitterness first, bold and clean. Then the layered aftertaste, floral and woody, sliding into a faint citrus tail. Cain's palate identified it instantly.
He swallowed, then paused to let the scent settle along the rim.
"Blue Mountain. Correct?"
"It takes a rare refinement to uncover flavor where common folk sense only warmth. That is correct young master."
The bartender's eye flickered with subtle brightness.
He spoke again, his voice smooth but edged with an old accent.
Cain gave a slow nod.
Arthur had not only trained his hands. He trained his taste, his posture, his sense of ritual.
Because in the Syndicate, the smallest misstep could rewrite your fate.
The moment lingered without urgency. Cain took a second sip, slower this time, letting the warmth trail down his chest.
It was not comfort he sought. It was consistency. His grip on the cup never trembled. His fingers did not fidget. Everything was practiced, deliberate, and quiet.
Then his terminal pulsed again.
An image file had arrived.
He saw the icon flicker once in the lower corner of his visor. He did not open it. Not yet.
The bartender said nothing. His hand resumed its motion, polishing the same glasses he had never stopped attending to.
There was no demand. No gesture. Just presence. One that carried the weight of finality.
Cain lowered the cup, careful not to stain the polished wood.
He placed it exactly where it had been handed to him, as though to erase the act of drinking. With his free hand, he brushed his fingertips across the surface of the counter, a gesture Arthur had taught him as a silent farewell.
It was not an exit. It was a closing statement.
He stood without a sound. His boots clicked once on the floor, then fell silent as he adjusted his weight. The data packet remained unopened in his terminal.
The image file rested untouched.
Not out of fear. Not out of delay.
Out of respect.
In the Syndicate, information was not seized. It was carried, and this was not a Black Market he had thought of bud the headquarters of this Northern Battlefront itself.
He stepped away from the counter and walked toward the exit, never once looking back.
The lights overhead adjusted as he moved, shadow trailing him like an echo of everything he did not say.
Respect was not a behavior. It was a language. Timing, silence, and posture formed the grammar.
Cain had learned it. And right this very moment, he spoke it fluently.