After the broker left,
Pandora headed straight for the coffee shop, ‘Trolley Coffee.’
The place had a unique setup, made from four old, disconnected trolley cars.
Walking inside
felt less like entering a normal café and more like stepping onto a forgotten platform, boarding a trip to the past.
Even after many visits, the owner’s sharp, creative taste still got her.
She entered the first car.
First greeting was a machine symphony of coffee roars, steam hisses, and the soft clink of porcelain.
The baristas, dressed like old-ti trolley workers, moved with precise grace behind a brass-and-dark-green counter.
The wall behind them was lined with dark green tiles. Rows of clean glasses and mugs caught soft light from bulbs hanging overhead.
The first car didn’t have many seats,
just a line of old leather stools facing the street view outside the window.
Pandora walked up to the counter and stood before the ever-stoic, focused barista.
She didn’t need to say a word. He read her usual from her stance.
“The usual,” Pandora said anyway, soft.
The barista answered with a tiny, almost invisible nod.
The whole exchange was quick, quiet, like a practiced routine.
He didn’t ask. He pulled a thick, chilled glass mug from under the counter.
He poured the cold oat milk with a steady hand—not too much, not too little, hitting exactly two-thirds.
Then he turned to the big brass-and-iron antique espresso machine.
Under his skilled hands, the machine was a tad beast. He grabbed the portafilter, tamped the grounds, locked it in, and hit the switch.
Soon, dark brown, rich espresso flowed out like thick tar, its bold sll hitting the air.
The barista didn’t pour it straight in.
He poured it in a slow, smooth arc, aiming right for the center of the glass.
The hot liquid cut through the cold milk. So of it mixed as it sank, but most stayed on top, making a clean, clear line.
That’s why they called it ‘Dirty Coffee.’ Rough but neat.
“Your Oat Dirty.”
The barista put the mug on the leather coaster, his voice as short and clean as he was.
Pandora took her ‘Oat Dirty’ from the counter.
She lifted the mug, took a small sip.
First hit was the hot, strong punch of espresso. Right after, that heat slowly blended with the cold oat milk under it.
Cold and hot, bitter and smooth… twisting together, making a weirdly good, rich mix.
“Good.”
Pandora gave the stone-faced barista a tiny, nearly invisible nod—her top praise.
Then, mug in hand, she walked to the third car.
Compared to the second car, which was mostly for hanging out with its bar seats and shared tables,
the third car had booths for 2-4 people and solo seats.
The designer used warm-toned cloth and polished wood dividers to make semi-private spots in the open car.
As for the fourth car, that was for top privacy—special rooms that needed extra pay or a crazy-expensive mbership.
Even as a regular, Pandora didn’t throw that kind of coin just for coffee.
She went in and took an empty booth by the window.
Looking out, she saw the open space across the way, shaped like a square but packed with seating.
That was “Noah’s Ark Cinema.”
An outdoor theater. Soone used a huge, clean white canvas as a screen, dug up a working old film projector from the ruins, and ran movies salvaged from before the fall every night for Eden’s crowd, powered by batteries and a noisy generator.
Tickets were cheap; you could even pay with bullets.
Usually, one bullet got you a seat.
Pandora had gone a few tis when she was bored.
A bit farther off,
a small path led right to the ‘Garden’ the broker had just ntioned.
Its full na was Eve’s Secret Garden.
That place was tucked inside a beat-up but fixed-up greenhouse.
No fighting, no booze, just simple stuff they called ‘healing.’
Pandora had tried the massage and skin care from the ‘Gardeners’ there, their careful, gentle moves.
For most apprentices living hard, feeling real clean and a gentle, no-strings touch once was enough to last them a while.
But Pandora… wasn’t blown away.
Her situation wasn’t as rough. Honestly, the place she fixed up back in Tsukimidaira was more comfy and peaceful than the ‘Garden.’
And the care and massage from Elsa… that, to her, was the real, no-substitute ‘treat.’
As for the whispered, more hidden ‘services’ the Garden offered…
For so reason, she’d never seen them.
Even when she asked straight, the ‘Gardeners’ would just give her a soft, knowing smile and never answer.
So, she didn’t know… if they were even real.
Both spots were famous in Eden, but had calr vibes.
The last one was the ‘Snake Pit.’
It was in the total opposite direction from the coffee shop. The places there were rough and loud. Co night, it turned into the wildest, most chaotic corner in Eden.
Pandora hadn’t been there after dark.
She went during the day to roll dice, but people stopped playing when she wouldn’t bet money. That was how she wound up at the Marksmanship Club…
“Ah, spaced out.”
Snapping back,
Pandora gave a little wave.
Her Palmfiend, resting on her shoulder like a ta pet, crawled down and lay still in her palm.
Since her Palmfiend looked like a slim girl’s hand, at a glance it seed her own hand had gained a creepy… extra layer.
She used the index finger of her other hand,
lightly brushing the warm, lustrous “palm” skin.
Soon,
strings of text made of light dots appeared, listing brokers she knew and friends she’d asked to watch for items.
As soone from the info age, Pandora was used to this mix of high-tech and occult.
She shot quick inquiry ssages to each contact, one by one.
The core question was simple: “Got a ditation thod?”
While waiting, she finished her Oat Dirty. The interplay of hot and cold was delightful.
Most didn’t reply.
Only a few answered soon after with leads.
This ti, the stuff on offer was better than before—maybe waiting seven months actually worked.
Pandora even… saw “an incomplete fourth-rank ditation thod”!
Its description said it could help a smooth break to third rank. But the fourth-rank part had permanently lost so chunks.
Also, the seller didn’t guarantee the third-rank breakthrough info was 100% whole; there might be a tiny bit “missed by authentication.”
Not as good as the full “fifth-rank thod” the broker had, but still solid.
Pandora noted it as a backup,
or maybe to buy later as reference for her own third-rank push. Not a bad idea.
“Squeak! Squeak!”
While Pandora was still thinking about grabbing that incomplete thod, the Palmfiend in her hand let out sharp, mouse-like chirps.
Pandora looked down; it was a reply from Nicole.
“What? Talk fast, I’m busy!”
Reading the short, annoyed text, Pandora’s mouth quirked up. Her finger tapped the glowing skin, firing back a tease.
“Busy with what? Busy running?”
She knew by now what Nicole had been dealing with when they first t during Elsa’s 【Reshaping】. So she sotis used that to poke the super-capable info broker.
Teasing was one thing, business was another.
Before the other could get mad, Pandora had already sent her clear ask about a ditation thod.
But,
after waiting a bit, Nicole’s side went totally silent. No answer.
“Seems… she really is busy?”
Pandora muttered.
Suddenly, a new ssage from a different contact popped up on the Palmfiend’s skin.
“Ah, you… About those retro ga discs you asked for last ti, I’ve got three extras now. Need them?”
Staring at the nickna that sent this—“The Snow”—Pandora frowned first, thinking hard for a good while before her brow smoothed.
So it was her.
This was a… special person she’d t by chance a long ti back, when she’d just joined Echo Quarry.
She’d just started shooting and was watching “The Scalpel” go for his seventh “Death Sprint” win. In the crowd, she’d spotted soone different.
Everyone else was glued to the match, but this one person sat in a far corner, headphones on, quietly playing old gas.
Even at a gun club, she seed to have zero interest in shooting.
That total misfit vibe had caught Pandora’s eye back then.
After the match, she’d gone over to chat a little.
Pandora wasn’t a big gar herself.
But she’d been hunting for ga disc sellers at the ti, so that’s how they connected.
Pandora didn’t know much about her, just that the nickna ca from so ga called Cultist Simulator. After that one ti, they swapped contacts but hardly talked.
The only chat was probably her ask about ga discs… and this reply now.
As for the discs…
They weren’t for her, but for that white-haired, shut-in younger sister of Nicole’s.
Her sister loved holing up at ho playing gas, so besides cash and supplies, Pandora could use these to trade for the intel she wanted from Nicole.
Those three free requests had been used up over the seven months.
But the ga disc market was super niche.
“Available but priceless” or “priced but out of stock” were both normal here.
So if a good chance ca up, Pandora grabbed it fast, no second thoughts.
Thinking that, Pandora replied right away.
“Sure! Can you say which gas?”
“The Snow” clearly wasn’t as busy as Nicole. Soon, she sent over the nas and quick descriptions of the three discs.
Checking them against the list from Nicole’s sister—the one she “wanted bad”—from mory, Pandora confird fast:
These three were ones Nicole’s sister didn’t have!
“Na your price.”
Her reply was sharp and quick.
“I’ll take all three!”
Pandora’s decisiveness clearly shook “The Snow” on the other end.
“For all three, since they’re collector’s editions, it’ll cost a bit… maybe around… three vials of third-rank Immunity Boosters? That work?”
Even through text, Pandora could feel so hesitation and pricing inexperience in the other’s words.
As a seasoned potion maker, she knew this “asking price” was actually pretty loose.
“Immunity Boosters” were a common broad type of potion for “Corpse-Plague Acolytes,” with lots of sub-types on the market.
Among third-rank ones, prices went from low to high: Firefly Serum, “The Bulwark,” Wormblood Brew, up to the top-shelf, priceless-if-you-find-it “Dew of Eden.”
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