New Calendar 2852. The Great Chill.
The wind in District 9 always carried the smell of wet rust—a suffocating blend of engine oil, radiation dust, and the exhaust from twenty million decaying lungs. It was the wheezing breath of the massive underground ventilation fans nearing the end of their lifespan.
But inside Doc John's clinic, the smell of the living was masked by something far thicker. Something viscous.
It was the smell of lies.
To Vance, it smelled like a basket of rotting apples—sickly sweet, fermented, and nauseating.
Vance sat in the surgical chair, stained with years of grease and dried blood. His limbs were bound tight with leather straps, looking like a lamb waiting for the butcher. Phantom pains shot through the neural port at the back of his neck, but the sensation wasn't entirely unpleasant. It felt like a mischievous little demon was stirring his nerve endings with a red-hot dinner fork.
He stared at the ceiling, his dark eyes sharp and cold, taking in the rust spots spreading like cancer across the metal plates.
"Don't be nervous, kid." Doc John's voice rasped, accompanied by the static hiss of a cheap vocal unit. It sounded like sandpaper grinding against bone. "Your port is leaking current. I have to swap it out. It's second-hand, sure, but its previous owner was an honest accountant. Don't worry, my hands are fast. It won't hurt."
Urgh.
Vance's stomach churned. As the lie landed, the stench of rotting apples intensified tenfold. Looking at Doc John's fleshy face, Vance could almost see the deception oozing from the old man's pores like fat, white maggots.
What a clumsy lie. There were no anesthetics here, and certainly no honest accountant. There was only a scalpel thirsty for blood, and an old bastard planning to harvest him for booze money. This damn world was the same as always—stinking enough to make you puke.
"Wait, Doc."
A second before the cold blade could kiss the back of his neck, Vance spoke. His voice was hoarse but possessed a calm that felt utterly out of place.
"Your hand is shaking. That's no way to handle a scalpel."
Doc John froze, the blade hovering in the turbid air. "What did you say?"
"Heart rate 118. Rapid breathing. Pupils dilated." Vance tilted his head slightly, his gaze locking onto the old man's cybernetic eye. "Took too much cheap adrenaline? One slip, and you won't cut the port—you'll sever my vagus nerve."
Before the old man could explode, Vance threw out his deadly chip. "A damaged brain is only worth 5 Credits as scrap. But an intact brain with Lv.2 Strategist potential? On the black market, that's worth at least 5,000 Credits."
The air seemed to solidify. 5,000 Credits. That was enough to feed a gutter rat like Doc John for two years.
Doc John's red cybernetic eye flickered wildly. He sneered, pressing the blade tip against Vance's skin, drawing a thin line of blood. "Lv.2? You? A pauper living in a shipping container?"
"Because I can see it. And I can smell it," Vance whispered, his tone so certain it sent chills down the spine. "Last night, a VIP died in this very chair, didn't he? You disposed of his body like trash, but you kept his encrypted drive. And you can't crack it."
The blade stopped.
The nauseating scent of rotting apples vanished from Vance's nose, replaced instantly by a sharp, cold metallic smell.
Rust. The smell of genuine killing intent.
"Looks like I guessed right." Vance didn't flinch at the sting on his neck; instead, he spoke faster. "Kill me, and you lose the key forever. When that VIP's enemies come looking, you'll die uglier than I will—probably stuffed into a grinder to make cheap synthetic meat patties."
"What do you want?" Doc John's voice turned grim.
"Simple. A trade." Vance stared straight into the old man's ugly soul. "Unbind my right hand. I'll unlock that damn military-grade logic lock for you. In exchange, you let me go. And... let me keep that scalpel as a souvenir."
"And if you lose?"
"Then my life is yours." Vance smiled, a jagged, neurotic expression. "For a piece of trash like me, living is just lingering in this stinking world anyway."
Doc John fell silent. He was calculating. One hand, cracking a military lock? It was suicide. It was a guaranteed win.
"Fine." Doc John sheathed the knife and roughly undid the strap on Vance's right wrist. "One chance, kid. Don't play tricks. The Reaper has a gun to your head."
A cold metal square was tossed onto the tray. Vance flexed his stiff fingers, picking it up. He examined the intricate patterns on the casing with his eyes, tracing the synthetic ivory.
"I won't need three tries," he said flatly.
"This material... synthetic ivory," Vance murmured, admiring the craftsmanship. "This retro style. He was a noble from the Upper Districts, wasn't he?"
Doc John grunted, a tacit confirmation.
"Those big shots upstairs love to play pretend with culture, worshipping ancient Earth myths." Vance's lips curled in mockery. "Tell me, John. What were his last words?"
"He was cursing," Doc John said impatiently. "Said he'd drag everyone down with him."
The smell of rotting apples hit again. Lie.
"No." Vance shook his head, watching Doc John's micro-expressions. "Was he begging? Crying like a dog?"
Rotting apples intensify. Lie.
"Not that either." Vance frowned. "Neither anger nor fear. He died peacefully... perhaps even... arrogantly?"
Suddenly, the air became dry and crisp, like the smell of old book pages turning. The scent of Truth.
"He was making a deal." Vance's finger stopped on the relief carving. It was a flower—a flower bowing its head, looking at the water. "He believed until the very end that his life was more expensive than anything else. For a man that narcissistic, with a fetish for classics, the password wouldn't be boring numbers."
"He loved only himself." Vance whispered, "Just like the ancient god who fell in love with his own reflection. The password is: Narcissus."
Beep—
A crisp electronic chime rang out. The green light flashed. The lock opened.
Doc John's eyes went wide, greed making him forget to breathe. "Genius! Absolute genius! Making you into a battery would be a waste. I'm going to keep you, make you my money tree!"
Predictable. Expecting an organ trafficker to keep his word in this god-forsaken wasteland was like expecting a virgin in a brothel.
The syringe plunged down with a whistle of wind. But in that split second—
Schlick!
Blood bloomed like a spider lily across Doc John's throat.
Vance held the scalpel. His movement was as elegant as cutting a medium-rare steak. He watched the light fade from the old man's eyes, his hand steady as he severed the vocal cords with surgical precision.
Doc John clutched his throat, making the sound of leaking bellows.
Vance stood up, rubbing his wrists. He stepped over the corpse without a shred of pity, only a profound boredom.
"Your breathing was too loud, John." Vance wiped the blood from his hand, speaking to the body as if it were a bag of trash. "It gave me... a headache."
He pocketed the drive. He should have left immediately—every second in this hellhole invited death. But he stopped. Vance turned to look at a massive industrial freezer in the corner. It emitted a faint, milky scent.
The smell of innocence.
"What a hassle."
Vance frowned, pulling a rag from his pocket to cover his nose, muttering in disgust. "According to absolute rationality, saving people is a negative-yield action. Wasted stamina, and I pick up a burden."
Despite his words, his hand pulled open the heavy iron door. White frost poured out. Inside curled a little girl, maybe five or six, hooked up to life-support tubes in induced hibernation. Probably the dead VIP's illegitimate child, or Doc John's next "spare part."
Vance sighed. He yanked the tubes, took off his grease-stained trench coat, and clumsily wrapped the girl in it.
"Don't get me wrong. I just think there's too much money in this drive; spending it alone draws attention." He talked to the unconscious girl, his tone cold but his hands gentle as he defused a bomb. "Just consider me a kidnapper. When you wake up, remember to calculate the ransom."
Vance picked her up and pushed open the heavy clinic door. Outside, the eternal gloom of District 9 greeted him—neon lights reflecting in dirty puddles, biting wind mixed with fallout dust.
The night was long and bone-chillingly cold. But at least for this moment, in Vance's arms, a small life radiated a warm, genuine heat.
It was the only real thing in this rotting Eden.