Afternoon.
Del has been practicing for hours. His fingers barely work. The numb ones keep dropping things.
But he's improving. Slowly.
Each successful transfer builds muscle memory. His body learning despite the pain.
He's also thinking.
About the warehouse. About twelve containers in a line. About which ones Vence will choose.
About how people choose.
Not random. Never truly random.
People avoid edges. Too obvious. Too exposed.
People pick from the middle. The safe zone.
People pick things that look clean. Undamaged. Whole.
If the containers are arranged in a line, and some look worse than others—damaged seals, dirty exteriors, loose lids—people avoid those naturally.
Not consciously. Just: instinct.
Vence wants the performance to succeed. Wants the service operational. Wants profit.
So he'll pick containers that look good. That look pure.
If the impure ones look damaged, he'll avoid them without realizing why.
But that requires the containers to be marked. Differentiated.
And they're locked in the warehouse. Guarded.
Del's hand goes to his pocket. Touches the rock. Doesn't pull it out. Just: feels the weight.
Keeps practicing.
Footsteps.
Different rhythm. Lighter than Tam's. More deliberate.
Del stops practicing. Hides the stones.
Opens his eye.
Lira.
She approaches slowly. Checking behind her. Making sure no one's watching.
Stops a few feet away. Her fingers wrapped around that small metal piece. Thumb rubbing. Constant nervous motion.
She's wearing the same layered clothes. Multiple torn shirts. Pants too big. Boots stuffed with cloth. Her hair is pulled back. Tied with a strip of fabric.
Her face is thin. Cheekbones sharp. Eyes shadowed. But those brown eyes—gold in certain light—are alert. Missing nothing.
She crouches. Doesn't speak immediately. Just: looks at Del. Cataloging his condition.
"You look worse," she says finally.
"Feel worse too."
She doesn't smile. Just studies him. Her thumb moving faster on the metal piece.
"Can you stand?"
"Haven't tried today."
"Try now."
Del considers arguing. Doesn't. She has a reason.
He shifts. Gets his left arm under him. His working knee. Pushes.
The broken rib shifts immediately. Pain explodes. White. Blinding.
He gasps. Stops. Breathes. Tries again.
Gets halfway up. His knee buckles. The damaged one. Won't hold weight.
Falls.
Lira catches him. Her hands under his arms. Strong. Stronger than she looks.
She helps him the rest of the way. Gets him standing. Leaning against the wall.
Del's vision is gray. Black spots. He focuses. Breathes. Shallow.
The spots recede.
He's standing. Barely. All his weight on his left leg. His right knee bent. Not touching ground.
"How long?" she asks.
Del doesn't answer. Just stands. His left leg shaking.
One minute. The trembling gets worse.
Two minutes. His knee starts to give.
Three minutes. He's about to collapse.
"Sit," Lira says.
He does. Slides down the wall. His ribs screaming.
Lands sitting. Breathing hard.
"Three minutes," she says. "Not enough."
"How long do I need?"
"Don't know. Depends." She sits next to him. Not touching. Just: close.
Silence for a moment.
"Tomorrow," she says quietly. "Vence will choose which containers you purify."
Del nods.
"You can't control which ones he picks."
"No."
"So what do you do?"
Del looks at her. Doesn't answer.
She's quiet. Her fingers still moving on the metal piece.
"Crowds are loud," she says. Not to Del. Just: thinking out loud. "Desperate. If someone gets them shouting—demanding specific containers—Vence might listen. Or might not. Hard to control."
She pauses.
"Dangerous too. Crowds don't always do what you want. Turn on you fast."
Del watches her. "You're thinking about riling them up."
She doesn't confirm. Just: keeps rubbing the metal piece.
"Would have to be careful," she continues. "Can't be obvious. Can't look like I'm helping you. Just... one voice in the crowd. Getting others shouting. Pointing at containers that look good. Avoiding ones that look bad."
"Risky."
"Yes."
"What if they turn on you?"
"Then I'm dead." She says it flatly. Matter-of-fact. "But I'm probably dead anyway. Garrett's planning something. I can feel it. So might as well die doing something instead of waiting."
She looks at him. "You need help tomorrow. I can give it. But it's not guaranteed. Crowds are unpredictable."
Del thinks about this. About her standing in a crowd of fifty desperate people. Shouting. Drawing attention. Hoping they follow instead of attacking.
About what happens if it goes wrong.
"Don't do it if you're not sure," Del says.
She almost laughs. Doesn't quite. "Nothing's sure. You know that."
She stands. "I'll be there. I'll do what I can. But you need backups. Other plans. In case it doesn't work."
She starts to leave.
Stops. Looks back.
"The containers. Some of them are worse than others. Diluted. Contaminated. Right?"
Del doesn't answer.
"If those ones get used in your service," she continues. "People will drink them. Get sick. Some will die."
Del meets her eyes. "Probably."
She holds his gaze.
Long moment.
"My daughter gave me this," she says. Holding up the metal piece. "Her name was Mara. Eight years old."
She looks at it. "I don't know if she's alive. Don't know where she is."
Her thumb moves across the metal. Worn smooth from years of carrying.
"But I remember her. And I remember who I was when I had her."
She closes her hand around it. "That person wouldn't do what we're doing. Wouldn't put people at risk like this."
Silence.
"But that person is dead," Lira says. "And tomorrow you perform. And I'll help. Because we're all using each other."
She looks at him. "Just... know what you're doing. Know who's going to pay for it."
She leaves.
Del sits there alone. His hand finds the rock in his pocket. Traces the marks without pulling it out.
Eight grooves. Eight cracks in the stone.
His thumb stays on the eighth one.
He doesn't think about who it represents. Doesn't let himself finish that thought.
Just: feels the rough surface. The weight.
Puts his hand back down.
Keeps practicing.
Has to be ready.
---
Evening.
The light is fading. Gray turning to black. Temperature dropping.
Del has been practicing for hours. His hands are raw. Fingers bleeding from scraping against rough stones.
But the transfers are smoother. More consistent.
The numb fingers still don't feel anything. But the muscle memory is compensating.
He's also been thinking about positions.
If the containers are in a line, which positions get picked?
Middle. Almost always middle.
Three from the left. Four from the left. Five from the left.
Rarely first. Rarely last. People avoid extremes.
If he could arrange them—put pure ones in the middle positions, impure ones at the edges—the odds improve.
But he can't arrange them. Vence controls that.
Unless.
During the performance. When he's doing the ritual. If he needs to move containers—"balance" them, position them "correctly" for the process—he could rearrange. Make it look like ritual requirement.
Pick up containers. Set them down in different spots. Mix the order.
Swap impure for pure if needed.
Would have to be smooth. Natural. Part of the ceremony.
Would have to practice the movements. The choreography.
He starts working it out. Picking up stones. Moving them. Setting them down in different arrangements.
Left hand picks up. Right hand sets down. Switch. Repeat.
The motions feel wrong at first. Awkward. But after an hour they start to flow.
He's building the ritual. Not just theater. Functional deception with aesthetic cover.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Multiple people.
Del stops. Hides the stones.
Opens his eye.
Vence.
With three others. Guards. All carrying torches. The light is harsh. Orange. Flickering.
Vence stops in front of Del. Looks down. His face half-shadow. Half-light. The missing ear creates weird shadows.
"Tomorrow morning," Vence says. "Junction. Dawn. Everyone will be there."
Del nods.
"You'll perform the purification. Show everyone the ritual works."
"I know."
"Good." Vence crouches. His breath is horrible. Rot. Infection. Something dying inside.
"If this works, you start your service. Two rations a day."
"And if it doesn't?"
Vence's smile is wrong. Lopsided because of the missing ear. "Then I kill you. Right there. Everyone watching."
He stands. "Get some sleep."
Walks away. The guards follow. The torchlight fades.
Del sits in darkness.