Questions answered, rewriting now:
Afternoon. Same day. The light barely different from morning—gray to slightly-less-gray.
Footsteps. Multiple. Three distinct rhythms.
Del opens his eye.
Three people approaching. Two men, one woman. Moving together but with space between them. Not comfortable. But numbers mean safety.
All thin—not skeleton-thin like deep Dregs, but working-thin. The kind that comes from never quite enough but still upright. Still functional.
Clothes worn but maintained. Patched. Not falling apart yet.
They stop at the invisible line. The boundary everyone keeps.
The first man speaks. Older—maybe forty, face weathered like stone left in water, all the soft parts worn away. Voice careful. Each word measured.
"Heard you clean water. Two rations per container. True?"
Del nods. Can't speak yet. Throat too dry. Takes a breath, works moisture into his mouth. "Yes."
"We have containers," the man continues. Holds his up. Sealed. Old plastic worn smooth. "Poison-water. Making us sick. Not—not killing us yet. But sick. Always. Can you fix it?"
The question trailing off. Uncertain. Like he's not sure this is even possible but he's here anyway because what else?
Del nods.
"How long?" the woman asks.
Younger. Maybe thirty. Voice different—sharper, faster, words clipped. Eyes narrow. Watching for the trick. For the lie.
"Tomorrow evening," Del says.
"Tomorrow?" The second man. Younger still. Maybe twenty-five. Face scarred—old burns down the left side, artifact-touch probably. Voice has edge. Impatient. "Why not now? Why wait?"
"Takes time," Del says. "The ritual. The blood. Has to sit."
Truth and lie mixed. Dilution is instant. But the mystery needs time. Waiting. The look of process.
They exchange glances. Reading each other.
"You're sure it works?" the scarred man asks. Leaning forward. Testing. "The cleaning? Absolutely sure?"
Del doesn't answer.
They wait. Wanting promises. Guarantees. Him to sell them on it.
Getting nothing.
The silence stretches. Uncomfortable. Pressing down.
The older man shifts. Boot scraping stone. The woman's eyes narrow more. The scarred man's jaw tightens.
Finally the older man breaks. Sets his container down. Near Del. Not too close. Just: reachable.
But before he straightens: "Where'd you get your water? Which section?"
The man blinks. Surprised by the question. "The—the eastern sectors. Near the collapsed tower. The big one. Copper showing through the walls."
Del nods. "Two rations. Tomorrow evening."
The scarred man goes next. Sets his container down.
Del: "Where's yours from?"
"North," the scarred man says. "The residential sections. Where the old towers fell."
Del nods.
The woman steps forward. But instead of a normal container—
She's holding something massive. A sealed vessel meant for storage, not carrying. The size of a small barrel. Maybe fifteen, twenty times the volume of what the men brought. Heavy enough her arms shake slightly holding it.
Sets it down with a thud. Stone scraping. The weight of it visible.
"Western edge," she says. Voice sharp. Challenging. "Near where the old research buildings were. Before they collapsed."
Pause. Waiting for reaction.
"Two rations," she adds. Like confirming the deal.
Silence.
Del stares at it. At her. At the massive container.
Movement in his peripheral vision. Bodies drifting closer. Five people. Eight. Ten maybe. Forming loose semi-circle. Watching. Curious. Entertained.
Someone among them—
The one-armed man. Standing at the back. That asymmetric stance. His face visible in the gray light.
Smiling. Wide. That gap where his tooth is missing visible. Purple gum. His remaining hand resting against his side. Relaxed. Amused.
Waiting to see what happens.
Del looks back at the woman. At the massive container.
His broken rib grinding with each breath. His vision blurring at the edges. Blood taste constant in his mouth. The rot spreading through his arm, across his chest, reaching his heart. Hours left. Maybe less.
And she's here. Testing him. Gaming the system. Bringing something five times too big. Ten times. Expecting what—same price? Thinking he won't notice? Won't care?
Bitch.
His mouth opens.
"Fuck you."
Voice hoarse. Rough. Barely there. But clear enough.
The words hang in the air.
The crowd makes a sound. Collective. Half-breath. Half-laugh. Bodies shifting. Energy changing.
The woman's face doesn't change. Just: looks at him. Waiting.
The older man steps forward. Hands raised. Placating. "We're joking. Just—testing the limits. Seeing what counts. No harm meant."
His voice reasonable. Diplomatic.
But his eyes flick to the massive container. Then to a different one the woman pulls from a bag at her side.
Still big.
Maybe twice the volume of the men's.
Still bigger than standard. Still gaming him.
I didn't specify. I shouldn't let my reputation drag through the mud. Fuck her.
She sets it down next to the massive one. Starts pouring from barrel to the mid-sized container. The water sloshing. Dark. Wrong-smelling even from distance.
The crowd watching. Some smirking. Some curious. The one-armed man's smile wider now. His remaining hand moving—fingers drumming against his thigh. That nervous energy. Delighted energy.
The woman finishes pouring. The mid-sized container full. Maybe three times what the men brought. Maybe four.
Seals it. Slides it toward Del. Leaves the massive barrel.
"This one," she says. "Western edge water. Two rations."
Her voice still sharp. Still challenging. But careful now. Watching for his reaction.
Del looks at the mid-sized container. At her. At the crowd.
They're all waiting. Watching how he handles this. Whether the beating three days ago broke him completely or just mostly.
His hand finds his pocket. The rock inside. Nine marks.
Should refuse. Should tell her to bring standard container. Establish limits. Show strength.
It doesn't matter. Either way, I win.
He's dying. Hours left. The map is almost complete. Just needs her location. Her water composition. Then: done.
And she's already here. Container already filled. Crowd already watching.
Fighting over size means nothing. Changes nothing. Just: makes him look weak for caring. For being petty when he's half-dead and everyone knows it.
He smiles. Her eyes shift into something like confusion, then face contorts to pride. The crowd looks at her. Then him.
He nods. Once. Takes the container.
The crowd makes another sound. Snickering. Quiet but there. Bodies shifting. Some disappointed—wanted more confrontation. Some satisfied.
The one-armed man's smile stays. But something in his eyes shifts. Del backed down.
She pays her two rations. Sets them down. Steps back.
Del: "Where'd you get it? Which section exactly?"
Same question as the others. Keeping pattern.
They can mock me. But I will leave. They will stay.
"Western edge," she repeats. "Near the old research buildings. The collapsed ones with the strange lights at night."
Del nods. Files it away.
They leave. Walking together, talking quiet. The woman saying something sharp, the older man responding calm, the scarred man silent. All three glancing back once.
The crowd disperses slowly. Some lingering. Watching. The one-armed man stays longest. That smile. Then turns. Walks away. That asymmetric gait. Scrape-step. Scrape-step.
Gone.
Del sits there. Looking at three containers.
One normal. One normal. One three times too large.
Three pieces of the map regardless.
Eastern sectors—collapsed tower, copper. North—residential, fallen towers. Western edge—old research buildings, strange lights.
He picks up the first container. The older man's. Eastern sectors.
Opens it. Seal breaking—pop and hiss.
Sniffs carefully. Eye closed. Focusing.
Rot-sick water. Not terrible. Not death-water. Just: bad. The kind that makes you weak, makes your gut hurt, makes you shit blood sometimes but doesn't kill you fast.
But underneath—
Metal-smell. Copper specifically. Faint but there. The particular smell of old copper corroding. Mixing with water. Making it taste wrong.
Eastern sectors. Copper. The collapsed tower the man mentioned.
This tells him: old-world buildings there still have copper inside. Wiring maybe. Pipes. Artifact-enhanced systems from before.
Copper means artifacts. Artifact infrastructure. Potentially valuable if you can get to it without the building killing you.
Worth knowing.
He dilutes it. Seven parts clean, three parts poison. Better ratio. This one should help.
Opens the second container. The scarred man's. North.
Sniffs.
Mild. Fresh poison. Recent. Not old. Not sitting.
Just: dirty water. Surface poison. Rain maybe, running through collapsed buildings, picking up dirt and rot but not breeding.
No metal-smell. No artifact-dust. Just: organic rot.
North. Residential. Fallen towers.
This tells him: nothing valuable there. Just collapsed homes. People used to live there. Now just: ruins. Water flows through, gets dirty, but no deeper poison. No artifacts worth finding.
Not worth going.
He dilutes it. Eight parts clean, two parts poison. This one should definitely help.
Opens the woman's container. The oversized one. Western edge.
The smell hits immediately.
Death-water. Heavy. Wrong. The kind that's been sitting dark and warm. Breeding itself concentrated. Growing things that shouldn't grow.
But the dirt in it—
Del looks carefully. Dark. Almost black. Not clay. Something else. Ground from deeper maybe.
And particles. Tiny. Hard to see but there. Catching light wrong. Crystalline. Sharp-edged. Like glass dust. Like something that cuts on the way down.
Artifact-dust. The dangerous kind.
Active.
Still working after all this time. Still poisoning everything around it. Still killing slowly. Cellular level. The kind that doesn't just make you sick. Makes you wrong. Makes your insides stop working right. Makes you die screaming or silent or both.
Western edge. Research buildings. Strange lights. Crystalline artifacts.
This tells him: active artifact site. Very active. Very dangerous. The research buildings from before—places that tried pushing artifact-integration too far. Failed catastrophically. Left contamination that never stops.
Very valuable if you can get to it without dying immediately.
She had it coming for her. Good.
His anger placates slightly - anyone drinking this regularly is already dead. Just doesn't know it yet.
The woman brought three times too much. Tried gaming him.
And her water is death. Concentrated. Active artifact poison. The kind dilution helps but doesn't fix. The kind that needs ten parts clean to one part poison to maybe work. To maybe give someone a chance.
He has three containers of clean water remaining. Using ten parts on her means nothing left for other customers. Means service ends here. Means map incomplete.
Using one part clean to nine parts poison means her water barely changes. Means whoever drinks it—probably her, probably her family—dies anyway. Maybe faster than before because false hope makes them drink more.
But service continues. Map completes. More people get helped with remaining clean water. Three more customers at decent ratios instead of one at good ratio.
Good. Good.
He dilutes it. One part clean. Nine parts poison. The absolute minimum. Barely enough to change the color. Barely enough to count as mixing.
Not enough. Not even close.
But she brought too much. And the water's already death. And he's dying anyway. And the map matters more than one person who tried cheating him.
He smiles to himself.
Adds blood. Ten drops. Fifteen. The cut reopening. Blood flowing steady now. Constant. A thing that happens.
Water turns rust-colored. Slightly. Barely. The crystalline particles still visible if you look close. Still catching light wrong. Still wrong.
Seals it.
Three containers examined. Three pieces added.
Eastern sectors: copper, artifacts, infrastructure. North residential: nothing, just ruins. Western edge: crystalline artifacts, active, dangerous, valuable, death-water.
His reserve supply: three containers left. Down from four.
Each customer costs clean water. Each time he dilutes, the margin shrinks.
Maybe six more customers. Eight if he's willing to go weak on the ratios. Accept that some die from not enough clean water mixed in.
Then: nothing.
Then the service ends.
But by then he'll have enough. Enough pieces of the map. Enough understanding of where things are. Information merchants pay for. Vos pays for. Anyone wanting to find artifacts pays for.
Sets the three containers aside.