"What happens to me?" Lira asks finally. Voice quiet. "When service ends. When people realize some are dying from your water. What happens to me?"
Del's thumb on the ninth mark. Pressing.
"You leave," he says. "Before it breaks. Before they connect you to it. Take what you can carry. Go to different section. Southern maybe. Eastern. Somewhere they won't look."
"Before it breaks," Lira repeats. "How will I know when?"
"When the deaths start showing. When people come back angry instead of grateful. When the pattern becomes obvious."
"How long?"
"Two days. Three maybe. After tomorrow's batch, some get better. Some don't. The ones who don't—their families will come back. Loud. Angry. Looking for someone to blame."
"And you'll be gone by then."
"Yes."
"How?"
Del considers. Thinking through the actual mechanics. Not just: vague escape plan. Actual steps.
"The map is almost complete," he says. "Five major sections identified. Details on each. That's worth something to the right buyer. Enough to get noticed."
He pauses.
"Overseers like Kael—they're always looking for workers who can identify valuable sites. Workers who survive artifact-touch. If I can show I have both—the map and the compatibility—that's worth more than just: another salvage worker."
"So you sell the map to Kael?"
"Maybe. Or to whoever runs procurement. The people above the overseers. The ones who decide which sites get crews. Who buy workers. They'd pay for knowing where copper-wire is. Where active artifacts hide. Where not to waste crews sending them to die."
He pauses.
"I give them the map. They give me—" He stops. Thinking. "Not freedom. But: transfer. Different work. Different location. Out of Dregs."
Lira's expression shifts. Understanding more fully now. "You're not escaping. You're climbing."
"Same thing."
"No it's not. Escaping means free. Climbing means—you're still property. Just: valuable property somewhere else."
"Valuable property gets treated better than worthless property. Gets opportunities worthless property doesn't. Gets to keep climbing."
Silence.
Then Lira asks the question she already asked. But different now. More specific.
"What if I came with you? When you—when you make the trade. The map for transfer. What if I was part of the deal?"
Del looks at her.
Really looks this time.
Her face is thin. Everyone's thin here. But hers is—he notices the specific shape of it. The way her cheekbones catch what little light remains. The angle of her jaw. The way that piece of hair falls and she doesn't push it back because maybe she likes it there. Or maybe she's too tired to care. Or maybe—
Her eyes are watching him. Waiting for answer.
Those brown eyes that look almost gold in certain light but look darker now. Almost black in the fading evening. But still—something in them catches. Holds.
He notices the way she's sitting. Leaning slightly forward. Not aggressive. Just: attentive. Waiting.
Her hand is still in her pocket. Still touching the metal piece. But the motion has slowed. Less frantic. More—deliberate. Like she's grounding herself. Preparing for whatever he says.
She's—
Del looks away.
"No," he says.
The word simple. Final.
Lira doesn't move. Just: waits.
"Why?" she asks. Voice level. Not hurt. Just: asking.
Del's thumb presses harder on the ninth mark. The sharp edge cutting into his skin through the fabric.
"Because you'd be leverage," he says. "Something they could use against me. Or something I'd have to protect. Either way: weakness."
Pause.
"Because I don't know if the trade will work. Don't know if Kael or whoever runs procurement will buy the map. Don't know if they'll transfer me or just: take the information and keep me here anyway. It's risk. Adding you makes it—" He searches for the word. "Unpredictable."
Another pause.
"Because if it fails—if they don't buy it or if the transfer doesn't happen—then we're both stuck. Both marked. Both hunted when the service collapses. Two targets instead of one."
He stops. Considers whether to say the rest.
Does.
"And because you slow me down. Not physically. But—" He struggles with it. "Emotionally. I notice things about you. Think about things. Whether you're safe. Whether Garrett will hurt you. Whether—"
Stops. Can't finish.
Lira is very still. Listening.
"That's dangerous," Del says finally. "Noticing. Caring whether someone else survives. It makes you hesitate. Makes you calculate differently. Makes you—"
He stops again.
"Human," Lira finishes quietly.
"Weak," Del says.
Silence.
Lira's hand comes out of her pocket. The metal piece in her palm. She looks at it. The worn surface. The faint engraving almost invisible now.
"You saved the woman's daughter," Lira says. Not arguing. Just: observing. "Even though you didn't have to. Even though weaker mixing would've saved more of your clean water for other customers. You gave her six parts clean to four parts poison. That's—that's more than practical. That's—"
She stops.
"That's caring whether a six-year-old lives or dies."
Del doesn't respond.
"You're not as calculating as you pretend," Lira says. "You want to be. You're trying to be. But you're not. Not completely."
"Close enough," Del says.
"Is it?"
He doesn't answer.
Lira stands. Slow. Her hand closing around the metal piece. Putting it away. Safe.
"I should go," she says. "Before Garrett notices I've been here too long."
She turns to leave.
Stops.
Doesn't look back. Just: speaks.
"The woman's daughter lived because you mixed it strong enough," she says. "You could've gone weak. Saved more clean water for other customers. Built a bigger map. But you didn't."
Pause.
"That counts. Even if you don't want it to."
She leaves. Walking into the darkness. Her shape disappearing. The sound of her footsteps fading until: nothing.
Del sits there. Alone.
His hand on the rock. Nine marks.
His thumb on the ninth. Pressing hard enough it hurts.
The woman's daughter lived.
The glow-water customer dies probably.
Three others maybe die from weak mixing.
The numbers are the numbers.
But—
He thinks about the moment he diluted the woman's water. The choice. Six parts clean to four parts poison. Not five-five. Not seven-three to save more clean water for later customers.
Six-four.
Why that ratio?
Because it gave her daughter the best chance. Not guaranteed. But: best chance within his margins.
He could've gone weaker. Five-five. Saved more clean water. Built better map.
Chose not to.
Why?
Doesn't know.
Can't know.
Maybe Lira's right. Maybe he's not as calculating as he wants to be.
Or maybe the calculation included something he's not admitting. Some variable he's not naming.
His thumb on the ninth mark.
The woman's daughter lived.
That counts.
Even if he doesn't want it to.
He lies down. The rib grinding. The rot spreading. Vision failing.
Tomorrow nine people drink.
Tomorrow some live. Some die.
Tomorrow he climbs.
Or tries.
Tomorrow.
But tonight—
Tonight he sits in the dark thinking about Lira's eyes catching light. About her hair falling forward. About the way she moves her thumb across that metal piece like prayer.
About whether trying not to feel is the same as not feeling.
---
Morning. Day thirty-nine.
Light comes gray and cold. The settlement waking around Del—coughing, pissing, someone crying quiet in the distance.
Salvage crews gathering. He can hear them. Eastern edge of Silt Quarters. Overseer Kael's voice carrying over the morning sounds.
"—section four, copper retrieval, need six bodies—"
"—collapsed residential, check for sealed chambers—"
"—artifact glow reported in deep sectors, two-person reconnaissance—"
The usual morning rhythm. Assignments called. Workers shuffling into position. Some eager—new workers who haven't learned yet. Some resigned—veterans who know what they're doing but need the rations. Some just: bodies. Moving because stopping means dying slower.
The world continuing. Whether Del notices or not.
He sits in his corner. The nine containers already gone. Customers came throughout early morning. One by one. Taking their water. Some grateful. Some suspicious. Some desperate enough they didn't care which.
Now: they're drinking. Somewhere in the Silt Quarters. The ratios he calculated.
Today the outcomes show.
His body worse than yesterday. The rib grinding with each breath—that wet sound, bone against something soft and wrong. Blood in his lung. More than yesterday. Each breath harder. Shallower. Like breathing through cloth that's getting thicker.
The cut on his palm isn't healing. Can't heal. Just: open wound. Red lines running past his elbow now. Up his bicep. Toward his shoulder. The rot spreading. His whole arm hot. Swollen. The hand barely closing anymore.
Vision blurring worse. The working eye—right one—keeps losing focus. Gray spots blooming. Black spots. Everything swimming then clearing then swimming again.
Days left. Maybe less.
Has to last long enough.
In the distance: sounds of crews departing. Boots on stone. Bodies moving through ruins. The scrape of equipment being distributed. Someone laughing—nervous, high, wrong. First-day worker probably. Won't be laughing when they return.
If they return.
The Dregs grinding on.
Del waits.
---
Mid-morning. Sun higher but light still gray. Filtered through the ruins above. Weak.
Voices. Loud. Public.
Del opens his eye.
Movement at the center of Silt Quarters. The open area where people gather. Bodies collecting. Twenty. Thirty. Growing.
The way people gather when something's happening. When there's violence or spectacle or both.
He can't see clearly from his corner. Just: shapes. Movement. The crowd forming like water finding a depression.
But he can hear.
A man's voice. Loud. Deliberately loud. Carrying across the settlement. Performing.
"—think I don't notice? Think you can sit with artifact-touchers, help them, spend time in corners talking quiet, and I don't SEE? Don't KNOW?"
Garrett.
Del knows the voice. The particular roughness of it. Damaged throat making every word sound like grinding stone. Like something breaking slow.
Another voice. Quieter. Female. Trying to stay calm. Trying to sound reasonable even though she knows it won't work.
"I wasn't—it's not—I was just—"
Lira.
Del's hand goes still on the rock.
The crowd getting louder. Bodies shifting. Making space. Creating circle. The sound of it—shuffling feet, breathing, excited murmuring. Like animals gathering around a kill.
He should stay here. Should wait. This isn't his concern. Lira isn't his. Getting involved makes enemies. Creates complications. Adds risk to everything.
The smart calculation: sit here. Wait. Let it happen. Watch or don't watch but either way: don't move.
His body stands anyway.
His leg protesting. The knee barely functional. Vision swimming. Doesn't matter.
Walks toward the crowd. Slow. Each step negotiated with his body. The rib grinding. The leg threatening to give out. The world tilting wrong then righting then tilting again.
People notice him approaching. Bodies turning. Recognizing.
"—the cleaner—"
"—artifact-touched one—"
"—heard his water works—"
"—heard it doesn't—"
They part. Making space. Not out of respect. Out of: uncertainty. He's something different now. Not salvage worker. Not quite. Something else. Something they don't have words for yet. Something that might be dangerous or valuable or both.
Gets to the inner circle.
His legs give out. He crawls.
Sees:
Garrett in the center. Tall. Broad. That drooping eyelid making his face asymmetric. Wrong. Like looking at a reflection in disturbed water. His hand gripping Lira's upper arm—fingers digging in deep, knuckles white with the pressure, the crushed thumbnail visible dark against her skin like a bruise that never healed.
Lira next to him. Not trying to pull away. Not fighting. Just: standing there. Face blank. Eyes down. Shoulders hunched forward. Making herself smaller. Making herself less. The way animals make themselves small when predators are near.
Her left cheek bruised. Fresh. Purple spreading to black at the edges. The kind that happened this morning. Recent enough the swelling is still rising.
Her lip split. Blood dried at the corner of her mouth in a dark line. More blood on her chin where she tried to wipe it and failed.
The metal piece visible in her other hand. Gripped tight. That piece from her daughter. From Mara. Eight years old three years ago. Eleven now if she's alive. Probably not alive.
Garrett sees Del. His expression shifts. Something calculating enters. Like he was waiting for this. Like Del appearing is exactly what he wanted. Like this whole thing was designed to make Del appear.
"Look," Garrett says. Voice loud. For the crowd. For performance. For whatever he's building here. "The cleaner himself. Disabled and came to watch? Came to see what happens when property forgets its place?"
The crowd murmuring. Bodies shifting closer. Some excited—violence is entertainment when you have nothing else. Some uncomfortable—this feels wrong somehow even if they can't say why. All watching. All hungry for whatever happens next.
Del doesn't respond. Just: looks at Lira.
Her eyes flick to him. Brief. Then away. Like she's afraid looking will make things worse. Like eye contact is permission. Like acknowledging him will justify whatever Garrett's about to do.
Garrett's grip tightens. His fingers digging deeper. Lira flinches. Small movement. Almost invisible. Just: her whole body tensing for a moment then forcing itself still.
Del sees it.
"You got something to say cripple?" Garrett asks. Still performing. Still loud. Voice carrying to the edges of the crowd. "About my woman? About what I do with what's mine? What I PAID for?"
The crowd quiet now. Waiting. Watching both men. Calculating who to bet on. Who to follow. Who survives this.
Del could crawl away. Should crawl away. The smart move is: turn around. Leave. Let Garrett do what he wants with what he bought. That's the system. That's how it works. Getting involved changes nothing except making Del a target too.
His mouth opens.
"Let her go."
Voice quiet. Rough. Barely carrying past the first row of watchers.
But the crowd hears.
Goes silent.