Evening. Day thirty-seven. Light fading from gray to darker gray to something approaching black.
Footsteps. Light. Careful. Not hiding but not advertising.
Del opens his eye.
Lira.
She's holding something. Small. Catching what little light remains. Metal.
The piece. Her daughter's.
She found it.
Stops next to Del's corner. Doesn't sit immediately. Just: stands there. Looking at the piece.
Her fingers moving. That constant rubbing motion. Thumb across surface. Automatic. Body doing it without thought.
The metal worn smooth. Years of that motion. Edges soft. Whatever pattern it had once—almost gone now. Just: faint lines. Ghosts.
Del watches her.
She's thin like everyone. But different thin. Not skeleton. More like: eroded. Worn down piece by piece until this is what's left.
Her hair catches the fading light—dark, almost black in this dimness, but he's seen it in better light before, knows there's brown underneath, that particular shade that looks almost red when sun hits it right. Cut short. Practical. Rough, like she did it herself with dull blade. But the way it frames her face, even ragged like this—
Del looks away.
Focuses on the containers.
Lira sits finally. Slow. That tired that goes deeper than just body.
Her fingers close around the piece. Tight. Like if she loosens grip it'll disappear. Prove it was never real.
"Found it," she says.
Voice quiet. Not looking at Del. Looking at the piece.
"Took me two days searching. Everywhere I'd been standing when Garrett—" She stops. Can't say it. "Everywhere. Every shadow. Every gap. Nothing first day. Nothing yesterday. This morning—under collapsed wall section. Dirt caked so thick I almost missed it. Just my hand brushed something and I knew. Before I looked. Knew what it was."
She opens her hand. Looking at it in fading light.
Small. Worn. Nothing valuable. Just: metal. Wrong shape for trade, too soft for weapon, too small for anything useful.
But her hand shaking. Slightly. The piece trembling.
Del's eye catches on her hands. Rough. Scarred. Years of salvage work. Cut marks across palms, burn marks on fingers, hard spots built up in wrong places. But the way her fingers move—delicate still, precise, like they remember being able to do more than just: survive.
"Mara gave me this," Lira says. Voice quieter. Almost whisper.
Del stays silent. Listening.
She doesn't talk like him. Words flow different. Faster sometimes. Trailing other times. Following thought instead of calculation.
"Day before they sold me. Three years now. I was working salvage in eastern sectors—the collapsed buildings? All that copper?"
She glances at Del. He nods slightly.
"Mara was supposed to stay at shelter. The place where they keep children while parents work. Supposed to be safe. Supervised. But she—" Lira's voice catches. "She followed me. Eight years old and she followed me into ruins because she wanted to help. Wanted to make sure I came back."
Her fingers close around the piece. Tight.
"I was trying to get copper wire loose. Artifact-enhanced. Valuable. Had to be careful because if you break it wrong it activates. Burns you. Kills you sometimes. I was concentrating. Being so careful. And then she just—appeared behind me. Said my name."
Lira's breathing changes. Faster.
"I startled. Dropped tools. Whole section shifted. Rubble started sliding. Both of us almost—if I hadn't grabbed her—"
She stops. Can't finish.
"I yelled at her. Told her go back to shelter. Told her she was going to get hurt. That I couldn't focus with her there. That she was—" Lira's voice very quiet. "That she was making everything harder. That she was useless there."
Silence.
Del watches her face. The way her jaw tightens. Looking at the piece like it's the only thing keeping her together.
"She cried. Didn't say anything back. Didn't argue. Just stood there crying. And then—" Lira opens her hand. "Then she found this. In rubble near where I'd been working. Brought it to me. Hands still shaking from crying but she held it out and said it looked valuable. Said maybe I could trade it for food. Said she was sorry for making things hard but she wanted to help."
Her thumb moving across surface.
Those brown eyes wet now. Not crying. Just: brimming.
Del notices—even wet like this, even exhausted and three years past last seeing her daughter, there's something in her face that catches. The way her eyes hold light even in dimness. The shape of her mouth. The angle of her jaw.
"I took it. Looked at it. Could tell immediately it wasn't valuable. Wrong metal. Wrong shape. Nobody trades for this. But I put it in my pocket anyway. Told her it was perfect. That she was smart for finding it. That she—" Lira's voice breaking. "That she was helpful. That I was sorry for yelling."
Pause.
"That was last time I saw her. They sold me the next morning. Procurement came. Kael himself. Had guards. I tried to fight. Tried to run. Kael didn't even blink. Just nodded and guards hit me until I stopped. Dragged me to merchant district. Sold me to Vos for eight rations like I was salvage."
Her hand closes around piece. Knuckles white.
"I don't know what happened to Mara after. Don't know if anyone took her to shelter. Don't know if she's—" Stops. Can't say it. "Eight years old. In Dregs. Alone. She probably didn't—couldn't—"
Silence stretches.
Del's hand in his pocket. The rock. Nine marks. Thumb on the eighth.
The child. Killing his father. Following him. Dying in collapse.
He didn't know their name. Never asked. Never spoke. Just: let them follow until they didn't.
Lira had name for hers. Mara. Eight years old. Smart enough to find things. Brave enough to follow into danger. Dead probably.
Same age. Same ending.
"Why tell me this?" Del asks finally.
Lira looks at him. Those brown eyes finding his one working eye.
Her face thin. Cheekbones sharp. But even worn down like this, even exhausted and dirty and years past—something in her face catches light in ways that make him notice.
She's—
He looks away.
"Don't know," Lira says. "Maybe because you're the only one who hasn't looked at me with pity since—since everyone saw with Garrett. You just look at me like I exist. Not broken. Not his. Just: here."
She looks back at the piece.
"Or maybe I needed to say it out loud. Remember I had someone once. Someone who mattered. Before this."
Del's thumb still on eighth mark.
"You're building something," Lira says. Changing subject. Voice harder. Controlled. "Saw three more people leave containers. That's four total now. The woman yesterday and three more."
"Yes."
"Word spreads fast. Someone has clean water, everyone wants it. You'll have more tomorrow."
"Probably."
"How many before you run out?"
Del calculates. Three containers reserve. Each customer needs clean water mixed in. Average six-seven parts clean to three-four parts poison.
"Eight more," he says. "Maybe ten if I go weak on the mix. Accept some people die from not enough clean."
Lira's eyes narrow. Understanding. "You're trading your clean water for their poison-water plus rations."
"Yes."
"Eventually no clean water left. Just poison-water and rations."
"Yes."
"Then what? Service ends. Everyone who paid comes back angry. Or sick. Or with dead family."
Del meets her eyes. "By then I'll have enough."
"Enough what?"
"Information."
Lira's expression shifts. Confusion. Then understanding starting. "What kind?"
"Where things are. What's valuable. What's not."
She looks at containers. At him. Back to containers.
"The poison-water," she says slow. "You're not just cleaning it. You're examining it."
"Yes."
"What does poison-water tell you?"
Del considers. Could deflect. Could lie. Could say nothing.
Doesn't.
"Where it came from. What's in the ground there. If there's artifacts nearby. Old systems. Things worth finding."
Lira stares. "You're mapping Dregs."
"Yes."
"Through poison?"
"Through asking where they got it and examining what's in it. Copper-smell means old buildings with wire. Crystal-dust means active artifacts. Clay-dirt means nothing valuable. Each type tells me something."
She looks at containers again. Understanding fully. "You're not selling cleaning. You're buying information. Rations are just—they're paying you to take something you want."
"Yes."
"And the people who pay? They're just—what? Sources?"
Del doesn't answer.
Lira's jaw tightens. Fingers moving on metal piece. Fast. Agitated.
"That's—" She searches for words. "That's colder than I thought."
"It's practical."
"It's using people."
"Everyone uses everyone."
Lira doesn't respond. Just: looks at him. Eyes reading. Trying to see past the broken body, the ruined face, the calculated cold.
"My name is Lira," she says finally.
Like introducing herself first time even though Del's heard it before. Heard Garrett use it. Heard others mention "Garrett's woman Lira" when they thought no one listening.
She waits. Pause deliberate. Giving him space. Making it ritual.
"Del," he says.
She nods. Like hearing it first time even though she's not. People been calling him that since performance. Since Vence announced service. Since name stuck.
But this is different. Them using names. Directly. Making it official between them instead of just: what others call them.
"Short for Deliverance?" Lira asks.
"Apparently."
"False deliverance more like."
Accurate.
"Is there any other kind?"
She almost smiles. Doesn't quite. Just: slight shift at corner of mouth. Ghost of something that might have been amusement different life.
Del smiles at her almost-smile.
"I helped you," she says. "During performance. Tried manipulating crowd. Garrett stopped me. Exposed me. Now everyone knows I was involved."
"I know."
"If service fails. If people die from your water. They'll blame you. And me for helping."
"Yes."
"You going to protect me? If that happens?"
Del looks at her. At metal piece in hand. At her face. At eyes catching last dying light.
At way her hair falls. Shape of her mouth. The—
"No," he says.
Lira doesn't look surprised. Just: nods. "Honest at least."
She stands. Slow. Hand closing around piece one more time before putting it away. In pocket. Safe.
"Most people would've lied," she says. "Said yes. Made me feel safer. False hope."
"Would lying make you actually safer?"
"No."
"Then why would I?"
She looks at him long moment. "Because most people prefer comfortable lies over uncomfortable truth."
Turns to leave. Stops. Looks back.
"Thank you. For not lying. It's—" Pauses. "Nice to know where I stand. Even if where I stand is fucked."