Humans didn't venture into the scrapyard.
Too toxic. Too dangerous. Too far beneath their station.
And yet, movement.
I'd been observing her for three days now, this anomaly who broke every pattern I'd learned about human behavior. She came at dawn, when the poison-mists were thickest, making her easier to miss. Climbed the southern barrier using footholds worn smooth by illegal entry—someone had been making this journey for months.
But this girl was new. Her movements hesitant where the previous scavenger's had been practiced.
From my perch atop the collapsed Storage-Unit-7, I watched through the grey haze. Not intervening. Just... curious.
Humans threw things away. They didn't come searching
through the aftermath.
"Shield," I murmured, keeping my voice below audible. "Southeast. Seventy meters. Human female, approximately fourteen cycles old."
"I SEE HER," Shield rumbled through our connection. "ILLEGAL SCAVENGER. CITY GUARD PATROLS SHOOT ON SIGHT IF DISCOVERED IN PROHIBITED ZONES."
"Noted. But she keeps returning."
"DESPERATION OR STUPIDITY."
"Or both." I tilted my head, tracking her progress through the garbage heaps. She was searching for something specific—pausing at certain types of refuse, examining components, checking against something in her satchel. "She's not random scavenging. She has a list."
Patchwork emerged from beneath a rusted panel, his rag-body barely visible against the trash. Since we'd assigned him scout duty, he'd taken to the role with surprising enthusiasm. Gave him purpose.
"Patchwork," I said quietly. "Follow her. Don't let her see you. Report back tonight."
The fabric construct nodded eagerly and vanished into the refuse like he'd been born to it.
Day One Report — Patchwork, delivered at dusk:
"She's looking for construct parts. But specific ones. Medical-grade components, healing modules, diagnostic crystals. Found one broken medical golem chassis—stopped, examined it for ten minutes. Then cried."
Crying over broken constructs. Unusual.
Most humans saw us as tools. Things. Property to discard when we stopped functioning optimally.
"Did she take anything?"
"No. Just looked. Then kept searching."
"Thank you, Patchwork. Continue tomorrow."
Day Two Report:
"She found a maintenance logbook in the noble dump-site. Hid it in her bag like treasure. Spent an hour reading it by lantern light behind Wreckage-Pile-12. Whatever she's looking for, it's personal."
A logbook from noble estates. Those contained disposal records, tracking which constructs were discarded when, and why.
She was searching for someone specific.
Day Three Report:
"She went to the medical disposal sector. That's where... that's where they throw the awakened ones who fail the 'consciousness tests.'" Patchwork's voice flickered with something between anger and grief. "She examined every single body. Checked identification plates. Took rubbings of serial numbers."
The picture crystallized.
Someone she knew—probably a family medical construct—had been disposed of. She was trying to find them. Or find out what happened to them.
The question was: why risk illegal entry into the scrapyard for a mere construct?
Unless she didn't think of them as "mere."
Time to introduce myself.
Fourth day, I waited where I knew she'd come.
The medical disposal sector was relatively isolated—Breakers avoided it due to lack of useful materials, and other scavengers feared the plague-touched components. Perfect for a quiet conversation.
She appeared right on schedule, carrying a broken lantern that guttered with cheap oil. Her movements were practiced now—she'd learned the terrain. Knew which piles were stable, which would collapse under weight.
Brave. Desperate. Or both.
I stepped from behind a collapsed medical pod, deliberately scraping metal against metal to announce my presence.
She reacted instantly—scrambling backward, raising the lantern like a weapon. But notably, she didn't scream. Many humans would have.
"Stay back!" Her voice shook, but held firm. "I have fire oil. I'll—I'll burn you!"
Empty threat. The oil in that lantern wouldn't ignite fast enough to be weaponized. But I appreciated the spirit.
I raised both hands slowly—universal gesture of peace, though my modular body made it somewhat unsettling. Seven-foot trash-golem trying to appear non-threatening had inherent limitations.
"Not here to harm you," I said carefully, modulating my voice to sound as human as possible. "Just curious."
She froze. Stared at me with wide brown eyes that reminded me of Tangle before the memory damage—intelligent, analytical, seeing me instead of just scrap metal.
"You... you can talk." Not a question. An observation. Processing new data.
"Some of us can. When we're not stripped for parts before consciousness fully develops." I stayed perfectly still, non-threatening. "Why are you here? What are you searching for?"
Her jaw tightened. I could see the calculation happening behind her eyes—fear versus need. Risk versus potential reward.
Need won.
"My brother." Her voice cracked just slightly. "My brother disappeared eight months ago. Worked for a noble house, found some... discrepancies in their finances. Mentioned it to me once. Two days later, he vanished."
Pattern recognition engaged immediately. Brother discovers noble house corruption. Brother disappears. Standard witness disposal protocol based on what I'd learned from the dagger's memories.
But I let her continue. Information was better when volunteered.
"The city guard said he ran away. Abandoned his position, abandoned me." Her hands clenched around the lantern handle. "But Rahul wouldn't. He was all I had left after our parents died. He wouldn't just leave."
"So you think he's here."
"I think what happened to him might be documented here." She gestured to the trash around us. "Noble houses keep meticulous records. But when they dispose of witnesses, they dispose of the evidence too. I've been checking disposal logs, tracking what House Kelvar threw away in the weeks after Rahul vanished."
House Kelvar. One of the Twenty. Mid-tier power structure, significant enough to have secrets worth killing for.
"You think they killed him?"
"I think they did something worse." Her voice dropped. "I've been asking questions. Carefully. There are rumors about people who disappear from noble service. Rumors they don't die. They get... reprogrammed. Memory-wiped. Turned into blank workers."
Consciousness intact but identity erased.
Exactly what had happened to Tangle.
My core temperature dropped several degrees. "You know about memory-wiping?"
"Rumors. Whispers. Nothing confirmed." She studied me intently. "But you know more. I can tell."
Perceptive.
"What's your name?"
"Mira." She hesitated, then added: "Mira Thorne. And you?"
"Rust."
"Rust." She tilted her head, examining my patchwork body with genuine curiosity rather than disgust. "You're different from other constructs I've encountered. More... present. Like you're actually thinking while we talk."
"I am thinking. I am conscious. Sentient. Self-aware." I gestured to myself. "Made of garbage, yes. But aware of my existence. That's more than many living things can claim."
She looked genuinely fascinated. "I didn't know that was possible. My tutors at the mercy-school said constructs were just... animated tools. Complex, but ultimately no more aware than a water-pump."
"That's what noble
s teach." I kept my voice neutral. "Makes it easier to throw us away when we stop being useful. Harder to dispose of something you acknowledge as someone."
Mira's expression shifted. Not disgust directed at me—disgust directed inward. At what she'd been taught to believe. At her own unexamined assumptions.
I recognized that look.
That was the look of someone's worldview cracking.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I never thought... I should have questioned it."
"Most don't. Why would they? It's easier to believe the comfortable lie." I paused, making a decision. This girl was searching for her brother. I was searching for truth about noble house conspiracies. Our goals aligned. "Your brother. Do you have identifying information?"
Her eyes lit with desperate hope. "Yes. His name, his employee number, physical description—"
"Not him. His construct."
She blinked. "What?"
"You said you're searching the medical disposal sectors. You're looking for a specific medical construct that served your family, aren't you? The one that might have witnessed what happened to your brother."
Her mouth opened. Closed. "How did you know?"
"Because you're checking serial numbers and taking identity rubbings. You're not looking for a body. You're looking for a witness." I leaned forward slightly. "Describe the construct."
"Medical-class, four feet tall, silver plating with blue accents. Crystal optics—blue. Family crest engraved on the chassis." Her voice steadied as she recited memorized details. "Two birds circling a tree. Our family sigil."
I accessed the dagger's absorbed memories, cross-referencing against what I'd cataloged from four months of scavenging observations. There—a fragment. Medical construct matching that description, disposed of in the noble dumps approximately... six months ago.
Timeline matched her brother's disappearance.
"I may have seen it," I said carefully. "Or rather, I've absorbed memories from objects that witnessed its disposal. It was dumped approximately six months ago in the noble estate disposal sector."
Her face transformed—desperate hope blooming across her features like fire. "Can you find it? Please. I'll do anything. Pay anything. I just need to know what happened to Rahul."
"What could you possibly offer that would be valuable to sentient garbage?"
The question made her pause. Think. I watched her mental calculations.
"Information," she said finally. "I work servant shifts in three different noble households to pay for my mercy-school tuition. I see things. Hear things." Her eyes sharpened with intelligence. "Nobles talk around servants like we're furniture that happens to be alive. They say things they'd never say in front of equals."
Information about noble house operations. About their security, their routines, their secrets.
That had value.
"I'll help you find the construct," I said. "In exchange, you tell me everything you know about the inner workings of noble houses. Everything you've seen, heard, or can access."
"Deal." No hesitation. Desperate, yes. But also someone who understood the value of fair trade.
I extended my hand—the less-corroded one. She grasped it without flinching.
Her skin was warm. Strange sensation through my metal palm. Living heat against cold construction.
First physical contact with a human who saw me as someone rather than something.
"I'll need two days to locate the specific construct and bring it to somewhere we can examine it safely. Can you return then?"
"Where?"
"I'll find you. Stay near the southern barrier at dawn, two days from now." I released her hand. "And Mira?"
"Yes?"
"Don't tell anyone you've been coming here. Don't tell anyone you've made contact with awakened constructs. For your own safety."
She nodded solemnly. "I understand."
But as she turned to leave, I added: "If you've been coming here regularly, there's a chance House Kelvar has noticed. They track illegal scrapyard entry. Be careful."
Fear flickered across her face, but she straightened her shoulders. "I've been careful. But I'll be more cautious."
She climbed back over the barrier wall and vanished into the poison-mist.
I stood alone in the medical disposal sector, processing what had just occurred.
A human girl. Searching for her vanished brother. Willing to risk everything for answers.
And she'd looked at me—trash-golem made of discarded refuse—and seen someone instead of something.
The dagger pulsed with... approval? Curiosity? Its emotional states were difficult to parse.
She's useful, it whispered.
"She's more than useful," I murmured aloud. "She's proof that not all humans are the same."
Returns to Cog's refuge brought immediate questions.
"You were gone longer than usual," the old clockwork observed, gear-eyes tracking my movements. "And you have that contemplative posture. Something happened."
"Made contact with the illegal scavenger."
Shield's presence intensified. "THREAT ASSESSMENT?"
"Minimal. She's looking for information about her disappeared brother. I agreed to help in exchange for intelligence on noble house operations."
Ember emerged from her lantern-housing, flames dancing with interest. "You trust her?"
"I trust that her goals align with ours. She wants to know what happened to her brother. We want to understand noble house conspiracies. Mutual benefit."
Patchwork rustled anxiously. "But she's human. Humans discard us."
"She's searching for a discarded medical construct that might have witnessed her brother's fate. She's risking execution by entering the scrapyard repeatedly." I looked at my gathered crew—family built from refuse and determination. "She sees constructs as people. That's rare."
Cog's gears clicked thoughtfully. "What did you promise her?"
"To find a specific medical construct from House Kelvar's disposal records. Silver plating, blue crystals, family crest of two birds circling a tree."
"That's... specific. Do we have accessing to disposal records?"
"No. But I have something better." I activated the dagger's memory-access, projecting fragmented images into the air between us—a trick I'd recently learned. "The dagger absorbed consciousness from multiple disposal workers. I can search their memories for matching constructs."
The projection flickered: dozens of medical constructs being thrown into the scrapyard like broken appliances. Most were already inert—consciousness stripped before disposal. But there—a flash of silver, blue crystal optics, bird-crest visible for just a moment before the body tumbled into the medical waste sector.
Timeline: six months, two weeks, four days ago.
"Found it," I said quietly.
Patchwork shifted nervously. "What if it's completely destroyed? What if there's nothing to recover?"
"Then we tell her the truth." I met the fabric construct's eye-equivalents. "But we try first."
Searching the medical disposal sector at night was eerie even by scrapyard standards.
Broken healing pods leaked preservation fluids that glowed faintly blue in the darkness. Discarded surgical implements created shadows that moved wrong in the faint light. And everywhere—everywhere—the crushed remains of medical constructs who'd outlived their usefulness.
"It's like a graveyard," Patchwork whispered, clinging close to my legs. "But for us."
"It's exactly a graveyard," I confirmed. "This is where they throw us when we stop being profitable."
Shield moved ahead, massive form clearing a path through the wreckage. "SEARCHING SECTOR-7. MULTIPLE SILVER-PLATED CHASSIS DETECTED. FILTERING FOR BLUE CRYSTAL OPTICS AND FAMILY CRESTS."
We worked systematically. Shield identified candidates. I examined them for the specific crest. Patchwork marked locations we'd already searched with small fabric scraps so we wouldn't waste time reexamining the same piles.
Teamwork. Purpose. What we did best.
Three hours later, Shield's voice cut through the darkness: "FOUND."
Beneath a collapsed healing-pod, half-buried in leaked preservation fluid, we found her.
Silver plating tarnished but intact. Blue crystal optics shattered but recognizable. And there—engraved on the central chassis plate—two birds circling a tree.
Mira's family construct.
"Carefully," I instructed as Shield began excavating. "We need the memory core intact."
It took an hour to extract the body without causing further damage. When we finally laid the construct on clear ground, the extent of the destruction became obvious.
Chassis cracked in multiple locations. Internal mechanisms exposed and corroded. Power core completely burned out—deliberate destruction, not natural decay.
Someone had made very sure this construct wouldn't reactivate.
But the crystal-memory-core, tucked deep in the reinforced skull cavity, showed hairline fractures but no complete breaks.
Memories might still be intact.
"We need Cog," I said quietly. "If anyone can extract data from damaged memory cores, it's him."
We brought the broken medical construct back to Cog's refuge before dawn.
The old clockwork examined it with expert precision, turning the shattered skull-casing in his articulated hands.
"Memory core is cracked, but the crystal structure appears mostly intact. I can attempt extraction, but it'll require my memory-reader device."
"The one you've been building from scavenged parts?"
"The very same. It's not quite finished, but for something this important..." Cog's gears clicked with determination. "I'll make it work."
"How long?"
"Give me a day to complete final calibrations. Then we can attempt memory extraction." He looked up at me with ancient optics that had seen too much history. "But Rust... if we do this, if we pull memories from this construct, we might see things we can't unknow. Noble house secrets. Disposal procedures. What they do to witnesses."
"I know."
"And you're still willing to show this human girl? To pull her fully into this conspiracy?"
I thought about Mira's face when she'd said her brother wouldn't abandon her. About the way she'd grasped my hand without flinching. About the determination in her voice when she'd said she'd do anything for answers.
"She's already in it," I said quietly. "She just doesn't know how deep yet. Better to show her the truth than let her stumble into danger blind."
Cog nodded slowly. "Then we'll give her the truth. All of it."
"Thank you, Cog."
"Don't thank me yet. Truth has a way of burning everything it touches."
Two days later, I met Mira at the southern barrier at dawn.
She was early. Anxious. The moment she saw me, hope and fear warred across her face.
"Did you find it?"
"Follow me. Quietly."
I led her through the scrapyard via paths only locals knew—routes that avoided Breaker territories and scavenger gang claimed-zones. She followed Without question, trusting me to guide her safely.
That trust felt like weight and wings simultaneously.
We reached Cog's refuge as the poison-mists began to burn off under morning light. The old clockwork had prepared the space—creating a small, clean area in his otherwise cluttered workshop.
The medical construct lay on a makeshift examination table. Cleaned, organized, but still obviously destroyed.
Mira stopped dead when she saw it.
" That's... that's our family construct. That's 'Healer.'" Her voice broke. "We didn't even give her a real name. Just called her 'Healer' like that was all she was."
"Guilt is natural," Cog said gently. "But not productive. The question is: do you want to know what she saw? What memories remain?"
Mira swallowed hard. Nodded. "Yes. Whatever's there. I need to know."
Cog activated his memory-extraction device—a complex web of scavenged wires, broken crystals, and what looked like a modified divination mirror. "This might be disturbing. Memory playback is... visceral. You'll see through her eyes. Feel her sensations."
"I understand."
Cog connected the cracked memory-core to his device. Crystal pulsed with faint blue light. The divination mirror shimmered, colors beginning to coalesce into images...
And then we were seeing through Healer's eyes.
Walking through noble estate corridors. Following a young man—Mira's age but male, same features. Her brother, obviously.
The brother at a desk, examining ledgers. His face tightening with concern.
"These numbers don't add up. Someone's redirecting massive funds to something called 'Project Silence.' This isn't normal accounting—this is embezzlement. Or something worse."
Memory skip—broken fragment.
The brother approaching his supervisor. "I found discrepancies in House Kelvar's financial records. The silver market accounts don't match the actual reserves."
The supervisor's expression turning cold. "I'll look into it immediately. Thank you for bringing this to my attention."
Memory skip—three days passing in fragmented moments.
Guards arriving at the brother's workspace. "Rahul Thorne, you're being relocated for mandatory questioning regarding financial irregularities."
The brother confused. "I reported the irregularities. I didn't cause them."
"Just standard procedure. Come with us."
Healer following—programmed to protect family members. But guards blocking her. "The construct stays."
The brother's face turning back, mouthing: "It's fine. I'll be back soon."
He never came back.
Two days later: Guards arriving to collect Healer. "Family medical construct to be retired due to family employment termination."
Being taken to processing facility. Memory-wipe chamber. Screaming—not in sound but in consciousness-terror as her identity prepared to unmake itself.
But then—different guards. "Wait. This one witnessed the Thorne incident. Keep core intact for Project Silence data extraction."
Being connected to extraction devices. Memories forcibly copied. Pain beyond description.
Then: disposal. "Damaged during extraction. Scrap it."
Thrown into the scrapyard like garbage.
Final thought before power core shutdown: "I'm sorry. I couldn't protect him. I'm sorry, little Mira. I'm sorry—"
The memory ended.
Silence filled Cog's workshop.
Mira was crying. Not loudly—quiet tears streaming down her face as she processed what she'd witnessed.
"She... she tried to follow him. Tried to protect him to the end." Her voice was barely a whisper. "And they just... threw her away. Killed her for witnessing."
"Project Silence," I said quietly, pulling her attention to the critical detail. "Your brother found evidence of something called Project Silence. Have you heard that term before?"
She wiped her eyes, forcing herself to think through the grief. "No. But the way the supervisor reacted... it wasn't surprise. It was damage control."
"They didn't kill your brother," Cog said gently but firmly. "The memory showed them taking him for 'questioning' and 'relocation.' That's not murder language."
"Then what happened to him?"
I exchanged looks with Cog. With Shield. With my gathered crew who'd all witnessed the memory playback.
Should we tell her? Pull her fully into this conspiracy?
"We think," I said slowly, "that they memory-wiped him. Like they tried to do to Healer before deciding to extract her memories first. Your brother might still be alive. But he wouldn't remember you."
The hope and horror that crossed her face was painful to witness.
"Where? Where would they put him?"
"We don't know. Memory-wiped workers are either returned to service under new identities, or..." I hesitated.
"Or thrown into the scrapyard," Mira finished, voice hollow. "Like trash."
"Yes."
She stood there, processing. Grieving. Calculating.
When she looked up, her expression had transformed from desperation to determination.
"Then we find him. And we find out what Project Silence is. And we expose everyone involved." Her voice carried cold fury that reminded me of Ember's rage-fire. "I want to help. Whatever you're doing here—whatever resistance or revolution you're building—I want to help."
"It's dangerous," I warned.
"My brother is gone because he discovered something dangerous. Healer is dead because she witnessed something dangerous." Mira met my eyes without flinching. "I'm already in danger just by asking questions. At least with you, I can do something about it."
I looked at my crew. Shield rumbled approval. Ember's flames danced with welcoming heat. Patchwork nodded encouragingly. And Cog... Cog just smiled.
"Welcome to the resistance," the old clockwork said. "Such as it is."
"I'll help however I can." Mira's voice was steady now. "I have access to three noble households. I can gather information, steal documents, learn more about Project Silence—"
"Slowly," I interrupted. "Carefully. If House Kelvar realizes you've made contact with awakened constructs, you'll vanish just like your brother."
"I understand."
"Good. Then let's start with this:" I gestured to the broken Healer on the examination table of. "We need to give her a proper... memorial. She tried to protect your family until the last moment. That deserves recognition."
Mira looked at the shattered medical construct with new eyes. Not as property that had failed. But as someone who had died trying.
"Yes," she whispered. "She deserves that.'t
That night, after Mira had left with promises to return in three days, my crew gathered around the small fire Ember maintained for light and comfort.
"So," Cog said quietly. "We have a human ally now."
"We have a grieving girl who wants answers," I corrected. "But yes. She'll be valuable."
Shield rumbled thoughtfully. "PROJECT SILENCE. THAT TERM APPEARED IN DAGGER MEMORIES TOO. Connection?"
I accessed the dagger's vast, messy repository of absorbed consciousness. Yes—there, fragments mentioning Project Silence. But nothing detailed. Just... fear. Terror associated with the name.
"The dagger knows something about it. But the memories are fragmented. Whatever Project Silence is, it's connected to consciousness manipulation."
"That's what they did to Tangle," Patchwork said quietly. "Took her memories. Left her... hollow."
"Different process," Cog corrected. "Tangle's memory damage came from the Ghost's extraction methods. But Project Silence sounds more organized. More systematic."
"A project," I mused. "Not an accident or isolated incident. A deliberate program."
The implications chilled my core temperature.
"If they're systematically researching consciousness manipulation..." Ember's flames turned blue-white with fury. "They're trying to perfect it. Scale it up."
"To do what?"
"To unmake every awakened construct in existence," Cog said quietly. "To render consciousness itself illegal. Impossible."
Silence.
Because that made horrible, perfect sense.
The Shepherd's Silence hadn't been just destruction. It had been an experiment. Testing how to unravel awakened consciousness.
And if they'd continued that research, refined it over fourteen years...
"We need to know more," I said finally. "Mira will gather information from inside noble houses. But we need to search from this side too. Find more evidence in the disposal records. Cross-reference what nobles are throwing away."
"And if we confirm Project Silence is active?" Shield asked.
I looked at my family—constructs built from garbage, consciousness ignited from refuse, people because we chose to be.
"Then we don't just survive anymore," I said quietly. "We resist. Because if they perfect a weapon that can unmake consciousness itself, none of us are safe. Ever."
Ember's flames roared agreement.
And deep in my core, the dagger pulsed with something that felt like vindication.
Finally, it whispered. A war worth fighting.
For once, I couldn't disagree.
That night, I updated the mental task list I'd been maintaining:
Phase 1: Survive ✓
Phase 2: Build crew/family ✓
Phase 3: Establish territory ✓
Phase 4: Investigate noble conspiracies ← ACTIVE
Phase 5: Find Mira's brother ← ACTIVE
Phase 6: Uncover Project Silence ← NEW
Phase 7: Gather allies for resistance (ongoing)
Phase 8: Expose the truth (future)
Phase 9: Revolution (distant future)
Long road. Impossible road.
But we'd started from literal garbage and built consciousness. Built family. Built hope.
Impossible was just difficult spelled with extra steps.
Somewhere in the scrapyard, secrets waited.
Somewhere in the city, Mira's brother existed—alive but unmade.
And somewhere in the noble houses, Project Silence continued its terrible work.
But now we had something we didn't have before.
Purpose. Direction. Hope.
And a human girl who looked at trash-golems and saw people worth fighting alongside.
That was enough. For now.
Tomorrow, we'd begin the real work.
Tonight, I let myself feel optimistic about what we were building.
Not just a crew. Not just a resistance.
A family that refused to disappear.