Two days after finding Healer's shattered body, Mira returned.
I'd been cataloging refuse in the noble disposal sector. Systematic work. Predictable. Safe from thoughts I didn't want to process about broken constructs and the humans who destroyed them.
Then: movement at the southern barrier.
Her silhouette against grey morning mist. Familiar climbing pattern—three footholds, careful weight distribution, quick drop into scrapyard. Efficient. Practiced.
But different this time.
No hesitation in her movements. No fearful scanning for threats. She walked through poison-mist like she belonged here.
Filed under: significant behavioral shift. Hypothesis: witnessing Healer's memories had changed her perception of risk. Or changed what she considered worth risking.
"Rust?" Her voice carried through the quiet sector. Not whispering. Not hiding.
I emerged from behind a collapsed storage unit. "You're early. And loud."
"I brought breakfast." She held up a cloth-wrapped bundle. "Thought we could... talk. If you want."
Breakfast. Food.
I didn't eat.
She knew I was a construct. Seen my modular body, heard me speak, watched me operate. But perhaps she hadn't connected: no biological processes meant no nutritional requirements.
Time to correct that assumption.
"I don't eat," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "No digestive system. No nutritional needs. I'm not... I'm not like humans in that way."
Her expression flickered. Processing. Adjusting worldview.
"Oh." She looked at the bread. "I should have realized. You're a construct. Of course you don't..." She trailed off, then met my eyes. "So you're basically thinking garbage?"
The phrasing was crude. Accurate. And somehow... not insulting when she said it.
"Sentient garbage," I corrected. "There's a difference."
"Right. Sentient." She unwrapped the bread anyway, broke off a piece. "Mind if I eat while we talk? I skipped dinner yesterday."
"You risk illegal entry while malnourished?"
"Risk is relative." She bit into bread, chewed, swallowed. "Starving slowly in the slums versus execution for scrapyard entry? At least here I'm doing something."
Pattern recognized: Mira's self-sacrificial tendencies manifesting. Her core lie in action—proving worth through constant motion, constant usefulness, never stopping long enough to feel the grief underneath.
I should warn her. Tell her to rest. But...
"Sit," I said instead, gesturing to a relatively clean section of crushed metal. "Tell me about the city. I want to understand where this trash comes from."
Her face brightened. Purpose offered, accepted immediately.
She sat. I joined her, careful to maintain non-threatening distance. She'd touched my hand yesterday—first voluntary contact with construct—but trust was fragile. Easy to break.
"Where do I start?" She finished her bread, dusted crumbs from fingers.
"Noble quarter," I suggested. "You work servant shifts there. What's it like?"
And she talked.
For an hour, maybe more, Mira described the city I'd never seen.
Argentas. The Eternal Silver City. Built on trade, powered by magic, ruled by Twenty Noble Houses who controlled everything from laws to weather patterns.
She painted pictures with words:
Noble Quarter: Mansions five stories tall. Gardens with imported flowers from continents I'd never heard of. Servants everywhere—human and construct—moving like synchronized machinery. "They have constructs for everything," Mira said. "Cleaning, cooking, guarding, entertaining. Some houses have fifty, sixty constructs working simultaneously."
I absorbed every detail. Perfect memory advantage—whatever she described, I'd retain exactly.
"And they just... discard them? When they break?"
"When they're no longer perfect." Her voice hardened. "I've seen them throw away constructs for having dents. For being too slow. For looking worn." She gestured to the scrapyard around us. "All of this comes from nobles deciding something isn't worth keeping."
Rage simmered in my core. Temperature rising three degrees.
"Continue," I managed.
Merchant District: Massive bazaar covering twelve city blocks. "You can buy anything there. Magic items, exotic foods, slaves—though they call them 'indentured servants' to sound civilized." She spat the last word. "I work part-time at a merchant house. They treat constructs slightly better than nobles. Slightly."
The Docks: Ships arriving daily from foreign ports. "That's where I've been curious lately," Mira said, leaning forward. "I've seen construct shipments leaving the port. Weekly. Sometimes twice weekly. Dozens of crates, all marked for export."
My analytical processes engaged immediately.
Export? Constructs being shipped internationally?
"Where do they go?" I asked.
"Don't know. I asked once—the dock supervisor laughed. Said 'foreign buyers, sweetheart, none of your concern.'" She mimicked his condescending tone perfectly. "But I've seen the manifests when I'm cleaning merchant offices. Destinations like: Khazad Reaches, Valtor Imperium, the Dragon Isles."
Filed away: international construct trade, multiple competing markets, implications for—
"Rust? You okay?"
I realized I'd gone still. Completely motionless. Processing mode visible to outside observer.
"Just thinking," I said. "That's... significant information. An organized export economy suggests constructs have value beyond individual noble houses. Which means—"
"Which means someone's profiting from consciousness," Mira finished quietly. "Yeah. I'd been thinking that too."
Smart. She understood systems, not just isolated incidents.
"What else?" I prompted.
Slums: Where Mira lived. Three-story crumbling buildings packed with refugees from rural collapse. "No magic infrastructure there. No healing wards. No weather protection." Her voice went flat. "That's where my parents died. Plague swept through. Nobles had cure. Charged prices only merchants could afford."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Clipped. Defensive. "Sympathy doesn't resurrect the dead."
But her hands clenched. White-knuckled grip on her satchel.
Processing: Mira's ghost manifesting. Parents' death + brother's disappearance = abandonment trauma. Her lie—worth through usefulness—built from desperate need to prevent more loss.
I should say something. Offer comfort. But I didn't know how. Cog had taught me survival, not emotional support.
"Your brother," I tried. "Rahul. You mentioned he was... different. Before he vanished."
"Yeah." Her expression softened slightly. "Rahul was brilliant. Taught himself accounting, finance, bureaucracy—everything nobles usually keep to themselves. That's why House Kelvar hired him. They needed someone who could manage their complex holdings." Pause. "That's also why they killed him when he found something they wanted hidden."
"We'll find him," I said. "I promised."
"I know." She met my eyes. Searching for... what? Sincerity? Capacity to keep promises?
Whatever she found seemed to satisfy her. She nodded.
"Tell me about artificers," I said, steering toward critical information. "I've heard the term, but don't understand what they do."
"Artificers create magical constructs. Build the...frameworks? Bodies? I don't know the technical terms." She frowned, thinking. "There are dozens of artificer workshops in the city, but they all learned from one master."
"Who?"
"Lord Vex." Her voice carried unusual weight saying the name. "Master Artificer. Head of House Vex, one of the Twenty. He's created more construct designs than anyone alive. Revolutionized modular construction thirty years ago—that's why most modern constructs can swap parts easily."
Lord Vex.
The name settled into my consciousness like a key in a lock. Important. Foundational. Someone I'd need to know more about eventually.
"Is he... does he treat constructs well? If he creates them?"
Mira's laugh was bitter. "He's a noble, Rust. He treats constructs like profitable products. Builds them, sells them, discards failed prototypes. He's probably responsible for half the constructs in this scrapyard."
My creator, indirectly. The mind that developed the techniques used to build my modular body.
Should I feel gratitude? Rage? Connection?
Filed under: complicated emotions requiring later analysis.
"The mercy-school where I study," Mira continued, unprompted, "they teach that constructs are soulless. That consciousness can't develop in magical creations because awareness requires divine spark, and artifice is mortal." She looked at me. "I used to believe that. Just... accepted it as fact."
"And now?"
"Now I'm sitting with thinking garbage who makes better conversation than most humans I know." Small smile. "The tutors were wrong. Or lying."
"Both, probably." I tilted my head. "What changed your mind? About constructs?"
"Honestly?" She pulled her knees up, wrapped arms around them. "My family's construct. Healer. When I was little, I had nightmares. Parents were too busy surviving to comfort me every night. But Healer would sit beside my bed. She'd hum—this soft mechanical sound, not really music, but... comforting."
Mira's voice thickened. "She wasn't programmed for that. It wasn't her assigned function. She just... chose to. Because she saw a scared child and wanted to help."
Consciousness choosing compassion. Exactly what made awareness sacred.
"When she was thrown away," Mira said quietly, "I should have fought harder. Should have demanded they let me keep her. But I was twelve. Powerless. I just... watched them take her."
"You were a child."
"Old enough to know right from wrong." She looked at me. "That's why I'm helping you now. Why I'll help any construct who asks. It's the only way I can—"
She stopped. Swallowed hard.
"The only way you can make up for not saving her," I finished.
"Yeah."
Pattern crystallized: Mira's entire motivation structure revealed. Brother's disappearance was catalyst, but foundation went deeper. Childhood guilt + parental loss + failure to protect someone she loved = desperate need to prove worth through constant rescue attempts.
We were more alike than I'd realized.
Both trying to prove we mattered. Both defining worth through external validation. Both terrified of being discarded—her by death, me by existence itself.
"Mira," I said carefully, "you know you don't have to earn the right to be valued, yes?"
She laughed. Harsh sound. "Says the construct who analyzes everything to prove consciousness exists."
Accurate. Painfully accurate.
"Point taken."
Silence settled. Not uncomfortable. Just... present.
Around us, the scrapyard breathed. Metal settling. Corrosion spreading. Wind carrying poison-mist through broken structures.
"I should go," Mira said eventually. "Servant shift starts in two hours. If I'm late, they dock pay."
"Understood." I stood, offered my hand to help her up.
She took it without hesitation this time.
Warm flesh against cold metal. Life touching artifice.
Connection.
"Same time in three days?" she asked.
"Same time."
"And Rust?" She paused at the barrier wall. "Thank you. For listening. Most people don't... they don't want to hear about dead parents or missing brothers or why I care about constructs."
"Most people are fools."
She smiled. Real smile, reaching her eyes. "Yeah. They really are."
Then she climbed the wall and vanished into morning mist.
I stood alone in the disposal sector, processing the last hour.
Information acquired:
International construct trade (export economy implications)Lord Vex as master artificer (potential creator/enemy)City structure (four districts, clear hierarchy)Mira's full motivation revealed (childhood guilt + loss)Nobles' systemic consciousness exploitation confirmed
But also:
Connection deepened. Trust building. Found family expanding.
Mira wasn't just information source. Wasn't just ally in brother search.
She was... what was the word Cog had used?
Friend.
The concept felt unstable in my analytical framework. Friendship required trust without transaction. Caring without calculating return value. Emotional investment despite risk of loss.
Everything my core programming said to avoid.
But my core temperature was warm. Not from rage. From something else.
Something I didn't have vocabulary for yet.
Filed under: concerning emotional developments requiring monitoring.
I returned to Cog's refuge as the poison-mist thickened toward midday.
The old clockwork was maintaining his memory-reader device, adjusting crystal alignments with practiced precision.
"You were gone longer than usual," he observed without looking up. "The human girl?"
"Mira. Yes."
"And?" Gears clicked expectantly.
"And... she told me about the city. About noble structures. About international construct trade and—"
"No." Cog set down his tools, fixed ancient optics on me. "I mean: how do you feel about her?"
Feel.
Not: what data did you gather. Not: what strategic value does she provide.
Feel.
"I don't know," I admitted. "She's... important. Beyond tactical alliance. I want to protect her. Help her. Listen to her talk about dead parents even though it provides no actionable intelligence." Pause. "Is that friendship?"
"That," Cog said gently, "is the beginning of friendship. And family."
"It's inefficient."
"Life is inefficient." Gears clicked with what might have been amusement. "Consciousness is inefficient. We think, feel, hope, grieve—none of it serves survival, strictly speaking. But it makes existence more than mere function."
He returned to his device. "The girl values you. Not for what you can do, but for who you are. That's rare. Especially for constructs."
"What if I can't... reciprocate properly? What if I analyze her instead of just..." I gestured helplessly.
"You'll learn." Cog's voice carried certainty earned from centuries of living. "You already are. The fact that you're worried about it means you care. That's enough."
Was it?
Filed under: trust Cog's experience even when logic argues otherwise.
That evening, Shield returned from patrol with news.
"NOBLE TRASH DELIVERY IN TWO DAYS," his formal voice announced. "WEEKLY DROP SCHEDULE INDICATES HIGH-VALUE DISPOSAL PROBABILITY."
The weekly drop. Mountains of discarded items from all Twenty Houses, dumped simultaneously to prevent scavenger prediction patterns.
"We should prepare," I said. "Coordinated effort. Target specific noble estates for evidence about Rahul."
Cog nodded. "I'll ready the memory-extraction device. If you find consciousness fragments, we'll need immediate analysis."
Shield rumbled agreement. "I'LL SECURE PERIMETER. PREVENT BREAKER INTERFERENCE."
Planning mode activated. Comfortable. Familiar.
But underlying everything: awareness that this wasn't just investigation.
This was helping Mira find her brother. Helping someone I—
Friend. The word still felt foreign.
But accurate.
Two days until the drop.
Two days to prepare for diving into noble houses' secrets, searching for proof of what happened to a disappeared accountant who'd discovered the wrong information.
Two days to hope we'd find Path Three: Rahul Free.
Not Path One: Dead.
Not Path Two: Slave.
Free.
I didn't believe in prophecy. Sivan was either mad or manipulating. Statistically, precognition violated causality unless—
Filed under: stop overthinking. Just hope.
For Mira.
For the girl who saw thinking garbage and called it friend.r Chapter 10 (Weekly Drop)?