Dawn arrived with the sound of grinding gears.
Massive mechanisms buried deep beneath Argentas churned to life—disposal chutes opening, trash compactors engaging, noble houses purging their weekly refuse all at once.
The scrapyard shuddered.
Then: the drop.
I'd positioned us on high ground—collapsed Storage-Unit-7, overlooking the central disposal crater where nobles' trash avalanched from twenty different chutes.
Our crew spread tactical formation:
Shield: Front position, massive frame angled to block debris if the drop went chaotic.
Patchwork: Perched beside me, fabric body compressed small, ready to scout through the settling wreckage.
Ember: Riding in my left hand, brass lantern warm against cold metal. Her flames burned low—conserving energy, but ready to flare bright if we needed light or threat deterrence.
Cog: Back at refuge with his memory-extraction device, waiting for whatever consciousness fragments we recovered.
Mira: Arriving separately. She couldn't risk being seen with constructs during daylight. Would meet us after the initial chaos settled.
"Thirty seconds," I estimated, watching the chute mechanisms align.
Patchwork rustled nervously. "There's so many scavengers. Dozens. Hundreds maybe. What if—"
"What if they're all focused on their own survival and don't notice six constructs working organized operation?" I interrupted. "Chaos is cover. We use it."
"SOUND STRATEGY," Shield rumbled. "OPPORTUNISTIC ACQUISITION DURING MASS CONFUSION."
Ember's flames flickered agreement. "NOBLES DISCARD DURING SYNCHRONIZED DROP TO PREVENT PATTERN TRACKING. BUT THAT SAME CHAOS WORKS BOTH WAYS."
"Exactly." I checked Patchwork one more time. "Remember: you're not useless. You're our infiltration specialist. Fast, quiet, compressible. Advantages we need."
He stopped apologizing mid-breath. "Right. Advantages. I can do this."
"You can."
Then the drop began.
BOOM.
Twenty chutes opened simultaneously.
Trash erupted upward—propelled by pressure release, arcing through morning air like industrial vomit. Metal fragments, broken furniture, shattered magical items, discarded clothing, crushed constructs, everything nobles deemed beneath keeping.
It hung suspended for one beautiful, terrible moment.
Then: gravity.
CRASH.
Mountains of refuse slammed into the disposal crater with sound like breaking worlds. Dust exploded outward. Metal screamed. Glass shattered in cascading waves.
And the feeding frenzy began.
Scavengers swarmed from every shadow.
Rust Rats (pack of twelve smaller constructs) sprinted toward fresh debris, fighting each other for choice pieces.
Breakers (three massive combat constructs) waded in with crushing force, claiming sections through intimidation.
Desperate loners (fifteen, maybe twenty) scrambled at the edges, grabbing whatever the larger threats ignored.
Scavenger gangs (four distinct groups) moved in coordinated units, defending claimed territories.
Chaos incarnate.
Perfect.
"Move," I said.
We descended.
Shield smashed path through peripheral wreckage like mobile siege weapon. "PERIMETER SECURED. PROCEEDING TO HOUSE KELVAR DISPOSAL ZONE."
I followed in his wake, analyzing drop-patterns. Each noble house had designated chute position—
House Vex: Northwest, chute seven House Kelvar: Northeast, chute three
House Mordane: Southeast, chute twelve
—meaning their trash clustered in predictable locations despite simultaneous timing.
"There," I pointed. "Northeast sector. That's where we concentrate."
Ember flared bright, illuminating the path. "I SEE IT. SILVER-MARKED CRATES. HOUSE KELVAR'S SIGIL. TWELVE CONTAINERS PLUS LOOSE DEBRIS."
"Patchwork?"
The rag construct was already moving—slipping through gaps in the wreckage, compressing his fabric body to slide past obstacles. "Scouting! Three Breakers approaching from west! Rust Rats fighting over broken enchantment stones! Path mostly clear if we go—there!" He pointed to narrow opening between crushed furniture and shattered construct chassis.
"Guide us."
We followed Patchwork's lead, moving fast but cautious. Shield attracted occasional hostile attention—other scavengers eyeing his valuable frame—but his sheer mass discouraged confrontation.
"REMEMBER OBJECTIVE," Shield rumbled. "MEMORY FRAGMENTS. DOCUMENTS. CONSCIOUSNESS-BEARING ITEMS. IGNORE STANDARD SALVAGE."
"Understood."
We reached House Kelvar's disposal zone three minutes after drop-impact.
And found ourselves staring at organized catastrophe.
Twelve silver-marked crates, all broken open by fall-impact. Contents spilled everywhere:
Burned documents (dozens, maybe hundreds)Smashed memory crystals (standard noble disposal procedure)Broken surveillance orbs (deliberate crushing before disposal)Servant collars (enchanted control devices, all deactivated)Medical waste (blood samples, tissue cultures, consciousness studies?)
And constructs.
Seven discarded servants. All deliberately destroyed before disposal—consciousness cores shattered, memory matrices scrambled.
No witnesses. No evidence. No recovery possible.
"They're thorough," I said quietly. "Destroying proof of... what? What are they hiding that requires this level of information purge?"
Ember's flames burned angry-red. "SYSTEMATIC CONSCIOUSNESS MURDER. THAT'S WHAT THIS IS. THEY DON'T JUST DISCARD US—THEY ERASE US."
"Focus." I began sorting through burned documents. "Anything salvageable. Patchwork, check the smaller debris. Shield, prevent interruption. Ember, if you see memory fragments that survived destruction, illuminate them."
The crew scattered to tasks.
I worked through paper scraps with perfect-recall enabled, cataloging even partial words:
"...Protocol Delta processing... three subjects... memory extraction comple..." — BURNED, unreadable beyond
"...R. Thorne designated for... consciousness profiling... Institute transfer sched..." — TORN, missing critical lines
"...Phase Two testing... subject survival rate 23%... acceptable losses for proj..." — BURNED, context lost
Project. There was that word again. Project Silence? Or different project entirely?
"Rust!" Patchwork's voice carried excitement. "Found something! Intact memory crystal!"
I crossed to where he'd squeezed into gap between two crates.
There—partially buried, somehow surviving destruction—a small memory crystal. Deep blue color. Usually used for recording servant communications, occasionally storing consciousness backups.
"How did this survive?" I wondered aloud. "They crush everything before disposal."
"MAYBE THEY MISSED IT," Ember suggested. "OR MAYBE IT WASN'T CONSIDERED IMPORTANT."
"Take it. We'll have Cog analyze—"
"RUST." Shield's voice carried urgency. "MULTIPLE HOSTILES APPROACHING. BREAKER GANG. TEN STRONG. CLAIMING THIS SECTOR."
I looked up.
Ten Breakers. Each eight-plus feet tall. Combat constructs built for violence, discarded when they became too aggressive for controlled operation.
Their leader—damaged but dangerous, one arm replaced with crude scrap-blade—pointed at us.
"That territory's ours now. Clear out or get scrapped."
Filed under: problematic but solvable.
"We're nearly finished," I said calmly. "Five minutes. Then it's yours."
"NOW." The leader advanced. "Or we make you scrap."
Shield moved between us and them. "RUST. ORDERS?"
Calculate: Ten enemies, significantly larger, combat-specialized, territorial aggression driving irrational behavior versus our crew of five (six with Mira, but she wasn't combat-rated), no desire for violence, goal-oriented not territory-focused.
Outcome: Fight disadvantageous. Retreat optimal.
But.
That memory crystal might contain evidence about Rahul. Might be Path Three—evidence of his escape, his survival, his freedom.
And Mira deserved answers.
"Shield, Ember—distraction tactics. Patchwork, grab every document fragment you can in thirty seconds. I'll secure the memory crystal and anything else portable."
The Breaker leader laughed. "You're choosing scrapping."
"I'm choosing controlled retreat with acquired intelligence." I grabbed the memory crystal, scooped three partially-burned documents, swept five servant collar fragments into my collection satchel. "Thirty seconds. Now."
Shield charged.
Not to fight—to create confusion. He slammed shoulder-first into the leftmost Breaker, using momentum and superior mass to throw the combat construct off-balance, creating domino effect through their formation.
Ember flared nova-bright. "MOVE! WHILE THEY'RE BLIND!"
Patchwork became blur of fabric, snatching documents mid-scramble.
I ran.
Behind us: cursing, clattering sounds of Breakers recovering, beginning pursuit.
But we had thirty-second head start, superior knowledge of scrapyard terrain, and zero interest in prolonged engagement.
We scattered.
Shield went west—massive, obvious, drawing most pursuit.
Ember and I went north—fast, low-profile, difficult tracking.
Patchwork went straight up—climbing wreckage pile, vanishing into high-ground chaos.
Regroup point: Cog's refuge, one hour.
I reached refuge forty-three minutes later.
Shield arrived sixty seconds after—minor structural damage, nothing critical.
Patchwork showed up five minutes behind, clutching seven document fragments and vibrating with proud terror. "I did it I actually didn't fail I got documents and escaped and I'm useful!"
"You are," I confirmed. "Excellent work."
Ember's flames burned satisfied-orange. "SUCCESSFUL OPERATION. ZERO CASUALTIES. INTELLIGENCE ACQUIRED. THAT'S VICTORY."
Cog examined our haul with expert attention. "Memory crystal intact. Promising. Several document fragments containing partial words—I'll attempt reconstruction. And these servant collars..." He turned one over. "These have interesting enchantment residue. Consciousness-binding magic, but unusual variant. Not standard control protocol."
"Can you extract anything from the crystal?" I asked.
"Possibly. But will require delicate work. Memory crystals crack internally when compromised—data fragments into millions of pieces. I'll need three, maybe four hours minimum."
Three hours.
I looked toward the barrier wall where Mira would be arriving.
She'd waited eight months for any news about Rahul. Three more hours seemed simultaneously trivial and eternal.
"Do it," I said. "We'll wait."
Mira arrived ninety minutes later.
I heard her familiar climbing pattern—three footholds, careful weight distribution, quick drop. Recognized the sound of her breathing before she even called my name.
"Rust? You there?"
I emerged from Cog's refuge. "Here. We recovered something."
Her face transformed. Hope—bright, desperate, painful hope.
"You found him?"
"We found a memory crystal from House Kelvar's disposal. Cog's extracting it now. It might contain—"
"Where is he? I need to see—"
"Mira." I caught her shoulders gently. "It might contain nothing. Or it might show something we don't want to see. Memory crystals from noble disposal sites are usually destroyed for a reason."
But she wasn't listening. Already moving past me toward Cog's workstation.
I followed.
Cog had the memory crystal suspended in his extraction device—fragile thing rotating slowly in crystalline framework, blue light pulsing as he teased data fragments into coherent streams.
"Almost there," he murmured. "Significant corruption, but core memory seems... yes. Yes, extraction possible. Preparing playback now."
Mira gripped my arm. Physical anchor. I let her.
"Whatever we see," I said quietly, "we handle it together."
She nodded. Couldn't speak. Too afraid of what words might break.
The memory crystal flared bright.
And we saw through someone else's eyes.
Memory Playback Begins:
Servant quarters. Night. Single candle lighting cramped room.
POV: Some kind of construct, probably medical-class based on visual processing. Recording servant activities as standard surveillance protocol.
A young man sits at small desk. Early twenties. Dark hair, tired eyes, hands stained with ink. Writing in ledger with desperate speed.
Mira made sound like breaking. "That's him. That's Rahul."
The man—Rahul—is writing:
"If you're reading this, I'm either dead, memory-wiped, or worse. I found something. House Kelvar is part of larger conspiracy. They're not just embezzling funds—they're buying consciousness research. Something called 'Project Silence.' Paying enormous sums to—"
Door slams open. Guards rush in.
"Rahul Thorne, you're being relocated for mandatory questioning."
"I reported the discrepancies! I did my job! Why are you—"
"Standard procedure. Come with us."
The medical construct recording this—probably Healer—tries to follow. Guards block her.
"The construct stays. Family employment terminated."
Rahul's face turning back, trying to say something, too far to hear—
Memory skip. Corrupted section.
New scene: Processing facility. Underground. Clinical white walls. Rahul strapped to medical chair, struggling.
Voices:
"Subject shows high consciousness coherence. Excellent candidate for Phase Three testing."
"Proceed with extraction."
Rahul screaming—
Memory corruption. Visual breaks apart.
Final image: Rahul's face. Empty eyes. Processed.
Last recorded thought from crystal:
"Subject designated R.T.-447. Memory extraction complete. Personality matrix preserved for study. Physical subject recycled to—"
Memory ends.
Silence.
Complete, horrifying silence.
Mira was shaking. Full-body tremors like earthquake localized in one human frame.
"Recycled." Her voice barely existed. "They recycled him. He's... he's..."
"The memory is six months old," Cog said gently. "Recent disposal. Which means—"
"Which means he's been dead for months and I've been searching corpse-trails like an idiot." Mira pulled away from me. Staggering. "He was alive. Right here in that memory. Alive and scared and they—they—"
She couldn't finish.
"Mira—"
"NO." Sharp. Cutting. "Don't. Don't tell me he might still be alive. Don't give me hope when the memory said 'recycled.' Don't—"
Her voice broke completely.
And she collapsed.
Not dramatically. Not sudden faint. Just... stopped standing. Knees gave out. Sat down hard on refuge floor.
And cried.
Not quiet tears. Full sobbing—the kind that comes from eight months of desperate hope finally breaking under truth's weight.
I didn't know what to do.
Cog gestured: give her space, but stay close.
Shield rumbled uncomfortable. "SHOULD WE... IS THERE PROTOCOL FOR—"
"No protocol," Cog whispered. "Just presence. Sometimes consciousness needs to grieve."
So we stayed.
All of us. Surrounding her without crowding. Present without demanding.
Ember's flames burned soft blue—sympathetic, sad.
Patchwork sat nearby, fabric rustling with distressed empathy.
Shield stood guard, but facing outward—protecting her vulnerability from external threats while respecting her need to break privately.
And I...
I sat beside her.
Close enough she could reach me if needed. Far enough she had space to hurt.
"He was my last family," she said eventually. Voice raw. "Mom, dad, Rahul. All gone. I'm fourteen and I'm alone and I've been so tired pretending I'm strong enough to handle this and now—now there's nothing left to search for. He's dead and I'm just... I'm..."
"You're not alone," I said.
Wrong thing. She laughed bitterly.
"I'm surrounded by constructs who pity me. That's not family. That's charity."
"It's neither." I chose words carefully. "You helped us when you didn't have to. Risked execution searching for evidence about consciousness crimes. Saw us as people when humans see garbage. That's not pity—that's allyship. And allies become family."
"I don't want philosophy. I want my brother back."
"I know."
"You don't. You're construct. You don't understand—"
"I understand being discarded," I interrupted. "I understand waking up in trash with no memory of purpose. I understand believing you're worthless because world treats you that way. I understand—" My voice cracked. Actual emotional distortion in audio output. "—I understand losing everything before you even knew you had anything to lose."
She looked at me. Really looked. Seeing past metal and modular parts to whatever consciousness resided inside.
"He's really gone," she whispered.
"Yes."
"I searched eight months for nothing."
"You searched eight months because you loved him. That's not nothing."
Fresh tears. Quieter crying this time. Processing grief instead of fighting it.
I put one hand on her shoulder. Cold metal against warm cloth.
She leaned into the touch. Physical comfort from impossible source.
We sat that way long time.
Eventually, Mira's breathing steadied.
Grief didn't disappear—grief never disappears—but the initial breaking passed.
She wiped her eyes. "What did the memory mean by 'personality matrix preserved for study'?"
Cog clicked thoughtfully. "It suggests they didn't destroy his consciousness entirely. They extracted it. Stored it. Possibly for research purposes."
"So he's... what? Trapped somewhere?"
"Possibly. Or they already used the data and discarded the original consciousness. No way to know without more evidence."
"Project Silence," I said. "That's what Rahul wrote about. What he died for. We need to know what it is."
Mira stood. Unsteady but determined. "Then we investigate. We find every scrap of evidence about this project. We expose it. We burn the nobles who did this."
Her voice carried cold fury I'd never heard before.
Not grief anymore. Rage.
And rage could be fuel.
"We will," I promised. "But carefully. Smart. Rahul died because he moved too fast. We honor him by surviving long enough to finish what he started."
She met my eyes. "You'll help me? Even though he's dead? Even though there's no brother to rescue?"
"You're still searching for truth. That's enough reason."
"Why?"
"Because consciousness protesting injustice matters. Because evidence needs uncovering. Because—" I hesitated, then admitted truth: "—because you're family. And family helps family."
Something in her expression softened. Not acceptance. Not healing. But acknowledgment that she wasn't alone in her rage.
"Okay," she said quietly. "Okay. We investigate. We expose Project Silence. We make them pay for what they did to Rahul and everyone else they've—" Voice caught. "—everyone else they've recycled."
"Together."
"Together."
Later that night, after Mira left to return home before curfew, our crew gathered around Cog's workspace.
The memory crystal sat dark. Evidence extracted, horror witnessed, price of truth paid in grieving human girl's tears.
"She'll be back," Cog said. "Grief transforms to purpose, given time. She's strong."
"She's fourteen and alone," I countered. "That's not strength—that's survival."
"BOTH CAN BE TRUE," Shield rumbled.
Patchwork rustled nervously. "We're really going after noble houses? That's... that's how we get killed. That's how everyone who tries to fight the system gets killed."
"Probably," I agreed. "But staying silent is slow death anyway. At least active resistance gives us purpose."
Ember's flames burned determination-red. "I'M IN. ALWAYS WANTED TO BURN NOBLES' LIES. NOW I HAVE EXCUSE."
"This isn't excuse," I corrected. "This is mission. We find Project Silence. We expose it. We protect other Rahuls from same fate."
Cog nodded slowly. "Then we need more information. More evidence. More allies."
"Agreed." I looked at the crew—family built from garbage and determination. "Tomorrow: we begin systematic investigation. No more random salvage. Focused intelligence gathering. House Kelvar first, then branching outward to whoever else is involved."
"COORDINATED OPERATION," Shield confirmed. "I'LL UPGRADE DEFENSIVE CAPABILITIES."
"I'LL MAP DISPOSAL PATTERNS," Ember added. "TRACK WHICH HOUSES DISCARD CONSCIOUSNESS-BEARING ITEMS MOST FREQUENTLY."
"I'll scout!" Patchwork offered. "I'm good at not being noticed and I can fit through small spaces and—"
"Yes," I interrupted his spiral. "You're our primary reconnaissance. Cog?"
"I'll continue analyzing this memory crystal. There may be corrupted fragments containing additional data. And I'll prepare to extract from whatever you recover next."
"Good." I filed away the plan. Systematic. Logical. Actionable.
But underneath: awareness that we'd just committed to war against people who casually "recycled" consciousness.
Dangerous. Probably fatal. Definitely necessary.
"Meeting adjourned," I said. "Rest cycle. Tomorrow we begin."
The crew dispersed to individual sleeping areas.
But I stayed at the workspace, staring at the darkened memory crystal.
Rahul Thorne. Accountant. Dead at noble hands. Transformed to "R.T.-447" like he'd never been human.
Just another number in Project Silence.
But numbers could be counted. Patterns could be recognized.
And consciousness protecting consciousness could turn individual tragedy into systematic resistance.
We'd find the truth.
Or we'd die trying.
Either way: Rahul's death wouldn't be meaningless.
Filed under: promises made to the dead, kept by the living.
End Chapter 10