The overseer writes. His lips move slightly—reading what he's writing maybe. "Artifact sensitivity confirmed. Mark for observation. Possible compatibility."
Looks up. "You'll be assigned to priority crew. Better rations. Better sites. You're valuable now."
Valuable. The word sits wrong. Like putting on clothes that don't fit.
"What if I don't want—"
The overseer's face hardens. Not angry. Just... final. "You're property. Want doesn't matter. But property that's valuable gets treated better than property that isn't. You understand?"
Property.
Del feels something cold settle in his chest. Spreading. Making his breathing shallow.
"I understand."
"Good." The overseer closes the ledger. "Survive long enough, you might be sold up. To whoever's buying. Traders, maybe. Salvage operations in better districts. Don't know. Don't care. Just know they pay good money for ones who don't die to artifacts."
He steps toward the door. Pauses. Looks back.
"I'm Kael. You'll report to me now. Priority crew assignments. Starting tomorrow. Don't disappoint me."
Opens the door. Leaves.
Del stands there. Alone in the small chamber. Dust still floating in the light beam.
Property.Valuable property.
Possible compatibility. Sold up.
Should feel relief. Better rations. Better sites. Better survival odds.
But I'm not property.
He's not a person here. Never was. Just... a resource. Something to be evaluated. Tested. Used. Sold.
But valuable property is better than corpse.
Better to be owned than dead.
What choice do I have? This is better than leaving. I'll leave when the time comes, when I have enough knowledge, enough leverage. I don't even know what artifacts are. This is best. I will climb.
The thought makes him sick. Actually sick—stomach churning, throat tight.
But what choice is there? Refuse? Die in the Dregs? That's the alternative.
Climb or die. Those are the options.
I'm climbing.
Hates that he's property and he's grateful to be valuable property.
He leaves the chamber. Returns to the warehouse. Workers are getting assignments. Markov is directing crews. His eyes find Del, hold for a moment. Something in his expression changes. Word spreads fast apparently.
The woman with brown eyes is near the distribution table. Getting her ration. The possessive man is with her again. Hand on shoulder. Proprietary. She's not leaning into him. Just... accepting it. Face blank.
She's not looking at Del. Looking at nothing.
Del gets his assignment. Not from Markov. From Kael.
"Section J. Priority retrieval. Report to designated crew. Better rations for completion."
Priority crew. Better rations.
Climbing.
He heads toward the assigned meeting point. Other workers there—maybe five of them. They look different from Silt Quarters workers. Less dead-looking. Better fed. Scars on their hands but not starving. Been doing this longer. Survived because they're good at it.
Or because they're valuable.
Like Del is now.
One worker—older, scarred across the forearm like something burned him—looks at Del. "You're the new sensitive."
Not a question. Statement.
Del nods.
"Stay close. Don't touch anything without clearance. You feel wrong, you back away. Priority crews get better rations but the work is harder. More exposure. More artifacts per site. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Good. Let's move."
They head into the ruins. Deeper than Del's been with regular crews. The path is different—more deliberate. These workers know the routes. Know which passages are stable.
The artifacts here are different. More of them. Glowing brighter. Multiple colors—blue, red, yellow, green. The wrongness is stronger. Del can feel it even from distance. The hum. The frequency shifts. All of it pressing against him.
This is what Kael meant. Artifact sensitivity. Del's hearing what kills people. And now they're using it. Using him.
Property. Valuable property.
He works. They reach a chamber—maybe twenty feet across, ceiling partially collapsed. Seven artifacts visible. Different sizes, different colors.
The crew leader points. "Check them. Which ones are safe?"
Del approaches the first one. Cylinder, glowing pale blue. Steady pulse. The hum is there but... calm. Regular. Not the chaotic wrongness that means death.
"Safe," he says.
Next one. Irregular chunk, red glow. The hum is wrong—stuttering, inconsistent. Like the one in Chamber C that killed the follower.
"Not safe. Unstable."
The crew marks it. Moves to the next. Del checks all seven. Identifies three safe, four dangerous.
They retrieve the three safe ones. Leave the dangerous ones. No casualties. Efficient. Professional.
Move to next site. Four more artifacts. Del checks. Two safe, two not.
By end of shift: seven artifacts retrieved. No deaths. No injuries beyond minor exposure symptoms—one worker has nosebleed, another is dizzy. But alive.
Better rations distributed at the end.
Del gets double portion. Bread that's actually soft—not hard, not days old. Meat that's not dried to leather. Water that's clean and full to the top.
Should feel good.
Tastes like being owned.
He eats anyway.
Starving to prove a point is stupid.
Because survival matters more than pride.
Property that doesn't eat dies and gets replaced.
The woman with brown eyes is visible in the distance. Sitting with the possessive man. Eating her small ration while he eats his larger one—he's bigger, gets more. She doesn't complain. Just eats what she's given. She's happy.
She's property too. A different kind of property, but still property.
Everyone here is property. Some valuable. Some not.
Del is valuable now.
Should be grateful.
He is grateful.
Somewhere in the ruins, that older woman is probably still teaching the girl to write. Passing on something. Building something that lasts beyond today. Del doesn't understand why that matters but it does.
Maybe some people still believe in more than survival.
He dreams of artifacts glowing and voices saying "property" and stairs that climb forever into gray sky.
---
Day twenty-four and Del reports to a different crew.
Not Markov's crew. Priority crew. Kael's assignment.
Six workers waiting at the meeting point. All older than Del—not in years necessarily, but in time survived. Scars on their hands, their arms. Eyes that have seen things. Bodies that are lean but functional, not starving. They get better rations. It shows.
They're watching him. Evaluating. Not friendly. Not hostile. Just... measuring.
The crew leader is standing slightly apart. Older—maybe fifty, hard to tell. Scarred across the face, the neck, the hands. Gray hair. Bent back like he's been carrying heavy things for years. But his eyes are sharp. Alert.
He's been doing this for years somehow. Survived when almost everyone dies. That means something.
Del approaches. Stops a few feet away.
The crew leader looks him over. Takes his time. Finally: "You're the sensitive."
Del opens his mouth. "I don't—"
"Don't care." The crew leader's voice is rough. Like gravel. "You're here on Kael's word. That means something or it means nothing. We'll find out which."
The other workers are still watching. Silent. Waiting.
"Prove it or die trying," the crew leader says. "Those are the options."
One of the workers—younger, maybe thirty, scarred forearms—speaks up. "We've been working together for two years. Three of us for longer. You're coming in fresh. Haven't earned position. Haven't earned trust."
Another worker: "Last new member lasted three days."
The crew leader points toward a section entrance. Dark passage leading down. "There's an artifact in that chamber. Bottom level. Retrieve it. Bring it back."
Del looks at the passage. Looks back at the crew leader. "Alone?"
"Alone."
This is a test. Obviously a test. The question is: what kind?
Hazing? Probably. Murder? Maybe. They want to see if he survives. If he's actually sensitive or just lucky. If Kael's assessment is right or wrong.
The crew is watching his face. Looking for fear. Hesitation.
Del doesn't give them either. Just: "How deep?"
"You'll know when you find it."
No more information. No guidance. Just: go or don't.
Del heads toward the passage.
Behind him, one worker mutters something. Another laughs quietly. They're expecting him to die. Or expecting him to come back empty-handed. Either way: failure.
The passage descends. Steep. Narrow. Del moves carefully—tests each step, watches for structural weaknesses. The darkness gets deeper. Light from above fades.
Artifact glow appears ahead. Faint. Red-orange. Pulsing slowly.
Del slows. Approaches carefully.
The chamber is small. Maybe ten feet across. Low ceiling. The artifact is in the center—sitting on what looks like a pedestal. Small, maybe the size of his fist. Smooth surface. Glowing red-orange from within. Pulsing like a heartbeat.
Del stops at the entrance. Observes.
The pulse is steady. Regular. Not the chaotic wrongness that means immediate death. But there's something... else. The hum is different. Not just frequency. Something about the pattern. Like it's... waiting.
He scans the chamber. Looking for dangers beyond the artifact.
Sees it.
Body. In the corner. Slumped against the wall. Been here weeks. Maybe longer. Clothes rotted. Flesh mostly gone. Skeleton with dried skin stretched over it.
Previous worker. Had to be. Sent here same as Del. Didn't make it back.
Del approaches the body carefully. Looks at it.
Young. Maybe Del's age. Hard to tell from the remains. Small build. Scars on the hands—salvage worker. One of them.
Last new member lasted three days.
This was him.
Del looks at the artifact. Looks at the body.
But I'm not him.