Vence stands in the center. Looks down at Del.
"Twelve containers," Vence says. Voice loud. Projecting. Everyone hears. "Two are confirmed pure. Already tested. Already KNOW they're clean."
He pauses. Lets it hang. The crowd is silent. Listening.
"The other ten—you CLAIM they're pure. From sealed chambers. Old-world water."
Another pause.
"Prove it. I choose three. You purify them. Everyone watches. Everyone SEES. If it works—"
He gestures broadly. Taking in the whole crowd.
"—your service starts. Clean water. Two rations per container. Starting today."
The crowd murmurs. Low. Hopeful. Scared.
"If it doesn't work—"
Vence looks at Del. Doesn't finish. Doesn't need to.
His hand goes to his belt. Where a knife sits. Visible.
Del nods. Can't speak. Throat too dry. Tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Vence walks around the circle of containers. Slow. Examining each one.
Del tries to see which ones look worse. Which ones Tam marked with dirt and loose seals.
But from where he's sitting—ten feet away, one working eye, morning sun blinding him—he can't tell.
Needs to get closer.
Tries to stand. Gets his left leg under him. Pushes.
The broken rib shifts. Grinds against something soft. Lung probably.
He gasps. Vision goes white. Complete. Like someone turned off the world.
Falls.
Hits the ground hard. His shoulder. His hip. The rib crunches.
Can't breathe. Can't see. Just: white pain.
The crowd explodes.
"—can't even stand up—"
"—this is pathetic—"
"—Vence, just KILL him—"
"—waste of time—"
"—we're all going to die waiting for THIS—"
Bodies pressing closer. The smell overwhelming. Fifty people leaning in. Some laughing. Some angry. Some just: watching. Waiting for him to die right here.
Hands on him. Tam. Pulling him up.
"Come on," Tam whispers. Desperate. Scared. "You have to stand. You HAVE to."
Del's vision comes back. Slowly. Gray. Blurry. Black spots everywhere.
Tam gets him upright. Standing. Barely.
Del's leg is shaking so badly the tremor is visible. The crowd can see it. The three-minute limit already ticking. Thirty seconds gone? A minute?
He hops forward. Each hop sends the rib grinding. Each hop makes his vision blur.
Gets closer to the circle. Five feet away now.
He can see the containers better. Some have dirt on the outside. Grime. Fingerprints. Some have clean seals that catch the light. Some have seals that look... wrong. Crooked. Loose.
Tam's work.
But Vence is circling them. His hand hovering over each one. Considering.
Del needs to get closer. Needs to touch them. Feel for the scratches on the bottoms.
"I need—" His voice cracks. Comes out as a wheeze. He tries again. Louder. "I need to PREPARE them."
Half the crowd probably didn't hear him. Too quiet.
"For the ritual," Del continues. Forcing volume. His throat burns. "Position them CORRECTLY."
Vence stops. Looks at him.
"You don't touch them until I choose."
"The energy—the ALIGNMENT—" Del's voice breaking. Wheezing. "They need to be—"
"NO."
Vence's voice cuts through. Final.
"I choose. THEN you work. That's the deal."
Del's chest tightens. The rib pressing harder. Can't get enough air.
Can't identify which ones are pure from here. Can't touch them to feel for scratches. Can't influence the choice.
Vence reaches for a container.
His hand lands on one in the circle. Lifts it.
Clean-looking. Seal intact. No visible dirt.
Good sign. Maybe.
Sets it in front of Del.
Reaches for another.
This one has dirt on the outside. Visible grime. The seal looks loose. Crooked.
Tam's marking. Diluted.
Vence pauses. His fingers on the container. Examining it.
Frowns. "This one looks damaged."
Sets it back. Reaches for a different one.
Clean. Intact. Seal perfect.
Sets it with the first.
Two chosen. One more.
Del's leg is shaking worse. Two minutes gone. Maybe more. His vision graying at the edges. The broken rib grinding with each breath. Small wet sound. Wrong.
Blood in his lung maybe.
Vence circles the containers again. Slow. Deliberate.
His hand hovers over a clean one. Moves to a dirty one. Back to clean.
The crowd is silent. Watching. Fifty people holding their breath.
Vence's hand settles on—
"WAIT!"
Everyone turns. Bodies shifting. Necks craning.
A woman's voice. Middle of the crowd. Not front. Somewhere in the mass of bodies.
Lira.
"We should CHOOSE!" Her voice cutting through. Loud. Clear. "Not just HIM! We're the ones DRINKING this!"
The crowd stays silent for a heartbeat.
Then: murmurs. Bodies shifting. Uncertain.
"—yeah—"
"—she's right—"
"—we're paying—"
A few people nod. Hesitant. Looking at each other. Considering.
The murmurs get louder. More voices joining.
"—we should pick—"
"—our rations—"
"—why does HE decide—"
The crowd is building. Slowly. Bodies pressing forward. The smell intensifying as people move. Sweat. Fear. Hope.
Vence turns. Scans the crowd. Can't see who spoke. Too many people. Too much movement.
"This is MY decision," Vence says. Voice loud. Hard.
"YOUR decision?" Lira again. Louder now. Pushing. "We're PAYING for this! Our RATIONS! Our LIVES!"
More voices now. Louder. Overlapping.
"—yeah, our money—"
"—we should choose—"
"—let us PICK—"
The crowd swelling. Bodies pressing closer to the center. The guards stepping forward. Hands on clubs. Watching for violence.
Someone shoves someone else. Accidentally or not. Bodies stumbling.
"—move—"
"—get off—"
The noise building. Not individual voices anymore. Just: wall of sound. Fifty people shouting. Demanding. Scared. Angry. Desperate.
Vence's jaw tightens. He's losing control.
Del watches from the center. The crowd a wall of bodies around him. Pressing in. The smell overwhelming. The noise making his head throb.
Lira's plan is working. The crowd is responding. Building. Demanding choice.
Then: another voice. Cutting through.
Male. Loud. Cold.
"QUIET, woman."
The crowd doesn't go silent immediately. Still murmuring. Bodies still shifting.
But the voice carries. People turn. Looking.
Garrett.
He pushes through from the back. Bodies part fast. Don't want to be near him. Creating space.
He reaches the middle section. Scanning. Looking for the voice.
Sees Lira. Standing among others. Trying to stay anonymous. Blend in.
But he knows her voice.
His face doesn't change. Just: walks toward her.
Bodies scramble to get out of his way. Creating empty space around her. Leaving her isolated.
Exposed.
He stops in front of her.
Lira's face—
Her mouth opens. No sound comes out.
Her hand goes slack. The metal piece she was holding drops. Hits the ground. Small metallic sound. Lost in the noise.
Her body flinches backward. Like he struck her. Like his presence is physical impact.
Her eyes wide. Pupils dilated. Face draining of color. Not pale. Bloodless. Gray.
Like watching someone die standing up.
"This isn't your concern," Garrett says. Voice low. But everyone hears. The crowd going quiet now. Watching.
Lira's mouth moves. Trying to form words. Nothing comes out. Her throat working. Swallowing. Choking on air.
The space around her grows. People stepping back. More. Creating a circle. Like she's contaminated. Dangerous.
Someone mutters: "—that's Garrett's—"
Another voice: "—what's she doing—"
The crowd shifting. Not toward her. Away. Bodies withdrawing.
Her fingers move toward the ground. Toward the dropped metal piece. Shaking so badly she can barely reach.
Garrett doesn't touch her. Doesn't need to.
Just: looks at her.
She stops moving. Hand frozen halfway to the ground.
Straightens slowly. Leaves the metal piece there. In the dirt.
Backs away. One step. Two. Bodies parting to let her retreat.
She doesn't look at Del. Can't. Just: retreats into the crowd. Disappearing. Trying to vanish.
Garrett watches her go. Then turns back to Vence.