Ever since the Rusting began, most metal substitutes have proven themselves to be lesser than their original counterparts, except for door hinges. It was in the tenth year of the Rusting that the rubber manufacturing company Bandton partnered with the government of the Division of Humanity’s new Bioship transportation arm to distribute rubber door hinges throughout the known universe. Of course, this attempt to corner the market was overcome by independent citizens simply manufacturing their own rubber door hinges. Among these citizens who manufactured their own door hinges was the now-deceased Hadel Cusack, whose door is currently being smashed down by his friend Nadeden. She breaks it off its hinges in two well-placed kicks.
“We don’t have much time,” Nadeden says, entering Hadel’s home. Smith stumbles behind her, inexperienced with his awkward, unbalanced legs. How does she walk so effortlessly, even with that wooden leg? Smith wonders, sitting down on the nearest chair, leaving Nadeden to scavenge the house. “The man in charge of those people I killed, Fiskesjef, he’s going to be very upset once he figures out I’m still alive, and Fiskesjef-” She pauses, noting a gap in the floor. “Is a man who does very stupid things when he’s upset. Thank you, Hadel.” She whispers the last part to herself, lifting out a large floorboard, causing the others around it to fall into a chasm containing multiple large airtight containers. Smith gets up. Stumbling over to view the containers, he winces at the familiar runes on them that appear to be nothing but simple ones and zeros. “Well?” Nadeden questions, “Are you going to start building? Hadel couldn’t do this because he didn’t have the tools, but you do, right?”
This is metal? Smith thinks, his thoughts feeling almost as loud and all-consuming as the world around him. His senses are drowning him. This new body is unnatural; these perceptions are unnatural. In becoming human, he finds himself feeling entirely inhuman. This metal that was once me, that was once my function to summon into reality. Now lies before me untarnished by the unknowable horror that took my very sense of self. He wearily leans down, rubbing his virgin hand against the container. Dragging the coarse skin over the uneven stone, his thoughts return to him, And yet the metal returns to me, beckons me, perhaps… The conclusion warms him; perhaps the Forge did survive! He looks back at Nadeden. He has determined that if she discovers he cannot build, she will kill him, and he must live to see the Forge again. Smith forms a hasty plan. “It’s not enough.” He blurts out unconfidently.
Nadeden glares at him, confused and frustrated. “What do you mean it's not enough?” She points toward the largest box, stating in an accusatory tone, “An engine is right inside there.”
Smith feels his body warm again, but it is not the comforting warmth that the thoughts of the Forge gave him. It is a threatening, ominous warmth that seeks to burn his unknown heresy at the stake. A lump grows in his throat. A lump that he transforms into his salvation. “It’s still not enough. There are certain parts I need, like transistors, that just aren’t here.” Although Smith thought up the problem, Nadeden seems to have bought into it. She sighs, “Alright, fine.” She rises from the floor, covering up the containers before moving further into the house. “We need to get out of here anyway.” She states while opening a door to a rather small room. Smith stays with the containers. Removing his hand from them takes an amount of mental effort he’s never exerted before. A slight pain touches his heart. A pain he knows may never heal.
A set of cloth flies into Smith’s face as he stands. “Put those on,” Nadeden orders, still moving about the house. Smith unfurls the cloth, which he discovers to be a thick sweater and a set of workers’ pants. Nadeden passes by Smith, forcefully taking back her cloak before he can even notice that it's off him. She then moves back into the room she came from, a rugged satchel now lying across her shoulder. Smith studies the pants first, running his lanky sticks of fingers across the stringed waistband. He twists and stretches the fabric before he finally slides it on his legs. He then picks up the sweater. The unfamiliar material sends a mental shock through his body. He clenches his teeth, finally recognizing that he possesses them only for that sensation to bring discomfort to him as well. Nadeden exits the room again, impatience radiating off of her. Smith takes a deep breath, swiftly placing the sweater over his body. “What is it?” She asks, bothered by the expression of distaste that Smith is unaware his face is portraying, “Oh, it feels, uh, a little weird.” He stumbles on his words while clawing at the sweater, which itches his skin. “What are you talking about? It looks like it fits.” Nadeden states, heading for the door now. “I met on me the way it feels against me.” Nadeden looks back in confusion. Smith sighs, aware that he has no other options for clothing. He snatches a blanket off the nearest chair to shield his head from the rain before stepping outside with Nadeden.
The pair walks in silence for hours. The relentless downpour and eternal flames lying on the horizon are their only form of company. Smith is beginning to enjoy the way rain feels on his skin. He likes the way the small droplets stretch downwards on his fingers before dropping to the ground, and the way the large droplets simply splash, leaving large pools of water that stain him. However, he is still thankful to have his face covered. He knows that the water could seep into his eyes and overtake them. Yet so many things are already overtaking him, things like guilt. “Did you have to kill those people?” Nadeden is unfazed by Smith’s question, giving a rather indifferent response: “They wanted to kill Hadel and us; luckily, they were only able to get Hadel. If I didn’t kill them, we’d be dead along with him.” Smith gasps, “Luckily?” Nadeden puts the same amount of thought into what she says next as dirt puts into becoming mud. “Luck keeps us alive, kid, better him than us.”
Smith stops walking, revolted by Nadeden’s heartlessness. His thoughts turn back to the pile of burning bodies. With the image of their melting flesh clear in his mind, he bends his head down. The rain runs off his hood to join the mud below. He begins to whisper his litany, “Life is precious, life is all, I shall not raise my hand. I would weep for the dead if I had tears to shed.”
Nadeden is already twenty steps away from Smith before she notices that he is no longer following her. “Life is precious, life is all, I shall not raise my hand,” Smith repeats his litany as Nadeden groans and walks over to him. “I would weep for the dead if I had tears to shed. Life is precious, life is all, I shall not-” “What are you doing?” Nadeden scoffs, interrupting Smith. He glances up at her and then back down to the ground to continue where he left off, “Raise my hand. I would weep for the dead if,”
“Stop that!” Smith stomps the mud at the interruption, giving his best attempt at a defiant yell while keeping his eyes on the ground, “NO! People just died, I need to speak the litany of life, and now that I have a body, I should cry for them too!” Nadeden rolls her eyes and sighs at Smith’s tantrum. Grabbing him by the shoulders, she swings her wooden leg backward before slamming it straight into Smith’s crotch. She removes her hands from Smith’s body as he curls over in pain. “Cry over that.” She taunts, turning away to continue walking.
Although it takes some time, Smith eventually stands to reluctantly follow Nadeden. “Where are we going?” He asks, still disoriented from the pain. “To a village with materials you can use to build a ship for me.” Her answer only reminds Smith that he is living on borrowed time. “How far is it?” “Very.” That answer reminds him that he can prolong his time.
Nadeden suddenly halts, reaching into her satchel to pull out a near-ancient plastic flask with a crude illustration of a female Martian etched into its side. Nadeden takes a quick swig from the flask. The action pushes the bandana over her left eye ever so slightly to reveal the scars and burns surrounding it to Smith for just an instant before she pushes it back into place. Now with her newly bandaged palm, she hands the flask to Smith. This Nadeden woman has so many scars. She cut her own hand open so that I could survive. I wonder if she got those other scars trying to keep other people alive, too, but that wouldn’t make sense. Would it? She seems quite heartless otherwise. Nadeden wiggles the flask in front of Smith’s eyes, snapping him out of his trance. “Don’t worry, it's not toxic to humans like the rainwater; it's purified.” Smith takes the flask and, absent-mindedly, gulps down nearly half of the water before handing it back to Nadeden. She gives him a look of disgust. “You know we only have so much ri- Shit!”
Smith is sent flying into a nearby ravine by Nadeden. She tackles him without warning.
“Stay down and stay quiet,” she whispers the command, pulling out her bow while kneeling up just enough to view something in the distance. The creaking sound of a Grogrung-drawn carriage drags itself over the ravine, coming just close enough for Smith and Nadeden to view without its passengers spotting them. One of the passengers is a child who busies themself with a doll comprised of straw stuffed into a rather small sock. The front wheel of the carriage bumps over a rock, freeing the doll from the child's grasp and dropping it into the ravine. The child’s cries echo behind the carriage as it plows onward. Smith gets up, moving over to where the doll has landed. “Hey, wait!” He shouts, running up to the carriage with the doll in hand. “You dropped this,” Smith says, handing the doll to the child who is now being comforted by their parents. The Mother of the child thanks Smith while Nadeden walks up behind them.
“The Scorched Archer?!” The Father shouts after spotting Nadeden. He wrestles the reins of the Grogrung away from the Coachman and speeds off before any more pleasantries can be exchanged. Smith holds his eyes on the speeding carriage, unsure of what exactly just happened. “The people on this planet don’t exactly like me.” Nadeden explains, “You should have listened to me. There was no reason to help them; it was just a toy anyway.”
She continues marching onward once she’s finished her scolding of Smith.
“Why don’t they like you?” Smith asks, still standing where the carriage once was. Nadeden stops walking for the final time. “There was a war. A long one.” Although Smith already presumed this, the despair hidden in Nadeden’s voice leads him to keep digging. “How long?” he says with a swallow of hesitation. “Half a century.” Although he’s unsure if he should push further, Smith asks another question: “Is it over?”
“It ended twelve years ago, when the Rusting was unleashed and the Republic and Division of humanity were forced to declare a ceasefire because of it.”
Nadeden’s answer only leads to more questions: “The war was only between humans?”
Nadeden cracks a smile. “Is that any surprise?”
“The Rusting is that what-” Before Smith can continue, Nadeden answers, “The Rusting is a bioweapon that destroys all metal it comes into contact with. No one knows how it spreads. So far, it’s made its way to every inhabited planet that we know of. And-”
Smith’s eyes lock with Nadeden’s as if a sudden understanding just occurred between them.
Before she even says the words, Smith knows that she fully intends to murder the man who made the Rusting and that he is the same man who burned her and her village.
It is in that moment that Smith sets a new goal for himself.
He must prevent Nadeden from killing again.