A layer of rust growing from me

Written by

March 17, 2025

The sound of my body awakens me. All my members ache, complaining in strident screams. I don’t feel rested. I feel cold. A cheap house in the outskirts like mine, that close to the frozen plains, cannot really heat you. The price of cheapness. The price of poverty.

I stand up from my aluminum bed. Nearly a luxury for someone like me, but nowhere close to the comfort of those dreamy heated mercurous-gold sheets… They say sleeping in one is like melting with your soulmate…

Oh, to bask in the heat, free from stiff members…

I don’t hear neither the bells of beginning nor the rustling of workers going to the forges. This moment is mine. Cold, lonely, eternal. At least long enough to take the time to check in the reflection of the walls the tendrils of my body, the tools of my arms… And the patch of rust on my head. The mark of decay.

DONG!!! Ding ding dingidigiding CLANK!

“Basking in the glory of light and heat, rise Ilmari, to the industrious day that we will build together!”

I must go to the forges.

[…]

“First step as a statue Kinarb! Or what will rest! Or better, what will rust!”

None of my seven arms and their respective hammers, blades, and hooks were able to remove the stain. May I afford a doctor? And now, Mologdog makes fun of my bad fate. We harvest laughter anywhere we can, don’t we?

“Don’t give me the cold face! We’ll be lucky to finish as rusted statues! Here, forget your mind and work!”

Its five-segment arms catch the handles of scorching hot caldrons without hesitation or visible effort, pouring molten metal in front of an army of hardworking Ilmari. Those arms are the longest of the forges. They are its pride and its fortune. Good choice… I receive my part of liquid. Mostly iron, with spicy calcium, magnesium for texture, and the occasional tasty cyanide. I’m not good enough to take care of noble metals.

I begin my work. I slice, I arrange, I mix, I forge, I assemble. Classic work for a cook.

“Looks tasty! Save some for me!”

Mologdog knows that it is impossible, but the compliment always brightens my day. Those plates are my pay, not my part. At least, the atmosphere of the forges is worthy compensation for the coldness of my nights. This is almost comfy if you forget the risk of falling in scorching-hot tanks or melting under tonnes of processed metal. And the noise. And the absence of a break room. And the crown of workers…

Anyway, cooking does not make me hungry anymore. But maybe better meals would help my rusting skin… At least, my ration of liquid alumiron will soften my stiff body.

[…]

“Still saving money instead of drinking Gallium with your friends?! Well, have fun rusting alone!”

Thank the light for friends…

A full day has passed again, made of roasted metal to feed the luckier, its conclusion the same as always. Syndicate speech: “Thank you, my friends! We made this day together, built from our efforts, our metal, and the vision of our leaders! We followed the path forged from our faith in ourselves! The Syndicate guides, so do not forget your fee!”

And I go home with what I was able to earn. Home in the cold, toward the colder. Moving away from the beautiful light of the source, toward the permanent darkness of the frost, is always draining a little part of my soul… Far from the fighting light, moving toward its enemy. Far from the forges which feed, toward the barren world, to rest then to rust…

As I walk, I’m feeling itchy. The patch on my head is sore, icy… I scratch it with one of my blades. It gets worse, painful. I scratch madly. Suddenly, I plunge the blade into the brittle oxide. A piece of my skull falls on the ground, decaying as I’m watching it. And spreading its plague to the metallic ground. I step back with shock, trying to run away, when I notice my blade covered with red spots getting bigger and turning into holes that eat at my arm, and my arms, and my body and my head, and…