The wind, tasting of metallic dust and distant, impossible heights, whipped around Tevos, tugging at the worn edges of his tattered cloak. He stood before a mound of fused scrap, barely discernible from the surrounding junkyard, yet it was a grave. A single, warped chassis plate, gouged with his mentor's name in clumsy, permanent marker, served as the headstone. Around him, the foothills of the Obolith, a monument of alien bone and gleaming alloys, speared the sky like a broken god, casting a perpetual shadow over the perpetual rust. He traced the crooked letters with a grimy finger, a ghost of a wry smile on his lips. “Fool,” he murmured, the word carrying more affection than disdain. “Always chasing the next glimmer, weren’t you? And what did it get you? A permanent residence in the refuse pile.” A sharp, insistent thrumming vibrated behind his eyes, a sensation like a bell ringing inside his skull. The air shimmered, the dull light of the perpetual overcast sky seeming to intensify. A cold, blue light flared in his vision, coalescing into stark, blocky text. [System Notification: Host Tevos Kymon has reached Maturity Threshold. Commencing Marking Protocol.] [Marking Protocol Complete. Granting Skill: Minor Appraisal (Rank: F-).] [Minor Appraisal: Allows user to perceive basic properties and values of inorganic matter.] He blinked, the blue text superimposed over the scrap-metal grave. “Maturity Threshold?” he scoffed, his voice tight. “So I’m finally old enough to be a System drone, huh? And ‘Minor Appraisal’? Is that the best you can do, you glorified spreadsheet?” The blue text pulsed again, drawing his gaze back to the marker. This time, a new line appeared, perfectly centered over the name. [Grave of a Fool (Material: Mixed Alloys, Earthly Origin. Condition: Deteriorating. Value: Negligible. Properties: Contains the remains of an un-Marked individual. Significance: Low.)] The words, stark and utterly devoid of warmth, felt like a physical blow. A fool. The old scavenger had taught him how to coax a spark from dead circuits, how to haggle with the most ruthless merchants, how to spot the faint shimmer of a valuable alloy amidst a mountain of dross. The man had once sworn the Obolith held answers, not just death. And the interface, in its infinite, alien wisdom, had reduced him to ‘negligible value.’ His cynical façade wavered, a raw, bitter ache blooming in his chest. “Low significance,” he repeated, the words tasting like ash. He kicked a loose bolt, sending it clattering across the uneven ground. “Is that what we all are to you? Just data points, easily discarded?” His mentor’s last warning drifted back to him, rasped through failing lungs: *“It doesn’t give, Tevos. It takes. Everything.”* A low scuttling, like needles scraping over pitted iron, dragged him from his thoughts. He spun, his hand instinctively going to the rusted pry-bar tucked into his belt. A dozen pair of eyes, tiny pinpricks of crimson, reflected the dull light from the shadows of a collapsed scaffold. They belonged to rust-crawlers, insectile vermin barely larger than his thumb, their carapaces the color of dried blood, their mandibles twitching toward the scent of slag. “Perfect,” Tevos muttered, a grim humor lacing his voice. “Just what I needed. F-rank pests to celebrate my F-rank skill.” One, bolder or hungrier than the rest, darted forward, its segmented legs a blur. It was a common sight in the junkyards, easily dispatched, but Tevos was in no mood for a fight. His gaze fell upon it, and on a whim, he triggered the new skill. He expected to see ‘Skittermite (Material: Chitin, Biological Origin. Condition: Hungry. Value: Zero.)’ or something equally unhelpful. Instead, a single line of blue text appeared above the creature, almost a whisper in his mind. [Primal Need: To Consume] He stared. Not stats, not value, but a need. A primal, fundamental craving. An idea, absurd and desperate, sparked in his mind. He reached into a pouch on his belt, rummaging past a bent circuit board and a handful of ferrous flakes. He pulled out a single, ancient, completely useless screw, its threads long corroded into indistinguishable rust. “Here,” he said, extending his palm. “Want a snack, little rust-eater?” The crawler paused, its crimson eyes fixed on the screw. Then, with a speed that belied its size, it snatched the offering. Its mandibles worked furiously, grinding the rust-encrusted metal to dust, devouring it with an intensity that bordered on reverence. A stitch of ice pinched the base of Tevos's neck. He felt a connection, faint but undeniable, to the creature. The creature stilled, its frantic legs locking in place. It raised its head, its tiny, multifaceted eyes, no longer just hungry, now held an unnerving, almost intelligent gleam. It wasn’t just looking at the source of food; it was looking at *him*. Then, from the surrounding scrap heaps, a thousand tiny red eyes began to glow, all fixed on Tevos.

The Value of Rust