The Rust Study
926 Words
The council's vote was tied.
Two hundred and fifty for studying the Rust. Two hundred and fifty for destroying it. The five hundredth member—a woman from the Underbelly named Greer—abstained.
"I need more information," she said. "We all do."
The council looked to William.
He stood at the back of the arena, arms crossed, black sword at his hip.
"This isn't my decision," he said.
"You're the expert," Greer replied.
"I'm the survivor. There's a difference."
Greer walked toward him. She was young—maybe twenty—with short black hair and a scar on her forearm from the Rust plague.
"My brother died from the Rust," she said. "He was one of the first. Before you gave your blood. Before Marcus found his technique. He died alone, in pain, afraid."
William was silent.
"I want to destroy every trace of the Rust," Greer continued. "Burn it. Bury it. Forget it ever existed." She paused. "But I also want to make sure no one else dies the way my brother died. If studying the Rust can save lives, then maybe it's worth keeping."
"What do you want from me?"
"The truth. Not what you think we want to hear. The truth."
William looked at the council. At the five hundred citizens waiting for his answer.
"The Rust is not evil," he said. "It's not good. It's a force. Like fire. Like water. Like wind. It can warm your home or burn it down. It can quench your thirst or drown you."
He walked toward the center of the arena.
"The Saint used the Rust to destroy. The Council used it to control. My mother used it to heal. The Rust didn't change. They did."
He stopped in front of Greer.
"You want the truth? Here it is. The Rust will always exist. In the ground. In the air. In the blood of the Saint's descendants. You can burn it, bury it, forget it—but it will come back. It always comes back."
"Then what do we do?"
"We learn to live with it. Not in fear. In balance."
Greer stared at him for a long moment.
Then she nodded.
"I change my vote. The council will study the Rust."
---
Marcus led the research team.
He had been preparing for this moment since the rebellion—collecting samples, testing theories, training assistants. His workshop in the Core had grown into a small laboratory, filled with glass vials and steel instruments.
"The first step is understanding how the Rust interacts with human blood," he told William. "Your blood, specifically. You're the only living descendant of the Saint."
"Use whatever you need."
Marcus hesitated. "The tests might be painful."
"I've survived worse."
---
The first test was a simple blood draw.
William sat in a chair while Marcus inserted a needle into his arm. The blood flowed into a glass vial—dark red, almost black, thick as syrup.
"The Rust concentration is lower than last month," Marcus said, studying the vial. "Your body is metabolizing it. Slowly, but steadily."
"Will it ever go away completely?"
"Probably not. You'll always carry traces of it. But the hunger—the urge to kill—that should fade."
William looked at his arm. The needle hole healed within seconds.
"How long?"
"Years. Decades. I don't know."
"Long enough."
---
The second test was more dangerous.
Marcus injected a small amount of Rust spores into a lab rat. The animal convulsed, its skin turning black, its eyes clouding. Then Marcus administered a dose of William's blood.
The rat's skin lightened. Its eyes cleared. It stopped convulsing.
"It worked," Marcus whispered.
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm always surprised when science works."
William watched the rat scurry around its cage. "How long until you can test it on humans?"
"Months. Maybe years. I need to be sure it's safe."
"The people dying from Rust exposure don't have months."
Marcus looked at him. "You want me to test it on yourself?"
"I want you to test it on me."
"No."
"Marcus—"
"I said no." Marcus's voice was firm. "You've given enough blood. Enough pain. Enough sacrifice. Let someone else carry the burden."
"There is no one else."
"Then we wait."
William was silent. Then he nodded.
"We wait."
---
The waiting was harder than the fighting.
William watched the research progress in slow motion. Marcus ran tests, analyzed data, made adjustments. Each step forward was followed by two steps back. The Rust was unpredictable. Stubborn. Alive.
"The spores are evolving," Marcus said one evening. "Every time we think we understand them, they change."
"Like the Saint."
"Like the Saint."
William looked at the black sword on his hip. "The blade was forged from the Saint's blood. Maybe it can help."
"How?"
"The sword absorbs Rust. It always has. That's why it stayed dormant for so long—it was full. But I released the Saint's power. The blade is empty now."
Marcus's eyes widened. "You want to use the sword as a filter?"
"I want to try."
---
They worked through the night.
William held the black sword while Marcus directed the flow of Rust spores. The blade hummed, glowed, drank. The spores swirled into the metal, disappearing into its depths.
"It's working," Marcus said.
The sword grew warm. Hot. Burning.
William didn't let go.
The last spore vanished. The blade went dark.
Marcus checked his instruments. "The Rust is gone. Neutralized. Absorbed."
"How long will the sword hold it?"
"Days. Weeks. I don't know."
"Long enough."
- Writer
