The Living Cure
title: "The Workshop" wordCount: 2636
Finn doesn't look up from his workbench when Cass drops the salvage bag, just says, "You're coughing more than last week."
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. No blood this time. "You keeping a log?"
"Don't need to." He sets down the circuit board he's been examining and pulls the bag toward him. His fingers are clean, nails trimmed. Everything about Finn Osric is maintained. "You brought less."
"Market's picked over."
"Or you're spending less time in the deep sectors." He opens the bag and starts sorting components onto the scarred metal surface. Capacitors in one pile, wire coils in another. His movements are precise, economical. "Which means you're either sick or distracted."
Cass leans against the doorframe. The workshop smells like solder and machine oil. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, one of them flickering in a rhythm that sets her teeth on edge. "You done with the diagnosis?"
"Have you considered seeing medical?"
"Can't afford it."
"The Council provides—"
"Nothing's free." She watches him work. He's younger than she expected when Dex first told her about the maintenance tech who paid fair rates. Maybe twenty-five. Dark hair pulled back, forearms corded with lean muscle from years of hauling equipment. He wears the Council maintenance uniform like it means something. "You ever question what they tell you?"
His hands pause over a particularly corroded connector. "Who?"
"The Council. Your bosses. The people who decide what gets fixed and what gets left to rot."
"They run the numbers. Someone has to make those decisions."
"That's surface thinking."
Now he does look up. His eyes are gray, the color of recycled water. "You want to explain that?"
"You trust them because they wear the right uniforms and use the right words. But you've never asked what they're hiding."
"And you have?" He holds up the connector, examining it in the light. "This is from a sealed sector. You know the penalty for unauthorized access."
Her pulse kicks up but she keeps her face neutral. "Found it in a junction box. Public access."
"The corrosion pattern says otherwise." He sets it aside, separate from the other components. "But I'm not enforcement. Not my job to ask questions."
"Convenient."
"Practical." He continues sorting. "You brought me twelve items. I can give you forty credits for the lot, minus the connector. That one I can't process."
"It's worth fifteen alone."
"Not if it gets me flagged for receiving stolen goods." He meets her eyes. "Do you understand what you're asking?"
The way he says it, soft and measured, makes her want to hit something. Instead she coughs, turning away so he won't see if there's blood. Her ribs ache. The cough rattles in her chest like loose bolts in a container.
When she turns back, Finn is holding out a clean rag. Not his work cloth—something from his personal kit. She doesn't take it.
"Forty credits," she says.
"Thirty-five without the connector."
"Done."
He pulls up the payment interface on his tablet, transfers the credits to her account. The transaction takes three seconds. Everything in the Council systems is efficient. Everything is tracked.
"You should really see medical," he says again.
"You should really question your orders."
The words land harder than she intended. Something shifts in his expression, there and gone before she can name it. He turns back to his workbench, starts cataloging the components for inventory.
Cass pushes off the doorframe. She's halfway to the corridor when he speaks.
"What if we're both right?"
She stops. Doesn't turn around. "About what?"
"Maybe I should question more. And maybe you should trust someone enough to get help before whatever's in your lungs kills you."
The fluorescent light flickers. Hums. Cass touches the dog tags under her shirt, feels the metal warm against her skin.
"Doesn't matter," she says, and walks out.
She makes it ten meters down the corridor before Finn's supervisor arrives.
Ganz is built like a storage container—square and solid, with a face that suggests he's spent forty years breathing recycled air and resenting every minute of it. He carries a tablet in one hand and a coffee bulb in the other, both held with the same casual disregard.
"Osric," he barks into the workshop. "Got an assignment."
Cass flattens herself against the wall, trying to look like she belongs in the maintenance sector. Ganz doesn't even glance at her. She's just another scavenger, another piece of the station's background noise.
Finn appears in the doorway. "I'm scheduled for the water reclamation audit."
"Reschedule it." Ganz pulls up something on his tablet, squints at the screen. "Filtration sensors in Sector 7 are showing impossible readings. Particulate counts that don't match any known contaminant profile."
Cass's breath catches. She forces herself to stay still, to keep her face blank.
"Impossible how?" Finn asks.
"If I knew that, I wouldn't need you to investigate." Ganz takes a long pull from his coffee. "Could be a sensor malfunction. Could be something in the air system. Either way, Council wants it checked before end of shift."
"Sector 7's been sealed for three years."
"Which is why the readings don't make sense." Ganz finally looks at Cass, his gaze sliding over her like she's a maintenance issue he hasn't decided whether to fix. "You still here?"
"Just leaving." She pushes off the wall, starts walking.
"Wait." Finn's voice stops her. "You know Sector 7's layout?"
Every muscle in her body goes tight. She turns slowly. "Some of it."
"The junction maps are outdated. Half the corridors aren't marked correctly." He looks at Ganz. "I'll need a guide. Someone who's actually been in there recently."
Ganz shrugs. "Your call. Just get me a report by 1800."
He walks away, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, leaving Cass and Finn standing in the corridor with the fluorescent lights humming overhead.
"You volunteering?" Finn asks.
She should say no. Should walk away right now, find another route to the sealed door, one that doesn't involve a Council maintenance tech watching her every move. But the security officer she spotted earlier is probably still out there, and going back to Sector 7 alone means going back without cover.
"Twenty credits," she says.
"I just paid you thirty-five."
"That was for salvage. This is for expertise."
He considers this. Nods. "Fair enough. Meet me at the Sector 7 access point in twenty minutes. And bring a respirator."
"I've got one."
"Bring a working one." He disappears back into his workshop.
Cass stands in the empty corridor, her blood pounding against her ribs. The sealed door is in Sector 7. The handprint is in Sector 7. The symbol pointing to Archive Station Seven is in Sector 7. And now the Council is sending someone to investigate filtration anomalies in the same sector, at the same time they're asking about her.
Coincidence or trap.
She touches the dog tags under her shirt. Eli used to say that coincidences were just patterns you hadn't figured out yet.
The corridor stretches in both directions, identical panels and identical lights and identical air that tastes like metal and recycling. Somewhere in this station, someone knows she found the door. Someone knows she took photos. Someone is watching.
She starts walking toward the Sector 7 access point, counting her breaths, counting her steps, counting the ways this could go wrong.
The security officer is still there when she reaches the equipment lockers.
He's standing across the corridor, pretending to check something on his tablet, but his eyes track her movement. Young, maybe twenty-two, with the kind of face that hasn't learned to hide what it's thinking. He's nervous. That makes two of them.
Cass pulls her respirator from her pack, checks the filter cartridge. It's older than it should be but still functional. She clips it to her belt and starts sorting through her other gear, moving slowly, giving the officer time to make his move.
He doesn't approach. Just watches.
She's pulling out her headlamp when Finn arrives, carrying a sensor array and a toolkit that probably costs more than she makes in a month. He's changed into field gear—reinforced coveralls, heavy boots, a respirator hanging around his neck.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Yeah."
He notices the security officer. Frowns. "You know him?"
"Never seen him before."
"He's been watching you for the last two minutes."
"Maybe he likes what he sees."
Finn doesn't smile. He walks directly toward the officer, his stride confident, his posture suggesting he has every right to be here and ask questions. Cass stays by the lockers, her pulse kicking up.
"Can I help you?" Finn asks the officer.
The officer straightens. "Routine patrol."
"In the maintenance sector?"
"Security doesn't need to explain patrol routes to maintenance." But his voice wavers slightly. He's following orders, not initiative.
"Fair enough." Finn turns back to Cass. "Let's go."
They walk toward the Sector 7 access point together, their footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. Cass doesn't look back but she can feel the officer's eyes on her spine, tracking her movement until they turn the corner.
"You're in trouble," Finn says quietly.
"That's surface thinking."
"Someone's watching you. That's not thinking, that's observation."
The access point is a heavy door marked with yellow hazard tape and a biometric lock. Finn presses his palm to the scanner. It beeps, flashes green, and the door grinds open on hydraulics that need maintenance.
The air that rolls out is cold and stale, carrying the smell of dust and something else. Something organic and wrong.
Finn pulls on his respirator. Cass does the same. The world narrows to the sound of her own breathing and the view through the scratched plastic visor.
They step through the door into Sector 7.
The corridor beyond is dark except for emergency lighting strips that cast everything in red. The walls are covered in dust, the floor marked with footprints that could be days old or years old. It's impossible to tell.
Finn activates his sensor array. The screen lights up with readings that make him stop walking.
"What is it?" Cass asks. Her voice sounds muffled through the respirator.
"The particulate count." He turns the screen toward her. "It's not just high. It's increasing. Like something's actively releasing contaminants into the air."
"Could be a leak."
"From what? This sector's been sealed. No active systems, no pressurized lines." He starts walking again, following the sensor readings deeper into the corridor. "Have you considered that maybe the Council sealed this sector for a reason?"
"I've considered it."
"And you came here anyway."
"I had my reasons."
He glances at her. Even through the respirator, she can see the question in his eyes. But he doesn't ask. Just keeps walking, keeps checking his sensors, keeps leading them deeper into the red-lit darkness.
Cass counts the turns. Left, right, straight for thirty meters, left again. She knows where they're going even if Finn doesn't. The sensor readings are pulling them toward the sealed door, toward the handprint, toward whatever is behind that barrier.
Her tablet is in her pack. She can feel its weight against her hip, can feel the photo stored in its memory like a secret that's burning to get out.
They round another corner and Finn stops so suddenly she almost runs into him.
"There," he says.
The sealed door is exactly where she left it. Heavy metal, no markings, the biometric scanner dark and dead. And on the surface, visible even in the red emergency lighting, the handprint.
Finn approaches slowly, his sensor array held out in front of him like a shield. The readings spike as he gets closer.
"The contamination is coming from behind this door," he says. "Whatever's in there, it's leaking into the ventilation system."
Cass stays back, watching him work. Her heart is hammering so hard she can hear it over her respirator's breathing filter.
Finn examines the handprint without touching it. "Someone tried to access this recently. The dust pattern is fresh."
"How recent?"
"Days, maybe. Hard to tell in a sealed environment." He pulls out his tablet, starts taking photos. "I'll need to report this."
"To who?"
"My supervisor. The Council. This is a security issue now."
"What if they already know?"
He lowers the tablet. "What are you talking about?"
"The security officer. The timing of this assignment. The fact that someone's watching me right after I—" She stops. She's said too much.
"Right after you what?"
The corridor is silent except for the hum of the ventilation system and the sound of their breathing. Cass can see the symbol next to the handprint, the three intersecting lines that point to Archive Station Seven. She can see Finn's eyes on her, waiting for an answer.
Her tablet vibrates against her hip.
She pulls it out, checks the screen. An anonymous message, no sender ID, just text that makes her blood go cold.
Stay away from Sector 7. They know you were there.
Finn is saying something but she can't hear him over the rushing in her ears. She looks up from the tablet, looks at the sealed door, looks at the handprint that might be Eli's.
"Cass." Finn's voice cuts through. "What does that say?"
She shows him the screen.
He reads it. His face goes still behind the respirator. "We need to leave. Right now."
"No."
"This isn't a request. Someone knows we're here, someone knows you've been here before, and that message is a threat."
"I'm not leaving."
"Then you're an idiot." He grabs her arm. His grip is strong, urgent. "Whatever you think is behind that door, it's not worth dying for."
She pulls free. "You don't know what it's worth."
"Then tell me."
The words are right there, pressing against her teeth. My brother. The handprint. The symbol. Archive Station Seven. Everything the Council doesn't want anyone to know about the Bloom.
But Finn works for the Council. Finn follows orders. Finn runs the numbers and does what the moment requires.
"I can't," she says.
Something changes in his expression. Not anger. Something worse. Disappointment.
"Fine." He turns back to the door, raises his sensor array. "But I'm documenting everything. The handprint, the contamination readings, the message. All of it goes in my report."
"They'll bury it."
"Maybe. But at least there'll be a record."
He starts taking more photos, more readings, his movements quick and efficient. Professional. Cass watches him work and realizes she's made a mistake. She thought she could use him as cover, thought she could control the situation.
But Finn Osric isn't a tool. He's a variable she didn't account for.
Her tablet vibrates again.
She looks down at the screen, expecting another threat. Instead there's a new message, this one with an attachment. A photo.
She opens it.
The image shows a corridor she doesn't recognize, somewhere deep in the station's lower levels. And in the center of the frame, standing in front of another sealed door, is a man with a scar on his left hand.
The same scar pattern as the handprint on the door in front of her.
The same scar Eli had from the time he caught his hand in a cargo loader when he was fifteen.
The timestamp on the photo is from yesterday.
Cass's hands start shaking so hard the tablet almost slips from her grip. She looks up at Finn, at the sealed door, at the handprint that might be her brother's.
"We need to go," Finn says again. "Right now."
But Cass is already moving, not toward the exit, toward the door. She presses her palm against the biometric scanner even though she knows it won't work, knows the system is dead.
The scanner flickers. Beeps once.
Flashes green.
The door starts to open.