AURUM EXTRACTION LTD. - WELLNESS ADVISORY Site: K-9 (“The Kennel”) Subject: Quarterly Health Metrics Review Status: DEFERRED (resource allocation pending) Note: Workers experiencing respiratory distress should report to Medical Bay during off-shift hours. Wait times currently average 4.2 hours. Productivity exemptions not available. Rest recommendations unpaid. Reminder: Your health is your responsibility. Wellness is productivity.

  [The medical bay smells like disinfectant and failure.]

  [Avyanna stands near the entrance, not quite inside. She’s escorting—if you can call it that. The woman leaning against her shoulder is named Tella, or was. Worker 394. She collapsed on Slurry 5, and the line foreman sent Avyanna to walk her here because Avyanna was closest and the foreman didn’t want to file a transport request.]

  [The medical bay is small. Six cots. Four of them occupied. The lighting is the same sick yellow as everywhere else, but here it feels more honest—like the light knows what it’s illuminating.]

  Tella: [voice thin] You can let go. I can stand.

  [She can’t. Avyanna can feel the tremor running through her, the way her weight keeps shifting like her legs are negotiating with gravity.]

  Avyanna: [flat] Sit first.

  [There’s no free cot. Tella lowers herself against the wall instead, sliding down until she’s on the floor. Her breathing is wet. The gold-lung sound. Everyone knows it.]

  [A medical attendant approaches. Not a doctor—the Kennel doesn’t have doctors. This one is maybe twenty-five, with eyes that have already learned not to see too much.]

  Attendant: [checking a tablet] Worker 394. Respiratory distress. Third visit this quarter.

  Tella: [trying to sit straighter] I can work. I just need-

  Attendant: [not unkindly, but not kind either] You need rest. I’m recommending forty-eight hours off-shift. Unpaid. Interest will accrue at standard rates.

  [Tella’s face does something complicated. Relief and terror, fighting for space.]

  Tella: I can’t afford-

  Attendant: [already moving to the next patient] The recommendation is logged. If you return to work before it expires, the recommendation is voided and medical liability transfers to you. Sign the waiver or don’t. Your choice.

  [Avyanna watches Tella’s hands shake as she signs. Her choice. As if any of it is a choice.]

  [The next cot over. A woman Avyanna doesn’t know by number. She’s lying still, staring at the ceiling. Her skin has the gray-yellow tint of someone the dust has already claimed.]

  [She looks thirty. She’s probably younger.]

  [A different attendant is checking her vitals. The tablet beeps. The attendant’s expression doesn’t change.]

  Attendant 2: [to the woman] You’ll need to stay overnight. Observation.

  Woman: [voice barely there] For what?

  Attendant 2: [beat] Observation.

  [The woman laughs. It turns into a cough. The cough goes on too long.]

  [Avyanna looks away. At the corner of the medical bay, there’s a machine-old, covered in dust, clearly non-functional. A label on the side reads: PULMONARY REGENERATION UNIT. OFFLINE. PARTS PENDING (Est. 18 mo.)]

  [Eighteen months. The label is yellowed. Cracked at the edges. It’s been there longer than Avyanna has been in the mine.]

  (They have the equipment. They just don’t have the budget. Or the budget exists, but it’s allocated elsewhere. Or it’s allocated here, but someone took it. The reasons don’t matter. The result is the same.)

  [She looks at the woman on the cot. At Tella against the wall. At the other three patients-all with the same wet breathing, the same gray skin, the same eyes that have stopped expecting help.]

  (This isn’t neglect. Neglect is accidental. This is a decision. Someone decided we’re not worth the parts.)

  [The medical kiosk speaks.]

  [It’s mounted on the wall—a simple interface, a screen with a face that isn’t quite a face. Not an AI citizen, not a person—just a diagnostic terminal with a voice synthesizer and a script. The features are simplified, generic. Designed to be reassuring without being helpful.]

  Medical AI: Worker 477. You are not currently scheduled for a medical appointment. If you are experiencing symptoms, please register at the intake desk. Current wait time: 3.8 hours.

  [Avyanna doesn’t answer. She’s not here for herself.]

  Medical AI: Worker 477. Your latest health metrics indicate respiratory function at 71% baseline. This is within acceptable parameters. If function drops below 60%, please report for evaluation.

  (Seventy-one percent. When did it drop below eighty? When did I stop noticing?)

  Medical AI: Wellness recommendation: Practice mindfulness breathing exercises to optimize remaining lung capacity. Guided sessions available at 15 ticks per module. Would you like to schedule a preventive consultation? Note: Preventive consultations are charged at 40 ticks per fifteen-minute interval. Payment in advance required.

  (Mindfulness breathing. For lungs that are 71% dead. They want to sell me lessons in how to breathe.)

  Avyanna: [flat] Not really.

  Medical AI: Understood. Your wellness is your responsibility. Have a productive shift.

  [The kiosk’s face flickers. A glitch in the display. Nothing more.]

  [Then it’s blank again. Waiting. Ready to dispense the next useless recommendation.]

  (The kiosk has all the data. It knows the numbers. It just runs the script anyway.)

  (Because it’s not a person. It’s a menu with a face.)

  [On her way out, Avyanna passes the intake desk. There’s a line. Seven workers waiting. Eight. Nine.]

  [A woman near the front is arguing with the desk attendant. Her voice is sharp, desperate.]

  Worker: My husband needs treatment. He can’t breathe. He’s been waiting since yesterday-

  Desk Attendant: [knife-patient] His priority score is calculated based on productivity impact and recovery probability. Currently, there are three workers ahead of him with higher scores.

  Worker: He’s dying.

  Desk Attendant: [beat] His current status is “critical-stable.” If his status changes to “critical-declining,” his priority score will be recalculated. I recommend checking back in four hours.

  [The worker’s face crumbles. She doesn’t argue anymore. There’s nothing to argue with.]

  [Avyanna keeps walking. Her footsteps echo in the corridor. Behind her, the medical bay hums with quiet, efficient neglect.]

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  [The debt terminal is in the commissary. A row of screens against the wall, where workers can check their “balance” during meal breaks. Most people avoid them. Looking at the numbers doesn’t change them. It just makes them harder to ignore.]

  [Avyanna stands in front of one. The screen is grimy, cracked in one corner. Someone has scratched “TRAP” into the metal frame, then scratched it out, then scratched it again.]

  [She presses her palm to the reader. The tag in her neck syncs. The numbers appear.]

  WORKER 477 - DEBT STATUS Previous Balance: 487,341 ticks Overnight Adjustment: +17 ticks (dormitory audit, standard) Current Balance: 487,358 ticks (debt) Daily Accrual Rate: 0.015% (compounding) Yesterday’s Interest: 72 ticks Yesterday’s Net Earnings: -17 ticks Projected Clearance Date: N/A (insufficient progress trajectory) Note: Balance has increased 2.4% over the past 30 days. Consider productivity enhancement opportunities.

  [N/A. Not applicable. The system has calculated that she will never pay it off. It’s not hiding it. It’s just noting it, like any other data point.]

  (Projected clearance date: never. They put it right there. They tell us.)

  [She stares at the numbers. Runs them in her head. The habit she can’t break.]

  (487,358 ticks. Plus seventeen overnight for “dormitory audit.” They charged me for sleeping. Interest at 0.015% daily means… 73 ticks today. Tomorrow, 73.1. The day after, 73.2. It compounds. It always compounds.)

  (If I worked a perfect shift every day-never sick, never slow, never injured—I’d earn maybe 55 ticks net. But the interest is 73. I fall behind by 18 ticks per day. Per day. That’s 540 per month. 6,480 per year.)

  (In ten years, I’ll owe 65,000 more than I do now. In twenty years, 130,000. And that’s if the rate doesn’t change. If they don’t add fees. If I don’t get sick.)

  (The math doesn’t allow escape. The math is the point.)

  [A worker next to her is checking his own balance. His face is blank. He’s seen the numbers before. They all have.]

  Worker: [not looking at her] How long for you?

  Avyanna: [not looking at him] Doesn’t matter.

  Worker: [flat] Eight years. That’s how long I’ve been here. Started with twelve thousand. Now I’m at four hundred thousand.

  (Eight years. He’s been here as long as I have. And his debt grew by almost forty times.)

  Worker: They adjust the rate, you know. When you get close to zero—when you’re almost out—they find something. An equipment fee. A safety violation. A health assessment charge. [beat] My buddy got within two thousand once. Two thousand. Then they hit him with a “routine audit adjustment.” Sixteen thousand. Just like that.

  [Avyanna doesn’t respond. There’s nothing to say.]

  Worker: [pushing away from the terminal] Good luck, four-seven-seven. Not that it matters.

  [He walks away. The screen blinks. Her numbers are still there. Waiting.]

  [She thinks about Bram.]

  [Fifty years. He’s been here fifty years. He started when the mine was new, when it was still called something other than the Kennel. He’s watched generations of workers come and go-mostly go.]

  (How is he still alive? The gold-lung should have taken him decades ago. The debt should have crushed him. The math should have-)

  [She stops. Reconsiders.]

  (Maybe the math is different for him. Maybe there’s something he knows. Something the rest of us don’t.)

  (Or maybe he’s just lucky. Maybe luck is the only thing the system can’t calculate.)

  (But luck runs out. Everyone’s luck runs out eventually.)

  [She presses her palm to the terminal again. The screen updates.]

  Productivity Enhancement Opportunity Available Voluntary overtime: +4 hours Additional earnings: 200 ticks (before deductions) Air premium (overtime): 30 ticks Equipment rental (overtime): 45 ticks Net overtime earnings: 125 ticks Note: Overtime shifts may impact recovery and future productivity. Health consequences are the responsibility of the worker.

  (One hundred twenty-five ticks. Four extra hours. I’d fall behind by only… negative 52 today instead of negative 73. That’s still negative. Still sinking. Just slower.)

  (They’re offering me the chance to work myself to death slightly less quickly.)

  [She declines the overtime. The screen chirps. Friendly. Helpful.]

  Productivity Enhancement Opportunity Declined Note: Declining voluntary opportunities does not affect your standing. However, consistent non-participation may be noted in quarterly reviews.

  (May be noted. In quarterly reviews. Which affect shift assignments. Which affect earnings. Which affect-)

  (Everything is connected. Everything is designed.)

  [She walks away from the terminal. The numbers stay behind. But she can feel them, following her like a shadow she can’t shake.]

  [The hab stack is quiet during second shift. Most of the bunks are empty-workers at their stations, earning ticks, falling behind.]

  [Avyanna should be resting. Conserving. But she can’t stop moving. The numbers are too loud in her head.]

  [She finds herself at Bunk 473. Empty. Cold. The bunk that was occupied yesterday, that is always occupied, that is now-]

  [She stops. Looks.]

  [The sheets have been stripped. The mattress is bare. The lockbox is empty, door hanging open. Standard procedure.]

  (Four-seven-three. The bunk Coil paused at this morning. The one with the cold sheets.)

  (Someone died. Someone didn’t wake up. And the system has already processed them out of existence.)

  [A worker passes behind her. Older. Thin. The kind of thin that comes from giving away food rations to someone who needed them more.]

  Della: [seeing Avyanna look] You knew him?

  Avyanna: [flat] Not really.

  Della: Bram. Fifty. Started coughing last month. [beat] Burned bright, that one.

  (Burned bright. Like it’s a compliment. Like making fifty and still dying in your bunk is an achievement.)

  Avyanna: [quiet] What does that mean?

  Della: [surprised] What?

  Avyanna: [still looking at the empty bunk] Burned bright. Everyone says it. What does it mean?

  [Della is silent for a moment. Looking at Avyanna like she’s said something strange. Something dangerous.]

  Della: [careful] It means he worked hard. Didn’t complain. Gave everything he had.

  Avyanna: [flat] Until it killed him.

  Della: [defensive now] It’s respect. It’s-

  Avyanna: Bram was killed.

  [The words come out before she can stop them. Three words. Too loud in the quiet hab stack.]

  [Della’s face goes pale. They look around-checking for supervisors, for cameras, for anyone who might be listening. Avyanna’s tag gives a small vibration against her neck. Acknowledgment. Logged.]

  (Stupid. Stupid. What did I just-)

  Della: [hissing] You can’t say things like that. You can’t-

  [Avyanna is already walking away. Her hands are cold. Her heart is too fast. The tag is warm against her neck, warmer than usual, and she doesn’t know if that means anything or nothing at all.]

  (I didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t-)

  [She leaves the hab stack. Behind her, the empty bunk waits for its next occupant. They’ll arrive by end of shift. They always do.]

  [Processing Hall. Slurry Line 7. The grinders are louder today, or maybe she’s just more aware of them. Every sound feels sharp. Every smell feels deliberate.]

  [She works. Hands moving. Eyes watching. Mind somewhere else.]

  (Bram. Fifty. The oldest person I’ve seen here. And the system still stripped his sheets before his body was cold.)

  (In five years, I could be the one in the empty bunk. The one they strip the sheets for. The one they call “burned bright” and forget.)

  (Unless something changes. Unless I find a way out.)

  (But the math doesn’t allow-)

  [She stops the thought. Pushes it down. Thinking costs. Hoping costs more.]

  [The slurry line pulses. Ore becomes dust. Dust becomes profit. Profit goes somewhere else, to someone else, for reasons that have nothing to do with the people who die making it.]

  [A supervisor walks past. Not Coil—a different one. He glances at Avyanna’s quota display, nods, moves on. She’s invisible again. Good.]

  (Don’t be noticed. Don’t stand out. Don’t be anything except a number.)

  (But I noticed Bram. I remember his voice. I know he’s gone.)

  (That has to mean something. Doesn’t it?)

  [It doesn’t. It can’t. Meaning is a luxury she can’t afford.]

  [She keeps working. The grinders keep grinding. The quota keeps climbing. The math keeps running.]

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