rockr

Robertson tries to speak again, but is once again interrupted by violent coughing.

When the coughing finally stops, Robertson raises the hand that he used to bang on the bed and reaches into his shirt.

After some searching, he takes out a small plastic bag filled with money.

Money...?

For me?

(Nods)

I can't possibly accept this, Mr. Robertson!

(Slaps the bed)

No, I really can't.

I could keep it safe until we find your family—

(Shakes head frantically)

But...

Robertson gazes at Rockrock with pleading eyes, but balks at her determination.

He gives up.

He wants to sigh, but he cannot.

He lets out his breath, and reaches into his shirt again, taking out a stained envelope.

Envelope... a letter?

Sure, I'll deliver it. But the money—

(Bangs on the bed)

That's not what you mean?

Rockrock turns the envelope over. The writing on it has long become faded from being soaked in sweat:

Rockwell settlement, 600 pounds.

Rockrock's eyes open wide.

Robertson pulls open the bag with his last remaining strength, spraying the contents all over the floor.

Ten-pound notes, five-pound notes, one-pound notes, even coins.

No settlement money would have been issued this way. It was money saved up, pence after pence.

It was what Robertson got himself beat up by the Sarkaz for.

...Mr. Robertson?

There is no response.

As befitting of a laborer, Robertson died silently, having used the last bit of strength in his body.

Another morning comes to the aging light industry district.

The effect of the Sarkaz work ban can be seen in the crowds of workers headed towards the factories in the dim light of dawn.

The Sarkaz sent people to keep an eye on them at first.

But they soon realized that they were like the walking dead, completely silent on their way to work. They never cross the line, even if no one is watching.

The Sarkaz have stopped sending people to monitor the workers, freeing up the manpower to deal with resistance to their rule in other districts.

Poverty and hunger make the best overseers.

What's... that?

...A drone?

A patchwork drone flies towards them.

Its bay doors open as it flies over their heads, dropping several bills.

Money?

The drone glides over the workers' heads, dropping bills and coins over them like a bizarre snow.

It was equal to the amount of settlement money that a laborer could get after working half his life.

Six hundred pounds.

Search the place!

We got the location of their hideout just this morning! They can't have gotten away so quickly!

Sir, there's no one here. They didn't even leave behind anything, except this.

A box of parts? Just on the table like that?

Shoot a bolt into it. See if there's a trap.

Yes, sir!

Sounds like an empty box, sir!

Open it!

The Sarkaz opens the lid of the box carefully.

There is no bomb, no poison, not even a dagger for demonstration.

Inside the box is an old envelope that has been rolled into a ball.

The overseer spreads it out. There is nothing in the envelope; a piece of it has been cut away neatly.

Still unconvinced, the overseer raises it against the dim light and examines it for a while.

Other than the old stains, there are only a few teardrop marks on it.

Years Later...

Huh? It's not the first time you've handed out money?

Yeah, I don't remember how many times I've handed out extra money. It's not like I have any use for it.

Really? Well then, I'll, er, help myself. Thanks.

You're welcome.

But that's a strange habit. Why did you start doing it? When was the first time you gave someone money?

The first time?

It was just after the Self-Salvation Corps was formed. I helped an old colleague of my dad's—

Rockrock looks up at the lead-grey sky, thinking about where to begin.

She catches a glimpse of a new building by the roadside, one that feels rather out of place with the decrepit scenery around it. At the top of the building is a bright neon sign:

'United Originium Industries Londinium Industrial Revival Headquarters'