Chapter 8

“The Working Girls”

Amsterdam died slowly, resembling a body drowning in its own fluids. The famous canals that had once drawn tourists by the thousands now lay stagnant, thick with industrial runoff and bloated with the dead. Each ripple released bubbles of gas that burst with the sweet-sick smell of decay, a stench that coated the back of the throat with the metallic bitterness of old pennies and the rancid stench of rotting fish. Pleasure boats rotted at their moorings, their hulls eaten through by chemicals that turned the water into rainbow-slicked poison. The constant drip-drip-drip of toxic condensation from the rusted moorings played a hollow percussion against the water's surface, a rhythm that spoke of slow dissolution.

The old coffee shops and brothels had been converted into resource stations, their windows clouded with the same greasy film that coated every surface in the city. The coffee-scented warmth and laughter that once spilled onto these streets had been replaced by the mechanical whir of air processors and the endless chorus of wet coughs.

The Red Light District still lived, though it reeked of desperation instead of desire. Its narrow streets pulsed with rekindled neon that hummed and sputtered, running on whatever dregs of power the failing grid could spare. Red light signs painted the perpetual drizzle crimson, the light catching in the toxic mist staining the sky with a crimson haze.

Elara stood alone beneath the wheezing air vent, remembering the first time she'd found Anne behind one of the resource distribution centers six weeks ago. The girl had been crouched beside a dead woman, methodically searching the corpse with trembling but precise movements. When her fingers closed around the small mirror in the woman's hand, something in those careful, determined motions had reminded Elara of herself at that age—before the world had finished teaching her its cruel lessons.

"There's easier ways to earn food than this," Elara had said, watching the girl startle as if she were a wounded animal. In the harsh light from the distribution center's spotlights, Anne's hollow cheeks and fever-bright eyes had spoken of the same lung rot that plagued everyone who breathed Amsterdam's poisoned air. But there was still innocence there, a spark that hadn't quite been extinguished. It had stirred something protective in Elara's chest, an emotion she'd thought long dead.

In the weeks since, Anne had become the daughter Elara never had, and Elara the mother Anne had lost to the toxins in the tulip fields. They shared what little food they could find, huddling together beneath this same vent that had become their sanctuary. Anne would listen with rapt attention as Elara taught her about survival in the dying city, absorbing each lesson, desperate as a flower drinking the last clean rain. And sometimes, in the quiet moments between the endless coughing fits, Elara found herself wondering if this was what it felt like to have someone to protect, someone to guide through the world's horrors.

The neon lights flickered and sputtered. Elara watched a rat gnaw on something that might once have been human—another victim of the daily violence that had become as common as breathing. Most windows stood dark now, their glass clouded with the same poisonous film that coated everything in the city. Only the Ultimate Dive recruitment signs burned steady, their holographic promises casting an eerie blue glow across cobblestones slick with perpetual damp.

Elara pulled her thin jacket closer against the chill that crept through the narrow streets, heavy with industrial toxins from the failing air processors. The district had changed since the collapse. Gone were the tourists and casual gawkers, replaced by the desperate seeking warmth or simply a few hours of forgetting in a world grown cold and cruel.

Through gaps in the ancient buildings, a body floated face-down in the murky water, ignored by passersby—another statistic in a world that had run out of room for compassion. The famous coffee shops and bars had been converted into processing centers, their windows plastered with recruitment posters for the Ultimate Dive. "Your death could save humanity," they proclaimed in cheerful holographic text that never dimmed.

Anne huddled close beside her, auburn hair darkened by the perpetual drizzle, her thin frame shivering in clothes that had been threadbare even before the collapse. Her wide blue eyes darted between the shadows moving through the haze, each potential client a mixture of threat and survival. The illness was visible in the way she held herself, shoulders tight against the wet cough that came with breathing Amsterdam's poisoned air.

"Are you sure you're ready to do this?" Elara asked softly. The air from the vent tasted of copper and chemicals, but it was better than the throat-burning smog that blanketed the rest of the city.

"I think so. You’re right, this is the best way for me to earn rations." Anne's laugh was bitter, edged with desperation. "The port's too toxic since the containment breach. The processing centers won't take me. Even the filtration plants in Westpoort have waiting lists a thousand names long." She pulled up her sleeve, revealing track marks from the experimental treatments they'd tried at the resource centers—dark lines that looked like dying veins traced across her skin. "You know what happened when I tried working the converted tulip fields. Three days in the contaminated soil and I was coughing blood." She gestured toward the towering resource distribution center that dominated the skyline, its harsh spotlights cutting through the permanent haze. "I haven't eaten in three days, Elara."

As she spoke, her fingers found the tiny mirror in her sleeve—no larger than a child's palm, its silver backing elaborately etched with whorls that caught the neon light. The glass was impossibly clear despite the world's perpetual grime, as if it held some pure memory of better days.

The man who emerged through the darkness moved with the entitled swagger of authority, his bulk made more imposing by the environmental suit he wore—the kind reserved for port officials and their favorites. An expensive assault rifle hung at his side, its polished surface a stark contrast to the decay around them. His filter mask caught the neon light as he studied them, steam rising from his vents, the clean filtered air a luxury that made Elara's damaged lungs ache with envy.

"Hey there, pretty thing," he slurred, reaching for Anne with gloved hands that could afford to be clean in a world of grime. Through his mask's filter, his voice had the metallic edge of privilege—the sound of someone who'd never had to breathe the same poisoned air as the rest of them. "What do you say we have some fun, yeah?"

Anne's fingers tightened around the mirror, knuckles white against its worn silver backing. She smiled the way Elara had taught her, but her eyes betrayed her terror. "Just... be gentle, okay?"

The man laughed, the sound distorted by his mask's filter into something inhuman. "Gentle? No, where's the fun in that?" His gloved hand clamped around Anne's wrist, the material creaking as he tightened his grip. The bones beneath her paper-thin skin shifted visibly, drawing a whimper of pain.

"Let her go!" Elara stepped forward, heart pounding. The ache in her lungs flared with the sudden movement, each breath feeling like swallowing shards of glass. She'd seen enough people die from the same wet cough, the same copper taste in their mouths, to know what it meant. The resource centers had stopped even pretending to treat people like her months ago—they saved the medicine for those who could afford clean air.

The man turned, one hand dropping casually to his rifle as annoyance flashed behind his mask's lenses. "Mind your own business." His other hand rested meaningfully on the ration card scanner at his belt—a reminder of the power he wielded. In a world where water and food had become currency, men like him were kings of their own small, violent domains.

"I... I'm fine," Anne stammered, but her voice trembled, frail and unsteady. The mirror slipped from her trembling fingers into her sleeve as the man dragged her toward one of the few buildings that still had power, its windows glowing a sickly red through the smog.

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"Wait! Stop!" Elara moved to follow, but her legs betrayed her. The wet cough that had been growing worse with each passing week erupted from her chest, bringing up flecks of blood that caught the neon light, glinting with the deep red of rubies. By the time the spasms subsided, they had vanished into the building's shadows, heavy boot prints trailing through the grime-slicked cobblestones.

The world narrowed to the sound of Elara's own ragged breathing as she forced herself toward the building's entrance. Each step felt like moving through water, the weight of her failing body fighting against the need to reach Anne. Red light from the broken windows above painted patterns across the wet street, resembling blood dissolving in rain. The same patterns she'd seen too many times before, when clients turned violent, when desperation won out over humanity. The silence from above pressed down like a physical weight—no screams, no pleading, just the mechanical whir of failing air processors and her own wet coughs echoing off ancient brick. The building's entrance gaped before her, a yawning void, swallowing what little light remained.

The stairwell reeked of mold and human misery, years of damp having eaten away at the walls until they wept black tears of rot. Elara's boots stuck slightly with each step, the ancient wood creaking beneath the film of grime. The building's power might still work, but no one had maintained anything else in years.

She heard it before she saw it—the rhythmic thud of a body being slammed against the wall, punctuated by desperate, hitching gasps for air. The official's laugh echoed down the stairwell, made hollow by his mask's filter. Elara forced herself forward, using the wall for support as her lungs burned with each breath.

The door to the room hung crooked on its hinges, red light from the broken window painting everything in shades of blood. Inside, Anne dangled a foot off the ground, her toes barely scraping the floorboards as the official's gloved hands crushed her windpipe. Her face had already begun to darken, the capillaries in her eyes rupturing one by one, tiny crimson stars blooming across the whites. Her tongue protruded slightly, turning purple at the tip as blood vessels burst beneath its surface. Her fingers had torn strips from his environmental suit, leaving dark streaks across its pristine surface, but now they just twitched weakly at her sides. The mirror had fallen from her sleeve, spinning across the filthy floorboards until it caught the neon light from outside.

"That's it," the official crooned through his filter, watching her face as the blood vessels ruptured. "Fight it. Makes it so much better when you fight." His gloved thumbs pressed deeper into her throat, the material creaking as it compressed the delicate structures beneath. Anne's eyes had gone completely red now, resembling polished garnets in her darkening face. A thin line of blood traced from her nose, joining the saliva that dripped from her open mouth.

"Let her—" Elara's warning dissolved into another coughing fit. She stumbled forward, reaching for them, but her legs gave way. She fell hard, tasting blood—her own this time.

The mirror spun one final time as Anne's boots kicked in their final convulsion. Her bladder released, adding the sharp scent of urine to the room's miasma of violence. Each involuntary jerk grew weaker until finally, with a soft click that might have been her hyoid bone snapping, Anne went limp. The official held her there a moment longer, watching through his mask as her eyes bulged from their sockets, how her tongue had swollen black between her teeth.

"Stupid whores," he muttered, letting her body slump to the floor. His boot came down on the mirror, but instead of shattering completely, a single piece broke free—spinning across the floor to stop at Elara's fingers. The rest crumbled to glittering dust beneath his heel.

He turned toward Elara, the red neon light reflecting off his mask. "Consider this a warning about minding your own business." Then he was gone, his boots leaving dark prints in their wake, the rifle once again slung casually at his side.

Elara crawled to Anne's body, her chest burning with each movement. The girl's eyes stared upward, blood-red and bulging, forever frozen in that final moment of terror. The bruises around her throat had already begun to darken, precise outlines of gloved fingers marking where life had been squeezed out of her. A thin stream of blood had dried beneath her nose, tracing a path across her blue-tinged lips.

Her fingers found the mirror shard, its edge sharp enough to draw blood. In its reflection, she caught a glimpse of her own face—tears cutting clean tracks through the grime, death working its way through her lungs with each breath. But something else too. Through the broken window behind her, the Ultimate Dive recruitment sign pulsed in the mirror's surface, its blue light seeming somehow clearer, more purposeful in the reflection. As if the shard was showing her not just what was, but what could be.

"Trade your death for humanity's future," the sign proclaimed in cheery blue text, the words reversed but perfectly legible in the mirror's surface. Elara gripped the shard tighter, feeling it bite into her palm. Let it bleed. Let everything bleed. She was dead anyway—the wet cough would see to that. But maybe she could choose how. Maybe she could make it mean something.

She stayed with Anne's body until the morning shift sirens wailed across the district, their sound dulled by the perpetual mist. No one would come to investigate—violence was too common in these rooms, and the official's environmental suit marked him as untouchable. Tomorrow, or the next day, someone would find Anne's body and add her to the daily collection. Just another corpse in a city that manufactured them by the hundreds.

Elara's legs shook as she stood, one hand pressed against the rotting wall for support. In the early light, the mirror shard caught something new—a glimpse of Anne's corpse that made her breath catch. The dead girl's face looked almost peaceful in the reflection, as if the mirror showed some other version of the night before. One where mercy still existed.

Seventeen days. That's how long until the official launch of the Ultimate Dive. Posters plastered across the district counted down the hours, their holographic numbers flickering like a digital heartbeat. Seventeen days to prepare. To decide.

She kept to her spot beneath the air vent, but something had changed. Clients noticed it—a new hardness in her eyes, a different kind of desperation than what they were used to seeing in the district. Some stopped coming altogether, sensing the shift in her. Others paid double, mistaking her quiet intensity for submission.

Two weeks had passed since Anne's death. No one had asked questions. No one had even noticed, except for the cleaning crews who'd disposed of her body. The official still patrolled the district, his environmental suit pristine again. Sometimes he would pause, looking her way, but she kept her eyes down, one hand pressed against her sleeve.

Her cough grew worse with each passing day. Blood flecked her lips more frequently now, and breathing felt like swallowing broken glass. But she held on. She had to, for Anne.

The days blurred together in a haze of survival. She took fewer clients, using the last of her stored rations instead. Each morning brought more recruitment propaganda, the processing center's screens cycling through promises of glory and salvation. Humanity's first Ultimate Dive loomed closer with each passing day.

The technicians worked behind the processing center's sealed doors, converting what had once been the Royal Palace's grand halls. The hum of their equipment carried across Dam Square, joining the usual sounds of the dying city. No one knew exactly what waited inside. Not yet.

The official made his rounds every third day. Same route, same time, same pristine suit. She mapped his patterns, noted which buildings still had power, which routes he took through the deteriorating streets.

Her cache of ration cards dwindled. The wet cough grew worse, each breath a reminder of her timeline. But she kept to her routine. Wake before dawn. Check the daily requirements posted on the boards. Watch the technicians come and go with their equipment, disappearing behind the center's heavy doors.

Sometimes in the pre-dawn hours, when the district's power grid cycled down and true darkness crept in, she could almost hear Anne's voice. Not begging for life or screaming in terror but humming that little tune she used to sing while cleaning their shared space. A folk song about Amsterdam's canals, from before they turned toxic. Those were the moments she gripped her sleeve tighter, letting the sharp edge beneath the fabric remind her why she was waiting.

Just five days before processing day, she’d learned his pattern precisely. The official always took the same route during graveyard shift, checking the narrower alleys where the more desperate girls worked. Tonight, she waited there, letting the wet cough she usually fought to hide rake through her chest. Each spasm was real enough—the blood she wiped from her lips no act.

He found her slumped against the grimy wall, exactly where she knew he would. His environmental suit gleamed in the neon light, pristine despite the perpetual drizzle that coated everything else. The rifle hung at his side, comfortable in its habitual place.

"Not feeling so good, are we?" The filter made his voice mechanical, amused. He moved closer, one hand already reaching for his belt. "Maybe we can work something out. Your kind always finds a way to pay, right?"

She let herself sag further, drawing him in. Made her breathing more labored, let blood drip visibly between her fingers. "Please... help me..."

His laugh crackled through the filter as he pressed against her. "Of course I'll help. That's what I'm here for." His gloved hands moved to his suit's seals. "Just like I helped your friend."

The shard slid from her sleeve into her palm. "You mean Anne?" She drove it up under his mask's seal, where the throat protection was weakest. The mirror's edge, honed against broken concrete for two weeks, parted the suit's material effortlessly, as if it were wet paper. Blood sprayed hot across her face as she twisted the shard, opening his throat in a wide crimson smile.

His eyes went wide behind the mask as he stumbled back, hands clutching uselessly at the wound. Blood poured between his fingers, soaking into his pristine suit. The liquid caught the neon light, turning it into abstract patterns across the white material.

"How..." he gurgled, the word distorted by fluid filling his throat.

She leaned close, letting him see her clearly. "Stupid whores, right?" The shard caught the light as she yanked it free. A fresh arterial spray painted the wall behind him. "Maybe we're not so stupid after all."

He tried to raise his rifle, but his hands were too slick with blood. The weapon slipped from his grasp, hanging awkwardly by its strap as his knees gave way. She watched him drown in his own blood, those precious, clean air filters slowly filling with red. His boots drummed a frantic rhythm against the street as his body fought for oxygen, then gradually slowed.

The official's mask had cracked when he fell. She knelt beside him, studying how his eyes bulged with the same terror she'd seen in Anne's face. His mouth worked silently, trying to form words that would never come.

"Shhhh," she whispered, wiping the bloodied shard clean on his suit. "Just let it happen. Fight it a little. Makes it so much better when you fight."

She stayed until the wet sounds stopped, until his eyes went as dull as Anne's had. Then she stood, tucking the shard back into her sleeve. Its edge was sharper now, tempered in his blood.

She didn’t run. Running would draw attention. Instead, she walked calmly through the district's dying lights, letting the perpetual drizzle wash the blood from her face. The few people still on the streets saw something in her expression that made them look away quickly, huddling deeper into doorways as she passed.

His body would be found soon enough—just one more corpse in the endless tally of the city.