“We're being watched,” Uri frets.

The forest has eyes. The pair tread carefully, close to tip-toeing, eager to avoid confrontation with any unseen creatures. The dangers of the forest lurk out there in the undergrowth, stalking alongside the wagon rut trail, biding until the perfect time to strike. A patch of thistles twitches as they pass and Ava flinches. She wishes she hadn't left her gun behind – it might have made her feel safer even without any bullets.

“Feels like we're completely surrounded,” she whispers, “like if we stepped off the path we'd just be overwhelmed with enemies.”

“And yet they don't attack,” Uri notes, puzzled, “as though the road is strictly off-limits.”

It's another example of the world behaving the way a game might.

If we're just finishing the tutorial, Ava thinks, then this must be a zone for newbs.

She wishes she could stop having thoughts like that. Thoughts that treat potentially dangerous situations as if they're simply aspects of a video game. Is this how Scum get started? If she continues to indulge these fantasies will she become a twisted cyborg creature? Or is this merely some kind of coping mechanism? She might be inventing a new world, one where she has some control.

Or it could just be that everything happening to her is all genuinely part of some elaborate game, and in that case she has one major advantage:

If this world isn't actually real, she might be the only one who knows.

The Sun finally pulls itself up over the distant horizon. At first light the village comes into view beneath a pale sky: lumpy mud-walled hovels and ramshackle shanties with thatched roofs. Ava and Uri follow the wagon ruts to a tall wooden gate which has been left wide open. The palisade surrounding the town is coming down from neglect, gaps created where entire stakes have collapsed and been left to rot in the mud. There is no guard posted. Instead, a starving goat greets them at the gate, bleating hungrily.

“Well that's...” Uri pauses to survey the general state of decay. “...some kind of welcome.”

The wagon ruts become an uneven gravel thoroughfare into the center of the village. The pair pace along carefully, keeping to the shadows, still unsure and uneasy over how they will be received. There are some signs of life: the aroma of greasy breakfasts being cooked, a knot of dogs fighting for gray scraps in the alley behind the butcher's shop, and even at this early hour the sounds of men drinking—hollering and cussing and clanging their cups—echo along the sleepy thoroughfare, emanating from the public house.

“What do you think?” Ava asks, indicating the pub with a nod.

“Pretty early for anybody to sound that drunk,” Uri says, “might be able to gather intelligence more easily on account of their loose tongues.”

“Yeah but we're just kids,” she says, “I mean I don't feel like a kid and you don't really act like one but still that's all anyone is gonna see. You think we can just walk in there and start asking questions?”

“Maybe we could find a trench coat and you could climb up on my shoulders.”

“Yeah let's keep that plan on standby,” Ava smiles, “I think I have another idea.”

“Sir?” She says to a fat drunk at the bar. “Have you seen our father?”

“Maybe,” he grunts, “what's his name?”

“Bach Jadeson,” Ava fibs, “he's about six feet tall, two-hundred fifty pounds, I'd guess, stocky. And he has a beard.”

“Never heard of him.” He turns his back, returning to his liquid breakfast.

“That was your plan?” Uri whispers close to her ear, incredulous.

“Yeah,” she whispers back, “but hey at least we're inside. Let's try to lay low and see what we can learn about this town – if anything.”

The pub is lit with candles and torches ensconced along the wall. There seems to be no electricity, as far as Ava can tell. The furniture is all wood-crafted and the bar itself is crooked – or perhaps the entire floor is askew, slowly falling into a sinkhole. A staircase leads upstairs and a sign above the bar indicates rooms are for rent by the hour, day, or week but there are no listed prices.

Ava scans the establishment for signs of what they might even use as currency but comes up empty. No one at the bar has tipped their tender and the poker players wager with plastic chips. She keeps her hand hidden in her pocket—it just seems wise—she doesn't see any immediate indication these villagers are familiar with modern technology. Same as the rest of the town, the pub is like something out of the dark ages.

The patrons might all be regulars, lining the bartop or sat at tables, drinking their breakfasts, some engaged in tense poker showdowns, others consumed with smoking some sweet smelling herb. Their clothes are drab and dirty, even the barkeep, whose smock is stained with whiskey and jelly and dark spots of grease. The establishment smells like bacon and beer with subtle undertones of old throw up.

“This place is depressing,” Uri whispers.

“You're right,” Ava says, “I don't think we're going to learn anything here, let's move on.”

They head for the door but before they can reach it a man bursts through, shirtless and slick with sweat, sucking wind.

“The mine's been opened!” He shouts, repeating at maximum volume and with great emphasis upon each individual word: “The. Mine. Has. Been. Opened!”

The pub is suddenly utterly silent. One man drops his pipe and the bowl spills and he cusses and falls to his knees in a vain attempt to salvage something from the floor. Two others jump up from their seats, abandoning their breakfasts to exit with urgency and without words. Ava and Uri exchange a nervous glance. They scoot back against the wall, trying to be small so they can eavesdrop.

One of the bar's other patrons—a man wearing a doe-skin duster with fringe along the forearms—approaches the sweat-slicked screamer with a full mug of mead.

“Joffi,” he says, firm and authoritative, “you gotta calm down. Breathe, man. Drink up and tell me what you've seen.”

“I was riding out for the morning inspection, as I'm tasked to do daily,” Joffi pants, eagerly accepting the mead. He takes a gulp before continuing. “You know like Remmick told me to, and when I got there the mine door was just wide open.”

“Did you see any Scum?” A nervous voice asks from the bar.

“I did not.”

“Well that's good,” says the man who gave him the mead, “go home and get some rest, I'll let Remmick know about the mine. I'm sure it's nothing.”

“Alright, sounds good.” He begins to leave but hesitates. “Maybe just one more drink first. To help me sleep.”

“Sure thing.” The man in the doe-skin duster claps him on the shoulder. “You closed it up, right?”

“Yeah, I did – but I think we should have extra patrols until Horst can come and make sure his feckin' lock holds this time. I thought he was supposed to be the only one with the password.”

“We should have collapsed the damn thing!” shouts some drunk.

“We tried,” says the man in the duster, “but if we'd used any more charge we might have brought the mountain down on us. Could've wiped out the entire village – you know the cure can't be worse than the disease.”

“Whoever opened that mine,” Joffi pauses, “well, you know the penalty.”

“They have to hang.”

“We should leave,” Uri whispers to Ava, “now.”

“Yeah, you said it.” They weave through the anxious patrons, angling once more for the door. But now two more men come charging in, anger in their eyes.

“Joffi!” shouts the first, shoving his way inside. He's a fat man in filthy overalls. “You shit-brained drunk, what are you doing? Trying to start a panic?”

As he pushes toward Joffi he shoves Uri out of the way and the boy loses his balance. Instinctively Ava reaches to try and catch him but it all happens too fast and he thuds to the floor on his rump.

The pub issues a collective gasp.

“Look!” Joffi shouts. “Look at her hand! That girl there is Scum!”

All Ava can do is shake her head, “no.” She can't get a single word out before the man in the doe-skin duster snatches her by the wrist of her cybernetic hand. He frowns hard and stares into her eyes, looking for something—signs of humanity or monstrosity—and Ava stares back, and there, in the pupil of his eye she sees:

“Ostby Channing,” Ava mutters, thoughtlessly repeating what she's seen.

“What?” Ostby says, incredulous. “How do you know my name?”

“I'm sorry,” is all Ava can say. She doesn't know how to explain.

“Who are you?”

“She's Scum, Deputy!” A drunk at the bar slur-shouts., but Channing barely seems to register it, he's so intensely focused on Ava.

“Deputy...” Ava whispers.

“Are they right?” he asks, “are you Scum?”

“No,” Ava replies at once.

“You don't seem like Scum,” he says, still studying her face. Then he holds up her metal hand and winces with disgust. “But we'll let Remmick decide.”

“Who's Remmick?” Uri asks. Two men snatch him up under the armpits. He kicks the air but it's hopeless, they're grown men, too strong.

“Remmick's the Law,” says one of his captors.

Like the pub, the jail is a dilapidated building, its roof sagging and windows without glass. But the iron bars are solid and strong enough – they aren't budging. Ava and Uri sit on a cot, shoulder-to-shoulder. The Sheriff, this man named Remmick, plops himself down on a stool in the walkway outside their cell. He's the least filthy citizen they've seen, his shirt even has a collar and creases. He wears a narrow-brimmed Stetson and black leather boots with spurs like he's cosplaying a cowboy. His face is clean shaven but for a thin crust of mustache on his upper lip.

"What are you going to do with us?" Ava asks.

"You opened the mine?” It's more of an accusation than a question.

"Yes," Uri admits, "but we were trapped inside. Had been for some days, maybe. Hard to say."

"Well, here's the trouble: the penalty for entering the mine is execution. Horst said it had to be that way. We have to be harsh – there's a fortune trapped in there and a lot of these townies ain't got shit to lose but their lives.” He laughs. “Still though, who has the stomach for a child-hanging? I think we'd better just let Horst decide what we should do with you. Maybe he'll have mercy."

"Who's Horst?" Ava asks.

"Horst is a great man,” Remmick begins, “he invented the Scum-proof door and he just gave it to us. Didn't ask for a thing in return. He made sure the Scum would stay inside forever because he cares for the people here. Hell, there might not even be a Cripple Creek anymore if it wasn't for Gregor Horst."

"We didn't see any Scum," Ava says, "and we were down there for awhile."

The Sheriff slides his stool right up next to their cell.

"Come here," he commands, and she obeys. "Give me your hand."

"Okay," Ava says, offering it for his inspection. He seizes it and holds it in front of her face, suddenly shaking with anger.

"Didn't see any Scum?" he jeers. "Then how'd you get this?"

"You can't possibly think she's—" Uri begins.

"Explain it, then!” Remmick barks, “because I can't. And it makes me sick seeing a kid with such profane implants.”

"She's not Scum."

"And like I just said," Ava reiterates, "there were no Scum in the mine, either – as far as we saw. We did meet a giant mechanical worm, though. I think it was some sort of mining equipment."

"Could have been left over from before the caves became infested."

"It wasn't always locked up?" Ava asks.

"Of course not. That mine was our way of life. We worked it for generations, working with our neighbors in Victor where their smiths hammered it into everything we ever needed,” Remmick recalls, “but then the Scum showed up. Started raiding the town; killing anyone who set foot in the mine. Everything changed. Turned to shit. Nowadays we can't even fashion nails to repair our homes without melting down shovel heads and cook pots. I've got zip-ties holding my roof down."

"I'm sorry to hear it," says Ava.

“At least you've still got tin for your star,” Uri blurts, “and iron bars for your jail cells. Says something for your priorities.”

Remmick fingers the silver sheriff's badge pinned to his chest. He grits his teeth and glares. He points his finger at Uri and says, “you got a smart mouth, boy. You watch it or it'll get you hanged.”