Cillian's Coin Ledger: CY13/03-2 – Scrap, Blood, and the Silver Leaf
Log: CY13/03-2
Coin: 1948 Canadian Silver Dollar – Maple Leaf
Age: 13
Title: Scrap, Blood, and the Silver Leaf

I didn't mean to bleed today.

It was just a scav run. Should've been uneventful. The barge was cold and stripped, nothing but the bones of a thing that once processed ice from comet cores. Most of its teeth were gone. The wiring had been pulled like sinew, leaving dead power couplings and melted conduit behind. But I was told to crawl it anyway.

It was a refab shell wrapped around a hull older than my boots. I'd been on cleanup rotation long enough to know the pattern: vets lounging, kids thrown into cavities too narrow for crew suits. They don't care what you bring back, just that you crawl in and make noise.

My gloves didn't fit and the boots leaked. My scanner's readout has a dead pixel center-mass, but I didn't need it. I saw it with my own eyes.

It was wedged in a corroded terminal bank, tucked behind a half-eaten panel in the admin shell—stuck between blistered seals and fused relay dust. It shouldn't have been there. Too old. Too Earth.

But it was.

It was—Tarnished. Heavy. Real.

A 1948 Canadian silver dollar. The maple leaf was bold, and Queen Elizabeth's profile was just faded enough to feel like memory instead of iconography.

At first, I thought it was a flare token or mining scrip. But I cracked it out and wiped it on my leg. It held. That weight. That age. It felt like it'd seen more than any of us had and didn't give a damn who picked it up next.

That's when I realized I wasn't alone.

Two older scavs. Not old-old—just old enough to think they could take what I found. One was already pulling off his gloves. He had that grin—you should drop it before this gets worse—the kind that makes you forget there's any law but force.

I didn't drop it.

He said, "You really wanna keep that? Might cost you."

I said, "Already has."

Not smart. Definitely not strategic. But right. And worth it.

They came in hard. One of them shoved me back against the casing, snapping my head back until my mouth split on the metal. The other tried to wrench the coin from my hand, but he only caught my glove. I elbowed him in the knee. Bit the other's sleeve. Not enough to win—just enough to sting.

They didn't get the coin. That was enough.

They walked away laughing. Not worth the effort, I guess. They left me there, bleeding, the coin still warm in my hand. Maybe from my grip. Maybe from the pipe wall.

I wrapped it in filter cloth and slid it under a loose vent near my bunk. Even after the shakedowns, it stayed hidden. I know the sound of metal when it's being looked through.
This won’t be traded, spent, certainly not shown.  At least to anyone but myself.

It wasn't just about the coin. It was about what it wasn't.
It wasn't ration. Wasn't salvage. Wasn't gear or credit or even useful. It was just… something solid. Something still whole in a world that eats itself for air.

I've never had anything like that. Now I do.I've been spinning it at night. It's awkward still; slips my knuckles, clacks when I fumble. But I'm getting there.

Something about the motion helps the noise go quiet.It’s the first real thing I've owned that wasn't about surviving. And somehow… that makes it more worth bleeding for.