'FOUND II'
From the rest point onward there is a long narrow passage, it's thick enough for someone like me to pass through without any issue, though short enough to that I had to slightly crouch to make sure my mag-pack didn't scrape my findings on the upper supports.
Don't want to lose piece value from that, or my ear drums.
The mag-pack, the reliable magnetic holder of all the scrap you can collect, you got metal - stick it on and watch as the pile increases, until you can barely carry it. It's also the holder of any extra ammunition, weaponry, or equipment you may require.
It's horrifically dark, and thanks to the lack of proper ventilation, well enough to just keep an adult from fainting. It manages to also be damp due to trapping the moisture, and as a result it can also damage the more exposed pieces of machinery you could come across.
Due to this there is a constant build up of thick fog which can rise as high as your knees, and in particularly badly hit areas it can engulf the whole tunnel. This fog is bad to breathe in, but it can't kill you without long exposure - like half an hour or so. Though an oxygen tank always helps.
Likewise it's best to keep your weaponry, and any mechanical attachments you may possess wrapped in whatever acidic resistant material you can get your hands on. Along with keeping the weapons functional, it can also act as a fairly decent camouflage.
Doesn't help in daylight but you don't see it much of it anyway.
Behind me there was an inconsistent pattern of metal and then light tapping, though it was expected that doesn't mean the constant echoing wasn't irritating.
His mechanical limb was complete exposed, though obviously weathered, it was completely functional. That type of durability is expensive - all that for a podling?
I'm honestly surprised no-one's ripped it off of him.
"You got a boot for that thing kid?" I offhandedly comment,
"Nope." He quickly replied,
Thank god I won't have to deal with this for a long time.
He was using one hand to cover his mouth with a small rusty filter, it seems he had the smarts to grab one before venturing into the tunnels. Without attached oxygen it doesn't serve much purpose beyond delaying an inevitable death to poisoning if you're in the wrong place.
It's important that when you're travelling with someone that you always have their attention, at the end of the day trust has a very clear price tag, and most people in positions like mine can't afford it. Though there are plenty that can, keep that it mind for jobs.
From the sounds of it he was following carefully behind me, hadn't strayed too far or too close- well, at least he isn't one of those podlings who can't stop running their mouth, quiet is reassuring in most places.
Until it isn't.
You need to know what they're doing, and their rough location in the event of a textbook switcheroo. It's also, conveniently, a great way to build confidence that you aren't going to pull a gun to the back of someone's head, and to exchange information about people or places.
"How the hell does a runt like you get something like that on your leg?" I rudely ask,
"Well, I dunno', well, I don't know exactly." He cryptically answered,
A smarter answer than I expected.
My annoyance was enough to make me to tilt my head enough that he could see the pipe connecting my air filter twist toward him. It was clear he saw I had no satisfaction in his answer, but he held his tongue regardless. Clever.
"What do you know?" I curiously question,
"That the SC didn't give it to me." He simply replied,
Fascinatingly insane, or blatantly stupid, maybe both.
Eventually marching down the passage leads to a thin grate gate, which has some cable connected to it- which I suppose it meant to be some alarm mechanism to the alert the den of nearby visitors. Though the patrol site is abandoned, looks like they're running out of hands.
Through the gate it leads into a cleared heap, you only see a cleared heap when there's a den nearby, as they use all the scrap to construct and maintain their home. Otherwise it's just more convenient, and attracts less raiders to bother.
Though without a heap the rain is free to crash onto the surface without much issue, leaves the entire area cracked, unstable, and filled with holes. Which makes it mighty unpleasant to cross. You never know when it just collapses into a tunnel.
These sections of this hell scape have a multitude of tunnels, footpaths, and bridge ways across to a variety of neighbouring sections, they are common and they are deadly. Most of the tunnels leading out of this place though, have been purposefully collapsed or accidently via the rain.
Though three remain, including the gate behind us.
"Looks like this place is running out of time. That's too bad." I dryly comment,
"Why?" He abruptly asked,
"Figure it out kid. Honestly, they sorta did you a favour." I scathingly reply,
You see most heaps from above, as scrap has a tendency to fall as far as possible into the many caverns, cracks, caves, and canyons across this shit hole. To be inside one is not better then walking through a labyrinth, with a high chance to be hunted by rust-buckets as well.
Though an empty heap is just as bad as a filled one, as it means this place is losing to the acid rain rapidly, and the last place you want to be is a den being collapsed in by the acid. It's quite obviously a fate worse then getting your brains blown out, literally.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Thin sheets of rusted metal, dotted with holes, lead on to a short staircase, which allows you to go down into an upper cart station or plaza, though functioning near the centre- here they're just a way to get extra protection from the rain, especially the ones which go further underneath.
A simple method of defence is to not be above ground, most outskirt dens are built within these cart stations- though in my opinion it can be as much as a curse as a blessing, as it makes them more vulnerable to drilling, collapsing, or getting bombed.
All of which are methods of siege on dens I have fortunately not encountered.
The runt had made the time to stop in his tracks, forcing me to turn my attention and weapon toward him in my endless caution. He clearly seemed nervous, which is fair, it's not everyday you get kicked out of the den as a podling, let alone back in- and I guess the gun, well, not really.
"You got a problem kid? Come on lets go." I urge,
"What if they don't let you back in? Because you have me here." He shakily asked,
"Kid, listen, I have the scrap they want, and the skills they need. If they don't want that to keep a runt like you out that's their loss." I apathetically reply,
"But. But, what if they don't? What will you do?" He asked again,
"If it makes the truth better, I'll tell a little lie." I dismissively answer,
From that point there's a large foreboding plaza, split into a large amount of separating cliffs into the lower tunnels, cart stations serve more than just carts obviously. Each of these massive plazas take you deep into the undercity, to the tunnels which can take you even deeper.
A constant rot which cloaked this place, the entire outskirts is similar that way, even here you can see how the acid has seeped across every surface. There were layers of rotting material which lead down each path, down into the tunnels connecting to this place.
Cracks lined the walls and the roofing was covered in a myriad of holes, with an ever constant dripping noise from the aftermath of the rain, with whatever build up of elements which result in a thick brown sludge running down the walls.
There was a flickering red hue which flashed across the whole area, with the low humming of machines attempting to keep themselves running, desperate for power. Dangling cables swung in accordance to the blasts of burning air which shot from shoddy ventilation.
These plazas are commonplace, connectors of the upper-city to the under-city, where the upper-city climbs up into the spires, the under-city delves into the tunnels. Though in the outskirts, the spires are all gone.
All of it melted away.
"These places, as creepy as they always are." I state,
"I don't think so. I didn't know scrappers could find anything creepy." The runt commented,
"I guess creepy is the wrong word for you runt. For me, a lack of opportunity for good scrap is the closest thing to creepy." I boldly reply,
Makes the overall area less lucrative, though the spires are notably deadly regardless, you may think that delving could offer some salvation for the outskirts- you'd be wrong, the centre is as valued as it is due to its protection from the rain while also having the best scrap.
Then you'd think 'wouldn't that mean more scrap?', wrong again. What makes scrap valuable is a combination of access, quality, and material. This place has terrible access, terrible quality, and middling material - that's not even counting the absolute horrors here.
"What was the scariest thing you've killed here?" The runt unexpectedly asked,
"Strange question runt." I immediately deflect,
"Oh, come on. Tell me!" He irritatingly demanded,
"Watch it." I sharply scold.
We paused near a further long staircase deeper into the main station. I looked behind me to the runt standing there still waiting for an answer, and behind him the station looked simply worse, large pieces of metal hung barely by threads of material.
I began the descent down into the main station, the runt close behind me,
"In the outskirts, I remember, barely, there was a titan of a rust-bucket. Six-legged, three-headed, strange thing." I coldly said.
"What? What happened? Did you destroy it?" The runt rapidly questioned,
"That thing? No. It didn't even register us, it just ambled along, dragging some dead reactor." I sourly describe,
"Why is that creepy?" He annoyingly asked.
"Rust-buckets. They are many things, but, docile isn't one of them. It had found something more worth to its programming then survival. Though creepy? It was close, but not quite." I bitterly explain,
"Oh, I- I don't get it." He awkwardly admitted,
I shook my head in response.
I had refrained from agreeing with him, though it was true that neither did I. I've lost limbs to those things, what they do to people- to survive you must endure it. But, somehow, the fact that one can then so easily stop, it makes you wonder why, doesn't it?
Rust-buckets are a scrappers competition, just as much as other scrappers, terribly efficient killing machines. They possess an intelligence perfect to maintain a form as versatile as it is deadly, each limb, each fingertip, a weapon to slit a throat.
What could be gained from an irreparable hunk of metal for something like that?
Then there's a quick descent to a shoddily reinforced corridor, leading past a multitude of pressure plates, and I had no reason to not trigger alarms. This security was lacklustre, honestly I'd barely consider it an inconvenience for a raider.
From that point it's a short path to a makeshift gate, a welded abomination of scrap, rubber, and pieces of concrete. The staple of every dens defence, a door. Most dens have doorways which are pressurised to keep out the gas, but out here they usually just go ham on ventilation to the canyon.
Luckily I am not low enough to raid people, I have standards, so I prefer to knock. Three knocks is enough, my fingers cause a low metal rumbling, I hear a shuffling of attention, and turn my attention to the shoddily installed microphone near the top of the door.
"State your purpose." It blurted,
"Scrapper here, got your stuff, and something else I found." I reply,
There was a long pause, awkward enough it caused me to turn back to the kid, who was cluelessly staring up the staircase. He turned to me and shrugged his shoulders, and I shook my head in response. But then the microphone made it's trademark sharp ringing.
It was clear that there was a place for them to look through the door, a slider, though whoever was at the gate was deciding to refrain from using it- which is just great, I might as well be delving with all the half-dead artificial intelligence I seem to be forced to deal with.
"State what else you have discovered, scrapper." It statically said,
"It's a podling, surprised you'd leave one out here, with a perfectly good mechanical leg too. I've never seen a den so wasteful." I remark,
"The podling is a thief, we would rather he died in the rain." It stated,
"You'll value what he told me, but I'm not one to go back on a deal. So, let us in, you get your scrap and info you're going to want." I confidently bargain,
There was a thick array of static noise which ambled out of the microphone, it was clear whoever was speaking had the nerve to laugh. In response I smack the door four times with my hand, and the microphone fell silent once again.
"Have fun in whatever hole you end up in then dickhead, that empty post isn't saving anyone." I poisonously say,
"Hey, what do you mean by that?" It asked.
"Figure it out. Let us in and you get everything. That's a win-win, besides I don't care what happens after I'm out of here." I scornfully say,
There was a clear moment of silent consideration. Then the gate made a hiss, and one of the doors swung open away from us.
Looks like they'd rather not leave the kid to die in the rain, well, at least while I'm here. Though with the raiders nearby, I don't have time on my side- fuck, this is why you shouldn't give a podling water, it's like giving someone permanent residence in a den.
Though first I need to sell my scrap, which is just great. The SC's in the outskirts will do anything to hustle you out of a piece or two, and you need to be aware of that before it happens too often. If it leaves you short an oxygen tank, that's just death.
I step forward, wedging my foot against the door and allowing the runt to go ahead of me. Just to make sure, and from that point some idiot stood in my way. I stride past him, pushing him aside, which just almost managed to cause him to collapse- elderly asshole.
Now I have to deal with a collector.
