The world had been undone by its own ambition. Snow reminded herself of this as she crouched on the ridge, scanning the horizon with a sharp, practiced eye. The land stretched out before her like a broken promise—parched earth split into veins of cracked clay, littered with the bones of machines and the relics of a civilization too clever for its own good. The sky above was a sickly gray, stained by the ash of a thousand old fires, and the air carried the faint metallic tang of decay.
They had called it progress once, all those years ago. Snow didn't remember much of the stories—she'd been too young to understand them when the world ended, and now she was too old to care. Progress. Progress had burned the skies and poisoned the ground. It had left the survivors to scrabble in the dirt for food and scavenge through the ruins for anything of use. And it had made the Niners, her scavenger crew, into what they were: wanderers, thieves, opportunists. Survivors.
Snow shifted her weight, her boots crunching softly against the gravel. Below her, the rest of the Niners had gathered around the object that had drawn them here—a massive, crumpled shape half-buried in the earth. They had followed it for days, ever since it streaked across the sky like a molten arrow, crashing to the ground somewhere beyond the Dust Basin. A fallen star, Bricks had called it, and they had run after it like hounds chasing prey.
Now that they had caught up, the excitement had turned to unease.
"Old Ones' tech," muttered Dug, the shortest of the crew, his narrow face twitching like a nervous rodent's. He stood a safe distance from the satellite, his eyes darting toward it as if it might leap up and bite him. "That's what it is. Old Ones' stuff. Bad luck to mess with it."
"Bad luck's what happens when you don't mess with it," Bricks replied. The Niners' leader stood at the center of the group, his broad shoulders hunched against the chill wind. He carried himself like a man who had been born in a fight and never quite left it, his voice rough and grating, like sandpaper dragged across the steel. "You think we came all this way to turn back now? What's the point of that?"
Dug shrank a little under Bricks's glare. "I just mean… we don't need to go inside, do we? We can take what's outside—scrap metal, wiring, maybe some tools. Safer that way."
"Safer don't fill our bellies," Bricks snapped. "You think the Burnt Hands or the Iron Claws are gonna leave the good stuff alone? This is Old Ones' tech, Dug. It's worth its weight in water if we can get it working again. You want to go back to camp with a handful of rusted bolts? Or do you want to bring back something that matters?"
The Niners muttered among themselves, a low murmur of fear and reluctance. Snow stayed silent, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her knife. She had no love for the Old Ones' machines, but she wasn't afraid of them either. Fear was a luxury she couldn't afford.
Bricks turned to her. "Snow," he said, his tone softening slightly, though his eyes still held their usual hard edge. "You're the best we've got. Quick, quiet, smart. You go in there, see what's inside. If it's junk, fine. If it's something valuable, even better. You up for it?"
Snow tilted her head, studying the twisted wreckage of the satellite. It was a hulking thing, its surface scorched black by its descent. One side had been torn open, revealing a dark, gaping hole like the mouth of some ancient beast. She could see the faint glint of metal inside, tangled wires, and shattered panels.
She sighed, low and quiet. Bricks wasn't wrong—she was the best for the job. Not that it mattered. She'd do it anyway, because someone had to, and she'd learned long ago that waiting for someone else to step up was a waste of time.
"Fine," she said, her voice flat. She adjusted the strap of her pack and pulled her scarf up over her nose to block out the worst of the dust.
Bricks grinned, his teeth white against his dirt-streaked face. "That's my girl. Careful in there, yeah? Don't touch anything that looks like it might explode. And if you see anything that moves, kill it before it kills you."
"Thanks for the advice," Snow muttered.
As she approached the satellite, the rest of the Niners stepped back, giving her a wide berth. She could feel their eyes on her, a mix of curiosity and relief—relief that it wasn't them climbing into the belly of the beast. She ignored them, focusing instead on the wreckage before her.
As Snow approached the satellite, her boots crunching over the brittle ground, she couldn't help but notice the faded markings on its side. The numbers were etched deep into the metal, as though they had been scorched there by the heat of the crash.
Solus-9.
Snow stopped dead in her tracks.
Nine. The same number as the Niners. The irony was not lost on her. Here they were, a band of scavengers with a motto built around their number, and yet none of them had the courage to venture inside the very thing that shared that number. It was as if fate itself had crafted a joke just for them.
Snow squared her shoulders and stepped into the darkness, her knife gleaming faintly in the dim light.
Snow ducked through the gaping maw of the wreckage, her boots crunching on shards of scorched metal. Inside, the satellite was eerily intact. The air was stale but cool, a far cry from the arid gusts of the wasteland outside. Narrow corridors stretched ahead, their walls impossibly smooth and unmarked, as though they had been built yesterday instead of a lifetime ago. A faint hum resonated beneath her feet—barely audible, like the sigh of a machine trying to remember how to breathe.
This wasn't like the rusted hulks she and the Niners had scavenged before. Those were heaps of scrap, gutted long ago by desperate hands. Solus-9 was different. It was pristine, untouched by raiders or time. It felt alive in a way that made Snow's skin prickle.
She tightened her grip on her longshooter and moved forward, her footsteps careful and deliberate. The corridor curved gently, leading her deeper into the satellite. Lights flickered faintly overhead, casting a pale green glow that pulsed like the heartbeat of some enormous creature.
At last, she reached a larger chamber. The room was a cluttered graveyard of the Old Ones' ingenuity. Broken consoles lined the walls, their screens darkened and splintered. A forest of wires dangled from the ceiling, twisting together like the roots of some strange, metallic tree. In the center of the room lay a pile of deactivated robots, their bodies sprawled across the floor in eerie stillness.
Snow approached the nearest machine, a hulking thing with spindly limbs and a dented head. She prodded it with the barrel of her longshooter.
It twitched.
Snow jumped back, her weapon snapping to her shoulder. The robot's head jerked, its eye-lights flickering weakly. A garbled voice spilled from its cracked speaker:
"Re…ac…tor…failure. Core…destabilized. Emergency crash…protocol…executed."
The light in its eyes blinked out, and the robot collapsed back into silence.
Snow lowered her rifle, her heart thudding in her chest. Reactor failure. That explained why the satellite had fallen, but it didn't explain why it felt so untouched. Most crashes like this scattered debris for miles. Solus-9 seemed almost deliberate, like it had chosen this spot to die.
She stepped around the heap of robots, scanning the room for anything useful—or dangerous. Her gaze landed on a small metal plate embedded in one of the consoles. It was smooth and green, with intricate patterns etched into its surface.
She frowned, leaning closer. It wasn't a power cell or a weapon component—those, she could recognize. This thing was smaller, more delicate, like a shard of polished jade. Whatever it was, it had been slotted carefully into the console, as if it were important.
Snow gritted her teeth and tugged at it. The plate resisted for a moment before sliding free with a faint click.
Instantly, the consoles around her lit up, their screens flickering to life. Snow froze, her longshooter half-raised. One of the screens displayed a map of the world—or what was left of it—outlined in dim green lines.
A voice, soft but clear, emanated from the machines:
"Message transmission: Solus-9. Ecosystem stabilization confirmed. Data en route to designated receivers—"
The voice cut off abruptly, leaving only the hum of fading power. The screens dimmed, their green light bleeding away until the room was dark once more.
Snow stood still, her breath shallow. Ecosystem stabilization. Was that what the machine had said? The air outside didn't feel stabilized—it felt like breathing sandpaper.
Her eyes drifted to the green plate in her hand. Whatever this thing was, it had been important enough to protect. If the Niners found out about it, Bricks would want to sell it. Dug would want to smash it, just in case. But Rain—
Rain would want to know what it was.
Snow slid the plate into her pack, her decision made. She turned on her heel and retraced her steps, the satellite's eerie silence pressing in around her.
By the time she emerged into the daylight, her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and the sun burned her retinas. She raised a hand to shield her face and strode down the slope toward the waiting Niners. Bricks was the first to notice her.
"Well?" he called, his voice brimming with impatience.
"It's safe," Snow replied. "No traps. No hostiles. A few dead bots and some junked consoles."
Bricks grinned, his teeth flashing. "Good work, Snow. Right, you lot, stop gawking and get to it! Anything that looks useful, you bring to me. Move!"
The Niners scrambled into action, scurrying up the wreckage like ants swarming a carcass. Snow watched them for a moment before slinging her longshooter over her shoulder and turning away.
"Where're you going?" Bricks barked, his grin faltering.
Snow paused, glancing back at him. "Taking a leave," she said. "I'll be back by dusk."
Bricks eyed her suspiciously but didn't argue. "Don't wander too far. We'll need you for the haul."
Snow nodded and headed toward the outskirts of the makeshift camp, her boots kicking up dust with every step. She didn't look back at the satellite, at the scavengers crawling over it like vultures. Her mind was already elsewhere.
Rain would want to see the plate. She would want to know what the machines had said about the atmosphere and the stabilization. Snow didn't know what it meant, not really—but if anyone could make sense of it, it was Rain.
Her lips twitched into the faintest ghost of a smile. Whatever this thing was, it would be the perfect "gift" for Rain. Something to light up her face, to spark that restless curiosity that always made Snow feel like the world wasn't so dead after all.