Leon crouched in the shadow of the barracks, his hands buried deep in the dirt as he rummaged through the piles of refuse. Rotten food, broken tools, pieces of torn fabric—nothing went to waste in this hellhole. He had learned quickly that even the smallest, most useless scrap could be worth something to someone. And today, he needed every bit he could scrounge up.
The plan was simple: collect enough valuable junk, trade it with Grig, and get his hands on some alcohol. Not for himself—he hadn't sunk that low yet—but for the guard. The one Grig had mentioned, the drunk who might part with medical supplies in exchange for a bottle or two.
Leon wiped the sweat from his brow, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. Not that anyone would care. The overseers were too busy barking orders, and the other slaves were too focused on surviving their own misery. If they weren't being worked to death, they were plotting their own sad little schemes, trying to figure out how to stay one step ahead of the next beating.
He shoved a half-broken piece of metal into his pocket. Couldn't hurt to have something sharp.
It was strange. Leon had fought in wars, stitched men back together in the middle of a battlefield, and yet here he was, scavenging like a rat for scraps to barter for a bottle of piss-poor liquor. The absurdity of it all wasn't lost on him, and a dark chuckle escaped his throat.
"Funny how things turn out, huh?" he muttered under his breath. "I was patching up soldiers in the middle of explosions, and now I'm digging through trash for booze. Real upgrade."
He reached for another scrap of fabric, stiff and stained with something that looked like blood. Or worse. "Well, at least it's colorful."
Leon paused, shaking his head. Talking to himself again. Not a good sign.
He stuffed the fabric into his other pocket and moved on. There had to be something more useful around here. Grig wasn't going to trade for garbage. The man was a rat, but he had standards—low ones, but standards nonetheless. Leon needed to bring something that would actually catch his interest.
As he scoured the filth, he spotted a half-eaten loaf of bread buried beneath a pile of refuse. He grimaced at the sight of it—moldy, riddled with bugs, but still vaguely recognizable as food. He picked it up, holding it at arm's length as he inspected the damage.
"Well, that's appetizing," he muttered. "But who's complaining, right? Protein's protein."
A part of him wondered if this was what rock bottom looked like. But then again, in a world where men were worked to death and tossed aside like garbage, maybe there was no bottom. Just layers of rot and misery, each one worse than the last.
He tossed the bread into his sack, along with the rest of his pitiful collection. It wasn't much, but it might be enough to convince Grig to trade. And if Grig could get him the alcohol, then the guard might get drunk enough to slip up—to hand over the supplies Leon needed.
As he moved further from the barracks, closer to the outskirts of the yard where fewer eyes lingered, Leon's thoughts drifted back to his old life. Back to Earth. It felt like another lifetime, but the memories were still sharp, still raw. The smell of antiseptic. The sound of gunfire in the distance. The weight of a soldier's life in his hands.
Now, those hands were stained with filth and grime, not blood. Not yet, anyway.
He pushed the memories aside as he spotted something glinting in the dirt nearby. He crouched down, brushing away the soil to reveal a small, intact flask. It was dented and old, but it still held together, and Leon could feel the sloshing liquid inside. He grinned, the dark humor of the situation not lost on him.
"Well, I'll be damned. Guess today's my lucky day."
Leon lifted the flask, unscrewing the cap to take a cautious sniff. The stench that hit his nose was enough to make him gag. It wasn't alcohol—it was something far worse. Some kind of rancid oil, or maybe a concoction of god-knows-what. But it didn't matter. To the right person, this would be worth something. And if nothing else, Grig could probably pass it off as a drink for the guard. After all, the drunk was desperate enough to swallow anything that burned going down.
Leon stood, dusting off his knees as he glanced around the yard. It was time to find Grig and get this deal moving. He slung the sack over his shoulder, making his way through the maze of crumbling stone and broken bodies, careful to avoid drawing attention from the overseers. As much as they loved beating the slaves into submission, they didn't bother with those who looked too pathetic to bother with.
And right now, Leon fit the bill perfectly.
He found Grig where he usually was, lurking in the shadows near the back of the barracks, his rat-like eyes darting around as he whispered to one of the other slaves. The moment Grig saw Leon approaching, he dismissed the other man with a wave and turned his attention to him.
"Leon," Grig greeted, his voice low and oily. "You bring the goods?"
Leon dropped the sack at Grig's feet, watching as the smaller man crouched down and rifled through it. His nose wrinkled at the smell of the bread, but his eyes gleamed as he pulled out the flask, holding it up to the light.
"Now that's more like it," Grig muttered, unscrewing the cap to take a sniff. He immediately recoiled, grimacing. "What the hell is this?"
Leon shrugged. "Something strong. Does it matter?"
Grig chuckled, a low, rasping sound that made Leon's skin crawl. "No, no, it doesn't. The guard'll drink anything if it knocks him on his ass."
Leon folded his arms, watching as Grig stuffed the flask and the other items back into the sack. "So, we got a deal?"
Grig stood, slinging the sack over his shoulder. "Yeah, we got a deal. I'll get the booze to the guard, and in return, he'll part with some of the supplies. Bandages, antiseptics—basic stuff, but enough to keep you in one piece."
Leon nodded, the weight of his exhaustion heavy on his shoulders. It was a small victory, but in this place, any victory was worth its weight in gold.
"You're not a bad scavenger," Grig said with a smirk, "for a guy who doesn't know how to grovel yet."
Leon shot him a sideways glance. "Groveling's not my style."
"Yeah, I figured. You don't talk much about where you're from. Not that it matters. We all end up in the same shitpile sooner or later."
Leon's eyes darkened, but he kept his mouth shut. Grig didn't need to know that Leon wasn't from this world—didn't need to know that his past was filled with things that no one here could comprehend. The less they knew about him, the better.
Grig gave Leon a mock salute, his grin as sharp as ever. "Don't worry, soldier boy. I'll make sure this little transaction goes smoothly. You just sit tight and wait for the goods."
As Grig turned to leave, Leon called after him, his voice laced with a dry, dark humor. "And if he drinks that flask and dies, make sure to let me know."
Grig laughed, a hollow, grating sound. "Oh, I will. Trust me."
Leon watched him disappear into the shadows, his mind already racing with the next steps of his plan. This was just the beginning, the first piece of the puzzle. But he couldn't afford to get comfortable. Not here. Not ever.
He turned, walking back toward the barracks, his eyes scanning the yard once more. Every detail mattered. Every mistake could cost him his life.
In a place like this, survival was just another form of warfare. And Leon had been fighting wars long before he ended up here.