The Wastelands greeted Eris with the same hostile indifference as every other morning. The air hung heavy with a metallic tang, a mix of rust and decay that clung to the skin like an unwelcome second layer. Jagged spires of corrupted stone jutted out of the earth, their surfaces slick with a faint, oily sheen. The faint hum of something alive—something unseen—lingered just beyond the range of human senses, a constant reminder that this land was no place for peace.
Eris adjusted the makeshift satchel slung across his shoulder, its frayed strap digging into his skin. Inside were the remnants of yesterday's finds: shards of rusted metal, strips of wiring, and a small, cracked lens that might fetch a few scraps of food if he could find the right buyer. He wasn't optimistic; scavenging was a game of diminishing returns, each trip yielding less as the Wastelands devoured what little remained of the old world.
His boots crunched against the gravel-strewn path as he made his way toward a derelict outpost. The structure, a skeleton of metal and concrete, loomed in the distance like a monument to forgotten times. Eris preferred these isolated ruins—less chance of running into other scavengers or, worse, the creatures that prowled the wastes.
The sun, or what passed for it in this cursed land, cast a sickly light through the perpetually overcast sky. Eris squinted against the glare, his attention caught by a flicker of movement near the outpost. Instinctively, he ducked behind a jagged boulder, his heart pounding.
A group of men—five in total—stood near the outpost, their forms hunched and predatory. They were clad in mismatched armor, a patchwork of leather, metal, and scavenged cloth that did little to hide their brutish demeanor. Weapons hung from their belts—crudely forged blades, spiked clubs, and the occasional firearm that looked more likely to backfire than shoot straight.
Eris recognized them immediately: enforcers for the gang that ruled this part of the Wastelands. Their leader, a man known only as Varik, was a name spoken in hushed tones. His reputation was one of brutality and power, a darkness that seemed to permeate the air around him. Eris had never seen the man in person, and he hoped to keep it that way.
Unfortunately, luck was rarely on his side.
"Hey!" One of the men shouted, his voice sharp and grating. "You there! Behind the rock!"
Eris froze. He considered running but quickly dismissed the idea. These men were faster, stronger, and more importantly, armed. Instead, he stepped out from behind the boulder, his hands raised in a gesture of compliance.
"I'm just passing through," he said, keeping his tone even. "I don't want any trouble."
The man who had called out, a wiry figure with a scar running down his cheek, sneered. "Trouble's not up to you, scav. Boss is looking for workers, and you look like you've got two good hands."
Eris's stomach sank. "Workers" was just a euphemism. He had heard stories of people pressed into service by Varik's gang, forced to dig through the most dangerous ruins or act as human shields during raids. Few ever returned.
"I'm not looking to get involved," Eris said cautiously, his mind racing for a way out.
The scarred man stepped closer, drawing a knife from his belt. The blade's edge was jagged, more tool than weapon, but the way he held it made it clear he knew how to use it. "Didn't ask what you're looking for, scav. Boss says jump, you jump. Now move."
Another man, broader and more heavily armed, approached from the group. He had the air of someone used to giving orders. "Enough with the dramatics," he barked. "We're wasting daylight. You, kid—grab your gear and fall in."
Eris's jaw tightened, but he knew better than to argue. With a resigned nod, he adjusted his satchel and stepped toward the group. The scarred man grinned, sheathing his knife with a flourish.
"Smart choice," he said. "Might even live to see tomorrow."
The group wasted no time, herding Eris toward their destination—a fortified camp nestled within the remains of an old industrial complex. As they walked, Eris kept his eyes down, listening to the men's crude banter. They spoke of a raid, their voices tinged with excitement and bloodlust.
"They won't see it coming," one of them said, his tone almost gleeful. "Hit 'em at dawn, when they're still half-asleep."
"Think they'll have anything worth taking?" another asked.
The broad-shouldered leader chuckled darkly. "Doesn't matter. Boss says we burn the place to the ground, we burn it."
Eris's stomach churned. He had no idea who their target was, but he doubted they deserved the fate these men had planned. Not that he could do anything about it. Right now, survival was his only concern.
The camp came into view as they rounded a bend, its walls cobbled together from scrap metal and salvaged stone. A makeshift watchtower loomed above, its guards armed with crossbows and rifles. Inside, the air was thick with the acrid stench of unwashed bodies and burning refuse.
The men wasted no time integrating Eris into their ranks, shoving him toward a group of scavengers already preparing for the raid. These were people like him—thin, desperate, and terrified. Their eyes flicked toward him briefly before returning to their work, their expressions a mixture of resignation and fear.
"Get to work," the scarred man barked, tossing Eris a tattered sack. "You'll carry what we find. And don't think about running. We'll find you."
Eris nodded mutely, gripping the sack with trembling hands. His mind raced, weighing his options. Escape seemed impossible; the camp was heavily guarded, and even if he managed to slip away, the gang would hunt him down.
For now, he would have to play along, biding his time and hoping for an opportunity to slip away. As he fell into the rhythm of the camp, his thoughts drifted to the stories he had heard about Varik—about the man's cruelty and the shadowy power that seemed to surround him.
The gang leader was said to have been cast out from one of the kingdoms, his Crest of Darkness a mark of both his power and his curse. Eris had no doubt the stories were true. He could feel the weight of Varik's presence even without meeting the man, a suffocating darkness that seemed to hang over the camp like a storm cloud.
As the day wore on, Eris's unease grew. He worked silently, his mind a tangle of fear and anger. The Wastelands had always been cruel, but this... this felt different. He was no longer just fighting to survive; he was caught in something larger, something far more dangerous.
And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the camp, Eris couldn't shake the feeling that his fate was no longer his own.