The stench of decay clung to everything in the waste zones, a vile cocktail of rust, rot, and something unidentifiable but undeniably toxic. Kael Drayen crouched in the shadow of a twisted steel frame, his focus razor-sharp as he worked on the half-buried drone chassis. Its once-sleek casing, marked with the unmistakable precision of Consortium craftsmanship, was dulled by years of exposure. Still, Kael knew where to look.
"Come on," he muttered under his breath, his multitool sparking faintly as he pried open the drone's access panel. A satisfying click, and the inner workings were laid bare—pristine and untouched. The sealed circuits and a high-capacity power cell were just waiting to be plucked.
He carefully extracted the power cell, its smooth surface humming faintly in his gloved hands, and slipped it into his satchel. Nearby, the cracked remains of another drone beckoned, but Kael hesitated. Scavenging wasn't just about finding valuable tech—it was about knowing when to stop.
The sun hung low in the sky, its rays filtered through the toxic haze that perpetually lingered over the area. This part of the neutral zone, once a thriving industrial sector, had been reduced to a graveyard of machinery and rubble. The Consortium had stripped it of anything officially useful decades ago, leaving behind only the dregs—scraps that scavengers like Kael fought to claim.
He adjusted the filtration mask over his face, the faint rasp of his breath a steady companion. His eyes scanned the horizon, alert for movement. Waste zones were never truly empty.
A distant hum reached his ears—a sound that didn't belong in this desolate silence. Kael froze, his instincts screaming at him to hide. He slipped into the shadow of a rusted loader mech, blending into the jagged landscape.
The hum grew louder. Moments later, a battered truck rolled into view, its engine wheezing as it navigated the uneven terrain. The vehicle's hood was adorned with crude symbols—red spray paint forming an ominous jagged X. Gang markings.
Kael's jaw tightened. He'd had run-ins with this group before. The Red X clan was notorious for sweeping through the waste zones, scavenging with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. They'd kill first and loot later, leaving nothing but corpses in their wake.
Before Kael could plan his next move, another sound joined the first. This one was sharper, angrier—the growl of an ATV. He turned his head, spotting the second vehicle approaching from the opposite direction. Its riders bore a different emblem, a crude depiction of crossed wrenches.
"Great," Kael muttered, shrinking deeper into his hiding spot. "Of all the days to come scavenging."
The two groups spotted each other almost simultaneously. Shouts erupted, followed by the unmistakable crack of gunfire. Kael grimaced. Two rival gangs converging on the same site spelled only one thing: chaos.
The first explosion shattered the tense stalemate, sending a plume of dirt and smoke into the air. Kael didn't wait to see who had the upper hand. He slipped from his hiding spot, his movements quick and deliberate. The gangs were too focused on each other to notice him—for now.
He moved toward a cluster of chemical storage tanks, their faded hazard labels catching his eye. Most were riddled with bullet holes, their contents long since evaporated or leaked into the ground. But one tank stood intact, its label still legible: Cl2. Chlorine Gas.
Kael's mind raced. He knew enough about chemistry to understand the implications. Chlorine gas was a weapon of opportunity—a relic of old wars and desperate times.
He crouched behind the tank, his multitool already in hand. He didn't need much—just a way to create enough chaos to cover his escape. A quick inspection revealed a hairline crack near the valve. Perfect.
From his satchel, he pulled out a collapsible tube and a container of industrial adhesive. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, jury-rigging a crude release mechanism in under a minute.
"You always were good at improvising," he murmured to himself, a grim smile tugging at his lips.
Kael glanced toward the battlefield. The gangs were fully engaged now, their vehicles circling each other like predators locked in combat. Gunfire echoed, and another explosion lit up the sky.
He struck the valve with the butt of his multitool, cracking it open. A faint hiss became a roar as the pressurized chlorine gas escaped, forming a sickly yellow-green cloud.
The effect was immediate. The first gang noticed the gas too late, their shouts of alarm quickly turning to coughing and screams. The second group fared no better, their advantage erased as panic set in.
Kael didn't stick around to see the outcome. He tugged his mask tighter and sprinted toward the edge of the zone, weaving through the labyrinth of debris. His heart pounded, his satchel bouncing against his side with each step.
Behind him, the chaos reached its peak. The gas cloud hung heavy over the battlefield, obscuring the carnage. Kael knew it wouldn't take long for the survivors—if there were any—to regroup. He needed to be long gone before that happened.
By the time he reached the perimeter, his lungs burned from exertion, but he allowed himself a moment to breathe. He adjusted the straps of his satchel, feeling the reassuring weight of the salvaged tech inside.
"Another day, another miracle," Kael said to himself, glancing back at the waste zone one last time before disappearing into the ruins beyond.