Chapter 2—Exchanging Greetings

A large fence sickened by rust separated the living districts from the scrapyard. It looked like an array of spears with dulled tips, woven in place by a net of barbed wire. An abundance of cracks marred the barricade, with a single hole providing passage, held open by a pair of iron gates stuck onto it like bandaids.

The tide of people had dwindled to a trickle. A few occasional stragglers hurried past Marco, frothing at the mouth as they stepped over each other in their spacious surroundings. Among them, some shrouded themselves in darker clothing that matched the night. Vultures, they'd call them. Their appearance reminded him to look at the ceiling.

The imitation of sunlight had already dimmed. Lights turned off, and a curtain of darkness draped over the landscape, glittering with tiny sparks. A white circle hung in the air like a cheap disco ball; a pitiful excuse for a moon. The golden dots likewise paled compared to the night-sky of the Overworld. But his body didn’t care for real or fake as the realization left him yawning.

When he returned his gaze up front, he noticed one of the hooded individuals approaching him. Marco perceived a ring on his hand, while the vulture hid beneath his cloth, wrapping it around him like a bunch of towels. Their paths were about to cross. Marco took a different direction, but the guy didn’t seem as blinded by the flickering pillar of light. He couldn’t shake him off, so he gave up avoiding him. It was rude to not greet others, anyway.

A potion would have been handy, but guts would have to do. He shook off the fog in his head and headed towards the exit. The vulture didn’t show any sign of making way for him. Marco clicked his tongue when he attempted to dodge him at the last moment. But it was too late; they collided with their shoulders. Muffled croaks of apologies left the cloth shrouding the man’s face as he stumbled.

The man leaned on him, looking for support, but he knew where his true attention lay. Marco felt his hands gliding through his empty pockets like a pair of eels. He ignored them, until they headed for the pouch on his hip where he slapped them away, mustering as menacing a gaze as he could.

The vulture looked up with smiling eyes. Before Marco could complain, the man bowed out of his way, placing his hand on his shoulder in a gesture of apology. He shrugged it off when he noticed his sack had lightened somewhat. Immediately, he spun around, but the thief was already gaining distance.

“Get back here!” He chased after him, but not for long before giving up.

“Respect the outcome!”

The man’s reply faded into the background noise of incessant fighting. Marco looked after him until he decided it was enough and returned to the spot where they’d met. He knelt on the ground of scrap metal, searching and finding the dull glimmer he was hoping for.

“You said it.” He smirked, taking off his glove and slid the ring onto his finger.

Brass ring equipped.

(Item can't be bound)

Grade: Common

Durability: 17/25

Stealth +1

Dexterity +2

This Item - Brass ring - was stolen.

Previous Owner unknown.

1d14h23m...

You stole this item - Brass ring.

Previous Owner unknown.

6d23h59m...

Their gift exchange should have ended in his favor. Accessories were scarce. He took off the ring and placed it inside his pouch. Its effects explained why the vulture had equipped it, but unfortunately for him, his fingers might have been too slick. His own fault for not wearing gloves. Maybe he’d gotten a decent pair from him, if a bit late.

Marco thought little of this encounter. ‘Stealing common is common, but rare don’t you dare.’ You could call it a handshake. Not even your chip would notify you if you lost something. Likely more feature than it was a bug, but you got used to it.

The day left him whistling a small tune to himself as he passed through the dented iron gates. The airdrop. A bonus ring. It didn’t come as a surprise when a burly hand clasped his shoulder. For a single day of scavenging, he was swimming in too many items to be ignored by his friend.

“Really now, Lorin, I-”

The hand pulled him around, and his mouth stopped. That was not who he’d expected. The hulk of a man facing him dressed like any other who left for the scrapyard during the day. Shreds of a foliage of grey clothing, but it was torn more than usual. The smell of charred cloth and hair lingered in the air together with something else he couldn’t put his finger on. His appearance caught Marco off-guard, but at least, none of the items in sight raised his worries. One might say they looked common around here.

His eyes narrowed when he noticed the stains of dried blood covering any part of his body that revealed some skin. He studied him further, looking for more clues, when his gaze stopped on the brown bottle in the man’s hand. Was that...? Alcohol.

“May I help you, sir?” He put on his please-don't-rob-me smile.

“Inspection.” The man snarled, and at last, Marco noticed the badge he’d overlooked. Was he supposed to be a guard? He didn’t know they’d changed symbols, but if that was the case...

“I’ve already paid the fee in advance.” He lied. “If you call Lorin here, I’m sure he can attest.”

“Sorry, lad. New rules.” He pointed to a shed, or what was left of it. Another man lounged within the ruins, glancing over with little interest. Next to him, a cloth rag hung listlessly, and he finally understood. Leadership of District D had changed since this morning. What a coincidence.

“Now stop wasting my time and move your arse over here.”

Marco complied. No point in causing an uproar, and he wouldn't forget about the alcohol. The other guard ignored them as they came closer. He was busy swirling the bottle in his hand, sniffing at the swill as if he couldn’t bear the pain to take a sip. His eyes glimmered with puppy love for the brew; it was almost endearing.

The inspection wasn’t long. It was the usual count of your items which decided how much you had to pay for the ‘protection fee.’ Some called it tax, others for what it was. A scam. District leaders always demanded a share of anyone entering and exiting the scrapyards in their district. A payment for their services of providing a ‘safe workplace environment.’ They were doing a splendid job as usual, given the heart-wrenching screams of happiness echoing from the distance. Ah, it was probably just a missing limb or two, nothing to worry about. At least, they offered some protection by preventing fighting around the entrance. If they were in the mood.

“73 greys... and extra.” The man gave up counting towards the end. “Unlike Simon’s stooges, we don’t take advantage of others.”

He sounded like he’d read that off from somewhere.

“Ten iron pellets will be enough.”

Only ten? Marco did his darndest to stifle a sneer. O’ great benevolent new leader, how gracious of thee. May ye reign less than a week. That one almost slipped from his mouth, so he hurriedly paid up with a strained smile.

A bit of propaganda until they settled in, it seemed, establishing their new leadership without other guilds getting any strange ideas. Probably a good idea to keep your hands to yourself more than usual in District D. Whichever version of law they might enforce, he wouldn’t volunteer as a lab rat to find out.

Whatever their reasons, he welcomed it. Lorin would have demanded a much larger share, despite their previous dealings, throwing any of their agreements out with the garbage. Marco gave the scribblings on the rag a second look, pondering. A little extra might be in order. Making friends could never hurt.

“For your troubles.”

He flicked the stolen ring towards the guard who caught it, together with a few more pellets. If the enforcer of justice had any reservations about the , he didn’t show it.

“You can go now.” He shooed him away with one hand while the other pocketed his gains. As if remembering something, he said, “if you need to pass through here again, look for me. Name’s Beryll.”

Farewell, Lorin, and hello, Lorin-Two.

Beryll's partner chuckled with eyes still glued to his bottle, from which he’d yet to take a sip from. Beryll groaned, kicking the piece of rubble his partner sat on, making him almost drop his priced liquor.

“And if you need anything tinker-related, you can find me in C.” Marco said, but he doubted any of them were listening. A fiery argument had ensued since Beryll seemed to have endangered his partner’s sole apparent reason for living.

“Ask around, they’ll show you to my shop. I’m Marco, and I always throw in a discount for the first purchase.”

He left the words behind and set off with a lot on his mind. Holden’s Fang had taken control of District D. That made him a leader of two. He was even dishing out alcohol. That would attract both friends and foes, making life quite hectic for a while. Possibly a great business opportunity, but he’d prefer a more peaceful environment with thieves, scammers, and hooligans, over an all out guild war.

On any other day, District D would have been a place brimming with more life than it could contain. It was the most populated district, but after the appearance of the natural-grade item, not a soul remained on the web of dirt roads. Abandoned stacks of cardboard boxes, some claimed their homes, leaned against jaded blocks of rocks, which were trying to sell themselves as houses. Time had taken its toll on them since long ago, as no one had ever renovated a smidgen of the communal property.

Because you owned nothing in Junkyard. Your neighbourhood was ever changing. If you could take something, be it a house or anything else, good for you. Couldn’t keep it? Tough luck, better hope there were some cardboards left for you to move into. The temperature was always nice for camping outside.

People considered any usable debris from scrapyards too valuable for wasting on housing purposes. Since chances were that you wouldn’t be able to keep your new-build home anyway, it was a better idea to focus your few gains on crafting and upgrading items than waste your time on constructions. There were exceptions, but that wasn’t something the general populace concerned themselves with.

Many quickly learned that nothing could beat a nice, comfy cardboard box. Or, if you felt like splurging(and like being robbed), you bought a blanket. But the little things in life didn’t satisfy everyone. Plenty fought over houses plagued by water leaks and broken rooftops; all so you could call termites (or whatever those things were) your roommates. Just so you could have a shower, or take a shit within your own four molding walls instead of the designated washhouses in the safe-zones. Home―it was a luxury in name only. But, for one reason or another, many longed for it.

Crossing from one district to another wasn’t anything difficult. So Marco thought, but the wall of humans forming an arch along several blocks begged to differ. He stopped in his tracks, wondering what held them back, when he noticed the faint, translucent dome encapsulating the sky. It was almost invisible to the naked eye as it cut off District C from the rest of the world.

After he got closer, Marco noticed dozens of people forming a line as they put their hands against the dome; each of them fitting outfits that didn’t seem common. No holes or patches. That was a rare sight. Opposite of them, an enraged mob hammered away at the dome-like shield.

Like human battering rams, they slammed against it, to no avail. Bursts of fire magic all but lit the night to day while the rest threw scrap metal, or whatever else was lying around. The barrier didn’t care either way. It could uphold the onslaught for an eternity. But the men and women supporting it told a different story. They rotated their members as each looked increasingly pale.

Holden wasn’t playing around. He was gunning for that natural-grade item, at any cost, it seemed. The memo for a fair competition must have gotten lost in the ratmail. Too bad.

“Excuse me. Sorry.” Marco squeezed through the clamoring crowd after passing through the shield with no problems from his side. “Sorry. Sorry. Trashman, coming through.”

He kept one hand close to the opening in his sack. Nothing to see here, guys, only common trash. Still, more than a few people took a swipe at his loot. He evaded them by maneuvering through the mob, and by the time he exited the crowd, he’d lost anyone interested in his bulging bundle. But before someone changed his mind, or dare come to their senses, he headed for the paved alleyways.

Stone walls divided the district into smaller parts of itself. Whoever designed this place had some pent up sadistic tendencies. They didn’t give a damn whether anyone could make any sense of it. The sprinkles of fake-moonlight helped little, but he’d spent enough time around here to not get lost. Not always, at least.

District D focused on housing, 'C' on maintaining the automated sewage plant. Marco could taste the rancid stench on his tongue as he breathed through his mouth. Everything was paved with stone, but the surrounding walls made for bad ventilation, while constant rivers of waste streamed beneath the orifices on the ground. It made 'C' unpopular, but people still lived here.

He found a spot, and dropped his sack to take a brief break, which didn't last long. From the distance, screams of obscenities came closing in on his position. He sighed, thinking the day would never end. He thought to move again when he saw a blurry figure appearing right in front of him. It melded into the shadows, eluding his vision, and before he knew it, the figure had already disappeared again. Not a trace of sound marked its departure in the narrow alleyway. His eyes chased after the shadow, but all they caught was a cloak disappearing around the corner.

“Come back here, you stinking rat!”

There was no time to let his mind wander. What hunted the shadow was someone who Marco knew. One of the fattest guys in Junkyard - a rarity of a different kind. Slobs of fat welled up through his clothing, wobbling as he cut a ridiculous figure, speeding through the night as if ignoring the laws of both obesity and gravity. Another surprise for him. Marco draped the hood on his vest over his head, trying to think fast on his feet.

“Son of a bitch!” Marco shouted, keeping his gaze low and turned to the shadows. He strained his voice, tweaking it as much as he could. “What do I do now? It fell down! No, no, no, the ring! Holden is going to skin me alive!”

The man slowed down as he shot him a glance. When he risked a peek himself, Marco saw him frowning as if in thought. He'd guessed right. It was Winston, and he doubted the baldy wouldn't recognize him.

“That bastard ran that way!”

He bundled all of his resentment into a shout, hoping to distract him further. Perhaps the fleeing shadow was just that important, because Winston only hesitated for a moment before continuing his chase, ignoring him. Marco sunk back into his sack, but didn’t rest for long. He just wanted to go home now. It was too tiresome to deal with any more nonsense.

“I didn’t expect shaking him off would be this difficult.”

He almost let out a yelp before turning around to face the cloaked figure behind him. When had she gotten there? It was a female voice, and he was a head taller than her, but he couldn’t tell anything else about the girl blending into the night as if she didn't have any contours.

“...You stole from Winston Harfield.” Marco said. Best to pretend he knew she'd been there. There was no reaction from her, so he added what should have been obvious, knowing his guess was on the mark. “You shouldn’t steal from shops, least of all from him. He isn’t someone you’d want on your nasty side.”

“Then why... did you help me?” Her perplexity tinged the suspicion in her voice as it broke through the stoic facade of her clothing.

“Several reasons. And I wouldn’t really call it help.”

“He seemed... angry... with you.” She said, struggling for breath. Winston’s hesitation must have helped her more than he thought it would. “Why...didn’t you... stay out... of it?”

“Anything to spite him." She stared at him, looking unconvinced. "I'm serious. I have some history with him, really, nothing you need to worry about.”

He didn’t get another response as her eyes darted all over the place, rolling like a pair of loose marbles. The girl had caught his attention from the moment she'd passed him earlier, so Marco wanted to speak with her when she suddenly pulled something out of her cloak.

“You can have this... back.”

Marco had already jumped away from her before noticing it was clothing and ordinary metal that fell from above. He caught a few pieces, and when he looked for her again, she was gone. He picked up what he couldn’t catch and studied them. Strange. Where had he seen...? That bitch. He grabbed his sack and raised it. It felt lighter. Again. He grumbled to himself while stuffing his belongings back into his backpack.

It was unbelievable. Whenever he hid what he owned close to his chest, and out of sight, it made anyone and their great-grandma think it was valuable enough to tear it away from his cold, dead fingers. So, he'd thought, carry it in the open instead. It was trash, after all. But apparently that attracted even more rats sniffing around for a free meal.

You just couldn’t win with these people.