The higher they climbed, the hotter it got.
The damp, mushroom-scented air of the Basin faded, replaced by the dry, stinging heat of Sector 7. The metal walls of the ventilation shaft radiated warmth like a feverish skin.
Jax hated it. The shaft was tight—a square steel throat barely wide enough for his shoulders. His "Aero-V2" mask scraped against the ceiling with every crawl. Scritch. Scritch.
"Ryla," he wheezed, checking the air-quality sensor on his wrist. It was flashing yellow. "The CO2 levels are spiking. We're too close to the exhaust manifolds."
"Almost there, Gas-Bag," Ryla's voice echoed back, distorted by the tinny acoustics. She was five meters ahead, moving with infuriating speed. "I can see the service hatch. And guess what? It's unlocked."
"That's not good luck," Jax muttered to himself. "That's a trap."
He tapped his filter cartridge. Tap-tap-tap.
They reached the hatch. Ryla pushed it open, and a blast of deafening noise hit them. It wasn't the hum of a generator or the whir of a fan. It was a wet, rhythmic thud-hiss-thud.
Ryla pulled herself up onto a catwalk, and Jax followed, his mismatched boots clanking softly on the grate. He stood up and froze.
They weren't in a ventilation crawlspace. They were inside a massive, suspended facility.
Below them, a cavernous factory floor stretched out, bathed in harsh, amber emergency lights. The air was thick with a smell Jax recognized instantly, though he usually only smelled it when cleaning up gang fights: Iron and open meat.
"Jackpot," Ryla whispered, pointing down. "Look at that rig."
In the center of the room sat a massive machine, a spinning centrifuge of chrome and glass that looked like it cost more than the entire Basin. Glowing blue pipes fed into it from the top, and thick, opaque tubes ran out the bottom.
But it wasn't the machine that made Jax's stomach turn. It was the conveyor belt feeding it.
"Ryla," Jax said, his voice tight. "We need to leave. Now."
"Relax. The drones are on a patrol loop. I timed it. We have three minutes to grab one of those fuel cells." She pointed to a rack of glowing blue canisters near the central console.
"Look at the belt, Ryla."
She frowned and looked closer.
On the conveyor belt, moving sluggishly toward the spinning blades of the centrifuge, were... shapes. They were wrapped in translucent bio-bags, like trash, but the shapes were undeniable.
Jax squinted, his breath catching in his mask. He saw a flash of familiar neon tape on a limp arm inside one of the bags. It wasn't just a random body. It was a Runner suit.
"That's... that's Gaz," Ryla choked out, her voice trembling. "He runs the South Sector route. I drank with him two nights ago."
"They aren't just processing waste," Jax realized, the horror rising in his throat like bile. "They're hunting us. Vorg isn't importing protein for the Vat-Farms. He's recycling Meat-Bags."
A massive piston slammed down below, crushing the bio-bag with a sickening squelch. The centrifuge spun faster, separating the organic slurry into clean, pink paste.
"Efficiency," Jax whispered. It was the Overseer's golden rule. Why pay for food when the poor are free?
"That's sick," Ryla hissed, her fear instantly converting into anger. "He's turning us into... into sludge."
She didn't retreat. She moved forward.
"Ryla, no!" Jax reached for her, but she was already sliding down the maintenance ladder.
"I'm not stealing trash today, Jax," she growled over her shoulder. "I'm taking the evidence."
She sprinted across the catwalk toward the central console. She didn't go for the loose batteries or the scrap metal. She went for the rack of glowing blue canisters—the output of the centrifuge.
Jax scanned the room, his heart hammering against his ribs. He brought his left wrist up. His "Sniffer"—the jury-rigged sensor—was vibrating violently against his skin.
PROXIMITY ALERT. PROXIMITY ALERT.
"Ryla, you have ten seconds!"
She reached the console. Her hands moved in a blur, jacking the digital lock with her fingertips. She grabbed the central canister—a heavy, pulsating cylinder.
It wasn't labeled "Fuel." The digital readout on the side scrolled a chilling, cryptic string of code: BATCH 404: NULL-RECLAIM [PURE].
"Got it," she grinned, holding it up. It cast a ghostly blue light over her pink hair.
WHIRRR-CLICK.
The sound cut through the factory noise. It came from the ceiling.
Jax looked up. Hanging from the rafters like sleeping bats were three dark shapes. As Ryla pulled the Core, the magnetic locks on the ceiling disengaged.
Three glowing red eyes opened in the dark.
"Sentinels!" Jax screamed. "Don't move!"
Ryla froze, clutching the canister. A laser sight painted a red dot right in the center of her forehead.
Jax's mind raced. If they ran, the lasers would cut them down. If they fought, they were outgunned. He needed chaos.
He looked at his Sniffer. It was spiking red, pointing not at the drones, but at a bundle of insulated pipes running directly above the drone rack. Thermal overload.
"Ryla! Drop and roll left!"
"What?!"
"DO IT!"
Jax aimed his "Spark-Gap" not at the drones, but at the thermal pressure valve on the pipe above them.
ZAP.
The arc of blue electricity hit the valve. The metal groaned, then burst.
HISSSSSS-BOOM!
A massive cloud of superheated white steam exploded into the room, engulfing the ceiling. The drones shrieked as their optical sensors were blinded by the sudden heat bloom. They fired wildly into the smoke, missing Ryla by inches.
"Run!" Jax yelled, vaulting over the railing. He landed next to Ryla, grabbing her arm. "The steam won't hold them for long!"
"I got the goods!" she panted, coughing in the sudden humidity.
"You woke the dogs!" Jax pulled her toward the back wall. "The vent is blocked by the Stalkers. We have to take the chute!"
"The garbage chute?!" Ryla looked at the slick, grime-covered hatch labeled Bio-Waste Output. "It smells like death!"
"It goes down! We go down!"
The three drones emerged from the steam cloud, their red eyes scanning the floor.
Jax didn't wait. He kicked the manual release lever of the hatch. The floor beneath them opened up.
They fell into the darkness, sliding down a slick, stinking tube meant for bone and gristle, clutching the glowing evidence of a crime that would turn the entire city against them.