Steam.
Scalding, humid, rust-scented steam was everywhere.
I crawled like a stray dog with a broken back through the standing water deep inside the waste pipes. Condensation dripped from the ceiling onto the nape of my neck, sending shivers of cold through me. But I could no longer feel simple "pain"; pain was no longer my enemy, but a string of cold red characters pulsing on my retina.
`[Pain Reading: 92.8% - Warning: Neurotransmitter Overload]`
Damn San Salvador City.
Half an hour ago, I was still Irene, scraping by in the Archives Bureau. I was used to the smell of moldy pulp and dust, used to the contemptuous looks of the big shots in their tailored suits. But just now, those bastards burned down my only world with their own hands and threw me into this filthy snow and waste like a bag of expired industrial trash.
I looked down at my stump. That rough stainless steel rod was still impaled through the flesh, serving as a makeshift pivot to support my movement. With every move forward, the dull sound of metal grinding against bone transmitted directly through my nerves into my brain, triggering a flurry of dark red static.
`[Warning: Biomass Loss Rate 1.2%/min]`
`[Recommendation: Seek hemostatic valve or similar interface for forced parts]`
Parts? In this hell where even the air is corrosive, where am I supposed to find parts?
My fingers suddenly gripped a yellow piece of paper stuck to the pipe wall. Softened by the hot steam, its edges were curled. I leaned in with effort, and the scanning reticle on my retina automatically locked onto the text.
It was a "Fifteen-Minute Recovery Pipe Violation Notice."
The text on it was cold and cruel:
"...Any biological resources remaining within the sedimentation tanks and recovery pipe areas that have not undergone self-classification within fifteen minutes of death shall be subject to forced dismantling by the Resource Recovery Bureau. Any resulting 'Resource Loss Fees' shall be borne by the deceased's relatives or employer. Life is an asset; do not waste the city's wealth."
My stomach felt like it had been shoved into a running blender.
Fifteen minutes.
In San Salvador City, death is not the end, but the beginning of a liquidation. If you don't die fast enough, or if you don't die thoroughly enough, your corpse becomes a massive fine that crushes your family. Of course, I have no family left to be crushed.Turns out my death is worth two thousand credits. I pulled the corners of my mouth into a self-mocking smirk; that price is higher than my monthly salary when I was alive.
I stared at the citation and flipped it over. On the back was a faint red stamp: `[Pipeline Collaboration: HYENA]`.
The Hyena Gang. Those ghouls entrenched in the deep pipes had actually struck a deal with the official Recovery Department. No wonder Dale and those bastards dared to kill and loot right under the Recovery squad's nose. This wasn't an accident; it was institutionalized murder.
"Irene... that crybaby died in that fire," I whispered to the empty pipe, my voice as raspy as grinding rusty gears. "Now, all that's left is a... recycler who wants to live."
A low announcement echoed from deep within the pipes, accompanied by the harsh crackle of static:
"Countdown: Three minutes. Drone AR-09 has entered the maintenance track. All unregistered personnel must evacuate immediately..."
Those were the footsteps of death.
I picked up the pace, my mangled limb dragging a long, oily streak of blood through the sewage. As I rounded a corner, a thick stench of rot mixed with engine oil hit me.
I stopped.
There, on a maintenance platform, lay a corpse.
It was a man. His torso had been hacked open like a hog in a slaughterhouse. His most valuable asset—the power spine—had been ripped out, leaving nothing but a dark, gaping bloody hole. Exposed nerve bundles hung limply in the puddles like burnt cables, and his spinal fluid was a sickening, translucent grayish-white.
This crude dismantling style was clearly the work of the Hyena Gang. They only took the most valuable parts, leaving the remaining scraps for the Recovery Department's drones.
`[Scanning Target: No. 7749 (Unidentified Corpse)]`
`[Status: Primary dismantling executed]`
`[Remaining Resources: Low-grade spinal interface (82% wear), damaged nerve bundles]`
`[Compatibility: 0.12% - Extremely Low]`
I stared at the body, my breathing becoming rapid. He might have been a hardworking laborer in life, but now, he was just scrap metal left over from the dismantling.
"Sorry, pal." I knelt by the body, reaching out with a trembling left hand. "I need to survive."
My fingers touched the rusted interface at the nape of his neck.
`[External interface detected. Execute forced connection?]`
`[Warning: Insufficient compatibility. Risk of synaptic burnout.]`"Execute." I gritted my teeth, screaming the command in my head.
In that instant, the current surged like a red-hot razor, flaying my spinal cord all the way from my fingertips. My retina was instantly flooded with cascading glitch text.
"Ah—!"
I let out a suppressed scream, my body convulsing violently as I slammed heavily against the cold pipe wall. It felt like a million tiny steel needles were frantically threading through my veins. I could hear the sound of my own bones cracking, could feel neural signals that didn't belong to me forcibly assaulting my cerebral cortex.
`[Connection Failed. Rejection Rate: 98%]`
`[Warning: Biometric mismatch. Component inactive.]`
I collapsed into the sewage, retching violently. This corpse was completely trashed; its remaining parts couldn't even sustain my minimum consumption.
I stared at the wall, where a line of scrawled graffiti stood out glaringly under the dim red emergency lighting:
"Want to live? Go to Grey Pincer Clinic. Parts for payment."
Grey Pincer Clinic. I knew that place; it was Silas's turf. A black-market doctor who could stitch up the dead, as long as you could afford the parts.
But I was empty-handed now. My only "part" was this rusted steel bar skewering my flesh.
"Recovery Department drones arrive in ninety seconds. Your skin is too tender; taking you apart won't be any trouble."
A raspy voice drifted from the shadows of the pipe.
A hunchbacked man was slowly emerging from the steam. His left eye—a cheap, glowing red cybernetic implant—flickered with greedy light in the darkness, and he held a small, grease-caked chainsaw in his hand.
Mog. A scavenger for the Hyena Gang.
"That idiot Dale, getting wasted by a piece of trash like you." Mog didn't waste words. The chainsaw's motor emitted an unsettling hum. "Your interface looks a lot more valuable than his. Rex said you had 'good stuff' on you. I guess... he meant your brain."
He approached step by step, the chainsaw's teeth glinting coldly under the dim red light.
I pressed my back against the wall, gasping for air. Due to the rejection reaction just now, my left side had gone almost completely numb; only my right hand still clutched that rusted steel bar.
`[Warning: Target Threat Level - Medium]`
`[Current Status: Critical Damage. Suggest Evacuation.]`
Evacuate? In this hell, there was nowhere to evacuate to.I stared at Mogg's face, a mask of pure greed. I used to think that as long as I remained invisible, as long as I followed the rules, the world would leave me alone. But as it turns out, rules are for the trash, and the strong are only there to do the recycling.
"Mogg," I said, my voice so cold it sounded foreign even to me. "You know the Fifteen-Minute Rule?"
Mogg paused, then bared a mouthful of yellow teeth. "I make my living off it! You've got one minute before those drones slice you into scrap, sweetheart. Better let me do it; at least I'll make it quick."
He lunged forward, his chainsaw cutting through the air, reeking of engine oil, slashing straight at my throat.
I stared at him, feeling my cybernetic eye burning in its socket.
That corpse couldn't save me because it was already dead. Its nerves had withered, its energy spent. But Mogg... he was different.
His heart was beating, his hydraulic pumps were humming, and his battery pack was surging with fresh, crackling power.
I tightened my grip on the rusted steel rod, feeling its rough texture. A final line of red text flashed across my retina, and for the first time in half an hour, I felt a sense of warmth:
`[Available biological resource detected: Mogg (Vital signs: Active)]`
`[Compatibility forecast: 89%]`
`[Recommendation: Execute salvage immediately]`
I smiled. Not the polite smile of an archivist, but a coldness that seeped from my very marrow.
Come on, Mogg.
Come be my spare parts.