The gates of Shelter 17 loomed ahead—weathered concrete and rusted metal, pitted with old bullet holes and scarred by claw marks from beasts that had tested its defenses. The very architecture seemed to groan under the weight of countless sieges and failures. Barbed wire, a rusty serpent, wrapped around the barricades—some strands broken, others dangling like severed nerves—swaying gently in polluted wind carrying the scent of decay. Graffiti scrawled in fading, blood-red paint screamed warnings that were less motivational and more a grim acceptance of reality: "Only the Strong Survive" and "Beasts Don't Knock." Each letter was crudely formed, as if etched in desperation.
Watchtowers, skeletal and imposing, stood like silent sentinels, armed with scavenged auto-turrets that looked more likely to malfunction than to fire. Weary guards, their faces etched with the harsh realities of their existence, occupied the towers, their eyes carrying the weight of too many funerals and the haunting memory of faces they could no longer recall. Makeshift solar panels, patched together with scavenged glass and prayers, lined the roofs—a fragile attempt to harness the ravaged sun. Water filters—jury-rigged contraptions of pipes and salvaged components—hissed and wheezed like dying machines, groaning as they forced acid rain into something barely drinkable, a testament to humanity's desperate ingenuity.
Zane approached the gates, his gait heavy with exhaustion. Blood-stained and bruised, every breath seemed a struggle. The bear crystal throbbed faintly in his pocket, a small pulse of warmth against the pervasive cold that had settled deep in his bones. Around him, survivors lined up for rations—sickly figures with sunken cheeks and eyes too old for their age, their clothes hanging loosely on their emaciated frames. Children coughed raggedly into tattered rags, their lungs burning from the toxic air. A few Awakened passed by, heads held high with an air of detached superiority, weapons slung across their backs, cutting through the crowd like predators among prey—their enhanced physiques a stark contrast to the fragility surrounding them.
"Halt," one of the guards barked, his voice raspy from disuse and smoke. He raised a jury-rigged rifle, its stock wrapped in tape and a cracked scope offering a distorted view of the world. "Where's your team?" The question hung in the air, a prelude to the inevitable grim news.
Zane stopped, his shoulders slumping further. "Dead," he said quietly, the word heavy with defeat. "The only 1-Star got torn apart by a Razorbeak. The rest… just normal humans. I don't think they'll make it. I hope they do." He spoke with a quiet resignation, the hope sounding fragile even to his own ears.
The guard's partner grimaced, a flicker of empathy crossing his weathered face. "That's the fourth team today."
"Fifth," the first corrected, spitting a stream of brown phlegm onto the cracked ground. "Yesterday's crew never came back either. The Scraplands claimed them."
They exchanged a look—tired, resigned—a silent conversation that spoke volumes about their shared reality. The hunt had become a desperate gamble, with the odds stacked against survival.
"Wild's getting worse," one muttered, his eyes scanning the horizon as if expecting a beast to materialize from the polluted air. "Better to guard rust walls than rot in a beast's gut. Pay's crap, but at least we get to go home."
"Sometimes," the other replied, his voice hollow, reflecting the uncertainty that plagued them all. He gave Zane a once-over, assessing his wounds and exhaustion, then waved him in with a weary sigh.
Zane stepped through the gate and into the shelter, if it could be called that. The label felt like a cruel joke in this cramped, decaying world.
Cracked pavement stretched through narrow, claustrophobic alleys squeezed between haphazard buildings cobbled together from scrap metal, concrete, and whatever desperate people could find. Each structure was a testament to survival—a patchwork of salvaged materials that offered minimal protection from the elements. Smoke rose from scattered barrel fires, providing meager warmth and casting dancing shadows that played tricks on the eye. A broken siren whined in the distance, its mournful cry never quite turning off—a constant reminder of the dangers lurking beyond the walls. The scent of rust, sweat, and scorched meat hung heavy in the air, a pungent cocktail that defined the olfactory landscape of Shelter 17.
He made his way to a squat building crammed between two taller ones, a precarious structure that looked as though a strong breeze could topple it. Inside, his room was the size of a closet—barely enough for a cot, a bucket, and a flickering overhead light that buzzed more than it shined, its erratic rhythm mirroring the instability of his life. The walls were cracked, covered in water stains that formed grotesque patterns, and peeling paint that flaked off with the slightest touch. Mold crept along the corners, a silent, insidious invader feeding on the moisture from the leaky ceiling.
As he opened the door, a voice called from the hallway, breaking the oppressive silence.
"Oi, Zane!"
He turned to see the landlord—fat, balding, with a stained vest stretched taut across his bulging belly and a permanent scowl etched on his face. The man stepped closer, his breath reeking of fermented meat and cheap liquor—a repulsive combination that made Zane recoil.
"You've got one week," the landlord said, jabbing a sausage-like finger into Zane's chest, the force of the poke nearly sending him staggering. "No money, no bed. I've got scavengers willing to pay double for your spot. Strong ones. Awakened, even."
Zane clenched his jaw, fighting back the urge to lash out. "I'll pay." He'd find a way, even if it meant risking his life again.
"You better." The man spat at his feet—a gesture of contempt that spoke volumes. "Parasites like you always promise big, till the beasts chew you up and spit you out. Then I'm left cleaning up the mess."
Zane said nothing. He shut the door and leaned against it, sliding down until he was seated on the cold floor, the chill seeping through his threadbare clothes.
This place… this life. It was barely survival, a slow, agonizing decline toward oblivion.
He stripped off his bloodied clothes and wiped down with the water bucket, the cold liquid shocking against his skin. No soap, no towel. Just cold water and grit—a meager attempt to cleanse himself of the grime and horrors of the Scraplands. As he scrubbed, he remembered—before his death, the original Zane had done whatever he could to stay alive, no matter how morally reprehensible. Transporting beast corpses. Butchering mutated meat. Skinning beasts for parts. He'd once cut the jaw off a still-twitching hyenawolf just to sell the fangs, the memory still making his stomach churn.
Crystals were currency now, the lifeblood of this broken society.
A small one like the one in his pocket could buy a week of rations or maybe get him on a scavenger squad—a chance to earn more. The larger ones, the ones carried by high-level beasts, could buy weapons, housing, or even an awakening serum—the ultimate status symbol.
The serum. That was what he needed, what he craved. The key to power, to survival, to escaping this miserable existence. But it cost more than he could ever scavenge as a normal human—a price that seemed impossibly high.
Zane lay down on the cot, his body aching, every muscle screaming in protest. The cube floated silently above him now, pulsing faintly like a dormant heart, its presence a constant reminder that he wasn't entirely alone, that there was still hope, however faint.
"I can't survive like this," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the buzzing of the light. "Not anymore."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bear crystal. Its dim light cast sharp shadows across the walls, transforming his cramped room into a theater of fear and possibility.
"I have this. If I can tame a beast… maybe I don't need the serum. Maybe I can find my own path."
He sat up, determination igniting in his eyes—a spark of defiance against the overwhelming despair.
"I've got the cube. I've got the crystal. I've got a chance." He repeated the words like a mantra, trying to convince himself that they were true.
The Next Morning
The market buzzed with chaos, a cacophony of sounds and smells that assaulted the senses.
Stalls lined the broken street—makeshift structures made of warped wood, scrap metal, and old tarps—each one a testament to its owner's resourcefulness. People shouted over each other, their voices hoarse from yelling, peddling everything from questionable beast meat to duct-taped gear, desperate to make a living in this cutthroat environment. The scent of blood and burning oil hung thick in the air, a grim reminder of the ever-present dangers.
Zane moved through the crowd, pushing his way through the throng of bodies, the bear crystal clenched tight in his pocket like a lifeline—his only hope for a better future. He passed cages holding snarling, mutated creatures—some still cubs, their eyes filled with fear, others injured or weak, their bodies bearing the scars of countless battles. Awakened handlers called out, their voices booming over the din as they hawked beasts bred or caught for bonding, their words laced with promises and exaggerations.
"Fresh pup, only bit one handler! Perfect for a beginner!"
"Water affinity, docile temperament! Perfect for hauling scrap!"
"Last chance—this one's mutating soon! Get it before it gets dangerous!"
Zane's eyes scanned each stall, searching for something. Anything. A beast he could bond with, tame with the cube's power, turning it into a loyal companion—a weapon against the horrors of the Scraplands.
He muttered under his breath, "Let's find a monster I can call my own." The words were a prayer, a desperate plea to the uncaring gods of this ruined world.