Three days.
That's how long the massive construct—who I'd started thinking of as "Shield"—had given me to survive. Three days to prove I wasn't just another piece of temporary trash destined to be stripped for parts or devoured by the rats.
I'd made it two days so far.
The compression strut Shield gave me had transformed my mobility. My left leg no longer ground with every step, no longer threatened to lock up mid-movement. I'd installed it that first night, working by the light of my wand-fingers, carefully removing the damaged gear assembly and replacing it with the strut.
The installation hurt. Not physically—I didn't have pain receptors in the traditional sense—but there was a *wrongness* to it, a discordant sensation as mismatched parts tried to integrate. Like forcing puzzle pieces that almost fit.
But it worked.
Now I could move properly. Run, even. And in the Ashfall Scrapyard, mobility meant survival.
I stood atop a hill of broken armor pieces, surveying my surroundings in the pre-dawn gloom. The toxic clouds hung low today, painting everything in shades of sickly yellow and rust-orange. In the distance, the gleaming city of Argentas rose like a cruel reminder of everything I wasn't—perfect, pristine, valued.
I turned away from it.
"Focus on what you can control," I muttered, my grinding-gears voice breaking the silence. Talking to myself had become a habit. The alternative was drowning in the absolute quiet of being utterly alone.
Well, not completely alone. There were the rats. And the other constructs. And apparently, there was Shield, somewhere in the northern sectors.
But truly *connected*? No. Not yet.
I picked my way down the armor hill, careful with my footing. My right arm—the sword-blade cluster—still felt too heavy, throwing off my balance. I needed to find a counterweight. Or better yet, replace it entirely with something more practical.
The scrapyard was organized chaos. Piles of refuse stretched in every direction, sorted by some logic only the dump itself understood. Metal here, wood there, magical residue pooling in low valleys. I'd been mapping it mentally, creating a geography of garbage.
North: Shield's territory. Organized, defended, off-limits to scavengers like me.
East: The Rat Warrens. Avoid at all costs unless I wanted to fight for my life again.
South: The Breaker proving grounds. Large constructs hunting weaker ones. Stay away.
West: Unclaimed territory, mostly. Small trash creatures, occasional dangers, but survivable.
That's where I headed now.
---
The sun rose slowly, filtered through the toxic haze into a dull, bloody light. I navigated between trash piles, keeping low, staying aware. Every sound could be a threat. Every movement could be a predator.
Or it could be opportunity.
I spotted it half-buried in a pile of broken tools: a metal framework that might have been an arm once. Not large—roughly my size—but intact. Clean lines, good joints, only slightly corroded.
Perfect.
I approached carefully, listening for any sign of claim-markers. Some constructs marked their scavenging territories with scratches or scent-markers. Violating those boundaries meant war.
Nothing. This was unclaimed.
I began digging.
The framework came free with some effort, revealing itself as a complete forearm assembly with a three-fingered hand. Much lighter than my sword-cluster, more dexterous. I could work with this.
"*Mine*," a voice hissed behind me.
I spun.
The creature was half my size, cobbled together from chains and gears, with a rat skull mounted where its head should be. Its eyes glowed the same toxic yellow as the clouds, and its mouth was full of jagged scrap-metal teeth.
One of the Scrap Rats. Not the animal kind—constructs that had devolved into scavenger packs.
"I found it," I said, keeping my voice level. "It was unclaimed."
"*Everything here is OURS*," the Rat hissed. Two more emerged from the trash behind it. A pack.
My mind raced. Three of them. One of me. I'd won against the animal rats through surprise and magic discharge. But these were constructs—smarter, stronger, coordinated.
Fighting was risky.
But I needed this arm.
"I don't want trouble," I said, slowly setting the framework down. "I'll trade for it. I can find something else, something you'd value more."
The leader cocked its rat-skull head. "Trade?"
"Yes. I can sense magical items. My wand-fingers—they tingle when enchantments are near. I could find you something powerful."
This was a gamble. I wasn't entirely sure the tingle I'd felt before was consistent enough to be useful. But these Rats didn't need to know that.
The leader considered. Its companions fidgeted, chains rattling with impatience.
"Show us," it finally said. "Find something *good*, we let you have the arm. Find nothing, we take YOUR arm."
Terrible deal. But what choice did I have?
"Deal," I said.
---
They followed me through the scrapyard, keeping close, whispering among themselves in their hissing chain-rattle language. I tried to look confident while internally panicking.
*Where would magical items concentrate? Think. The nobles dump trash weekly. When did the last dump happen?*
I didn't know. I'd only been conscious for three days.
*But items with stronger enchantments would retain power longer. They'd pool where magic naturally collects.*
Low ground. Magic was heavy, metaphysically speaking. It settled in valleys.
I changed direction, heading for a depression between two massive trash mountains. The Rats followed, suspicious but curious.
As we descended, I felt it—a definite tingle in my wand-fingers. Stronger than before. The cracked ruby in my palm pulsed with warmth.
"There," I said, pointing to a specific pile. "Something magical in there."
The rats pushed past me, digging frantically. Chains and metal fingers tearing through garbage.
One of them emerged holding a amulet—tarnished silver, cracked gemstone, but still radiating power.
The leader snatched it, examined it, and then looked at me with something that might have been respect.
"*Good trade*," it said. "Take arm. You... you come back. Find more things. We share territory."
"Alliance?" I asked, surprised.
"*Partnership*," it corrected. "You find. We protect. Better together than dead separate."
I hadn't expected this. But it made sense—these creatures were survivors, not mindless monsters. Cooperation increased survival odds for everyone.
"Agreed," I said. "Partnership."
The leader extended a chain-wrapped limb. I grasped it with my sword-arm awkwardly. The gesture felt significant, primal.
"I'm Rust," I said.
"*Clink*," the leader responded, gesturing to itself. It pointed to its companions: "*Rattle. Gear.*"
Names. They had names.
I wasn't just surviving anymore. I was *connecting*.
---
I spent the rest of the day with the Scrap Rats, learning their territory, understanding their ways. They showed me the best scavenging spots, the timing of the noble trash drops (every seventh sunrise), and which areas were death traps.
In exchange, I used my magic-sense to find three more enchanted items. A broken wand (which Clink immediately claimed), a shield with a minor protection enchantment, and a glove that enhanced grip strength.
By evening, I'd earned their trust enough that they let me work on my arm replacement in their warren—a relatively safe hollow beneath a collapsed storage facility.
Removing my sword-arm was agonizing. The blades had fused to my shoulder joint, and separating them required both physical force and magical disruption. I used the fire-wand finger to heat the connection points until they softened, then wrenched the entire assembly free.
For a moment, I was one-armed. Vulnerable. Wrong.
Then I attached the new framework.
It fit. Not perfectly—nothing in my body was perfect—but it *fit*. The joints aligned, the connection points matched, the magical signature was compatible.
I flexed the three metal fingers experimentally. They responded smoothly, precisely. I could actually grip things properly now. Make careful movements. Use tools.
This changed everything.
"*Good upgrade*," Clink observed. "*You learn fast.*"
"I don't have a choice," I said. "Learn or die."
"*Same for all of us.*"
True. Every being in this scrapyard was fighting the same battle—stay relevant or get recycled.
I looked at my new hand, opening and closing the fingers. With this, I could work better. Upgrade faster. Become stronger.
The distant city glowed against the darkening sky, mocking me with its perfection.
*You threw me away because I wasn't good enough*, I thought. *I'll show you what thrown-away trash can become.*
---
**Day Three - Evening**
I returned to Shield's territory as the toxic clouds began their nightly descent. The massive construct was exactly where I'd found it before, sitting among its sorted piles like a king on a throne of garbage.
It turned its dented helm toward me as I approached.
"**THREE DAYS**," Shield's avalanche voice rumbled. "**YOU SURVIVED.**"
"I did." I held up my new arm. "And I upgraded."
"**RESOURCEFUL.**" The red eyes dimmed slightly—approval? "**PARTNERSHIPS FORMED?**"
How did it know?
"Yes. With the Scrap Rats in the western sectors."
"**GOOD. STRENGTH IN NUMBERS.**" Shield shifted, metal grinding. "**YOU WISH TO LEARN MORE?**"
"I want to understand this place. The rules. The rhythms. How to not just survive but *thrive*."
"**AMBITIOUS.**" Shield actually sounded... pleased? "**VERY WELL. FIRST LESSON: THE DUMP HAS MEMORY.**"
"Memory?"
"**EVERYTHING DISCARDED CARRIES STORY. NOBLES THROW AWAY ITEMS TO HIDE SECRETS. BROKEN THINGS REMEMBER BEING WHOLE. YOU MUST LEARN TO READ THE TRASH.**"
I thought about the enchanted dagger I'd absorbed back when I first awakened. The memory fragments it contained—flashes of conspiracy, glimpses of noble meetings.
"The items retain information," I said slowly. "Not just magic. Actual memories."
"**YES. AND YOU**"—Shield pointed a massive finger at my chest—"**ARE MADE OF SUCH ITEMS. YOU ARE WALKING ARCHIVE OF DISCARDED SECRETS.**"
That was... profound. And terrifying. If I absorbed more items, would I inherit their memories too? Would I lose myself in a sea of other people's thoughts?
Or would I become something greater—a composite consciousness, more than the sum of my parts?
"How do I access these memories safely?" I asked.
"**MEDITATION. FOCUS. TIME.**" Shield pulled something from its piles—a small, cracked orb. "**PRACTICE ITEM. SURVEILLANCE ORB. BROKEN BUT FUNCTIONAL. ABSORB IT. SEE WHAT IT SAW.**"
I took the orb carefully in my new three-fingered hand. It was warm, still holding residual magic.
"How do I absorb it?"
"**PLACE AGAINST CORE. WILL. INTENT. YOUR BODY KNOWS.**"
I pressed the orb to my chest, where my cracked-shield torso held my true core—the central point where all my parts connected.
At first, nothing happened.
Then I *willed* it. Wanted it. Needed to know.
The orb grew hot. Then hotter. It began to melt, liquid magic seeping into my chest cavity, flowing along my internal channels, integrating with my core.
And the memories came.
---
*I am watching. A noble's study. Two figures in expensive robes.*
*"—must dispose of the evidence," one says.*
*"The constructs?"*
*"All of them. Memory-wiped and dumped. No one will question trash."*
*"And the workers who saw?"*
*"Same. They're expendable."*
*Laughter. Cold, cruel.*
*The orb doesn't judge. It only watches. Records.*
*Then I am falling. Discarded. Forgotten.*
*I am trash.*
---
I gasped, yanking back to the present. The orb was gone—fully integrated into my core. But the memory remained, crystal clear.
"They're disposing of witnesses," I said, voice shaking with rage. "People. Living, conscious people. Memory-wiped and dumped like *garbage*."
"**YES**," Shield said quietly. "**NOW YOU UNDERSTAND. THE DUMP IS NOT JUST BROKEN THINGS. IT IS BROKEN LIVES. DISCARDED SOULS.**"
I looked around the scrapyard with new eyes. How many of the "constructs" here had once been human? How many tragic stories lay buried in the trash?
"Someone has to stop them," I said.
"**EVENTUALLY. BUT FIRST, YOU MUST BECOME STRONG. STRONG ENOUGH TO MATTER. STRONG ENOUGH TO MAKE THEM LISTEN.**"
Shield was right. I was barely three days old. Weak. Fragile. One good hit from a Breaker would end me.
But I was learning. Adapting. Evolving.
And now I had purpose beyond survival.
I would grow strong. I would become something they couldn't ignore.
And then I would make them pay for every life they threw away.
"Teach me," I said to Shield. "Teach me everything."
"**TOMORROW**," Shield rumbled. "**REST TONIGHT. TOMORROW, WE BEGIN YOUR TRUE EDUCATION.**"
I nodded, turned to leave, then hesitated.
"Shield... why are you helping me?"
The massive construct was silent for a long moment. Then:
"**BECAUSE I WAS DISCARDED TOO. AND I REMEMBER WHAT IT FELT LIKE TO BE WORTHLESS.**" The red eyes dimmed. "**NO ONE SHOULD FEEL THAT WAY FOREVER.**"
I left Shield's territory with my circuits buzzing with purpose, rage, and hope all tangled together.
Somewhere in the distance, in that gleaming, perfect city, people were discarding lives like trash.
And somewhere in this scrapyard, a piece of trash was learning to fight back.