The Wasteland didn't reward kindness.
It ate it.
Aris knew that better than anyone.
Dust stung her cheeks as she stepped over a rusted metal beam, the kind that once held up skyscrapers. The air smelled of burnt plastic and dry earth. Sunlight blazed white, unforgiving, turning the broken world into a sea of shimmering heat.
She was a salvager.
Not a hero.
Not a survivor.
A salvager.
Her job was simple:
Take.
Don't ask.
Don't help.
Don't care.
Everything in the Wasteland had value.
Scraps.
Parts.
Water.
Weapons.
People.
Aris's boots crunched over broken glass. Her backpack was light, but her knife was heavy at her hip — a good knife, sharp enough to cut through rope, fabric, or throat.
She was hunting for anything worth selling.
Instead, she found him.
He was half-buried under a collapsed wall, his body half-covered in dust and blood. Black armor, cracked but still imposing. A sword lay fallen beside him, its blade chipped. His face was angular, sharp, eyes closed, pulse faint but still there.
Powerful.
Important.
The kind of man who led armies.
To anyone else in the Wasteland, he was a savior waiting to wake.
A warlord.
A protector.
Someone to beg to follow.
To Aris?
He was merchandise.
She knelt, poked his cheek with the tip of her knife.
No response.
She checked his pockets.
Coin.
A small vial of clean water.
A radio, cracked but fixable.
She took everything.
Salvage rule number one:
If they can't fight back, you take what you want.
She studied him again.
Tall.
Strong bones.
Good muscle structure, even half-dead.
His face was pretty enough to sell to some wealthy collector in the Inner City.
Or maybe to a slaver camp.
Or…
Aris smirked.
An auction.
She could auction him.
A live, powerful, unknown warlord?
The bids would climb high.
Higher than anything she'd ever sold.
She stood, dusting off her pants.
The Wasteland didn't reward kindness.
But it sure as hell rewarded practicality.
She pulled a rope from her bag, sturdy and thick.
He wasn't a person anymore.
He was salvage.
And Aris was going to sell him.