The morning sun was a sick, yellow smear through the constant haze. Jasper gripped his scrap-metal pike. Rust-flakes peppered his branded cheek. Three other Ironclads shuffled beside him. They were moving out, into the Wastes. Another scavenging run. “Keep your eyes open, grubs,” Kael rasped. The old Ironclad had a cough that shook his skeletal frame. His left eye was milky white, a relic of some forgotten skirmish. He spat a string of mucus into the dust. They were headed for the Broken Sprawl. A skeletal forest of collapsed factories and forgotten high-rises. Every step crunched over debris. Rebar teeth gnawed at the sky. A constant, low groan of stressed metal echoed around them. The air tasted of ozone and ancient rot. Every shadow could hide a threat. Mutated vermin. Rival gangs. Or worse. Jasper studied the ground. Boot prints. Not just their own. A drag mark. Too wide for a man. “Hold,” Jasper said. His voice was low, flat. The others ignored him, too focused on their misery. “What now, recruit?” Kael grumbled, not even turning. “Got a bad feeling?” Jasper pointed with his pike. A faint sheen on the dust. Not metallic. Viscous. He remembered the reports. Slime trails. Caustic. He’d read archived military protocols for dealing with chemical spills in urban environments. Containment. Avoidance. These creatures were a living spill. “Slime-crawler,” Jasper stated. “Fresh trail. Avoid the deeper depressions.” Kael actually paused. He squinted at the trail, then at Jasper. A flicker of something, surprise or irritation, crossed his face. The others looked apprehensive. They followed Jasper’s wider arc around a sunken alleyway. They reached the target building: a power substation, mostly intact, though its guts had long been ripped out. The Forge-Hand, Garrus, had demanded intact high-voltage conduits. A fool’s errand, Jasper knew. The copper would be gone. But the casing, if properly shielded, could be repurposed. The entrance was a yawning maw of twisted steel. Darkness waited inside. The smell of ozone was stronger here, mixed with something feral and metallic. “This place has teeth,” one Ironclad, Jax, muttered. His hand trembled on his crude machete. Jasper scanned the perimeter. Scratches on the reinforced concrete. Claw marks. Too large for common scavengers. Too deep for Rust Hounds. These were older. Deeper. And newer ones crisscrossed them. “Rust Hounds,” Jasper whispered. His eyes narrowed. They nested. And they were territorial. The metallic scent explained the feral tang in the air. Kael cursed. “Garrus sends us to a bloody den.” “The conduits,” Jasper said, keeping his voice steady. “If they’re still there, they’ll be in the sub-basement. Less accessible. More protected.” He pointed to a small, heavy door, half-buried under rubble. “That’s our best bet.” The others exchanged glances. This wasn’t their usual grab-and-run. This required thought. Kael, surprisingly, nodded. They used their pikes as levers, carefully dislodging the debris. A cloud of ancient dust puffed out. The door groaned open, revealing a concrete staircase descending into blackness. Jax hesitated. “What if they’re down there?” “Then we deal with them,” Jasper replied. He pulled a broken pipe from the rubble. He knew its weight. He knew its balance. He had spent years in simulations, mastering improvised weaponry. They descended, the only light from their scavenged headlamps, weak yellow discs cutting through the gloom. The air grew colder, heavier. Drip, drip. Water on metal. The smell of rust and damp earth intensified. Suddenly, a low growl. It vibrated through the floor. Not one. Several. “By the Iron Lord,” Kael breathed. Jax whimpered. Three pairs of glowing red eyes materialized in the shadows ahead. Large. Low to the ground. Gleaming fur, like corroded iron filings. Rust Hounds. Their teeth were sharpened scrap. Their snarls promised pain. They were blocking the path to the sub-basement. One lunged, a blur of rust-colored fury. Jax screamed, swinging his machete wildly. The beast sidestepped, claws raking his arm. “Form up!” Jasper yelled. He remembered Roman legionary formations. Not an exact fit, but the principle. Create a shield. Protect the flanks. He jabbed his pipe at the Hounds, not to strike, but to menace. To keep them guessing. “Form what? We’re dead!” Jax cradled his bleeding arm. “Back against the wall!” Jasper commanded. “Pikes out! Make a solid front!” He demonstrated, pressing his back to the damp concrete, holding his pipe forward, its blunt end a barrier. Kael, with his old soldier’s instinct, understood first. He shuffled into place, pike extended. The other two, spurred by fear and Kael’s reluctant obedience, followed suit. A bristling line of desperation. The Hounds circled, their glowing eyes hungry. Jasper scanned the environment. Collapsed scaffolding. Loose girders above. The Hounds were fast, but they were animals. Predictable in their ferocity. He remembered a tactic from the Germanic tribes, facing Roman legions. Not head-on. But using the terrain. Creating chaos. “Hold steady!” Jasper barked. “Wait for my signal!” He pulled a fist-sized chunk of concrete from the wall. He threw it. Not at the Hounds. But at a dangling metal sheet, further down the passage. *CLANG!* The sound echoed, deafening in the enclosed space. The Hounds flinched. Their ears flattened. They were startled. Noise was a weapon here. “Now!” Jasper roared. He didn’t charge. He lunged *past* the Hounds, towards a series of unstable metal shelves stacked with rusted tools. He grabbed a heavy wrench. He threw it at a precarious stack of old engine blocks. *CRASH! BOOM!* Metal screeched. Dust erupted. The engine blocks toppled, creating a wall of debris between the Hounds and the Ironclads’ position. The Hounds yelped, confused, partially trapped. “Move!” Jasper shouted. “To the sub-basement door!” They scrambled past the temporary barrier, leaving the snarling, disoriented Hounds behind. Jax stumbled, but Kael hauled him up. They reached the heavy metal door. It was locked. “No time!” Jax cried, eyeing the Hounds clawing at the debris. Jasper examined the locking mechanism. A thick, rusted bolt. He remembered pictures of historical siege engines. Rams. Impact. He found a discarded length of I-beam. “All of us! Ram it!” With adrenaline surging, the four of them battered the door. *CRACK!* The old lock screamed, then snapped. They tumbled into the sub-basement. Jasper quickly kicked a piece of debris under the door, propping it shut. The snarling of the Hounds faded, muffled by the thick metal. They stood panting in the new darkness. Their headlamps revealed intact conduit sections, running along the ceiling, thick as a man’s arm. Copper sheathing. Perfect. They worked quickly, silent, spurred by the memory of the Hounds. Jasper directed them, showing them which cuts were cleanest, which bolts would yield. His knowledge of historical industrial methods, gleaned from schematics, proved invaluable. Within the hour, they had a decent haul. Heavy. Cumbersome. But valuable. Making their way back was a tense, silent affair. They avoided the Hounds' lair, finding an alternate, more exposed route. The return journey was uneventful, but the weight of the conduits and the fear of lingering threats kept them on edge. They trudged back into the Cult’s settlement, exhausted. Garrus, the Forge-Hand, was waiting. He was a bull of a man, scarred and grim. His eyes, usually cold, widened when he saw their haul. “Conduits. Intact,” Garrus rumbled, his voice laced with disbelief. He grabbed a section, testing its weight. “You actually did it.” He looked at Kael, then at Jax’s bandaged arm, then at Jasper. His gaze lingered on Jasper. A calculating look. “How did you get past the Hounds in the Sprawl?” Jasper simply shrugged. “Used the environment. Made noise. Created a distraction.” He made it sound like dumb luck, a simple response to instinct. He kept his face blank, his voice devoid of any pretense of intellect. Garrus grunted. He tossed a handful of rations to each of them. “Well. Done.” He didn’t smile. He didn’t praise. But his eyes, when he looked at Jasper, held a new, unsettling depth. Later, as Jasper ate his meager meal in the Ironclad barracks, he felt it. Garrus’s gaze. He was watching. Not just him. But the way he moved. The way he thought. He had gained a small victory, yes. But he had also drawn the attention of a man who saw other Ironclads as interchangeable scrap. Jasper’s careful anonymity was starting to crack. He had survived. But survival, he knew, often came with a new set of dangers. And the rust-stained boot of Garrus, the Forge-Hand, felt heavier on his neck than ever before. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that this wouldn't be his last encounter with the man. And he wondered if Garrus's interest would lead to opportunity... or just a faster path to the grinder.

Dust and Rust Hounds