### Chapter 2: The Shredders
The Scrapyard wasn't merely a pile of trash; it was a sprawling, metallic purgatory. It was a landscape geologically formed from the skeletal remains of a fallen civilization. The massive, hollowed-out hulls of crashed starships jutted from the earth like the ribcages of dead leviathans, their composite bones bleached white by acid rain. Between them flowed sluggish rivers of oil and chemical runoff, shimmering with a toxic, iridescent rainbow that bubbled lazily in the heat.
The air—Marcus's analyzers broke it down into its hazardous components—was a heavy smog saturated with iron oxide, sulfur, and the pervasive, stinging stench of burnt plastic.
Marcus took his first tentative step. The gyroscope in his chest whined frantically, calibrating in real-time to keep the bipedal construct balanced on the shifting surface of loose bolts and crushed plates. Every movement was accompanied by the groan of dry metal friction.
> CURRENT OBJECTIVE: Scavenge Resources.
He wandered through the wreckage, his optical sensors scanning everything in a rhythmic sweep. Most components were tagged as [Junk] (rendered in a dull grey text in his interface). Too rusted. Too broken. Fused together by orbital fire.
Suddenly, something glinted beneath his feet, partially buried near the crushed cabin of an ancient cargo truck.
Marcus leaned down, his spinal servos clicking. His sensors highlighted the object with a crisp white contour. It was an old mechanic's tool roll. The canvas cover had rotted away decades ago, but inside lay an adjustable wrench. Heavy. Forged from high-grade chrome-vanadium steel that had refused to yield to time or corrosion.
He picked it up. The cold touch of the steel against the pressure sensors in his palm felt... right. It wasn't just data; it was a memory. It was an anchor to his old life.
> ITEM ACQUIRED: [High-Quality Adjustable Wrench]
> * Class: Tool / Blunt Weapon
> * Durability: 85/100
> * Damage: 3-5 (Physical)
> * Note: The ultimate argument in any technical dispute.
A technician without tools was just a pile of scrap waiting to be processed. With the wrench in his grip, he felt a flicker of purpose. He wasn't helpless anymore.
Then the ground vibrated.
At first, it was barely perceptible, a phantom tremor in his sensitive foot sensors. Then it grew stronger. Piles of loose metal nearby began to slide and collapse, creating miniature avalanches of debris. His system flashed a seismic warning, but Marcus understood immediately without the algorithm—the source of the vibration was moving. And it was heavy.
A sound followed. Low, grinding, terrifying. Like giant millstones crushing rock into dust.
Shredders.
He saw them as he crested a hill made of compacted washing machines. They were the monstrous apex predators of this metal ecosystem. Multi-legged, squat constructs resembling crabs the size of sedans. But instead of organic mouths, they had rotating industrial drums studded with tungsten spikes. Instead of claws, they wielded hydraulic shears capable of snapping a tank barrel.
They didn't just walk. They consumed the path before them, grinding debris, swallowing metal to repair their own bodies and fuel their eternal hunger.
His interface flashed red, pulling up a threat profile that filled his vision with warning flags:
> ⚠ TARGET IDENTIFIED: Autonomous Recycler Mk-II ("The Crab")
> * OBJECTIVE: Recycle all active electronics.
> * THREAT LEVEL: DEADLY
> * WIN PROBABILITY: 0.0%
Run. The instinct remaining from his human soul screamed in unison with his digital survival algorithm.
Marcus turned and bolted. His old chassis wasn't built for sprinting; it was built for precision work. His servos whined under the sudden overload, and his core temperature began to spike immediately. His battery life melted away before his eyes: 7%... 6.8%... 6.5%...
One of the "Crabs" detected the sudden movement. Its faceted compound eyes shifted from passive blue to combat yellow. The machine let out a steam-whistle shriek and lunged forward with terrifying speed, its steel legs stabbing into the trash for traction.
Marcus saw a gap ahead—a narrow fissure between two rusted shipping containers. It was tight, dark, and hopefully, too small for the monster.
He pushed his legs to the limit. The ground shook behind him as the shredder closed the distance, its rotating maw spinning up to a deafening roar.
He jumped for the gap.
But he miscalculated the latency of his old hydraulics. The signal from his brain reached his legs a fraction of a second too late. He was too slow.
The Shredder's rotating blade sliced through the air with a high-pitched whistle.
Marcus felt a massive impact on his left shoulder. It wasn't pain—pain requires nerves. This was a horrific physical jolt, a kinetic transfer of energy that spun him in mid-air and slammed him violently against the corrugated steel of the container wall.
He fell, his vision glitching with static and white noise. Error messages cascaded down his display like a waterfall of blood:
> ⚠ CRITICAL HULL DAMAGE
> ⚠ CONNECTION LOST: LEFT MANIPULATOR
> ⚠ MASSIVE HYDRAULIC LEAK DETECTED
> ⚠ BALANCE SYSTEM: OFFLINE
He lifted his head, his neck gears grinding.
He saw his arm. It lay two meters away, twitching slightly as the residual power faded from its circuits. The "Crab" stopped, grabbed the limb indifferently with a manipulator, and tossed it into its intake hopper.
The sickening sound of crunching metal and snapping wires echoed through the canyon.
The sight gave Marcus the jolt of adrenaline—or perhaps a voltage spike—he needed. While the monster chewed on his limb, momentarily distracted by the fresh scrap, Marcus dragged himself into the crevice. He pulled his broken body forward with his remaining arm, leaving a trail of oily black fluid behind him.
He squeezed deep into the shadows, where the monster couldn't reach.
He had escaped. But the cost had been catastrophic.