The border of the Dead Zone was marked by a series of vertical steel beams wrapped in heavy razor-wire. The wire was not meant to keep the inhabitants of the Exhaustion District in. It was meant to keep the things inside the zone from leaking out.
Han stood before a section of the fence where the metal had been corroded into a fine, orange dust. A gap large enough for a human to crawl through existed near the base of a structural pillar. He looked back one last time. The red countdown on the distant district screen showed sixty-four hours. The timer felt like a physical weight on his shoulders.
He reached into his bag and pulled out several strips of charcoal-lined cloth. He began to wrap them tightly around his lower face. He added a layer of treated grease to the edges of the mask to create a primitive seal against his skin. It was a pathetic defense against the chemical rot of the Dead Zone, but it was all he could afford.
He crawled through the gap. The moment his hands touched the ground on the other side, he felt a sharp, stinging sensation. The soil here was not dirt. It was a mixture of pulverized glass and ancient chemical runoff.
The air changed instantly. In the Exhaustion District, the air was stale and heavy. Here, it tasted like battery acid and burned rubber. Even through the layers of charcoal, the smell was overwhelming. It clawed at the back of his throat and made his eyes water.
Han kept his head down. He followed the path of an ancient drainage pipe that led deeper into the ruins. The scenery was a nightmare of twisted technology. Colossal cooling towers lay on their sides like the carcasses of fallen gods. Emerald-green fluid leaked from cracked reservoirs, forming stagnant pools that hissed whenever a piece of falling scrap touched the surface.
This was the source of the scavengers' legends. For decades, men had whispered about hidden caches of high-grade minerals that the Equilibrium Guard had abandoned during the Great Leak. Most of those men never returned. Those who did were usually coughing up bits of their own lungs within a week.
Han's Flesh Grade body was ill-equipped for this environment. He only had eighteen minutes of air left when he crossed the wire, and every second was a gamble. Within eight minutes of walking, his skin began to itch. The toxins in the air were reacting with his sweat. He could feel his heart rate climbing as his system struggled to filter the poisons.
His Lung Meter beeped a low, rhythmic warning. The display showed only four minutes of life remaining. The needle was vibrating violently. The sensors were struggling to find enough usable oxygen in the chemical soup.
He ignored the pain. He focused on the geometry of the ruins. Hinge had once told him that the most valuable tech was always stored in the center of the pressurized vaults. He looked for structures that remained upright. Anything that was still standing after centuries of corrosion had to be made of high-density material.
He climbed over a pile of fused engine parts. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. He felt a sudden wave of nausea and had to lean against a rusted bulkhead to keep from falling. His hands were shaking. He looked at his fingers and saw that the tips were turning a faint shade of blue. It was a sign of systemic failure.
"Keep moving," he whispered to himself. The sound of his own voice was muffled and strange behind the mask.
He reached a wide plaza that had once been an assembly floor. In the center of the plaza stood a massive, rectangular block of reinforced steel. It was at least twenty feet high. One side of the block had been physically melted away by an ancient explosion, leaving a jagged, blackened hole that looked like a screaming mouth.
This was a containment vault. Han recognized the structural markings of the Equilibrium Guard on the intact side of the wall. This was the kind of place that held the components for the Upper Districts' machinery. If there was a miracle left on the Rust Rim, it would be inside that block.
The ground around the vault was covered in a thick, crystalline crust. Each step Han took made a loud, crunching sound that echoed through the silent ruins. There were no other scavengers here. There were no enforcers. There was only the sound of his own labored breathing and the distant, metallic groans of the platform.
He reached the opening of the vault. His Lung Meter emitted a long, steady tone. Zero minutes. The device began to inject the paralyzing toxin into his arm to end his consumption of the platform's air.
Han felt his muscles begin to lock up. The heat from the ancient explosion had been so intense that the steel of the vault had flowed like wax before solidifying into sharp, obsidian-like ripples. He dragged his heavy limbs through the opening. A single cut in this environment would lead to immediate infection, but he was already dying.
He pulled a small chemical flare from his bag and struck it against the wall. A harsh, red light filled the interior of the vault. The air inside was stagnant and smelled of ancient chemicals.
The interior was mostly empty. The explosion had vaporized almost everything. But as Han panned the light across the floor, he saw a small, undamaged pedestal in the far corner. The pedestal was made of a white, ceramic material that showed no signs of corrosion.
He stepped toward it, his legs feeling like lead. His vision was beginning to blur. Dark spots danced at the edges of his sight. He knew he only had seconds left before he lost consciousness.
He stumbled. His knee hit the hard floor with a sickening thud. He crawled the last few feet, his fingers clawing at the crystalline crust. He reached the base of the pedestal and looked up.
There was no pile of copper. There was no bag of refined dust. There was only a single, dark compartment that had been shielded from the blast.
Han reached into the compartment. His hand brushed against something smooth and cold. It felt heavier than any metal he had ever handled. He pulled his hand back, expecting to see a shard of iron or a heavy-lead bar.
He stared at the object in the red light of the flare. His lungs burned. His heart felt like it was trying to burst out of his chest. He closed his eyes, his mind finally drifting toward the void. He had found the end of his path. Whether it was a grave or a gateway, he would find out in the next breath.