POV: NeomaThe stench of rot coated the back of my throat. I pressed the rubber seal of my respirator tighter against my face, digging the plastic into my skin, but the chemical-sweet reek of decaying Barzil still seeped through.Three years scavenging the Scrap Fields, and my lungs still seized—a sharp, burning rejection—every time I stepped outside the Warrens. I kept my head down. Eyes burned from the sulfur. I scanned the grey shifting dunes of industrial slag.Above, the sky was a bruised purple, choked by clouds that tasted like copper. And higher still, the fragments of the Shattered Moon hung like broken teeth, glowing with that faint, mocking silver light."Hope is for the dead," I whispered into my mask. My voice sounded tinny. Wrong. "The living just need batteries."I adjusted the strap of my canvas satchel. It was light. The lack of weight sat like a stone in my stomach. If I returned to the gang boss with an empty bag, the thirst would start in two days.My mouth went dr
Last Updated : 2026-01-23 Read more