Up on the surface, everything felt different. The air was thin and sharp, the kind that seemed to scrape the inside of Rusty's throat with each breath. The sun blazed with a relentless heat that didn't just warm — it bit. The moment its rays hit her bare skin, an itch crawled up her arms and shoulders, a pricking sensation like tiny needles pressing in from every angle. She wanted to scratch, badly, but the stubborn part of her refused to give the surface the satisfaction of hearing her complain.
And then there was the dust.
It wasn't like the loose, airy grit she'd imagined — it was heavy. Almost alive. Orange-brown particles drifted through the air in slow motion, swirling with every gust of wind, clinging to anything they touched. She could see through it well enough to make out shapes and silhouettes, but after only a few steps, it was already in her eyes, under her nails, inside her mouth.
When she glanced down, she noticed something strange.
Her skin — what little of it wasn't covered — had already taken on a faint orange tint. The particles weren't just sticking; they were settling, attaching, like her body had been magnetized to the very ground. Every movement left a faint shimmer of dust falling from her. On her arms, it even looked like thin streaks of actual rust were forming, mottled patches along her forearms and shoulders. She didn't know whether to be unsettled or impressed.
The surface runners moved ahead in a loose formation, their gear rattling faintly with each step. Their weapons were simple but sharp — crude blades, worn spears, and long hooked poles that looked like they'd been reforged from scavenged scrap. They didn't talk much, just exchanged small hand signals as they marched through the haze.
Roger walked near the middle of the group, a long knife strapped across his back. He noticed her eyes darting about and smirked slightly.
"You're looking for them, aren't you?" he said without slowing.
"The beasts," Rusty admitted, her voice muffled by the cloth she'd tied over her mouth. "Where are they? I thought this was a hunting run."
Roger chuckled — the kind of laugh that said she didn't yet understand how this worked. "Oh, they're out there. Trust me. But they're not gonna show themselves unless they think they've got an easy kill. Beasts aren't stupid."
"So what— we just… wander around until they decide we're worth the trouble?" she asked.
"Not exactly." Roger adjusted his pace until he was walking just ahead of her, gesturing vaguely toward the group's formation. "See, every hunting team's got a bait. Someone who moves a little differently. Looks a little… weaker. Makes noise. Smells like prey. The rest of us hang back just enough so when the beasts lunge, they're not expecting a wall of steel between them and their meal."
Rusty glanced toward the runners in front and behind her. They seemed… deliberately spaced away from her.
"And who's the bait this time?" she asked, though the answer was already creeping in like a bad taste.
Roger's smirk widened. "Dren. Always Dren. Well… was Dren."
Her eyes narrowed. "Was?"
"Yeah." He gave a lazy shrug. "You're standing where he used to be."
She stared at him, unsure whether she wanted to punch him or laugh at the absurdity. "So… I'm the bait?"
"Congratulations," Roger said, almost cheerfully. "Try not to die."
Rusty crouched low in the dust haze, each motion deliberate, sluggish, like a machine long past its prime. She remembered the instructions — move slow, act like the rust's gotten into your joints — and she obeyed, letting her steps drag, her head hang, her breathing sound heavier than it was.
The dust fog swirled as something shifted ahead. At first, only the glow of eyes appeared — pairs, low to the ground, steady and unblinking. Then shapes emerged: thick-bodied creatures with ridged, clog-like plating along their backs and sides. Hogclogs. Their trot was almost casual at first, but there was nothing casual in the way their heads tilted, their snouts twitching, reading her every weakness.
Two of them peeled from the pack, padding toward her in a slow arc, predator confidence in every step. Rusty kept her head low, fighting the urge to clench her fists, letting them believe she was prey.
The first Hogclog made its move — a burst of muscle and grit as it leapt, jaws gaping. Rusty's arm swung up almost on instinct, the rusted plates of her forearm groaning as she drove her fist into the side of its skull. The impact was sharp and ugly — a crack, like brittle metal splitting — and the beast's momentum folded in on itself. It hit the dirt with a squeal, dazed.
The runners froze for a moment, their plan forgotten, eyes locked on Rusty as she didn't stop. She stepped forward, fists hammering down again, each blow sending a jolt up her arm and flaking rust from her skin. The second Hogclog charged in to save its packmate — she caught it mid-sprint, twisting and slamming her fist into its plated jaw, cracking through the armor.
Roger muttered a curse, snapping his rifle up as more shapes emerged in the dust. The rest of the pack was coming in fast.
Rusty didn't wait for orders — she waded in. Her strikes were wild but brutal, like Gustavo used to fight — no hesitation, no clean form, just raw force and a willingness to take the hit if it meant breaking the enemy. She had blind spots though; a Hogclog nearly clipped her from the side before Shooter's bolt drove it back into the dirt. Roger swung wide to cover her flank, runners darting in to keep her from being overrun.
When the last two hogs broke and fled into the fog, silence fell. This time, there was no half-measure. They had a good kill — clean, decisive — the kind they hadn't managed since Gustavo was with them.
Rusty stood there, shoulders rising and falling, rust flakes drifting from her arms into the blood-soaked dust.
It felt like the old days.