The sun barely filtered through the dense layers of smog that clung to the skyline of Lord Zeus City's Lower Sector. It was another morning of metallic dust, broken echoes, and the rattling coughs of those who had seen too many winters on concrete floors. Amidst the ruins and rusted skeletons of forgotten machines, Ely Zoan was already deep into his daily routine—scrap hunting.
He moved with a practiced fluidity through the twisted alleys and abandoned industrial zones, knowing which parts of the waste heaps hadn't yet been scoured. His eyes—green and calculating—darted back and forth. Then, half-buried under a pile of synthetic tires and broken circuit boards, he saw it: a long, curved alloy frame with distinct signature nodes.
Ely crouched and pried it free. His heart skipped. This wasn't just any piece of junk—it was a segment of an old Starweaver Drive, an advanced power conduit that had been obsolete in the Upper Sector decades ago but was still far beyond anything available in the Lower Sector. A rare catch.
He instantly knew what it was worth. "Should be good for at least 10,000 Zentals," he muttered under his breath, examining the integrity. That kind of money could keep him and his friends fed for a full month—or two if he stretched it. Food, water, repairs, and maybe even an upgraded cloak or one of those cheap hand-shield generators Garran sometimes sold when he was drunk.
Ely slipped the alloy into his canvas satchel and headed toward a narrow path that twisted around a collapsed maglev station. As he moved through the maze of ruins and barter hubs, the air grew denser with the smell of solder, grease, and stale oil—the signature scent of Garran Voss's scrapyard.
Garran was a legend of the Lower Sector. In his late 40s, he looked like someone who had refused to age gracefully. His long, dark hair was streaked with silver and tied back into a rough knot. An old cybernetic eye patch blinked faintly on his left side, scanning and adjusting with each turn of his head. A cigarette hung permanently from his lips, the end glowing like a dying star.
He stood over a cluttered worktable, sparks flying as he welded something beyond recognition. "Took you long enough, Zoan," Garran grunted without looking up. His voice was low and raspy, like the last flicker of a dying fire. "Heard you were crawling around the Old Quarter again. One day, those derelict gangs'll tear you apart for fun."
Ely pulled the scrap from his bag and laid it on the bench. "Worth the risk today," he said coolly.
Garran's one organic eye widened slightly, the cybernetic one zooming in with a sharp whir. He reached for the scrap like it was a sacred relic, turning it in his soot-stained hands. "Starweaver segment... intact." He chuckled. "You've got damn good eyes, kid. People been hunting this thing for weeks. I was about to give up on it."
Ely smirked faintly. "I don't give up easy."
Garran nodded slowly, chewing the corner of his cigarette. "Ten thousand Zentals. No haggling. You earned it."
The transfer was made through a physical chip, stamped and verified. Ely pocketed it without ceremony.
"You ever think of joining the scrap wars?" Garran asked, half-joking. "With your eye for tech, you could build a fortress outta garbage."
"I've got bigger plans," Ely replied.
The old man studied him, something like respect in his tone. "Yeah, I see that look. You're not made for these alleys. Just… don't forget the people who taught you how to walk in 'em."
Ely nodded, turned, and began the long walk back—his mind already racing ahead, past the soot, the gang-ridden streets, and even past Lord Zeus City. Toward the stars.