Goldick shouted, rushing toward him. The boy tried to speak, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
"It's… the river… Mother. The air and water… they're poisoned. You can't—"
He coughed again, violently.
"You can't stay long. It burns us inside."
Goldick's panic turned to sharp focus. His heart pounded, instincts kicking in, protective, fierce, and utterly foreign.
"Alright, alright, we're getting out of here. No more arguments. Sorry…"
He scooped the boy up without thinking. The child gasped as Goldick lifted him high into the air with effortless strength. The move shocked even Goldick himself— he didn't expect this frail body to handle weight so easily.
"What the hell! Guess some of my gains didn't vanish after all!"
The boy's eyes widened, a faint smile creeping through his tired face.
"You're… stronger than usual today, Mommy."
Goldick managed a breathless laugh, his panic fading slightly. He looked around the junkyard.
"Where the hell is 'home'?"
The hyena circled them impatiently, then began trotting toward a narrow, winding path leading out of the junkyard. The boy patted Goldick's shoulder weakly.
"Let Betty lead the way, Mother. She knows the safe roads."
"Betty?"
Goldick repeated in disbelief.
"You mean the hyena? You actually named that ugly thing Betty?!"
The boy laughed softly, despite his nose still bleeding.
"Of course! She's family. She helps protect us and brings food sometimes. She's the best."
Goldick stared at the laughing hyena trotting proudly ahead and nearly screamed.
"A goddamn hyena is your family pet? Are you people insane?!"
The boy only laughed harder, clinging to Goldick's neck. Still muttering to himself, he followed the hyena through the twisting, trash lined paths, carrying the boy close. The eerie red river faded behind them as the metallic glow of the slum city began to rise ahead— an ocean of neon, and smog, stretching into infinity.
He didn't understand this world, didn't know who the boy really was, or how he'd ended up in this body… but as the kid's small hand clutched weakly at his collar, he found himself moving faster, driven by something deeper than confusion.
The way back felt endless.
Goldick trudged up the narrow path, his bare feet crunching on shards of metal and glass. It wasn't a mountain of stone… it was a mountain of trash. Layers and layers of rusted machines, twisted pipes, and broken glass stacked so high they swallowed the horizon. The smell should've been unbearable— rotten oil, acid smoke, and decaying filth but somehow, his new body didn't even flinch. His stomach didn't twist, his throat didn't gag.
"Why the hell does this not even smell bad to me?"
He muttered, glancing down at the boy in his arms.
"This place smells like a chemical dumpster on fire."
The boy blinked up at him, confused.
"Smell bad? Mom, you always say you can't even notice it anymore. Maybe it's just… home to you."
Goldick frowned, glancing around.
"Home? This hellhole?"
As they walked, the hyena, Betty took the lead, trotting easily across the unstable junk like she'd done it all her life. They passed rusting cars stacked like bones, tangled wires that hung from the edges like vines, and dripping pipes that hissed with steam. It felt like walking through a maze of garbage and metal cliffs. Then, without warning, Betty turned sharply, squeezing into what looked like a dead end corner between two collapsed heaps of scrap.
"Whoa, whoa, wait— where the hell are you going? There's no way through that!"
Goldick shouted. But the hyena disappeared through the narrow gap with a muffled bark. The boy tapped Goldick's shoulder weakly.
"There's a space behind that, Mom. It's our way home."
Goldick crouched and squinted. From where he stood, it looked impossible but sure enough, there was a small, hidden passage behind the metal wall. He had to crouch low, ducking under a hanging pipe, nearly scraping his head on a jagged piece of steel.
And then suddenly the smell began to fade. The air grew strangely clean. The path beneath his feet smoothed out. The sound of dripping oil turned into the faint hum of a generator somewhere inside.
"What the…"
He muttered, straightening up as the view opened before him. There, tucked behind the filth and darkness, was a little house. Not a proper house but a patchwork shelter made from scavenged metal plates, bolted and welded together like a puzzle. From the outside, it looked fragile, like one strong wind could crush it.
But as they stepped closer, Goldick realized something was different here. The ground was swept clean, the walls were aligned perfectly, and the seams were sealed with care. The corners were reinforced with precise welds. The place looked engineered.
"Wait a damn second. This looks like it was built by an actual engineer."
The boy smiled faintly.
"Mother made it this way. She said a home should be clean, no matter where you live."
"Your mom built this? Out of junk?"
Rusty pouted, stamping his foot.
"Stop teasing me, Mom! I built this! You barely helped!"
"Wait— you did this!?"
He stepped inside and froze.
The inside wasn't what he expected. It wasn't a shack. It was… cozy. Warm. The floor was metal, sure, but it was polished. There was a real bed, small but with actual sheets and a pillow. A sofa patched from scraps of leather. A low table with mismatched chairs. Out back, through an open panel door, he could see a small cooking area with stacked pots and a pipe that seemed to bring clean water in from somewhere. There was even a small bathroom made from smoothed steel panels and a hanging curtain.
It wasn't luxury but it was home. Goldick stood there in silence, staring.
"This… this doesn't make sense. I've seen Olympic dorms dirtier than this."
Then something moved… clattering. Goldick turned just in time to see the boy wriggle out of his arms and run straight toward a messy pile of metal scraps scattered across the floor.
"Hey! Wait— what are you doing?"