That scream of tearing metal was the first thing to punch through the dizzy fog. Liam's head felt like it was full of pokers, jabbing into his skull, making every nerve twitch. All he could see was a swirling, rust-colored mist. The air reeked of sulfur and corroded metal, thick enough to make him choke. Every cough sent a fresh, searing pain shooting up his left arm. This wasn't just an injury—he felt like his flesh was being eaten away by acid, right down to the bone, which itself felt hot and numb.
He tried to push himself up, but his hand just sank into a mess of cold, rough, sticky. Looking down, he saw his palm was covered in dark red blood, dripping slowly, his fingers glistening with rust. As his eyes adjusted, he took in the scene: he was surrounded by heaps of broken and busted metal plates everywhere. Some pieces were still smoking, hissing steam as it spilled out, thick and almost instantly fogging the air.
"Damnit… where am I?" His last memory was of a rainy highway at night, the blinding headlights of a truck jackknifing out of control, the wheel shaking in his hands… and then the awful crunch of metal. But this… this wasn't anything like the modern world he was used to.
No, there were no streetlights, the ground under him was just tight-packed black dirt and chunks of slag. In the distance, dark mountains loomed through the haze. The volcanic ash? Even his clothes were wrong—replaced with rough, patched-up work uniform, stained with grease and grime, the fabric scratching his skin raw.
And the pain in his left arm was getting worse, a white-hot agony that made it hard to stand. Cold sweat dripped down his face. Gritting his teeth, he rolled over, then cried out that metal he'd landed on was cold.
His arm was a mess of dark, rusty-looking patterns, like something you'd see on a piece of old scrap metal. The corruption started at his wrist and had already crawled past his elbow. In some places, the skin had cracked and peeled off entirely, showing blackish muscle underneath that looked like tangled, rusted wires. In the worst spots, he could even see bone, and it was covered in a thin, nasty-looking rust too.
"What… what the hell is this?" A chill ran down his spine. He reached out to touch the skin, but the moment his finger brushed the skin, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through him, like something was burning into his flesh. The rust patterns flared with a dull, ugly light for a second, and the burning feeling got worse, spreading up his arm like wildfire, straight for his heart.
He reeled out, stumbling back, crashing into a cold piece of wreckage. The chill of the metal did nothing to fight the inferno inside him. The sweat was still spreading fast. In just a few seconds, it had reached his shoulder. He could actually hear his skin cracking, could see tiny metal flakes falling from the wounds, glittering in the light before going out again, gritty and dull.
"The Rust… the Plague?" The thought popped into his head, unbidden, like a memory that wasn't his. It felt like it was baked into this body he was now wearing. He'd cracked into a bastardized day and age. The guy who used to own this body was an orphan on a place called Rust Island, a scavenger who lived off broken machine parts. And on this island, there was a curse. A Rust Plague. If it got you, your body would slowly just rot from the outside in, until you were just a pile of metal dust. There was no cure. You just suffered until you died.
The original owner had the Plague. It flared up last night, the pain was so bad he must have tripped and fallen into this junkyard, and from the 21st century, had woken up in this dying body, complete with its death sentence.
"Reborn, and I get a free terminal illness," he tried, his voice cracked with terror. His back was soaked with cold sweat. The rust on his arm was getting worse, the bone now visible underneath, spotted with corrosion. The burning feeling reached his chest, making it hard to breathe. His vision started to tunnel, his thoughts getting fuzzy.
He knew if he passed out now, that was it. Game over. But the Rust Plague wasn't the only thing trying to kill him here. From the scrap of memory he inherited, this scrapyard was crawling with hungry beasts, and swarms of little monsters called gear-rats—vicious things with teeth that could chew through steel, meant to strip living things to the bone in seconds if they caught you.
Clenching his jaw, he used every ounce of strength to get to his feet, his eyes darting around the wreckage. He needed something, anything, to slow down the Plague. Just enough to get out of this death trap. The memories told him that deep in the island's volcanic veins, there was one ore that could temporarily hold the rust back. But that was miles away, in the center of the island. No way he could make it there now.
The only other hope was something with energy—an mechanical core. The energy shock might jolt the Plague into remission for a bit. His eyes landed on a half-crushed metal shell, scarred and rusty. A crack on its surface oozed a faint blue liquid that sizzled and ate away at the rust-dust on the ground.
"That's it!" He lurched towards it, each step sending jolts of pain up his arm. It felt like his bones were breaking. More skin flaked off, the metallic bits pattering to the ground. The burning was unbearable now. His vision swam, his legs felt jelly.
He was just a few steps away when a rapid, clicking sound started up all around him, coming from deep within the metal carcasses. He froze, heart hammering, and looked over his leg. Dozens, no, hundreds of tiny red eyes fog, glowing with hungry, manic light. Then the creatures emerged.
They were the size of his hand, but their bodies were sheathed in metal plates, covered in tiny moving gears. Their teeth were like little razors, sharp as shards. Their claws scrabbled at the metal as they moved. Gear-rats.
They kept coming, a living, clicking tide, spreading out to surround him in a half-circle. Their red eyes were locked on his throat… they were sizing him up.
He sat cold. They were going to eat him alive, he could barely stand, was now facing a horde of the things. The memory just showed him them being torn apart by a dozen of them in under a minute. There were at least a hundred here.
"Get back!" he yelled, waving his good arm, trying to scare them. It had the opposite effect. The movement seemed to trigger the horde. The front line leaped forward, gnawing at his legs. Their teeth ripped through the tough fabric of his pants like silk, biting and sinking into his skin with shocking pain.
He yelled and kicked them away, but more poured in. The pain was everywhere now. Blood ran down his legs, and the smell of it drove the circle frenzied. The hissing got louder, the click intensified.
The rust had reached his chest. Where his skin split, a black, tarry fluid seeped out instead of blood. The fire in his heart was intense, the rat-like shapes blurring together.
"No… I can't die here…" Images flashed in his mind—the truck's headlights, his friends, a raw, desperate will to live surged up from him. With a final, guttural roar, he threw his left hand directly into the oozing crack.
The blue liquid coated his hand instantly. The moment it touched the corroded skin, it erupted in a violent sizzle, like acid on metal. The pain was excruciating, even worse than the Plague's burn. His whole body convulsed, hair on end, curling up on the ground, but he held on, squeezing the core like a lifeline.
The energy fluid seeped into the rust patterns on his arm, crashing into the curse living inside him. It felt like two storms were warring inside his veins. He grew drenched in sweat, his teeth ground together so hard he bit through his lip, tasting blood.
But then, something shifted. As the energy poured in, the creeping rust on his arm slowed, faded. The crushing burn in his chest eased up a little. He was still foggy, but he wasn't about to black out anymore.
The gear-rats were all over him now, chewing on his back, but he ignored it. He could feel the core's energy draining fast, the blue liquid was almost gone. When it ran out, the Plague would come back full force, and he'd be dead.
He had to find a weapon, now. His eyes scanned the junk, landing on a broken piston rod. It was solid iron, ancient, a meter long, thick and heavy, but it looked solid. It would have to do.
But he was pinned under a writhing mass of rats. He couldn't get up. Their teeth were in the muscles of his back now. He could feel him with high, his very life, pouring out with each blink, dark red puddle forming beneath him, dotted with bits of broken metal from the rats.
"Last chance!" he snarled. With a burst of adrenaline, he shoved himself up with the core, forcing the last dregs of energy into his body. The resulting collision of forces blacked him out for a second, but the shock of it also cleared his head. He kicked wildly, sending rats flying, and made a desperate, stumbling dive for the piston rod. He cried out, stumbling, but his fingers closed around the cold, heavy metal of the rod.
It was incredibly heavy. He couldn't lift it with one hand, so he gripped it in the middle with both, using his body weight to swing it in a wide arc at the swarm around him.
CRUNCH. The rod connected with several gear-rats. The sound of metal shattering was deafening. Their shells exploded, sending gear and black, oily body flying everywhere. The ones he hit went still.
The swarm hesitated. They backed off a few steps, their red eyes showing a flicker of fear. Their hissing dropped to a nervous hum. They weren't rushing in anymore.
Liam stood panting, hands locked on the rod, arms shaking from the strain. He was bleeding from countless wounds. The rust on his left arm was stable, but still throbbed with a dull pain. He was running on empty, each breath a struggle.
But he didn't dare lower his guard. He kept the rod as a barrier. He knew this was just a temporary setback for them. Once they got their nerve back, they'd swarm again, and he wouldn't last.
The core was dead cold and empty in his hand. The rust patterns on his arm felt warm again, a warning sign. He had to get out of this yard, find somewhere safe, and down figure out his next move.
Keeping a wary eye on the rats, he started shuffling backward, towards the edge of the scrapyard. The swarm followed, keeping their distance, a sea of red eyes watching his every move, hissing occasionally but not attacking… yet.
After about ten minutes of this tense retreat, he thought he'd made out the outline of trees, but the trees were all wrong—their trunks twisted, the bark the color of rusted metal. The Rustwood Forest. According to the memories, it was still dangerous, but safer than this metal graveyard. There might be water, maybe food, maybe a chance to recover.
Hope flared in his chest. He picked up the pace, heading for the trees. But just as he reached the treeline, the gear-rats behind him let out a fierce, unified hiss, and charged.
He spun around, swinging the heavy rod with all his might. CRUNCH. CRUNCH. But more just poured in to take their place, even more fearless than before.
"What now?" he thought, despair rising in him. He swung again and again, but the rod was too heavy. His arms were turning to lead, blood soaking his back tore open fresh. He couldn't keep this pace.
Just as his strength gave out, his knees buckled, a deep, guttural shout and ROAR echoed from the forest. It was a primal, savage sound that instantly drew out the rats' hissing. The rats attacking him froze in their tracks, red eyes wide with fear, then turned and fled, scrambling back into the fog, leaving a clear, girly wailing in their place.
Liam stood there, gasping, rod still in hand, on the edge of the forest, and the newcomer, a big, stepped out. It was a beast, like a lion but bigger, meaner. Its body was covered in dark patterns. Its legs were like tree trunks, its claws like scissors. A single, rust-caked, heavy horn jutted from its head. –it's red eyes glowed, looking at him now, threatening growl rumbled in its chest. This thing saw him as "prey". The name, Rust-Beast, of the scrap spread, and along with as dose of the king of the island. Even a juvenile like that had claws that could tear steel, armor and the metal was walking right towards him. The rust in his arm began to peak again, the fire now crawling, Plague had coiled, he could feel his reserves of energy, could barely even hold the rod. The young beast picked up its pace, then with enough force to tear him in half.
Liam threw himself to the side, but his injured arm gave way. He stumbled. The claws still caught him, ripping through his blood-soaked shirt, he fell, stunned. The world spun, and in the few last seconds, he thought he was done for. But the Rust-Beast didn't attack. It was like it hit a brick wall. The rod, it was like hitting an iron wall. The beast roared in annoyance, then turned and padded off into the night, leaving him sprawled in the dirt, breathing hard.
He lay there, broken, unable to move. The beast's body had begun to glow, a faint, soft red light, and the rust patterns on his arm glowed in response, the burning in his arm started to pinpoint. The energy from the dead beast was seeping into him, pushing back the Plague. It was like a transfusion, the pain in his arm dulled, the spreading rot halted, then began to recede, pulling back from his shoulder, leaving one patch on his arm, sore, but alive.
The rust patterns retreated with it, leaving one patch on his arm, sore, but alive.
Liam let out a breath. The black of the forest night stretched above him, his chest heaving. He'd done it. He'd survived.
He got to his feet, feeling odd. The pain in his arm was gone, replaced with a faint numbness. He looked at the young Rust-Beast's body, now just a husk, the glow faded. He'd taken its energy, used it to fight off the Plague.
He didn't know what that meant, but he wasn't going to question it. He had to get out of here.