Scavs.
In Night City, that word wasn't just a warning… it was practically a curse. They weren't an organized faction, a syndicate, or even a gang with a clear leader. They were scattered parasites: small packs of scavengers who only came together to strip victims, split the loot… and, every now and then, the chrome.
They lured, kidnapped, killed. All for a couple of implants they'd flip on the black market or to some back-alley ripperdoc who didn't ask questions. They desecrated human bodies like they were cheap scrap.
There were plenty of ways to die in Night City… but falling into a Scav's hands was right at the top of the list. The worst thing that could happen to you. If you were lucky, they'd put a bullet in your head. If not… they'd open you up while you were still breathing.
And he was in their damn nest.
He didn't know how he'd gotten there. Maybe it wasn't even a Scav den… maybe he was just paranoid. But doubt didn't matter; standing still in this place was like playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded mag.
Escape.
That was the only goal. It didn't matter where he actually was—stay too long, and death would find him before he could think twice.
He forced himself to sit up. The cold metal floor sent a shiver racing down his bare back. The only light came from the doorway, soon replaced by the harsh glare of a furnace's flames. Figures began to draw closer, still chatting among themselves. He slipped into a cluster of metal crates off to the side, where he must have fallen earlier.
He closed his eyes for a moment, straining to listen. Footsteps. Distant, but there. Muffled voices laced with casual laughter. The echo warped the words, but not the tone: mockery, disdain.
—Crazy bastards— he muttered under his breath.
He scanned the room. It was small, packed with old crates and tools stained with things he didn't want to identify. A single half-closed metal door leaked a thread of bluish light. No windows.
His breathing quickened, and he forced himself to slow it. Think. Think, dammit. You can't just run out there… they'll find you in seconds.
He crawled to a corner and started rummaging through the crates as quietly as possible. Most were filled with junk—cut cables, defective chrome parts, rusted plates—but one held a long screwdriver with a bent tip. Not exactly a weapon, but better than nothing.
He moved to the edge, pressing his ear to the metal. The echo magnified every vibration: a steady clanging, like metal striking metal, accompanied by an off-key humming that drifted up and down without rhythm. Then, heavy footsteps—walking away… then back again.
He leaned forward just enough to peek through the gap. A narrow corridor stretched in both directions, lined with stacked corpses. A reddish, almost crimson flame flickered in the furnace, casting grotesque, writhing shadows along the walls. The floor was slick with dark, sticky stains he didn't want to name.
The only way out was on the other side of that furnace.
He swallowed hard. Taking the main hall would be suicide. Like this—naked and weak—he was a bird without wings. He needed a side route, something to keep him out of sight… at least until he was near the exit.
He crouched low, moving carefully. At the corner, he peeked again. There he was: a big Scav, back turned, shoving a corpse into the furnace. The heat shimmered in the air around him. On a makeshift table sat a bloodied ocular implant, like some kind of trophy.
The man wore oversized headphones, bobbing his head to music only he could hear. With a soot-stained hand, he scratched at the table, grabbed a pair of pliers, and began fiddling with the implant.
No sign of the second scavenger. Good… but that didn't solve the problem.
This man stood between him and the only exit.
A thought flashed through his mind: I could… I could stick this in his neck right now.
His fingers tightened around the screwdriver he'd found earlier, but he quickly shook the thought away. He didn't know if he had the strength to hold him down. Didn't even know if he could… kill someone.
But… this guy's done it before, he thought, glancing at the bodies. He'd do it to me without blinking.
He stepped back to retreat, but his heel hit an empty can that clattered across the floor, bouncing off the wall with a metallic ring that echoed down the hall.
The man's head snapped up like a spring, but he didn't see him. Instead, he growled under his breath and rasped:
—Fucking rats…
He pulled off one headphone, tilting his head toward the noise, and began walking that way. He backed up a few steps, sweat sliding down his forehead, until he bumped into a rusted barrel reeking of burnt oil.
—You'll see, you little shits… —the Scav muttered, getting closer.
When he reached the table, the hanging lamp above it flickered violently before exploding in a shower of sparks. The man cursed, stepping back—without noticing the loose cable stretched tight between two table legs.
His foot caught. He stumbled and crashed backward into an open crate filled with tools. The impact was sharp, followed by a wet crunch: one of the metal rods had pierced his side, its tip jutting out red on the other end.
He froze, mouth slightly open, while the music kept playing from the headphones lying on the floor.
He stayed there, motionless, screwdriver trembling in his grip. The stench of burning flesh and rusted metal turned his stomach.
—Shit… —he whispered. He hadn't stabbed the man himself, but… could he really say he'd done nothing? That can, that noise… it had led him here.
He looked away, forcing himself to breathe deep. He couldn't stay here. Not now.
He slipped into a side corridor that opened into a wider room lined with rusted shelves. The smell of grease and blood was overwhelming. In the shadows, a body hung from hooks, still bearing some of its implants. He fought the urge to gag.
He kept moving, though every step on the sticky floor seemed to try and hold him back. The silence in the room wasn't complete… something was moving.
A faint metallic creak made him whirl around. Between two shelves, the second Scav appeared—leaner than the first, but with bloodshot eyes and an iron bar in his hand.
—What the fuck… INTRUDER! MIKE, GET OVER HERE!—
No answer—he charged.
The downward swing of the bar missed his head by inches, smashing a shelf and sending rusted scraps clattering to the floor. He stumbled back, slipping on an oil patch. The Scav raised the bar again, but this time he reacted—twisting and jamming the screwdriver into the attacker's forearm.
The scavenger howled, pulling back with the bar still in hand. They locked eyes for a second, breathing hard, before the Scav lunged again. This time he shoved him against a table, the rotted wood giving way as they both hit the ground. They rolled, trading blows, until he managed to break free and run toward a side exit.
He didn't get far. A sharp crack rang out, and something hot grazed his right side. Burning pain flared under his skin, his leg faltering. Not deep… but blood was already soaking his ribs.
—Got you, rat!— the Scav yelled, reloading as he closed in.
—Fuck!— he shouted, bolting away.
Escape was chaos—until he saw salvation.
A barely open metal door. He slipped inside, closing it quietly and pressing himself against it. On the floor, within reach, was a loose metal bar. He gripped it with both hands, slowing his breath.
The footsteps stopped. Silence. Then, the creak of the door opening.
The Scav stepped in cautiously, scanning the room. The instant he passed by, he lunged from the shadows, slamming the bar into the man's knee. The scavenger collapsed, his weapon skidding across the floor.
—Ah, you son of a—
They grappled, the gun slipping between their hands, slick with sweat and blood. The Scav tried to bring it up—
—Not happening!— He shoved the barrel upward, smashing the man's jaw with the stock. That one moment of distraction was enough—he twisted the gun and pulled the trigger.
The shot cracked like thunder. The Scav dropped, staring at the ceiling, while the smell of gunpowder flooded the air.
—I… I—
He slumped to the floor, gasping for air, feeling the heat of his own blood running down his side. His hands shook.
He had killed someone.