News in the sewers didn't travel by phone or feed; it traveled by whisper. And the whisper that morning was louder than the steam vents.
The Church is coming. The Fire is coming.
Varian walked down the main thoroughfare of Rust-Town. He wasn't hiding in a cloak this time. He walked down the center of the muddy street, his boots heavy and rhythmic.
To his right walked Gorgon. The giant had welded scrap metal plates onto his stone skin, creating a crude but terrifying suit of armor. He carried his engine-block hammer on one shoulder.
To his left was Kraz, the Lizard-man mercenary. Kraz wore a bandolier of scavenged grenades and hissed at anyone who looked too long.
And scurrying in the shadows of the rooftops above them was Rix, their eyes and ears.
The residents of Rust-Town—mutants with extra limbs, scavengers with re-breathers, children with skin like bark—parted ways. They looked at Varian with a mix of fear and awe. They had heard the rumors. The boy who melted a Paladin.
"They're watching you," Gorgon rumbled low in his throat. "They're looking for weakness."
"Let them look," Varian said calmly. "They need to see a leader, not a victim."
They reached the central plaza, beneath the suspended Iron-Jaw's Train.
Usually, this area was a market. Today, the stalls were gone. In their place stood three distinct groups of armed thugs. The private armies of the Sewer Lords.
[Faction Analysis Active]
1. The Venom-Kin: To the left. A group of thin, pale mutants wearing leathers dyed purple. They carried blowpipes and daggers dripping with neurotoxins.
Leader:Lady Venom. A woman whose lower body was concealed by a long dress, but Varian's scan picked up the heat signature of a massive serpentine tail underneath.
2. The Scrap-Jacks: To the right. Men and women heavily modified with crude cybernetics—steam-powered pistons grafted onto arms, saw-blades replacing hands.
Leader:Scrap-Jack. A hulking figure in a hydraulic exo-suit made of yellow industrial loaders. He reeked of oil and old blood.
3. The Vermin-Swarm: In the back. Hundreds of rodent-like mutants, similar to Rix but feral.
Leader:The Rat King. A small, hunched figure wrapped in bandages, sitting atop a throne made of human skulls.
And in the center, presiding over the chaos, was Iron-Jaw, leaning on the railing of his train.
"You're late, Scavenger," Iron-Jaw's synthesized voice boomed.
"I was busy," Varian said, stepping into the empty circle between the armies. "Cleaning up the mess the Upper Shells left us."
Scrap-Jack laughed. It sounded like a grinder stripping a gear. "Cleaning? I heard you poked a stick at the Church and brought the heat down on us. You're a liability, boy."
"I brought a warning," Varian corrected. He pulled the crumpled Purge Notice from his pocket and threw it onto the muddy ground.
"Read it. Seven days. Sector 4 gets incinerated. They aren't looking for me anymore. They're looking to wipe the slate clean."
Lady Venom glided forward. Her movement was unnervingly smooth. She picked up the paper with a long, clawed finger.
"Standard intimidation tactics," she hissed, her voice sounding like dry leaves. "The Church threatens a purge every decade. They never come down here. The air is too toxic for their precious lungs."
"They have new filters," Varian countered. "And they have Sanctuary Hounds. I fought one yesterday. They didn't stop at the warehouse. They were mapping the ventilation shafts."
A ripple of unease went through the gathered gangs.
"If they come," Scrap-Jack flexed his hydraulic claw, the servos whining, "we crush them. My boys have armor-piercing rivets. We know the tunnels. Let them come."
"You'll die," Varian said bluntly. "You have shotguns and saws. They have plasma lances and thermal vision. You can't fight a war in a dead end."
"And you have a better plan?" The Rat King spoke for the first time. His voice was a high-pitched chitter that made Varian's teeth ache. "Run away? Hide in holes?"
"No," Varian said. "We evacuate. I have a base. Station Zero. It's deep. Deeper than the Church maps go. It has water, it has power, and it has a chokepoint we can defend."
He looked at the three Lords.
"I'm offering you sanctuary. Bring your people. Bring your supplies. Join the Iron Legion."
Silence stretched across the plaza.
Then, Scrap-Jack started laughing. He laughed so hard his exhaust pipes puffed black smoke.
"Join you? A skinny kid with a pet slime?" Scrap-Jack stepped forward, the ground shaking under his mech-suit. "You want to be King, boy? You think because you killed a few mercenaries you can command us?"
He pointed his massive mechanical claw at Varian.
"I built this town," Scrap-Jack roared. "I keep the air pumps running. I keep the water filtered. If anyone leads a defense, it's me."
Varian sighed. He knew this was coming. In the Dregs, diplomacy always ended in violence.
"I don't want to be King," Varian said softly. "I just want to survive."
"Then kneel," Scrap-Jack sneered. "Give me that fancy Cryo-Gauntlet, and maybe I'll let you be my shoe-shine boy."
Varian looked at Gorgon. "Stand down."
Gorgon frowned. "Boss, I can take him. His hydraulics are rusted."
"No," Varian said, unclipping his cloak and letting it fall to the mud. "He challenged me. If you fight, it's a gang war. If I fight, it's a duel."
Varian stepped forward, facing the three-meter-tall mechanical monstrosity.
"Rules?" Varian asked.
"Yield or Die," Scrap-Jack grinned, revving the circular saw attached to his left arm. VRRRRRR-TZZZT.
"Acceptable."
Varian raised his left hand. The Symbiote surged, the black scales locking into place. The golden veins of the Solar Core began to hum, a low, menacing sound.
[Combat Mode Engaged.][Opponent: Scrap-Jack (Mechanized Infantry).][Threat: Medium.][Weakness Analysis: Hydraulic hoses exposed at the knee and elbow joints. Fuel tank on the back.]
"Let's dance, tin man," Varian whispered.
Scrap-Jack charged.
For a bulky suit, he was fast. The hydraulic pistons fired, propelling him forward like a battering ram. He swung the buzzsaw in a vicious horizontal arc, aiming to cut Varian in half.
Varian didn't block. He dropped.
He slid on his knees through the mud, passing under the saw blade. The wind of the weapon ruffled his hair.
As he slid past, Varian lashed out with his left hand.
[Mercury Whip.]
The black tendril shot out, wrapping around Scrap-Jack's right ankle.
Varian yanked.
But the suit was too heavy. Varian didn't pull Scrap-Jack down; Varian pulled himself toward the suit.
"Mistake!" Scrap-Jack yelled. He stomped down with his massive metal boot.
Varian rolled to the side, the boot missing his head by inches. Mud splashed into his eyes.
He's strong, Varian thought, scrambling back to his feet. Too heavy to grapple. I have to dismantle him.
Scrap-Jack raised his other arm—a rivet gun.
THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.
Red-hot rivets the size of fingers flew at Varian.
Varian raised his arm.
[Form Shift: Tower Shield.]
The Symbiote expanded into a large, rectangular shield.
CLANG-CLANG-CLANG.
The rivets embedded themselves in the black sludge, sizzling. The impact force pushed Varian backward, his boots skidding in the muck.
"Is that all you got? Hiding behind a wall?" Scrap-Jack taunted, closing the distance.
Varian peeked over the shield. He saw the hydraulic hoses on the suit's elbow flexing as Scrap-Jack reloaded the rivet gun.
"Gorgon was right," Varian muttered. "Rusted."
Varian dropped the shield. He sprinted straight at the mech.
"Fool!" Scrap-Jack swung the buzzsaw again.
Varian didn't slide this time. He jumped.
He pushed off a pile of debris, launching himself into the air. He landed on the mech suit, grabbing onto the roll cage with his human hand.
Scrap-Jack thrashed, trying to shake him off. "Get off me, rat!"
Varian wrapped his legs around the mech's torso. He placed his left hand—his Symbiote hand—directly onto the massive hydraulic joint of the buzzsaw arm.
"Thermite Touch," Varian growled.
[Thermal Injection: Maximum.][Acid Coat: Active.]
It was the combo he had used on the Squire.
The Symbiote secreted the green acid onto the metal joint. Then, the Solar Core flooded the area with white-hot heat.
HISSSSSS-CRACK.
The smell was awful—burning oil, melting rubber, and vaporizing steel.
The heat supercharged the acid. The thick steel bolt holding the saw arm together turned into orange slush.
Scrap-Jack screamed as the heat transferred through the chassis, cooking him inside the suit.
"My arm! My arm!"
CLANG.
The massive buzzsaw arm detached completely, falling into the mud with a heavy splash.
Varian didn't stop. He scrambled around to the back of the suit. He found the main fuel line.
He sharpened his finger into a needle.
Poke.
A thin stream of diesel fuel sprayed out.
Varian held his glowing, superheated finger an inch away from the spray.
"Yield," Varian said calmly into Scrap-Jack's ear. "Or I light the fuse."
Scrap-Jack froze. He knew what would happen. If the fuel tank ignited, he would be a roasted marshmellow in a metal can.
The plaza was silent. The Venom-Kin, the Scrap-Jacks, and the Vermin-Swarm watched in disbelief. Their invincible warlord had been dismantled in under a minute.
"I... I yield," Scrap-Jack wheezed, the fight draining out of him.
Varian deactivated the heat. The glow faded.
He hopped off the suit and landed in the mud. He didn't gloat. He didn't cheer.
He turned to the crowd.
"Scrap-Jack is strong," Varian lied smoothly. "His armor is tough. We need that armor. We need his engineers to build gates for Station Zero."
He looked at Lady Venom. "We need your poisons to trap the tunnels."
He looked at the Rat King. "We need your scouts to watch the vents."
Varian extended his hand toward the fallen Warlord.
"I don't want to be your King," Varian repeated. "I want to be your General. We fight together, or we burn alone. What's it going to be?"
Scrap-Jack opened the hatch of his suit. He climbed out, smelling of sweat and fear. He looked at his severed mechanical arm in the mud. Then he looked at Varian's hand.
He took it.
"The Church burns everything," Scrap-Jack grunted. "Better to follow a Scavenger than die for nothing."
Iron-Jaw, watching from his train, began to slow-clap. Clank. Clank. Clank.
"Well done," the merchant said. "The sewers are united. Now... how exactly do you plan to move three thousand people, five tons of equipment, and a very grumpy giant down a ventilation shaft without the Church noticing?"
Varian smiled. It was the smile of a man who had already analyzed the map.
"We don't go down the vents," Varian said. "We flush the system."
He pointed to the massive Flood Gates at the far end of the cistern—gates that hadn't been opened in fifty years.
"We open the deluge valves. We ride the water down to the Deep Core layer. It's a one-way trip. But it's fast."
"That's suicide," Lady Venom hissed. "The water pressure alone..."
"We have engineers," Varian pointed at Scrap-Jack. "We have hulls," he pointed at the piles of scrap. "We have 48 hours to build an Ark. Get to work."