ZenpaiTrans
patreon
One Character (11)
🕑 Added 2025-05-04 17:00:07 +0000 UTCChapter 11 - Scrapyard Scramble
Wes moved briskly through the automatic doors of the Resonance Exchange center's delivery area. He scanned the busy loading bays for any sign of his wrecked truck. Spotting a worker in grease-stained coveralls directing an anti-gravity forklift, Wes hurried over.
"Hey! My truck – the grey hauler, front end smashed in – it was parked here yesterday after an accident. Where is it?"
The worker paused and wiped sweat from his brow. "Grey hauler? Damaged front? Yeah, towed it out this morning. Sent to the Sector 4 Scrapyard about… thirty minutes ago, maybe forty."
"What?!" Wes exclaimed, shocked. "Already? But I needed parts off it!"
The worker shrugged. "Standard procedure for abandoned vehicles in the bay after 12 hours. If you hurry, might catch it before it hits the crusher. Just gotta pay the release fee at the yard office first, though."
Wes cursed under his breath. A release fee? He didn't have credits to spare, he needed to earn credits from the truck, not spend more just to retrieve its carcass. His day somehow managed to get worse. With another muttered curse, he turned and sprinted out of the Exchange, ignoring the worker's confused shout about the fee.
Reaching the scrapyard in time required hailing a public taxi skimmer. The fare depleted his already meager funds further. He jumped out before the skimmer fully settled, leaving barely enough credits on his chip to cover the ride, and ran towards the high, chain-link fence surrounding the vast scrapyard.
"My truck!" he yelled at the bored-looking security guard in the booth. "Grey hauler, busted front end! Did it come through here?"
The guard chewed gum slowly. "Lots of wrecks come through, pal. Need a VIN or a tow-tag number."
"I don't have one! It just got here!"
Seeing the conversation going nowhere fast, Wes abandoned diplomacy. He took a running start, leaped, scrambled over the fence despite the 'No Trespassing' signs, and dropped into the yard on the other side. Ignoring the guard's startled shouts, he started running frantically through towering canyons of crushed metal and discarded machinery.
‘Come on, come on… Don’t be crushed yet.’
He searched desperately, dodging hulking loader machines and ignoring the shouts of confused scrappers who paused their work to watch the lunatic tearing through their domain.
A pang of unwelcome nostalgia hit him. He remembered buying this truck years ago. It was the first major purchase he made with credits earned entirely on his own, without relying on his family's name or funds. He’d wanted a sleek skimmer, something fast and impressive, but the rugged hauler was all he could afford. It wasn’t pretty, but it was his, a symbol of a fledgling independence he never fully grasped.
Running aimlessly wasn't working. The scrapyard was enormous like a maze of metallic mountains. He needed a better view. Spotting a rickety metal staircase leading up the side of a sorting tower, he scrambled up. He peered over the rusty railing and scanned the vast expanse below.
There! Down near the massive hydraulic crusher, a familiar grey shape sat precariously on the conveyor belt, inching steadily towards the machine’s gaping maw. His truck. Next in line.
Panic seized him. "No! Stop! Stop the belt!" he screamed while waving frantically. No one below seemed to hear him over the industrial din.
The truck lurched closer to the crushing plates. Desperation overriding reason, Wes vaulted over the railing. He landed hard on a pile of scrap metal below. He ignored the sharp pain in his ankle, and sprinted towards the conveyor belt.
"Stop! That's my truck!" he yelled again, but the belt kept moving.
“Dammit! It won’t stop!”
He leaped onto the moving belt, stumbled, then scrambled onto the hood of his dying truck. He slid into the driver's seat, frantically trying the ignition, yanking the wheel, punching the dashboard – futile gestures. The engine was dead and the controls were useless.
‘If only I had Dodo’s crazy strength. I could just lift it off!’
Suddenly, alarms blared. An operator high in a control booth finally spotted the madman on the doomed vehicle. He slammed emergency stop buttons, yelling into a comm unit. Lights flashed. The giant crushing plates halted inches from the truck’s bumper. The conveyor belt shuddered to a stop.
But momentum carried the truck forward. It tipped over the edge and plunged into the crusher’s receiving pit with a sickening crunch of metal.
Silence fell, broken only by the dying whine of machinery. Workers rushed towards the pit, shouting anxiously.
“What happened? Did you see that guy?”
“He jumped right in!”
“Is he… crushed?”
“Gods, if the foreman finds out someone died on our shift…”
Just as their panicked speculation reached fever pitch, a rattling sound came from the wreckage below. Then, something flew upwards, arcing through the air before crashing heavily onto a nearby heap of twisted girders.
It was Wes. Remnants of Aroth’s protective, viscous white energy flickered around him before fading completely. He lay sprawled amidst the metal, battered and bruised.
Workers rushed over cautiously.
“Is he alive?”
A groan answered them. Wes stirred and pushed himself up painfully. Bits of scrap metal clung to his clothes.
The lead operator stomped over with his face red with anger. “Are you insane?! What in the karking hells did you think you were doing?! You could have been killed! You could have gotten us all fired!”
Wes staggered to his feet, wincing. “My truck… that was my truck! You were about to crush it!”
“Your truck?” The operator scoffed. “That wreck was processed according to regulations! Abandoned property from the Exchange!”
“But I needed parts! You can’t just scrap it without asking!” Wes protested weakly.
“We don’t do shady business here, pal,” the operator retorted sharply. “All our intake is legitimate. You got proof of ownership? A release form? No? Then it ain’t yours. And now, you owe us for the emergency shutdown, the disruption, and trespassing!”
“But…”
Wes’s argument crumbled. He had no proof, no form, nothing. Arguing further was pointless. In the end, bruised, defeated, and significantly poorer after paying the hefty fine to avoid confinement, he limped out of the scrapyard gates.
He slumped onto the dusty curb outside, utterly spent. His desperate gamble yielded nothing but more pain and fewer credits. He checked his chip again. 190 credits. Pathetic. Not enough to rent a room, barely enough for food for a few days, definitely not enough to raise a baby.
Leo. Alice.
He pictured Alice’s surprised face, Leo crying in her arms. Guilt gnawed at him, but practicality won out. Returning now, with nothing, would solve nothing. Alice had a decent job, a stable life. She wouldn’t let Leo starve. She had a good heart, even if he didn’t deserve her kindness.
‘It’s better this way, for now,’ Wes told himself, trying to justify the cowardly decision forming in his mind. ‘Leo’s safer with her. I need to earn credits. Real credits. Then… then I’ll figure things out. Chaz… he might be able to help. Time to call in that favor.’
He wouldn't go back to Alice yet. Not until he had something, anything, to offer besides more problems. He pushed himself to his feet, bruised body aching, and started walking aimlessly down the street, directionless and utterly alone.
