Past downtown, a long stretch of burned-out industrial plants stretched onward, seemingly to the horizon. Smoke still belched from some of them, though few still made whatever they’d been built to make. Most had been repurposed. Some for legal profits, others, for less than legal. Tents and grungy homeless camps clustered in the gaps below massive pipes and in the hollowed out spaces of long-abandoned tanks. Big signs hung high above, some dark, others lit, but missing letters, bulbs, light. None of them were whole.

“Used to be the Block was the industrial district of the city. But then they put in the star hub over by central, and industry shifted over that way. Nowadays, it’s only the little companies that can’t afford the good real estate, and the folk that want to avoid attention,” June explained.

Sasha gave her a bored look. “So why are we here?”

“Where there’s dead industry, there’s good scrap. And where there’s good scrap, there’s a scrapyard.”

Beyond a large warehouse, an empty yard stretched an entire block. Though ‘empty’ wasn’t the best descriptor. Scrap and trash piled in the yard, some of the drifts stories tall. The ground was completely covered in scrap, and in places, the scrap dipped below street level, not so much a yard as a massive pit. A cobbled-together building, walls corrugated steel, roof blue tarp, slung down the center of the scrap heap, only visible when the scrap drifted low. Chain-link and razor wire warned intruders out, though the scrap towered high above the fence. In places, it had collapsed out into the nearby alley or street and crushed the fence under its piled weight.

Half a car, pipes and wires wide open to the world, tumbled down a nearby heap and crashed into a valley between the heaps. The scrap creaked and groaned. Deep below, something snapped. The scrap collapsed downward into a new pit, pouring down a meter, two meters. Destabilized, one of the nearby heaps crumbled into the pit with a great roar and clashing of metal.

“Watch your step,” June quipped. She pushed open the gate and stepped inside.

Skinny workers dressed in mismatched rags scurried over the scrap heaps. They darted from one valley to the next, then clambered up the dunes, surefooted as monkeys, gathering the best bits of scrap into bundles on their backs. One rushed into the building ahead of Sasha and June, already slinging their bundle of scrap off their back. Through the gaps in the hastily-hung tarps, June watched as they hurriedly sorted the scrap onto different electronic scales, each according to the content of the scrap.

June peeked her head under the tarp. “Strider? You in here?”

“Eh? Is that June I hear? Summer comes so soon,” a gravelly voice joked. From the deep shadows in the rear of the hut, a slim man with odd, mechanical legs emerged. The black metal legs were curled in on themselves so his knees, such as they were, reached nearly to his shoulders, while massive claw-like feet crawled forward. He walked perpetually in a low crouch, waist slung centimeters above the floor. Big goggles hid his eyes, nearly as broad as his face. The combination of bent legs and big eyes lent him a frog-like appearance, disarmingly ridiculous. “What’re you looking for today? Wait, wait, let me tell you. I’ve got a treat for a pilot like you. Found it almost in one piece, beaut of a drone. Perfect in its simplicity. Listen to this: a machine gun… on a quadcopter. Want to take it for a test drive?”

“I’m not here to buy. Wanted to have a private word,” she interrupted.

Strider lunged abruptly and slapped the sorting worker on the back of the head. They stumbled and nearly fell. “You! That chip’s burned out. Don’t think you can fool my eyes. Raw materials, at best.”

The worker mumbled an apology and moved the offending chip to a larger scale.

Sasha’s eyes flashed. June moved to stop him, but this time, his hands remained still.

“A private word, hmm,” Strider continued, as if nothing had happened. He gestured them on, deeper into the hut. Through another flap, they left the tent and passed into the open yard. Strider’s legs whirred as they unfolded. Once, twice, metal twisting, pistons pumping, his legs grew longer and longer. In an instant, Strider grew from waist-height on Sasha to the point where his waist was at the level of June’s head. Recurve legs lifted him high above the scrap. He surveyed his yard briefly, then gestured.

“I’ll see you in the back yard.”

He took off. Each massive stride carried him meters at a time. June moved more slowly, at a cautious jog, careful to pick the most stable pieces of scrap.

Sasha dashed off after Strider, a blur of white and black.

“Hold up, kid! Careful!”

With a crinkle, the seemingly solid metal plate under Sasha crumpled like foil and revealed a pit below. For a second, he hung in the air. Then he plunged, soundlessly, and vanished into the scrap.

“Sasha!” June screamed. Forgetting her caution, she sprinted to the hole.

Ahead, Strider turned back, puzzled. “Ah, mind your footing.”

June threw herself to her knees beside the hole and leaned over the edge. Darkness. Jagged-edged scrap. Twisted rebar and broken glass. “Sasha!”

“Ugh,” he grumbled, and some of the darkness shifted. Caught between two pieces of rebar and snagged under a sheet of metal, Sasha looked up at her. He shook his head and pulled himself up onto the sheet of metal, extricating himself from the rebar.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he snapped. A faint blush spread over pale cheeks.

June sighed. From his expression, he was more embarrassed than hurt. Thank goodness. She laid down on the scrap, spreading her weight, and offered him her mechanical right hand. “Come on.”

He kicked off the rebar and reached for the edge, ignoring her help. The metal sheet bent under his weight, and he fell with it. The far side of the sheet tipped up. The scrap under June shifted, threatening to dump down on his head. He froze mid-reach, eyes wide.

“Sasha. Don’t be stubborn. Take my hand.”

Sasha grimaced. He hesitated, then slapped his hand into hers. Bracing herself with her legs, she hauled him up. As his torso came over the edge, he rolled onto the scrap and away from the edge, then jumped to his feet.

“I told you, be careful, kiddo. The scrap’s treacherous to those who aren’t familiar,” June warned him, dusting herself as she climbed back upright.

He scowled at the ground.

June snorted and gave him a friendly pat. “C’mon. Step where I step. You’ll get the hang of it in no time.”

She set off again at the same cautious jog, slightly slower than the first time. Sasha followed, head bowed and shoulders hunched, burning with embarrassment.

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“It’s alright. Everyone messes up the first time out in the scrapyards. You should’ve seen me.” June laughed.

Sasha glowered at her. “I can’t make mistakes.”

“Sure you can. Everyone does.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t.”

“Or what?”

“Or they…” He fell silent.

“They aren’t here anymore, Sasha. No one’s going to hurt you when you mess up,” June said gently.

“It’s because I made a mistake that I’m here at all!” The words burst out of his chest all at once. He clamped his mouth shut abruptly, but it was too late. They’d already escaped.

“And? Nothing has happened. Maybe they’ve forgotten about you. Maybe they’ve let you go.”

A complicated expression crawled over his face. He mumbled something to himself that she didn’t quite catch, but sounded a lot like, “Am I useless?”

June stopped. Eyes downcast, Sasha ran into her back before he realized she’d stopped. She scruffed his hair and grinned wide. “You escaped! Don’t look so sad. Isn’t it beautiful out here? Isn’t it wonderful?”

He looked around the scrapyard, face blank once more. “No.”

“Well, not the scrapyard, but… you know what I mean.”

“Strider’s going to get away from us,” Sasha said, ignoring her.

She sighed. She tried to ruffle his hair again, but he ducked out of her reach. “Don’t be so obstinate, you little brat.”

Strider climbed over a heap and stopped. He vanished with a whirr as his legs folded back to their smaller size. June picked her way around it slowly, one hand on the heap, sliding and stumbling over loose bits of metal and plastic. Sasha followed after her, precise steps silent. Not a single piece of scrap shifted beneath him.

She thought she heard a harrumph and glanced back. A haughty Sasha looked down on her from a meter or so up the pile.

“Oh, alright, alright, you little mountain goat. I’m not saving you next time,” she grumbled, shaking her head. Had to show her up, didn’t he?

Strider was waiting for them in the shadow of the pile. His goggles flashed in the sun as he glanced up. Beyond him, the rear wall of a factory gaped open, concrete wall crumbled in. A massive demolition exo-harness, crouched by the wall, bulky, claw-tipped hands dangling from humongous shoulders and thick arms. Stocky, short legs crouched down on top of flat feet. Though it was vaguely humanoid, it lacked a head. An almost comically-small camera array mounted where its collarbone should be stared blankly out at the world.

Like sheep around a shepherd, bulldozers and other construction equipment were scattered in and out of the derelict factory. Unlike most of the scrapyard, they were bright yellow, fresh and new. A few streetpunks wandered around the equipment, poking at the machines.

“What’s that all about?” June asked, brow wrinkled.

“Bringing down the factory next door, I hope. I could use some fresh scrap. We aren’t the Industrial Pits over here,” Strider said.

“Urgh. Something about that name…” June muttered.

“Industrial Pits? I know, right? Sounds like some suit-lady’s bits, and not the biggest damn scrapyard on the planet.” Strider shook his head.

Down below, one of the streetpunk girls with a shocking sheaf of blue hair and red hands glanced around, then gestured at two of her friends. They hustled up and boosted her onto the nearest bulldozer. She grinned and hefted a crowbar high.

“Hey! Stop that!” Strider shouted.

“Oy, it’s Strider!” one of the punks called back.

“Stop that,” another one mocked.

Strider’s face went red, veins standing out on his forehead. “Fuck off!”

The girl looked up and laughed. “Yer dad’s a virgin and ya mom’s a whore!”

“You—” Strider lifted up to his full height and took a step at the punks.

Laughing like hyenas, they scattered. The girl was the last to run. Flashing both middle fingers, she hopped backwards off the bulldozer and backed after the others, only turning to run when they vanished around the corner.

Strider glared after them, then shook his head and mopped his brow. As suddenly as it had come, his anger faded. “Sorry about that. So… what’d you come to talk about?”

June snorted. “No, it’s fine. Wondered if you’d heard anything about the kids Regis Group kidnapped. Where they were going, for example. Or who ordered the kidnapping.”

Strider’s goggles glistened. “Regis Group has plenty of use for kids. Why does anyone else need to be involved?”

She gave him a look. “A dozen kids at once? They aren’t a kidnapping ring. Besides, everyone knows Torre’s as meticulous as they come. Takes his time. Makes sure nothing can get back to him. This snatch and grab… it’s too sloppy. They were pressured. Someone ordered it. Someone who can put the pain on Torre himself.”

“Why do you care?” Strider reached into his back pocket and pulled out a cig. It lit itself with a spark of bluish electricity, and he took a long drag.

“Does it matter?”

Strider tipped his head at her. “Fair. I need something, though. You know I don’t do this for free.”

June reached into her back pocket. She pulled out her comms and scribbled on the screen, briefly. The triangle and the nine-pointed starburst. “This symbol. Found it at the branch.”

Sasha’s eyes bored into her. She ignored him. If he wasn’t going to tell her anything about himself, she’d find out another way.

Strider’s eyes widened. His hand went to his throat, and he fished up a small gold disc on a chain. A nine-pointed starburst was inscribed on its surface. “Asteri above. There’s your answer.”

“If it was that simple, I wouldn’t be here. So?”

Carefully, Strider licked his lips. “I don’t know, but I can ask around. That symbol… The ‘burst mounting the triangle. It looks familiar. Something in the scrap, maybe. I’ll have to take a peek around.”

She sighed and tucked the tablet back into her pocket.

“That doesn’t count as payment. It’s a hint to answer your own question,” Strider said.

“And you haven’t answered it, so no payment is due,” June argued.

Strider sucked on his cig and breathed a cloud of gray smoke into the sky. “You really have a way of pissing folk off.”

“You have no idea,” June replied.

He shook his head. “Better have some cred lined up the next time you stop by. Or something worth swapping for. Info, scrap, I don’t give a damn, as long as it’s worth my time.”

“I will. Keep those eyes open. I’ll be back before you know it.” She started off, toward the rear gate.

Strider caught her by the arm. “Wait. Who’s the kid? You didn’t introduce me.”

“Sasha, Strider. Strider, Sasha.”

Sasha glared at Strider, nostrils slightly flared.

He leaned toward June. “Where’d he pop out of?”

“You know who asked for those kids? I’ll trade,” she said.

Strider grimaced. “No gossip between old friends?”

June laughed. “Never.”

Strider waved her away. “I’ll figure it out. Send you a ping on comms soon as I hear.”

“I’ll be waiting.” June turned away. Sasha stared at him a moment longer, then followed her out.

Strider’s magnified eyes followed them. He sucked on the cig and breathed out, then shook his head. Just barely, June heard him mutter: “Pity.”

It was a long walk back. The industrial district stretched on, longer for Sasha’s downcast shoulders and surly silence. Not that he was usually chatty, but this felt different. She glanced at him a few times, but had no idea what to say. With his face hidden behind a curtain of black hair, she had no clues to go off of. She shook her head. Maybe he’ll feel better once he eats something.

They reached downtown before long. Cars whooshed by. Pedestrians babbled, some flashing harness, others subtly showing weapons. June smiled, breathing in the energy of the city. Anonymous, in the midst of life. She felt alive here, like she hadn’t for a long time.

A horn blared beside her. Sasha startled, and June put her hand out. A car pulled up to the sidewalk beside them, windows dark.

The windows rolled down. A little girl with pigtails tied with red ribbons beamed out at them, clutching tight to a plastic superhero. “Thank you!”

“Oh! Glad to see you made it home,” June said, grinning. She wandered over.

The front windows rolled down as well. Two tired faces smiled out. The mother nodded at June. “Thank you for saving our daughter.”

“Ah, it’s nothing. You’re welcome,” June said, rubbing the back of her neck, embarrassed.

Sasha hung back, behind the car. June glanced at him, but said nothing. He’d get used to living eventually.

“Thanks to you too, Mr. Basketball!” the girl shouted.

June smiled at him. He stared back blankly.

Junk cluttered the car. Boxes and bags filled every inch that people weren’t occupying. “Heading out?” June asked.

The mother tipped her head. “It’s too dangerous around here. After Hana got kidnapped… well, we’ve been thinking about moving for a long time. We figured we’d pull the trigger. Rent will be steep, but…” she glanced at her husband. “We think we can afford it.”

“Best of luck to you,” June said. She grinned at the girl, who beamed at her.

“Oh! Miss, are you fighting the bad guys?” She waved the superhero figure.

June laughed. “You could say that.”

A conspiratorial grin passed over the little girl’s face, and she gestured June closer. Sasha leaned in. “I heard from the bad guys. They were sent by—”

Something BANGed into the sidewalk. Concrete chips smattered against her shins. A second later, the sound caught up to the bullet, a clean, sharp, familiar boom. June ducked and sprinted to cover, the edge of the nearest alley. Hana’s mother yanked her into the car, and the car swerved away, wheels squealing against asphalt. Pedestrians screamed and scattered. Some drew weapons. Others raced into shops or dropped to the sidewalk.

“Sasha!” June shouted, peering around the corner after him.

It was too late. His back grew smaller as he sprinted in the direction of the shot.