All around him, the world was searing. Metal glowed and the air was hazy. Screeching, clanging, humming machinery sounded off in the distance.

He didn’t know where Lyre was coming from or how fast they were, or how they’d tracked him down. It was possible there was a tracking device in the phone, but it was one of his few assets and he didn’t want to throw it away over a maybe.

Fumbling with clumsy fingers, he shoved it into his pocket. He got up and started walking, uphill to where the glow was a bit dimmer. He’d have to go slow, because he suspected a lot of these areas would require careful concentration to get through safely, and he’d have to check any areas before putting his hands there. If it was too hot to hold, he wouldn’t realise until it was too late.

It was unlikely he could outpace Lyre hour-to-hour, assuming they were as fast as the average person, but if he kept walking, they might exhaust themself before he did. Kiki and Gaunt would probably neither help nor hinder him, regardless of their intentions. It sounded like they were too far away to do much of anything. They both seemed to share information freely, which was good, since it meant he could lurk and learn more without showing his hand. There was always the possibility they were lying, so he wouldn’t act on any information they shared until he could confirm or deny it.

He lifted a foot, and a bit of the sole stuck to the surface, stretching out in long, goopy strands. He was risking foot damage if he continued this way, so he cast around for a more insulated substance. There was a patch coated in rubber, so he hurried to stand on it and carefully toed it before poking his shoe sole with a finger. Firm. He could stand here safely.

So much metal, all around him. Most of it was goopy looking slag, like it had melted and frozen again, but some bits were sharp and jagged. He tried to avoid looking at those ones, but every time he saw one, there was a split-second burst of fear.

At least it wasn’t rusty.

There weren't any other rubbery patches easily visible, so he’d have to risk the slag. He scrutinized one patch off to the side of where he’d been standing before. He couldn’t see any glow, but he couldn’t reach out and check with his foot without slipping and falling. He ripped off a small bit of his shirt, balled it around a scrap of rubber to give it mass, and tossed it at the slag.

Where the little scrap landed, the cloth began smoking faintly. No good.

He looked up, to where the sky was just visible through the smoke.

The crater was hottest in the middle, with streaks of glowing metal extending to the edges. He didn’t have the right perspective to see where he was standing, but based on the other walls, he was about halfway up and near the edge of a glowing streak. If he was able to move to the side, he could get to one of the cooler portions and climb up from there.

He spent a couple minutes tracing out his path, then edged to the side, hands outstretched to provide balance and catch him if necessary. There were no glowing portions, but every few steps, his shoe sole would become soft and tacky as it rested on the slag. All he could do was step off those spots as fast as possible, and hope his shoes had enough integrity to protect his feet. He wouldn’t know if damage had been done, or how much, until he could stop to check.

There were more spots, too narrow to balance. For those, he had to cling to the walls. He fished his gloves out of his pockets, pulling them on. It wouldn’t provide much protection, and it would make his grip clumsier, but it was the best thing he had on hand.

The slag was slippery unless he dug his fingers into the natural divots where bubbles had popped. As he stepped onto a slanted lump, his foot slipped, and he nearly fell, held by his fingertips. This had been easier in the beginning, before the rubber treads on his shoes had melted.

There was a flatter ledge higher up. Holding on with one hand, he reached up with the other, grabbing the edge. He slid his hand along until he found a groove he could be sure wouldn’t slip from his grip, then transferred his other hand over and silently pulled the rest of his body up.

He flinched, and nearly fell, at the metal scrap just a foot from his face. He backed away, as far as possible. It still wasn’t enough.

Why? Why had he woken up in this hell, of all places?

He took a deep breath. Let it out.

He was probably going to die, either to something outside the crater, or to Lyre. This climb might ruin him, once he reached the top.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

But he shoved his fear down and kept climbing, because he refused to die here, and if there was a chance to get back home to his family, he was not going to miss it.

He still had to move a bit laterally, and then he could start his climb up. He looked at the path ahead. The slag was smoother here. If he used his gloves, he risked losing his grip, but if he took them off, there was the risk of burning himself. Better a hand than his life. He stripped off his gloves and kept climbing.

He was quickly vindicated in his decision to take off the gloves, as his clumsy handholds were almost too small for his fingers to fit, and one nearly slipped from his grip as he swung his legs over to the side.

A smooth knob of slag stuck out, an easy handhold. He grabbed onto it as he climbed up to a large platform he’d spotted before, his last stop before beginning to ascend in earnest. He held on for a few moments, making sure his other hand was well secured before letting go.

When he relaxed his muscles, his hand stayed curled around the knob.

He pulled, and he felt a tearing sensation as it came loose.

He didn’t look to see the damage. He needed the hand to pull himself up, regardless of if doing so damaged it more. He flexed it, making sure his muscles still responded to him, then grabbed the platform and pulled himself up. There was a dark smear of fluid where his left hand had gripped, but luckily, the platform was cool as far as he could tell.

He sat down and held his hand up in front of his face, examining the now-exposed muscle. The skin had been stripped away, but there was no visible underlying damage. He’d have to cover it to prevent the muscle being damaged from friction on the climb.

He fished the left glove out of his pocket, turning it inside out and brushing away as much of the lint as he could. He tried picking it off with two fingers, but his fingers weren’t precise enough for it to work. That was fine, if any got in the wound he could get it out later with something like tweezers. He turned the glove right-side out and put it on. It hugged the skin tightly enough that it shouldn’t rub against it too much. He’d bandage it later, but right now he had to get out of here before Lyre got to him.

Next, he checked his feet. Sliding his shoes off, he peeled away one sock and poked at the underside of his foot. Firm, calloused skin met his fingers, no sign of dampness or softness that could indicate serious damage. He checked the other foot just in case, finding the same thing, then put his socks back on. Inspecting the soles of his sneakers, they hadn’t lost much actual material, but the surface had been rendered smooth.

That would make things difficult.

He looked up at the wall above him. There were a couple dark patches where it was sunken in. It looked like a slag flow had gone down the wall, but instead of being fully melted, there were still half-solid bits of machinery that had stuck on and frozen in place as it cooled. Lots of easy handholds, which meant he would need to rely less on his feet for grip and traction.

He pulled his shoes on and got up.

He began the ascent, falling into a rhythm. Grab, pull himself up, find a foothold, reach out, pull himself up again. Simple and easy, enough that his mind wandered a bit as he climbed. His memory had gaps, not just how he got here, but from before, too. He remembered dinners with his parents, messing around with his friends, time in the backyard with his dog. And later, he remembered curling up on vacant doorsteps, walking along the shoulder as cars zipped by on the freeway, hiding in libraries past closing hours. But he didn’t remember how that transition happened. The time in between was all one big blank.

As he rested his full weight on a slender mechanical arm, he heard a creak, and before he could let go, it snapped.

He fell.

Luckily, not far, only a few meters down. His limp body hit the outcropping with a thud, and immediately he was back on his feet.

There was the squeal of metal, and something grabbed his upper arm, pulling him into the crevice. He dug in his heels, but it was strong and his shoes were slippery, and it didn’t even slow down.

He reached around and felt the object holding him. A mechanical clamp, attached to a metal arm. A machine, somehow still functional in this mess.

His first instinct was to pull his arm out of his sleeve. When he tried, the clamp tightened its grip, the pressure on his bicep increasing. It was dragging him towards a flat table, where what could be a sensor or a laser cutter hovered. The main body of the machine was there too, a boxy chunk of rusted metal and exposed wires.

He froze up for a few long seconds, allowing the arm to drag him closer. The edges were sharp where the rust had worn through. Sharp enough to cut.

He mentally shook himself as the arm began trying to tug him up onto the table, and he hung onto the edge to slow it down. Rusty meant it was weakened. If it was weakened, he could probably damage it with a punch or kick if he got close enough. He needed to deal with the clamp first, before it was able to pin him down.

The clamp yanked, and the edge slipped out of his grip. He looked up at it as it hauled him up. Bare metal, wiry tendonlike attachments, some rusted and corroded looking, pistons at the joints. A smattering of rust over it all, but thankfully no sharp edges.

He grabbed a wire leading to one of the clamp fingers, bracing his trapped arm against the table, and yanked as hard as he could. For a moment, there was nothing, and then filaments began to snap at the most rusted segment. He pulled again, and more snapped. The third time, the wire broke, and the clamp jerked.

The damaged claw relaxed, and he pulled his arm free, shoving himself off the table. He landed butt-first on the ground, rotated so his feet were facing the main body, and kicked out at the largest hole in the chassis.

His foot plunged into the body, flakes of rust scattering. Silicon shattered and wires broke free as he drove it deeper, leg jerking with what was probably mild shocks.

Instead of the targeted motion he’d seen before, the claw started flailing, slamming into the table and denting it. He was close enough to the main body that it couldn’t hit him, but with the way it was moving, he could get hit on the way out. It was raised a bit, so it was less likely to strike the ground as opposed to one of the walls.

He waited until it was swinging near the far wall, then started crawling out towards the exit. For the most part, it wasn’t near him, though at one point it swung about a foot above his head. He kept going until he made it to the edge, then stood and reached up for a handhold to continue climbing as the dying recycler thrashed inside.

Once he made it to the top, he only paused for a brief moment to orient himself. Nothing interesting in sight, empty desert in all directions.

He chose a direction, and started walking.