A Scrapper sitting on the Edge of a Crumbled tower About 6 stories up reading a small tattered and torn paper.

  “The Year is 2126 and the Omni-Rail Corporation has ushered in the Metro boom. The boom spread through the country on a large scale in an effort to connect all of America since 89,’ just 1 Ticket away! These tunnels spanning from New York to California in large spidering lines. Bullet trains deep Under the Earth keep the surface for towering skyscrapers that would stand the test of time .”

  The paper begins to futter anxiously until the scrapper calmly lets go. Next to them a large pair of brown R.a.s.p. gauntlets, The scrappers' feet donned in Mechanical yet sleek boots, O.g.r.e. boots designed to siphon and layer trace gases into the V.a.p.o.r. Suit, reducing their effective weight. Topped in a glass dome shaded in a glossy midnight tint with three circular metal vents in the front of the dome where you assume a mouth would be, a Re-breather spitting of breathable air that had the familiar taste of Sodium. They lower the piece of paper from their view; they let it go to drift amongst the dusty Orange light that's saturating the crumbling cityscape.

  Clipping their Bulky R.a.s.p gauntlets to their hip, they place their hands on the edge, boots firmly planted against the tower’s crumbling surface. With a sharp exhale, they push off.

  The Scrapper twists midair, body weight shifting unnaturally light as their Vapor Suit subtly adjusts its gas layering. They reach catching hold of a bent railing rotating, using it to arch their trajectory. The metal groans under the force, bending enough to snap. Their momentum launched upwards, legs first into the air. Letting go of the bar stretch a hand toward the O in “Ogre”, brushing against it. The Ogre Boots pulse faintly in response. Their soles swell, a faint hiss escaping as they pull in gases from the air, adjusting buoyancy in real time. The Scrapper’s plummet slows, gravity’s hold seemingly weakening on them, giving them enough time to orient themselves upright, their descent a smooth glide toward the ground.

  A few feet away a large pod that looks quite similar to the Ogre boots. A Multi-chambered Pod the size of a Broken yellow bus that they've scrapped before, the acronym S.c.r.a.p. Boldly printed on the side of its chassis, the Scrapper let out a small snicker at the design, he always found the names the company chose funny, but it was too in the nose.

  .

  The Scrapper bends over and touches the “O” 2x and the boots hiss again adjusting his weight to be slightly heavier than air, keeping the intake and exhaust working to keep the user in a mild hover, allowing the Scrapper to glide over the Rocky terrain. They bring up their left wrist and touch 2 small buttons on each side of the wrist causing a hologram about the size personal pizza to spring to life above their wrist, on the Display the The scrappers Scrap quota based on resource type: Metals, Fibers, liquids and Hazardous material, all full. his Quota for resources collected has been passed, they breathe a sigh of relief and they hold their pointer and middle in a L over the Hologram the quota page whips away and he's left starting at a clock, 3 hours free before he has to get to the Hellivator for pickup. They hold their ring, middle, and index fingers up to the hologram as it wipes away, the same as before this time now showing the forecast for his remaining shift as a Glitchy alert blares on his headset's speaker.

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  “A T3 T.h.o.r.s. is approaching in 10 minutes!” Quickly the scrapper glides over to the S.c.r.a.p. and hops into the Pilot's seat and grabs hold of the control-arms and yanks them hastily forward. In response the S.c.r.a.p. powers on the bottom lifting half a foot off the ground and begins to lurch forward slowly picking up speed down a long street. Broken towers, Megastructures half collapsed onto each other as the S.c.r.a.p. glides over crumbled roadblocks patches in the road where the skeletons of old cars would sit. The Storm now looming over the edge of the city casting a grey shadow over the city. In the distance a large, mostly together one, one that the Scrapper knew he could probably take shelter in, it was his one chance not to die.

  As the Scrapper watches the storm loom over the horizon, they look back down at the weather radar then back up at the building, an old O.R.C. station, the Red hexagon Icon glowing as the mist starts to seep around the edges of the building, the scrapper pulls harder on the “Scrap” accelerating as much as possible as the winds start to howl around the edges of the building. Racing towards a tornado of razor blades, the Scrapper starts to stand in his pilot seat as the speedometer on the inside of o his reading 60 Kilometers and climbing. The salt Pelts the buildings ricocheting off the exposed metals creating a roaring symphony like Metallic beasts Screaming out as they Sink into a pool of boiling water. Small salt Chunks the size of bolts start to zip down sporadically around the racing Scrapper, he looks up one last time at the edge of the storm that is now blocking the view of the ring from the surface, looking back down at the O.R.C with a sense of determination as the storm is closing in with the scrapper in toe.

  In a sudden motion as the Scrapper meets the curb they pull as hard as they can to the causing the S.c.r.a.p. to spin violently and in a miracle, backwards. The ass end crashing into the Metal Doors of the O.R.C. cracking them open like a Sythclam as the salt begins to pelt the ground, next to the door lies the Scrapper motionless.