Acid rain beat against the slanted tin roof of Bay Four.

Gray water poured through the open skylights, pooling into chemical-laced puddles across the cracked concrete floor. A Class-4 Siege-breaker hung suspended from thick overhead chains. A jammed industrial bone saw rested on the metal grating below, its motor burnt out and smoking in the damp cold.

Caleb waded through the deep runoff. He hauled a heavy steel spreader bar against his chest. The military HUD inside his cracked visor registered a 1.2 percent kinetic sync rate. The dark canvas of the Break-Tab Harness pulled tight across his ribs. The dead weight of the surplus gear actively fought his joints.

His gauntlet chimed. A private text from Tali overrode the corner of his visor.

[Telemetry shows a massive stress spike, Mercer. Are you dying, or just thinking about my custom weave?]

Caleb tapped the side of his helmet to reply.

[Hauling dead meat.]

[Boring. Bring the sensors back intact. You still owe me a drink for the bypass shunt.]

[Add it to my tab.]

He cleared the screen. His body remembered the yards. He navigated the slippery floorboards, letting raw leverage overpower the restrictive cage of the armor.

"Thirty credits a cycle, and the military boy comes back to play in the sludge for free," Sully called out from the tool rack. The older rigger wiped a smear of black chain grease from his safety goggles. He pointed a heavy wrench at Caleb. "You draw a government salary now. Let the rookies haul the iron."

"The rookies don’t know where the pressure builds," Caleb said.

Miller stood near the base of the carcass. He dragged a thick hydraulic hose through the muck. He snorted, eyeing the dark-gray ballistic undersuit beneath Caleb’s harness.

"One point two percent output," Miller grunted. He dropped the heavy brass pump fitting into the mud with a loud splash. "They gave you the broken battery. You want me to carry that bar up the meat for you? You look like you’re going to snap a vertebra."

"It keeps my ribs together," Caleb said. He connected the hose to the pump fitting. The brass coupling snapped into place.

The massive Siege-breaker carcass swayed. A heavy metallic groan echoed above them as the primary winch slipped a fraction of an inch. Three tons of dead weight shifted. Runoff water cascaded off its gray scales, splashing onto the metal grating.

Jax flinched at the console. He grabbed his medical sling, pressing his bad arm hard against his chest. His eyes darted to the thick iron links overhead.

"Check the tension on cable four," Jax barked, his voice tight. "The shoulder is pulling too much slack."

Sully hit a release valve on the wall. A blast of compressed air shrieked through the bay, stabilizing the rig.

Caleb kept his eyes on the jammed bone saw buried in the beast’s chest. Black blood congealed around the diamond-tipped teeth. The dead muscle was actively clamping down on the metal. He tested the weight of the spreader bar. The iron dragged at his healing collarbone. A deep hunger clawed at his empty stomach. Eating large amounts of food helped him recover faster from these brutal shifts, but right now his tank was running on fumes. He needed to create an entry point before the cartilage locked up completely.

He braced his boots against a cracked concrete pylon. The gray scales on the beast’s chest felt like frozen iron. He scraped a layer of coagulated slime away from the insertion point with his taped thumb.

Boz sat forty feet up in the secondary winch booth. He spat a sunflower seed over the railing. It bounced off the lower processing conveyor. He pointed a greasy glove toward the stairs. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

"You brought corporate security to the pit?" Boz asked, his voice echoing off the tin roof. "Trying to make us look bad for the cameras?"

Kikaru stood near the grating. She kept her plasma rifle tucked against her breastplate, scanning the suspended beast. Her white armor looked wrong beside the rust, blood, and old chain grease. The rain washed a layer of dirt over her pristine boots.

A thick drop of black fluid splattered inches from her knee brace. She did not step back. She watched Caleb navigate the hazardous sludge. The academy manuals covered tactical takedowns, not post-mortem butchery.

Miller grabbed the hydraulic hose, wrapping it over his shoulder. "Look at her. She is afraid to step in the mud. Probably cost more than our entire quarterly payout to manufacture that helmet."

Kikaru locked her jaw. She angled her chin high, refusing to break her academy posture under the stares of the disposal crew. She adjusted her grip on her rifle.

"I am a combat asset," Kikaru stated to the entire trench. "My armor functions perfectly in the dirt. I am here to monitor a military investment."

"You are standing in the splash zone," Caleb told her. He wiped a smear of rainwater off his visor. "When the ribs crack, the trapped gas vents straight down. Move to the upper platform."

"I stay within ten feet of the asset," Kikaru replied. Her tone stayed clinical, but her boots had not found a safe place to settle.

Jax leaned against the main control console. He offered a tired, strained laugh, adjusting his grip on the rail.

"Wait until the stomach pops," Jax said to her. "You will smell like industrial bleach and rotten meat for a week. Your investment is going to be covered in digestive sludge."

Jax looked away from Kikaru, his eyes tracking the heavy iron chains suspending the beast. His hand tightened on the scale. His bad arm pressed harder against the sling. He remembered the last time a carcass shifted on those cables. His hand stayed tight around the rail after the joke ended.

A corporate Guild overseer in a slick yellow raincoat marched over to the console. He jabbed a thick finger at a digital clipboard, shoving the screen toward Vance.

"The core cools in ten minutes," the overseer demanded over the grinding noise of the adjacent bays. "You miss the extraction window, I void the contract. No payout for this entire shift. My crew takes over the salvage, and your men walk home with empty pockets."

Vance spat a wad of tobacco into the dark runoff. "Tell your corporate bosses to buy better saws. The blade pinched on the thoracic ridge. The meat clamped down on it. The cut agitated the tissue. We run standard salvage protocol."

"I care about the core, not your protocol," the overseer said. "You have hydraulic tools. Use them."

"The saws are binding," Vance argued, crossing his arms over his faded disposal jacket. "If we force the cut, the hydrostatic pressure bursts the core. You lose the entire payout anyway. The Guild takes a total loss."

"Pump the spreaders," the overseer ordered. "I want the chamber open. I am not losing my bonus because a bunch of scrubbers are afraid of dead meat."

Vance locked his jaw. He looked up at the massive carcass hanging over the grate. He gave Caleb a single, tight nod.

"Do it," Vance said.

Caleb grabbed the steel spreader bar. He climbed the gray scales of the carcass. His boots found familiar footholds in the torn cartilage. The ascent required balance over raw strength. The rain made the beast slick. The 1.2 percent sync rate fought his upward momentum, treating his own movements like resistance training.

A starving heat ground against his empty stomach. He forced a steady breath through his nose, locking his teeth against the dull ache.

He stopped at the open chest cavity. The massive ribs were split slightly, exposing the dark interior. He wedged the steel jaws of the spreader bar deep into the thoracic ridge. The bone felt dense and cold through his gloves. He jammed the locking pin into place.

"Set," Caleb called down.

Miller engaged the manual pump on the floor. The hydraulic engine whined.

The steel jaws pushed the massive ribs apart.

The gray flesh inside the wound swelled. Thick muscle fibers knotted around the steel arms. The carcass clamped down. The dead tissue contracted hard enough to bend the machinery around the core chamber.

The spreader arms bent under the biological pressure. Metal groaned.

"The core is right behind that wall," the overseer shouted. He waved his clipboard at the beast. "Keep pumping. Force it open."

"The meat is binding the rams," Miller argued. He threw his entire body weight onto the iron pump lever. His boots slipped in the mud. "The hydraulics are maxed out."