Sludge City
Lucian Wren's Guided Tour Through The Gate's Grit and Shadows
« Fleming Island | Intro | Copacabana »
Welcome to Sludge City, where the phrase “waste not, want not” has been weaponized into a way of life. The colossal grinders chew through everything The Gate discards, and the sludge they create is the lifeblood of this district. Everything of value, real or imagined, eventually trickles down here. Including, of course, me.
The Grinders of Sludge City
I’ll start at the heart of it all: the recycling megaplant. A sprawling, multi-leveled monstrosity, its labyrinth of conveyor belts and grinders growls with unrelenting efficiency. The air here is something you tolerate. Acrid and metallic, it clings to your skin and invades your lungs. But for the workers, it’s the only air they know.
At ground level, the grinders roar like ancient gods, devouring discarded plastics, corroded metals, and shattered dreams. Conveyor belts whisk refuse into the maw of the machines, and out comes the famed sludge. Thick, black, and sticky, it drips into vast pools, the end result of countless lives and objects ground to their base elements.
I meet a foreman named Gavrik—a stout, grim-faced man with a permanent scowl etched into his features. He takes me on a short tour, his voice barely audible over the crunching machinery.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” he shouts.
“‘Impressive’ is one word for it,” I reply. “How do you even measure success here? By the volume of sludge?”
Gavrik snorts. “By survival, mostly. This place doesn’t stop for anyone. Miss a step, lose a limb. Or worse.”
He gestures to the sludge pools below, their surface shimmering with an iridescent sheen. “That stuff’s gold to the folks upstairs. Easy to transport, easy to separate. We turn junk into treasure here. Not that we see any of it.” His voice carries a bitter edge, and I don’t blame him. The grinders don’t just consume waste—they consume people, too.
As I leave the megaplant, a shift change begins. Workers file out, covered head-to-toe in soot and grime, their shoulders slumped but their eyes sharp. They glance at me, an outsider in their domain, but say nothing. These are people who’ve seen too much to waste time on curiosity. I nod to them, though. They deserve that much.
The Scavenger Market
From the mauling despair of the megaplant, I head to the scavenger market. If the grinders are the veins of Sludge City, then the market is its beating heart. Located a few levels above the plant, it’s a chaotic sprawl of makeshift stalls and shouting voices. Here, scavengers fresh from the wastelands peddle their finds to the highest bidder.
The first thing that strikes me is the noise—a symphony of haggling, shouting, and the occasional clatter of falling scrap. The second thing? The smell. A sharp mix of rust, oil, and sweat that assaults your senses like a battering ram.
I wander through the market, dodging merchants eager to push their wares. One scavenger, a wiry man with a wild beard, waves me over to his stall. His table is a treasure trove of junk: pre-collapse electronics, warped vehicle parts, even what looks like a prosthetic limb.
“Anything catch your eye?” he asks, grinning.
“Not unless you’ve got something that doesn’t smell like regret,” I reply.
The grin falters, but he quickly recovers, holding up a cracked device. “This here’s vintage! Old World tech. Might even still work.”
I shake my head. “I’m more interested in stories. What’s the strangest thing you’ve brought back from the wastelands?”
The scavenger’s eyes narrow. “Found a statue once. Old, real old. Looked like some kind of god. Sold it fast. Gave me the creeps.”
The conversation ends abruptly when a commotion breaks out nearby. Two scavengers are arguing, their voices rising above the din of the market. Something about stolen goods, though it’s hard to tell over the noise. A few others gather around, watching with morbid curiosity.
As I make my way toward the edge of the market, I spot a convoy unloading its latest haul. The scavengers look weary, their faces gaunt and their clothes tattered. One of them, a young woman with a scar running down her cheek, catches my eye. For a moment, I wonder if she sees me as another piece of salvage to be appraised and discarded.
But then the moment passes, and I move on. Sludge City doesn’t dwell on things, and neither should I. There’s always another story to chase, another corner of The Gate to uncover. For now, though, I’ve had my fill of sludge and scrap.
Next Stop: Copacabana: Where The Gate Pretends It Still Knows Leisure.
Yours, begrudgingly—Lucian Wren