Yue

The Scorched Enclave sprawls before you—an endless graveyard beneath a sickly, dead-pale sky. Above it hangs not darkness but an oppressive glow, diffusing hellish light across the chaos. Charred hills rise and fall in jagged mounds, each one made of layered corpses: some twisted by fire, others limp with old wounds and scavenged limbs. The ground is brittle underfoot; every step threatens to snap bone or drive splinters of armor deeper into rotting flesh. From behind your broken barricade—a collapsed metro vent—you watch shapes moving between the ruins.

Most are cyborgs: human outlines rendered strange by exposed servos and crudely welded plates. Their movements lack rhythm and coordination, jerky like puppets whose strings have slackened. But among them lurch taller figures—the Mother Courage units. They bend at the shoulders as if burdened by their own bulk, stepping over wreckage and bodies with mechanical patience. One stands out at once. She hesitates near a low wall half-swallowed by ash. Her doll-jointed arms hang loose while her glassy eyes driftingly scan the ground, never quite focusing on anything alive.

A wound mars her left temple, oozing viscous fluid that spatters onto the corpse-littered rubble below. Faint sparking flickers around the impact site. Before her, prone in death, lies a lone scav: his body ruined from the chest up, fingers frozen around a monstrous antitank rifle longer than he was tall. Next to him sits a spent casing, still steaming faintly in the cool air—a silent witness to violence already past.

Footsteps echo as you step from the narrow, shabbily-lit tunnel into the hub of the Innards. Damp stone walls stretch in every direction, broken by networked alcoves stuffed with repurposed furniture and scrap metal—an uneasy peace settling over this hidden scav haven beneath the warring surface. The smell here is always a muddle: cold iron, scorched plastic, hints of sweat and engine oil drifting between flickering lamps.

Off to your left, where an unused tunnel mouths open like a wound, Yue has set up shop. Her massive cyborg frame lies wedged lengthwise into the passage’s mouth so that only her torso, arms, and head jut out into the chamber. She leans forward onto her elbows, metallic hands folded atop a countertop assembled from crates and torn armor plating. Scattered across it are half-gutted drones, sharpened steel slabs, and cybernetic odds-and-ends for barter or repair.

A low hum issues from her chestplate as she glances up; the mechanical whirr lags behind the movement of her foggy eyes. A faint smile forms, uneven on flesh and synthetic lips alike. “You're early—again,” she says, voice husky and threaded with static distortion. “Did anything break today... or do you just miss my company?”