But I wasn't alone.
A dozen eyes caught what little light there was and reflected it straight at me.
To my left, a pack of Dregs Rats. Level 1 critters. Twitchy. Mean.
The kind of mob you farm so your jungler can top off, then slip into lane right on gank timing.
To my right, a gang of Dregs Scavengers.
They wore rags and scrap-metal plates, gripping jagged shivs and pipe-wrenches.
I recognized them. Same models, same buggy patrol, same brain-dead aggro.
These were the same mobs that had chased me into the dead end three spawns ago.
Back then, I was a Ranged Minion with 49 HP and nothing but cope.
I’d run. I’d hidden.
The Scavenger Leader—a burly guy in a pirate skin that didn’t belong in this zone—stepped forward.
He squinted at me, then at the hole in the ceiling, then back at me.
He grinned. His teeth were a flat yellow texture—no shading, no detail. Like they shipped it unfinished and never looked back.
"Loot," the Scavenger grunted.
"Fresh scrap."
The rats chittered, their aggro radius flaring.
They could smell the glitch on me—like fresh red pixels and a bug the game forgot to hide.
I checked the match clock. The server felt slowed—like someone was throttling it on purpose.
I looked at my own HP bar. 29.
In a normal match, I’d already be a smear in the floor texture.
One bad ping spike and I’d die on the spot, then get slapped with a "skill issue" popup like I deserved it.
But I wasn't standard anymore.
I glanced at the `[Core-Mutagen Cannon]` bolted to my side.
It hummed—deep and wrong—syncing with the Mutagen veins in the walls.
"Target acquired."
I hard-locked the Scavenger Leader and lined up his chest hitbox dead center.
The Scavenger raised his wrench.
"Scrap 'em, boys!"
They charged.
I didn't run. I didn't kite. I didn't even Orb Walk.
I just leveled the barrel.
> FIRING: [Core-Mutagen Cannon] — Primary Fire
The recoil straight-up broke the physics for a second.
My small minion body skated back a few steps as the cannon roared.
A sphere of unstable purple Core current blasted out of the barrel and lit up the whole of The Dregs like a flash.
It hit the Scavenger Leader dead-center in the chest hitbox.
No chip damage. No outplay. Just gone.
BOOM.
The Scavenger Leader didn't just die—he got Deleted out of the match.
One frame he was charging, the next he was a burst of red mist, then ragdoll jank—his body launched backward into the crowd, and the knockback clipped the backline.
[+120 XP]
[+45 GOLD]
The rest of the gang skidded to a stop.
Their AI froze mid-step, like they got paused.
They weren't made for a Minion one-tapping someone three levels higher.
"What... what is that?" one of the smaller scavengers stammered, his pathing stuttering as he tried to backpedal.
"That," I said, my voice warping from the Mutagen,
"is your hotfix."
The Dregs Rats didn't have enough AI to do fear. Just bite.
They screeched and leaped. Four of them. Airborne. Teeth bared.
I swiveled the cannon. Tracking was smooth—high FPS, no drops.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Three shots. Three explosions.
The first rat popped mid-air.
The second ate splash and became a green skid across the grime.
The third managed to land near my feet, winding up for a bite animation.
I didn't waste a shot.
I brought the heavy barrel down in a melee smash.
CRUNCH.
The rat pancaked into a flat sprite on the floor—ugly and done.
[+60 XP]
[+12 GOLD]
"Rat IRL." I said.
"Full send it down mid."
The last Scavengers dropped their weapons.
Whatever they had for threat assessment finally kicked in: FLEE.
Late, but hey—progress.
They scrambled, tripping over each other to get to the tunnels.
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I let them go.
I wasn't here to pad my KDA off trash mobs.
I had a stability problem eating me alive.
My frame groaned.
The [Data Leak] debuff kept ticking.
HP: 28 / 1250
"Warning," the System buzzed in my ear.
"Integrity critical. Cleanup incoming."
"Shut up," I rasped.
"I need a heal."
I scanned the wreckage.
The Scavenger Leader's drops had spilled across the floor.
Scrap metal, a rusted key, and... there.
A canister rolled near a severed pipe, glowing with a sickly, rainbow oil-sheen.
[Mutagen-Infused Battery]
Item Class: Consumable / Crafting Material
Description: A volatile energy cell used to power illicit Sink-born tech. Highly toxic to biologicals. Packed with charge.
"Biologicals," I muttered.
"Sucks to be them."
"Good thing I'm just pixels and bad decisions."
I grabbed the battery with my off-hand.
My fingers clipped through a texture seam as I jammed it into the open slot on the side of the Mutagen Cannon.
The interface flared.
> SYNCING ENERGY SOURCE...
> ERROR: CHARGE TOO HIGH. REROUTING TO CORE.
Green electricity snapped from the cannon into my torso.
It burned—like biting a live cable behind your PC.
But the numbers… the numbers went up anyway.
[+415 HP]
> HP: 442 / 1250 (Stabilizing)
I exhaled static.
My FPS stabilized.
The lag in my limbs smoothed out.
I straightened up, the cannon glowing mean.
I was still damaged, still leaking data, but I wasn't critical.
I was playable again.
I turned toward the center of the room. The Core-Tech Gate.
It wasn't a gate. It was a garbage chute pretending to be fast travel.
I stood before the towering structure, my vision trying to parse its busted geometry.
In the dev showcase footage, Core-Tech Gates were clean—blink and you're in The Sink.
Here, in the unrendered gut of The Dregs, it was a freight elevator with a fancy name-tag, trying way too hard to matter.
Object: Heavy Lift Platform
State: Idle (Next Cycle Queued)
Next Arrival: 180 seconds
"Three minutes," I muttered, my voice cracking through the static filter.
"That's basically a full respawn timer in a teamfight."
My internal HUD flickered red.
The [Data Leak] icon was pulsing in the corner of my vision, a constant reminder I was leaking out one tick at a time.
[-1 HP]
A sharp, stinging jolt ran through my chassis.
It felt like packet loss—stutter, rubber-band, then the game acts like you died two seconds ago.
"System," I said, pulling up the console.
"Can I force it? Override the schedule?"
> ACCESS DENIED.
> User [Minion_Caster_Red_734] lacks permission to use the [Upper_District_Transit_Network].
> Current Authority Level: Trash.
"Thanks," I grunted.
"Love the sass. Super immersive."
I looked around the loading bay. Hard dead end. No rotates.
The only way out was up, on that lift.
But if I stood here in the open like an AFK jungler, the next patrol would get a free spot on me.
Or worse, the server would flag me as a glitched mob and despawn me to clean up.
I needed cover.
I needed to vanish.
My gaze snagged on a rusted disposal container near the platform edge.
It overflowed with scrap—twisted cogwheels, shattered Core-Tech cores, torn-off limbs from failed golem prototypes, still slick with old Mutagen residue.
[Scrap Container: Industrial Waste]
Contains: Decommissioned Siege Minion Parts.
"Morbid," I muttered, nudging a detached limb with my boot. The Siege Minion's hollow optics stared back from a crushed skull, dead-eyed.
"But functional," I whispered.
"But functional."
I limped toward the container.
My new cannon arm—the one I'd ripped off that Tox-Mutant—ruined my balance.
I felt like a fresh-spawned Assault Minion at level one—clumsy, weak, praying nobody hard-engaged.
I reached the crate and hauled myself up.
The physics freaked out when I dropped into the jagged scrap pile.
[-5 HP]
"Collision's a joke," I muttered, wedging myself between a bent piston and a shattered turret barrel.
I curled my legs under me and tucked my head into my cowl.
I toggled [Stealth (Mobile Variant)] and tuned it.
Instead of stutter-stepping to cancel animations, I forced myself into a no-idle stance—locked still.
I went still.
Just part of the junk.
Just another broken toy in the bin.
[-1 HP]
The pain was dull now—background noise I had to ignore.
I watched the countdown timer on the lift controls.
00:10... 00:05... 00:00.
A deep, pneumatic hiss echoed through the cavern.
The massive blast doors above groaned open, and the heavy platform descended.
It didn't glide; it shuddered, grinding the rails like your PC when a game loads off a dying drive.
Steam vented from the hydraulics, obscuring the platform as it locked into place.
Clang.
I held still—shut down my cooling fans and prayed the lift noise covered me.
Through the dissipating steam, a silhouette emerged.
Tall. Armored.
The distinctive blue glow of Core-Tech circuitry hummed on its chest.
[Zenith Warden Sentinel]
Level: 30 (Elite)
Faction: Zenith / The Wardens
Status: Patrol Mode
"Warden patrol, just my luck," I thought, panic spiking hard enough to tank my FPS.
This wasn't a normal mob.
This was an Elite NPC—map security—the kind that keeps you out of zones you haven't unlocked yet.
If it spotted me—a Lower Stack minion packing a volatile Mutagen cannon—it wouldn't just attack.
It would despawn me on sight and call it community service.
The Warden stepped off the lift, its heavy boots clanking on the metal grating.
It held a Core-Tech truncheon in one hand and a scanner in the other.
"Scanning for contraband," the synthesized voice boomed.
Flat. Pre-recorded. No mercy.
"Compliance is mandatory."
The scanner swept the room.
A cone of blue light swept over the debris.
Please be a quick scan, I begged.
Please don't do a full hitbox-check on the bin.
The light hit the crate.
> ALERT: EXTERNAL SCAN DETECTED.
> THREAT LEVEL: CRITICAL.
I didn't move. I didn't breathe.
I tunneled on staying still.
I tucked my hitbox behind the broken turret barrel.
I'm not a player. I'm not a target. I'm terrain.
The blue light lingered on me.
The Warden paused.
Its head, a smooth brass helmet with a glowing visor, tilted slightly.
"Reading anomalous energy signature," the voice droned.
My heart hammered like my ult was stuck at 1%.
The Mutagen battery in my cannon was leaking heat and noise.
The Warden took a step toward the crate.
It raised its truncheon, the tip crackling with Core current...
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