Chapter 2: Dirty Worker
It was funny, Grant thought, how peaceful the scrapyard could be when no one was chasing you off or shouting about turf boundaries. On a good day, and this counted as one, by Satellite's standards at least, the place almost felt calm. The sky was still a muddied gray, but it wasn't belching smoke, the air wasn't thick with the usual stink of oil, rust, and whatever that weird chemical smell was that seemed to cling to everything here. There was even a light breeze blowing for once, it was almost pleasant.
Almost.
He crouched next to a half-buried pile of discarded Duel Disk components, picking through cracked casings, half-shredded wiring, and the occasional soda can tab. Someone had been here before him, clearly, most of the surface stuff had already been picked through. But he bet they had at least managed to not get at everything.
Or at least something vaguely worth using.
His fingers brushed against a small deck box, wedged between a bent girder and what he was pretty sure used to be part of a sewer grate. The latch was broken off at an odd, the surface partially scorched, but somehow wasn't melted through. He opened it, squinting to see what lay inside.
Inside were about fifteen or so cards, all still loosely stacked. He flipped through them slowly, humming as he did so. Not much worth considering keeping, though he supposed he could find someone looking for a copy Cocoon of Evolution, he might have been desperate himself, but not desperate enough to consider-
He froze as he spotted the next to last card in the pile.
Ultimate Offering.
Grant blinked, then blinked again. He must have been seeing things, because it looked like someone had thrown away a perfectly fine copy of Ultimate Offering.
He turned it over in his hands, inspecting every inch of it. Yep, despite what he might have thought to the contrary it was in fact a legitimate copy. He kept both eyes focused on it for a long moment, like it might vanish if he looked away.
"Are you kidding me?" he muttered aloud, his voice echoing faintly through the scrapyard.
Of all the cards to just toss, Ultimate Offering was not one he expected to find out here in the middle of a garbage heap. The thing was banned back home for a very good , he now found himself in a place where paying 500 life points per extra summon might be seen as a bit more drastic given they were working with half the life point total he was used to, but….
This was still throwing a way to flood the field with as many monsters as you might need. Surely someone could have found some use for it, right?
Evidently not, since it had been left to rot here for who knew how long. Then again, maybe someone just lost the case and never bothered to track it down? Meh, not his problem, it was his now.
Grant sank back onto a nearby piece of broken concrete, still holding the card between his fingers like a sacred relic. It wasn't just that he'd found it at all, no, it was the fact that someone just didn't bother to keep it. Not even to just swarm their field to enable some sort of ridiculous synchro summon that needed an equally ridiculous amount of luck to pull off?
It wasn't even the first time something like this had happened, either. Only a week ago, Grant had pulled copies of Red Gadget, Yellow Gadget, and Green Gadget—perfectly playable cards—straight out of a dumpster behind an abandoned card shop. Just… sitting there, like a disposed candy wrapper.
That one he could almost understand, most people here, assuming they dueled at least, preferred focusing synchro summons, tuners, and whatever made the process easier for them to do so. And Gadgets weren't exactly made with such in mind, having been around for… what, a good decade or more?
But Ultimate Offering?
That was the kind of thing you used to get to those big plays, it didn't even need to think that hard about it!
Grant muttered under his breath, tucking the card carefully into his coat's inside pocket. "I swear, if I see Monster Reborn in a trash bin next, I'm going to lose it."
More than confusion, what he felt was a growing sense of dissonance. Like he spoke the same language as the locals, but used a different alphabet. He wouldn't, couldn't afford to overlook anything he could get his hands on.
He stood, brushing dust from his hands and glancing toward the next mound of debris
They could toss out whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. That was fine by him. He'd just take their trash and turn it into something usable.
Not like he had much other choice at this point.
About an hour or so—and a copy or two of Solidarity later, miraculously found under a pile of burnt wiring and a rusted duel disk chassis—Grant had tucked himself into the little hideaway he'd claimed for himself. It wasn't much, just a nook tucked behind the hollowed-out remains of an old train car, half-hidden by collapsed fencing and some precariously stacked scrap metal, but it was his. And more importantly it was safe, if you squinted and ignored the threat of tetanus if you got jabbed getting near it, and quiet.
He sat cross-legged on an overturned crate, spreading out his latest finds across a battered cloth he carried around in case he needed to set up an impromptu table like he currently was doing. His deck box was full now—full. Barely a few months ago, he hadn't even had enough cards to build a single functioning deck without patching it together with borderline-unplayable filler. Now? Now he had options.
He thumbed through the Gadgets first. Two of each—Red, Yellow, and Green—a little scuffed but perfectly usable. Despite his earlier acceptance of someone tossing them out, he could hardly believe they'd get rid of a nearly complete playset of them. The built-in chain searches alone gave him enough consistent bodies to work with, but adding Ultimate Offering into the mix? With just a few lucky draws, he could go from an empty board to three or four monsters in a single turn. Sure, doing so would cost him around half his life points if he went for the full set of summons, but life points didn't end duels, well okay they did, but having an actual way to get to an endboard now meant a whole lot more.
He glanced over at the second stack, the original cards he had left following his beatdown. The Machina cards were… usable now as well, mostly Gearframe, admittedly. Machina Soldier's ability to special summon another Machina monster was useful, and Sniper's ability to force attacks on to itself might come up in a pinch, but Gearframe was different. And that was more due to its ability to protect Machine monsters it was equipped to from destruction. Its ability to search for Machina cards would mostly be important later on i- when he got the rest of the cards back.
Shaking his head to clear it of any impromptu doubts, he focused more on the Tuners laying beside them, primarily Torque Tune Gear and Righty Driver, Torque for its ability to make monsters it was attached to into Tuner monsters themselves, and Righty Driver's ability to substitute any Synchron tuner with itself, though the special summoning of the level modulating Lefty Driver might eventually come up as well.
Back when he first arrived, he had these tuners, but no real way to use them. No good non-tuners beyond the aforementioned machines to use to synchro summon with. But now, if his luck held out, he now had the means to feed into synchro summons, the Gadgets and Ultimate Offering were going to make his life much easier, or at least Grant hoped.
And that was before he even glanced at the second deck that was starting to take shape.
He looked down at the other growing pile, where copies of Scrap Chimera, Scrap Goblin, and Scrap Beast, amongst other related cards rested. He hadn't even been specifically searching for them, but he had started to notice an ongoing trend. Cards with the same scrap metal composition continued to crop up again and again. Sometimes they'd be embedded in piles of old machines, like they'd been chucked there on principle.
At first, he they were part of some kid's throwaway theme deck, then he started reading the effects.
Recurring monsters. Built-in destruction and recursion. Tuners and non-tuners that wanted to be destroyed. They weren't just workable—they almost felt like they were perfect for Satellite.
They reminded him of the district, honestly. Broken parts shoved back together, made to function through sheer stubbornness and clever use of what little they had. He liked that.
"Guess that makes you guys family," he muttered, tapping the top card of the pile—Scrap Dragon, scratched but still intact. He hadn't found it himself; he'd bartered for it with a salvager who didn't give the card two thoughts. The synchro monster had cost him a favor and a few spare parts he had fixed up with advice from Briggs by itself, but he didn't regret it.
Oddly, Scrap Dragon almost felt like it had insisted on coming along with him as well. Which was ridiculous, of course—Grant knew that. It was just a card, a tool he needed to make use of. And yet…
He glanced at the card again, lying at the top of the Scrap pile like it had claimed the spot by right. The foiling was dulled, corners frayed, and a faint scuff ran right across the artwork's jagged wings. And still, even in that state, its presence there felt deliberate. Like out of all the people in Satellite, all the duelists and scavengers and brats rifling through the ruins, he had ended up with it for a reason.
It wasn't like he'd been looking for it. He'd never even considered building a Scrap deck before he'd arrived here, before he'd been forced to rebuild everything from nothing. But the moment the salvager had flipped it out of the ragged binder and he'd laid eyes on that dragon—industrial, battered, and blazing with fury—it had clicked in a way few cards ever had.
He'd barely even hesitated before trading for it. He didn't even care that he was sure he had been suckered into overpaying.
And now, as he stared at the dragon resting in his hand, the thought came unbidden again.
It wanted to be here.
It was silly.
Cards didn't want things, they couldn't choose people. That was a ridiculous line of thought that belonged in some kids' show logic. But there was something in that ridiculous, impossible idea that Grant found oddly comforting. Like, maybe in this world where nothing made sense anymore, and half of his days were spent dodging scrap piles and the other half dodging the people who owned them, there was still a little bit of strange luck—or fate—left in his corner.
Especially when he considered the fact that he technically was in such a ridiculous place now. After all, his arrival here went against any sort of rule of reality as he had understood it. He let out a quiet breath and tucked the card back into the deck box, sliding it in with careful fingers, almost reverently.
"Well," he muttered, glancing at the sky through a crack in the rusted ceiling above, "if you're that dead set on sticking around, I guess I'd better make the most of it."
He chuckled to himself as he began sorting the rest of the cards, but a small part of him felt something in that moment.
Maybe Scrap Dragon had picked him just as much as he'd picked it.
Grant found his way back to the shop sometime in the late afternoon, the sun still stubbornly clinging to the edges of the skyline, casting Satellite in its usual dusty, rust-stained glow. The place looked the same as ever—half junk heap, half miracle, all stitched together with more stubbornness than stability. But it felt a little quieter now that he was approaching with no particular job in mind, no package in hand, no errand to run.
He kicked a loose bolt out of his path and scratched at the back of his neck. Yeah, he hadn't really meant to wander back here so soon. But old habits die hard and his feet had gotten used to walking this route.
Still, it wasn't like Briggs was expecting him to be gone all day… right? Well, that might have actually been the case considering what had happened earlier.
That morning had started like any other. Grant had gotten up early, scarfed down half a protein bar that had survived the week in his coat pocket, and gone right to work helping Briggs patch up one of the ancient courier bikes they used to make deliveries. He'd barely gotten through tightening the axle when Briggs had appeared in the doorway with a look that could curdle milk.
"Why're you still here?" the older man had barked, squinting as if Grant had offended him just by existing in the same room.
"I… live here?" Grant had offered, blinking at him over the frame of the bike.
"Not today, you don't. You—out. Go get some air before you burn a hole through the floor with all that pacing you've been doing."
"I was sitting."
"Don't sass me. I know when someone's got too much static in their head. You've been going nonstop for weeks. And that stunt with the kid the other day?"
Grant flinched. Of course that would come up again, as if he hadn't already made himself clear immediately the other day.
Briggs continued, voice tight with restrained irritation. "You're gonna get yourself or someone else hurt or worse if you keep throwing yourself into trouble like that. You're acting like if you just move fast enough, you'll outrun whatever's chewing on your insides. But it's not gonna work like that, kid."
"I couldn't just let the kid get jumped," Grant had muttered, eyes low. "What was I supposed to do? Let it happen?"
"You could've gotten a knife in the gut!" Briggs had thrown a wrench at the wall—not at Grant, but close enough to make a point. "And don't give me that look. I know you've got your reasons, but if you can't think clearly with that head of yours, you're going to be as good as useless when it will actually matter!
Grant hadn't tried to argue with the old man after that. Not because he thought Briggs was wrong, but because he had struck a nerve in a part of him that he liked to ignore as of late. So he did what Briggs wanted and spent the day picking through the scrapyards, chasing ghosts and cards, and thinking more than he probably had in weeks.
The more he thought about it, the more obvious it became.
He had been keeping himself busy. Too busy. He'd taken to learning the courier routes like his life depended on it, had volunteered for extra runs, patched every bike they had at least twice. He'd only stopped to sleep, eat, and occasionally fall flat on his face when someone pulled a prank on the new guy. All so he wouldn't have to dwell too long on what had happened, or how he'd even gotten here in the first place.
He hadn't planned to ignore it, but it had just been easier to focus on anything else at the moment. And maybe Briggs had seen that.
The guy was rough, sure, and could probably kill a man with a wrench if he got worked up enough, but he'd looked after Grant in his own way since the beginning. He didn't say much when it came to feelings or existential dislocation, but he paid attention.
Briggs had kicked him out for a reason.
So as the shop came into view again, looking warm in the dying light, Grant let himself breathe. Not rush. Not pace. Just… breathe. "Alright, old man," he muttered under his breath, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I get it. You were right."
In the end he had needed the time to think. To just dig around in old trash for cards no one wanted and remember what made him tick. He had needed to take it slow for a while now and he finally had.
The sun was dipping low, painting the edges of Satellite in a rusty orange hue that turned the jagged rooftops and battered streets into something almost picturesque if you ignored the rust, dust and the occasional groaning of metal. Grant returned to the shop with his jacket slung over one shoulder, his deck box hanging from his hip, and the weight of a long, overdue breath finally released.
The shop door let out a familiar groan as he pushed it open and stepped inside. The scent of soldering and partially burned wiring hit him immediately. The place was still as messy as he had left it, that morning tools were scattered across various benches, duel disk parts half-buried in crates, and the occasional low buzz from the outdated generator in the corner.
Briggs was still hunched over one of the courier bikes, sleeves rolled up, a wrench clenched in one hand like it owed him money, he didn't look up to see who had entered.
"Back already?" the older man grunted out, not pausing in his work. "Figured I'd get at least another hour of peace before you dragged yourself in with half a story and a new scar."
Grant gave a tired smile, hanging his jacket on a hook near the door. "No new scars, this time at least.. Just some sun, a little dust, and a card or two I didn't expect to find."
Briggs didn't say anything at first. The wrench turned, clicked, then dropped onto the floor with a metallic clatter. He finally straightened, wiping his hands on a stained rag. "Yeah? Let's hear it."
Grant pulled out the copy of Ultimate Offering and turned it over for Briggs to glance "Someone threw this out like it was trash."
Briggs took one look and snorted. "Can't say I'm surprised, some people these days don't think twice before tossing things out.'
"Yeah, I figured," Grant muttered. "But still, not even keeping it to sell for a quick buck?"
Briggs leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. "You're starting to sound like you belong here."
That earned a pause. Grant glanced down at the card, then slowly tucked it away. "I'm starting to feel like I do. Sort of."
A silence settled between them. Not awkward, but heavy.
"Back home," Grant finally said, voice lower, "I never really thought about... how easy everything was. Clean water. Phones. Hell, even just not having to worry about dust clogging up anything too badly . I took it all for granted. And now I'm digging through trash for cards like it's a treasure hunt."
Briggs grunted. "Ain't treasure unless you've bled for it."
"Guess I've got a few drops in, then."
Briggs tilted his head slightly. "More than a few. You did good with that kid, y'know. Even if you were a damn fool about it."
Grant gave a soft laugh. "You're not wrong. I think—I think I was doing everything I could just to not think about everything thats happened. One second I'm just living my life, and the next, I'm here. No real explanation, and no real way home. Just... Satellite."
Briggs let the silence stretch for a moment before replying. "You needed the space. That's why I kicked you out. Wasn't just 'cause you were annoying me. Though, to be clear—you were."
"Figured." Grant leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, gaze drifting to the cluttered shelves. "I think I just needed to stop running for a few minutes, actually let myself feel lost for a bit, y'know?"
"You're allowed to stop moving for a little while. As long as you keep walking after."
They stood in silence, the shop buzzing gently around them. Outside, the last light of the day slipped behind the rooftops.
Grant finally looked back at him. "Thanks."
Briggs rolled his eyes and turned away, but his voice was a little softer when he spoke. "Yeah, yeah. Get cleaned up before you start leaking sentiment all over my floor."
And for the first time in a while, Grant smiled without forcing it. He still didn't know where he was going, but for the time being, he had a direction.
And he could live with that, for now.