Cogheart

Chapter Two: Rodger Pennyfoot, Pathetic Crook

As predicted, the Scrapyard is devoid of life by the time we rumble to a stop in front of it's rusted gates. Beyond them, a sprawling field of forgotten trash, rusted metal and old scraps of machinery lies, a graveyard of things that were once useful, now forgotten. To the outsider or tourist, it looks like an eyesore, at best a dump for discarding unused trash. But to the trained and intelligent eyes of a tinkerer, hoarder or scrapyarder, it's like uncovering a great chest of treasure beneath the sand. Valuables of all sorts lie in the rusty old place- if you know exactly where to look. 

Ambrose shuts off the gear that makes the engine go, making the thing sputter to a smoky halt. I wince as it shakes and groans violently to it's stop- the brakes need urgent replacing. I'll have to get Arthur or Gwyn to take a look at it. 

Ambrose removes her goggles, wiping stray dust from the lenses. "All set. You got the gear?" 

I grin, holding up the belts that contain an arsenal of various gadgets designed by the talented Gwyn for the purpose of locating hidden treasures beneath the fields of actual junk. "The whole set. Looks like there's nobody else here- shall we take a crack at it?" 

She grins, removing the pliers and the metal detector from the back pocket of her warm brown biking coat. "Hell yeah. Pliers up!" 

We raise our respective tools to the sky and clink them together, a small gesture of affection that's been around since the first time we ever went on a scrapping mission together. A little tribute to our friendship. "To some excellent junk. And hopefully a decent meal tonight." 

She groans teasingly. "Too right. If I have to eat another bite of Wesley's god awful Horgonfly stew, I'm going to vomit it all over him." 

"Ah, leave the poor man alone," I chide, slapping her shoulder affectionately. "He tries." 

"And fails. Cooking just isn't his forte, but he can never take the damn hint. Shall we get to searching?" 

We push the creaking doors to the metal cemetery open, taking care to avoid the rust flaking onto our clothing. Around these parts, you could catch something like Rust Sickness- a wildly dangerous illness contracted through breathing in rusty metal flakes that sent you into a violent coughing fit that lasted for days, as well as extreme dehydration and blood poisoning. Even if we're careful, I pull the gear covered cat mask over my face anyways- better safe than sorry. Ambrose does the same with her rabbit mask, though hers is bright red with golden cogs, while mine is dark brown with bronze ones and an artificial tear down the side. 

"Right," I say, observing the heaps of junk in every corner of the fenced off area. "We'll split up, cover more ground that wa- 

My instructions are cut off as a loud roaring nearly frightens the both of us out of our seats. We both turn, my stomach dropping in dismay as four gear powered bikes roar into our direction, each bearing the copper penny insignia and flag of our notorious enemies, the Pennyfooted Gang. Well, gang might be a bit of a generous word. Really, they're far too pathetic to count as an actual gang. More like a nuisance, or a band of thuggish wannabes. Nevertheless, they've been a consistent thorn in our sides ever since last year, when I refused his advances and Gwyn stole a valuable pocket watch from them to crush up into powder for an invention of theirs. 

Ambrose's ears begin to redden. "The fuck are those pricks doing here?" she huffs irritatedly. "Of all days, they pick now to come harass us? Was last time not enough?" 

I glare in the general direction of the oncoming bikes. I'm equally bitter from the loss of that necklace. It could've bought us all decent meals for a week and spared us another few rounds of Wesley's cooking. Instead we got stuck eating whatever he could find in the pantry and throw into a pot, which seemed to be the basis for all of his recipes.