The air shimmered, a mirage above the rusted remains of twenty third century arcologies, and older junk from Earth.
Harrison Spiker, a cyborg with a titanium arm that gleamed like a shark's tooth, stared through his sunglasses.
"Scorched earth and scrap metal as far as the eye can see," he muttered, his voice a gravelly rasp through the cybernetic vocabulator. "Welcome to another Tuesday in the Reclamation Zone, sunshine."
Spiker wrestled his way over a pile of twisted girders. This desolate corner of Planet Targaryen, once a jewel in the Cosmopolitan Cosmos, was now a wasteland choked by the detritus of an expanding civilization.
Spiker, a man who thrived in adverse conditions, found solace in the rhythmic clatter of the salvage mechs as they chomped on discarded tech, separating the salvageable from the junk.
He was a lone wolf in a galaxy gone half-mad, but here, amidst the ruins, Spiker felt a sense of purpose. He was a vulture, picking over the cast offs of progress.