Home Sweet Home - Fan Fiction

[b]This is the opening chapter for some fan fiction I'm writing, hopefully I'll have some more to post soon. I hope you enjoy it, and any feedback is greatly appreciated:[/b] Chapter 1. [i]Home Sweet Home[/i] The Foundry was located at the very edge of the Wall. An increasing need for refined metals had brought the rusting plant back to life, and then to breaking point. A sea of metal, dull orange and bright yellow pierced the gloom, casting deep shadows across the waves of workers. Entire platoons battered and fragmented the scavenged industrial remains. On all sides the beam supports shuddered as enormous cast-dredges slammed into the floors and walls near the central furnace, sparking white-hot molten bursts as they tipped the spoils for reconstitution. The constant scraping and smashing and crushing was punctuated by an unending staccato of falling hammers, the terse screams of the Foremen bellowing down at the automated and Repatriated workers, warning sirens and bells rang almost constantly. The slightest mistake, a single misstep, meant a mangled and unceremonious death. Sinclair and his team were several levels down. Below the working-floor, close to the enormous central furnace, the labourers were almost entirely automated machines, occasionally monitored by the Foremen high above or reassigned by the central Distro-AI. The human body could not work, or even survive, for long that close to the furnaces. Even with suit-tech or bio-enhancements, exposed flesh would be charred irreparably within moments. Every twisting movement down there was saturated with years of thick industrial dust; Sinclair and his team could have been born from it. Despite the intense heat, the team's foreman is covered in blackened full-body gear: a broad figure tirelessly striking in unison with those around him. "Foreman Sinclair: Nodes 2 through 5 are missing quota by approximately 3PPH." The message came from the distro-AI; calm, quiet, void of background noise. The voice surged so directly into his receiver that for a moment it even dampened the sheer din around him, leaving just the vibrations of the dredges above and the tide of molten metal just metres away. Sinclair grunted, shifted his weight and slammed the support strut in front of him with even more force than before. "Repeat. Foreman Sinclair: 2 thr-" "Confirmed. Control.". The words punctuated each strike. Isolating his receiver (much to the frustration of DAI.sy and the other Foremen on standby) Sinclair scanned through the dense heat for this loss in performance. Two of his squad were having difficulty filtering their servos; small tears had begun to form throughout their internal systems. The giant central furnace had been over-running from the very beginning. Initially decommissioned in favour of a more efficient model, the sudden demand from the war machine (though no one was calling it that) hadn't given the plant officials time to implement improvements, or even simple fixes. Multiple hairline fractures in the furnace basin had repair crews working around the clock. Specialist crews took the brunt of this work: strong reinforced bots with their own basic AI, or a repatriated worker using slave-ties. Sinclair's team was smaller than most at only four members, and due to their uncompromising efficiency, were often assigned to areas where a larger team couldn't operate. No one had seen the team above in almost seven cycles. “Core temperature spike reaching 1500 Kelvins. Heat shields holding." "Foreman Sinclair: You are reminded to maintain operational effectiveness." The Distro-AI was resourceful; he had to give it that. By chaining the local comms it had been able to raise him, turning his squad into an incredibly advanced radio-wave receiver. He cut all communication devices, both inbound and outbound. “Core tem-” A click, then the weight of the Foundry's sound returned. His bots idled, unable to receive instructions or feedback. Their status lights turned red and ceased, slumping over their tools. Sinclair reached to his neck and pulled three military adaptive-repair I/O wires, jumping forward to link the squad directly to his own synapses. 'By The System... Work.' he thought, rebalancing the weight of his hammer. His squad's status lights blinked green in approval, they began syncing with Sinclair’s memory, forming an arrow head formation. The maelstrom was dulled by an immediate groaning. One of the central support struts was giving way. If the repair to the furnace wasn't complete and the strut failed, the furnace would tip. The entire batch, and everything under it, would be lost. Sinclair let his memory wash over him.