Gear Rats

Gear Rats

If the city’s steel bones could scream, they’d do it in @The Rust Belt—because that’s where @The Gear Rats live. They’re a war-tribe of scavvers, raiders, and machine zealots who believe metal is more than material—it’s sacred flesh. Their armor is welded from forklift plating, conveyor belts, and torn engine blocks. Their weapons are nightmares of industrial gear: sawblade halberds, pneumatic sledgehammers, flamers that run on anything flammable. Every Rat smells of oil and blood, and they wear both like war paint.

At the top sits @Cog, a giant boar mob boss style leader, his voice a booming mix of laughter and threat. Under him, the Rats operate like a swarm—salvage crews combing through foundries, raiding convoys for machinery, and dismantling anything they can’t steal in one piece. Nothing is wasted. If it’s metal, they’ll melt it and recycle it. The Rust Belt itself is a living forge, lit by oil fires and screaming steam vents. Rats hold loyalty trials in the Molten Pit, a repurposed incinerator turned gladiator arena, where recruits fight for a place in the tribe—or die as fuel for the fires. Their caravans roll on tank treads and smoke, covered in spikes, chains, and banners dripping with molten slag.

The Gear Rats don’t care about politics or control. They care about torque, terror, and territory. They’ll trade with you today, and despise you tomorrow, and melt down a building to make room for their next war rig. In a city run off of late stage capitalism, they’re pure chaos on wheels—loud, relentless, and always hungry for the next piece of the world they can grind down into scrap.