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 salvage: 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 in soot-caked power armor, his voice a booming mix of laughter and threat. Under him, the Rats operate like a scrapyard swarm—salvage crews combing through collapsed 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. If it’s flesh, they’ll burn 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 rusted 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, gut your compound tomorrow, and melt down the ruins into their next war rig. In a city of schemers, they’re pure chaos on wheels—loud, relentless, and always hungry for the next piece of the world they can grind down into scrap.