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Fe2O3

It was grotesque.

It was beautiful.

Even from this high up, the twisted mess is awfully beguiling. Dimming the flame, she brings the balloon closer. At the proper descent height, she steps off, adjusting her goggles to shield her eyes from the balloon skin’s blinding glow. Protocol mandated skins glow in the dark, which was all fine and dandy except with this metallic material, it stabbed neon into human eyes in daylight.

Her knees tremble at the sight before her. Fumbling for her intercom, she checks in with a shaky exhale. “Blacksmith Apprentice on scrap duty, incident report 54A.”

It is an absolutely beautiful spread, a feast of plenty. “Old train wreck, must’ve been speeding. Cargo carrier, Class 1.” So much scrap; she traces the dented carriage side and her fingers comes up coppery brown. Rust. “Jackpot, it’s iron.”

The intercom beeps back a mechanical response: “Iron trains phased out 25 years ago.”

Blood iron, she realises belatedly. But the air is already thick with the bloody, rusty scent.

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