Black grease coated Marcus's hands as he hoisted a crate of unrefined iron slag onto the moving rubber belt, his spine bowing under the endless shifts. Gray streaks dominated his hair.
He glanced across the processing line toward Liam and Elena, watching Liam wipe sweat from his dirt-stained forehead to offer a single nod.
They had spent weeks preparing for this rotation, mapping the patrol routes of the Vanguard guards and memorizing the automated conveyor cycles.
Marcus slipped his hand inside his soot-stained tunic and retrieved a stolen bio-gas canister, knowing this was their only chance to break the perimeter.
He wedged the explosive cylinder between the interlocking gears of the primary sorting track and jammed a rusted iron spike against the release valve.
The factory horn blared across the facility to signal the feeding shift.
Marcus slammed his palm against the spike, spinning around to sprint toward the assembly tables.
