Scavenger Protocol: Cloth

Scavenger Protocol: Cloth rests in the palm of your hand, a thin, almost translucent scroll of fabric, pale ivory with a matrix of faint blue veins running through it. The texture is cool and slightly damp, like weathered parchment that remembers every landfill pass and rainstorm it survived. When you tilt it toward the lantern, the weave shivers with a micro-glow, as if tiny drones stitched the threads with patient, methodical care. There are small annotations along the edge—binary runes pressed into the fiber—that hint at a factory ledger and a boots-on-the-ground scavenger who once wore down a crate until this fabric yielded its secret. It looks ordinary at first glance, a remnant from some forgotten shipment, yet its surface carries the hush of a dozen salvage rounds and the soft scent of oily courtyards and rain-washed metal. In the world outside the bench and the market, Scavenger Protocol: Cloth is more than textile; it's a passport. Engineers and tailors prize its durability and flexible density, the way it folds into pockets and patches without adding bulk. In gameplay terms, it acts as a component that can be torn from complex armor or salvaged from barter chests, and then reformed into patches, reinforcement for bags, or used as a strip in a broader set of crafts that spend memory as well as material. Its significance grows when a scavenger team maps a crash site, turning a litter of torn seats and broken crates into a coherent suit of coverings that shield technicians from sharp metal and drifting grit. The fabric's blue-veined pattern is not random; it mirrors the scanning grid used to locate and categorize wreckage. Each piece tells a story of who left it behind and what they were trying to protect. When a player carries it into the workshop, the cloth becomes part of a larger arc: a salvage rider who patches up worn gear, or composes a relay cover that carries more memory than fabric. It can be dyed, embroidered with the sigil of a long-vanished caravan, or stitched into a patchwork bag that holds more than its weight suggests. The more you gather, the more its usefulness grows, echoing the world’s habit of turning remnants into something new and useful, a quiet rebirth of a past journey. Market talk flows through the docks and the workshop benches like a river. You’ll hear whispers about demand from small-time crafters and big traders alike; someone in the Saddlebag Exchange might price a bundle at a tilt, offering a handful of cloth for a shiny coin, or a fair trade for a couple of dye kits. The price can swing with a rumor of a new crate, with a rumor of a shipment veering off the road, or with a sudden lull in scavenging before the next event. I watch the ledger and feel the cloth hum in my palm—the way it carries the memory of routes, the promise of repairs, and the possibility of a story still unwritten.