Solare could feel the grit in between his chest gears. Normally his well oiled, and sealed, joints would keep his inner gear vaults protected, but he had been traveling for weeks without even self-maintenance. He doubted whether anyone this far into the stacks had the expertise to service a model as refined as his. But even after weeks of being pelted by the ever-present silicate winds of the outside, his chassis gleamed proudly through the fine scratches and striations.
He walked on, head held high and glinting in the never-setting rays of the sun. He seemed all the more out of place for his surroundings. Rectangular, sand-battered containers edged him in, and stretched for as far as optics could reach. The containers once had been painting various colours to differentiate their contents, but their original purpose had long since been abandoned, and their colours cowered in the corners least touched by the winds.
Records stated that once these containers had housed the rats, and that they outnumbered people like Solare. That was before the latest solar flare many cycles ago, though. For as long as Solare has known, the vast stretch of containers, the ancient city, now served only as limited protection when traveling between the domes.
Desolate and dry as it was, there were some people here. People who could stand the grit and survive to conduct the sorts of business that would not be allowed within the safety of the domes. Which was what brought Solare deep into the stacks. He needed something that would lead to his permanent exile if anyone ever found out.