Junkyard Stories is a fractured dystopian future shaped by scrap, ruins, and grit - scarred by the Great War a long time ago, yet still living with its consequences. Stretching from the towering sectors of Block 07 megacity to the wastelands, junk fields and forgotten zones beyond its walls.
Many of its stories are told the way this world remembers - around junkyard campfires, in scrap-built inns and quiet spaces between ruins.
These paintings are fragments from that world - moments, characters and places caught between decay, invention and survival.
THE RELIC INN
Somewhere between the scraplands and the outer surroundings of Block 07, there is a place that never closes.
They say the lights are visible long before the road makes sense. A diner below, an inn above, built on old concrete and older stories.
Migrants and wanderers stop here to dry their coats, charge their batteries, and listen to what the wasteland has been saying.
For many, this is the last stop before Block 07. Not all of them ever make it past the walls.
THE WARDOG HANDLER
In the scraplands, some paths clear themselves..
The wardogs were not bred for wilderness. They were built for riot lines, city purges, and civil collapses - for streets that no longer exist.
Now they follow him through broken ground and chemical wind, silent and alert, like weapons that chose their owner.
Now they walk with him. No registry lists his name. No faction claims him. Some say he lost his arm during the last population sweep.
Others say it was the price of ownership.
Nobody asks where he is going. They step aside.
BISON
In the tunnels beneath Block 07, some names are never spoken aloud. Bison is one of them.
He runs the underground markets, the new trades, the deals that aren’t meant to exist.
Cross him or betray him, and the Gilded Sceptre of Hammer and Axe decides your fate - the axe side delivers execution, the hammer side punishes, smashing teeth and bones.
Even in his lair, the world is off-kilter: white tiles gleam against mold, exotic plants reach for non-existent sun, and courtesans wait silently, each a piece of his empire.
Every scar on his face, every ring, every mark tells a story of power earned and fear enforced.
Some walk the tunnels freely. Others learn to remember Bison’s name too late.
APEX ASSASIN GROUP
They were engineered before the Great War.
The Chimera are humans redesigned for killing, their senses sharper, reflexes faster, instincts deadlier.
Now they inhabit the city, the tunnels, and the ruins beyond the walls.
Here, four of them gather: hunters in stillness, each calculating, each aware of every movement, every breath, every heartbeat.
Their leader on the sofa, eyes cold, rifle ready, a predator surveying its domain. Around her, the others - extensions of skill, muscle, and patience honed to perfection. The moment hasn’t come yet, but when it does, they will strike with precision no human could match.
They are Apex. Silent, patient, lethal.
NXTL GRAFFITI CREW
Also known as Next Level
Chimeras were built for war once, but Block 07 gave them a new battlefield.
Raised among tower blocks, pipelines, and shadowed walkways, they carry combat reflexes into a city that rewards nerve, speed, and precision. Here, one climb can give you a way out or end you for good.
Ahead, a marked building waits. Coordinates arrive without warning. The climb is lethal. The prize is life-changing.
Now, they measure distance, wind, sightlines, escape routes. Not training. Not planning. Waiting for the city to blink.
They are N.X.T.L. and the countdown has begun.
GREY GUARD PATROL UNIT
The Grey Guard used to be half human, half machine. Now the streets of Block 07 are patrolled entirely by the new models.
These droids move with precision, tracking faces and predicting behaviours, analysing every step, every glance, every hesitation. They rarely ask questions. They act. If a suspect resists, they subdue or shoot. If someone flees, they pursue. They are relentless, calculating, and unfeeling.
Their orders are clear: keep the overground sectors under control. Keep the city predictable. Keep the walls of Block 07 defended against disorder.
Human units remain, but only for the complex raids, investigations, special operations that demand judgment, improvisation, or deniable action. The Grey Guard replaces routine. It enforces it without pause and the city always watches through its eyes.
GREY GUARD - ASSEMBLY FLOOR
Before the uniforms. Before the routes. Rows of newly fabricated units stand idle inside a sealed production hall, their systems cycling through diagnostics and behaviour models. Movement patterns are calibrated. Reaction thresholds are tuned. Facial recognition libraries are loaded sector by sector.
Outside, Block 07 sleeps behind concrete walls. Inside, an army waits - identical, patient, and already mapped to the neighbourhoods it will soon patrol.
The Grey Guard is manufactured and ready to be deployed.
AERIAL SURVEILLANCE DRONES
These aerial units drift through the city, factory halls, wall perimeters and sometimes even outer wasteland routes, mapping faces, movement patterns, and behavioural anomalies in real time.
The drones are constantly scanning. When their threat‑assessment crosses a certain threshold, they switch from passive observation to enforcement mode and the eye turns red. If you are flagged as wanted, unauthorized or intrusive, the response is immediate. No warnings. No hesitation.
Their first response is a focused red laser discharge.
Blue means you still belong to the crowd. Red means you have become a problem the system is ready to solve.
DEAD XENOWORM
A Xenoworm lies still on the concrete, its metallic, oily body glinting in the light. At 3.7 meters, it’s a rare giant - a creature whose origins no one truly understands. Some see it as cosmic punishment, others whisper of manufactured horrors used in the wars, yet all agree it feeds on energy. Its four-way maw clings to power cells, generators, and machines, draining them with magnetic precision.
Outside the city, repellent drones are stationed in industrial zones and outer lands to keep these predators at bay. Inside Block 07, the city’s systems ensure they remain no threat, but beyond its walls, the Xenoworms can disrupt power and infrastructure. When energy is scarce, they enter a dormant state underground, reawakening upon sensing new signals.
SCRAPLAND WARRIOR
In the eroded canyons carved by floods and ruptures, a horseman surveys the wasteland. His armour is forged from scrap and remnants of a broken world. Behind him, three more figures.
They are the Scrapland Warriors, guardians of Outpost Zero and its surrounding settlements, enforcing order where chaos rules. Their horses, dressed in ornamental scrap, move with quiet authority - a signal that even in the wastelands, discipline and honour endure.
They use bows, spears, rifles, and axes with skill. Drones are caught in their traps, rival factions know better than to challenge them, yet they do not terrorize anyone. They protect their settlements, trade fairly, and keep order.
Once they were part of the Prophets - a faction they split from over conflicting beliefs, they now forge their own path: a life of order, resilience, and harmony amidst the ruins.
OUTPOST #3
Outpost #3 hums with life as the sun dips low over the canyon. Scrapland Warrior guards patrol the perimeter, while others test their strength in the muddy arena or roast a giant mutant rat over the fire, laughing, singing, smoking, and drinking from a rare stash of beer, a treasure that doesn’t appear every day in the scraplands.
Flags wave from makeshift poles, smoke rises from campfires, and horses rest after a long day. Pathways of corrugated iron wind between yurts made from scrap and rags. Rusted cars, remnants of a world before the Great War, litter one side of the canyon, while a watchtower, built atop an abandoned electric tower, keeps vigilant eyes on the surrounding lands.
Here, they protect their territory, rotate shifts between outposts, and maintain a fragile order in the wasteland. Outpost #3 may be lively, but the men always remember the main camp - Outpost Zero - and the families waiting there. In the midst of chaos, they carve a home, a place of both survival and fleeting joy.