The thick titanium door of the armory shut with a muffled, echoing thud, sealing out the damp draft of the outer corridors. Inside the deep eastern wing of the base, the air smelled intensely of cold grease, copper dust, and industrial solvents used to clean heavy ordnance. Rows of racks lined the reinforced concrete walls, holding modified energy rifles that bore the unmistakable markings of salvaged slum assembly. Unlike the pristine, automated armories of the upper tower, every weapon here required manual priming and a crude calibration of its magnetic rails.
Mima leaned against a heavy steel table covered in digital blueprints, her expressions dark underneath the dim orange utility lamps. She looked up as Delon and Erica entered, her fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic pattern against
