The Vanguard hit the absolute bottom of the Alpha Silo. The architecture down here predated P.A.C.I.F.I.C. entirely. Hand-poured concrete and heavy ironwork belonged to a different century. The massive containment door towered over them. Thick layers of weeping rust covered the metal.
Will stepped to the front of the formation. The Sovereign tax actively ground his cartilage to dust. The localized bunker maintenance penalty siphoned raw mana directly from his organs. He manually locked his jaw to ignore the white-hot agony radiating up his spine. He treated the pain as a simple, absolute fact. He did not flinch.
Tyson stood to Will's right. The massive fighter aggressively rolled his shoulder. The fused, jagged metal of his Goliath-Plate arm scraped harshly against the concrete wall. The sound grated against their nerves, loud and abrasive in the dead quiet of the sub-basement.
