The central plaza of Nevermore Academy had now completely devolved into an absurd and violent battlefield.
The sounds of gunfire, explosions, and tearing metal replaced what should have been warm greetings, the air thick with the pungent smell of gunpowder mixed with engine oil.
Wednesday surveyed her surroundings, watching as classmates who usually preferred reading and holding tea parties now executed skilled tactical maneuvers, providing covering fire for each other and delivering precise shots, turning one mechanical man after another into smoking scrap.
She turned to Victor beside her, who was encased in the symbiote, her voice still icy but carrying a note of confirmed understanding:
"Victor, this is your handiwork."
"Of course, dear!"
Victor's voice came through the symbiote, brimming with undisguised pride.
"Did you think a few 'personalized self-defense art pieces' were the full extent of my business? No, no, that would be a waste of my talent."
As he spoke, he swung a black tentacle, neatly slicing a mech that tried to approach in half, his movements as fluid as disassembling a toy.
"Gun permits absolutely indistinguishable from the real thing, full sets of firearm maintenance tools and supplies, 'after-school tutoring' ranging from basic marksmanship to advanced tactical formations, even including real-world crisis management... a one-stop service, thoughtful and comprehensive."
Like showcasing his most prized merchandise, Victor presented the battlefield before Wednesday, a scene 'empowered' by him and composed of students trained to a level that seemed far beyond their years.
Wednesday's dark pupils reflected the scattered electrical sparks and explosive flashes. She gave a slight nod, offering what in her evaluation system amounted to the highest praise:
"Not bad."
This was probably the most positive assessment Wednesday could give in her entire life, nearly the absolute limit.
"Thwip!"
A black tentacle shot out like a venomous snake, piercing the chest of another "Terminator" attempting a flank attack with pinpoint accuracy, then yanked it violently before Victor.
Victor peered through the damaged metal shell, examining the crude wiring and cheap components inside, clicking his tongue in disdain:
"Hey, buddy, the quality of these 'Terminators' of yours is way too shoddy, isn't it? Information processing slower than a snail, outer shell softer than cheese, completely incomparable to the one I ran into at the Old Meeting Place! Sloppily made, cutting corners,"
He deliberately drew out his tone, laced with mocking skepticism.
"Tell me, are you embezzling funds, taking kickbacks?"
Dr. 077, speaking through the mech, replied with a voice still steady and even, carrying a blunt honesty that was almost exasperating:
"Your perception is quite sharp in this regard. You guessed correctly. These are indeed defective products mass-produced to siphon off funds and pass inspections from above."
"Perfect for repurposing waste. Now, by helping me destroy them, you're giving me ample reason to apply to my superiors for new, more substantial funding."
"Wow," Victor couldn't help but exclaim, "You make money way too easily! Getting something for nothing!"
Wednesday reached out and grabbed Victor's arm, her gaze already fixed in the direction of the Crackstone Crypt.
"Enough chatter with him. We must go immediately to stop Laurel from resurrecting Crackstone."
Victor gently patted the back of Wednesday's hand with his own, signaling her to stay calm.
He took a deep breath. Despite the air being thick with gun smoke, he seemed to catch a whiff of something more subtle and utterly nauseating.
"No need, dear," his voice lowered, carrying a tone of definitive judgment,
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