First Floor - Antiquities

I slip inside, steps silent on the grimy concrete, door shutting with the softest click behind me; metal latching with a faintly in the stale air. The low hum of flickering fluorescent lights buzzes overhead like angry hornets, casting everything in that classic "this place is a **** trap" glow Harsh yellow flickers dancing off rusted walls, pools of shadow hiding god-knows-what in the corners. The air hangs thick with the musty stink of old dust, rust, and faint rot, like the bunker hasn't seen fresh oxygen.

Looks like I’ve entered the back office, and lucky me; it’s empty; papers scattered, drawers tossed, chairs tipped with faded bloodstains blooming on the seats.

GhostScoutDrone shimmers into invisibility with a soft distortion ripple, hovering ahead like a ghost; silent thrusters whispering. My sight pings as enemy markers light up in ghostly red; fifteen bandits spread across the floor, heat signatures pulsing like heartbeats through walls. Not overwhelming.

Especially not with my arsenal.

But it’s what’s lying on the table in front of me that really catches my attention; scattered amid the clutter.

Old world tech, like Zed said; familiar, busted, perfect.

A charred Discman, no headphones, but still intact, the plastic casing scorched, buttons worn smooth from ancient thumbs.

A dented, cracked Payphone base, no handset, but a solid frame; coin slot jammed with grime, a coiled wire dangling.

Lastly, a cash register, missing a few buttons, keys faded, till rusted shut but sturdy.

An army waiting for deployment. Small, ideal; and with their kamikaze final attacks, I don’t have to worry about collapsing the building on my own head.

One by one, I pulse my Action Skill, the glow envelops each item as they shift and assemble, metal groaning, wires snapping into place with electric pops, standing before me like little mechanical foot soldiers; servos whining to life, optics flickering red.

Sentient Companion: SpinSaw MK-I [Discman] – Flight Class

Agile and nimble, Hard to hit

Attack: High-speed spinning blade ****, slices clean through enemies

Perk: Ricochets between targets

• Auto-shuffle mode: On.

Sentient Companion: RamLine [Payphone Base] – Ground Class

Vintage and strong

Attack: Fires molten coin projectiles, armor-piercing, ultra-heated

• No collect calls allowed.

Sentient Companion: CashMauler [Cash Register] – Ground Class

Thrifty and sturdy

Attack: Heavy melee, reinforced drawer strikes

Perk: Generates bonus cash from fallen enemy loot

• Break faces, make profits.

They await my first attack, SpinSaw hovering with a low disc-whir, RamLine clunking on stubby legs, CashMauler's drawer snapping open and shut like jaws, itching to get going.

GhostScoutDrone hovers at the far end near the first set of stairs leading downward, silenced pistol already trained on a dumb, oblivious bandit slurping some kind of chunky stew; slop dripping from his spoon.

I palm a grenade; cool, heavy in my hand, the pin clicking free with a satisfying tug; I grin, tossing it into the next room. It bounces twice; clink, clink; and lands perfectly on the bandit’s dinner plate, who stares at it dumbfounded, spoon frozen mid-drip.

“Order up, fucker,” I yell.

BOOM.

His chest caves inward like a crushed can; chunks of lung and stew mixing in mid-air before splattering the floor in steaming puddles.

The other bandits leap to their feet, scrambling for weapons; chairs scraping, curses flying, the room erupting in chaos.

“Stupid sign didn’t work!” one yells, teeth clenched, panic setting in as he fumbles his rifle.

Too late. I breach the room with my squad.

GhostScoutDrone floats ahead, popping heads; piff, piff, piff; with surgical silenced shots, bodies dropping unaware of where the shots are coming from: skulls blooming, their eyes rolling back as brains leak out the back.

I empty rounds from my pistol, arms now steady against the recoil; twin barrels roaring, slugs hammering home: one bandit's jaw shattering in a spray of teeth and blood, another’s gut opening like a zipper.

SpinSaw zips through the air, whirling like a homicidal frisbee; disc blade humming high-pitched, carving a red, sticky path through throats and torsos: flesh parting clean, arteries spurting in rhythmic jets, heads lolling half-severed before bodies crumple.

CashMauler crashes into the next unlucky bastard, reinforced drawer slamming like a battering ram; cracking ribs with a crunch that echoes, fronts folding like paper, blood frothing from the mouth as lungs puncture.

RamLine peppers the last group with red-hot coins; projectiles sizzling through the air, searing through skin and armor: molten holes cauterizing on entry, screams cutting short as coins embed in throats and eyes, melting tissue in steaming runs.

But this is Pandora; nothing good lasts forever.

The bandits put up a fight; bullets pinging off walls, grenades blooming fire that scorches the air with cordite stink.

Spinsaw, CashMauler, and RamLine take hit after hit; casings cracking, wires sparking, servos seizing; but they go out on their terms, explosive “fuck you’s”.

Each one divebombs into the last of the enemies; beeping before detonating; explosions ripping through the room, turning meat and metal into a firework display of carnage; the air thick with the coppery reek of blood and burnt powder.

By the time I hit the stairs; boots slick a metallic taste on my tongue; it’s just me, GhostScoutDrone, and a trail of corpses.

Some loose loot and a shield zip into my inventory with chimes; I’ll peruse through it later.

I breathe deep, grip my weapon tight. Floor two. Here I come.