The receptionist fell quickly to Crucible’s hammer, and they beat back building security, but the enchanted cold of the server room made them easy prey for sysadmins: they lost Elfstar to a razored backup disc. Black Dougal’s eyes were cold with vengeance when they burned HR to the beams.
Now they stand in another reception room, eerily recalling the start of their adventure, but glass-walled and empty. Beyond waits the chief execulich officer. Crucible hefts what they hope is his phylactery and offers one last prayer to Machina.
Behind them descend the chicks from Sales, blueteeth glinting in the shadows.