The sickening, wet grind of pulverized bone shifting against torn muscle echoed through the VIP suite.
Tyson lay flat on the white poly-glass couch, his massive chest heaving in ragged, shallow hitches. His pneumatic Goliath-Plate arm lay unspooled on the floor, venting a hiss of deep-earth steam, but the flesh beneath his right shoulder was mangled. Catching that falling slab in the Labyrinth had saved them, but the structural damage to his clavicle was catastrophic.
Above them, the million-credit atmospheric scrubbers hidden in the ceiling whined, kicking into a high-pitched overdrive. The intake vents aggressively sucked the ash-scented steam out of the air, the bunker itself fighting to maintain algorithmic sterility against the Vanguard's intrusion.
