The reinforced lead bulkheads groaned, a sound like a leviathan's dying breath, as they began their ponderous ascent. A rush of frigid, reeking air, thick with ozone and unwashed fear, struck Bozkar. Beneath the rising gates, a narrow, temporary gap shimmered into existence – their single, suicidal entry point. Behind them, the upper blast doors shrieked, grinding shut with a final, echoing thud that vibrated through their boots. The click of the internal locking sequence was deafening in its finality. “No return relay,” Fendur stated, his voice flat, confirming the obvious. He didn’t need to say ‘I told you so.’ Bozkar felt the familiar, bitter tang of self-reproach, a constant companion he’d grown to hate but couldn't shed. Ahead, the Tartarus Chasm unfolded in a kaleidoscope of dying neon and perpetually weeping pipes. Zhaengor’s forgotten underbelly didn’t glow; it bled light. Staggered levels of corroded alloy platforms descended into a central, cyclopean maw, each segment riddled with the husks of surveillance drones and the scattered detritus of a thousand forgotten lives. The air, heavy with the metallic tang of old blood and the foul sweet scent of decay, scratched at Bozkar’s throat. He pulled his filtration mask higher, the crude chrome plating reflecting the bilious green glow of a malfunctioning access panel. “Welcome to hell, Fendur,” Bozkar rasped, the words tasting like ash. “Did you get a discount?” Fendur ignored the sarcasm, his fingers already dancing across the data-slate. “Automated security grid active on level one. Three sentry pods, rotating pattern. Pre-programmed for non-lethal suppression, but the system logs show recent override attempts.” “Translation: they’ll try to paint the walls with us,” Bozkar clarified, already moving. His augmented legs carried him with a predatory grace. He pulled a compact thermal rifle from his coat, the weapon feeling like a natural extension of his arm. Neyza’s face, pale and defiant in the last static-riddled image, flashed behind his eyes. He’d done this to her. And now, he’d burn this city down to get her back. The first tripod array, a trio of spinning optical sensors, whirred to life. Red targeting lasers crisscrossed the narrow corridor ahead. Fendur grunted. “Override failed. Local network too fragmented. They’re independent. Manual suppression recommended.” Bozkar didn’t wait. He moved in a low crouch, ignoring the whirring mounts. His thermal rifle spat a focused burst of superheated fire, vaporizing the first battery's optical sensor in a flash of molten metal. The remaining two emplacements immediately locked onto his position, their barrels swiveling with ominous precision. He slid under a collapsed support beam, the air above him sizzling as kinetic discharge ricocheted off the iron. Fendur, quicker than he looked, was already laying down suppressive fire with a customized stun-pistol, overloading the second battery's motor with concentrated electromagnetic pulses. It spun wildly, spitting static, before collapsing in a shower of wires. “Two down,” Fendur called out, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Last one’s still hot.” Bozkar burst from cover, sprinting directly at the final mount. He moved with a brutal, practiced efficiency, a stark contrast to the mild-mannered antiquities dealer persona he usually wore. This was the real Bozkar – a creature of the underworld, forged in fire and betrayal. He crashed into the mount, his enhanced strength wrenching it from its base. With a grunt, he hurled the smoking hulk down the chasm, watching it disappear into the smog-choked depths with a faint, distant clang. “Clean,” Bozkar said, adjusting his grip on the carbine. Pulse racing against his ribs, he checked his sights. “Let’s move. The clock isn’t waiting for us to admire the scenery.” They descended further, the air growing heavier, the stench of industrial waste mixing with something fouler – something organic and putrid. The neon glow grew sparse, replaced by guttering emergency lights that cast long, dancing shadows. Shouts echoed from below, guttural and desperate. “Inmates,” Fendur muttered, pointing to an oscillating sensor readout. “A large cluster, fortified in a maintenance bay on level three. Looks like the recent… incident… has given them ideas.” The maintenance bay doors, thick and reinforced, were buckled inwards. A crude banner, fashioned from ripped uniforms and scavenged tech-fabric, hung above the entrance: *THE KRYPTON CLAW.* From within, the raucous sounds of a feast mixed with the clatter of scrap-metal weaponry. “The Krypton Claw,” Bozkar mused, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “Amateurs. Let’s show them what real syndicate work looks like.” He pulled a small, chrome sphere from his belt – a jury-rigged EMP device. It pulsed with a faint blue light. “Fendur, give me a window. Small. Tight. Just enough to disable their comms and weapons.” Fendur nodded, his fingers flying across his slate. “Localized pulse field established. Three seconds, then a hard drop. Good for one shot.” Bozkar nodded, timing his approach. He kicked the buckled door with a savage force that sent it groaning inward. Inside, a dozen figures, hulking and scarred, turned, their faces feral in the dim light. They clutched shivs fashioned from rebar, crude voltage blades fizzing erratically, and salvaged ballistic pistols. “Who the hell are you?!” one of them roared, a massive figure with crude pneumatic plates around his jaw. “This is Claw territory!” Bozkar didn’t answer. He flicked his wrist, and the chrome EMP sphere launched, arcing through the air like a silver bullet. It exploded with a silent, blinding flash of blue charge. The room went dead. Weapons clattered to the floor as their power cells failed. The prosthetic hardware on the leader’s jaw died, leaving him gaping, helpless. “Pathetic,” Bozkar spat. He leveled his carbine, not bothering to aim for vitals. A single burst struck the leader’s chest, the man falling backward in a spray of blood and scorched flesh. The others, momentarily stunned, stared at their dead leader, their crude weapons inert. “Anyone else want to claim territory?” Bozkar asked, his voice low and dangerous. No one moved. The air filled with the stench of fear. “Good. Now get out of my way.” He waved his rifle, ushering the terrified gang members out of the maintenance bay. They scrambled, tripping over each other in their haste to escape. The real Bozkar was not someone to cross. They pushed onward, the prison growing increasingly chaotic. The lower levels were a nightmare of fractured steel and sporadic, desperate gunfire. The pervasive stench of antiseptic and something rancidly sweet, like rotting fruit, grew stronger. A gurgling sound echoed from around a bend, wet and disturbing. They rounded the corner into a wide-open processing vault, its industrial machinery silent and coated in a fine layer of grime. In the center, a colossal figure stood, its flesh a gruesome patchwork of scar tissue and arcano-cybernetic plating, distended and throbbing. It was a warden, or what was left of one, its face a distorted mask of metallic plates and exposed nerve clusters. Its left arm had been replaced by a massive, hydraulic claw that pulsed with rank violet luminescence. “Overseer Vorlag,” Fendur whispered, his voice tight. “Reports indicated heavy mutation. Cognitive plague amplification. It’s… worse than I thought.” The creature turned, its head twitching, an inhuman growl rumbling from its chest. Its single, lidless optical lens fixed on Fendur. The clawed arm shot out, a blur of grinding metal and corrupted magic, aimed directly at Bozkar’s friend. “Fendur!” Bozkar roared, shoving his friend out of the way. The claw crashed into the reinforced wall where Fendur had stood moments before, ripping a meter-long gouge in the metal. Shards of steel shrieked through the air. Bozkar didn’t hesitate. His rifle screamed, drilling into the beast's right shoulder. The mutated warden didn't flinch, its grotesque mouth opening in a silent roar. The beast's remaining arm, thick with corded muscle and metallic implants, swung like a battering ram. Bozkar ducked, rolling under the sweep, his grafted tendons giving him just enough speed. He came up close, too close, pressing his muzzle against the warden's exposed, throbbing neck. He fired again, the superheated blast ripping through flesh and flashing against arcane plating. The creature staggered, a low gurgle erupting from its chest, but it was still standing. The hydraulic claw whirred, dropping down toward Bozkar. He saw it coming, but the corridor was too narrow, too enclosed. He couldn’t evade. Instead, he dropped his weapon, drawing a gleaming vibro-blade from his coat. As the claw descended, he plunged the blade deep into the elbow joint of the monstrous limb, severing the power conduit with a brutal twist. Sparks showered, a sickening crackle of shearing metal and sinew, as the arm locked up, frozen in mid-air, its violet glow fading. The abomination shrieked, a sound of pure agony and mechanical failure. It thrashed, its remaining arm flailing wildly. Bozkar retrieved his rifle, firing a concentrated blast into the warden’s torso. This time, the mutated overseer’s monstrous bulk finally gave way. It crumpled, a heap of twisted metal and ruined flesh, its thrashing slowly fading into a final, wet gurgle. “That was… close,” Fendur breathed, picking himself up, his face pale. “Too close.” Before Bozkar could respond, a deafening clang echoed through the room. A massive blast door, unseen until now, dropped shut behind them, sealing off the entrance to the processing area. A dim red light began to flash above a digital panel. *QUARANTINE PROTOCOL: ACTIVATED.* “What now, Fendur?” Bozkar demanded, his voice laced with venom. He drove his fist against the unyielding metal. “We’re trapped.” Fendur frantically tapped his slate. “Quarantine zone. The system’s diverting all available power to containment. Only two ways out, Bozkar. The Cinder Passage, ahead – an automated death-trap corridor with thermal grids and crushing compactors, currently active. Or… the Vorus Vent. A ventilation shaft. Pitch black, but I’m detecting… high concentrations of infective bio-signatures. Looks like the plague has found a new home.”

Buying Hell