The supply lift groaned, a massive steel box reeking faintly of stale fish and industrial cleaner. Liro’s voice crackled through my comm, a faint metallic echo against the rising clatter of the hoist gears. “Okay, Nura, this is the main freight shaft. Internal schematics show limited security on the lower levels, but expect heavy resistance starting around the fortieth floor. That’s where the high-value ingredients are stored – and the Cartel’s private reserve of heavies for guarding them.” Minna, strapped into her armored rig, was attempting to gnaw on a particularly grimy piece of the lift wall. I swatted her hand away. “High-value ingredients, you say?” I eyed the stacks of crates and pallets surrounding us. This wasn’t just a ride; it was a mobile pantry. Corso, ever the picture of quiet menace, slid a slender vial from his sleeve. “The Iron Skillet Cartel prefers to keep their fresh produce… *uncontaminated* by conventional weaponry. Most of their guards are trained in unarmed combat, with a focus on quick, silent takedowns. My dart mixture will ensure a similar ‘silence’.” He tapped the vial, its contents a swirling, iridescent purple. “Good to know,” I grunted, hefting a crate labeled ‘Premium Glacier-Fed Turkey, Blast Chilled’. It was surprisingly dense. An excellent bludgeon, if the need arose. The lift lurched to a stop at what Liro identified as the twenty-fifth floor. The doors hissed open to reveal three hulking figures in reinforced combat vests, each carrying an energy baton. They looked less like chefs and more like a demolition crew. “Identify yourselves!” one of them bellowed, stepping forward. His baton crackled menacingly. “Gourmet Greens Delivery,” I deadpanned, and slammed the rock-hard turkey into his face. The thud echoed in the confined space, surprisingly wet. He dropped, a rather large dent now where his nose used to be. Corso, meanwhile, had already moved. Two faint *thwips* later, the other two guards crumpled, their faces already paling. No visible wounds, just a sudden, profound inability to remain upright. “Subtle,” I complimented, wiping turkey residue from my glove. “But I like a direct approach.” [Such a peculiar method of engagement! While your… *enthusiasm* is noted, I must question the efficacy of utilizing perishable goods as improvised weaponry. Presentation is paramount, Nura. Deducting 0.5 presentation points for suboptimal temperature control of the poultry. We are aiming for gourmet, not gladiator.] “They were trying to steal my delivery,” I explained to the System, ignoring its criticism. “And besides, it was already solid.” The lift continued its ascent, each stop bringing a fresh wave of Cartel goons. They came with various weapons – stun batons, plasma whips, even a few with what looked like oversized kitchen knives. My response remained consistent: whatever was closest and heaviest, preferably sub-zero. A side of lamb became a boomerang, a stack of glazed lobster tails transformed into a devastating flail, and a particularly unfortunate carton of solid durian was deployed with olfactory and percussive effect. Corso weaved through the fray like a shadow, his darts finding their marks with eerie precision. He pivoted flat-footed, sidestepping lunging attacks, his strikes economical and lethal. He even managed to pluck a falling jar of pickled quail eggs out of the air before it shattered, handing it to me with a small, appreciative nod. “For the mission’s integrity, of course.” “Of course,” I agreed, mentally cataloging it as a potential projectile. Minna, completely oblivious to the chaos, chattered happily in her seat, occasionally offering a cheerful “Bang! Bang!” whenever a guard went down. Liro’s comms provided a constant stream of updates, identifying weak points in the enemy formation or warning of incoming plasma fire. At the forty-fifth floor, the air grew noticeably colder. This section of the shaft was lined with massive refrigeration units. The squad here were clad in thick, padded gear, their faces obscured by polarized visors. They moved with a practiced coordination, forming a defensive perimeter around the elevator doors as soon as they opened. “Cryo-Ops Squad, Nura,” Liro warned. “They specialize in hostile environment combat. Their suits have limited temperature shielding, but their weapons… those are cryo-blasters. Stay clear of the direct blasts.” I gripped an iced whitefish. “Cryo-blasters, huh? Sounds like they’re trying to keep the soup from getting warm.” [Such a frigid atmosphere for a culinary expedition! Your perseverance through these thermally challenging zones is noted. However, I must reiterate, Nura, the ideal temperature for a fine consommé is not ‘flash-frozen’. Your methods are… unconventional. Awarding: Cryo-Resistant Mittens. May your hands remain adequately insulated from your own questionable culinary practices.] My new gloves materialized on my hands, thick and quilted, just as a blast of icy mist slammed into a stack of chilled cod behind me, instantly encasing it in a thick layer of rime. The handwear was a little large, making it slightly harder to grip the fish, but the heat was immediate. I adjusted my hold and launched the whitefish with a grunt. It spun through the frigid air, smacking a Cryo-Ops grunt square in his visor. The fish shattered, but the grunt stumbled back, momentarily blinded. We were nearing the seventy-fifth floor when the entire lift shuddered violently. A grating shriek of metal echoed through the shaft, and then everything went still. The emergency lights flickered on, casting long, stark shadows. “Liro? What happened?” I demanded. “They’ve initiated an emergency lockdown!” his voice was strained. “A power surge… or deliberate sabotage. We’re stuck, Nura. On the seventy-eighth floor. It’s a sub-zero cold room. And… bad news. They’re converging on your position. Elite squads. Dozens of them. They’ve got you completely surrounded.” The lift doors groaned open again, revealing a vast, cavernous cold storage vault filled with racks of gleaming, vacuum-sealed meats and towering stacks of ice blocks. The air bit at my exposed skin, even with the new gloves. A ring of padded shock troopers, armed with jagged energy lances, stood ready, their targeting visors glinting in the dim light. This wasn’t just cold storage; it was a trap. Minna, perhaps sensing the change in atmosphere, began to giggle. Her small fingers, wrapped in tiny padded gauntlets, explored the control panel of her armored carriage. Her thumb hovered over a prominent, red button labeled, in stark white text, ‘TACTICAL PURGE’. With Extreme Prejudice’. Before I could react, she pressed it with an audible *click*. A low hum began to build from the stroller’s chassis, followed by a sudden, deafening hiss. Thick, acrid smoke, cold as liquid nitrogen, instantly erupted from every vent on Minna’s buggy, flooding the vault in an impenetrable, blinding cloud.

Sub-Zero Service