Volero's rusting power armor creaked and sighed as he shifted his weight. He gazed out over the workshop as hooded, stooped figures welded and cut sheets of adamantine.
"How many of these," he asked, stopping as his throat filled with something wet. He choked it back with a smacking sound. "Can you produce ... before Tartella?"
The creature's form cast a shadow across Volero as it reached for a data-slate. It carefully traced two figures onto the device's face with a long claw.
Volero coughed as he took the data-slate. "Yes, six should be ... sufficient."
Below, the cowled workers led a scabbed and diseased thing — a nightmare of a human, with a single eye and a crooked horn — to a half-built machine. One positioned its arms and legs against the plasteel, and four others raised heavy rivet guns.
"One," the thing spoke as the first hot rivet was driven into its arm. "Two. Three. Four. ..."
