The cool dampness of the reservoir chamber was short-lived. As they ascended back toward the surface, the air turned dry and aggressive, carrying the smell of scorched stone. The Syndicate wasn't retreating; they were repositioning.
Zero led the way, his frame low to the ground, his metallic legs clicking a frantic rhythm against the ancient tiles. Suddenly, the construct froze, his optic flashing a sharp, cautionary amber. He pivoted his head 180 degrees, his sensors picking up a high-frequency whine coming from the vents above.
"Ambush," Aden whispered.
From the crumbling skylights of the transit tunnel, three "Dusters"—lightweight, agile combat automatons used by the Syndicate—dropped into the path. They were spindly, tripod machines armed with thermal cutters.
