"They were here…" Sir Elis Whiteman Jr. shouted to his captain, peering down at the wrecked drones before them. The scraps of metal were still hot. "Nice work if ya ask me. Very clean cuts. The kid must be a first-tier circle to handle the MK-290."
Kirr gave a low growl of displeasure and turned to his second in command. "What do you think Cal? Any chance they went into the factory? Or—"
Cal, a thin man with teeth that shone like spun gold and a burn scar stretching over his right eye, shrugged. He tugged at his jerkin, spitting bile over the grass. "Well. If they entered the Factory, they'd just leave, right? There bloody kids, one long look, and they'll puke their fucking guts out." The bandit-like men laughed. " I'll say they went in for a second or two and left."
