The heavy gold doors hissed shut, perfectly sealing them inside just as a volley of plasma fire scarred the exterior metal.
The chaotic noise of the lobby instantly vanished. It was replaced by the smooth, quiet hum of the grav-lift. Soft, incredibly boring elevator music started playing from hidden speakers. The cheerful jazz tune felt completely ridiculous after the absolute meat grinder they had just survived.
Arthur let out a slow breath. He rolled his shoulders and adjusted his ruined tie. He reached up and wiped a speck of blood off his cheek. He looked up at the digital floor indicator panel above the door. The numbers were rapidly climbing.
"Going up," Arthur smirked.
Vane leaned heavily against the polished glass wall of the elevator. He was breathing hard. The scarred frontiersman looked down at his navy-blue tuxedo. The expensive fabric was torn in three different places, stained with soot, and completely soaked in sweat.
