"Scrappy, come forth," Lord Mortis commanded.

A small figure appeared, carrying a thick tablet as it walked towards the table. Scrappy pressed a few buttons, and the holographic pyramid flickered to life, projecting an intricate map of an arsenal hidden beneath the wasteland.

"Behold," Lord Mortis said, sweeping his arm over the projection, "an untapped treasure trove buried long ago." He signaled for Scrappy to zoom in on a particular section. "And here lies the most prized of all: clone vats."

General Striker's eyes widened with amusement.

"Clone vats?" he scoffed. "Those were destroyed almost a century ago during the Old Wars. I commanded legions of them, and no clone survived the massacre."

"See for yourself," Lord Mortis replied coolly, gesturing for Scrappy to show the rest of the arsenal. As the map expanded, Striker could see the vast array of vehicles and weaponry that lay dormant, waiting to be claimed. "We deciphered the dataslate we found, and there it is. Everyone knew about some places hidden and buried under the ground. Hell, even Camelot is one of them. But now we have the whole treasure map."

"An impressive find, I'll give you that," Striker admitted, his skepticism still lingering. "But why should I trust you? This might be a lie, and we know each other. I like to kill by hitting the front of my enemy with strength, and you prefer a cunning stab in the back. What's your angle?"

"Trust is irrelevant, General," Lord Mortis answered, his voice like ice as he leaned in closer. "What matters is our mutual desire to bring down Camelot and the Dust Knights. There is likely an army of robots protecting this arsenal, which means we both stand to gain from combining our forces. You help me access the interior, and in return, you can command the clones and all the resources within."

"Your hatred for the Dust Knights is well-known," Striker mused, stroking his beard. "But why should I fight your war?"

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"Think of it this way," Lord Mortis said, his voice dripping with disdain. "I want nothing more than to see the Dust Knights fall and to see my kids again. And you, General, can seize control of the entire wasteland. The people out there are incapable of governing themselves. Together, we can reshape this land into something far greater."

Striker's eyes flickered with intrigue as he considered Lord Mortis' offer. The promise of power and dominance was tempting, and the chance to vanquish their common enemies was too alluring to resist.

"Very well. I'll help you access this arsenal, and together, we'll bring down Camelot and the Dust Knights. My forces will join yours there. But remember, I have no love for you or your cause. This is merely a partnership of convenience. Also, I assure you one thing, Machialli," Striker finally said, his voice firm. "If I catch you just thinking about betraying me, I will feast on your bones."

"Understood," Lord Mortis replied coldly, trying to hide his hate on the pronunciation of his true name. "My people will handle the technical aspects. As for you, General, I have a small gift."

He gestured for Striker to follow him, leading the group towards a side table draped in a dark cloth.

Striker's eyes widened as Mortis pulled the cloth away, revealing an intricate flamethrower. The weapon gleamed with deadly promise, a perfect balance of beauty and destruction. Striker reached out, his massive hands gripping the handle and lifting it with ease.

"Go on," Mortis encouraged, his voice simultaneously melodic and unsettling. "Test it."

Striker glanced around, seeking a target. His gaze settled on one of Mortis' minions, a wiry man with nervous eyes.

"You," he commanded, pointing at the unfortunate soul. "Stand over there."

The minion hesitated, fear twisting his features. Mortis scowled beneath his metal mask and hood, irritation flashing through him. In his psychic voice, he ordered the minion

Obey.

The minion's body went rigid, then moved robotically to stand in front of Striker. The General aimed and pulled the trigger. Flames burst forth from the weapon, engulfing the minion in a searing inferno. The man screamed as fire consumed him, thrashing wildly in a futile attempt to escape his fate.

"Silence!" Mortis barked, once again using his psychic voice. The burning minion abruptly stopped moving, his screams dying in his throat. He stood stock-still, flames still licking at his charred flesh until he could no longer maintain consciousness. Finally, he crumpled to the ground, a silent and smoldering heap.

Striker gazed at the flamethrower in his hands, clearly impressed with its power. He looked back at Mortis, his gruff voice betraying a hint of awe.

"This will do nicely."

"Of course," Mortis replied, barely masking his satisfaction. "Now let me show you what we have planned."