Uncle Deimos and his entourage arrived at an abandoned factory with a hole in the roof which let in a handkerchief of snow separate from the blanket outside. This was a storehouse maintained in territories where an ally took control. Land, preferably tucked away from prying eyes, was one compensation accepted from allies.

One use for a storehouse was the assemblage of arms and armor: stockpiling those bought, received, or scavenged and crafting new ones according to the designs of Auntie Chen. The gargoyle armor, worn by Four-Leaf and Angel among others, was assembled at the facility they arrived at. Stone-hard gargoyles were skinned alive for their bloody flesh that is injected with fixatives to prevent deterioration and submerged in ethanol to be preserved for transport.

Once the flesh is brought to the artisans, the squirming mass is tanned into submission with electricity. Now dry and pliable, the flesh is injected with dilatants—a fluid that hardens in response to sudden stress. More than just protection, the hide also enhances strength and stamina. Regenerating, form-fitting, perduring, and invigorating, it is a second layer of skin that pushes beyond human limits.

Held back only by producibility, this would surely be the armor for the war of tomorrow—and today, it would see the arms to match it.

Auntie Chen appeared, with Little Birdie on her shoulder, followed by her staff who pushed a rack of weapons and mannequins bearing plain black fatigues and body armor. The rack held their newest development: plasma carbines. Canisters of boiling blood radiated heat throughout the whole gun.

“And the Cannon?” asked Uncle Deimos.

“Still working on it, which is why it’s not here,” scoffed Auntie Chen, “gosh, you could at least pretend to be excited.”

“I already know what weapons we need, and they are unfinished.”

“Well, Demmy Downer, the armor is ready so let's move over to that.”

The staff brought over another mannequin. A green leather trench coat was draped over brown body armor and gloves, headed by a sleek, green helmet with yellow lenses. The green trench coat devours magical energy, made from layering the molted hide of a magical crocodile—

“Alligator.”

“Whatever.”

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—magical alligator. Just touching it with bare skin would be enough for it to sap the life from one’s body. On top of that, it was nigh indestructible; it took years of careful acidic application to fashion the hide this way. Just like the alligator it was made from, the coat was one-of-kind.

“And the helmet?” asked Tyler.

“The yellow lenses enhance sharpness, contrast, and depth perception and prevent eye fatigue. They also match the whole,” Chen smacked her lips, “reptilian thing you have going on.”

“Is that all?” said Tyler.

“Well, I have been trying to get a pain ray to beam from the lenses but it just didn’t work out.”

Deimos pulled on the outfit while Four-Leaf Clover and Teumess fitted black fatigues and body armor. Four-Leaf took a carbine in his hands, then split off three clones of himself that were equipped with the same arms and armor as him. The artisans paused their work to come out into the snow where they would see the new armaments in use.

Outside, the falling flakes melted on contact with the green coat, and a river was left behind by the coattails with the water gathering in the holes made by their boots. The carbines were much the same, with their warmth enough to keep a man heated even in a blizzard. Four-Leaf found the thickest tree in sight. He took aim at a branch.

With a trigger pull, molten blood spat from the carbine’s maw and splattered on its victim. The globs that flew through the air hit other branches and trees. Bark and limbs were sloughed off and dragged down by the ravenous slime. In blind hunger, the plasma melted through the snow and into the dirt underneath. Steam rose from the evaporation in the pits. They were eventually cooled into an igneous state after they had dug greedily into the earth.

Four-Leaf aimed at the trunk this time. The carbine spat again. Plasma melted through the chunk it stuck upon then chewed down to the roots, which caused the whole tree to crash down into a pool of its own splintered viscera.

Uncle stepped forward into the open and buttoned up his coat. The first shot was aimed at his heart. There was little kinetic impact and the devouring heat was itself being consumed by the coat’s own thirst. The plasma clung to his chest and had to be swiped away by his sleeve. Now all Four-Leaves took aim with their carbines. Once Deimos centered his stance and raised his guard, they held down their triggers.

Torrents of plasma spewing all at once still did not budge him from where his cleats had dug in. However, the splatter almost dripped on his boots and dug holes in the ground around him. Avoiding it would only allow the spew to coagulate a molten river behind him. He took steps back, now swatting clots away with his elbows. This was the second purpose of plasma: the splatter allowed it to control space at the cost of precision.

Only when the carbines groaned empty did they stop. Four-Leaves dissolved his clones—equipment and body—and handed his own carbine back to the staff.

“We need them to be more efficient, they use too much blood per shot,” said Uncle Deimos.

“You're welcome.

Anyways, we have some new leads.”