[Bulk produces up to 108 rounds linked by belt. All succeed, or all fail. No incremental bonus on failure.]
High risk.
But time was bleeding away.
"Bulk."
Ten seconds felt unusually long.
[Creation failed. 108 gold coins added to the debt.]
Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel until her knuckles whitened.
"Eighty percent," she hissed. "And yet failure."
Anger sharpened her resolve.
"Bulk again."
Another ten seconds.
[Creation successful.]
The belt of ammunition appeared in her inventory like a metallic serpent coiled tightly.
She repeated the process, accumulating several belts over the next few minutes.
Outside, Steward Alfred stood atop the tank's hull, striking repeatedly despite visible exhaustion. Damon and the Inspector had momentarily retreated to recover, their breathing heavy.
Wester Silver descended from the balcony to observe from closer range, his face a mask of contained fury.
Alfred swallowed a pill, ether surging explosively around him.
