The Faux-Hyperborea steps off of her platform as the Faux-Atlantis twists the blade in the keyhole of his own, causing a stream of Blue Cybermatter to race along a metal beam and into one of the thirty inert sentries lining the walls. The drone's limbs creak and groan as it climbs to its feet, the cybermatter washing away the rust on its plating and restoring its mechanisms.
"True," Thrift says, "but in times such as these, firearms have a similar effect! And I provide firearms aplenty for our crewmates, among other necessities, wants, and oddities."
Salvo groans as the junkion segues into his sales pitch.
"Affirmative, crewman Scorchlock," Motherboard's voice drones through the comlink.
"Oh, but there is a problem," Shatterpoint says, "in that Salvation is currently immobile. A sitting duck, to borrow a phrase from the insects, for our enemies when they inevitably find us here."