“Genuine relics from humanity’s last honest-to-goodness war,” the merchant replies. “Some of this stuff, I dug out of the grasslands around Nadia.”
Around the merchant are various crates on which his purportedly-genuine war-relics are displayed in vaguely-organized heaps. The rusted husk of a laser sidearm lies next to a boxy helmet from some ancient suit of powered armor. A pauldron propped up against the helmet- possibly coming from the same suit- is engraved with the image of an old candle lantern above a sword inside its scabbard. Suspended on a rack to the left of the merchant is the top half of some kind of android, and a small box next to it has various medallions on its lid, each one bearing the insignia of one of the many factions of the Final War.
“I’ve even got some Technoarchy artifacts,” the merchant boasts. “I’ve scrubbed them all, though, don’t worry. No Red Plague nanites on anything. Heck, I wouldn’t be here now if there were.”
As if on cue, a tiny purple jet comes zipping into the spaceport, a yellow trail of plasma streaming from its engine. Beta Maxx swoops down toward Razor and Seraphicon and transforms to robot mode, sprinting the rest of the way to the two. Faint hissing and popping noises emanate from his overworked and overheated mechanisms, and the old minicon looks about as out-of-breath as a robotic organism can.
“I haven’t missed anything, I hope,” he pants. “No more surprise attacks by unsavory characters?”