"Copy that, Jinxie!" Jax's voice was a beacon of pure, unadulterated, and slightly hysterical joy in the chaotic storm. "It's time to deliver the party favors!"
His leg was a universe of white-hot, grinding pain.
Every step was a fresh, new, and inventive kind of agony.
He loved it.
This was living. This was art.
He was a beautiful, broken instrument, and he was about to play his masterpiece.
The two Ironheart veterans flanking him were mountains of silent, stoic professionalism. They moved like a single, cohesive unit, their massive tower shields forming a mobile fortress around the lanky, limping anarchist.
"Alright, boys," Forge's gruff command roared over their shared comms channel. "Let's take the bomb for a walk!"
The push began.
It was a slow, grinding, and utterly glorious advance into the very heart of hell.
