Nimon Dining Room

The dining chamber of the Nimon complex stinks of damp stone and overheated machinery, its long ferrocrete table strewn with dripping tool trays, half-dismantled weapons, and the sprawled corpse of the co-pilot—tendrils of viscous orange fluid pooling beneath its gutted carapace. Flickering sulfur lamps cast jerky shadows across rust-streaked bulkheads, while the air thrums with the hollow pulse of internal recycling fans. Teka’s boots stick slightly at the threshold where shavings of crumbled plascrete hug the deck plating. Beyond the dining table, a narrow doorway opens into the corridor where Soldeed tightens his grip on his own blaster, his earlier bravado curdled into frozen awe by the approaching Nimons.