7 inches of overlaid titanium and tungsten carbide. the strongest material ever designed, so dense that the materials literally overlap each other, secured by a top of the line super lock. honestly didn't pay attention to that part of the brief, but it was literally impregnatable. it laid broken and twisted on the ground. someone was here first, and they weren't subtle. we had to go before- Alaric's blade stood before him. the fifteenth greatest swordsman in all of Endo world online. He was a genius, a trickster, and they'd clashed steel before. their score was tied 3 wins, 3 losses, and they both knew that this tiebreaker would be their last clash.

**************Aleric's perspective **************

The air within the shattered bank vault was thick with tension and the acrid scent of molten metal. The vault door lay on the cold floor. this job was cursed, cutting corners everywhere. he'd have left the company ages ago if it weren't run by his dad. He made enough money on VR, programming bots to fight other bots online that he could survive off it. he wouldn't be rich, but he'd be happy. but this kind of crap? he sighed again. as Alaric surveyed the scene, his cybernetic eyes assessing the damage, a metallic clang echoed through the chamber, and Alaric spun around, his hand instinctively gripping his baton. There, standing amidst the wreckage, was a character straight out of Endo World Online. 

His opponent, was cosplaying a popular edgelord named Shadowblade, a versital minimalistic bot he'd seen in the rankings online. 

"Alaric's blade" the cosplayer spoke, his voice a low, electronic growl. his voice modulator on full display. the commitment to the bit was honestly pretty damned impressive.

"You can't be here sir, the party is downstairs. unfortunately, I'm going to have to ask you to come with me. sir, why are you drawing your sword? sir, only prop swords are allowed at the party, and that looks too real, you'll need to put an orange safety dot at the end, or leave it sheathed for the whole party, it's for the comfort and safety of all the guests. and you're not listening to anything I'm saying. Guys, take him down."

******************************

He summoned his minions, the dirty bastard, he never was an honorable fighter. what other tricks did he prepare? 

The two adversaries locked eyes, the weight of their shared history simmering in the air. In a tense moment of silence, they each assessed the other, calculating strategies and anticipating the impending clash.

As the silence lingered, the villainous Alaric, began monologing as a ruse, classic. the mastermind raised his hand, summoning his legion of minions, they materialized along the hall from doorways and corridors, their ominous figures filling the hall. Each minion wielded a menacing arsenal of weapons, from electrified batons to trank darts and tasers.

The minions advanced with eerie precision, forming a semi-circle around Alaric, who observed the unfolding confrontation with a malevolent grin. Salvador tightened his grip on his blade, his stance unwavering.

With a sudden, synchronized movement, the minions lunged forward, their weapons at the ready. Salvador met the assault head-on, his blade a blur as he dodged electrified batons and deftly parried trank darts out of the air. The clash of steel and glass and the hum of electrical weaponry filled the hall, creating a symphony, and within, they danced. 

Alaric's blade didn't draw a sword, but a pistol. an archaic silver thing he'd likely printed in his garage, it was a five-shooter, a revolver straight from a western. BLAM, a shot fired into the melee with no regard for his companions. BLAM! BLAM! they froze and ran. this wasn't a game Alaric, these are real people not digital creations. they have minds of their own and make choices you wouldn't understand with your disregard for their safety. Blam! Salvador wove between the still retreating minions, their moral broken, they routed. now more concerned with the danger of friendly fire than they ever were from the fight in front of them. Blam! five shots, five misses. what a fool, he should have brought his sword. Salvador darted in with preternatural speed, BLAM! searing pain entered his torso and unnatural cold exited his back. BLAM! SLASH. it was over. 

Time seemed fuzzy; pain was far away. Quin was close, the needle in Quin's hand closer. "First aid kit. if you're not dead, you'll be fine." "Lena, we need an evac now. we've been compromised, and Sal's been shot. twice. and tranked. George Bush that was close!" He swore. 

"No, we finish the job." Salvador responded weakly over comms. 

"How are you conscious right now?"

"Grit. get some" and stepped into the vault.

Picking up a random data stick from the ground, it didn't take long to determine that their objective was in fact, missing. The lock box number 1128 was torn out of its spot, twisted up on the ground, and empty.  But the datastick was on a keychain sporting a rubber ducky biker, which looked sweet.