Room 1205 looked like it had been decorated in Early War Zone, the grenade having blown the drek out of everything. Small fires were burning where hot shrapnel had lodged in flammable material, and Modal and the others were making short work of whatever had survived the blast. Near the connecting door one of the attackers was down, and decidedly dead. He wore what looked like a high-tone corp suit, probably armored, though it hadn’t done him any good. Modal’s bullets had blown away most of his head. The figure still clutched a tiny, lethal-looking machine pistol in its lifeless hand.