The security hub is a cramped room lit by a dozen glowing displays. On them, feeds from cameras around the base flicker, grainy images of the throne room carnage, the exterior lot drenched in rain, a few dark corridors. Hunched over a terminal in the middle is a scrawny figure in a black bodysuit, cables snaking from neural ports on their shaved head into an array of hardware on the desk. A pair of startled eyes snap up to meet mine.
"Surprise, asshole," I growl.
They jolt, frantically reaching for something, a sidearm on the desk. Too slow. I squeeze the trigger. The rifle's report is deafening in the tiny room. Monitors explode in showers of sparks as my burst stitches across the desk and into the netrunner's chest. The figure is thrown back against the wall
A spatter of blood paints the screens behind them. The reticle in my HUD blinks out, connection lost. My scrambler's chime goes steady green.
I don't have time to savor the victory. A shout from outside, mercs heard that. I quickly sling the rifle across my back and lunge toward the dying netrunner. Ripping the still-smoking pistol from their slackening grip, I spin back toward the door just as a silhouette fills it.
Gunfire erupts. The stutter of an SMG. I dive behind a metal cabinet as bullets shred the doorway, perforating screens and equipment. Glass rains down. Wincing, I fire blindly around the corner with the captured pistol.
Two, three shots. A cry of pain tells me at least one connected. I risk a glance. A merc staggers at the threshold, clutching his leg. I put a bullet in his skull. He collapses, blocking the entrance with his bulk. For a half second, no one else comes through.
I exhale and take stock. My hands are shaking from adrenaline. The small room reeks of ozone and blood. The netrunner lies motionless amid a tangle of wires, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
Outside in the hall, I hear the tromp of boots and agitated voices. "Clear that room!" someone orders.
Damn. This security hub likely has another exit. My gaze darts around. There,a hatch in the floor labeled "MAINTENANCE." Maybe leads to the ventilation shafts or cable ducts, possibly down to the lower level or up to the roof. It's half-open, with a ladder descending into darkness.
It might be my only way out of this trap. I holster the pistol in my belt and grab the edge of the hatch. The ladder's slick but I swing myself onto it and start clambering down. My ribs scream in protest; something warm trickles beneath my bandages. Stitches probably tearing, wonderful. I grit my teeth and descend one rung at a time as fast as I dare.
Above, I hear them clearing the doorway, pushing aside their dead comrade. "He went down the hatch!" a voice calls. A burst of gunfire clatters down the shaft, bullets pinging off the ladder and walls. I hug the ladder as chips of concrete sting my neck. One round catches my boot heel and I nearly lose my grip.
I let go. It's a blind drop into blackness, I fall perhaps ten feet, maybe more. With a jarring thud I land on solid ground. Pain jolts up my legs; my injured leg buckles and I collapse to a knee. Something definitely tore in my thigh but I push it aside. Overhead, flashlights stab into the hatch opening. They're coming.
I scramble away in the pitch dark, one hand braced against a damp wall. This looks like a service tunnel. My augmented eye switches to low-light mode automatically, painting the darkness in a ghostly green. Pipes line the ceiling, and puddles of stagnant water ripple under my steps. There must be dozens of these tunnels branching out. If I recall correctly, one of them leads toward the back of the building, maybe even outside, and another might connect to Silvio's private stash or office basement.
My thoughts race. Silvio's office… if I can get there, maybe I can find something worth all this blood. Information. Clues. Something to make sense of it all.
Maybe, just maybe, an exit. Silvio always had a trick up his sleeve. Wouldn't surprise me if he built a secret escape route into his sanctum.
I limp through the tunnel, rifle clutched tight. Behind me, boots clang on the ladder. Their flashlights bob, beams slicing faintly through the gloom. I turn a corner into another corridor, moving as fast as my battered body allows.
My leg throbs with each footfall, my earlier adrenaline high crashing headlong into exhaustion. A rivulet of sweat or blood drips into my right eye, making me blink furiously.
Up ahead I spot a heavy steel door set into the wall, slightly ajar. Could be a maintenance closet.
No, I squint at the faded plaque: "ARMORY". It's a small secondary armory Silvio kept, if memory serves. Probably cleaned out by now, but it might have another ladder or stairs up.
I shoulder through the door into the armory. The room is cramped, lined with empty weapon racks and a bench littered with a few stray mags and spent casings. Only thing of note is a smashed crate in the corner with some grenades, at least two flashbangs rolling in the debris and one lone frag grenade, its pin still intact. Lucky day. I pocket the frag and one flashbang, clipping them to my belt.
Voices echo from the hall. "He went this way!" They're right behind me. I scan the ceiling. Yes, there's a hatch above, likely leading up to Silvio's office or at least the first floor. It's too high to reach normally, maybe ten feet up, but there's a metal shelving unit beneath it. I clamber up the shelves, ignoring the shriek of metal under my weight. My left arm spasms, almost giving out as I haul myself up. With a grunt, I shove the hatch. It sticks for a heartbeat, then pops open with a rusty screech.
I pull myself through into a dark room, then turn and slam the hatch shut just as a flashlight beam rounds the tunnel corner below. The hatch has an old manual lock, just a sliding bolt. I ram it home. A second later, thud thud, something heavy smashes against the underside of the hatch. They know where I went, but for now, it's sealed. That won't hold them long; they'll find another route or blow through.