McConnell yanks off his tactical glove and presses his palm…
McConnell yanks off his tactical glove and presses his palm against a hidden panel near the armory entrance. A faded facility schematic flickers to life.
"Hiding isn't an option," he tells Chirpy bluntly. "Fifteen minutes tops before they're inside."
He traces two paths on the schematic. "Cargo elevator gets us to the surface fastest. It's also where their response team will enter first." His finger shifts to a network of maintenance tunnels. "These secondary routes wind through the facility infrastructure."
His expression hardens as he zooms in on several tunnel sections marked with biohazard symbols and containment warnings. "We lost a cleanup team in these sections after the incident. Something broke containment - something that wasn't supposed to exist."
The facility lights flicker, casting strange shadows.
"Naomi's team..." McConnell's voice drops. "They weren't just transferring consciousness between subjects. They were growing it. Creating it in things that were never meant to think." His jaw tightens. "The incident reports claimed full containment, but the sealed zones kept... expanding."
A distant sound echoes through the facility - a wet, electrical pulse that seems to search through the walls themselves.
McConnell activates the charge cell on his plasma rifle, the weapon humming to life. "So that's our game. Face a Prometheus tactical team that'll neutralize us first and ask questions never, or take our chances with whatever nightmare Naomi's work created down there." He glances between Jack and Chirpy. "Clock's ticking. Pick your poison."
The facility's emergency systems continue their gradual failure around you, the schematic display flickers one last time before disappearing with a zap.
What do you want to do?
Replies
JACK: I've already had a talk with a tactical team <hefting the rifle> let's say hello to Naomi !flux11
McConnell leads you through the facility's lower levels, following clearly marked corridors designed for easy personnel movement. The emergency lighting casts long shadows across abandoned research equipment and empty workstations.
"The research wing is ahead," McConnell explains, weapon ready as you approach. "It was sealed off after the incident. I should still have full clearance for security oversight."
You eventually reach a formidable security checkpoint - the entrance to the abandoned research wing. The reinforced door bears clear warning symbols and a standard Prometheus security panel.
A deactivated maintenance bot sits in an alcove, its hydraulic arms designed for lifting and repair work, though its power core appears to have been removed.
A small maintenance access panel near the floor has been partially pried open, its cover hanging by a single screw. Inside, bundles of fiber optic cables glow intermittently, some severed, others reconnected in unusual configurations.
"If we can get through this research wing," McConnell continues, "there should be access to maintenance tunnels on the far side that connect throughout the undercity. Those tunnels would be our best chance to avoid the response team."
He places his palm against the access panel. The scanner recognizes his credentials with a confirming beep, and the door's locking mechanisms disengage with a series of satisfying clunks. But when the system attempts to retract the heavy door, there's a grinding mechanical sound followed by a harsh error tone.
The door has opened about eight inches before completely jamming. The panel flashes: "MECHANICAL FAILURE - DOOR SERVOS UNRESPONSIVE"
Through the narrow gap, a faint bluish bioluminescence pulses from within the research wing, casting strange, shifting shadows. Something glistens in the gap between door and frame - not water, but a viscous substance that catches the light in unusual ways.
For a moment the only sound in the corridor is a rhythmic…