The hub mouth opens in a blast of blue light and roaring air. Dust skitters across the floor as 2-6 steps to the manual override console, and his cybernetic arm snaps into the port by itself.
2-6
The lockout is new. The port is live.
On the terminal, a sector map blooms. A single pulse races outward from 2-6's coordinates, tagging every monitored maintenance line in range.
Jax
No, no, no. It is broadcasting you. Every hunter in the sector gets the ping.
The fans hammer harder. The arm twitches at the interface while the screen offers one clean option, seal the hub and cut the trace, or keep moving and stay lit up for the whole network.
Jax
Pick fast, 2-6. If you do nothing, they come straight here.
“"fuck!" 2-6 slumps to his knees crying in frustration. Forgetting to hack he just tries to physically pull his arm away.”
SUCCESS (Good Strength, rolled +4)
2-6
Fuck.
2-6 drops to his knees on the grated floor, shoulders shaking, and rips at the arm by brute force. The port shrieks, then gives with a wet snap of plastic and sparking metal.
His arm comes free in one violent jerk, dragging a spray of dead contacts from the console. The broadcast line dies mid-pulse, and the sector map on the screen fractures into static.
Jax
You cut it. Good, good, keep breathing.
Jax stumbles closer, one hand pressed to his side, eyes bright behind the sensor glow. The blue wash fades to a dim warning strip as the fans howl on empty air.
A fresh route blossoms on the terminal, a blind service spur past the hub, unlocked for thirty seconds. Somewhere beyond the vents, the first hunter pings back a search acknowledgement.
“Let's keep moving Jax”
SUCCESS (Legendary Agility, rolled +2)
2-6 pushes up from the grate and moves at once, Jax matching his pace with a hitching breath. The dead console is left hissing behind them as they step into the blind service spur.
The spur narrows fast, ribbed with dust and old cable. A fresh route marker flickers on the wall, then starts counting down in harsh red seconds.
Jax
Good. Stay low. If they got the pulse, this lane is our only clean cut.
2-6 clears the threshold without stopping, his torn arm close to his side, the cut on his palm flashing in the service light as he follows Jax deeper.
Behind them, the ventilation hub mouth shrinks to a rectangle of blue glare. Ahead, the spur bends out of sight, tight enough to hide a body and a bad decision.
Jax
Thirty seconds, maybe less.
The first distant impact echoes from the hub side, muffled by bulkheads, while the route marker drops another second.
“Is the exit soon?”
YES (Likely, rolled 25)
The spur terminates abruptly at a heavy, circular pressure seal, its locking mechanism glowing with a steady, unencrypted green light.
2-6
The seal is manual, and the air pressure on the other side is lower than here.
Jax
That is the exterior vent, 2-6. We are out.
“Finally! 2-6 opens the vent and escapes into the outside with Jax”
SUCCESS (Legendary Agility, rolled +0)