>>5958586>Will Anon find a convenient cache of credits or weapons in this facility?[UNCERTAIN]
>>5958587>is there a room near me that's unoccupied that has something useful for my escape?[YES]
>>5958630>Should I try to knock one of these idiots out and take his gun?[EXTREME NO]
>>5958639>If we time it correctly could we just walk out through a back door?[WEAK NO]
>>5958643>Should I look for help from an ally[UNCERTAIN]
>>5958666>Is someone coming to help my escape?[NO]
>>5958770>Mine absence will not be noticed one hour later?[EXTREME YES]
>>5958788>Will I be able to gather enough evidence to annihilate this organized crime syndicate, when I get out of here?[YES]
>>5958794>Will I be able to help others out of this situation without risking myself in the process?[WEAK NO]
>>5958870>If we operate the unseen mechanism will we attract unwanted attention?[NO]
---
The Tarot's whispers proved true. A firm press on the container's top, as you held a certain tube, followed by a well-placed kick to the bottom caused an airlock hiss that filled the cramped space as ancient mechanisms strained under the dual assault. With a satisfying groan, the plastic sarcophagus cracked open.
You wriggled free, rolling onto concrete. Dust motes danced in the dim light filtering from above in the open warehouse. Taking a deep, ragged breath, you surveyed your surroundings. The tang of exhaust fumes and industrial waste assaulted your senses. You were in the underbelly of Vassioport's docks. You could see massive cargo containers whizzing past on automated railcarts past the wide-open warehouse doors, dwarfed by the town-sized voidships docked above.
And beyond the warehouse, you saw a group of beings bustled under the harsh glow of flickering chem-lamps. Their hairless heads, bulbous and vein-streaked, were accompanied by bony plates that ran from nose to brow, giving them an insectoid appearance. Their skin, an unnatural shade of purple, stretched tautly over gaunt frames. A cacophony of guttural croaks filled the air, punctuated by the metallic clang of containers.
Some sported a third arm jutting out from their torsos, wielding tools with practiced ease. All of them, three-armed and two-armed alike, moved with a feverish intensity, shoving and hauling plastic containers onto automated rail carts that zipped past in a blur. One hulking figure stood out – the apparent leader. Three lasguns, one in each hand, gleamed ominously as he bellowed orders at his grotesque crew, his voice a grating rasp. This wasn't a loading operation. It was a getaway.
"LOAD THEM UP! FOLLOW THE PLAN!"
