Quoted By:
> Carefully and discreetly try search the kids' backpacks for any sort of communication device to try to call authorities.
>Forcefully lean against the window corner a few times to slightly open it for air, stay on the bus, pretend to sleep.
Desperate, you held your breath in shallow gasps. Not daring to alert the gas-masked driver, you began a frantic search. Gravel crunched under your shoes as you nudged backpacks towards you with your foot. Books tumbled and forgotten snacks scattered in the bags. Finally, your fingers brushed against a familiar rectangle - a dataslate. With trembling hands, you cracked it open, a silent prayer escaping your lips. Blessed relief flooded you as the screen flickered to life, revealing a tele-convo interface connected to the child's family.
"Anon, classmate. Drugged. Kidnapped. Bus. Undercity. Industrial area. Passed Pinklight House. HELP!" The message pulsed on the screen, and then you pressed "SEND".
Your vision blurred as precious air dwindled. You threw yourself against the window, desperate to get some clean oxygen. But your weakening limbs failed you, you had ran out of time and consciousness. The stale, drugged air lulled you into a heavy, unwilling sleep.
---
Panic clawed at your throat as you awoke. Claustrophobia squeezed you in the cramped, coffin-sized container. Rough, worn-down plastic and metal pressed against your skin, cool and damp. Your fingers, tracing the surface in a desperate search for escape, brushed against strange grooves etched into the material. Running your fingertips along them repeatedly, a familiar symbol sent a jolt through you – the Zlatino logo. Past the logo, your fingers brushed against a series of ridges and indentations, hinting at some unseen mechanism.
A voice, inhumanly raspy and high-pitched like metal scraping on bone, grated outside. "ALÉ! Top genes over there, bottom shelf gotta get on board NOW! Follow the drill, ya muppet! Voidship ain't waitin' for yer sorry ass! We got eight minutes, EIGHT MINUTES - VAI, VAI, VAI!" The sarcophagus lurched, tossing you around as it was unceremoniously relocated. Through the plastic, you heard the rumble of a massive engine and the crunch of heavy wheels on gravel, zooming off to elsewhere.
"Alé, look at the tellie!" another's barely-human voice croaked. "Them braindead nobles think ey won! Celebratin' gettin' all their Schola crotchmonkeys back! Aaaaye, there's our boy shaking hands! Our boy! C'mon, get that promotion already Lejandro, we all be believing in ya!"
Beneath your Zlatino robes, your trusty tarot deck pulsed with a familiar heat.
