Taking A Tumble

Sure enough, after scoping out the perimeter of the building – and noticing that, oddly enough, there seem to be very few security guards, either human or mechanized, anywhere around the CyberCorp building – I find a ventilation shaft that will probably take me into the building proper. Either that or suck me into a giant fan, that’s possible too. Ah, what the hell, I pry the grating off with a crowbar I found in an alleyway and start shimmying into the duct.

And I make pretty good time. A few spots are pretty tough to navigate, but I find ways around. Haven’t been sucked into any giant fans yet. All things told, it’s pretty damn dusty, uncomfortable, and dark, but it’s definitely going somewhere.

I see a light up ahead. Coming from the floor of the shaft. A grate, maybe? Wonder what I can see.

I make it to the grate and I’m looking down from about thirty feet up into an enormous room, possibly used for banquets or balls sometimes, but now it’s filled to the brim with every security enforcer that CyberCorp can muster. Hrm. That explains the absence around the perimeter.

The feeling hits me again. The one like something is stuck in my throat, burying its claws in my flesh and refusing to dislodge. I have to cough. Noise up here means death. Can the virus really have spread that fast? This damn implant is gonna be the death of me one way or another. I have to cough. Blood pools in my mouth. I’m going to suffocate. Just . . . be . . . quiet.

I let out a muffled cough and a small mouthful of blood along with it. I look down through the grate, but no one heard. Or at least they’re not paying attention to me. Something is going on at the far side of the room. Thank god.

Then I notice it. A glob of phlegm and blood, just hanging on the side of the grate. I can’t let it fall, but I have to get out of here. If I move, I’ll shake the vent too much and give myself away if that thing falls. Ah, shit. I start reaching out one finger, ready to flick it further into the vent and away from the grate edge. I’m less than six inches away. Five. Four. Gotta be careful. Three. Two. Another coughing fit wracks my body and shakes the vent. The blood globule falls, almost in slow motion, towards the gathered crowd below. I shimmy away from the grate. Gotta get out of sight. Gotta get out of here. Gotta get –”

Down belong someone yells “Something in the vents! Shoot ‘em! Hose the vents!

A hail of gunfire erupts behind me. Then below me. I come tumbling out of the ruptured vents, falling thirty feet toward an army of enforcers. This is gonna leave a stain.

Crunch

End.

Try Again.