You step forward despite the security officer’s shouted "Civilians stand back!" The drone ricochets between bulkheads, arc-welder sputtering, scattering a glittering hail of screws and sparks. Your janitor instincts kick in: you shove your bucket forward and splash a soapy arc across the deck, planting a bright yellow WET FLOOR sign like a barricade. The drone’s wheels hit the suds and fishtail, its sensor eye jittering.

A sergeant fires a net launcher that misses by a handspan. The drone rebounds off a wall panel and scythes your sleeve with a hot cutter; the fabric hisses, your arm stings, and the corridor smells faintly of burnt cotton and disinfectant. You jab the mop under its chassis, levering it for a heartbeat—long enough for a disabler beam to graze it. The drone shrieks like a kettle and bolts again.

It gouges a strip out of the floor plating and slams into a maintenance access, prying the hatch loose. A faint hiss answers—pressure drop warning lights blink amber. "Contain it before it vents the hall!" a security officer barks, slapping a control panel that refuses to obey amid flickering power.

The drone skitters, hunting for the vent grille. Your heart thumps in your ears. You’ve got seconds and a corridor full of slick soap, sparking panels, and panicked officers. Time to pick one risky move and hope the station gods are feeling generous today.