I instinctively pull out of the system. My hand goes into my shirt, quickly finding the hidden pocket that contains my only weapon. I move slowly and silently to the door, listening intently.

I hear another voice, it is coming from near an intersection, “No, no I just need to get something out of my locker really quick,” this is followed by footsteps walking past the door. A quick check of the map shows that there is a changing room up the corridor.

I wait a minute, before slipping out of the room. I pass the intersection, glancing down it, to see someone standing with their back to me. He is using his IC while he is waiting for his companion. I struggle to move both quickly and quietly. The gloom makes visibility poor. My heart is in my throat, the hatch feels like it is miles away.

I hear voices somewhere behind me; it sounds like they met back up. I don’t know where they are heading. They might be coming my way, I need to hurry, and yet I must stay silent. I reach another intersection, a drone steps out in front of me.

It sports a hard-plastic shell that is painted in noble blue. The armor is capable of stopping pistol caliber rounds and guarding against stabbing attacks. Markings identify it as a part of the facility’s security team. The head is a network of cameras positioned so that it has a 360-degree view. The robot isn’t heavily armed, they don’t want it scaring anyone, so it only has a baton and a handgun.

The drone can trace its lineage back to the primitive infantry bots that were used by various governments to put down a string of uprisings during the 30s. Unlike those unfortunate souls I have had my reflexes enhanced, I can get in a shootout with a combat drone and live to tell the tale.

The only weapon that I have on me is a little one-shot derringer. Even with the overpressure round that is loaded into its chamber I doubt that it would be able to punch through the drone’s armored shell. I pull up a schematic of the model, quickly learning that it wouldn’t matter. It has enough redundancies that no single attack, outside of an anti-tank weapon, would disable it.

I stagger a bit, stammering like a drunkard, “Hey, can, can you show me how to get out of here? I think that I am lost, I, I need to find the parking lot.”

Its optic systems stare at me for a few long seconds, “Certainly, sir. Please, follow my directions,” the robot says, its mechanical voice taking on a soothing tone.

“Thanks, dude. My wife called, she is pissed. Got to get home, got to get out of here!”

The drone starts dutifully telling me where to go, following close behind. We take a few turns, ending up in a wider tunnel, a monorail positioned in the middle. This is obviously a main thoroughfare; it will take us to the parking lot’s loading area. From there I can get to my car and get the hell out of here. The only downside is that it will be a long walk.

Surely the robot sent out an update, saying that it is assisting a lost guest. I wonder if a human member of the security team will link their IC to the drone’s camera systems, I continue my drunken act, just in case. My biggest fear is that they will decide to come check up on things in person.

I hear the sound of an electric motor, my heart sinks. The cart pulls up beside us, the drone tells me to stop and I reluctantly comply.

The driver is a normal looking guy, clad in a set of maintenance overalls that he has no need for. He doesn’t do any work; all he does is keep an eye on his assigned drones as they go about their daily tasks.

“What is going on here?” the driver asks me. I have no doubt that he is using his IC to ask the drone the same question.

“The wife, the car.”

“What?”

“Got to find my car. Got to unmad the wife.”

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“God damn it, another drunk,” he sneers. This is fine. He is just irritated because he sees this kind of thing happen all the time. This is just a worker dealing with one of the hazards of the business.

His eyes go wide, behind me I hear the sound of a gun being drawn. They are getting a message that my IC isn’t set to pick up. They must be getting some kind of security alert, probably from me accessing the system.

I jump up onto the cart, putting the poor monitor between me and the bot. Then I hit the accelerator. The sudden burst of speed nearly causes me to fall off. The little vehicle has a surprising amount of get up and go. We race along, the man screaming the whole time.

I have a trump card. In my suitcase there is an incendiary device, which has been disguised as a malfunctioning battery. I put it there to help cover my tracks if I needed to make a quick exit, but I can also use it as a distraction. I send out the transmission.

I pick a random side door, hop off the cart and take off running. I round a corner, two security drones in front of me. They simultaneously order me to stop. I don’t, instead, I duck into a nearby doorway, finding myself in a large storage room. There is no time to look around, no time to find the best path. Adrenaline guides me as I weave my way through the maze of boxes.

I can hear them behind me, they have split up, one is hot on my heels while the other is trying to flank. My mind flashes back to my clashes with the police. I force it out of my brain, but it just gets replaced with those historical simulations that we did when I was in school. There is nothing quite like the terror that one feels when they are being hunted by a machine.

Ahead, I see a hatch. I adjust course, moving toward the only exit that I have seen. The one on my side moves in to grab me. I pull my derringer and squeeze the trigger. The kick is horrendous. My pursuer doesn’t know that my gun is now useless, it just knows that it is being shot at. The drone’s self-preservation programing kicks in, it dives behind a sturdy looking crate. I reach the hatch, waving the empty gun behind me, the other drone has taken cover behind a metal support.

I scramble up the ladder. A few rounds hit the area below me, making a surprisingly soft sound as they strike the concrete. I reach the top, open the hatch, and work my way out of a patch of ferns to find that a group of people are staring at me. Men in seashell necklaces are attending to a group of females, several are being given massages. I have managed to pop out on the island for straight women.

I look around frantically, seeing a small collection of grass huts, a well-stocked bar, and a table of food, all of it surrounded by jungle. I see a thin trail of smoke rising above the treetops and I remember my distraction.

“Everybody run, there is a fire!” I scream as I bolt away. They don’t do that. They just stay in place, staring at me in confusion. The next twenty minutes are a blur of foliage and pain as I do my best to sprint through the jungle.

I stop, catching my breath and listening, the only thing that I hear are ocean waves. I have managed to run in the complete wrong direction. I am now on the opposite side of the island. On the bright side, my mistake as thrown off my pursuers. I decide to walk to the beach, maybe I can flag down a passing boat and get a lift from an unwitting vacationer.

A woman and her escort are laying on the shore. A jet ski is parked nearby. I creep closer. The two of them seem to be asleep. Even the noise of my feet on the sand sounds deafening as I sneak past them. The jet ski’s motor wakes them up, but it is too late. I look back to see them both holding up their arms in frustration.

I bring up the map of the resort. I turn my borrowed escape vehicle in the direction that my best guess says is the right way to go. I hit the accelerator, going full throttle. After a few minutes I pass through a digital barrier. A two-story tall strip of neon orange caution tape warning me that I am entering the waters of the island that is for bisexual couples is being projected via augmented reality.

The next fifteen minutes are spent nervously glancing behind me. I constantly look for a way out, a loading dock, an emergency exit, anything. Another barrier, this one warning me that I am in range of the island for families. This is a good sign, that island is close to the parking lot.

I nervously scan the horizon, looking for a boat full of security drones and their very angry commander. Then I see it, what looks like a quad rotor. It is hovering over a distant island. An emergency response unit looking into the fire? I hope so.

I have reached the wall of the dome. Now I have no choice but to cruise along the edge looking for an exit. It reminds me of that one RPG, that time that me and a few friends sailed along the ice wall that sat at the boarders of the world.

Finally, I spot a doorway. It is a sturdy airlock, rimmed with yellow pain, a sign identifying it as an emergency exit. I step outside, the cold air hitting me like a freight hauler.

To my surprise the islands have been completely evacuated. The safety regulations must be extreme. The guests and entertainers are standing in the parking lot, hugging their bodies, trembling in the cold. I make my way to my car, attracting no attention, the group staring at the dome, expecting it to burst into flames. As I pull away a group of firefighting drones arrives.