Transcript for Sunday, February 24, 2002
Narrator: Three men, one woman, and more amorphs than you can shake a stick at are trapped in the belly of a long-abandoned. . . Um. . . well, we'll just call it a 'Pumping Station' and move on. Things are bad, but not so bad that they can't get worse (Which, rather predictably, they are about to do.)
Hob: Kevyn, I'm ready ta blast us outta here. Just say the word, an' I'll tell mister primer down in the hole ta do his little dance.
Kevyn: Not yet, Hob. I need to make sure it's clear outside. I'm going to break silence and call in our air support.
Kevyn: Petey, we've got a problem down here. We need extraction, and I don't think you can teraport the mini-tanks all the way in.
Petey: Mini-tanks won't help, Kevyn. Scans show that they've pulled in some heavy armor outside.
Kevyn: Then they must have laid a trap for us, and we walked right into it. Petey, we need full air support. You'd better plow down here yourself and get us out.
Petey: It's not that simple. They've laid a trap for me, too.
Petey: A veritable armada of light craft has surrounded me, and is pressing me with that orbital lance.
Petey: I can extract you, but I have to swat these flies first.
Kevyn: You're a big, mean warship. That shouldn't take long, right?
Petey: Under ordinary circumstances, no, it should not take that long.
Narrator: This is the part where things get worse. . .
Petey: They are demanding that I allow myself to be boarded.
Petey: If I resist, they claim that they will kill all of you. . . Starting with the amorphs.
Narrator: Whatever you do, don't go thinking that things can only get better from here.