The gate stands before you, still locked.

The gate stands before you, still locked.

Open the gate.

You push the gate. The metal creaks, but it doesn't move. It's held fast by a rusty chain.

This isn't only way through. You can always go the long way, around the docks to the west.

Fuck 'around'. Go through!

Inspect the chain.

Rust speckles your fingertips.

A system compromised at the sub-atomic level.

We're going to need tools for this one.

Cut the chain.

Take the chain between the beak of our tool and crunch it dead!

The chain resists, trembles... then collapses in a jangling heap at your feet.

"Nice."

Regards from the gäng.

The metal creaks and gives way, the chain lies bleeding out on the cobblestones.

In another life it would've been a serpent.

Push the gate open.

Nothing. The gäng's very disillusioned now. There's talk of desertion.

The angle is all wrong, our grip is false -- the chain slips from our grasp, still alive and sniggering!

"Get bent!"

This chain's grip on the gate leaves little room for passage, imagination or your personal feelings.

Chain's mocking us. Tension in the gäng's ranks.

Inhale through your teeth.

Cut the chain. (Use the chain-cutters.)

Leave.

The gate creaks in the breeze behind you.

The gate is bound to the pole by a thin steel chain. The gap between leaves little room for passage.

Only ghosts can pass freely between such crevices.

The gate looms before you, shut, rusty, and still locked.

C'mon, c'mon... let me through...

You shake the door. It doesn't budge.

In the time that it would take for you to get the gate open, your tail will have caught up.

Unless you're planning to hop off the end of the pier and swim for it, you're stuck.

You turn your back on the gate. You'll have to go back the way you just came...

Is he still following? Or did I give him the slip?

Through the grate, you spot a flash of orange in the crowd. You have not thrown him off your scent.