Hagazi carefully fitted the breaching charge to the door. Of course, few doors these days were so simple that to breach one all you needed was a tiny explosive to blow out the lock. But creators of destructive devices found a way around it. Modern breaching charges were intended to burn through the edges of the door, rendering any lock, power failure or such irrelevant.
With the charge in place, you all moved quickly off to the sides and looked away. It never did good to look straight at a breaching charge at work, or stand in front of one as it went off.
A press of the trigger and the material ignited, sending out a plume of near-plasma away from the door at the same time as it seared through the metal. It took all of one second, but it left quite a scorch mark three metres long on the ground. The door, however, was breached, and needed just a gentle nudge to fall inwards, opening the way and making a hellish racket as it hit the floor.
The inside didn't seem particularly welcoming, bathed as it was in the steady red glare of evenly spaced back-up lights. Still, what could be seen in the dim light suggested the structure was in good condition - no panels falling off, no loose wires hanging about, no trash littering the floor. Aside from the fading echo of the falling door, however, the place was worryingly silent. Of course, alarms from the door breach would probably be too much to expect, what with the power failure. A complex of this size, though, shouldn't be quite so quiet.
Stepping inside, you find yourself in what appears to be a maintenance locker room. Five lockers line the left-hand wall, along with a few containers, and the right-hand wall has a rack with five suits of cold-weather gear hanging on it. A bit further in are several shelves, stacked with boxes of various shapes and sizes. Directly across the room from your entry point is another door - this one with a handle, so hopefully not requiring power.
