The tunnels are just small enough that crawling through them is annoying. Your horns occasionally catch on the millions of cables ineptly attached to the ceiling. To your left, the air circulation system hums, filter packs protruding just enough into the tunnel to complicate your life. To your right, the water pipes gargle with excess aeration. No-one has swept the dust in here since the founding of Coruscant.

You sense a presence ahead of you. The Force tells you to get out of the maintenance tunnels. You hurriedly comply and exit, coughing out as much of the dust as you can.

You remain unseen. You spend ten minutes brushing the dust and detritus of ten millennia of inhabitation from your robes until they are finally black again.

You continue on, cursing the lack of upkeep.