Paging Dr. Jones, 001

Your name is Dr. Jones, and everything is fucked.

You wish they’d turn the alarms off. By now, everyone will have heard the news, and it’s too late to do anything about it. You’re having trouble thinking and the blaring noise and flashing lights aren’t helping. Oh, and you’re pretty seriously injured, that’s not helping, either.

You’re limping, half-blind and bleeding, probably have a broken arm, definitely have a broken nose, which is. Just great. That had just finished healing after the last time. You don’t know where you’re going, but you half expect your higher-ups to just gas this entire ward in an attempt to win a prize for the most securely shut and locked barn door after the horse is already halfway to Mexico, and you don’t want to be alone if that happens. Having company won’t help, exactly, you’ll all still be shit out of luck, but you don’t want to die alone.

You are pretty sure you’re going to die. You’re definitely fired — it won’t matter to anyone how much it wasn’t your fault your specimen escaped. And you don’t just get fired from Cheiron, especially not from a lab position. You know too much, had a hand in too many awful things, for them to just let you go.

You don’t know how to feel about your impending demise. You don’t know how to feel about any of this. You’d be angry if you weren’t so tired — blood loss will do that to you, and you have lost a lot of blood. You may just keel over here in the hall and save your boss the trouble.

If you’d just been a little faster — if the girl hadn’t slowed you down so much, you could have escaped, too. But only one of you had enough luck to get out before the lock-down hit. You just had enough luck to get your arm in the way of the blast door while it was shutting and fuck your arm hurts, fuck everything hurts. Just. Fuck.

You limp your way into the hub and there are some people, here, gathered around the elevator, looking confused and worried. Most of them are in white coats, but a couple are in guard uniforms and one’s got a jumpsuit on. They all go quiet as you approach and you’re not sure what those faces mean, the ones they put on when they look at you, but it’s not good.

The guards step toward you and you realise that you severely overestimated how comforting company would be.

You’re too tired to put up a good fight, but you can put up a bad one, and that’s what you do — yelling and thrashing as one of the guards grabs your arms, screaming as he twists the break. The other guard says something into his shoulder and a second later the alarms finally stop. Everyone’s staring at you and you’re glad of that. Let them watch as you’re dragged away, let them remember how far you fell. Let it haunt them, the knowledge that it could have just as easily been them in your position, now.

The guards throw you in a cell and you try to charge them before they leave but you just end up slamming yourself against the door. You throw yourself into it again — you know as well as anyone that there’s no way you’re getting through it, but there’s too much fight left in you to sit quietly and wait for the end to come. You’re helpless and hopeless, but you won’t make it easy.

Of course, you know they’ll make it easy for you. You’re trapped. You’re as good as dead.

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