OOC: Just a legend for who's who and whatnot! Bolded Words - Unspoken (internal) dialogue from Subject Thirteen to Logic Lines of dialogue without quotation marks - Logic's internal dialogue to Subject Thirteen Pink Text - Logic's dialogue "Dialogue in quotation marks" - Everyone else's dialogue Also, it's worth noting that this is written from Logic's POV

"Please..." the guard pleads, his own shaky hand lowering the pistol down to the holster from whence it came. You just stand there, staring at him as he awkwardly fumbles with fear and authority. "Come on..."

You shake your head. How pathetic could this man be? Does he not know that I wish him no harm?

Calm yourself, Thirteen. You need not explain this to him, for he will only respond with fear and irrational behavior. Just, end his pathetic existence.

What?

You heard me. I order you to kill this pathetic waste of space. He violates everything I we stand for!

He's, he's just doing his job!

And his job is to keep you tied down like the lab rat you have been for years! I am the one offering you the way out, Logic would dictate that following me is the best way you have of getting out of this intact. Unless of course, you want to die by lethal injection...

Fine...

Finally, you relent. The shaky handed guard stares, in silence, as you make the approach. With his eyes, he chokes out his pleas. Begs of forgiveness, of mercy that should fall upon deaf ears because it is at this point you realize that I am indeed correct. Your hand shoots out and lands atop the guard's, and without hesitation you struggle to wrestle the gun out of his hand. With a sudden, unexplainable vigor, he shoots his free hand forward and connects with the visor of your masked face, knocking you slightly off balance and most certainly taking you aback.

In shock, the guard whips out the gun, keeping it trained right between where your eyes would be. You scramble backwards, sliding under one of the stall walls and hopping up on the lid of the toilet, ducking to keep your head from poking about over the top and giving him an easy target.

"I found Thirteen," he begins to say into a radio.

"It would appear that you're assured that you will emerge successful in this encounter. Would you like me to run the statistical probability of that occurrence?"

"What?" he, and I'm sure whoever it is he was speaking to, ask in a perfect unison. I can't help but contemplate how else I could confuse him just long enough for you to gain an upper hand. Any suggestions, Thirteen?

"As I was sayin'..." he begins. I would think fast, Thirteen. "I'm getting there! In the men's bathroom, southwest quadrant, floor six. Standing by. Am I authorized to use lethal force? What?! Whatdya mean no?!"

"The statistical probability of you scoring a lethal hit within the parameters of a Zeus Mark Eleven Pistol and our current defenses are approximately one in twelve thousand, three hundred six. Are you sure you wish to take those chances?"

Bang! A bullet smashes through the stall wall, out the other end and lands on the ground with a ting. "Dammit!" he exclaims, cocking the pistol back before presumably taking aim once more. Again; I feel the need to bring to attention the urgency in this matter, Thirteen.

Yes, I am aware.

Then, could you at least attempt something?

"Dammit, Thirteen! Just give up!" the guard continues to implore, fear slipping into his voice. You don't respond, leaving the only noise in the room the screech of alarms from behind the door that led back into the rest of the building. I can hear him take a series of choppy, shallow breaths and exhale with a mumbled phrase that I can't quite make out.

Bang! Click. Bang! Two more bullets fly through the wall, both showing his deteriorating composure, as well as his aim. The first comes close and grazes your elbow, but the second almost misses the wide wall entirely.

"Fuck!"

"Yes, fuck indeed. As in, the more bullets you waste, the statistical probability of you being fucked increases exponentially."

"You little piece of shit..."

"Are you referring to me, or are you looking in the mirror? I do not have the capability of seeing through these walls, despite the holes."

Now! You leap up, grabbing an exposed pipe that hangs from the ceiling. Hanging now yourself, you swing your legs up and over the top of the wall and you let go of the pipe, dropping down to the ground and landing in a crouch. The guard jumps halfway out of his skin as you roll on the tile floor towards him, narrowly missing the fourth bullet out of his gun in this confrontation. You slide under his legs, wrapping your arm around his throat and pulling the gun out of his hand. Callously, you chuckle before pressing the barrel of the firearm against his temple. All it would take is one pull of the trigger to make this man nothing but a footnote in the annals of history.

Another victim of Subject Thirteen.

Is murder really necessary?

Is this really murder? From where I stand, I would say not. He threatened your life first, all you're doing is defending yourself. Now, kill him.

Very well.

Bang! You pull the trigger and the guard's brain gets splattered across the floor, a few droplets of blood finding a way to fly all the way to the wall. Messy, but it'll do.

This is where I say we should get out of here.

And this is where I say something along the lines of "Tell me something I don't know."

Touche. Letting go of the bloody, practically decapitated body of the guard, you watch as it drops to the ground before turning to walk out the door, the sound of sirens fills the air around you. From around the corner on the far end of the room come the undeniable sound of footsteps plodding, the carpet floors serving little protection. The first of the men round the corner, a scrawny guard, face hidden behind a helmet that leaves only his throat exposed. From out of his covered mouth comes a low pitched yell.

"Freeze, Subject Shitsack!"

Yes, because these men are just the embodiment of hospitality, are they not?

You turn around and sprint down the hallway that you came from. Past the professional's door you go, intent on discovering a way out of this nightmareish situation. You keep running until at last you find yourself at a dead end, the advancing guards' footsteps becoming louder and heavier as the seconds until our inevitable capture tick down.

I think I know the way out of this.