(no subject)

[slayer_not_player]

Each D-class employee had been effected by something and the Organization spirited the them away from the prisons and mental hospitals that would otherwise be their permanent residences. The higher-ups promised that once they had enough time to observe and ascertain that there were no permanent effects from exposure to the object, that they would be released back into the world, with new identities where necessary. Tillman had been around for three months, cleaning rooms and participating in experiments, and it had been his observation that D-class personnel rarely made it through a few weeks. He forged ahead with calm, reviewing his military training and listening to honed instincts to stay alive.

The other members of his unit did not speak to him. Joviality was a good way to keep nerves down, but there was something about Tillman's focused, somber expression that sucked humor from the room. The spectacled scientist leading them down the room-lined hallway was grilling one of the newbies on the upcoming protocols with equal parts condescension and disdain. Tillman ignored the nervous, stuttering responses and focused on a quiet crackling sound that seemed to originate overhead.

He slowed to a stop, brow furrowed as he studied the ceiling. The scientist turned to launch a sharp comment at him, but was cut short by the sudden collapse of the stone archway overhead. Tillman threw himself backward, narrowly avoiding the fate himself. The power faltered and the lights went out for several seconds. Orange hazard lights clicked on and in the distance, the blare of alarms could faintly be heard.

Tillman pulled his shirt over his mouth and nose and coughed to clear his lungs. The orange glow caught the settling dust in disconcerting patterns. He could dimly make out the shape of an arm jutting out of the rubble. With a cautious ear trained for any further crackling noises, he crept toward it. The origin of the cave-in was unknown, but he lacked the clearance to get out on his own.

It took longer than he would have liked to move the debris and pull the broken body of the scientist from the rubble. The ID card, still clipped to the man's lapel, had suffered a minor scrape, but once the blood was cleared, it looked like it would still work. It took Tillman several minutes to find a piece of stone that had enough of an edge for the next step. He stretched the bruised arm out straight and sawed at the wrist with his improvised weapon. The grinding of bone and sickening squish of flesh did little to dissuade him in his task. He pocketed the severed hand and sincerely hoped that the smell of blood would not draw anything to him.

A prickling sensation at the back of his neck encouraged him to look up. Standing about thirty feet from him was a familiar construct of cement and paint and rebar. Tillman's chest tightened in panic. SCP-173 required a direct line of sight to keep it immobile. When cleaning its containment unit, two people watched it and warned each other when they were going to blink so that one pair of eyes was on it at all time. With no partner and the air thick with dust, Tillman did not have long before he enabled the creature to move.

Unable to retreat due to the cave-in, Tillman stretched a hand out to contact the wall and walked forward until he came across the door he could see in his peripherals. Sliding the ID card was simple. Lining the severed hand up on the pad without looking was more challenging. His eyes burned with want of blinking. Adrenaline spiked his heartrate fruitlessly. A soft chime announced the release of the lock. He threw himself inside and slammed the door behind him.

All relief was short lived, as he had no idea which object awaited him inside the random room or what the containment protocol for it might be.