Commander Jack Smythe had his pistol drawn while moving down the hall. The concrete walls were pock marked, scorched, and nicked all tell-tale signs of small arms fire. Not to mention the blood splatter.

For now it was quiet, too much for his liking. Ahead of him he saw an overlay of the complex, and basic biometric data through the compact lens on his left eye. Agents were expected to have them on their dominant eye, which for him happened to be the opposite of his dominant hand. 

He approached a door and moved away from the side closest, giving it a wide berth to give him a clear line of sight. The door was open, giving him a clear view of the bodies piled up.

“Because I’m no-no, no-no-no-nobody’s baby now,” Grace sang as she floored the accelerator and was pushed deep into the seat. 

In her rearview mirror she spotted the wreck getting smaller. In seconds it would be swallowed up by the fog entirely.

“I escaped the Bastille,” She said. “You thought you seriously had a chance?”

Of course the dead never talked, instead blew up another bubble with her gum until it burst.