D-148

Stephen wiped the blood from his nose: it had come dripping down after he’d hit his head. He couldn’t even remember how it happened; he had obviously tripped and fallen.
“D-148,” a cold voice said over his shoulder; he reacted, swinging his fist, connecting with the guard’s face. The Facility Guard snarled and tossed his gun over his shoulder, before punching D-138 in the sternum, knocking the breath out of him.
“Stop it,” the third voice said calmly. Winded, Stephen took a moment to recover, before standing up shakily.
“He’s bleeding,” the Doctor noticed. “How did this happen, Sam?”
“I didn’t do it,” the guard muttered. “He was bleeding before-”
“He’s lying,” Stephen claimed. The nosebleed had ceased mostly, leaving a smear behind. He wished for a little more, but it was enough. “He knows you’re trying to get research, but he didn’t want to help you. He was going to shoot me, but— I knocked his gun away.” Stephen pointed at the gun in the corner of the room.
“Thats when I started bleeding.”
“You bloody—” the Guard swung at Stephen’s head; he ducked, leaping back towards the gun. He scooped it up in both hands, as the two men realised their mistake; neither of them were armed.
“I want out,” he said. His mouth was dry, and he was nervously licking his lips, but his aim was steady. He was on Deathrow, he was sure they knew. He had never used a gun before, but they didn’t know that.
“You have to let me go,” he said. “Or,” He said after a pause. “I’ll find my own way out.”
“A lone D-Class won’t get out,” the Guard grinned. He pointed at the blast doors behind Stephen. “You expect to get out without us?”
“No!” Stephen shouted, but it was too late. The Guard had lunged towards the D-Class, who brought the gun up in a wide arc, slamming it into his chin. Teeth were knocked out, littering the ground.