Per 
A buzzer sounded in a tight, cramped closet. A figure got out of his small cot, and quickly slipped into a stained dark grey jumpsuit, downed a cup of coffee from a thermos next to his bed. He tried looking in a mirror but as usual, the illumination within the room was too poor for him to actually see anything. The only light source he had was a dim lightbulb hanging from the low ceiling and a flashing LED mounted to the buzzer over the narrow doorway. Maybe that was by design, because he might have been disgusted by the room around him if he could see any better. He never did get used to these old musty rooms…
His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp sound as his radio crackled to life. "John-171, we need you in sector 12, block 4 for cleanup. Priority orange" the radio demanded in a harsh tone. The man sighed, before locking the door behind him and trudging on. John-171? Really? He knew that he never really remembered much, probably because of the drug cocktail they gave all cleanup crew, but a play on the titular "John Doe" with a number slapped on seemed so impersonal. Maybe that was the point, just like the dim lights in his room that never turned off. The psychological implications of working under constant surveillance and pressure were by all means most likely intentional. They didn't keep this facility around for nothing.
As he walked along the narrow white corridors somehow bleached even whiter by the harsh fluorescent lights overhead, his mind kept creating new questions while managing to find answers for precisely none, he found it odd as to how he never asked himself these sorts of things on a routine basis. Perhaps he did, and he simply forgot them. Perhaps it was the pills they gave him to drink every week. He had tried to throw them out, but up until now they never really made much of a difference. Perhaps he was just being paranoid and it was all for his own good, like they told him every day. Funny how they had to reinforce basic psychological principles for something so mundane as the moral orientation of a group of interest. Somehow, those words rolled off his tongue so much easier then the rest. Oh well, nothing of it, probably some idiosyncronicity he picked up from reading the paper too often. There was only one after all, and it was the one that came every Sunday with the paper. It gave him something to do, since he always felt like there was something better to be done on Sundays. Was it even Sunday? He hadn't been above ground in ages. It could be Wednesday for all he knew. What's gone is gone, no use to resent it, he thought as he trundled along.
He almost didn't make it that day. Cleaning up a body in a containment chamber, the job he was originally called for, a black monster with a large bovine heart for a body broke out of one of its chains and tore through the two security guards overseeing the operation. As the heads of the two men clad in tactical gear rolled on the floor, the man in the gray jumpsuit dropped to the ground shocked. Alone and confined in that stark concrete cell, the monster slowly brought its attention towards the man in the gray jumpsuit, quivering in fear in the corner. Seeing no resistance in its opponent, the monster slowly and tentatively, as if savoring its prey, snaked its leg towards the man on the ground in anticipation of a new meal, rambling all the while in its posh British accent.
The man felt the blood stains from the guards on his face, the prickling skin across his arms as the goosebumps formed long ago started to take shape once more, his legs refusing to obey his command, yet he felt surprisingly calm. His eyes slowly traced to the gun knocked across the ground next to him, as he subconsciously tuned out the constant droning of the barbaric entity, flipped the safety off of the pistol, and in one fluid shot tore a hole in the monster's leg.
The monster never expected this resistance from a cowering animal, so it was understandably confused. A moment ago it was shaking in fear, yet the next it was met with precise timed resistance. Perhaps out of instinct, the monster momentarily retracted its arm to reorient itself, attempting to catch the illusive rabbit, yet by the time it managed to regain its proper sense of self the man was already gone. A string of curses and damnations emanated from the containment cell for days with the monster frothing at the mouth, if he had a mouth to begin with, as several containment squads fought to contain the creature from hell for three consecutive days before managing to replace the binding on his leg. Yet nobody seemed to notice the disappearance of the lonely man in the gray jumpsuit, who, upon later inspection of logs, seemed to have never existed at all.
