Darkness. Movement sensed as if from a great distance. I claw back to consciousness lazily,

grogly. Maybe not so much clawing back as being shoved along toward it, like I'm in a loose pile of

limbs, being pushed by a giant broom.

Light comes slowly into fuzzy view. My most recent memory surface, bringing with them fear, panic, and physical distress.

I was in a lab, wearing a hazmat suit, studying a viscous liquid. To prevent confirmation bias, I had no idea where the liquid had come from.

I was to run tests on it to determine its components and properties.

Having just finished recording my initial findings after looking at a sample through a microscope,

I was transporting a beaker of the liquid to a different lab area for testing.

Then the containment breach started, or an attack. I'm not sure which.

The labs wall lurched toward me as a blast rocked the facility.

Equipment crashed into me, knocking me down.

I dropped the beaker as I fell. As I crawled toward the door, the floor shook, lights sparked,

and more lab equipment toppled,

exploding like miniature bombs around me.

I tried to escape the lab to reach the nearest bunker,

like the protocols dictate.

Crawling through shattered glass, I was vaguely aware that my suit had ripped at the right knee.

As I neared the door, another blast erupted. Something hard and heavy hit me in the head,

plummeting me into darkness. Reliving those terrifying moments, my body's autonomic systems do their thing,

and the broom shoves me quicker back toward consciousness.

The fuzz fades as I come back, limbs tensing, wondering if I'm still on the lab floor.

But no, the chair beneath me squeaks as I stir.

...