Contributor: BinaryAgent


His luck had held just long enough. John was just exiting a long corridor filled with automatics when he heard a click and a whir. John kicked the nearest android as it's drivers began reloading and snatched it's rifle. He turned the dial away from its “stun” setting, released the safety, and within seconds he had obliterated all of the guards in the hall. He had to keep those other prisoners alive. John dropped the rifle and raced outside, down the scaffolding against the wall, and landed on the open plain between him and the last obstacle.


“Sloppy, sloppy.” He muttered. “The league can do better than that. Scaffolding is ridiculously obvious.”


John bolted across the rocky Martian soil to the third wall. To freedom. He began to climb the rough orange bricks. He was halfway up the wall when he heard the human guards thundering up the stairs that led to the top of the wall. He only needed a few more seconds.


John vaulted over the top of the wall as the first guard came running up the stairs. One quick flip and John sent him flying back down the stairwell, taking out the other guards as he bounced. John then scaled the small shed at the top of the stairs and waited. As the guards emerged again, other prisoners were mounting the third wall.


“Open fire!” The lead guard shouted. Tranquilizers were drawn and two dozen triggers clicked as they were squeezed. Stasis chemicals and .5 amp pulses coursed through the would-be escapees. John just laid on the roof and watched – silently berating the other prisoners for their own stupidity. How would they ever provide a sufficient distraction now? However, one of the prisoners had ducked behind a much larger “meat shield” and escaped the incapacitation of the others. As the guards came closer to the prisoners to remove the darts and electrodes – he struck. The prisoner leaped up and, with a few quick movements, tossed two guards over the wall, back down into the complex. The guards hit the ground with a crunch and a thud and didn't move. The prisoner then successfully tossed another one over the wall, threw two back down the stairs into the guardhouse, and grabbed the ray gun from another guard's belt.


With a few well-placed blasts, the rest of the guards on top of the wall fell before they could reach for their own weapons. The prisoner stood on top of the wall, panting a bit, and then approached the shed that led into the guardhouse. He threw open the door and charged down the stairs, cackling. John slipped from the roof and quickly stripped the uniform from one of the other officers who had been shot in the head, except for the helmet. That he grabbed from another corpse. He dressed hurriedly, and smeared some blood onto his cheek, under his eye. He grasped the ray gun tightly, and crept down the stairs. He heard more ray blasts. He came into an open area, three or four guards lay dead on the floor. He saw another group of guards – their guns on the floor – backed up against the wall. The prisoner had his gun trained on them. John staggered towards them for show, wearily brandishing his ray gun. He pointed it at the group and pulled the trigger. The prisoner's deranged laughter was cut off abruptly. He dropped to the ground – his dead face still contorted in a wicked grin. The four guards rushed to grab their weapons and thank John. John cut them off and pointed.


“More on the wall.” He croaked. The remaining guards stampeded up the stairs, ray guns blasting. John crept deeper into the deserted guardhouse until he found the lockers. He opened the locker that held the belongings of the guard who's uniform he had taken, and dressed in the civilian clothes. Tucking his handmade knife into his new belt on one side, and holstering his new ray gun on the other, he took the card and punched out. As he walked out the front door it beeped,


“Have a nice day Mr. Gerrard.” John waved his hand and walked into freedom. He was out, and he wasn't going to do anything to screw it up. He had assumed other identities before. He just hoped that this “Gerrard” didn't have a family to dispose of; that just resulted in a little more work and inconvenience for him. Oh well – First stop, his victim's home.