The Doctor made his way to the archival room, where not only physical files of the myriad of patient files were kept, but also numerous personal effects of former patients. They were normally thinned and discarded after 18 months by the staff, but a few things would be kept. Firearms, cell phones or computers, occasionally other weapons. Clothing, jewelry, trinkets, and other objects would almost be immediately discarded. He went straight to the horizontal lockers for the most recent inmate-patients and searched for the newest one.

"Looking for something?" asked a low and stern voice. The Doctor froze automatically, his hand twitching on the drawer handle.

He turned to look, facing an imposing man dressed in dark grey and armed to the teeth. In his late 40s, easily 6'4", white and grey hair slicked back, and a salt and pepper beard. Noticeable muscles beneath his uniform, and built like a battleship. His eyes were a dark brown, like coffee, and they were looking almost through him with an air of command. 

The Warden. Normally head of security, when Assassin wasn't. A man who had been with the Facility for nearly 15 years now, hired by the Surgeon when their last head of security ended up being used as a test subject. That one hadn't survived. This one, the current Warden, did. Spoke little, but didn't need to. Interrogation was Assassin's game. He had been in the halls watching the cell block since the Sniper arrived. Automatic in his hands, patrolling the cell block all day and all night. He didn't need the sleep; the drug took care of that.

"I am." The Doctor privately noted his voice was a lot more stronger than he thought it would be. His face settled into his default neutral look as he pushed his glasses up his nose. "I'm looking for Sniper's items."

The Warden's eyes clouded in slight consternation. "Why?"

"I was told to look through them regarding anything that pointed towards who put the hit out."

"I assumed Assassin did the intelligence gathering already." This was true. It was one of Assassin's primary jobs.

"He did but he's been...." The Doctor started, and he trailed off, letting his face settle into mild disdain as he gestured in the air with his hand. "...you know how he gets when he's in a mood."

The Assassin and the Doctor's situation was a known fact among the staff, and the Warden was no exception. He gave a short exhalation of disdain and rolled his eyes. "Yeah."

The radio on his chest crackled to life and the Warden picked it up. "Warden."

It was Surgeon's voice. "Bring him to the operation hall."

The Doctor's heart nearly stopped. He thought he had more time, even with prep for the procedure, there had to be more time. He turned to look back at the drawers so the Warden wouldn't see his panic and he tried his best to compose himself. 

"Roger." He snapped the radio off and turned, then halted. The Doctor turned to look, and saw one more man had entered the archive room without them noticing.

"Jesus, Swordsman, can you not do that?" grumbled the Warden as he eased past him in the narrow aisle of the lockers. "Fucking hate it when you do."

The Swordsman shrugged. "Go on. I'll help the Doctor."

With a terse nod, he was gone, the door of the archive clicking shut. Alone with this man, the lilac eyed man straightened his lab coat and glanced at him.

"Where are the Sniper's belongings?" he asked.

The Swordsman, so called because he kept a katana at his waist, raised his eyebrows curiously. His hair was a dark jet black, though had some streaks and tips of deep violet. His hair fell in gentle waves to just above his shoulders, and like Assassin, had the back of it bundled in a small bun, tied with a red string. His eyes were narrow, like a snake's, and colored a deep, rich green. He didn't stand as tall as Surgeon or even Assassin. In fact he was about the same height as the Doctor, yet he belied an air of command around him. Also spoke little, and when he did, it was always laced with false honey and bitter sarcasm.

The Swordsman just looked the Doctor up and down. Reading him. While the Swordsman was a seldom seen or even utilized member of the staff, he always seemed to be somewhere, observing. He knew almost all the comings and goings of the Facility as well as Warden and Assassin. For a brief time many years ago, he was assigned to be the Doctor's personal guard. It didn't last long, and it left the Doctor with a sense that he couldn't really know what was going on in his head. 

There was always a faint smirk on his lips, and today was no different. It was as if he could see there was something different about the Doctor today, but it amused him more than made him suspicious.

"Where are his belongings?" he asked again, this time with a little more edge.

“Hoh. Feeling sentimental? That's rare." The Swordsman circled him, until he was behind the Doctor, running his hand down the drawers. Came to a stop at a larger, wide drawer about level with the Doctor's waist. Ran his thumb along the handle to the thumbprint reader.

The Doctor inwardly panicked a little. He wasn't sure his fingerprint was cleared for this, and it didn't occur to him to check. The Swordsman made a small scoffing noise. His thumb paused over the reader, and then they heard the lock disengage. He stepped back enough for the white haired man to open it. But he didn't move away.

Inside was a paltry number of belongings. A neatly folded, bulky duffle coat, in black, with large heavy buckles. A black felt cowboy hat with a thin, loose leather cord where the hat band would be. A thin, dark green billfold wallet. A handful of loose rifle bullets. The Doctor recalled seeing them on the hat, held by the leather band. A dingy red orange handkerchief, creased with dirt and sweat. A basic smartphone with a single crack along the bottom right corner. And a single sniper rifle, barely fitting in the length of the drawer.

This was the entirety of this Sniper’s life, neatly stored in a metal drawer.

As he stared down at the items, Swordsman gave another soft scoff. "What did you want? The hat? His phone?" He leaned back against a cabinet behind them. Toyed with a lock of his black and violet hair, eyes indifferently elsewhere but the smirk was still on his lips faintly.

"Or maybe...the gun...? Cute to think that you might want to use it....and you don't know how."

The Doctor tried to keep his face unmoving as he reached out to the gun and lifted it. He was shocked at how light it was. On the few occasions the Doctor was around guns, he knew them to be heavy. This rifle was so light.

"I've never seen you be interested in mementos." The Swordsman shrugged, his hands in the air.

"I'm not. I just wanted to see what makes a man attempt to do something as foolhardy as to bring one gun to a place this armed and secure." He put the rifle down for a moment and surreptitiously palmed a pair of the bullets.

"Money." The black-haired man gestured at the drawer. "Anyhow. Best you put that back before you put an eye out."

The Doctor glanced at the clock on the wall. 4:33 pm. He felt the barest of trembles in his hand as he slowly slid one hand along the barrel, and the other hand's fingers slowly curled over the grip.

Tick tick tick.

The Doctor hands slid into place as he grasped the gun and turned it to the Swordsman who didn't budge. His heart quickened. He was hoping at least for some reaction. His hands shook as he pointed it at the green eyed man's chest and hesitated.

The Swordsman chuckled, quietly. It was challenging.

The Doctor pulled the trigger.

There was an empty click.

The Doctor felt his heart drop to the bottom of his stomach.

In the blink of an eye, there was a flash of metal, the sound of a blade cleanly unsheathing with that distinctive ring. The Doctor felt the rifle whipped out of his hands and it clattered loudly to the floor as he flinched backwards. The Swordsman's katana, blade pointed to the ceiling, had knocked it clean from his grasp. He tipped his head slightly, smirk still on his lips as he gave another short chuckle, then sheathed the blade with a practiced, effortless air.

He clicked his tongue at him as he shook his head, and the Doctor shut his eyes, his shoulders, rounding in defeat.

"Please. As if we'd leave it loaded in there. That's a safety hazard."

The Doctor felt sick. This weakly planned strategy was rapidly unravelling before his eyes. No time left, and now, no weapon, no plan. No hope.

The Swordsman picked the rifle up and set it on the table. He sighed and clapped his hands thrice, a false applause.

"I have to admire the effort, though. I'm impressed." He cleared his throat and the Doctor looked up at him with frustrated subjugation. "Now. On your way. You're expected in the operation hall." He gestured with a flourishing rotation of his hand, flexing his fingers gracefully.

Without another word, the Doctor turned and left the archive room. Dejected, he walked down the hall until he reached halfway, then turned and slammed a fist to the wall. Swallowed down the scream of resentment he pent up in his chest. Pounded the wall a second time, this time weakly, and let out a barely vocalized exhalation.

He had one last trick, one last bid if this was how it was going to go. He turned to the pharmaceutical department and quickened his pace. He ran his fingertips along the 2 bullets he had slid into his pocket.

I made a promise.

~~~~

The Sniper heard the door locks begin to disengage. The footfalls of the one who was opening the door were less recognizable to him. By now he was familiar with the sounds of Assassin's gait, the sounds of the Doctor's footfalls, even the Surgeon's. This one was heavier, and when the Warden stepped inside, he gave a short exhalation and rolled his eyes. Absently rubbed the surgical tape that was holding his cut together.

"Expecting someone?" asked the Warden disinterestedly. He didn't really care. He'd seen a lot of faces over the years, and this one was just one more he'd forget by the week's end.

"The reaper," snapped the Sniper as he stood up, his New Zealand accent a little stronger this time. Knowing the routine, he held his hands in front of him for the cuffs. His wrists were still marked and red from the last 2 days, but when the Warden snapped them on, he at least didn't pinch them as hard as Assassin would have.

The Warden curiously paused after locking them, turning the Sniper's right hand over a bit and took note of his thumbnail. Cracked and bruised; Garand thumb. He noted the length of his fingers as well then shrugged and motioned for him to exit.

"Pianist?" he asked. 

The Sniper tipped his head in mild curiosity at the observation and also shrugged. "Once."

The Warden jerked a thumb at the bruised thumb. Another shrug from the yellow eyed man. 

"Money was better," he said curtly.

"Shame." It didn't sound like he meant it. It was meaningless small talk.

They silently walked down the cellblock hall back to the labs. The Sniper wondered if he was the only one in there, or if there were others in those overly clean cells. He hadn't seen anyone except the staff, but that didn't matter much. There weren't any windows in the labs or the cellblock outside of the cell windows, but he finally caught a clock as they passed the threshold between the labs and the clock.

Just past 4:30. Almost 5 o clock. He had no idea if this was the time for the procedure or if he was getting another round of testing. He was getting sick of the rising anxiety of not knowing.

The walk was longer this time, which made him more suspicious, and down twistier hallways. He made a note of them, but glumly admitted that it was probably useless. He only knew his way back to the cell blocks. He was blindfolded when they brought him in after his capture in the back garden, so he had no idea where he was in relation to that, or the outside.

Finally, they arrived at a pair of double doors, labeled "Operating Theater 3", and the Warden pushed a button to open them. He waited for the gunman to enter first and followed closely behind, one massive hand over his right bicep and leading him to the center of the room. The Sniper grimly thought it to be too ridiculous to be true; a stainless steel operating table, beneath an all too large LED surgical lamp overhead. A number of larger machines around, but he did recognize an EKG nearby. The scent of antiseptics, the glare of the cold light, the hum of machines. It wasn't a large room, but it was definitely large enough to produce a noticeable echo.

It was like some cheap horror movie, just cleaner and overly lit.

The Surgeon was standing at the table, pulling on a pair of purple gloves, and he gave a wide smile as the gunman was led in.

"Guten abend," he said jovially. "It’s nearly time to get started."