Carlos Estevez sat worriedly in his van on the third floor of a parking garage a block away from NMRF-LA, where, at least until tommorow, he worked. The entire facility was being redacted - eqipment dismantled or retasked, records destroyed... He'd saved as much of the research database as he could - no telling when it might come in handy - and he was in the process of saving as many of the subjects as he could. Moreaus, they were calling them now, and he supposed it was fitting. "The Chimes of Freedom" by the Byrds came wafting over the radio, and he smiled tiredly at the irony. Or perhaps the appropriateness. He wasn't sure at this point. He'd managed to arrange for their cells - because that's what their 'living quarters' really were, no matter how comfortable and prettied up - to be 'accidentally' left unlocked, the security recorders blanked out (he'd had to call in a few favors on that one to make it look like an espionage job), and three unusually brave Navy Masters-At-Arms had agreed to stage a one-sided firefight before being rendered unconscious by time-release pharmaceuticals. He'd left his locker unlocked, too - it was in one of the first rooms they should encounter after getting out of their Containment & Observation Complex, and he'd stashed a crowbar, bootleg keycard, and a map of the facility, along with contact instructions and a list of people who would be sympathetic. He sighed and turned the music up. All he could do now was wait. He took solace in the fact that if he was caught, they'd probably stage a gang shooting rather than turning him into a martyr. ------------------------------ Sublevel 3, Containment & Observation Complex B, Hallway G (Living Quarters) The rapid ca-da-crak! ca-da-crak! of Seaman Apprentice Gaverre's long rifle was the last to stop. His bursts tracked onto the ceiling as he fell unconscious, spread eagled on the ground behind a makeshift barricade thrown together out of obstacles from Complex B's firing range.