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Ryland knows it's ridiculous to climb on the cabinets; but in this haze of terror, his ears ringing and heart pounding and ever sense screaming for him to run, he's willing to toss dignity out the window.
The guards lunge for him. He aims a kick and runs, feeling Stratt's eyes following him long after he clears the door and faces the cool breeze of afternoon air.
Ryland is a fast runner. He always has been. When he was bodily thrown from the field he dedicated years to, he'd taken up running for fun. The burning in his legs offered an adequate distraction, and years later when he was disconnected enough that time had washed the bitterness away, he'd grown too attached to the hobby to cut it.
Ryland had always been a man of habit -- when forced to take on change, he groaned and grumbled and grew attached to that change, took it in more and more until it solidified itself into his routine.
But not this time. No, he had no intention of accepting this change that would end his life and leave him rotting in the unending expanse of space.
The fence was so close -- a few meters more and he would touch it, could climb over and vanish in the forest, where he would hide until they were forced to send another willing scientist. He will not be punished for his usefulness; will not be forced to sacrifice his existence for being selfless enough to disrupt his life by aiding them in this project for a year.
Hasn't he given enough?
He's nearly there -- he can hear the footsteps of the guards stomping behind him, but that's no matter, no matter at all -- he'll climb before they get him, will be too far out of reach --
The sight before him makes him freeze. Carl. He feels a rush of relief and curses himself for it, because Carl is not here to help him... Carl is with them, is betraying him just like Stratt...
Ryland's eyes lock on the weapon at Carl's belt. He lunges for it. Carl staggers back in shock, but it's too late; Rylands hands have closed around the weapon, and he is safe.
The guards approach slowly before stopping at a look from Carl as Ryland brandishes the gun. "Stay back." His voice miraculously does not waver, even as the arm aiming the weapon at the man he thought was his friend shakes visibly.
Softer footsteps approach -- Ryland veers left, and sees Eva Stratt herself, mouth drawn tight in displeasure. Disappointed they haven't put him down yet.
"Doctor Grace," she calls, voice unreadable. "Put down the firearm."
Manic laughter bubbles from the pits of Rylands stomach, and he forces it down. "Why? So you -- so you can force me to die?" He starts walking back, slowly, pointing the gun directly at her chest. "I'm not going to space. I won't. I can't, you've got the wrong man!"
"You are the right man," Stratt says, eyebrows creasing in her first display of emotion since Ryland saw the glint of unshed tears in her office. "You are the only one who can save us."
"I can't do it."
The guards begin to tense, ready to tackle him -- he can't point this thing at all of them at once. Even if he could, not sure he'd have the stomach to pull the trigger, even if they are trying to murder him.
Some switch flips in his brain as he meets Stratt's unyielding gaze, and slowly lifts the gun to his own forehead. Carl cries out; Stratt's shield cracks open in a burst of fleeting terror -- "Grace, put it down."
"No," Ryland says, almost smiling. "No, if I'm going to die, it'll be on my terms." His fingers find the safety and click it off. Their faces pale; the entire entourage -- they are only just realizing that he is serious.
Dead serious. Literally.
Carl is crying, he realizes with a start, and that sucks. He never wanted to hurt anybody. He just wants to be left alone --
A bang shatters the silence, and for a moment Ryland wonders if he accidentally pulled the trigger. Am I dead?
In a moment he realizes he isn't. In the next, he wishes he was, because his leg, oh God his leg, his leg --
There is a hole in his leg, and the searing pain is enough that he wants to gouge out his eyes for something else to focus on, and someone is screaming, and he is the one screaming --
They shot me, he realizes as someone cradles his head and guides him to the ground, and Carl's low voice murmurs somewhere beyond his reach, and Stratt's red hair dances in his vision as she stands, stricken with fear, above him.
Ryland doesn't think he's ever seen her afraid. God, they shot me.
His vision blurs more and more as the excruciating seconds pass and pained tears leak into his eyes where he lies on dry grass and stares up at the dying sun.
Stratt is kneeling on one side, Carl on the other. He can make out their shapes. A doctor approaches beside his head as guards come to gently pin his arms and legs as he groans in muted protest and tries to move away.
Someone grips his head as the needle pierces his neck, and something icy seeps into his veins, and warmth begins to spread, bringing with it the soft darkness of sleep.
Ryland is so, so afraid. Someone grips his hand. He thinks it's Carl, but he can't bring his eyelids open to check.
His last sensation is delicate fingers carding through his hair; a murmured apology.
Ryland Grace falls asleep for a long, long time.