They are all running. It is nothing but a living a nightmare, this planet, and he no longer cares why he is here, or what these people want from him. He's just ready to go home. Carson runs around a clean, white hospital corner, gasping, trying to make sense of what is happening, why these medical people are turning on him.

It is a desolate planet, nothing but mud and pits and amongst the mire, and a strangely starched hospital that swore to help the putrid life forms of the planet. Never has he seen such deformity. Faces are smashed flat from mud falls, bulbous sores from the acidic air fester and drain greenish fluid.

Carson's mask is still firmly in place from when they had opened the doors, that very morning, to the poisoned air outside, and saw a living nightmare. They had caused this, these people in this damned pitiful excuse for a hospital. Carson couldn't believe it when he saw the sign on the door in the hallway that was forbidden to him. "Projects Accountable". It was the strangest sign he'd ever seen, and it begged entrance. The body parts, living and not, that greeted him filled him with horror; the bodiless heads screaming in torment, secured by wires to a machine that documented every noise, the tubes and tubes of blood both black and red, the rancid forms that lay strapped to tables, writhing in agony as decaying skin was slowly peeled away and studied.

The chemical mishap that happened on the planet was nothing compared to the pure carnage of those that had been sent to "assist". They wanted to know, in precise detail, what the effects of the contaminate were, this biological weapon for which he was not prepared. This isn't recovery, or a mercy mission. This is an experiment.

And now he's running for his life.

The vial is clenched tightly in his fist. His proof. The one active chemical that started it all. He would take it with him. It was the last true sample. He would create a counter measure so that this would never happen anywhere, every again, especially not on Atlantis.

He ducks out of the office he had been in hiding, and feels a lurch. Falling to his feet, he hears the startled screams around him. Wide eyes meet others, all too stunned to continue the pursuit, though in that instant he thinks himself captured. And that is when the floor tilts.

Nature has a way of taking revenge.

He falls to his side, and starts to slide down the abnormally long hallway. People are skidding into him, the yells becoming more confused and frantic. The doorway at the end seems miles away, and everyone in the hall is sliding quickly towards it.

People fall out of rooms. The bodies that are experimented upon fall too, and pass Carson with sickening thumps and limp rolls. The white, pristine halls are streaked with blood.

A lady slides past, an oriental-looking woman, wearing a wine-colored suit. It looks out of place with the rest of the scrubs, and the dingy grey and black rags of the victims. Carson's eyes slide past her to the door, and suddenly he does NOT want to go through it.

The people are now screaming at the tops of their lungs; screeching, cursing, pleading. Like they all know what is about to happen.

He doesn't want to know. He wants no more of this nightmare.

He manages to shift and roll as he slides, and grabs hold of the side corner of a corridor, which jerks him painfully to a stop. A pair of hands grab at him and miss, and he nearly loses his grip. Another person yanks to a stop by grabbing his leg, but he ruthlessly kicks them in the face, and they fall. With a grunt of determination, he pulls himself into the side corridor, which now acts as a ledge of safety.

There is a doorway at the other end of the now-vertical hall, above him. He can use the handrail attached to the wall to hoist himself up. Its original purpose had been to help the ill walk up and down the halls, but after seeing a "disobedient" patient chained to it, well, that was when he knew for certain that it was time to leave. The chains were still there, flapping above him. The patient had died there.

A sucking noise attracts his attention, and he looks down to see the door below him opening, and the black mire bubbling through. Screams turn morbid, hands and arms reach up for help. The people sliding toward it trying anything to stop the long, painful descent to death, ripping at each other, climbing over bodies as they stack up along the doorframe, pushing each other away in a final attempt to save themselves.

The dead are lucky. They look up with unseeing eyes at the chaos around them.

Carson feels a tremor, and the door below him implodes, taking the wall with it, soaking up the vermin that try to escape it, like bugs fleeing a trap. Gaping mouths are the last sight he sees as he angles his attention upwards.

He grips the rail with everything he has and pulls, hand over hand, as the mud claims everything beneath him and reaches with long arms for its last victim. In agony Carson climbs, desperation urging him on, the fear of such a vile death making him ignore the pain in his body. The vial is safe in his pocket. His thinks maybe somehow the planet will knows this, and release him. But it continues to reach as the building continues to sink.

The door is at his fingertips, the mud sucking at his boots.

It bursts open, and he pushes himself up and rolls onto the side of the building, now the top. Gasping, he secures his mask to his face and winces in the orange glare, looking at the meters-high, rank brown bubbles that ooze gas as they pop around him. He can make it to land, he just has to jump.

The building tilts dangerously, and he flings his arms out for balance. He runs.

And leaps.