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Chimera spots him.
Luckily, the dense vegetation, darkness, fronds and grass and strands and pulsating fleshwoodmeat means the God does not spot Chimera.
There it is. Long memories of failed tests and burned friends and the tang of chemicals. Sanitation Officer. In locked rooms on bad days when the curriculum shifted and the overseers were harsh and things went bad, these little godlings in their yellow'd armor with their glaring green eyes would pry you apart. Pry your friends apart. Burn things. Bleach them. Salt the earth. Inflict horror unmentionable and destruction unmatched.
The Hazard Operations Group Chimera and the others fought on the floors above (how far above?) were just underlings wearing illfitting hastily thrown on chemical defenses and masks, scrambled security officers to try and control specimens run rampant.
This man?
This. . . *thing* . . .
It is a Professional.
And every hair in Chimera's body raises rigid in horror-shock when its insectile mask briefly turns towards Chimera's hiding place
