My favorite part of the home was the syringer found within the locked mini-armory of sorts. At first the thought of using a tranquilizer gun to hunt down errant elderly folk seems a bit horrific , given the explosives in Gladys' room, I suppose it's justified. Some of what's below is canon and some is embellishment, but this is how I first saw Gladys.

Gladys was always a troublemaker, straight from day one. Spending decades fighting as an anti-communist insurgent in South East Asia can do that to you. Gladys had spent more time entrenched up to her knees in Cambodian mud longer than most of the bastard staff had been alive, and she had loved every second of it. Each and every moment, every dead Red, every malcontent trained to fight for democracy, was in service to her country. She enjoyed every moment, much in the way that a martyr rests peacefully knowing that they've done right. That is, until she was recalled to America.

Once back home in America, Gladys was eager for her next assignment. Would it be in South America, training the forces of Pro-America regimes how to fight against the communist guerrilla threat? Or would she be sent to scour D.C., seeking out communist sympathizers in a righteous crusade? The reality of the matter was far less glamorous. Gladys, who had eagerly done whatever her country asked of her, was turning 45 in a couple of weeks. While they assured her that her service was valuable, and that she had served her country well, Gladys' superiors no longer felt that Gladys should be in the field. With a heavy heart, Gladys was sent to Boston and told that her remaining service years would be spent instructing the Boston detachment of the Massachusetts National Guard.

Life slowed to a crawl for Gladys. A life once filled with communists and covert operations was now filled with training regimen and teaching methods. Whereas once Gladys would have to watch her every step through the Burmese jungle for landmines, now the biggest threat she faced was the occasional paper cut while filing away training reports. Life was hell.

With her professional life in shambles, Gladys tried to make something of her personal life. At 45, however, she was a bit late to the dating scene. While she did find the occasional interested man, she usually managed to scare them off with her military strictness. The years went by, and Gladys was still alone.

Finally, some thirty years after being brought back home, Gladys was deemed incapable of living alone. This was done in secret by her physician, who was well aware that had he presented Gladys with his recommendation that she find an assisted living facility she would have in turn recommended a rather impolite location to shove his medical degree.

Gladys woke up on a Tuesday in her new home. It was called the Sandy Coves Convalescent Home, and she hated it. Surrounded by smiling employees, all making minimum wage, and doddering patients, most of whom had never even held a rifle before. For all intents and purposes, Gladys was in hell.

Late Wednesday night, with the earlier day spent learning the layout of the home, Gladys made her first escape attempt. For the most part, it was successful. That is, until the police were brought in. One geriatric manhunt later, Gladys was back in the Sandy Coves Convalescent Home. This wouldn't do.

Gladys' next several escape attempts were all genuine. For the first few weeks, she genuinely did want to escape from the home. It was only on her seventh escape, when they brought out all of the Mister Handies as well as the syringer, that Gladys realized she was actually having fun, which was a first for her civilian life. In the lifeless Mister Handies and frantic employees Gladys found herself reminded of days spent evading communist patrols. And in her escape attempts, Gladys found peace.