October 9th, 2016 | 9:56 PM

"It's twenty-two hundred. Quiet d-" Officer Rance Roberts is interrupted mid-sentence by his coworker. He turns around, scowling. "What? Are the clocks off again?"
The man in front of him is Joy. Joy Rice. Rance always found that name peculiar, especially for a 250-pound prison guard who hadn't smiled in at least four days. Hell, the man had always had this characteristic facial expression insinuating he doesn't even feel joy, so to have it as a legal first name is even more perplexing.
"No, the clocks aren't off," Joy says quietly, leading Rance out of the hall doorway and back into the security office. "You're just not doing that anymore, remember?"
Rance bites his tongue. "Last I checked, I had two weeks left."
"That's a courtesy, to allow you to transfer sites and get rehired if you want. You're effectively on probation."
"…What? Why didn't anyone tell me that means I can't do anything?"
Joy sighs and takes Rance by the arm, guiding him over to the lesser-used end of the security feed desk. "You can still monitor the feeds as normal. Just don't interact with the D-classes."
Rance feels his pulse quickening with frustration. "Do you guys realize that you never actually told me why you fired me? Or why I'm being treated like-"
"Shh, shh. We already gave you your report, Roberts; you know that."
"'Take some time to yourself due to emotional stress factors', was it?" he hisses, lowing his voice and leaning toward the younger man. "Joy, I don't want to be unprofessional with you as my supervisor, but you can't fire someone because their life got a little worse in a few places! I'm pretty sure that's not even within the rules!"
Joy's eyes narrow. "Roberts, so help me God, you know I am on your side in this," he says, barely audibly. "The demotion is what it is. And you're not fucking fired, so stop over-dramatizing. We told you multiple times — and it was clear in your paperwork, or so I thought — that this isn't a punishment. You need some time to get your head together, get your finances together, get yourself feeling better."
Rance puts his head in his hands and sniffs, clearing his throat. "Alright, look."
"Put your hands down. Don't get stressed."
"Then don't condescend me." His mouth forms a straight line as he inhales sharply. "Just listen to me. I am going to be completely blunt with you in that I think last month's false allegations are affecting the other staff's reasoning in this."
"Oh for fuck's sake, Roberts. Don't do this to yourself."
"How about you don't do it to me?" he snaps. "I have all the fucking counter-evidence, which the Ethics Committee so helpfully neglected to even read until twenty days after they became aware of the case. I've got someone running around the entire site telling people I'm a rapist with no evidence except one mouthy D-class blatantly lying, and you fucks respond by demoting me for 'health reasons'? Do you think I'm a fucking idiot? Do you think I can't put two and two together? You're getting rid of me because it's the fucking easy option!"
"Lower your voice immediately, unless you want to clock out early and hand me your badge."
Rance pauses and grits his teeth. "Very well," he mutters after several seconds.
Joy leans forward. "Seriously, Rance, go home. I know you're better than this. Come back tomorrow, finish your two weeks, and then move to another site and move on."
"Joy, I don't want to go home. I want to feel stable again. I want my job back. I never did any of those things."
"That's not why you were laid off, and if you won't believe me on that, then I don't know what to tell you."
"Fine. Yeah, yeah, I get it."
"Now get out of here for the night. Sleep on a normal person's schedule for once."
Rance nods. "Alright, alright. I'm going." He stands up and unclips his access card from his shirt collar. "So… you need this?" He knows his tone sounded hostile. He doesn't care.
"No. Get out. Go vent to your girlfriend."
"Oh, that's a professional thing to add," he spits. He slams the door behind him, leaving Joy no time to retort.

As he walks toward the elevators, he takes out his pager.

˙ǝuoɥd sᴉɥ ʇno sǝʞɐʇ ǝɥ 'sɹoʇɐʌǝlǝ ǝɥʇ pɹɐʍoʇ sʞlɐʍ ǝɥ s∀

22:05 | Adam Leeward
Hey Rance. Are you off yet?

Rance Roberts | 22:05
just left, shit day. how was yours

22:05 | Adam Leeward
Decent I guess. You got any special plans for the night?

Rance Roberts | 22:06
i really don't
i still feel like shit about last month
i think they fired me for it actually

22:06 | Adam Leeward
It's unlikely. I know slander hurts, but they knew all the evidence was on your side.

Rance Roberts | 22:06
i wish I could believe that. but I just can't.
They told me they're laying me off because of 'health reasons'
HEALTH REASONS
I mean my dysphoria may be bad lately but it's not that bad
not bad enough to fire me for
I mean I only started T like… what… a month ago?
I cant remember
it was when they agreed to switch me from the female cell block duty to the male.

22:06 | Adam Leeward
Hold up. They didn't fire you because you're trans.
Don't convince yourself of that, for your own sake.
You know they're all super understanding of that
the Foundation's medicine is too advanced to not understand it, lol.
You're safe here.

Rance Roberts | 22:07
Well I feel like it's likely
it's either they can't handle a trans dude on the male cell block or they believe Gailey's rape allegations

22:07 | Adam Leeward
Gailey isn't there anymore. She transferred after the rest of the staff found out she was exaggerating, remember? Your case was closed in your favor. Don't do this to yourself, please.
I don't like seeing you like this. I'm at 81 right now but I will gladly fly there if you need me nafew weeks.
*in a few weeks

Rance Roberts | 22:07
Fuck man. I don't know.
And Gailey shuold have b een FIRED
they gave her a fucking easy way out.
and no, i odn't want you to have to do that

22:08 | Adam Leeward
I don't have to do anything. I just want to help you out if you need me.

Rance Roberts | 22:08
Well supposedly I have a girlfriend that cares
supposedly

Rance Roberts | 22:10
I'm not trying to be negative, I just feel like shit

Rance Roberts | 22:12
are you still there

Rance Roberts | 22:15
i don't wanna pester you i just dont have anyone else to talk to and she never stays the night anymore. i'm just really lonely and it's affecting my mood. i'm sorry

22:15 | Adam Leeward
Fuck, sorry. I'm still at work.
Skip needs attention.

Rance Roberts | 22:15
they always do

22:16 | Adam Leeward
I can call you when I'm done here, if you want.
Shouldn't be more than a few more mins

Rance Roberts | 22:16
Alright
if I don't answer it's just because Jane's over for once
hopefully/not-hopefully

Rance Roberts | 22:17
are you sure you'd want to visit me?
i mean
like
you haven't seen me since before I transitioned.

22:17 | Adam Leeward
I don't know why that would affect anything(?)

Rance Roberts | 22:17
I mean
this is awkward
I know we had a thing going for a while.

22:17 | Adam Leeward
oh omg
Yes, we did, and I still like you
I'm not visiting you just to fuck you

22:18 | Adam Leeward
I mean unless you want that.
i mean i'm bi anyway so no it's not some sort of problem
…Yes, this is awkward. lol
you pass really well. Please don't feel bad about yourself

Rance Roberts | 22:18
JUST
lmao
and no it's
it's awkward because I made it awkward.
fuuuuuck
my libido is at 0.00% anyway
i thought T was supposed to increase libido but I hate the way I look so much that i just
can't
like get turned on
ever
i hate it
no wonder Jane's not into me anymore

Rance Roberts | 22:18
I just want to forget.
I think if i could forget, I would feel normal.
I worry too much and if I could forget things I wish I didn't know, I'd be alright.
Like that case last month.
If I could forget I knew the counterevidence, I would feel okay.
I wouldn't think about it all the time
I would feel like they demoted me for stupid reasons but i would be able to move on.
you know?

22:19 | Adam Leeward
Yes.

Rance Roberts | 22:19
So like
yeah.
I'm gonna head on in my room (I've been pacing the hallway, haha) and see if Jane is there and if she's not I might just go over to the old office.

22:20 | Adam Leeward
Wait why would you go to the office

Rance Roberts | 22:20
night dude. thank you for talking to me

22:20 | Adam Leeward
why would you go to the office
you're worrying me I'm sorry
I thought you said you didn't still have access to that computer? What's in there?

22:28 | Adam Leeward
Rance?

22:42 | Adam Leeward
I hope for your sake that you fell asleep. Call me in the morning if you need. I don't clock in until 10 tomorrow.

When he's finished pacing by the door to his quarters, he opens the door.
"Oh. You scared me."
Rance grins. "Hey Jane."
She smiles, but looks downward and sinks further into the bed as he closes the door behind him. "I'm so sorry I haven't been spending the night," she says, her soft voice muffled by her fingers.
"It's okay. I know why. Or, at least, I think I know why."
She sighs as he sets his briefcase on the table and unzips his vest. "I know. And I should have talked to you sooner. About it."
"Or in general." It's his attempt at humor.
"So…"
"So you're a lesbian and I'm a man instead of a butch now. I get it."
She laughs lowly, but it's hollow. "It's… not the same as when we met, no."
"I understand. I'm always going to love you and want you, but- oh, fuck."
"What?"
"That- that sounded manipulative. Saying I love you."
"No it didn't. You can be honest. Don't beat yourself up, I- I hate it when you do that to yourself."
He nods and takes a breath, slowly sitting on the edge of the bed. "It's been three years, you and I. And I'm not what- I'm not who I was when you and I fell in love. You like girls. And that's fine. I mean, hell, it's actually better that you don't still see me as a girl and thus aren't attracted to me anymore. Means it's working." He smiles halfheartedly and leans back on the bed. "I understand."
"It's not only that. Not only you." She tanks his hand in hers. "I'm not happy here."
He winces internally, if only because he knows he's not in an emotional state to deal with someone else's problems. He can't give her what she deserves. "What do you mean by that? Here at this site? Or my room, I mean- I can clean the room-"
"The Foundation, Rance. I don't like it here."
"Do you want to transfer departments?"
"No, I want to leave. I want to be normal again. I want a nine-to-five desk job that won't get me killed or amnesticized. I want to be a stable human being again. I want my life back." She's crying, ever-so-slightly. Rance sits up and puts an arm around her while she takes a breath to continue. "I don't like what we do. I don't like thinking about- it."
"About what, honey?"
That makes her pull away a little. "About us. I don't like thinking about locking anomalous people up. I don't like thinking about the things the Ethics Committee approves. I don't like thinking about the fact that the person I'm dating gets paid to guard human test subjects. I don't like it. I want to be a good person again."
"No." He swallows. "You are a good person. We are good people."
She looks into his eyes for only a second before turning away again. "I'm not going to argue. We're just- we're too different. We're different people. I can't stay here." She sniffs and takes a tissue off the bedside table. "I actually only came here to say goodbye."
"W-what-"
"I quit. I told the directors that I quit. I'm leaving tomorrow."
His heart thumps in his chest. "But- don't you know-"
"I know, Rance."
"They amnesticize you. You're not going to remember anything."
"They implant false memories. It was expensive, that option, but I don't care."
"Jane, you won't remember anything. The site, living here, anything you've ever worked on or with or for… it's all going to be gone."
"I know-"
"Me. You met me here."
She sobs again. "I know."
"You're going to forget me. We- we met each other here." He swallows. It tastes like bile.
"I have to, Rance. I'm so sorry."
"All because of- because of what, some guidelines of- what, fucking- arbitrary moral boundaries?"
"Oh God, please don't fight with me over it-"
"I'm not- fuck, fuck." He's angry. He feels it rising up his spine. "I have a lot to say. And I won't." He picks up his bag and vest again. He doesn't know where he's going. "I won't. Just, uh… Let yourself out. The door re-locks on its own."
"Please, I don't want it to be like this-"
"I'm just being awful." His eyes are watering. His hands are shaking. "You don't deserve to be around me when I'm like this, and I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
She wails. "God, please God, please don't leave- I didn't want this to happen…"
"In twenty-four hours you won't remember me, Jane. It doesn't matter. I love you. I always will. Goodbye." He closes the door. The hallway light is blinding, and even moreso refracted through his tears.

He wipes his face with his shirt sleeve and walks, then runs, then stumbles down the hallway.

˙ʎɐʍןןɐɥ ǝɥʇ uʍop sǝןqɯnʇs uǝɥʇ 'sunɹ uǝɥʇ 'sʞןɐʍ puɐ ǝʌǝǝןs ʇɹıɥs sıɥ ɥʇıʍ ǝɔɐɟ sıɥ sǝdıʍ ǝɥ

Rance Roberts | 22:56
Well that went badly
she didn't just break up with me, she broke up with the whole Foundation

22:57 | Adam Leeward
Fuck, I was hoping you were asleep.
I'm sorry to hear that.
(Also wondering how that's possible…)

Rance Roberts | 22:57
she chose to do that expensive-ass false memories total-quit thing
I'm heading down to the old office now

22:58 | Adam Leeward
Okay, so I was worried earlier about why you're going down there.
What is it there that you need?

Rance Roberts | 22:58
I need to look at some records.
I think I know how to fix my firing situation at the cell block.

22:58 | Adam Leeward
Don't do it.
Listen, digging through things that make you angry will not help you at all.
You need to sleep. You know what you're like when you get like this.
Please listen to me.

Rance Roberts | 22:58
I'm sorry but no
I have to stand up for myself
I refuse to lose my job- I can't deal with it

22:58 | Adam Leeward
Rance, listen to me
This will not help.
Whatever evidence you're going to go pull off an old hard drive
it will do nothing. The Ethics Committee already read everything, remember?
Please don't go
you're going to get into an unhealthy mental place if you go sit in that office
please listen to me, please trust me

Rance Roberts | 22:59
I just want to forget it all
I want to forget everything
I want to forget Jane and I want to forget D-9241 and I want to forget what Joy said to me today and I want to forget the stuff I read that Gailey said about me and I want to fucking
I just want to forget

22:59 | Adam Leeward
Do I need to call someone for you
I think I might
You're really concerning me right now. Do you have anything with you?

Rance Roberts | 23:00
just got to the office
what kind of anything?

23:00 | Adam Leeward
You sound like you're in a bad place mentally right now and I want to make sure you're not going to self-harm

Rance Roberts | 23:00
oh don't do that doctor stuff with me.
for fucks sake.
leave it to your skip(s)

23:01 | Adam Leeward
I care about you.
Please remember that.

Rance Roberts | 23:01
I'm gonna delete my messages now - in 2 hrs, text me something random and unrelated

23:01 | Adam Leeward
Wait what?
Don't go just yet.
What is that for?

23:03 | Adam Leeward
Don't do this to me dude.

23:05 | Adam Leeward
Oh my god. Fuck. I think I know what you're doing
but I hope that I'm wrong.
Rance, do not take amnestics, okay
Don't.

23:06 | Adam Leeward
Are you reading these

MISSED CALL (1) FROM ADAM LEEWARD 23:07

23:08 | Adam Leeward
if you take anything in the A-C range you have the potential to KILL YOURSELF
please god be reading these
I swear to god listen to me
If you take anything in the A-C class you are endangering your health.
Those are chemically instable and you do NOT want to ingest them during hormone therapy AND on antidepressants
it is a recipe for disaster
you are going to fuck your blood pressure to high hell
please stop

MISSED CALL (1) FROM ADAM LEEWARD 23:10

23:08 | Adam Leeward
Please be ignoring me and not actually away from your pager
I wont be mad I promise I just want you to be safe
Please answer the calls.
Please tell me something

MISSED CALL (1) FROM ADAM LEEWARD 23:14

23:15 | Adam Leeward
Fuck.

Rance sits down at his old desk and lowers his briefcase onto the table. He hasn't been here since at least three months ago, and it's already dusty. He's never been quite sure why he left it, come to think of it; they wanted him to cut his paperwork hours and increase his guard hours, but it's not like they took his computer access in here away until the very end. Just the other day, actually, all thanks to his 'removal'. But he knew he could still get in. They didn't actually do anything. They just told him not to use the computer, and trusted he'd obey them.
He starts by turning off the lights. He only wants the glow of the monitor. He doesn't want to see the placard by the door; he doesn't want to see the picture of him and his coworkers on the right-side wall; he doesn't want to look at himself in the left corner's mirror. He doesn't want to be aware.
He boots up the computer, the Windows startup screen casting a cold blue glow on his reddened face. He sighs and opens his bag. His laptop. His change of clothes. Four unused hypodermic needles. A spray-can of Class-As, which he had anyway. Four bottles of Type III Class-C, which he took from the cell block's medical wing. That was what they used on the D-classes. That was the type that was capable of wiping away a month of memories. A month, back to early September. September, a few days before it all started. Before D-9241 got in a fight with him. Before Safety Officer Laurel Gailey watched them on the feeds. Before 9241 lied. Before Gailey pretended it was sex. Before Gailey went snooping in his home life and using everything she could find against him. Before any of it.
But first, he wants to look again. He doesn't want to look again, but it's there. It's been there for weeks. He wants to know. He has to know if he got anything wrong. And as he readies the bottles and syringes, he opens a folder on the hard drive.

And he looks at the paperwork.

˙sʇɹodǝɹ ǝɥʇ ʇɐ sʞooן ǝɥ puɐ

And he looks at the pager records.

˙spɹoɔǝɹ ɹǝbɐd ǝɥʇ ʇɐ sʞooן ǝɥ puɐ

ARCHIVED RECORDS OF PERSONAL COMMUNICATION, SEPTEMBER 2016

███ ██████ | 21:20
Hey dude. You got a minute?

21:20 | Rance Roberts
Yeah sure
what is it?

███ ██████ | 21:20
I need to talk to you about something kinda awkward.

21:20 | Rance Roberts
uh oh

███ ██████ | 21:20
Don't sweat it, don't sweat it. Can I ask?

21:21 | Rance Roberts
i mean i guess i gotta say yes

███ ██████ | 21:21
Okay, so
D-9241, from the female block where you used to work.
What was your relationship with her?

21:21 | Rance Roberts
oh jesus
who put you up to this

███ ██████ | 21:21
Whoa there, it's a little early for that
I just need to know. You and I are friends, you can tell me anything.

21:21 | Rance Roberts
yeah right.
what kind of "anything"
I'm a fucking cell block guard, you'd better hope I don't get personal with anyone in an orange jumpsuit
no matter the setting

███ ██████ | 21:22
better hope eh
Listen, if you and here did anything with each other, I'll keep it secret.
*her

21:22 | Rance Roberts
Don't do this to me dude.
Is this about that thing
from several days or weeks ago or however long it was.

███ ██████ | 21:22
Where you bent her over an exam table with your ~pelvic area~ pressed up against her ass and freaked out when Gailey saw it? maybe
I mean that was pretty black-and-white to me. I saw the security feed.

21:23 | Rance Roberts
WE BOTH HAD CLOTHES ON.

███ ██████ | 21:23
i mean
dry sex is a thing

21:23 | Rance Roberts
What the actual hell is wrong with you
Christ alive

███ ██████ | 21:23
Look, D-9241 said she was uncomfortable with it and complained
and since it's on security feeds it's well
like i said
kinda black and white :|

21:24 | Rance Roberts
so you're taking the word of a D-CLASS over me
even when you literally have seen the security feeds
and it's really fucking obvious that that was a quick move
jesus, you saw what she was doing, right?
she was literally known around that block to be a total cunt at all times possible.
like, she resists literally everything

21:25 | Rance Roberts
she tried to sock me in the jaw that night
the fucking biology department needed a redhead between 20 and 30 or whatever the hell their reason was
for whatever fucking anomaly they needed to test on someone
I don't fucking know it since it's not my damn job
and she didn't want to go
and she resisted me trying to get her out of her cell
and you can- you can literally see her swing at me

21:26 | Rance Roberts
you can literally see it on the security feeds.
she swings at me, I dodge it, I put her hands behind her back, we scuffle, it ends up with me pinning her against the table
and literally all of this is on video.
if any of y'all interpreted that as sexual in the slightest, y'all're the perverts, not me.

███ ██████ | 21:26
Alright, slow down. Lordy.

21:27 | Rance Roberts
Don't you "lordy" me
this is an uncalled-for personal attack.

███ ██████ | 21:27
issue is in the words.
she says you muttered something in her ear
that's what gave it the context that people were concerned about

21:27 | Rance Roberts
Oh God above.
Humor me then.

███ ██████ | 21:28
Huh?

21:28 | Rance Roberts
Humor me then! What did I supposedly say?

███ ██████ | 21:28
Well, what DID you say?

21:28 | Rance Roberts
You expect me to remember? God, it's the same thing we all say to all of them, ffs
"if you cooperate, this will be easier"
or something

███ ██████ | 21:29
yyyyeah that's not what she heard. Close, though.

21:29 | Rance Roberts
Well that's fucking nice.
What am I accused of saying?

███ ██████ | 21:29
"If you don't cooperate, I'll be coming back later"

21:29 | Rance Roberts
ha wow
interesting.
the funny thing is that even if I HAD said that
which I DIDN'T
and you're going by the word of a D-CLASS on this
it like
that still isn't necessarily sexual.
like, that'd've been massively inappropriate, sure, but that's because we have rules on issuing unprofessional threats.

21:30 | Rance Roberts
like I can think of things anyone could've said there that would've crossed the sexual line
which I won't example here because a) you'll just screenshot this and send it around and b) there's no point but like
there are things I could have said there that were that type of inappropriate, and they're still not the thing she's claiming I said.
*make example of

21:31 | Rance Roberts
now can I know what I'm like
actually accused of?
i'm sorry but I find this all super sudden and uncalled for and honestly abhorrent

███ ██████ | 21:31
Sexual misconduct
It's based on a lot of other stuff that's known about you, too.
Actually I'm not supposed to be telling you this (no one sent me to ask you this shit, btw, this is just me talking so I might get in trouble idk) but Gailey knows about you and your girlfriend

21:32 | Rance Roberts
…Are you for real right now?
Are you literally like
am I literally under scrutiny for "sexual misconduct" because the fucking security director doesn't like BDSM
(and for some reason is snooping in my private life in order to gain this info?)
so because of that and because
I… put someone in a restraint position because she was trying to punch me in the jaw.
is that like
is that what's going on here.
Is that literally all the context here.

███ ██████ | 21:32
Well that and the erection
why did you have a boner if this wasn't sexual?
obvs not in the feeds but 9241 said you did and well
see previous comments about additional context

21:32 | Rance Roberts
dude I
what.
███, I DONT HAVE A DICK.
what the fuck
Christ alive.

███ ██████ | 21:32
You… wait, shit, what?
9241 said you
yeah.

21:32 | Rance Roberts
I shouldn't have to tell you what's between my legs to get you to lay off me, firstly. like who is the sexual harasser here, cause it ain't me.
And secondly, we all wear fucking tactical pants. For all I know she was feeling my belt buckle, or truncheon, or anything else on that goddamn 50-pound equipment belt.

███ ██████ | 21:32
I'm confused too now - I thought you were trans?

21:33 | Rance Roberts
I'm trans the other way around you fucking dipshit.
Why do you think I moved FROM the female department TO the male
I don't have a dick and 9241 is a liar grasping at straws because she can't deal with the fact that she's an ex-con having a shitty life.

███ ██████ | 21:33
God, fine

21:34 | Rance Roberts
k yeah wow
you can just stop there.
Keep calling yourself my friend if you want but friends don't interrogate friends about fake rape allegations so
have a nice night and fuck off.

RANCE ROBERTS HAS DISCONNECTED 21:34

And he looks at the emails.

˙sןıɐɯǝ ǝɥʇ ʇɐ sʞooן ǝɥ puɐ

And he looks at himself in the mirror.

˙ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ uı ɟןǝsɯıɥ ʇɐ sʞooן ǝɥ puɐ

He has an alright facial shape, he thinks. It's better in the low lighting. Is that stubble? It might be stubble. He can't tell.
The office is hot. He takes his armored security vest off and drops it to the wooden floor with a muffled clack. Underneath it, he's just wearing his typical gray work shirt. Foundation logo on the sleeve. He doesn't like looking at it, for some reason, but he can't place why. He untucks his shirt from his pants and winces. He's too thin. He was always too thin. He takes his binder off with a heavy breath and lets his too-large breasts hang down and breathe. He takes his pants off. He tries to avoid looking between his legs. He turns around. He's still got an alright ass, he thinks, even though the rest of him is abhorrent.
He walks over to the desk and stands by it. He picks up a vial and a syringe and sits down on the musty couch by the window. He's wearing only his socks and boots and boxers. He must look funny. He always looks funny. He doesn't think it'll ever change.

He wipes his arm with a pad of rubbing alcohol and rubber-bands it. He's nervous. He puts the capped syringe and bottle back down on the table. He wants to calm down. He needs to calm down. He reaches for the spray-can of Class-As. He's never taken amnestics before. He doesn't know if it'll smell bad, or how close to his face he has to spray for it to work. The can is just a plain steel one with the typical compressed substance explosion and fire warning on the side. He exhales deeply, shakes it, extends his arm its full length away from his face, closes his eyes, and presses the nozzle. He can feel a thin mist hit his face. He takes as deep a breath in as he can; it's salty, almost. Salty and cold and artificial. It stings on his tongue and in his nostrils and down into his lungs where it burns.
He lies down on the couch, can in hand. How does it work? What is he supposed to forget? When will he forget? Of all the times he'd done this to other people during interrogations and security work, he still had no idea what it would do to him.
His mind wanders to thoughts of Jane. When he was young, only early 20s. When they'd both just been hired and had both just moved on-site. Site-42, where he might be now, but he can't quite recall. When he was happy and energetic and in love; when he took her to cheesy dinner dates in the cafeteria and drank hard cider with her every other night, when their sex was lively and using handcuffs was fun instead of a reminder of restraining people on the cell block, and wearing a strap-on felt like two lesbians enjoying each other instead of a man trying to have a penis he didn't have. When he felt normal. Before he was unhappy. Before he hated his job. Before he got slandered. Before he got fired.
He extends his arm again, sprays, and inhales. This time he tries to focus on how it feels: that subtle sensation of the chemical landing in freezing droplets on the interior surface of his lungs, the slight blurring of his vision, the heaviness of his head, the tingling of his skin.
When he realizes he doesn't know why he's in his office, he stumbles up and prepares the syringe and bottle again. When the needle pierces his vein, he doesn't wince. He just smiles. It's the only pleasure he's felt in weeks.
Anywhere from ten to thirty minutes later, he realizes his pager is buzzing. It's on the floor, in his pants pocket. He tries to stand, but he's met with a fuzzy, absent sensation in his legs. He can move his toes, but he can't get up. He can't swing his legs over the edge of the couch. He's freezing-cold, and his clothes are off. He knows that he's probably the one who took them off, but he doesn't know why they're off. He must have fallen asleep in his office.
12:00 midnight. That's what the wall clock says: 00:00. How long has he been asleep? He tries to lean over and grab his pager out of his pants, but as he bends his arm, he's met with a dull ache, and realizes there's a rubber band around his bicep and a puncture mark on his vein. His pulse thumps in his chest. He takes a deep breath and reaches for his pants, wincing. His vision is blurry, and he feels like he's about to vomit.

Why is he in his office?

¿ǝɔıɟɟo sıɥ uı ǝɥ sı ʎɥʍ

MISSED CALLS (3) FROM ADAM LEEWARD (DOUBLE-TAP TO SEE TIMES)

23:50 | Adam Leeward
Hey buddy. Give me a call when you have a chance.

Rance Roberts | 00:02
I don't think I can. I'm sick or something. My voice hurts. I'm a little scared - there's a needle mark on me and I don't know where it came from. I can't remember the number for security.

00:03 | Adam Leeward
Oh thank God you're there. How far in this chain can you upscroll?

Rance Roberts | 00:03
Just to your missed call notifications. Why?

00:03 | Adam Leeward
Alright, that'll have to do. I'm going to call your site's medical department, okay?

Rance Roberts | 00:04
wai t wjy
why

00:04 | Adam Leeward
You said yourself that you're sick. Trust me on this one.

Rance Roberts | 00:05
okay
i miss you
I miss you so much

00:05 | Adam Leeward
I miss you too. I'll have to visit you soon, if I can get off work.

Rance Roberts | 00:05
You coudl go here for work
could transfer sites

00:06 | Adam Leeward
We'll talk about it later. Just stay where you are until the meds get there, alright? Your office number is still A-432, right?

Rance Roberts | 00:07
i dont remember it
i dont feel well

00:07 | Adam Leeward
Just sit tight for ten or fifteen. Don't go anywhere.

Rance Roberts | 00:07
ok

Twelve minutes later, there's a knock on his door.
"I- I can't get up," he calls out in a rasping voice. "I'm sick-"
The door handle jiggles for several seconds before it gives way and opens. Rance doesn't respond. It's two doctors and a man he doesn't recognize. "I'm disappointed," the man says, much to his confusion. The other two shush him in hushed tones, and he leaves the room with a grumble.
"What- what happened? What's wrong?" Rance asks, eyes wide and looking for the man. "Why did he say-"
"Don't talk. Just keep your head down and your heart rate down. That's what we need to do here, okay?" one of the doctors says. Rance nods and winces as they move him to a stretcher.
The journey down into the medical wing is obscured by the piece of cloth one of the doctors put over his face. He assumes it's to protect his eyes from the brightness, but it just makes him feel scared and confused. When they take it off, it feels like it's been hours, and he winces at the sterile white lighting of the room. To his surprise, there's someone in his room. It's the same man from earlier.
"Hey," Joy says, glowering.
Rance wraps the bed covers around himself instinctively. "W-why are you here? Who are you? Do you know what happened?"
Joy scoffs. "If I told you what happened, it would burst your bubble. And you already forgot me. Impressive. I'm a little offended, I must say."
"W-what is that supposed to mean-"
They're interrupted by someone at the door. "Mr. Rice, please do not converse with him if he doesn't want it right now. We can explain everything later. Health needs to come first."
Rance looks over at the nurse. "Wait, can you- can you explain what's wrong? Why don't I remember anything?"
The nurse sits down in one of the chairs by his bed, clipboard in hand. "You self-amnesticized, and rather dangerously at that. To tell you any further would go against your own wishes, but please note that theft and unlawful ingestion of amnestics is prosecuted as a drug use charge in this organization. Were you aware of that, Mr. Roberts?"
"H- how- where's the proof?"
"The proof is in your symptoms and the presence of the substances at the scene of your retrieval."
He stares blankly, not daring to shoot a glance over at Joy. "I- who the hell told you, then?"
"We received a call from Adam Leeward indicating that you had paged him about being dangerously sick. You didn't object to medical attendance."
"Adam told you? Wait, I- if I did that, then how do you all know?"
"I don't follow-"
Joy interrupts her. "Rance here was unhappy about some things going on in his life."
"I wouldn't have done that. I don't just try to-" He laughs. "…Forget my problems. I'm sure I wouldn't. This had to be foul play."
The nurse bites her lip and writes on the clipboard.
Rance feels anger rising in him as he stares blankly ahead. "Who-" He clenches his fists. "Was it you?" He looks over at Joy. "I don't know you, you know, and you were snapping at me for no reason earlier in the office. Don't think I'm dumb, I see the way you look at me-"
"Oh Christ," Joy says, standing out of his chair. He looks at the nurse and clears his throat. "Uh, I'll be in the hallway. If I'm needed."
She nods and keeps writing. "You'll be briefed on what this means for your position and status in several hours. For now, rest. Sleep if you can. Ring the bell if you need one of the personnel to attend to you." She turns the lights off.
"…So you're just gonna keep me here? What the hell is this about?"

No one answers. He takes out his pager.

˙ɹǝbɐd sıɥ ʇno sǝʞɐʇ ǝɥ ˙sɹǝʍsuɐ ǝuo ou

Rance Roberts | 00:39
help
are you there

00:40 | Adam Leeward
I'm here.

Rance Roberts | 00:40
i'm in the fucking hospital
medical wing whatever you call t
can you tell me- do you know what the fukc happened

00:40 | Adam Leeward
Rance, you don't actually want to know. That's why you amnesticized yourself to begin with. I tried to stop you from doing it, both for legal and health reasons. I'm sorry.

Rance Roberts | 00:40
wait what
I did this to myself?
I can't've
i hate this

Rance Roberts | 00:41
i didnt do this.
theres just no way.

00:41 | Adam Leeward
…You've got me between a rock and a hard place here.
I don't know what you want me to do or say

Rance Roberts | 00:41
god just help me
get me out of here
come fly here or something i know you always offer

00:42 | Adam Leeward
I'll try. I don't think i can get off work for at least another week.
I'm this skip's only qualified containment specialist

Rance Roberts | 00:42
ughhh fuck

00:42 | Adam Leeward
Just try to keep yourself calm.

Rance Roberts | 00:42
theyre asking me to hand them my pager
like right now

00:42 | Adam Leeward
Just do what they say, please.

Rance Roberts | 00:42
im sorry for whatever I did
i care about you so much
goodbye

"I'm just saying I don't understand anything that's going on here. You're costing me my job because of- what, me being sick?"
"Sir, the evidence in your office was quite clear." The doctor sighs lowly and takes a seat. "If you just cooperate, this will be easier."
Rance sits upright in bed. There's something about that phrasing that makes him shudder.
"You're really better-off resting. I'm just here to monitor your readings."
"I don't need 'monitoring'. I'm not a skip."
"You are a patient, and you're in danger until the amnestics fully leave your body. You're on testosterone and antidepressants, correct?"
"…I'm on testosterone?"
The doctor looks at his clipboard concernedly. "You started hormone therapy in this site's medical wing on September 12th, 2016. Do you not recall this?"
He looks down at his body. It looks almost the same, if a little flatter. He hasn't looked at his face yet. "I mean, I- I don't remember."
"What's your name, then?"
"It's… Roberts."
"First name?"
"…Alice?"
"There's your problem," the doctor says under his breath. "Listen to me. Are you comfortable talking about this right now?"
His heart rate increases, and he sees it on the monitor by the bed. He swallows nervously. "I guess."
"You amnesticized yourself with an extremely dangerous and potent experimental amnestic. There is a reason that only D-classes are permitted to use Type Three Class C. It takes a month off your memory, and a month is the safest we can go back with just one bottle of one substance. Does that make sense? If we wanted to take a month off your memory, the safe way would be a four-step two-day process with total medical supervision and sedation. But you did it by sticking a needle in your arm."
He stares blankly.
"Does this make sense to you?"
"So I- I forgot a month."
"Yes."
"There's stuff that happened in a month… and I forgot it all."
"Correct."
"…On purpose."
"You did it to yourself. This is proven in both communication records and situational evidence."
"Well- why?"
The doctor adjusts himself in his chair and sets his clipboard down. "We don't know. But if you did it, you must have had a good reason."
"Something must've happened that I wanted to forget," he mutters. "Do you know what it is?"
"That's the question, Mr. Roberts. The situation proves that you didn't want yourself to know what it was."
He touches his stomach and arms under the covers. He's hairy. He must not have shaved recently. "So during this month- I started hormone therapy?"
"You cited your desire to transition to male, yes."
"And my name- is still Alice?" He winces.
"No, it's Rance. You had your name legally changed to Rance Roberts on September 17th, 2016."
"Fuck. Why would I have wanted to forget that? Why would I have-"
"I'm not insinuating nor attempting to insinuate that your gender transition period is the event you were trying to forget. Clearly it's a positive thing for you. Unfortunately, it was in the time period that you decided to wipe out. We offer counseling for accidental erasure of memories-"
"I don't care about counseling. I just need to think." He puts his head in his hands, desperate to know why he would have done this to himself.
"I can monitor your vitals remotely if you're more comfortable with that. You need to sleep, frankly."
"Sure," Rance mutters, gripping the bedsheets with white knuckles. His stomach is churning. His head is pounding. Every breath feels like an electric shock.
The doctor leaves, closing the door and turning the lights off again. He knows that, when he wakes, people he can't remember will be trying to fire him for theft of amnestics.
Rance falls into a dreamless, angry sleep; as he closes his eyes, he realizes achingly that he wouldn't be opposed to never opening them again.
And more than anything, he wishes he could remember.


Private content

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April 2nd, 2011

ADDRESS HOLDER
85 FREDERICK STREET
ON, CANADA
WE ARE PLEASED TO INFORM YOU THAT YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FROM A TALENTED POOL OF CANDIDATES FOR EMPLOYMENT WITH THE FACTORY.
THIS IS A MANAGEMENT POSITION. TRANSPORTATION AND LIVING EXPENSES ARE FREE WITHOUT CHARGE.
EXPECT TO BE TRANSPORTED TO FURTHER EMPLOYMENT WITHIN THE NEXT CALENDAR MONTH.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW MORE?

>No

Too bad

Don't lie to me. When you make your bed, you lay in it. You're going nowhere soon.


Today is April 5th, 2017.
.
.
.

The hour is 0100.

A man sits alone on his bed.

It is Agent Terrance Shaw's thirty-first birthday, and marks five years of employment with MTF Lambda-12. His life was as much of a joke as his task force was, but in the swirling mix of light and booze and sweat and lust, he finds he does not care. As his body falls apart after weeks of interacting with his lover, he feels a flicker of panic. His heart palpitates and his brow furrows. His hands shake and his hair stands on end. Getting to this point was a mistake. A flaw in containment procedures, nothing more. He could still be saved. The site medical personnel would find a way. They always could. They always could.

Loss of Personnel Report: 04.05.17
Affected: Agent Terrance Shaw, MTF Lambda-12
Most Recently Assigned: SCP-071 (2 years)
Cause of Death: Long-term adverse health effects following accidental exposure to both SCP-071 and SCP-2708, respectively.
Notes: Body used for on-site cadaver training and research, as per the affected's wishes noted in hiring paperwork.

The hour is 0300.

Once again a reach is made into the deep.

Kilometers upon kilometers away from all that is known, a human being is tasked with interfering with that which should not be intruded upon. They do not wish to do this, but choice means nothing when research must be conducted. Their fear builds into anger, and their anger builds into acceptance. As they watch an unknown shadow emerge from the corner of the airtight space, cut off from everything they'd ever known, they realize that there is nothing more invigorating than perceiving the last moment of one's life in one final burst of emotion. They resist, but they soon realize it is nothing more than the last of their mind fading out to let their soul take its place; when they are finished speaking, they find solace in the crisp embrace of pain, and their soul passes.

Loss of Personnel Report: ██/██/20██
Affected: D-82111
Most Recently Assigned: SCP-2222
Cause of Death: Total epidermal eversion, with second-degree burns present on all dermal layers. Euthanized immediately after retrieval.
Notes: Body incinerated.

The hour is 0400.

One more time, for justice and for glory.

The moon is bright over the Arizona desert, but it does not bring the heat and light so desperately and dearly needed to the land on which it radiates. Two offsite response agents of Site-19 are crossing the expanses of sand and red dirt and poison as lights flash blindingly behind them. One looks to the other with fear in his eyes. 85. 83. 81. 79. They won't make it. Their radar detector screeches out a deafening whine before humming and shutting off completely. When their car stops, they stumble out and are shot to the ground. It was merciful this time, comparatively; two clean shots through the chest of each, and the still-twitching bodies dissolved on the roadside in acidic leakage from the hands and fluids of the protector itself. When daybreak comes, the sun rises onto swirling dust and bubbling blood.

Loss of Personnel Report: 04.05.17
Affected: Agents ████ and ███████ of Site-19 Offsite Response Vehicle K4
Most Recently Assigned: SCP-████/Site-19 (2 years)
Cause of Death: Speeding in the vicinity of SCP-973's area of effect during unprotected hours. Two gunshot wounds to the chest each, as well as unknown biological failures inflicted by SCP-973-2.
Notes: N/A

The hour is 0700.

Life is full of the unexpected.

"So, do you hate it as much as you think?"
"No." Mr. Roland Smithson doesn't have a title other than the standard prefix. He has no doctorate or Foundation-issued field agent certification or any of that. He has a placard on his desk with his name and his position: Roland Smithson, Coroners' Records Management.
"Just let me know if you need a coffee or anything in here."
"I'll be fine. There are fewer records than one may think."
In Mr. Smithson's seventy years of life, he began to notice as he aged that death is often too common in society to be looked upon as anything more than a short grievance and a large inconvenience. In his forty years of employment with the Foundation, he in turn realized that the rampancy of death in the outside world is challenged only by its gravity in the Foundation's world.
"Mr. Smithson?"
"Yes?"
"Site-81's records just loaded. Did it go to your inbox?"
"I didn't see it. Ask them to send it again."
The secretary nods and walks out. Mr. Smithson opens his file folders for the day. There are only ten new submissions thus far. Field agents, as usual. One D-class. It must be a fluke; he had told management long ago to stop sending him those, on account of the fact that doing so would quadruple his daily workload with nonsensical and unimportant information. No, his job is for the deaths that matter. Not them. And there were fewer than one would think.

The hour is 1000.

And what a shining world this is.

The planet below its surface is a treacherous place. Agent ███ has to watch where her feet fall. She is looking at her watch every several seconds. Its LED backlighting brings her back to her senses when her feet fail her. Her headlamp is dying; her radio is dead. With every glance at the time, the minutes fall backward. 10:15. She could be out in the sunlight if things were different. 10:13. Had she crossed this path before? 10:12. The air is wet and heavy. She is losing oxygen. She has lost her equipment. 10:10. She can't breathe. Her own voice guides her deeper into the depths. 10:09. She is happy here. 10:08. 10:07. 10:06. There is no greater pain than that of the suffocating warmth. There is no greater embrace than that of the fire.

Loss of Personnel Report: 04.05.17
Affected: Agent ███ of Site-81 Light Reconnaissance Team C3
Most Recently Assigned: SCP-2951/Site-81 (1 year)
Cause of Death: Unknown psychological influence leading to multiple coronary failures. Possible suffocation.
Notes: Body not recovered from location of death.

The hour is 1200.

Cold walls await a warmer heart.

"Nope, still no coffee. Remind me in thirty minutes and we'll get lunch."
"Sure thing, Mr. Smithson."
In the Foundation, death is and always will be just a number, and a grievance only in logistics. Deaths signify the loss of resources, and there is no greater resource than a thinking, feeling human being dedicated to a cause. A death is a problem. It's a loss of necessary benefits. Mr. Smithson isn't spending the last living days of his existence as a records manager; he's a loss prevention officer, clearly. If only he could do something about the 'preventing' aspects, he thinks, and stands up from his desk.
"Yes, I think I am ready for lunch," he says after several heartfelt moments of staring into blank space. He clears his throat and picks up his cane from its resting place by the door. As he walks out, he hears the notification sound for three new records received. They ring in his ears. His stomach aches. He'll get to them later.

The hour is 1400.

In the melding of flesh, solace is found.

███ and ██████ are out on a field excursion together. Their names do not matter. They never do. They only need to go 300 meters in this time. It's only a routine patrol, done every year. This will be no different. Thirty minutes, tops. The walls are grimy and absorb sound. Speaking yields nothing but soft silence in return. When the two agents notice movement, they find themselves genuinely surprised; ███ widens her eyes and ██████ readies his gun. Each shot hammers into their eardrums before the sticky walls suck in all the waves of sound until there are none left. When the creatures shriek and scamper, the walls take that in, too. ███'s hand meets flesh as she stops one of the beings from rushing her, but it claws at her chest and face and in a split second her vision is of blood and tears and meat. As she lays herself down on the wet floor, chest and gut wide open, a tendril slaps her face and wriggles its way down her throat. Her last thought is of another mind overlapping and replacing hers as her pulse fades. When ██████ screams in disgust, the walls decline to absorb the unholy sound, and instead send it screeching down endless tunnels, toward the end.

Loss of Personnel Report: 04.05.17
Affected: Field Operatives ███ and ██████
Most Recently Assigned: SCP-610/Site-A (<1 year)
Cause of Death: Routine maintenance of Site-A Tunnels led to an unforeseen attack by infected persons. Presumed blunt force trauma and excessive blood loss from lacerations.
Notes: Bodies not recovered from location of death.

The hour is 1700.

They didn't need to know.

In a sunlit room in an inexplicably cold office building, a man is filing paperwork. He reads words most minds cannot comprehend. Each word penetrates his psyche with more and more force as he processes each paragraph, until he is shaken. He looks at his clock. He watches the hands move with nervous breaths. Thirty seconds. He dreads the clock striking the next minute. It's a building fear that latches onto every fiber of his lungs and heartstrings until his eyes glaze over and he finds that he is barely conscious. When the seconds hand passes twelve, he is collapsed on his desk, surrounded by blackboxes and redactions and test results he wishes he could forget. It is another two hours before the medical personnel arrive. When they do, his body is as cold as his heart was and as blue as the halls outside always will be. He is not missed, but he is not forgotten.

Loss of Personnel Report: 04.05.17
Affected: Dr. Gene West, Level 4 Researcher
Most Recently Assigned: SCP-231/Site-██ (7 years)
Cause of Death: Stroke
Notes: Body sent to family members Max West and their two children as per request filed by Gene West upon hiring date.

The hour is 2100.

The lights are low. The monitor is too bright. This room is tired and worn.

"Do you know why I do it?"
"…You're good at it, sir?"
Mr. Smithson scoffs and smirks, but smiling hurts his tender skin. "I'm not looking for compliments." He stands up out of his chair and walks over to the window. "I do it because it's simple. I could be out there dying like all those agents and researchers and test subjects, but instead I'm in here. Where it's safe."
His secretary shifts her feet. "I'm not sure what you want me to say, sir-"
"You don't have to say anything. I'm just talking. Do you think you'll want my job after I'm gone?"
"I really couldn't say, I'm afraid. Site management told me this is a temporary position-"
"All positions are temporary. Life is temporary."
"Well, you'd know better than I on that topic, sir." She laughs slightly, but rescinds it with a downward glance.
"What's your clearance level? Zero?"
"It's one."
"Right, so you… have access to what they call 'sensitive information', but you can't do anything about it."
"Sensitive information like death records, I assume."
"Depends. There are a lot of options for secretaries here. Tell me, what do you envision when you think of the word 'secretary'?" He coughs into his hand and feels phlegm come up. He gulps and swallows, looking out the window over the Site's barren yard and heat-distorted perimeter fence. A team of onsite response personnel are driving around beside it, waving at each other. He wonders what their names are, and how long it'll be before he's writing their death reports for some accident or other.
"I guess I think of… sitting at a desk?" She laughs nervously again and shrugs. "I don't know. To be truthful, I don't quite remember how I got here, other than receiving some mysterious letter in college-"
"Right, so at a desk?" Smithson turns from the window and sits at his. A new report just came in from Site-42. This one is a genuine accident, which he hasn't seen in far too long. He reads it while he talks, pulling his thoughts from its subject matter. "What if, on the computer monitor of that desk, you were watching a video log of a violent interrogation? Interrogations are necessary things, you know, no matter how unpleasant. Sometimes, they're our last defense against lies constructed to hurt people — you, me, the people on the street miles down the road — so tell me, would you transcribe the audio? Would you be willing, or would it be uncomfortable?"
Her gaze shifts downward again. "I'm not sure why you're asking. That doesn't sound like my departm-"
"Oh, but it is. The agents doing it don't want to sit down afterward with a Word doc open and type out all the nasty shit they were saying. That's emotionally taxing. But you can; you're a secretary. Your job is the grunt work of low-clearance information."
"Sir, I'm sorry if I'm being rude, but I don't want to talk about this and I have no idea why you're dumping it on me." Her knuckles are white against the door frame.
Smithson sighs and glances back at the email in front of him. He doesn't want to type this one up. "Sorry." He's quiet. "You can go now. My old ass ought to leave that sort of thing to your hiring supervisors. I'm out of line." His attempt at humor is as lost on him as it is on her.
She licks her lips concernedly and scurries out of the office. He puts his head in his hands and starts reading the Site-42 Intelligence Department's email.

The hour is 2300.

Whatever is necessary, by all means possible.

Officer Roberts is pacing a white-walled room. His phone is buzzing. He's not allowed to look at it, so he lets it vibrate in his pocket until his leg is numb. It rings for too long. It must be an internal call. He wants to go home and go to sleep, but there's a drugged and uncooperative Chaos Insurgency operative groaning and twisting in his restraints on the table, and Roberts knows that neither of them is sleeping until that man talks.
I don't really like pain, he had told him when he began the first round of intravenous morphine and amnestics administration, now two days ago. It's not effective. A reaction to pain causes the body and mind to build up its barriers, when what we're trying to do is get them down. So, how long will it take to get yours down? How long would you like it to take? I have all week. On the wall by the examination table is a printed placard in black text: RECITATION OF AC-3423 MISSION PLANS IS NECESSARY FOR RELEASE. It is the only text in the room, the only thing for the subject to look at. Roberts doesn't think it's working, but he wishes it would. Roberts isn't even sure what sort of event or events the placard is referring to in the first place, he realizes.
"I'm coming back in an hour. We hope you'll be ready to talk by then." He walks out and slams the door with a sigh, waving to the security guard with a vacant expression. As he walks toward the stairway, he checks his phone. It's his coworker. Tried calling you. You need to give up on whatever bullshit they have you on down in Intelligence. The Ethics Committee doesn't let you get shit done like they used to. There's no point anymore, you'll never get anything out of people with Valium and orgasms or whatever the fuck they mean by "ethical coercion" these days. Come down to the block before you clock out, I need your help with something. Roberts rolls his eyes and adjusts his glasses before starting down the stairs. He's still looking at his phone, and he misses the first step. Then he misses the next one, and the one after that. Panic doesn't register in his mind until his head collides with the railing. As his keys clatter to the ground and searing agony erupts in his skull and his limbs, he chooses not to open his eyes.

Loss of Personnel Report: 04.05.17
Affected: Rance Roberts, Intelligence Collections Officer and D-Class Cell Block Guard
Most Recently Assigned: N/A
Cause of Death: Spinal fracture and subsequent brain stem hemorrhaging, caused by blunt force trauma to the head, lower back, chest, and pelvic regions sustained during a fall down several metal stairs.
Notes: I have recommended in the past and I will continue to recommend in the future that interrogations be transcribed by someone other than those personnel conducting them. Statistics have shown that not doing so is putting too much on the shoulders of the personnel directly conducting investigations, which leads to psychological stress and — yes — accidents.
-Roland Smithson, Coroners' Records Management

The hour is 0000.

And all will cycle over in the end.

"Sir? You've been up since-"
"I know, I know. I just finished today's batch. The last one took forever."
"I saw." The woman hesitates. "Well, I'm going to go ahead and clock out for the night. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Come in as late as you need tomorrow."
"Oh, uh, sure. T-thank you."
"Yeah."
Only when her heels no longer clack on the wood floor and the door is closed does Smithson exhale the breath he'd been holding. For several minutes, he stares into his computer screen, eyes blurring from age or stress or both as he absentmindedly straightens his stacks of paperwork.
When he finishes, he stands, coughs a few times, and walks out of his office, making sure to leave his jacket hanging by the door for the following morning.