 September 21st, 2011. Lament awoke with a start at the shifting at the door. He'd been thinking, dreaming again. It wasn't good, but it was what it was. He raised the gun at the door, glancing at the spent cartridges so he'd know exactly how many he had in there in case he needed one for himself or a friend. The matte black uniform of one of the site security forces made him relax again for a moment. Is anyone alive in there? Lament debated answering, but chances were that they'd torched the room to be safe. 940 outbreaks were best answered with fire. Site 37 had been entirely immolated and rebuilt, but the infrastructure of 19 would mean that a room-by-room clearing would be necessary. Yo! he called. And ten minutes later, he was clear, better armed, and fed for the first time in two days. He was escorted from that wing of the site without incident, and as he sat in the infirmary, leaning against the wall while the genuine injuries were treated, he found himself wanting to stand up and walk off again. But he didn't. He curled up against the wall, closed his eyes, and slept. Lament was woken by a hard shake to his shoulder, his hand immediately flying to his hip, reaching for his gun to shoot and kill immediately, until he looked up and recognized the face. He let out a slow breath, slumping down against the wall. Fuck, Dodridge! Get up, man! We're due for debriefing! To hell with that! Lament pushed himself up slowly and leaned against the wall. This is why I hate active duty, he complained, scratching his arm and nodding to Dodridge that he was ready, following him down the hall to the mess for coffee and another meal. The two of them ate quickly, barely talking. You still talking to the urge-rich girl at 23? Lament asked. Yeah, Dodridge said flatly. Lament chewed his sandwich. She hot? Yeah, she hot. You thinking you're transferring back to security for a while? Dodridge shrugged. Lament nodded and they finished the meal in silence. The debriefing took maybe 40 minutes. It was a regular discussion. When were you two alerted? How long did it take you to get to the site? Why did you split? Were you able to reach the site nuclear device agent? Were you able to successfully reseal the lock on the 682 wing agent? Were you agent? Did you agent? Why didn't you agent? Agent, agent, agent, blah, blah, blah. It wasn't until the end of the meeting that Lament realized that Joe Rich was one of the men on the panel. He waved at him. Joe Rich made eye contact for a moment, looked away, then left. It made him remember Sandy again, remembered the times the two of them had sat together, laughing and bouncing ideas off of each other. Remember the look on 106's face as his friend was pulled into the blackness of the pipes. Remember how he always counted his bullets now. Dodridge broke the silence. You wanna get a beer, Lament? Nah, man, I'm good. Suit yourself, I'm gettin' shit-faced, Dodridge said. Lament laughed. Tell Alice I said hello when you talked to her. Yeah, whatever, asshole. Lament smirked. Dodridge flipped him off and he was gone. He stood in the hall for a minute, wondering if Sophie was still stationed here. They'd lost track of each other after he'd gone active, but that was just how the job was. It was why he knew Dodridge would go to site 23 full-time. And he'd end up. He didn't know what. He sighed and turned down the hall, walking down it aimlessly, but unsurprised when he found himself again outside the office he'd hidden for two days. He pushed into it. The cleaning crew had already been through, putting things back where they belonged. Gears' desk was back in position, as well as his old one. It felt eerily the same. Too close, too similar. It felt like four years ago. Agent. He turned, looking over his shoulder as his hand dropped nervously to his sidearm, resting on it for a moment as the familiarity of the voice sank in. Dr. Gears? He looked the same. Bald-pate, smooth expressionless face, clear, cold eyes. I understand you took refuge here during the outbreak. Yes, sir, LeMent said. Gears nodded to him, then walked past him to his desk, sitting down at it and opening a file. If you have time, there's a mild level-two threat I would like to consult with you on. Am I cleared for that, sir? LeMent asked. When Gears looked up at him, he imagined a smile. It was a habit he'd picked up, implying the emotions that were never there. I can secure a clearance if you wish, Agent. LeMent nodded. Of course, doctor. Very well. I can meet with you after lunch today. LeMent nodded, feeling the kind of familiarity that left a pit in your gut. He looked at the man, wondering if his new assistant had died in the attack, killed themselves like iceberg had, run like him. Of course, doctor. Maybe I can talk my supervisors at Site-14 and see about a temporary reassignment, if you're in need of assistance. Gears didn't respond, but then, LeMent hadn't expected him to. He turned, pushing through the door and into the hall, looking both ways and then walking toward the arboretum. Maybe Sophie was still stationed here. Gears watched the agent leave, wishing he could have done something, anything at that moment. He was actually glad to have him back, thrilled even, but it never touched his face. He never smiled, never congratulated him. Nothing. He unlocked and opened his bottom left drawer, the one that was nearly empty except for a few classified memos. It was his destroy file, a place where he kept things that were sensitive and needed to be completely expunged. There was only one file there that had lasted longer than a week. He quietly reached into the drawer, pulling out a plastic bag. There was a piece of paper inside it, a splatter of blood across the faded letterhead. He looked down at it and read it again, as he had a hundred times before. It happened. It finally happened. I was watching Agent Shelley walk down the hall, doing that one hip thing. I just watched, then posted my work to records. I didn't rule or make a pass or anything. I felt it. I felt it inside the vague desire, but there was no reason to act on it. I'm not even upset about it, really, just nothing. They trust me with too much, mainly because nobody else will take it, or maybe that's been a part of it too. I looked into the files. I dug back and sent requests for the old hard copies. I know what happened and what they want. He's trapped inside. He can feel, but not react to it. What could be a worse hell? And what could be better for them? They know what they're doing. The personality type, the ones who are susceptible? He was an accident. I'm not letting it happen to me on purpose. I know you'll be the one to find this. Tell them I'm sorry, please. And if you've still got a soul in there, warn the next guy, iceberg. Gears stared at the note for a long moment. And for an instant, he was almost certain he felt the sensation of a tear rolling down his cheek. But when he raised his hand to it, it was dry, bone dry. He dropped the note back into the bottom drawer and stood. He looked over at the desk that had sat empty for the past four years. And he felt regret, but it didn't show.