 Dr. Church sat back, grinding a fist into a single bloodshot eye. He was finally done for tonight. He drew in a heavy breath, holding it captive for a long, aching moment before letting it hiss from his lips. And the stale, hot air ruffled the papers on his desk, and he frowned. Carefully he rearranged the product of sixteen hours of work. The thick sheaf still warm from where his hands had been pressed into it. He was finally caught up with work, a rare enough occurrence by itself for Foundation employees. His weary mind mulled over the possible expenditures of his newly found free time, briefly entertaining the idea of going to the cafeteria for his first meal in eighteen hours. He discarded the thought, however, deciding instead on sleep. Even the thought of it made him smile. He'd settled into his chair, thinking back to the last time he had a good night's rest. Let's see, it's four o'clock in the morning on a Saturday, and he hadn't slept yesterday, so Thursday night he'd been in quarantine when that fungus SCP had broken loose, and Wednesday he'd been sleeping on the couch after an argument with the Misses, hadn't slept at all on Tuesday, and Monday he'd stayed late to try and finish the D-Class Allocation Report. Sunday he'd been in the burn ward after another SCP had breached containment. Huh. I come to think of it, he couldn't remember the last time he had a good night's sleep. Whatever. It's all going to change tonight, he thought triumphantly. He smiled. He remained sitting, letting the quiet of his small office wash over him before he packed up and went home. It was peaceful, an area that was his. To him it was more home than home, a safe place where he could work in peace. He ran a fingertip over a stapler, pulling the device's smooth black outline before going up and tracing the rim of his desk lamp. Both were gifts, given to him by the Foundation when he got his office. Next was his pencil cup, a pale mug labeled number one researcher, also a gift from when he figured out how to make D-Class transportation systems 2% more efficient. His inbox, mercifully empty, followed closely behind by his outbox, obscenely filled with neatly stacked and filed papers. Almost unconsciously, his finger found the handle to his top drawer, and he tugged it open. It was filled with various odds and ends, office supplies, and the occasional rubber band ball. They rattled softly as the drawer slid open, but Church's eyes were drawn to the nine millimeters sitting on the stack of old printer paper. A standard Issue Foundation Beretta M915RD, another gift, distributed among all researchers at Site-19. It was a fairly common firearm as far as handguns went, and he remembered the day they'd signed him on and gave him his office, and there really hadn't been a whole lot of ceremony to it. They just shoved him in, handed him a stapler, gun and name tag, and told him to get to work. I'm not sure what to do with it, he just stuck it in a drawer and tried to forget about it. It was always there, particularly in the back of his mind, an instrument whose sole purpose was to end life. It's not a tool of construction, or contribution, nor production. It was a tool of destruction, and there it was, sitting in his desk drawer. So he picked it up. And the smooth machine-wrought curves passed under his fingertips as he examined the thing, the matte finish soaking up light like a hungry maw. There was no part to this weapon that did not have a purpose, he realized. Every sliver of metal, every groove, every nick, every curve fit together, sliding over one another, resisting where resistance was needed and giving where a give was needed. It was fascinating. Dr. Church hefted the lump of metal, appreciating the weight, the coolness, of the steel in his palm, with a flick of his thumb he let the magazine slide free, catching it and placing it on his desk. His attention followed along the carefully planned chain of reactions as the trigger was to press the levers and pins spun, pulling the hammer back. The spring would resist, of course, as was its purpose, but it would give way, allowing the hammer to pull back farther and farther before snap. He manually operated the rest of the sequence, pulling the slide back as the gases expanded the cartridge flying out of the chamber in slow motion in his mind's eye. He let the slide slip forward, knowing it would scoop another round in the chamber as he did so. He sat there for a moment longer, running through the process in his mind's eye, and then he pressed the barrel against his temple. His pulse jumped immediately, and then settled his logic kicked in. It was empty. The magazine was on his desk, he'd just checked the chamber. What he was doing was perfectly safe. Still, a tiny kick of adrenaline at the simple move caught his attention. His breathing was elevated, and a slight tremble had entered his hands that he couldn't wholly attribute to sleep deprivation. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine what it would be like holding a gun to his head, the trigger depressing. The spring creaking as it gave way, the hammer pulling back. He frowned. It wasn't quite right, it didn't feel real. He glanced at the door, and he wet his lips. And then he slid the magazine in. It was still safe, he reasoned. He had the safety on, and even if he did and the chamber was empty, he was just getting a feel for it. The weight of the bullets definitely made it more realistic, made it easier to imagine. He closed his eyes, he replayed the scenario once more, the trigger going down, the hammer coming back, the bullet leaving, the slide rocketing, the casing flying out, yes. He could imagine it perfectly. Almost perfectly. They almost nagged at him, almost perfectly, because there was no bullet in the chamber. And that degree of realism was still removed, he held his breath and listened to his pulse pound through him. He felt on edge, he felt on fire, but he felt alive. If this was as excited as he got without actually being in danger, what would it be like if he pulled the slide back? Still safe, still secure, still... God, everything was in such crystal clear definition, he could see every grain, every nick, every stain on his shitty little office door, every greasy fingerprint on his desk, every fleck of dust that waffed it through the air. His breath came out and ragged gasps, his fingertip trembling on the trigger. And he mentally berated himself, disgusted at his own excitement. And he still had that safety net, that little pin of metal holding the bullet in check. He still had his fingers in the final line he was not going to cross. And yet he was acting like he just ran a marathon. He gulped, wetly, letting the thoughts spin through his mind. He felt oddly detached, almost dizzy even, from the gallons of adrenaline his body was dumping into his veins so high, such excitement, the safety wasn't even turned off. So he flipped the safety. And everything was quiet. God damn it was never this quiet. He could hear fucking everything. The air whistling down his throat, the soft clatter as the gun shook in his hand. The soft creak in his finger as it tightened, he focused on that. His eyes staring straight ahead, unseemly. He focused on his finger, tightening around the trigger. He knew exactly how far it had to go before the hammer tripped. He squeezed half that distance. His heart was beating a thousand times per second, pouring the barely oxygenated blood into his system. He pulled half the remaining distance. It was hot, just so hot, somewhere in the back of his mind. He knew it was because of the blood pounding just below his skin, pouring his body heat into the room. And that part of him was quickly smothered by the roaring in his ears. He depressed half the remaining distance, just an eighth. Just an eighth of a pull left, such a tiny amount. He pulled half, then half again. A thirty second, pitiful, tiny amount, insignificant, barely larger than a hair. His eyes dilated, black pinpricks as the world narrowed. It was just him, just him, that gun, and a thirty second, no, a sixty fourth of a pull. He could feel it. He could feel the hammer straining, begging the spring to release it, begging to ignite the gunpowder. He pulled back, just the tiniest amount, nearing the point of no return as his finger tightened, the tendons and nerves and muscles pulling the trigger, that last, indivisible amount. And the door opened. Doctor, I know it's late, but I was looking over the 892 report and I thought that maybe assistant researcher Wilts paused at the door, holding a stack of paper and staring at the doctor stupidly. Dr. Church hastily put the gun away, dropping it into the drawer and pushing it shut in, one smooth motion. A moment of awkward silence filled the tiny space as they stared at one another, neither moving a muscle. Doctor, what were? An experiment, he cut Wilts off. Just an experiment. His eyes flicked to the thick sheet of paper and he held out a hand. If I may. Wilts clumsily handed him the report, fumbling with the papers as he stammered out. I noticed a few consistent cells in the D block and I thought that if there were a pattern we could be trailed off, gesturing helplessly at his report. Dr. Church flipped through the papers, nodding thoughtfully. Interesting. That could work, but only if the cells didn't change over that period. Could it copy the last 20 iterations? I don't think they were perfectly consistent, but it should give us a control group. He returned to the report, mumbling quietly to himself. Another moment of awkward silence passes. He glances up, noticing Wilts is still there. That'll be all. Doctor, when I walked in, what were? That'll be all, Dr. Wilts. They stared at one another a moment longer. Wilts fidgeted, then nodded respectfully, and slowly turned to exit the office, casting back a final lingering glance. Dr. Church ignored the look and picked up his pen. With a certain tired, methodical pace, he started scribbling notations in the corner, reading through the report carefully. He stifled a yawn and turned to the page. He'd been really hoping he could get some sleep tonight.