April Showers Bring Gay Flowers

Link to article: April Showers Bring Gay Flowers.
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**April Showers Bring Gay Flowers**
**Author:** [[*user t0wnhouse]]
Content warning: contains minor gore and sexual references, but no explicit sexual content or extreme violence.
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//April showers bring May flowers.// 

@@ @@
[[=]]
++ **April 9, 2003**
++ **4:06 AM CST**
+++ **Site-144 Research & Containment Sector, Chicago, Illinois**
[[/=]]
 @@ @@

I stand in front of a closed bulkhead marked CONTAINMENT BREACH LOCKDOWN, big red block letters, holding my kit in my one hand and my ID badge in the other. The man standing next to the bulkhead is dressed in full tactical gear, and he wears it quite well. Most guys his size look good in black. Not that I'll be able to act on that thought after this. I nod to him, and he nods back, pulling the manual release lever to permit my entry. Like me, he's wearing earplugs to block out the sound of... something. I can't quite remember what, but the fresh pinprick on my left bicep tells me that all I need to know is on my list, and that anything further than that is shark territory.

Inside the bulkhead is a serious-looking containment foyer, big black steel doors and everything. The door to the control room stairwell is ajar, which is always a bad sign. I pull open the door and notice two eggheads on the stairs, barely breathing but still alive. Whatever cognitohazard's flying around in here must have barely missed killing them. Lucky bastards for not having to deal with the consequences of their own mess. I open my kit and take out two pre-filled needles, pumping both of them with 75 milligrams of Class B before marking their IDs off on my list. Researcher Norman, check. Junior Researcher Maxwell, check. Just the senior now. Must be up on the main control floor. 

I move up the stairs, drawing my .45 from its shoulder holster as I do. Two researchers run from a containment breach, one doesn't. Stands to reason he's either dead or something's up with him. Either way, whatever's in there is probably not friendly. The door to the control room proper is closed, but unlocks quickly to my ID. I double-check my magazine before engaging the door mechanism. Good thing I made sure I had ammo, because as soon as I turn the corner an old coot jumps at me like a hyena on steroids, almost knocking me over. I say almost because as he moves I pump two rubber bullets into his chest and he stops in the middle of his leap, his momentum carrying his prone body to my feet.

I sit down next to him, quickly delivering a blow to the top of his head to finish the job. He'll have a horrible headache when he wakes up, but what the hell, so will the other two downstairs. I plop my kit down on the floor and take his ID, checking the last name off my list. Senior Researcher Myers, you are one spry son of a bitch for a 65-year-old. Maybe it's just the coghaz making him move like that. I grab one more needle of Class B, rolling up his sleeve. I'm about to administer the drug when he opens his eyes and grabs my ear, pulling my earplug out and

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[[=]]
++ **4:31 AM CST**
[[/=]]

I'm lying on the other side of the control room, the contents of my kit spilled all over the floor across from me, next to the bloody, beaten body of Dr. Joseph Myers, APhD. Well, there goes a hundred thousand dollars in expensive medical chemicals. I push myself to my feet and grimace, feeling a sharp pain in my right arm. I look down and pull out an autoinjector marked with a purple H. Huh. In my other hand is an inhaler from my quick action pack, emblazoned with the letter B in bright yellow. Double huh. I reach up to feel for my earplugs, but they're missing. Hmm. That's not right. Oh, there's a stab wound in my stomach. When'd that get there?

I signal Security for backup before passing out from blood loss.

-----

[[=]]
++ **April 13, 2003**
++ **8:06 PM CST**
+++ **Site-144 Habitation Sector, Chicago, Illinois**
[[/=]]

The after-action report the Administration lady handed me has two green check marks on it and one big red X. Not exactly my best day, but it could be worse. I //know// I've had worse, or at least my records know I've had worse.

I stare at myself in my bathroom mirror, still trying to shake off the dissociation that comes with Class C treatment. //April showers bring May flowers.// I die in the dark so others can live in the light. I do this work so that there's still a future to look forward to. I hold onto that hot coal of a thought pretty often. It's good, keeps my mind on task and keeps me going when it's hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I'm doing the right thing. Here's hoping I live to see May. Ever since I got promoted to amnestics officer my whole damn life's been April.

-----

[[=]]
++ **April 15, 2003**
++ **5:06 AM CST**
+++ **25 miles north of Cairo, Illinois**
[[/=]]

I look across the middle of the armored truck at my coworker from 144. I haven't bothered to learn his name, and he hasn't bothered to learn mine. You never know when you'll end up forgetting everything about someone, so it's easier to just not get attached at all. Helps maintain professionalism too. I don't think the task forcers next to me feel the same way about it, though. They look uncomfortable just being in the same car as two amnestics officers. Nobody wants to sit next to the mind-wiping boogeymen. I don't blame them. I wouldn't want to sit next to me either.

To distract myself from the awkward silence, I do a quick equipment check. The quartermaster let me and what's-his-name over there have tac vests for our trouble since we're deploying to recently hostile territory. No rifles though. Those are for //real// agents, not us. I've got spare mags for my sidearm in the magazine pockets, and a few pens of fast-action Class B and Class A on my utility belt. I decide against opening my kit in the van, though. The kid next to me looks like he's gonna have a heart palpitation if I so much as touch my belt again. Poor MTF rookie, forced to sit next to the scary amnestics officer just because he's at the bottom of the pecking order. I'd tell him I don't bite, but I think that'd just freak him out more.

My headset squawks that we've hit the target location. My coworker and I file out of the truck with the rest of the cleanup crew, heading for the farmhouse down the road. It's pouring rain.

-----

[[=]]
++ **April 11, 2005**
++ **11:47 AM CST**
+++ **Interview Room 16B, Site-144 Security Sector, Chicago, Illinois**
[[/=]]

I cap my ballpoint and tuck it into my kit, along with the filled-out incident report form and recording device. The scientist across from me has just told me everything he remembers about the most recent containment breach, which is thankfully not much. I give him three options: inhaler, needle, or pill. He takes the needle. Smart choice. Means you don't have to wait long for it to start working. I feel uncomfortable watching his eyes glaze over as the dose of Class A takes effect, so I leave the room.

Giving the security guard outside a once-over, I notice he's pretty handsome. Some of the guys in Security at 144 are... quite nice-looking. His face feels a little familiar, so he probably remembers me from somewhere even if I don't. On a whim, I ask him if he'd care to get lunch in the cafeteria with me. He stares at me like I'm some kind of exotic species of bird, before remembering his manners and smiling apologetically. Sorry, he's got a patrol right after this little job. Of course. No problem. See you around, man. Stay safe.

Why do I even bother asking? It's not like anyone would actually want to go out with an amnestics officer. We're all a bunch of cold-hearted authoritarians. The men in black's men in black. Besides, according to rumor, we take drunk researchers and agents to bed and give them a jab after all the dirty stuff is done so they can't even remember it later. Of course, the Site pharmacist and the whole of Medical know better, but it doesn't stop people in Security or Research or even Maintenance from avoiding me and my coworkers like the plague.

I force my way out of a depressive spiral, and remind myself: //April showers bring May flowers.// Maybe he just isn't the right one for me. Maybe he's not interested in guys. I'll find someone eventually. It'll be better somewhere down the line. Just gotta make it to May.

Despite myself, as I walk out of Security, I can't seem to make myself forget his face.

-----

[[=]]
++ **April 18, 2005**
++ **12:03 PM CST**
+++ **Site-144 Habitation Sector, Chicago, Illinois**
[[/=]]

I sit down in my usual corner of Habitation and begin to dig into the mashed potatoes piled onto my cardboard plate, before a shadow obscures the ever-present fluorescent lighting above me. Great, it's some asshole here to harass me. My lips are already half-curled into a sneer before I look up and into the face of that security guard from last week. He apologizes for turning me down. Apparently he'd been looking for me most of the week, but didn't know where I liked to eat. There's a reason nobody knows that I eat next to the ventilation hub for the southern dorm block. Nobody cares enough to find out.

Or rather, nobody //cared// enough to find out, until him. Huh. He asks if he could sit down with me. Sure, go ahead. I'm surprised you felt enough pity to seek me out after that.

Maybe it's not just pity. He seems interested. He tells me his name is Gavin. That's a nice name. I knew a Gavin once, I think. Don't remember from where or when, though. This Gavin is quite handsome for a guy that spends his day working in one of the most dangerous fields on the planet. No scars, no burn marks. We talk about hobbies for a while. He likes swimming and weight-lifting. I like rock climbing and puzzles. We both like reading. In fact, we both like reading the same authors. Who knew there was another guy at Site-144 who liked twentieth-century dystopian fiction? I make a sarcastic joke. He laughs. Then, it's time to go back to work. He gives me his SCiPmail address and his phone number. Tells me to call anytime I need someone.

As I bid him goodbye, I feel warm inside, but that's probably just the potatoes.

-----

[[=]]
++ **April 24, 2005**
++ **6:00 PM CST**
+++ **Procedure Room 7, Site-144 Medical Sector, Chicago, Illinois**
[[/=]]

The man in front of me is sedated in his restraints, sleeping like a baby. He snores so loudly that it's hard to even imagine him trying to blow up a containment cell with his mind. We've got orders from above to "repurpose" him as a Special Asset, but he's not being cooperative. That's okay, we can still play ball. 

I make sure the straps holding him down are secure - too many orderlies forget to tighten them adequately - and open the Identity Reassignment Kit. That's Foundationese for mindwipe tech. Comes with a big syringe full of cloudy fluid and a headset that looks kind of like a Viewmaster with one big wide hole where the eye-holes would normally be. I stick the provided identity meme card into the top and fit it around his head before swabbing his right arm for the injection. Wakey wakey, eggs and Class F amnestics. 

Two minutes after I've pulled the needle from his arm, he jolts in his restraints. His eyes open and he yelps as he gets hit straight in the prefrontal cortex with a barrage of memories and personality traits manufactured by the fractal image plastered across his eyes. Then, he goes back to sleep. Huh, he doesn't snore anymore.

I wheel his unconscious body into the neighboring room on a gurney, then plop him into a chair and drag the gurney outside. He drifts back into consciousness just as I take a seat across from him. Hello, Agent Murray. You must have had a really rough time with that last op, you fell asleep during the debrief. Yes, it's fine. No, it's not going on the transcript. Don't worry about it. Just a few more questions and then you'll proceed down the hall for Class C treatment, standard stuff. I've got all the paperwork right here. 

The discomfort of questioning whether my memories are real or not gets quashed later during lunch break when Gavin brings me a cold beer and a burger from the cafeteria. No need to worry about what's happened in the past when I've got a pretty good-looking present right in front of me.

-----

[[=]]
++ **April 1, 2006**
++ **6:00 AM CST**
+++ **Site-144 Habitation Sector, Chicago, Illinois**
[[/=]]

[[div class="text-container-wrap"]]
+++ Gavin
[[div class="text-container"]]
[[div class="sent"]]
[[span class="text"]]good morning[[/span]]
[[/div]]
[[div class="sent"]]
[[span class="text"]]hello?[[/span]]
[[/div]]
[[div class="recv"]]
[[span class="text"]]Who is this?[[/span]]
[[/div]]
[[div class="sent"]]
[[span class="text"]]what?[[/span]]
[[/div]]
[[div class="recv"]]
[[span class="text"]]How do you have this number? Who are you?[[/span]]
[[/div]]
[[div class="sent"]]
[[span class="text"]]gav, it's me[[/span]]
[[/div]]
[[div class="sent"]]
[[span class="text"]]what are you talking about[[/span]]
[[/div]]
[[div class="sent"]]
[[span class="text"]]gav?[[/span]]
[[/div]]
[[div class="recv"]]
[[span class="text"]]Check the date[[/span]]
[[/div]]
[[div class="sent"]]
[[span class="text"]]what[[/span]]
[[/div]]
[[div class="sent"]]
[[span class="text"]]oh my god[[/span]]
[[/div]]
[[div class="sent"]]
[[span class="text"]]screw you I can't believe you got me with that[[/span]]
[[/div]]
[[/div]]
[[/div]]

-----

[[=]]
++ **April 9, 2006**
++ **12:08 PM CST**
+++ **Joliet Iron and Steel Works Historic Site, Joliet, Illinois**
[[/=]]

I have a picture of Gavin and I in my wallet. We took it at Millenium Park with some of his friends, over by that big plaza in front of the art museum. Really pretty shot, except for the idiot tourist who walked right into the background at the wrong moment. Maybe I'll get someone in Administration to edit that out for me, I've heard some of them are good with Photoshop.

Before I can get too distracted, the radio screeches and squeals instructions at me: time to get to work. I step out of the armored truck and into the bright purple sunlight of an area that's recently had the laws of reality rewritten. A couple and their child are cowering next to the FOB's medical tent. Anchors are still enroute, so right now most of the forces here are on perimeter duty, keeping civvies away from the hundred-meter bubble of insanity that sprung up randomly in the middle of a public park. A medic waves me over to the exposed civilians. Looks like I'm needed. I greet the terrified couple, who look completely out of place among the dozens of heavily armed men and women in combat gear. Their kid is probably too little to even understand what's going on, which is honestly for the best. I follow the coverup procedure we got briefed on and tell them not to worry, it's just an accident with some military testing at the Great Lakes naval base, only an hour away.

The father doesn't seem to buy it and demands to talk to my supervisor. Luckily, my supervisor is the Chief Medical Officer back at Site-144, so I lie through my teeth and tell him that I'm actually in charge here. The medic plays along with me, and after several minutes of reassurances I eventually get the family relaxed enough to give them some water spiked with Class G amnestics. They pass out after 20 minutes and I drag them off to a quiet corner of the medical tent where someone else can deal with them. Angry people are the hardest to drug, but my entire job is getting people to take drugs. It takes a lot to get past me. Of course, dazzlingly attractive people are an exception. God knows Gavin's exceptional at getting under //my// skin.

That thought helps a lot with my mood until I'm nearly hit by the semitruck carrying two full-size reality anchors. Of course, since it's been raining the past two days up here, I get completely splashed with mud as it thunders by. Great.

The medic from earlier suppresses a guffaw as I march over to the portable shower unit. Yeah, real funny. 

-----

[[=]]
++ **April 30, 2006**
++ **11:45 PM CST**
+++ **Room 189, Site-144 Habitation Sector, Chicago, Illinois**
[[/=]]

> INTERNAL SURVEILLANCE LOG H189.04.30.06
> 
> //Beginning annotated audio playback...// 
>> [BEGIN LOG: 23:45:09]
>> 
>> //[Sounds of knocking]//
>> 
>> Who is it?
>> 
>> //[Muffled]// Gavin.
>> 
>> Oh. One second, let me get the door.
>> 
>> //[144H SECURITY: Door lock disengaged: Room 189.]//
>> 
>> Hey there.
>> 
>> Hey. 
>> 
>> //[144H SECURITY: Door lock engaged: Room 189.]//
>> 
>> So, what brings you to my humble abode at this hour?
>> 
>> Just thought I'd drop by. I was... thinking about that offer you made the other day.
>> 
>> Oh? And what's your answer?
>> 
>> Yes.
>> 
>> **[2 hours 38 minutes of extraneous audio omitted.]**
>> 
>> Wow. 
>> 
>> "Wow"? Is that all you have to say? Come here, you.
>> 
>> //[Laughter and sounds consistent with skin rubbing against fabric continue for 2 minutes.]//
>> 
>> I'm glad you stuck around with me all this time.
>> 
>> I'm glad too. Who knew you were that good at-
>> 
>> Shush. Just hold me.
>> 
>> Okay, you brat.
>> 
>> **[20 minutes of silence omitted.]**
>> 
>> Huh, it's May. Funny.
>> 
>> What?
>> 
>> Nothing, just thinking out loud.
>> 
>> [END LOG: 02:49:32]


//April showers bring May flowers.//

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