Walk-In

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|text=I’d barely settled into reviewing the day's documents when the man with a gun bursts into my office.
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**Walk-In**
**Author:** [[*user OnlineOpossum]]
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CW: Attempted murder, brief allusion to attempted suicide,
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I’d barely settled into reviewing the day's documents when the man with a gun bursts into my office.

“Do you have an appointment?” I can’t help asking, it’s second nature at this point.

“If you ever come near my family again, I will //fucking **kill you//**,” he hisses, eyes narrowing as he brandishes the gun with exceptionally poor trigger discipline.

And people ask me why I hate walk-ins.

“Can we talk about this?” I incline my head helpfully towards the chair across from me. Now, I know this seems like a risky strategy, but an unexpected redirection can often stop even the most irrational people in their tracks.

Luckily, my strategy pays off. He slowly sinks into the chair, never taking his eyes off me, or his finger off the trigger. Seriously, these desk jockeys get their hands on a gun and suddenly think they’re a member of Red Right Hand. I’d bet money on him shooting his foot off before he'd ever manage to land a shot on someone else.

I sigh, and reluctantly minimise the window on my monitor. Paperwork will have to wait.

“Now,” I say, with much more civility than he deserves, "how can I help you today?”

“You threatened my sister's life,” he seethes, tension visible in his shoulders like a coiled spring.

Well, redirection only works to an extent.

I nod. “I did, yes.”

Something I learned in the conflict resolution seminar I attended was how important it is to acknowledge criticism. It’s important to show the other person you’re taking on board their concerns, instead of deflecting responsibility. Telling him that I didn’t //personally// do the threatening isn’t conducive to a productive conversation right now.

When he next speaks, it’s with more composure, although his voice trembles slightly. I really hope he doesn’t start crying, because I forgot to refill the tissue box on my desk.

“How can you just … sit there? You’d really kill someone over a job?”

His outrage is a flimsy veneer for his anxiety. He looks at me like he’s hoping I’ll reassure him that, yes, we were bluffing the whole time, and he’s free to go.

I don’t.

“Are you actually that heartless?”

I try not to sigh too obviously. I really wish these types would cut down on the ad hominem. It doesn’t strengthen their arguments, and it’s honestly pretty childish. I take the opportunity to steer us back towards the discussion at hand.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why do you want to leave? The Foundation is dedicated to providing the best possible quality of life for our employees. We pay exceptionally well compared to other jobs in the current market, and our insurance covers all the premiums. And we think of the little things too! We just put new coffee machines in all the site break rooms. I think Site 17 even got ping-pong tables.”

He just sits there, staring at me. I realise I don’t know his name, and wonder if he’ll notice if I sneakily look him up in the employee database. Using someone's name is very beneficial to rapport building.

“Do you remember the breach last month in sector two?” he says, after a long pause. His tone has the kind of evenness only achieved through great effort.

“My friend wasn’t even supposed to be working on that containment chamber. They were short-staffed, so they called him in. Didn’t even bother to check if he had the right protective equipment.”

His eyes are glassy, and the sporadic twitch of his lips betrays the strained nature of his composure.

“There’s still a stain on the wall from where they scraped him off, and I have to walk past it every single day. I even had to come into work the day after it happened - bereavement leave doesn’t cover coworkers. I don’t fucking //care// about the break rooms. Casual Fridays aren't worth working somewhere like this.”

I’d been getting a lot of positive feedback about the casual Friday initiative, but I guess you can’t please everyone. It was time to change tactics; a little ego stroking should do the trick.

“I’m very sorry you feel that way. I understand this is a difficult job. But do you think soldiers give up when they see someone die in the line of duty? No. They keep doing their job. The work we do here is the last line of defence humanity has against the darkness. You, and everyone else working here, are real heroes. And I don’t want to see you leave just because of a setback.”

He’s looking at me like I slapped him in the face, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscles twitching. If he keeps that up, he’s going to get a tension headache.

“You, you just don’t get it! I want to help people, but I’m not a hero, or a soldier - I’m a goddamn //biologist//. It’s not a setback, I really can’t do this anymore, I, I just can't. People here don’t die for some greater good, they just… die.”

His voice is choked and rises in volume unpleasantly, chest heaving as he presses a hand to his face in distress, apparently forgetting that’s the hand he’s clutching the gun in. He’s at least right about not being cut out to be a soldier.

I suppress a frown. This conversation is rapidly becoming unproductive. In my opinion, it's extremely rude to demand someone's time just to have a breakdown. But unlike //some// people, I’m a professional. I take a deep breath to centre myself, and scrape together a look of sympathy.

“We here at the Foundation can’t do the work we do without you. We can work with you to create a supportive working environment for your needs, but unfortunately, we can't accept your resignation. I’m truly very sorry.”

I make an effort to inject some warmth into my voice, and offer my best understanding smile. I’m quite good at it, if I do say so myself.

“Bullshit.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Pardon me?”

He seems to have pulled himself together somewhat, standing abruptly enough to send the chair toppling over. There’s a bitterness in his eyes that seems to be fuelling this new bravado.

“You heard me. I won’t stay here to die for you freaks. If you won’t let me leave quietly, I’ll just have to do things this way,” he snarls, glaring down at me as he disengages the safety.

So much for a constructive discussion. This has turned out to be a colossal waste of my time.

“You know what I really think?” I ask, leaning forwards across the desk.

The gun dances slightly in his uncertain grip. “What?”

“I think you’re selfish. You’re walking away from the most important work you could ever hope to be a part of. You should be //thankful// for the opportunity to work here. I’m trying to help you! I care about our employees, even the ungrateful ones.”

I know I’m being wildly unprofessional, but I can’t help it. I’m a very patient person, but I can only take so much disrespect.

“Think about it logically - which should be easy for a scientist, but apparently not. What kind of job do you think you’ll be able to get with a ten-year gap on your resume? I’m sure they’ll believe that you were working for a secret organisation that locks up monsters. You’ll end up working as a lab tech in some backwater town, sanitising test tubes for the rest of your miserable life.”

His face is impassive, frozen over. Then he levels the gun at me.

His finger twitches on the trigger.

He pauses.

He //hesitates.//

I let out a breath, the tension in my shoulders easing. For a second there, he had me worried I had misjudged him, but I should know to trust my interpersonal skills. If he actually had the guts to kill me, he wouldn’t be trying to resign in the first place.

The rumble of footsteps in the hallway signals the long overdue arrival of site security, and the end of this meeting. My uninvited guest still seems paralysed with indecision, but ultimately, he doesn’t resist when I ease the gun from his slack grip. I slide it into a desk drawer and make a mental note to drop it off at the armoury on my lunch break. Just another thing I'll have to take care of.

All the fight seems to have drained from him by the time the guards burst into the room in a flurry of body armour and commands. I can’t help feeling a little bad for him — performance anxiety can be a real pain.

“You lot sure took your time,” I complain to the guards, who offer a grimace of apology in return.

“We’re understaffed today,” one of them says with a shrug, cinching a pair of cuffs around the intruders wrists.

“Of course you are.” I repress my annoyance as best I can, and go about wrapping this up so I can finally get on with my day.

“Attempted murder is a very serious crime. You’ll have a meeting with the legal department soon to discuss the charges, and the potential consequences.” I inform him, half my attention already on the incident report I need to fill out.

“Luckily for you, the Foundation is very understanding. We’ve started offering voluntary corrective amnestic therapy as an alternative to prison time. Now, you should take some time to cool off and consider your options.”

He opens his mouth, apparently finding his voice again, but he’s thankfully hustled out of the room before he has a chance to prolong this encounter. I’m finally left alone again, but there’s no time to enjoy the peace and quiet. I need to finish this incident report, and then find out who in Enforcement did such a sloppy job that an employee was even aware of their activities, let alone able to make it all the way to my office. They’ve been dropping the ball lately, and of course, it’s up to me to clean up the mess.

I need a coffee. Sometimes it feels like no-one around here appreciates how hard I work.

It’s days like this that almost make me want to quit.

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