See the second part of this post.
Five years ago, Installation Four ran like clockwork, undisturbed.
“Sir.” Big salute.
“Oh, fuck - at ease! For fuck’s sake.”
Three suits entered the dank, crumbling room with hats and briefcases, and they found their chairs some distance from the big desk in front of them.
The man behind the desk was hunched over a large collection of manila folders, he was flicking through them furiously, becoming more and more flustered.
“Can you find him?”
“Can’t fucking find a thing, this is everything - I mean everyone - all their fucking photographs, personnel documentation inside and outside the Installation - I asked that bitch to flag his file for me, and she didn’t do it.”
“That red thing on the floor?”
Some moments passed, the desk-man sweating profusely, leaving small stains on the folders with his movements.
“Look, we’ve just got to take a recommendation back with us, everyone there’s good, right?”
“They’re all good, it’s just that this one Private I had with me yesterday is the best for the job: His mind is almost completely susceptible to suggestion while under the drug.”
“But everyone there is with the program, so they’re all virtually certain to be approved for service?”
“Yes, yes, but you need this Private.”
“I couldn’t care less.”
“Just let me sort this out.”
“That one - I want that one - Harkoff.”
“That’s not him!”
“Give me the folder.”