Chapter 15:

— So, pfft, Doctor D — you're claiming you were subjected to violence by an anomaly?

— Yes.

— Pfft, and furthermore, that when you were forcibly pinned to the ground and subjected to harassment exceeding the bounds of the sexual, as well as trampling upon your masculine dignity — you suffered a profound psychological trauma and are in need of leave with rehabilitation?

— Yes.

— Meaning that when an attractive girl standing one hundred and sixty-nine centimetres tall pinned you down and you could only submissively receive her advances — you found this deeply unpleasant, and the protrusion in your trousers was naturally induced by force and most certainly not the result of overwhelming sexual tension? Just admit it: you're a CUCK!

— I SPECIFICALLY REQUESTED THAT IDIOT JOHN NOT BE THE ONE TO INTERVIEW ME! I WILL FILE A COMPLAINT WITH THE UNION IF YOU DON'T REMOVE THIS PRODUCT OF INBREEDING FROM MY PRESENCE!

— HEHEHEKEKEKE. DON'T LISTEN TO THIS CUCK! I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS MOMENT SINCE THE DAY I GOT THE CALL SIGN ZETA! I ROTTED THROUGH FIFTEEN NIGHT SHIFTS THIRSTING FOR REVENGE! LEAVE ME ALONE WITH HIM OR I'LL FILE MY OWN COMPLAINT WITH THE UNION!

— ARGH! WOULD YOU JUST SHUT UP!

— THE CUCK WASN'T GIVEN THE FLOOR! YOU'LL SPEAK WHEN YOUR BDSM MISTRESS PERMITS IT! HEHEHE!

The employees observing the interview could not openly express their subjective thoughts in the interests of professional ethics — however, right now their silent gazes, directed at the screen displaying the footage from the interview room's security cameras, had converged on one and the same opinion: "What a pair of idiots."

Although Doctor D was an extremely accomplished field researcher who had captured a fairly extensive number of useful anomalies, and whose success rate was high — he could still behave like an infantile child whose arrogance exceeded his own one hundred and seventy-three centimetres of height. He also clearly suffered from an inferiority complex, which meant that working with him came with an additional stress-environment allowance.

Zeta, for his part, was not exactly a standout member of the bodyguard division. Standard background — as were his meagre achievements. His only redeeming quality was, to put it mildly, a calm and non-confrontational temperament — or to put it bluntly, a doormat's personality.

And when the other employees of the bodyguard division began debating which of them would be sent to the notoriously difficult Doctor D — they didn't even hold a draw. They simply, and in a highly mature fashion — certainly not like kindergarteners — dumped this extremely important and laborious task on Zeta. Who, owing to his calm temperament, couldn't refuse under the collective pressure.

Moreover, the fact that Zeta stood at an impressive one hundred and ninety centimetres consistently activated Doctor D's inferiority complex — causing the latter to find fault with Zeta even more frequently. And due to the nature of field researchers' work, Zeta was constantly stuck on standby shifts for rapid response — which obviously didn't suit him, given that at his previous job he had dealt with ordinary, and moreover calm, researchers.

And right now these two grown and independent men were sitting there screaming at each other like first-graders arguing about which game is better. What's more — one of them was genuinely enjoying himself. The world was truly rolling in an unknown direction. An extremely strange and stupid one.

Nevertheless, work remains the same everywhere — so the employees should also try to conduct an interview with the humanoid-type anomaly, whose call sign had not yet been assigned.

On the other side of the screen, a live feed from the anomaly's containment cell was running — where it was idle, either feigning sleep or actually sleeping. Although the busy employees should have attempted to wake it with the assistance of staff in purple jumpsuits for the purposes of an interview — their workload was always high, and their salary had a way of losing its value if you couldn't even step outside the office. Of course, their field of work consisted of cataloguing anomalies and identifying patterns in their behaviour — but in practice they were still corporate slaves in neckties.

And for this reason, when a legal opportunity to slack off presented itself — they obviously took it.

Was that irresponsible given that they worked with anomalies? Oh, come off it! Doctor D had never once been wrong in classifying the threat level of anomalies. And this one's file didn't contain the coveted line of "it will destroy everything, you're all finished, blah blah blah."

Was it immoral to treat a potential danger capable of killing a considerable number of people as some insignificant trifle? Then go work at the Foundation! It was a sweatshop ruthlessly exploiting its employees while hiding behind all manner of nonsense about preserving the world as we know it. What did you expect from the clerks here? Their humanity had long since been sold for ninety cents and energy bars.

They were closer to monsters than to the concept of human beings, and whether they even had rights remained an open question. There were even legends of a certain "hero" who once existed — namely one Karl from the HR division — who had attempted to fight for the rights of other lower-ranking employees. However, he was devoured by the evil dragon known as "capitalism" — after which the number of his vacation days suspiciously increased and a forbidden emotion began appearing on his face: a smile of joy. Meanwhile, the workload on the remaining employees grew even heavier, and their faith in the so-called human rights began to fade — as did their will to live.

But precisely at the moment when the last hope was dying — the evil dragon of capitalism released an improved version of the energy bars, reducing their price from ninety cents to seventy, gifting the employees a long-forgotten joy.

But the evil dragon didn't carry its title of evil for nothing. The improved version of the bars had been created with the involvement of an anomaly — giving them an inexhaustible shelf life, a flavour that literally brought happiness, and an unforgettable energy boost lasting the subsequent twenty-four hours. Along with only the mildest psychological dependency. Moreover, each bar was filling enough that a person required no food for the subsequent twenty-four hours.

And what did the employees do with their newly freed-up time? They began devouring bars like mad things.

The employees, though they cut an imposing figure, more closely resembled students. And what do students resemble? Rabid hungry rats! So they, true to their nature, held debates about which limited-edition bar tasted better, while simultaneously catching cockroaches and staging cockroach races with bars as wagers.

The Anomaly Management Foundation was a truly formidable force to be reckoned with, and its weapons stockpile was beyond question. But its employees? The majority were unhinged psychopaths whose true nature had begun revealing itself beautifully under the conditions of endless mental strain. What more could be said, when even the management council itself would occasionally tune in to watch the cockroach race broadcasts! There was even an official holiday in honour of the cockroach races, during which all employees were issued ten ultra-rare limited-edition bars — and were expected to win even more through wagering. So that there would be even more. So that the more could be multiplied further.

Madness...

That was precisely what drove the employees. And precisely what sustained the Foundation. Of course, during working hours every employee was a paragon in their field, and the number of ability users within the Foundation was enormous — though the majority were only at the second level. But this was of no significance to the working class: all they cared about was their own addiction to energy bars, and which cockroach would win the races. A truly pitiable state for highly specialised professionals — though their salary was so high it would have covered three subsequent lifetimes. Not that they had time to spend it...

Meanwhile, in the containment cell, faint signals of the anomaly's activity were beginning to appear. Not that anyone was particularly paying attention — but in about twenty minutes the employees would most likely finish the first round of racing and check the sensors. Would Yuri still be in place by then?

[Uuugh, damn. I think I have a hangover...]

Doubtful — given his condition. So today the employees would once again be able to gleefully wager their bars on the cockroach races.

(I'm looking to grow my audience and was wondering if you could recommend other platforms where my story might do well, in addition to my current ones?)