One of Rokus’s first tasks upon joining the Institute was a cross between a trust fall and psychological terrorism. A manila folder, unlabelled, sat on his desk waiting for him, and inside a script of sorts. Line by line, the document described his actions and words, starting from the moment he started reading. Rokus looked up from his work station, to see if any colleagues were smirking from the postroom – but everyone was absorbed in their work, airless cubicles of earnest integrity.
The script, of course, described his paranoid room-scan.
Without knowing why or feeling particularly comfortable about it, he started taking the scripted actions, thinking perhaps this was some kind of test. It wouldn’t be beyond the Institute to try his loyalty at this early juncture. He left the building.
Walking across the street to an aging Pontiac, he saw the driver behind the wheel of the stationary vehicle. A seedy looking fellow contributing to a small inactive volcano of cigarette butts beneath his window.
Dialogue.
[ROKUS] What are you doing here?
[PRIVATE EYE] What’s it to you? You work there?
[ROKUS] None of your business. Why don’t you move along?
[PRIVATE EYE] Why don’t you fuck off?
Rokus pulls a .38 revolver from the waistband of his trousers and points it into the car
[ROKUS] You first.
The PRIVATE EYE starts the car and peels off. Rokus puts the gun away and walks back to the building, returns to his desk, and closes the file.