Anomalical Managerial Concern

20260809

Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

As I unseal the double doors my pager directed me to, I’m hit with a dissonant wash of cheap bleach and expensive cologne.
Great. There goes any hope of getting off early today. Not only has there been An Incident, it’s serious enough to drag management out of their lofty offices. I sigh and pull on my hazmat helmet. If nothing else, I can now safely roll my eyes without fear of the ever-present cameras adding it to my personnel report.
And, while the first responder teams always make a big deal about dealing with any ‘entities, substances, or materials with which unprotected contact would be inadvisable’, you never want to be betting your continued existence on everyone else having done their job right.
Now properly shielded from both contaminants and the consequences of not being able to maintain a straight face, I drag my cleaning trolley into Testing Chamber 861.
“Ah. Tony.” Mr Winters (I’m like 98% sure that’s not his real name, but what do I care?) looks entirely out of place in this sterile chrome environment. Like he stepped out of some old-fashioned business drama onto a sci-fi set. Polished patent leather shoes, cuff links, starched shirt, the whole nine stuffy yards. Made all the more ridiculous by the fact there’s viscera everywhere.
“Good evening, sir.” I intone crisply. “Got paged to come clean.”
“Yes. It’s a nasty one, I’m afraid.”
Yeah, getting that stuff off the ceiling is gonna be a right pain. Even with a pressure washer. But there’s no point expecting actual sympathy off the management class, so I just shrug.
“You’ll be glad to hear that EAA-00-AG-1714 has been moved to higher security levels.”
It’s a tragically universal quirk of managers to delight in being incomprehensible to everyone outside their little bubbles. Unable to level a proper blank stare because of my helmet, I settle for a politely baffled silence.
Mr Winters slowly taps his pencil against his clipboard. No idea why the higher-ups exclusively use analogue when everything else in this facility is digital. It’s like they want to be as divorced from what goes on here as possible.
“…Because that means there won’t be more of these… unfortunate incidents.”
At least not in the areas I’m responsible for cleaning. But sure. We’ll pretend the higher security fixes everything.
So I just offer “Oh. That’s good.”
“Mmm.”
Managers getting all pensive at you, however, is not good. I mentally downscale my hopes for today to ‘I’ll be lucky to get off work on time’.
Mr Winters’s expression does not shift, but his gaze is more piercing than usual. “Tony. You’ve been with us for… three years, now?”
“Yessir. Four years in November.” Hopeful despite myself, I ask “Does that qualify me for some bonus?”
“I’d have to check.”
Well, I’ve had much more discouraging noncommittal responses to asking for a pay rise.
“And… you’re quite all right?”
Now that’s a dangerous question for your boss to suddenly drop on you. Especially right after you ask for more money. I warily venture “Ah… it’s a living?”
Sharp stare. Tap-tap-tap, an absent metronome of “how the fuck do I put this”.
Finally Mr Winters, with utmost delicacy, asks “Do you understand what you’re doing here, Tony?”
“Uhhh I’m a cleaner? Sir?” I wave to the trolley of equipment behind me. “I’m here to get the space back to being safe and pleasant to work in.”
As pleasant as these hermetic metal boxes can be, at least.
“Right. And… what are you cleaning up?”
“Normally, or in this room?”
“This room.” Stare. Tap-tap-tap. The fuck is this guy’s problem?
I inspect the space again. “Mostly looks like intestines. And digestive matter. Including digested matter. And blood, of course.”
“Mm. Yes.”
Tap-tap-tap.
“And this doesn’t… bother you, Tony?”
“No?” I go to scratch my head, then remember about the helmet. “I worked as a hospital cleaner for over two decades. You get used to bodily fluids and all. Don’t even have to haul bodies here, since the first responders handle that. And I avoid getting to know anyone who takes part in the research side of things. Keeps it simple.”
“I… see.” The tapping stops. Its sudden absence is somehow louder. “Has anyone offered you a supervisory position, Tony?”
“Nooo? For cleaning, right?”
“Yes.”
Ok, good, no way I’m taking any job which involves being here at the same time there’s ‘research’ going on.
“You see,” Mr Winters’s gaze could slice bulletproof glass, “one of the requirements for holding a supervisor role is not undergoing memory wiping. Since we need the benefits of true experience at the job. And your file says that you haven’t requested a single memory wipe since you started working here.”
“No offence, sir, I know they always swear it’s perfectly safe-”
Mr Winters waves this aside. “I will send you the full job description. Do look over it.”
“Right. Will do. Sir.”
“And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll let you get on with your work.”
“Thanks.” I try not to sound too relieved.
Pulling my trolley aside, I wait until Mr Winters has delicately picked his way to the door, managing with admirable skill to avoid getting anything on his shiny shoes. I wave farewell. Then, once the doors are sealed again, I can finally put the radio on and get to work.
Well, hey, if being a supervisor means less effort and more pay - without getting any closer to these ‘anomalies’ - I’m game. Be nice to get a break from scrubbing bits of coworkers off the walls.

Prompt was “The room smelled strongly of expensive cologne and cheap bleach.”