I felt no refuge in the antechamber. The 100-gallon tank of compressed liquid nitrogen teetering on a precarious furniture dolly seemed to stare into my soul with its valve. I knew it could detect my misgivings, trepidation and unease. Beads of perspiration formed an itchy string on my hot forehead. I was an impostor. Thank God nitrogen don't talk.
My trembling, sweating shamble of a person wasn't helped any by the thick, synthetic air as I crept involuntarily down the corridor like a mechanical lemming. For three or so seconds I almost gave in. The lab-coated drones huddled behind the impenetrable transparent barriers I passed seemed content, if a bit jejune. But I had neither time nor luxury for such reverie. My objectives were clear.
It seemed as though a month of torment had elapsed by the time I reached my inhumanely ergonomic workstation. The supernova of florescent rays pressing down on me only accentuated my squirming, clammy destiny as I logged in to my system. "Soon," I kept inaudibly telling myself. "Soon."
I was in the can when the first Molotov cocktails struck the monolithic facade. I returned to find the sealed-off drones placidly staring at the outside world as if the windows were one big home theater setup. The brilliant orange plumes lit up the overcast sky as they burst off the glazed blue glass and straight lines. As hard as I willed it, though, my lips refused to curl upwards into a smile. This un-callused, un-accidental abomination of a structure could take a beating, a beating soon to be forgotten.
Back to business as usual. The small window was lost years ago. I miss the old building.