Storyline: 7-Alpha-6 - Point: 8

“Why won’t you relax, sit so we can chat?”

“Thanks, but I don’t plan on staying long.” I hated these quarterly psych-sessions.

“I can understand that, but you might be pleasantly surprised, I can speed things along when I have to.”

I slump in the chair, coat still on, coffee cup in hand. It only has some dregs left in it but that means I have an excuse to bail out of here when I want, when I need to refill it.

One of the medical staff, one of the new doctors, sits opposite flicking through the sheets in my manila folder. It never fails to amuse me that – a board file, a folder full of paper on little old me, and all the antics I get up too. A stupid out-dated contradiction, the desire to maintain a paper trail on my ‘deniable’ activities in the virtual domain. I would say ironic, but I heard one of the other operatives shot Irony in the head last week.

“You still taking all the meds we prescribe?”

“Aye.”

“No side effects?”

“No.”

“Are they effective at controlling your – episodes?” It’s actually one of the first times he glances up from the pages to look at me.

You mean, am I dosed up enough to warrant relaxing the extra measures you have in place to control me? Probably not.

Am I now trusted to live off-site again instead of lodging in a converted store cupboard on a camp bed? Probably not.

Or am I capable of mixing with normal people again, without being a potential security risk and royal pain in the arse once I’ve had a drink or five? Probably not.

“I think the drugs are helping me cope, Doc.”

After all, that’s really what he wants to hear.

“OK, well I think you have made excellent progress. Certainly the last half-dozen debriefs indicate a better recovery and better stabilization. I think I can make some recommendations. Would you be happy with that?”

Delighted, possibly even euphoric. Just how enthusiastic am I supposed to be? Do I get a free sweetie?

“Aye.” And I add a smile, the best I can manage, as a free bonus for his efforts.

“Good, we’ll mark today down as ‘progressing’ then.”

I add a second smile, and a little too eagerly, shuffle forward to climb out of the chair. Too eagerly because he stops shuffling pages back into my manila folder and looks me straight in the eyes.

“After all, Operative – you wouldn’t want an RTU would you?” The menace is deliberate in those words.

RTU. ‘Return To Unit’. A ‘sorry you failed son’ award that in normal circumstances would see you bounced back from whence you came. But where I’ve been these past ten years, you don’t leave by RTU. I wasn’t even sure my old unit even still existed after all the cutbacks.

RTU for the likes of me really meant one thing.

Disposal. Quick, sudden and final.

Not exactly the exit I want if I’m honest.

“See you in three months time, Doc.”