“Random”
[Quarterback]
They told us to report to the gym after last period. No explanation. Just a clipboard name-check and “Bring your ID.”
I thought maybe it was about the bus schedule or jerseys. Until I walked in and saw the folding table. The little plastic cups. The scale.
And Coach Mercer in his windbreaker, arms crossed like this wasn’t the first time he’d watched boys get processed.
“You’re here for screening,” the man at the table said. He wasn’t school staff. Just some guy—button-down shirt, no tie, clipboard. He didn’t look up when he said it.
“What kind of screening?”
“Drug, weight, general health. Standard.”
That word—standard—made it sound like breakfast.
There were five of us. All varsity. None of us said anything.
He called my name first.
“ID?”
I handed it over.
“Shoes and shirt off.”
That part I expected. I’d been through regular physicals before. But this one was in the open, right there in the locker vestibule, not even behind the partitions. Just me, the guy with the clipboard, and Coach off to the side chewing gum like it bored him.
Then the man said: “Pants and underwear, too.”
“What?”
“Full check. Strip. You’ll get dressed in a moment.”
I looked at Coach. He just gave a little nod. Like: Don’t make this a thing.
So I did it. Pants first, then briefs. Folded them. Stood there on the cold linoleum with my arms stiff at my sides. The guy never looked me in the eye. Just started writing.
“Height. Weight. No visible bruising or injuries. Circumcised. No tattoos.”
He said it like he was filling out a form on a car. Not a person.
“Turn. Cough.”
I turned. I coughed.
The man handed me a plastic cup and nodded toward the far door.
“Bathroom. Don’t flush. Bring it right back.”
So I walked across the open gym, still naked, holding the cup. I didn’t look back.
“Waiting”
[Running back]
You could hear the cough.
That was the worst part. Not the clothes hitting the floor. Not the way Coach Mercer stood off to the side like a bored security guard. Not even the sight of Kenny walking across the gym holding a little plastic cup, naked but pretending not to be.
It was the sound of him coughing—on command—that made something tighten in my chest.
I sat on the bench next to Jamal and Finn. No one talked. You could feel the silence doing all the work.
We’d all been called here during last period. “Mandatory screening,” they said. “Standard protocol.” But this wasn’t standard. This wasn’t like the nurse’s office, with a privacy curtain and a blood pressure cuff that smelled like antiseptic.
This was a table. A man with a clipboard. A paper form and a line of boys waiting to take off their clothes in front of two men who never took off theirs.
Jamal leaned forward, elbows on knees. I could see the muscles in his jaw clench and relax, like he was chewing on a thought he didn’t want to swallow.
Coach hadn’t said much, just stood there watching Kenny undress. Like he’d seen this a hundred times. Maybe he had. Maybe this was part of the job—the paperwork, the inspection, the quiet humiliation.
Kenny came back holding the cup. Still naked. Didn’t say a word. Just handed it to the man at the table, who took it like it was a receipt and pointed to the bench with a nod.
He sat down across from us. Still not dressed.
That’s when I realized we weren’t getting to put our clothes back on right away. That we had to wait—bare—until all of us were done.
“Next,” the man said.
He didn’t look up. Just scratched something on the clipboard like the last body hadn’t meant a thing. Like we were all a list he was working his way through.
Jamal stood.
I kept my eyes on the floor.
My name would be next.
And I’d already started sweating.
“Standard Procedure”
[Running back]
I already knew how it felt to be stripped of control.
That had happened six months ago. Trailhead bathroom, middle of the day. Some man who wasn’t right in the head. I’d never seen him before and I never saw him after. He mumbled something about God. About purity. I don’t remember all of it. I remember the lock on the door didn’t work. I remember the sound of my own voice going silent halfway through.
Afterward, I walked back to the road like nothing had happened. I never told anyone. Not because I was afraid they wouldn’t believe me—because I was afraid they would.
So when they told us to report to the gym for “random screening,” I didn’t think it would matter. I’d already survived worse.
But this was different.
There were clipboards. Folding chairs. Two men I’d never seen before in tucked-in shirts and laminated badges. Coach stood nearby, silent. Not looking at us, not looking away. Just there.
They called our names like it was roll call.
“ID?”
“Shoes, shirt. Pants. Underwear.”
Nothing in their voices. Just flat air.
When I undressed, I felt something in me detach, like I was floating above the scene. Watching. Not to protect myself. Just to get through it.
“Turn. Cough.”
The man said it like he was asking me to pass the salt.
He never looked at my face. I looked at his. Not because I wanted to, but because it felt like the only way to exist—as a set of eyes in a body that was no longer mine.
When it had happened in the woods, at least I was alone. At least it was one person’s madness, not a whole room’s design. That had been brutal. But this was tidy. Sanitized. Documented.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Because here, no one was breaking the rules.
The rules were the violation.
I handed back the cup without a word.
The clipboard man nodded like he was approving a receipt.
I sat on the bench. Naked. Breathing. Trying to fold my shame into the space between heartbeats.
They called the next name.
The boy beside me stood. Peeled his shirt over his head like it was normal. Like this was just part of school spirit. Like what was happening wasn’t a machine designed to strip you down until all that was left was compliance.
And it worked.
I did everything they asked.
And they never laid a hand on me.
And it still felt like the worst thing that had ever happened to me.
“Compliance”
[Clune]
It was policy. Not personal. Not punishment.
One kid gets caught juicing—or someone makes noise about it in a parents’ meeting—and boom, the whole machine kicks in.
They send us a notice from central admin. Random screening. Varsity athletes only. Process must be uniform. No exceptions.
So I set up in the gym with the portable table and the kits. Got through the first five kids without issue. I had it down to twelve minutes per student. Fifteen, tops, if someone got squeamish.
I had a dentist appointment at five.
[Running back]
I knew how this would go the second they handed out slips at lunch.
Mandatory screening.
Drug panel. Weight check. Hydration. Physical.
They didn’t say strip in front of strangers, but they never had to.
I lined up behind lockers with the rest of the team. Nobody talked. The air buzzed with something we weren’t allowed to name.
This wasn’t punishment. This was procedure. That was supposed to make it better.
It didn’t.
[Clune]
Kid number six walked up. Quiet. No attitude. That was good—things move faster that way.
“Name?”
He gave it.
“ID?”
He handed it over.
“Shoes and shirt. Then pants and underwear.”
He hesitated. Not unusual. Happens about one in four.
The trick is to keep moving. Not get drawn into it.
He stripped down. I noted his build. Thin. Bit pale.
“Turn. Arms out.”
No eye contact. Which, frankly, made it easier.
[Running back]
I did what he said.
Not because I trusted him. Not because I believed in the test.
Because I didn’t know what would happen if I didn’t.
I was naked. He wasn’t. No one was.
Just me, alone in fluorescent light, trying not to shake.
The last time I’d been naked like this, it hadn’t been under orders.
But this felt worse.
Because everyone here thought it was normal.
[Clune]
“Bend. Cough.”
He followed the instructions. Didn’t say a word.
I appreciated that. Some of the older boys make jokes, try to get a laugh. That only slows things down.
He didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t say thank you. Didn’t need to.
I handed him the cup. “Restroom. Don’t flush. Bring it back here.”
He walked off. I marked the time.
Eight minutes. Ahead of schedule.
[Running back]
The cup was warm in my hand. I couldn’t stop staring at it.
I walked past the others still waiting their turn. Could feel their eyes shift sideways. No one said anything. Of course they didn’t.
You can’t complain about policy. Not when it’s been written, filed, laminated.
You can’t tell the man with the clipboard that this—this small thing—
the asking, the standing, the exposure—
felt more violent than the worst day of your life.
You can’t say: at least when I was assaulted, it wasn’t done with paperwork.
So I just did what they asked.
And I didn’t cry.
Not because I was strong.
Because there was no room for it on the form.
[Clune]
He came back. Cup full. No problems.
I signed it in, sealed the label, and called the next name.
The line moved on. Same as always.
Just another day.
“After”
[Running back]
The hallway was empty by the time I got to the locker room.
I didn’t go to the showers. I didn’t go to my locker. I went to the stall in the far back corner, the one with the broken latch. I slid inside, sat on the closed toilet seat, and locked my arms around my ribs like they might fall open if I didn’t hold them shut.
It was just a screening.
That’s what I kept hearing.
That’s what everyone said.
I did what I was told. I stood where they pointed. I held the cup. I walked across the gym with my spine straight and my hands calm. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t cry.
I was very good.
They like it when you’re good.
When you don’t make their job harder.
When you don’t ask: Is this really necessary?
Because then they’d have to think about it. And they don’t want to.
So I didn’t ask.
I just waited until I could be alone.
And now I was.
The panic didn’t hit me like a train. It came like a tide. Quiet at first. Just a tightness behind my eyes and the feeling that my skin didn’t fit quite right.
Then my hands started shaking.
Then my breath.
Then everything.
I covered my mouth with both palms and let the air rip through me in silent gasps. I didn’t want to make sound. I didn’t want someone to come in and ask if I was okay. I didn’t want to have to lie.
Because I wasn’t okay.
Not because someone touched me.
But because they didn’t.
Because no one did anything wrong.
Because it was all “within protocol.”
Because the clipboard said it was fine.
And because that was the part I couldn’t explain.
I curled forward, forehead to knees, and stayed that way until my breathing calmed. Until my hands stopped shaking. Until the sick cold in my chest settled into the familiar weight of being seen—but never recognized.
I would walk out of that stall, pull on my clothes, and go home.
No one would ask.
No one would know.
And tomorrow, I’d come back to school.
Just like they wanted.
Just like I always do.
“Flagged”
[Clune]
I was packing up the kits when I saw him.
Same kid from earlier—thin, quiet, cooperative. No red flags during the exam, no complaint, no attitude. He walked straight out after turning in his cup. I figured he was one of the easy ones.
But now he was in the back of the locker area, just sitting in a stall with the door cracked open, hunched over like he’d taken a hit to the stomach. Head in his hands. Elbows on knees. Shaking.
I paused.
That could mean anything.
Overhydrated. Low blood sugar. Nerves. Maybe the kid realized he’d tested dirty. Maybe he was about to text someone to come clean out his locker before admin showed up.
They’d warned us about this kind of thing in the training: If a student behaves erratically after testing, it may indicate guilt, substance dependence, or tampering.
I made a note on the log sheet. "Subject 6 appeared emotionally dysregulated post-collection. Recommending secondary screen + follow-up panel."
Not punitive. Just protocol.
Coach Mercer came around the corner as I was zipping the test kits.
“Everything go smooth?” he asked.
“Mostly. One of the boys might be using something. Just a feeling.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Which one?”
“Quiet one. Pale. Think he’s your second-string receiver.”
Coach nodded once. “We’ve had our suspicions.”
He didn’t ask for details.
Ten minutes later, I called central and filed an expanded screening recommendation. Full panel. Entire team. Strip it down to clean it up.
Just doing my job.
“Second Screening”
[Running back]
We were told to report to the auxiliary gym after school. No gear. No bags. No explanation.
No Coach Mercer.
Just a note on the locker room door:
MANDATORY FOLLOW-UP SCREENING.
ALL VARSITY ATHLETES. NO EXCEPTIONS.
We filed in, twenty boys in silence, past the rows of folding chairs and gray tables and plastic bins.
There were more staff this time—men in gloves and jackets and calm voices. Not school employees. Not anyone we’d seen before. No names. Just badges and clipboards and that same man from the last round, the one who handed me the cup. He didn’t look at me as I passed him.
Maybe he didn’t recognize me.
Maybe he did.
The first thing they did was take our clothes. No hesitation this time. No shoes-only first. Just strip. Now. Fold your things. Put them in the bin with your number on it.
We stood in rows, naked, not talking.
Someone muttered “what the hell” under their breath. No one answered.
We were led in pairs to the scale. Measured. Weighed. Noted.
They used calipers on some of the guys. Took blood from the arm—rubber band, alcohol swab, syringe. The nurse didn’t speak. She held our arms like they weren’t attached to people.
Then the cups again.
This time there were partitions, but open-fronted—half privacy, not real. The man from last time nodded as I took mine.
“Full stream. Don’t flush. Hand it directly to the table when finished.”
His voice was exactly the same. Measured. Clean. Like this was all a form of math.
When I handed the cup back, our eyes met for a second.
He looked away.
[Clune]
The second round was always more involved.
That’s what the regional director said. If the first pass flagged anything—or anyone—then policy allowed for an expanded collection window. Full team. No opt-outs. Keep it neutral. Keep it sterile.
The students were quieter this time. More suspicious. The whole room had a heat to it that wasn’t from the overhead lights.
I kept my clipboard moving. Time-in, time-out. Blood labels matched. Urine seals logged. Height, weight, hydration, everything documented. No leaks. No incidents.
Except maybe the pale kid again.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t complain. But he looked… hollow.
Not guilty. Just… distant.
I almost asked him if he was alright.
But that’s not what we’re trained for.
And I still had six more to get through before the samples went out to lab.
So I moved on.
[Running back]
I stood there, skin burning under air-conditioning, my chest dotted from the alcohol wipe, my arm sore where the needle had gone in, and I felt like I had no name anymore. No face. Just a number on a checklist that no one read aloud.
No one said what they were looking for.
No one said who’d made this happen.
But I knew.
I knew what they saw when I sat in that bathroom stall last time. I knew what they thought my shaking meant.
It didn’t matter what really happened to me six months ago in the woods.
It didn’t matter that I hadn’t used anything.
Because I’d looked like someone who had something to hide.
And now they had taken everything.
Internal Email – Confidential
From: Assistant Director, Student Health & Compliance
To: Dean of Athletics, School Administrator Liaison
Subject: Follow-up on Drug Screening – Flagged Cohort
Dear Team,
Following last week’s secondary drug screening of the varsity athletics cohort, we can confirm that no banned substances were detected in any samples. However, per protocol, several risk indicators were observed during the expanded collection window. These include:
- Heightened emotional reactivity in at least one subject following initial screening.
- Unusual compliance variance across the team (notably subdued affect, lack of verbal engagement).
- Apparent group perception of disciplinary tone despite framing as standard procedure.
While the screenings returned clean, the perception management component underperformed. Students appeared unaware that the secondary round was procedural, not punitive.
To that end, we recommend the following for future screenings:
- Pre-screen communication template that clearly states:
“This is not a disciplinary action.” - Expanded counselor availability, after—not before—testing, to prevent emotional behavior that might signal non-compliance or cause concern.
- Discretionary reporting training for contract screeners. Over-reporting “distress” may trigger unnecessary escalations.
Thanks to all for the swift coordination. Let’s remember: the integrity of the process matters as much as the outcome.
Best,
Jeffrey R. Clune
Assistant Director, Health & Compliance Programs
Western Regional School Network
Excerpt – Meeting Summary (Internal Use Only)
Subject: Review of Expanded Screening Implementation
Date: [REDACTED]
Facilitator: Clune
Key Points:
- All lab results negative
- No incident reports filed
- One case of elevated emotionality post-initial screening led to expansion; expansion deemed “precautionary, appropriate.”
- Team morale flagged as “mildly impacted,” but not significantly disruptive.
- No formal grievances submitted.
Action Items:
- Retain current contractor for screenings
- Minor language revisions for opt-in forms (legal prefers “routine procedure” over “mandatory”)
- Encourage coaching staff to remain on-site during future screenings when possible
The harm is over. The process is complete.
There is no record of pain. Only that something looked like risk, so action was taken.
No correction needed. No one did anything “wrong.”
The machine did what it was built to do.
“Standard Protocol”
[Clune - two years later]
They called my name at the checkpoint.
Not loudly. Not even rudely. Just a name, in the same tone I used to use with high school kids. Flat. Professional. Like the word meant nothing.
“Randall Chase.”
I looked up from my badge, halfway through scanning out. “Sorry?”
“Step into Room Two. Random screening.”
For a second, I didn’t move. Not out of defiance—just surprise. In eighteen months on the job, I’d never been selected. I knew it was in the welcome packet, sure. All employees are subject to random search, including full body and cavity inspection, to protect proprietary material. Standard language. Everyone signed it. Nobody expected it.
Room Two was white and humming. The kind of humming you feel more than hear. Fluorescents. Seamless floors. A stainless steel table with a sealed evidence bin underneath.
The compliance officer—some subcontractor I’d never met—wore nitrile gloves and called me sir while telling me to remove my jacket, then shirt, then shoes. He was polite. Detached. I recognized the tone.
I used to use it.
“Pants next.”
I looked at him like I hadn’t heard right. He didn’t repeat himself. Just waited, professionally still.
I hesitated. Not because I was modest—hell, we’ve all been through airport security. But this felt… different. This wasn’t public. It was internal. It was my own company treating me like a possible threat.
I removed the rest. Folded it. Stood in front of a man in gloves and a soft, polite voice, naked under LED lights while he filled out a form.
“Any injuries I should be aware of?” he asked.
I shook my head.
He walked around me once, glanced at my feet, my back, my palms, my ears. Then: “I’m going to ask you to bend, knees apart, and cough.”
And I—
I don’t know what I expected.
I’d asked a teenage boy to do that once, years ago.
I’d handed him a cup and watched him walk barefoot across a gym floor, all bones and silence.
He hadn’t looked at me. But I remembered his face.
Afterward, I noted him as “mildly distressed.” Recommended secondary screening. Thought I was being thorough. Careful. Professional.
He’d looked like he might be hiding something.
I had no idea what he was hiding.
I’d carried that decision for years like a closed file—something long settled.
Until now.
Now, with cold air at my back and a man in gloves instructing me to part my body for company property, I understood the math:
Consent isn’t comprehension.
Compliance isn’t comfort.
Procedure doesn’t care.
This man wasn’t cruel. Neither was I, back then.
But I had helped design the moment that broke that kid apart.
Not with malice.
With certainty.
That was worse.
“Thank you,” the officer said. “You can dress.”
I did. Mechanically. Quietly. As I laced my shoes, I felt something raw pulsing behind my ribs. Not guilt, exactly.
Empathy. Late and useless.
But real.
Outside, the hallway smelled like recycled air and vinyl. I nodded to the officer, who didn’t look up, already calling the next name.
Just another day.
“Routine”
[Contractor]
The guy’s name was Chase. Randall. Mid-40s. Wore loafers that probably cost more than my rent. Another one of these corporate lifers, pale and clean-shaven, walking out of the building like he didn’t expect his day to take a turn.
They called him for random. Room Two.
My room.
I met him at the door. Polite. Neutral. Never use first names. Never break pace.
“Afternoon. Step inside, please.”
He gave me that look—half-confused, half-pissed. Happens a lot. They all sign the waiver, but they don’t read it. They just want their badge, their benefits, and their seat at the table.
They don’t expect this.
Hell, I don’t even expect this.
I unlocked the checklist on my tablet. Full search. Level Three. That meant visual, cavity, and standard verbal responses.
I pulled on the gloves. Blue nitrile. Cold.
And as I gave him the instructions—remove jacket, shirt, shoes—I couldn’t help thinking, What’s the point?
We never find anything.
Not once.
Not a single piece of data, a stolen schematic, a flash drive tucked under a waistband. The tech’s too small now. You couldn’t hide anything on your body that wouldn’t get picked up by scanners. If someone wants to exfiltrate data, they’ll email it to themselves from a burner phone or sneak it into Slack with a dummy project code.
This? This is theater.
This is ritual.
Is it just to keep them on their toes?
That’s the only thing that makes sense. Embarrass a few people now and then so the rest stay scared. Build enough friction into the process so no one feels immune.
Except—I don’t think it makes them careful.
I think it makes them competitive.
I think the smart ones don’t feel threatened. I think they feel challenged. Like someone just asked them to beat the house.
“Pants and underwear, please.”
He hesitated. They always do. You can see the flash in their eyes—like they suddenly remember what the consent form really said. But most don’t argue. Not if they want to keep their clearance.
I kept my voice even. No edge. Just process.
He stepped out of his pants. Folded everything. Arms at his sides. Good posture. Probably had military in his background. Or private school.
I walked him through the rest. Inspection. Cough. Cup for a fluid sample, just to cross-check hydration metrics. We didn’t even test the urine for drugs—not unless we were told to.
And as I watched him stand there, staring through me like I wasn’t even real, I thought again: What the hell am I doing?
He’s not stealing anything.
He’s not a risk.
He’s a man getting humiliated on a Tuesday because someone needs a checkbox filled.
“Thank you,” I said, when it was done. Like that meant anything.
He dressed in silence. Didn’t ask why. Didn’t look at me.
I ticked off the form and called the next name.
Just another round. Just another performance.
Just another day where nothing happens—
except that something did.
We just won’t ever admit what it was.
“Implementation Planning – IP Compliance Protocol”
Transcript Excerpt – Internal Operations Meeting
Date: [REDACTED]
Attendees:
– Julian Keene (VP, Operations)
– Rhonda Mays (Director, HR Compliance)
– Seth Olivetti (Counsel, Legal & Risk)
JULIAN KEENE: So let’s walk through it. We’ve had two near-misses in the last fiscal, both related to proprietary schematics. That’s two more than I’m comfortable with. The board’s priority this quarter is IP security.
RHONDA MAYS: We’ve got options. We can enhance digital surveillance—email filters, off-site behavior tagging—or we can make a physical protocol more visible.
KEENE: Physical makes people behave. There’s a psychology to it. Visibility equals deterrence.
OLIVETTI: Legally, we’re fine. As long as consent is secured at onboarding, and it’s applied consistently. Randomization is key. If we target people based on profile or performance, we’ll open ourselves up. But if it’s lottery-based and logged—no exposure.
KEENE: Full body?
OLIVETTI: Including cavity. It’ll raise eyebrows, but it holds up. We’ve got language already. “Employees may be subject to visual and physical inspection at the discretion of the Compliance Office, including random and unannounced searches to protect intellectual property and proprietary technologies.”
MAYS: That’ll go in the welcome packet. We’ll add a digital acknowledgement on Day One.
KEENE: Do we need separate consent?
OLIVETTI: If it’s in the contract, the consent is implied. But we can add an initialed box, if you want the optics.
MAYS: People won’t read it. They never do.
(Laughter.)
KEENE: Good. So we’ll brief site leads on the rollout, start Q2. I want monthly reports—number of searches, time per screening, any flaggable behavior. Nothing fancy. Just keep the wheels greased.
MAYS: What about the on-site contractors? Who performs the searches?
KEENE: Third-party, low liability. Use one of the vetting firms we already work with for warehouse ops. No point building an internal team.
OLIVETTI: It also buffers us from emotional claims. “I was uncomfortable” doesn’t go anywhere if it’s a contractor doing their job by the book.
KEENE: Perfect. Keep it procedural. Keep it clean. We’re not looking to punish anyone—we’re protecting our pipeline. This isn’t about policing. It’s about preserving value.
MAYS: And if we find nothing?
KEENE: Then the system’s working.
Meeting ends.
“Screening Room Four”
[Olivetti]
I tapped my badge like I always did.
It blinked red.
“ID mismatch. Please report to Screening Room Four.”
For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the panel like it had made a mistake in front of someone important. I almost laughed.
Room Four? That was for interns. For engineers lugging too many cables or junior devs who hadn’t read the protocol memo closely enough. Not me.
I tried my badge again. Red again.
A calm chime followed.
“Please report to Screening Room Four.”
I exhaled and turned.
It wasn’t like I had anything to hide. I was carrying a company tablet, my work phone, and my personal iPhone. All company-issued or registered. All standard. But something must’ve tripped the audit software—maybe a sync lag or overlapping metadata signatures. I’d written the language for that policy myself. The scanners weren’t judging—they were flagging anomalies.
Still, it was annoying.
I had a dinner reservation.
Room Four was smaller than I remembered.
Or maybe it just felt smaller with the door closed behind me.
A compliance contractor greeted me—early 30s, polite, clipboard in hand. I didn’t recognize him. That was by design. The rotation was randomized. Keep it clean, keep it impartial.
“Mr. Olivetti, your badge was flagged on exit due to device duplication and an asset scan variance. We’ll need to review the items and complete a level four verification.”
“Of course,” I said, smoothing my tie. “It’s just the phones and tablet. Happy to unlock them.”
“Appreciate it.”
We started with the devices—first my personal phone, then the work one. My company-issued tablet had a routine dev build open. Nothing sensitive. Nothing I hadn’t reviewed for redaction myself. He noted each serial number, logged the inspection, placed the devices in a secure tray.
I thought we were done. That was my mistake.
The contractor cleared his throat.
“Because of the device count and software overlap, we’ll also need to run a full body x-ray scan.”
“A scan? Really?” I blinked.
“Standard escalation per the duplicate-data protocol. You know how it works.”
Of course I did. I wrote the clause.
But knowing it and living it weren’t the same.
Before I could respond, a second contractor entered with a cart. Lead-lined gown. Gloves. Radiography scanner prepped and humming.
“Please remove your jacket, belt, and watch,” the new contractor said.
I complied.
Then: “Please remove your shirt. Pants and undershirt as well.”
I paused.
“This is a non-invasive scan,” the first one added. “You’ll be clothed again before any additional checks, if necessary.”
The words sounded like legal disclaimers read aloud. That’s what they were, after all. Words I’d signed off on. Copy-edited. Passed through legal risk.
I stripped to my underwear.
The room was cold. Not cruel—just indifferent.
The scanner moved across my frame like a slow, mechanical eye. No one looked at my face.
A third contractor entered, handed a new clipboard to the first. I could make out part of the form: “Secondary Trigger - Visual Inventory Clearance.”
“We’re almost done,” the first man said, not unkindly. “We just need visual confirmation of no unauthorized hardware. Basic final pass.”
Which meant: a full visual inspection.
Not a cavity search. But close.
And not something I could refuse—not without raising my own red flag.
So I nodded.
They were respectful. Professional. Detached.
They called me sir and thanked me and used all the right words.
But by the time I was allowed to redress, the air had changed.
I was sweating behind the collar as I slid my tie back into place.
No one had accused me of anything.
No one had raised their voice.
No one had broken policy.
And yet—
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had broken anyway.
Not because I’d been mistreated.
But because I finally understood.
How sterile compliance could feel like accusation.
How being processed was not the same as being protected.
How I had built this.
“Mitigations”
[Olivetti]
Wednesday, 9:10am – Conference Room E-6
The coffee in Conference Room E-6 tasted like cardboard.
I didn’t drink it. Just held the cup between both hands like it might steady me.
Rhonda Mays arrived three minutes late, tablet in hand, her ID badge still clipped to her blazer pocket.
“Sorry,” she said. “Quarterly onboarding stats ran over. What’s up?”
I gestured for her to sit. She didn’t. Just tapped her screen to wake it up and waited.
“I got flagged at exit yesterday,” I said.
That made her look up.
“You?”
I nodded once.
“Was it clean?” she asked, more out of habit than concern.
“Yeah. Tablet and two phones. Some metadata overlap triggered a scan.”
She gave a soft laugh, shook her head. “God, that’s the system working, I guess.”
“Sure.”
She paused, sensing something under my tone.
“You’re not here to dispute it, are you?”
“No. It was by the book. Every step.” I said it like a curse.
She didn’t flinch. Still standing. Still composed.
“I helped write the escalation language,” I added. “I know exactly what triggered the scan. I know what the contractors are trained to do.”
She nodded again, slower. “So what’s the issue?”
I let the silence hang. Then:
“Have you ever done it?”
“Done what?”
“Gone through a Level Four screening.”
She frowned. “No. I mean, no one ever has reason to flag me. I don’t carry dual devices. I’ve never even gotten a pull for Level Two.”
I gave a soft chuckle. “Yeah. I hadn’t either. Until yesterday.”
She tapped her tablet. “Did something go wrong with the procedure?”
“No,” I said. Then after a beat: “But something still felt… wrong.”
She was watching me now. Curious, but unmoved.
“I’m just wondering,” I continued, “if there’s a way to… minimize the humiliation factor.”
She blinked. “Humiliation?”
“I mean, yeah. The scan. The strip. Three contractors. No eye contact. No dignity.”
She crossed her arms. “They were polite, right?”
“Yes.”
“Professional?”
“Yes.”
“No invasive contact? No deviation from protocol?”
“No. But that’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
I finally looked up from the coffee cup.
“That maybe we designed something that doesn’t feel like security. It feels like punishment. And we didn’t build in any space for that.”
She set her tablet down.
“With all due respect, Seth, this isn’t about feelings. This is about IP security. It’s not supposed to feel good.”
“I’m not asking for it to feel good. I’m asking whether it has to feel like that.”
She didn’t respond.
I tried again.
“If you’d been there—if you’d had to stand under that scanner, stripped down while someone you’ve never met filled out a form about the shape of your body—you’d understand what I mean. I’m not saying we dismantle it. I’m saying… do we have to run it so cold?”
Rhonda sighed, pulled her tablet back into her hands.
“We can explore adding debrief language. A post-scan courtesy statement. Maybe a contact point for emotional feedback. But if you’re looking for a version of this that doesn’t feel like exposure, I don’t think it exists.”
“Maybe not,” I said, quieter. “But we never asked that question when we built it.”
She gave me a small, neutral smile.
“We didn’t have to. We had consent.”
She left the room before I could answer.
“Trigger Condition”
[Olivetti]
I set the flag at 10:47 a.m.
It was simple. I embedded a version-mismatched prototype file—intentionally mislabeled—onto my company tablet. Then tethered my personal phone to my work device via Bluetooth, masking the handshake under a generic diagnostic function. A duplicate connection would get flagged. A classified document in the wrong shell would trigger Level Four.
But the mismatched version? That tipped it to Level Five.
I’d signed off on that designation myself. Presumed extraction intent with internal compromise indicators. It was language meant for worst-case scenarios. A corporate spy. A saboteur. A whistleblower in disguise.
I set the timer for 2:53 p.m.—just before shift turnover, when the day team was prepping to log out and the night team wasn’t fully staffed yet. Security fatigue meets incoming vigilance. Sloppiness meets overcompensation.
The perfect storm.
At 2:52 p.m., I walked calmly toward the exit checkpoint.
The badge scanner blinked red before I reached it.
Two pings. Then a tone. Then a lockout.
I felt the moment the building noticed me.
A voice—neutral, automated—sounded above the door.
“Please remain where you are. Compliance personnel are en route.”
People turned. Some glanced and kept walking. A few paused.
A second voice—human this time, earpiece and clipboard—approached from the elevator.
“Mr. Olivetti, you’ve been flagged for Level Five containment.”
Containment.
The word wasn’t supposed to feel like a verdict. But it did.
“This way, please.”
No cuffs. No escort. Just a path.
But everyone saw me walk it.
Screening Room Nine.
I’d only heard about it. Never used it. Never seen the inside.
The door sealed with a hiss. Not dramatic—just airtight.
The lighting was clinical—white, unblinking.
The walls were soundproofed. The chair was stainless steel.
There were five contractors, not three. And they were tense.
No one said “sir.”
No one said “thank you.”
No one smiled.
Because Level Five meant intent.
They had protocol to follow now, not politeness.
A bag was produced. I was told to strip fully and place all belongings—ID, watch, even my wedding ring—into it.
Then I was instructed to stand in a delineated box, feet spread, arms up.
A male compliance officer entered. A body wand was run across every inch of me.
Then came the internal scanner—small, wheeled, mounted with thermal and biometric sensors. It hummed as it passed over my bare chest, my abdomen, my back.
Then:
“Cavity inspection. Visual and digital. Per Level Five code.”
My mouth went dry.
I nodded. Mechanically.
They were clinical. Gloved. Efficient.
But nothing about it was distant.
I felt it all.
The air.
The pressure.
The way the room never acknowledged I was a person—only a vector.
I submitted to every step. Not to prove something.
To see.
It took 94 minutes.
By the time they cleared me, repacked my clothes, and handed me a form titled Flag Resolved – Inconclusive Breach, I was numb.
The last man handed me a bottle of water and said nothing.
No apology.
No inquiry.
Just compliance.
Outside, the sunset bled orange across the parking lot. I sat in my car for a long time, not turning the engine over.
I had nothing to say.
No outrage to voice.
No argument to make.
Because the system had worked.
Exactly.
As.
Designed.
“Escalation Path”
[Olivetti]
I went home and started a memo.
I titled it something innocuous—Post-Flag Debrief: Procedural Consistency & Optics. Filled it with measured phrases: discretionary escalation fatigue, psychosocial threshold variance, non-carceral compliance culture.
I didn’t send it.
Didn’t even finish it.
Because halfway through, it hit me:
No one would change anything unless they experienced it themselves.
And there was only one name that mattered.
Julian Keene.
The man who used words like preserve value and visibility equals deterrence.
The man who signed off on cavity search language like it was just another line item.
The man who had never once been touched by the machine he greased.
But if a C-suite exec triggered Level Five?
I’d be legally required to witness the search as internal counsel.
It would be my name on the audit log.
And Julian—Julian would have to stand where I stood.
Not in theory.
In body.
A week later, I waited for an opening.
I studied his calendar. Not hard. Shared files. Recurring meetings. Weekly Wednesday check-out at 4:15 p.m. Always an early departure before Thursday board prep.
Perfect.
I opened a fresh message.
Subject: For your afternoon brain melt
Attachment: keene_dogmeme_finalFINAL.gif
The file looked harmless—just a looping GIF of a golden retriever typing on a keyboard.
But buried deep in the image’s metadata was a time-stamped file conflict, piggybacking off an archived visual asset still tagged under “classified.” I’d hidden it months ago, in a test folder, under a project name that no longer existed.
It was barely a violation.
But it would be enough.
Level Five protocol didn’t care about intent. It cared about pattern matches, location overlap, digital artifact bleed.
It was a net designed to snag everything that didn’t fit.
I clicked send.
Screening Room Nine
[Keene]
My last meeting had run long, but I still had time to beat traffic, maybe call my daughter before dinner. I was checking my phone when my badge scanner blinked red.
I tried again.
Red.
Then the voice:
“Please report to Screening Room Nine.”
At first, I assumed it was a mistake. A glitch. I’d never been flagged. Not in fifteen years. Not even a Level One.
But the guard at the checkpoint didn’t smile. He tapped a screen, nodded, and gestured to the elevator.
Screening Room Nine was colder than I expected.
Flatter.
I expected a briefing, a form, some kind of clarification.
Instead: five contractors, all in gray polos, moving with precise, choreographed silence. The lead one—a man maybe ten years younger than me—read from a script as if I wasn’t even there.
“Flagged for Level Five. Visual inspection, radiography, and digital clearance check.”
I opened his mouth to protest.
Then I saw Seth Olivetti walk in.
The look on Seth’s face wasn’t smug.
It was worse.
It was apologetic.
“What the hell is this?” I asked. “They said it’s Level Five. What was flagged?”
Seth kept his tone flat. “Metadata conflict on a restricted asset. It’ll be resolved after inspection.”
I was so annoyed. “This is ridiculous. I have clearance. I wrote clearance.”
“So did I,” Seth said. “Please follow instructions.”
I started rationalizing immediately:
“This will be quick. It’s just a scan. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not the exception. I am not afraid.”
Then came the instructions.
“Remove all clothing, including undergarments. Jewelry and watch, too. Place items in the marked bag.”
I hesitated.
They waited.
So I stripped.
Not with dignity—just efficiency.
I folded my pants. My shirt. Even my underwear.
I placed my Rolex in a plastic tray.
And then I stood—naked, exposed, under the hum of a ceiling light, waiting for something worse.
It came.
A full-body scan, with arms raised, legs spread.
The machine buzzed. The technicians murmured. One noted his body temperature, logged his blood pressure.
Then: “Prepare for internal inspection.”
My mouth went dry.
A second technician entered. Gloves. Lubricant. A flat, professional tone: “This will be brief.”
And then—
The touch. The pressure.
My body betraying itself.
I could feel it happening.
A pulse. A tightening. An erection blooming without warning, without permission, like some cruel joke my nerves were playing on me.
No one said anything.
No one looked surprised.
They kept working.
The technician didn’t pause. Didn’t scowl. Didn’t comment.
Just proceeded.
I wanted to die.
My entire career, I had cultivated control. Of rooms. Of decisions. Of narratives.
And here I was. Hard. Helpless. Held open by protocol.
I stared at the wall.
I counted floor tiles.
I bit the inside of his cheek until it bled.
And when it was over, they handed me a gown and told me to wait while the scan cleared.
I dressed slowly.
No one made eye contact.
The lead technician handed me a printed receipt.
“Level Five: Resolved. No breach.”
No apology.
No smile.
Just release.
I walked to my car, jaw clenched, heart pounding.
Outside, the sun was too bright. The breeze too soft. The world wrong.
And then I saw Seth.
Standing by his car. Watching.
I wanted to scream.
To swing. To ask how could you.
But all I managed was:
“You watched.”
And Seth said:
“Yes.”
And Julian understood something he never had before.
That the system he helped build didn’t care who he was.
That his body didn’t care what he deserved.
That compliance was a blade, and everyone bleeds the same when it cuts.
