"Fuck!" Bob's eyes flew open as he half sat up in bed, a sudden and tremendous pressure on his bladder having yanked him out of his slumber.

He looked down to find his cat sitting primly on Bob's abdomen, happily kneading his stomach. "Monroe," he grumbled as he attempted to nudge the twenty-four-pound cat off. "Mreow," Monroe replied as he proceeded to hop off his human servant and lead the way to his tragically half-empty food bowl.

Bob sat up and swung his legs off the bed. He glanced at the alarm clock. Five AM. He was due to wake up in half an hour anyway. With a sigh, he stood up and followed Monroe to the food bowl, which was not, despite Monroe's insistence, empty. He dutifully topped up the bowl and made sure the water was still flowing into his cat bowl via the fancy automatic fountain.

He ambled into the bathroom, taking a seat on the porcelain throne. No sooner had his cheeks hit the seat, than Monroe came barreling in, winding around his legs before settling down in Bob's pooled boxers. Bob smiled and recalled the warning the man at the shelter had given him six years ago. "Ya gotta know that this guy is a lover - he's gonna want to be around you all the time - and I mean all the time. He's gonna follow you into the bathroom, and hopefully, your girlfriend is ok with threesomes because he will hassle you in the bedroom too".

"Morning buddy," he said as he reached down and scritched Monroe's ears, causing the internal purr-motor to start rumbling.

Bob had adopted Monroe when he started working on his masters. Six years had gone by in a flash, and he couldn't imagine life without him.

After completing his morning ablutions, wherein Monroe watched from the edge of the tub as he showered and shaved, he headed for the kitchen and fired up the stove. Eggwhite omelet for him and scrambled egg yolks for Monroe. Bob liked mornings. He didn't have the built-up tension and anger that inevitably plagued him by the time he got home from the Lab. He spent half an hour just relaxing, eating breakfast, cleaning up the dishes, and playing with Monroe.

Sadly all good things must end; he found himself grinding his teeth as he locked his apartment door and headed towards the stairs. Why did every day have to feel like a battle?

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Bob closed his eyes and focused on keeping his breathing calm. When Cal-Tech had announced they were reactivating Fermilab in Illinois, he had been ecstatic. He had applied for and been accepted to do his masters work, part of the first group of undergrads to work on the Particle Accelerator as it was being refurbished and brought back online. But years had passed, and while others had gone on to submit their thesis, he had somehow gotten stuck.

His latest submission had received a reply, which merely read "Rejected. Derivative of an ongoing project, revise and resubmit."

They didn't even try anymore. When he had submitted his first proposal, he had received a flowery rejection and been directed towards a different avenue. The rejections had started to become a bit condescending. Then sarcastic. And now this.

He opened his eyes. He forwarded a copy of the message to his personal email address, his Cal-Tech address, and then the Head of Department.

Bob shut down his PC and grabbed his phone from his desk drawer and headed towards the Administrative section of the Lab.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

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The Administrative section was empty, which wasn't terribly unusual. The director of the lab encouraged a more 'out of the office, out on the floor' approach, which had resulted in the administrative staff spending their time meeting with people directly and in person, rather than the more common unending chain of emails.

With a scowl, he made his way back to his desk.

It didn't matter. He could try to argue his case, but the result would be the same.

Bob sat down in his chair and stared at the dark monitor. He tried to unclench his teeth and calm his breathing.

He was just so fucking tired.

And for what? It was clear he wasn't ever going to accomplish his goals here. He was treading water, barely staying afloat. He lived in a shitty one-bedroom apartment in a bad neighborhood. He took side jobs in the evening translating textbooks into Spanish, a language common in the neighborhood he grew up in, which he had further learned in high school and perfected in college. He made enough to live on, barely.

So why stay? It was clear that the powers that be didn't want him here. He took several deep breaths. He loosened his jaw, realizing that it was aching from the strain. "I'm done," he said quietly. He turned on the PC, signed in, and started sending all his work files to his personal email, before sending a request to have his drive backed up at three pm, then starting a full format and restore.

'I'm twenty-seven, I'm in good health and good shape,' he thought as he packed up his few personal items into his briefcase. 'I make less than someone working at a fast-food restaurant. I can do almost anything and live on the income.'

'I have my degree, if not my master's,' Bob thought, 'the past three years have been a perfect example of the sunk cost fallacy.'

Bob took a deep breath and picked up the nameplate on his desk, which read "Robert Whitman." With a shrug, he dropped in the trash and towards the director's office.

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He approached the director's office for the second time that day, only to find his way barred by the director's assistant. "Can I help you?" Anita asked. "Yes, I need to see the director," he replied with an inward sigh. He had gotten a general impression that Anita didn't like him, although he wasn't sure why.

"The Director isn't in; she is supervising a project being tested on the accelerator," Anita responded gruffly. Bob nodded and replied, "Thank you, I'll catch up to her at the Lab." He turned to go and heard Anita mutter behind him, "I can't wait till they bounce him out the door."

He eventually reached the control room for the accelerator and found the place crowded with people who all seemed to universally dislike him. The director, the head of HR, his department head, and Amber, a research fellow that he shared office space with. The door was open, and their backs were to him as he approached.

"Well, of course, I expect this to prove out, despite Robert taking my code and bungling it," Amber said as she leaned over a keyboard. "I can't believe he had the audacity to submit that project as his own," the head stated with a wink towards Amber, but unseen by the director. "Yes, well this is the final straw, I've given him plenty of chances to adapt to the times and take a reconciliatory tone, but he just can't look outside himself and see the problems he causes," the director responded.

"And done," said Amber as she stood up and continued, "I had to fix about eight hundred lines of code, but I'm ready now," she finished.

Bob fumed and started to take a step forward to explain that Amber was, in fact, plagiarizing ~his~ work, then stopped. He turned around and quietly walked down the corridor next to the accelerator. 'It doesn't matter,' he told himself, and he loosened his tie as his mind started cycling up, working on a plan. His lease was up next month, and he could spend that time taking on more translation work and finding a job that less closely resembled hell. He was jerked from his thoughts as he heard the particle accelerator begin winding up and frowned. That was his work they were trying to prove, after all. The dull pulse of the accelerator increased, then suddenly stuttered and began to become increasingly erratic.

Bob paused midstep, concerned. "She wouldn't have fucked with the impulse parameters," he muttered as he started to turn back towards the control room. "She can't possibly be that stupid," he said out loud as he began to hurry back as the sound reached a chaotic crescendo, and the world turned blindly white, then black.