I line the writing implements meticulously upon my desk.

Beginning from the far left, my prized fountain pen, gifted to me by our class rector for graduating with Executorial honors. It has not written a single glyph nor made mark upon page, yet it is the most important of all my tools.

Second, moving inwards towards the center of my desk, a simple mechanical graphite pencil. Not often used due to contaminants in the lab space. In fact, it bears no load with which to write. Yet it has its place upon my desk and thus it must remain.

Next, three identical ink well pens. Each was given to an individual member of staff upon joining the department, though none of these particular three were the one I was entrusted. Invariably they have found themselves upon my desk through neglect. Like their graphite neighbor, they are not used often for the simple reason of technological inferiority. What use is a fallible ink-pen when light-scribe stylus is so ubiquitous? They have long since gone dry. My constituents laugh and tell me to dispose of them. They do not understand the danger I would invite by doing so. They have their place upon my desk, and their place must not be disturbed.

Sixth, my light-scribe stylus, wide aperture. Often used for group thought boards or drafting large scale designs. I find its stroke overbearing, but it is sister to its more graceful brother, and thus it has a place upon my desk.

Lastly, the true workman's tool. The light-scribe stylus, narrow aperture. The polythene grip worn smooth and faded from years of use, it is the weapon of choice for the academic, and I wield it well.

For such an important tool, it deserves a place of honor rivaled only by my decorative fountain pen. The seventh placement. Such a wonderful number. Would it be too far to consider it deific? I think not. One must only look towards our hallowed principles, or the halls of ascension on Lua to see the evidence for such a lofty claim. It is a perfect number in so many ways, and here it is represented in all its glory upon my humble work-desk.

Next-

My hand stops upon the next tool. Beneath my calloused fingers is a small metallic rod leading to sharpened metal point, the other end adorned with a darkened wooden handle. Natural wood, to my eye. I understand it to be a stone-worker's awl, of course, but I do not understand its purpose HERE. In a lab focused on Void theory. Upon MY desk.

My stomach churns. I stare deeply into the glazed wooden surface, and the grain swims, twisting into mocking spirals that lead ever inwards. I see chaos in the handle.

I recoil as if burnt, yet more horrors await me. A NINTH tool. Another light-scribe stylus, marked with different wear on the grip than my own, and even bearing stains of some sort upon its length. It is askew at a sloppy angle away from the other tools, like dislocated bone. It is not my stylus, and yet it is on MY desk.

The realization of this descends upon me all at once and dispels any final self control I had. I grasp my desk, lurch over the side, and vomit into my wastebasket.

As I wipe the sick from my mouth, my heart falls. Another violation of my sanctum. My wastebasket is no longer there, and in its place, half digested food now steams upon the laboratory floor.

"Woah, are you alright sir? Do you need me to call a Lorist?"

I look up to see a young woman in Archimedean stole, but whom I do not recognize. She is carrying a small stack of thin marble slates.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Whatever expression I am wearing now must be horrid. She simply stares, mouth opening and closing like landed fish before quickly turning away and continuing on her path.

A part of me weeps for her, as she does not know her fate.

For my desk is more than a desk, you see. It is a barometer that is reflective of the un-knowable pressure crushing upon us at every moment. It indicates precisely the order with which things are dictated, and if my workspace is not ordered, it becomes a conduit.

A single ripple cast by errant stylus, misaligned chair, or missing wastebasket. The ripples dart across the surface of our real, becoming waves, and break upon matters of consequence.

These are more than annoyances. These are inciting events of entropic chaos. Carefully, I push myself away from my desk.

A man's arm is crushed in the automatic hydraulic door of a transit shuttle. My body weight slides the desk off center and the sibling pens shift.

A Child comes into contact with a pathogen that will spread and kill their infant sister. Their mother will blame them for the rest of their life.

I brace myself to stand, and my fingers nudge the stone worker's awl.

A young man decides to take a shortcut through an alley and encounters a desperate thief. They struggle. The young man is stabbed through his ribs, and the blade finds his heart. Wracked with guilt, the thief turns to drink and incites a fight at his local tavern. The bartender intervenes. A wayward punch crushes the bartender's nose, and the collapsing cartilage gives way. Force continues into the bartender's frontal lobe, and blood wells in the grey matter. As he falls, he splits his skull on his brand new synthetic wood countertop. The medical response is lethargic in the downtrodden sector, and he dies on the floor of his establishment. He leaves behind no family. His genetic legacy ends.

My body shakes, safely away from my desk. I must find out how this unprecedented violation of my sanctum has occurred, and WHY.

In the sunken central area of the lab I behold numerous piles of rubble, stone, and metal. Disorganized. Surrounded by an eclectic selection of tools in various states of wear. Only now do I realize I have been ignoring the crowd of people forming at the speaker's dais in the center of the lab, excitedly clamoring around something on the floor. Someone.

I see the young woman from before push through the murmuring crowd and hand the slates to the person on the floor in their midst. She says something to them and then turns and points at me.

The crowd grows silent, parting as they turn away from the center to look where she is pointing. Their faces are painted in a mixture of confusion, pity, and disgust.

Upon the dais I see a man. He is not one of my lab associates, but I know him from somewhere. He is so familiar, and yet I do not know how.

Many assistants or clerical aides come and go in the academic halls, so half remembering one should not be unusual. Yet my inability to recall this man in particular disturbs something within me I cannot describe.

My skin slicks with sweat, sticking robe to flesh. Though empty, my stomach threatens to turn itself out once more in protest. Shoulders tense and muscles ache as my mind tries desperately to recall this familiar stranger.

He looks up from the stone slate, finishing whatever he was carving into it. He holds an awl identical to the one on my desk.

I know that if I do not remember who this man is, something horrible will happen.

He looks at me. He smiles warmly.

I know I can stop this, but only if I call out to him. Only if I can remember his name.

He carefully, almost lovingly begins turning the surface of the stone slate to face me.

I scream, and flee the room in terror.

As my footfalls echo behind me in the facility hallways, I realize I am alone. There are no strolling academics or clerical aides idly chatting in the ornamental recesses. No bored Dax fulfilling their rounds. Not even drones maintaining the gilded tile floors. I am alone.

I continue to run.

I am alone.

I continue to run.

I am alone.

You never really knew him [https://i.imgur.com/AbNwuWh.png]