You are Lillian Daw. You are in an elevator. The head of communications wanted to speak to you, something relating to inter-office communication management. You don't have your rifle.

The elevator rumbles and shake as you ascend. Or descend? You can't exactly tell. The office always felt deceptive in its size. Not impossibly so in the more normal areas, but you never could get a proper estimate The wheels of the elevator car squeak and bounce, making your own wheelchair do the same. You don't have your rifle.

You were always uncomfortable with being alone in elevators, since you were a kid. Was it trauma from something you can not begin remember? Is it some kind of extremely specific claustrophobia? When you were a kid, the second apartment your family ever moved to, had an elevator. Once, your wheelchair tipped over in it and you fell. It didn't take too long to fix yourself, but could that have been the trauma? It barely was trauma. It couldn't have been that. You don't have your rifle.

Your hands tug at the cloth of your skirt. If you had your tarot deck, you'd be using it to stim and relax. But it's back at your cubical, back in your floor. The rumbling of the elevator is ever present, your chair bounces on occasion. Was this anxiety from the card you drew this morning? Temperance, reversed. Lack of balance? Impatience? You feel impatient, you want this elevator ride to end. You don't have your rifle.

You breath. The air is ever so musty, in the elevator. It'll be okay. There are no monsters in the comms department. Team 8C regularly clears out that floor. Gina's crew. Yeah, Barbra can be a jerk, but Ted is chill, and Gina and Samantha are both cute. And again, they clear comms on the regular. It's alright. You… you don't need your rifle. Just go to Michael's office, talk to him, go back down to HR, and be reunited with your rifle. It's more comfortable to have your rifle with you, than not. You don't have your rifle.