I am RPC 209. I am easily contained inside of regular container chamber. There are no lights myself. It is very cold, almost freezing. The cell walls are made of hard metal. No where to sleep at the floor. My body aches every morning as I wake up. The room is empty. A small opening exists at the bottom of the cell door. They use this opening to slide food into the room. I get two meals a day if I'm lucky. I am a normal human male with only one anonymous property. Only I am able to record information about myself. Anyone else, including authority researchers, are completely unable to document anything about me, even through medium such as audio recording. As much as attempting to do this will cause instantaneous death, most commonly through respiratory failure. Of course, this means that I must create every document that relates to myself. This includes research logs, confidential emails, and even this very document. The authority is forced to allow me to know every piece of information about myself, every detail. As of this, they have to have nested aside me often. They remove the knowledge of what I know, but the pain the memory causes still there. Amnestics can't remove raw emotion. I don't know, can't know what I once knew, but the suffering continues to eat away at me. Massive holes exist in my memories. My life is a series of disjointed segments between voids of nothing. It hurts. I can't help but think about all the possible things I've written that have been deleted from my mind. Every single communication someone that's had to make regarding me, I had to write. Countless conversations, me playing both sides before being removed from my head. I'd imagine at one point I had to write an email on behalf of the head researcher to the site director regarding my own termination. That seems like something that would happen eventually, given enough time. Of course, ultimately, I was never terminated. I could only assume this because they need me for something. They must have a reason to keep me around. The authority has many ways of getting what they want from me. Often they tell me exactly what to write, word for word. If I transcribe their message, as they say, I am let back to myself. If I am not so cooperative, they try to coerce me. I can only imagine the threats they've made to me that have been erased with them nestics. I can't take it. I decided that I would stop recording anything from them at all. They tried to get me to work. They said they'd take away my cell bed, the lights, heating. They did all those things. I didn't budge. I wouldn't do what they wanted. I have an urking feeling in the back of my mind that this has already happened several times over. No matter what they try to do, I eventually defect. No matter how many times they wipe my memories and start over. They threw me into my empty cell and left me there alone. I shivered in the darkness. They passed a tray of food through the door slot twice a day, every day, with no other interaction. One day, the cell door opened. A burst of light built a pitch black room. It burned my eyes after being accustomed to the darkness for so many days. After a moment, I saw a figure piercing through the light. A man in the blue suit grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me up to stand. He put me on a metal leash and dragged me down the hall. I nearly fell. My legs too weak to carry my own weight. He pulled me along anyway. We reached a room, simmered to my cell. It was cold with rusty walls, a single dim light hung from the center of the ceiling. He threw me into the room and spoke. This is your last chance to cooperate. My head had smashed against the floor when he flung me in. My jaw stung relentlessly. I turned my head to face him and spoke one word through the pain. No. He closed the iron door. The light shut off and I was left alone. After what felt like an hour, the door reopened. The lights were still off. A new figure stood in the door frame and object in his hands. I couldn't make out what it was at first. He walked into the room and turned on the light. It filled the room with an ugly yellow glow and a monotonous buzz. He was holding a clipboard and a pin. He handed them both to me. He told me to write down everything I knew about myself. Probably to find out that they forgot to have messed usize me for anything. Again, I said no. He didn't pull out a pistol from his back pocket, loaded it, and placed the end of the barrel against the back of my head. It was colder against my skull than my cell ever was. Again, he told me to write. That's what this document is. It isn't what you ask for and I don't care. You've already broken my spirit, my mind, and my soul. You might as well break my skull as well. A single bullet is all it take. I'm calling your bluff.