The double doors crashed open. The chaos in the hallway was now in the customer service department.

          Six agency thugs swept in, black-masked, yelling orders, kicking wastebaskets and chairs out of the way. Team members screamed. Angry shouts could be heard from the hallway. The doors smacked open again. Employees from other departments flooded in and mobbed the six officers, who pushed forward, deflecting all blows with the batons and riot shields they carried.

          Their target was the empty desk in the furthest corner of the department. Four of the officers stood guard while the other two reached under the desk. Their masked faces were turned to the side as if to avoid blows from below. When they stood up again, it was with a struggling, screaming young woman suspended between them. The crowd followed the officers back through the doors, lying down to block the way. Grabbing at the riot shields. Throwing mugs, staplers, keyboards, anything.


          And the government had given a special name to the mentally ill citizens they came to abduct: neurofrauds.

          At the center of the mob, the department manager bit and screeched. She had ducked under the riot shields and thrown her arms around the waist of one of the two officers attempting to carry away her Social Media Customer Care Associate. The officer stumbled but kept going. Someone behind the manager grabbed her collar but she intensified her hold, trying to bite the officer’s side through Kevlar. Her left hand was clamped onto a strap on the officer’s back as her right scrabbled around his front and side, trying to find a hold.

           Bang. An account rep slammed the outermost officer’s riot shield with a swivel chair. The two officers and the manager crashed to the left. The manager’s temple hit hard plastic. Her scrabbling right hand moved to the pistol, felt a strap release, jerked the weapon out of its holster.

          But before she could imagine what on earth she would do with a gun, an enormous hand descended, grabbing it away. Arms from behind seized her torso and pulled. The officer she clung to shook his leg. The arms wrenched her left and right until she had to let go and was thrown her back into the crowd. The manager picked herself up, red-faced and shrieking, battling forward again to pummel the tailing officer’s shield with her bare hands.

          The crowd crushed around her as she hit, kicked, yelled. And yet still, even in all this chaos, the adverse voice that lectured her every day, every minute, was still talking. You are so f***ed up, it said. You should be terrified. Why aren’t you? How could anyone not be terrified in this situation? What the f*** is wrong with you?

          The manager’s body was talking to her, too. The noise in the hallway was a solid mass that paralyzed logic and freed the body to hit and kick. The blows of the batons were heavy, smarting, but her body surged towards them, every impact bringing release, as though it was busting a door down inside so that her fury could pour out. Maybe, said the adverse voice, this is what it’s like when the hatred outside you is bigger—for f***ing once—than the self-hatred you eat, sleep and breathe. And the fact that that makes you feel better is f***ed up.

          The mob was in the stairwell now, pressing through the uproar. Shields were scraping against walls, railings rang at every baton strike. The manager could just see the top of Social Media’s head disappearing below as the officers turned a corner. The exit door was blocked by riot police with more batons, and the door was being pummeled from the other side by bodies seen through the wire-crossed gaps punched in the frosted glass. The f***ing raid was trashing their f***ing building.

          Suddenly, the lobby. Roaring employees mixed with crazed protestors who’d swarmed the front doors. The security desk, sans security, was mobbed. A TV set slung just under the ceiling was still tuned to the news, the building shown in aerial view, the stream of bodies the manager was part of erupting from the doors and being immediately confronted by riot cops on either side of the walkway. At that moment, the manager herself was swept through the door into the blinding white sunlight. She shaded her eyes to scream curses up towards the low-flying news helicopter and its deafening blades.

          The riot police were forcing the mob into a tighter, slower line. She could no longer see Social Media or the six black-dressed officers who’d dragged the young woman out from under her desk. The manager groaned and hit out at the shields to her right, then fell on her knees and crawled past the heavy stamping boots. She emerged on the other side just in time to see groups of officers shoving the employees they’d seized into a line of white vans. Rage pushed her towards them. Some of her coworkers had also breached the line of cops and were running in the same direction. The whiteness of the vans glared against the black-dressed officers, blackout windows, and the black cavities in the vans’ sides into which the officers pushed sales reps, account managers, customer experience associates, temps, IT, and apparently the rest of the whole f***ing neighborhood. Prisoners secure, the officers climbed in after them. Van doors slammed. Hoods shuddered and the vehicles began to move away.

          The fastest runners had reached the convoy. They were slapping van windows and sides, sprinting in front, pounding on the hoods. Others threw rocks, litter, sticks, their shoes, their phones. The vans moved cautiously but always forward. Gangs of officers plunged into the street and wrestled, pushed, carried struggling bodies away. The line of vans gained speed.

          The manager caught up to a side window and pressed her forehead to the blackout glass. In the shadow of her own face she was able to glimpse a scared, very young woman who wasn’t Social Media. She stumbled sideways and the van left her behind. Still she limped after the bumper, outraged justice spurring her on even as the sun, the noise, and her burning lungs and legs pressed her back.

          Social Media. Also known as Ramona Oakley. The autism diagnosis had been two years ago, at least eighteen months before raids like this had even been thought of. But the diagnosis had taken the manager by complete surprise. And it was a major inconvenience even then.

          To be clear, the whole department had always known Ramona was totally normal. She looked and acted fine. And she was certainly a spectacular employee. But suddenly, Ramona had needed a special desk in the corner. The ceiling light removed from that corner. Email-only communication. A more flexible schedule than anyone else’s.
HR insisted that Ramona’s productivity and even health depended on these changes.

          At that point, the manager realized that HR was full of f***ing snowflakes gone crazy.

          The manager had always fought through her own problems. And boy, she had problems. But the difference was, she wasn’t selfish. She wasn’t weak. She would never put her discomfort on other people. It wouldn’t be fair.

          And now the department had been dragged through one of these horrific raids thanks to Ramona. Special Ramona and other neurofrauds like her.

          The adverse voice had been listening to all this, and now it spoke again. But remember, it said. The raid wasn’t Ramona’s fault at all. The special desk was f***ing irritating. But isn’t everything in your life f***ing irritating? F***ing irritating doesn’t lead to a raid. Doesn’t lead to f***ing abduction. Why are you so f***ing cruel?

           And why the f*** did you fight so hard back there?

Hi! I’m Renee, in Southern California, and I'm looking to build local friendships. I love this virtual community and am also hoping to find nearby connections open to sharing local life now and then, whether it’s for support or fun.

I’m not expecting anything instant or guaranteed, but I'm hoping to meet folks who value authenticity, consistency, and mutual care.

I may come across as reserved in group settings at first—usually because I’m taking in a lot of input and processing—but once I feel comfortable, I’m silly, affectionate, and playful.

If that resonates with you and you're local to Southern California, I’d love to hear from you.

📩 DM me on IG at my side project page: https://www.instagram.com/amotioncaptured/

📩 Not on IG? Email me at theneonlamb [at] protonmail [dot] com. This isn’t my primary email address, which I don’t share publicly for privacy reasons, so thanks for your patience if it takes a bit longer to get back to you.

I’m happy to discuss shifting to another form of communication once we’ve connected.