May 11th 

Can hardly stop breathing. Just experienced the most distressing day of my twenty-year career.

The QFC-235 performed fine, as expected. Even as I was subconsciously finding ways to take it in for another extended period, they just continued to praise the efficiency of the device. Started by dry-firing (hardly a fitting word) at non-organic targets, then moved on to various discarded dissection specimens. I wondered if a Land Squid would be among them, but they were all of different, smaller types. It felt disturbing to be torching corpses. I had done it plenty of times before, but it felt different now, as though I’d never thought of them as corpses before.

Then Dr. Byrnes put his hand on my shoulder and told me he had one last test to run. He took me to the other side of the range, pointed to a cage-like chamber that was sealed shut on the other end of the red firing line, and gave a whistle. 

As the cage opened, I saw what it contained. It was a weak but struggling Land Squid. It was strapped to the floor with metal claws, its legs either broken or simply bending in a position that seemed unnatural to my sensibilities. They had a leather strap wrapped around all of its tendrils that kept it muzzled like a dog. It was pushing a green substance out of its leathery pores that seemed like a sweat of raw desperation. Its cloudy eyes met mine for a moment, and I can only describe what I saw in them with inadequate comparisons. More than anything, it looked like an animal that didn’t want to die. I looked at Dr. Byrnes with what I imagine was an expression of pure concern, and he asked me to kill it.
Maybe if I had just refused I would feel differently about what happened, but I didn’t. I tried for close to two minutes to will myself to edge the nozzle into firing mode, but my hands felt unresponsive. When Dr. Byrnes finally stepped forward to do the job himself, I let out a shriek and discharged a quick burst. The gurgled whimpering of the creature stopped, the struggling stopped, everything stopped. One minute it had been there and the other minute it was gone. There wasn’t even a pile of ashes or a scorch mark on the ground. The only evidence that it had been there at all were the claws that had held it in place and the leather straps that had been wrapped around its mouth, which laid uselessly on the ground.

Dr. Byrnes looked at my face long enough to assess what was stamped plainly on it and then ended the demonstration. He knows I felt too sorry and squeamish to kill it, even though he doesn’t say it. But he doesn’t understand why. As I packed up the prototype, he told me he’d email me with a review of the results soon, but he did it in the soft tone of someone placating a mental patient. I feel embarrassed, sick, and ashamed. He thinks I’m crazy and I killed another thinking creature. What have I done?

I wonder what it was thinking as it stared me down for those two minutes when I was fiddling, trying to bring myself to murder it. Was it angry? Afraid? Ready to die? I don’t know. I just don’t.

I make weapons, but I can’t use them. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

Feeling restless tonight. Not sure how much sleep I’ll get. I don’t know if the QFC is painless.

Signed, 
Dale R.