Taking your focus off of the road for just a moment, you switch over the the Russian dance hits station. Hearing the first few lyrics of your favourite hit, you start to sing along.

	"Vladmir kurst va-"

	WHAM!

	While you were turning on the radio you somehow slipped over into the other lane of traffic, plowing yourself straight into an oncoming car. Your cheaply made convertible is compacted to a third of its original size, and your body takes the full brunt of the impact. Your head is thrown forward into the console, sending a flurry of blood and hair and circuitry into the crisp air, and your knees ram into the underbelly of the steering column, causing the bones of your lower legs to shoot out like inexpensive roman candles.

	"Oh... oh god... oh...." You can't even manage a scream, only a mumbling of near-incoherent begging for life. As your vermillion blood pools in the creases of the blue leather interior, your life flashes before your eyes.

	Images of you in the training academy.

	Images of you sorting files in your early 20s.	

	Images of you going to endless boring meetings.

	You suddenly realize that you've wasted your life, ending up as a lonely man with nothing to show for yourself but a badge and a paycheck. And then you die.