A Model Employee

Craig woke to applause. Not the scattered applause of a polite audience. This was loud, enthusiastic, almost thunderous. Hundreds of hands seemed to be clapping at once, accompanied by music so loud that Craig could feel the beat through the soles of his shoes.

For several seconds, he had no idea where he was. Then the maroon curtain came into focus. Craig stood behind it, staring at the heavy fabric while coloured lights flickered beneath the gap at the bottom. The music pounded on the other side. Somewhere beyond the curtain, people were cheering.

His heart sank.

The wager.

He looked down. The charcoal pencil skirt and dark blue blouse were gone. In their place was a short black ruffled skirt that barely reached the middle of his thighs. Thigh-high black stockings covered his legs, disappearing beneath a pair of glossy black heels. The purple top was fitted tightly against his torso, its neckline square across his chest, ending in two extremely puffy shoulders.

For one bewildered moment, Craig simply stared. Then he turned. Euphrosyne stood behind him. The goddess looked delighted.

"No dilly-dallying!" she said, clapping her hands together. "You can't win by refusing to participate. Now get out there, cutie!"

"I don't..."

The music changed. A driving beat filled the backstage area. Craig's right foot moved. He looked down at it.

"No."

His left foot followed.

"Wait."

Another step. The curtain began to part. Craig's body kept moving. He tried to stop. Tried to dig his heels into the floor, tried to turn around, tried to do anything that might interrupt whatever strange force had taken control of his body.

Nothing worked.

His feet carried him through the opening. The warehouse exploded into light. For an instant, the brightness blinded him. Then the scene resolved into a runway stretching through the middle of the crowd, surrounded by rows of familiar faces.

His coworkers.

His bosses.

Executives.

People he'd only ever seen in boardrooms or company newsletters.

All of them were looking at him. Not one of them looked anything but thrilled. Then the cheering began.

"Go, Craig!"

"Looking good!"

"Come on, Craig!"

"Show them what you've got!"

The warehouse workers were the loudest. Men he'd spent years lifting boxes beside were standing and cheering as though Craig had just scored the winning goal in a championship game. One of them gave him two enthusiastic thumbs-up. Another clapped above his head.

Nobody laughed. Nobody looked embarrassed for him. They were genuinely happy to see him. The attention should have made him want to disappear. Instead, something in his chest lifted at the sound of his name. For one deeply irritating moment, Craig felt less like a victim being displayed and more like someone the entire room had been waiting to see. That made it much worse, a reminder of how his life, his reality had been perverted by the whims of a mad god.

Craig's body continued down the runway. One foot crossed neatly in front of the other. His hips moved with a rhythm he had never consciously learned. The shoulders stayed relaxed. His chin lifted. One hand rested lightly near his hip while the other swung naturally beside him.

It was absurd.

It was humiliating.

It was also strangely easy. For those few seconds, the runway belonged to him. Hundreds of people were watching, waiting to see what he would do next, and some treacherous part of Craig enjoyed knowing that every eye in the room would follow him wherever he went.

The runway seemed to tell his body exactly what to do. Every step landed precisely where it needed to. Every turn happened at exactly the right moment. His heels struck the floor in time with the music, producing a crisp, rhythmic click beneath the pounding bass. Craig had never walked like this in his life. But apparently, some part of him knew how.

The audience drank in every step, captivated by every gesture he made. It felt different from being noticed. At work, people glanced at Craig and moved on. Here, hundreds of eyes followed him deliberately. Every movement was being examined. Every change of direction drew another burst of applause. He felt exposed, vulnerable, but at the same time, strangely powerful.

Then something happened. His stomach churned. Craig's mind split. There was no pain. No dizzying sensation. One moment, he was walking down the runway in the black skirt and purple top.

The next, he was also standing backstage.

"Wha..."

Backstage Craig looked down. The outfit had changed. A delicate pink lingerie set had replaced the clothes he'd been wearing seconds earlier. Craig stared at himself.

"What the hell?"

Euphrosyne giggled.

"Better get that tushy moving, babe. Sounds like your fans want more."

"Wait..."

The backstage Craig's feet moved. The curtain opened. Out he went.

At the same time, the first Craig continued walking down the runway.

Craig could see himself ahead. He could see himself behind. He could see the audience reacting to both versions of him. Yet none of it felt confusing. There were simply two perspectives occupying the same mind.

Two Craigs.

Two outfits.

Two places.

The first Craig reached the end of the runway and turned. The second emerged from behind the curtain. Their eyes met. For one surreal second, Craig watched himself watching himself. Then both versions continued.

His mind split again. A pink tutu appeared around his waist. Knee-high socks covered his legs. Ridiculously high platform shoes elevated him several inches. A giant lollipop appeared in one hand. Craig stared at it.

"What the hell?"

Behind him, Euphrosyne clapped enthusiastically.

"Get out there, sweet cheeks!"

Craig looked toward her.

"Why am I wearing..."

"Those outfits aren't for me," she said, pointing toward the runway. "They're for them!"

The curtain opened. Craig stepped through.

Another version of himself was already walking toward the far end of the runway. Another was halfway back. Another was approaching from behind. The warehouse had become a strange procession of Craigs. One in black. One in pink. One in the ridiculous tutu. All of them moving with the same confident model's stride. Confidence, Craig realized bitterly, looked different when multiplied. One version of him might have seemed ridiculous. Three looked intentional. Five looked like a performance. By the time he stopped counting, it was difficult to see himself as the frightened man backstage at all.

And the crowd loved it. Cheers rolled through the room. Applause followed him from one end of the runway to the other. People shouted his name. Several coworkers were laughing, but not at him. They were laughing with the sheer joy of watching something impossible unfold in front of them.

Craig wanted to scream. Instead, he smiled. Not because he wanted to. Because the body wearing the clothes knew exactly what expression belonged on a runway.

Another outfit. Another walk. Another version of himself.

Haute couture followed the tutu. A dramatic black gown with a neckline made of scraps of fabric.

A tiny tight red dress.

A ridiculously revealing Halloween nurse's costume.

A horny teenager's idea of how an angel dressed.

The same teenager's idea of a devil.

A stripper version of Wonder Woman.

Velma from Scooby-Doo.

A dress that seemed to be made of spikes, bubbles, and crepe paper.

A tiny black vinyl bikini.

A racy pirate costume.

Every time Craig reached the curtain, the version of himself returning backstage simply ceased to exist. Not vanished in a flash. Not transported somewhere.

Gone.

As though that Craig had only existed for the purpose of completing that particular walk.

Then another appeared. New clothes. New outfit. New walk. The process became almost impossible to follow. Craig stopped trying.

There was something deeply unsettling about watching himself multiply across the runway while simultaneously experiencing every version of himself. He could see the crowd from different angles. Hear the music from different positions. Feel the floor beneath several pairs of shoes at once.

Yet somewhere beneath the surreal confusion was a clock. Time was passing. The wager remained. Thirty minutes. He needed to make the experience last, slow down in some way.

At first, Craig had been certain he would win. There were simply too many outfits. No matter what magic Euphrosyne had used, there had been no way he could possibly model everything in half an hour. But now...

The racks were emptying. One after another, garments disappeared. A dress that had seemed buried beneath dozens of others was suddenly the next outfit.

Then another.

Then another.

Craig began counting.

Ten minutes.

More outfits.

Twelve.

More.

Thirteen.

Still more.

The magic didn't slow.

Neither did he.

At fifteen minutes, Craig returned backstage wearing a black leather dominatrix outfit.

Euphrosyne was waiting for him as he stepped through the curtain, clapping enthusiastically. A moment later, Craig vanished, only to reappear in a pink fishnet bodystocking that did little to cover the black lacy bra and panty set beneath it.

"You're doing so well!"

"Fifteen minutes?" Craig said, staring at the clock on the wall. "It's only been fifteen minutes?!"

"About that."

He looked toward the racks. There were only a few outfits remaining. His stomach dropped.

"How is this even impossible?" he asked, remembering wearing every outfit on the racks, a task that should have taken hours, but even his own mind told him it was only a few minutes.

"I'd say about five more minutes and we'll be finished," Euphrosyne said through her smile.

Craig looked desperately toward the curtain. His coworkers were still cheering. Daniel Mercer, his immediate supervisor, was sure to be applauding enthusiastically. Even the company's owner had appeared to be enjoying himself.

"This is a nightmare," Craig muttered.

"Why?"

"Because I'm wearing this," he complained. "In front of everyone I know!"

"I think you look wonderful," Euphrosyne said as she glanced down at the fishnet stocking. "Besides, it doesn't feel all bad, does it? Admit it. It's nice to be admired."

"That's not the point."

"Your boss seems impressed."

"That's also not the point."

Craig stepped closer.

"Can't we call it a draw?"

Euphrosyne tilted her head.

"A draw?"

"You used magic."

"Of course I did."

"That means you cheated."

"Magic is who I am, cutie-pie," the goddess said, genuinely puzzled. She reached out and adjusted his bra strap. "I can't stop being magic any more than you can stop being fabulous."

"That's exactly what I'm trying to do!"

"No, it isn't." Euphrosyne laughed. Craig glared at her. "Now get that cute behind out there and show it off."

The curtain opened. Craig walked. The runway seemed longer now. Or perhaps he was simply noticing more of it. His heels struck the floor.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The music surged around him. His body responded without hesitation. One foot in front of the other. Hips moving. Shoulders back. Chin raised. Turn. Pose. Return.

Another Craig passed him in the opposite direction. Then another. Soon, one was walking ahead of him and another was walking behind. Craig caught sight of himself in a reflective panel near the edge of the runway and saw three different versions of his own face looking back. It should have been terrifying. Instead, it felt oddly normal, as if he'd always been that way.

The final outfits began disappearing from the racks.

One remained.

Then two.

Then one again.

Craig found himself backstage. The final outfit appeared around him. A blue denim miniskirt. A pink tube top. A white leather jacket. Blue boots. Craig looked at the clock. His stomach sank.

Only nineteen minutes had passed.

"No."

"Last one!" Euphrosyne smiled.

Craig stared at the empty racks. The wager had been lost. His one chance. His one loophole. His one opportunity to return to the life he'd spent the last week and a half desperately trying to reclaim.

Gone.

All because he'd been so certain that the challenge was impossible.

The curtain opened. Craig stepped onto the runway. Cheers erupted. He walked. His body knew precisely how to carry itself. The boots landed with confident rhythm. His hips swayed with each step. His shoulders remained loose. His expression settled into the practiced smile of someone completely comfortable being watched.

The audience adored him. Flowers were being thrown. Craig couldn't decide whether that made him feel better or worse.

Somewhere beneath the music, beneath the applause, beneath the surreal parade of clothes and duplicated versions of himself, one thought remained painfully clear. He had lost. Eros wasn't going anywhere. The dresses weren't going anywhere. The heels weren't going anywhere. And Euphrosyne had just won herself an evening in which Craig had promised to do whatever she wanted.

He reached the end of the runway. Turned. And started back.

Another Craig was walking ahead of him. For a moment, the two versions walked together to the beat of the music, hips swaying in tandem. Craig watched himself disappear behind the curtain. Then looked toward the audience.

Hundreds of people were still smiling. Still cheering. Still watching.

The strange reality of the moment settled over him. This wasn't just a private magical punishment anymore. His coworkers had seen it. His bosses had seen it. The owner had seen it. The investors had seen it. Every one of them had watched Craig become the centre of attention in a fashion show he had never wanted to hold.

He wondered what would happen on the next day. What his boss would say. What his coworkers would remember. What his career would look like after this.

Then another thought crept in. More troubling than all the others.

What exactly did Euphrosyne have planned for tonight?

The music continued. Craig kept walking. And somewhere backstage, a goddess of joy was waiting for him.