Continued.

After Hours

Getting into the building without a record turned out to be a lot easier than you’d anticipated. No arcane plan required, just mutter to the security guards on your way into the building that you need to go back to your work station after having your car very publicly destroyed. They didn’t even ask what for, nor did you have a reason in mind when you said it.

So. Back in the building. You don’t see a soul on your way to your station. They gave you a whole meeting room to yourself, way more space than you needed, but at least it’s remote and private, basically no chance of anyone noticing you.

It’s 5:14. Amy’s message said the code changes at nine. You log into your machine, crack your knuckles, and get to work.

Countless hours spent probing in and around the Monarch network may not have shown you this secure email system you saw referenced in Amy’s office, but it’s shown you plenty of the nooks and crannies they might hide it in. Sure enough, not an hour later, you find it, a neat little bundle of code in their email protocols. Most of it is mainstream software, the same as you’d see at any company, but this is something novel, something handcrafted for Monarch.

Another hour later, you’re sure of two things. One, this is definitely the secure email system. The access points are so few as to be nearly nonexistent; the only account that seems to have access is Aubrey Merriman’s. Not only did the CEO not even explain to his IT security consultant that this system exists, but leave it to Nolan King to staff out the most secure communications to his administrative assistant.

Pew pew, sir, you think at him irritably.

The second thing you’re sure of is that you’re never going to break into this thing. 4096-bit asymmetric encryption – anything you could try on this would be like trying to batter down a vault door with a wet noodle. Not uncommon, necessarily, but expensive enough that it’s more the sort of thing you’d expect to see trying to hack into a multinational finance company, or a nuclear missile silo. There’s no time to contemplate the quandary of what this barricade is doing at Monarch, and moreover why it’s protecting such a small portion of their data. Hell, it’s most likely something as simple as a guy like King demanding the best and not paying attention to what it cost. He probably had a quarter-million-dollar car in his garage that he drove to the gym.

You’re coming down to the wire. With enough time, you might be able to exploit a weakness in it. A human being, almost certainly, nine times out of ten the chink in any system’s armor. You’re awfully short on human beings to exploit at the moment, though. You’re pretty much alone in the–

The door swings open.

“Oh my gosh!” squeaks the woman letting herself in.

It’s Ingrid. She entered backwards, hauling a heavy custodial cart behind her. You’ve never before thought of a custodian uniform as fertile grounds for fetishization, but Ingrid’s perfectly rounded backside is certainly making you rethink it. Still, there’s no time for ogling. You have an hour and a half to find a way to intercept that code, your best and quite possibly only chance to find out what’s happening on 7.

“Will!” she forgets all about her cart, rushing over to you and bending down to hug you. “I saw the tail end of what happened earlier. That was just awful. I’m so sorry. Are you doing OK? What are you doing here so late?”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not doing great. I thought maybe I’d come up here and use work to take my mind off of things. Been working so-so.”

“Oh yeah, I can only imagine, you poor thing!” The hug intensifies for a moment, and she finally releases you. How can a woman who scrubs toilets and empties waste baskets still smell so good? “Though, um, aren’t you not supposed to be up here? I’m pretty sure everybody’s supposed to clear out at closing time.”

Sweet as she is, you read between the lines that she knows full well you’re not supposed to be in here. In fact, you’re aware that she has a responsibility to report these sorts of breaches of protocol. You helped revise that portion of her training manual not three weeks ago. You’ve breached security before though, and learned early on that nothing attracts scrutiny like a guilty conscience.

“I know, right? It’s so quiet in here at night. Peaceful. Must be nice, working in the building when it’s like this, huh?”

“It actually kinda scares me sometimes. There’s this hallway in the basement that goes out to the dumpsters, and…” She shudders. Still, the inquisitive look in her eye hasn’t gone away.

“Anyway, yeah, I’m working on a project for Amy Marchiano, one of the VPs. She cleared it with the guys downstairs, so don’t worry, you don’t have to snitch on me.” That was an important step, assuring you’d been pre-snitched upon. Made it less likely someone would do their due diligence and report you if they thought someone already had.

Ingrid relaxes immediately, as do you. “Ms. Marchiano? She’s so nice.”

“You two know each other?”

“I wouldn’t say we know each other, but I know her. She works late, and sometimes if I’m cleaning her area she’ll order me a coffee or something. She gets the really fancy kinds, like Starbucks and stuff. It’s good.”

“Oh. Yeah, she’s a real sweetheart.”

“Yep. I just came from up there, actually. Looks like there’s some big secret what-have-you tonight, so they had us do upstairs early. I guess that’s why they have you working late. Duh, Ingrid.”

Amy’s here? Now?

Ingrid, however, is oozing closer to you, and before you know it, she’s sitting in your lap, her legs dangling over the clunky armrests. “You know, she’s not the only sweetheart working tonight,” she purrs, trailing a finger down your chest.

“I’ll say.”

She kisses you. Leave it to the ladies of Monarch to traumatize, terrorize, and tantalize you all in one evening. Glancing at the clock through a veil of red hair, it’s just past 7:30. That leaves a whole hour and a half before the code changes and the secure message is sent. From Ingrid’s casual share, it sounds like Amy plans to bunker down, receive the codes on site.

The zipper on the front of Ingrid’s coveralls slides down, and she pulls your hand inside, moaning as it makes contact with her breast. There’s a t-shirt under there, but it’s steamy warm, like sheets after sex, and you’re sure there’s no bra.

She seems to sense your hesitation, pulling back – though her lips are still only inches from yours – and apologizes, of all things. “I’m sorry, is this a bad time? I just had so much fun on our date, or I guess your date with Avery, and… I’m sorry. I should behave myself. Bad Ingrid.” She looks down, pouting. “I just missed you. And I thought maybe I could help you keep your mind off of things. You deserve it, after the night you’ve had.”

Decision time! Voting takes place for patrons $10+ at https://www.patreon.com/icebear. Results will continue to be posted here for free, though, so no pressure.
“Ingrid” illustrated by Yupachu.

Your choices:

• Let her be nice to you. You deserve it, after the night you’ve had.
• Stay focused! You still don’t even have a plan, and your window is less than ninety minutes as it is.