Scraps of tartan

"No sign of the asset, ma'am… but we've found evidence of some tampering with her collar."

Jesse had once again managed to fade into the background when they arrived at their destination: one of a seemingly infinite number of identical, dilapidated warehouses in this part of the city. A district where most people would never even think to set foot, acessed only really by the Algorithm’s armies of automated cargo drones. All the stores and resources a billion-strong urban population could need, packed away as conveniently as possible in inventories known only to the machine-mind which governed them all. The perfect place to hide, and one utilised as such by those at all levels of society.

Corporate security scuttled everywhere, sending up drones and scanning for DNA traces. Their dark jumpsuits emblazoned with a whole variety of shell-company logos, but the ones clearly in charge proudly showing the badge of Stanfield’s academy itself. It was only these that dared approach the headmistress, carefully presenting what evidence they'd recovered: a shorted-out flexitab with some of its circuitry pulled out and exposed, a few discarded cans of soft drink and a scrap of clothing that had caught on a broken fence.

"The tab belongs to a 'Harvey Wisson', researcher for a small AI and programming lab two blocks over… They're 'independent', but the investment trail leads back to 'Carter and co.', sure enough."

The techie corpo speaking was the normal coagulation of colour-changing tattoos and cybernetic enhancements, making it hard to tell which were aesthetic and which were functional. The ease and speed at which she'd brought life back into the seemingly destroyed machine surely a terrifying thought for any who might want to hide the traces of themselves in technological society.

Victoria Stanfield didn't even blink at the mention of her new 'business partner's' name, though her mind did flash back to the look on the man's face at dinner. That had seemed like genuine surprise. Having a covert lab buried under false ownership in the less visited parts of the city wasn’t exactly unusual behaviour for any corporate entity, in fact it was fairly standard practice. Yet, such a place might be one of the only and easiest ways to gain access to the encryptions in her student's collars, since the board had just handed it over to young master Carter for his little experiment. Her mind raced at all the possible connotations here… there had to be something she was missing.

You didn't get to work for Madame Stanfield very long without getting used to scantily-clad young things prostrating themselves in front of you in their short school skirts. Jesse had slipped from the car and got to work on a couple of the more bored-looking guards standing around. Instantly becoming invisible to all the higher beings discussing this mystery in hushed tones. He was becoming more and more aware of how much you could get away with as long as visibly you were fulfilling your role as a sex object. Dominants just seemed to forget you had eyes and ears at all if you were sucking their cock well enough, and the sissy was practised enough at that to not need to focus on it 100%.

His focus was drawn immediately to the small scrap of snagged fabric that was being bagged up for analysis later. Its tartan pattern was more than familiar, for he went to school in a miniskirt marked with it everyday. Suddenly the reality of what was happening here really hit home: One of his classmates was missing.

The little femboy tugged at his collar nervously. Over time that band of **** tightness around his throat had almost grown reassuring. A constant reminder that his betters were watching over one shoulder, ensuring both that he was behaving as a good little slutwife should and that no-one took any advantage of him without paying for the privilege. He thought back to all the compromising situations he'd found himself in over the past few months; barely dressed and balancing on pinprick heels. Relying entirely on the threat of swift, infallible corporate retribution to keep punters and predators from abusing him in any way more than they could afford.

If that certainty turned out to actually be fallible in any way, then the whole system broke down. How was he supposed to feel safe to serve himself over to strangers if everything wasn't recorded, registered… recognised as right by the Grand Algorithm? It actually brought an acrid taste to the back of his throat, behind the lathering of semen it had just received. A dislocating panic that stretched guiltily out past simple worry for his lost classmate and into self-centred dread about what this might mean for all of those delegated to life upon their knees.

Only one figure stood as a nail, holding back Jesse’s fears: Madame Stanfield stood silent and stern in the midst of all the scurrying security personnel, sharp eyes flashing just as keenly as when she personally directed a class of her students in erotic performance. The sissy gazed up at his headmistress adoringly. With her in charge, those responsible for this would be caught and punished quickly… of that he was sure. All Jesse had to do was keep his head down and bobbing.