Report to 7

7

The pass code works, and moments later, the elevator doors open up on 7. You aren’t sure what you expected, but whatever it was, this isn’t. It’s an empty hallway, nothing more.

Not sure where you’re expected to go, precisely, much less why you’re going there, you head for the nearby double doors. They open into a T intersection, but in neither direction do you see anyone. You start down one way, but the first two room numbers you see are 714 and then 715. Doubling back, you pass by two rooms before reaching the one Aubrey mentioned, 711. There’s no light visible through the narrow crack under the door, and it’s locked. There’s not even a handle, only some sort of scanner next to the door. You venture to knock, but there’s no reply there either.

Professionally, you have mixed feelings on the ethics and viability of biometric security measures, but there’s no denying it bespeaks an investment on Monarch’s part.

“Well, nobody can say I didn’t report to 711,” you mutter, wiping your hands of it and turning to leave. Maybe

HOLD STILL YOU DON’T WANT ME TO

it’s best you find someone. You continue down the hall, ears perked, and then around the corner. You reach 706, where at last, there’s an open door. It’s a strange room, more what you’d expect to see in a hospital than a tech company. Cabinets line the fringes of the room, one with a sink inset. In the middle is a bed coated in a sheet of tissue paper. Your blood quite nearly runs cold, but there’s no restraints, no mysterious syringes or ominous instruments. Some sort of medical clinic? Creepy, but you suppose a first aid station isn’t the weirdest thing you’ve encountered at Monarch.

Two more doors down, you find another, this one a much less off-putting small office. There’s a woman bent over the desk, stirring a sugar packet into her coffee mug. Before you even see her face, you’re struck that she isn’t one of those more noteworthy Monarch women. A little extra weight around the middle, a little too short, the occasional gray strand in her otherwise dark hair. You clear your throat and give a knock on the doorframe right as she’s taking a sip at her mug.

She hurriedly deposits it back on the desk, wincing at the apparent heat of it. “Oh, Mr. … Saxon,” she says. Did you imagine that pause? You suppose she’s hardly the first to forget your name around here. “Wondered when I’d see you.”

“Today’s your lucky day,” you mutter dryly, though have the manners to extend a hand to her. “Will Saxon, though you seem to already know that. And you are…?”

She takes your hand, both of you realizing in the same moment that there’s a splash of coffee on her hand from your surprise entrance. “Denosha Woods.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Woods.”

She hastily retrieves a tissue from her desk and hands it to you, accepting it back once you’ve wiped off your hand. “Sorry about that. And you can feel free to call me Denosha. Or if you insist on formality, Dr. Woods is fine.”

Her tone is friendly, but you don’t miss the implication in that correction. One of the eggheads, somebody behind whatever the hell goes on around here. You try to remember what exactly Nolan King told you about 7. Some kind of edutech, wasn’t it?

“So, Denosha, I’m not a hundred percent sure what

WON’T YOU ANSWER MY

I’m doing up here. But Ms. Merriman said jump, so here I am finding out how high, right? I was supposed to head to 711, but there was nobody there. You were the first person I saw, so… yeah. If you know who I’m supposed to be talking to, I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Oh, I suppose my hair is as good as the next tech’s. Come on, I’ll take you down myself.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You’re quite sure thanks isn’t what you mean, but there’s little cause to vent your anxiety on this woman. Coffee in one hand, a tablet in the other, she leads you back down the hall, sipping noisily, looking satisfied this time. “So, if you don’t mind my asking, what gives with the numbers?”

“The numbers? What numbers?” She pulls up an app on her tablet; over her shoulder, you can see she’s inputting a digital command to disengage the lock on 711.

You point to the numbered placard next to the door. “Like that. No names, no labels. Just numbers. Kinda… cold, isn’t it?”

“Would you feel warmer if I told you what this room is for, Will?” she asks with a wry smile over her shoulder as she presses her hand to the scanner.

You are certain you would not.

A blue light swipes top to bottom and side to side, and a moment later you hear the lock disengage. You’re definitely beyond the bagel gambit now.

The interior of 711 is sedate, perhaps even sterile. Two armchairs, comfortable-looking but not plush, are arranged on either side of a round table. A cheap-looking layer of thin red-brown carpeting covers the floor, and the walls are the same eggshell white as in the hall outside. On second glance, you detect a thin glass panel dividing the table in halves according to the chairs’ placement, about six inches high. As Denosha takes her seat opposite you and places her tablet in front of her on the table, you realize the placement of that glass is quite deliberate, even cunning, angled just so it blurs the tablet to your eyes. You try to imagine what other purpose the visual shield could have aside from obscuring such an instrument, but come up blank.

“So what happens now?” you ask nervously. The door swings closed behind you, but you don’t hear it lock. That’s good. Or rather, less bad. “This is my first time, so, you know, be gentle.”

Dr. Woods smiles tightly. “Of course. Why don’t you start by telling me what you’re doing here, Will? Can I call you Will?”

“I can’t pretend to be Dr. Saxon,” you joke, but your laugh sounds fake even to you. “Honestly, I don’t know. Aubrey said report to 7, so I reported to 7. I don’t have any idea what you all even do up here.”

She nods, but that nod is the closest thing to an answer your implied question receives. “I see. Well maybe you could start by telling me how you’re doing? How’s Monarch treating you?”

You frown in spite of your determination to give this woman no cause for concern. This place couldn’t be creepier if there were a blood spatter on the walls. Vaguely you remember seeing Brooklyn – no, Jenna – no, someone else, a stranger? a pretty blonde – entering here on your last visit. Or did you? God, you’re shaken enough that you’re starting to invent memories.

“Is this some kind of psych eval or something? Am I supposed to tell you about my parents, read an ink blot?”

“Would you like to talk about your parents?”

You would not. “No offense, but I don’t know you, and I don’t know why I’m here. Hard to know what I’m supposed to say if you won’t give me any

DOING TO MY EYE STOP

idea what we’re doing.”

“No offense taken. This is a safe place, Will. Usually, people come up here because they have questions, or because they want to talk about something.”

“And that’s your job, Denosha?” You use her name with an attempt at the same veiled patronizing manner she’s been using yours. “Answering questions, listening to people talk about their day?”

“Sometimes.” She looks down at her tablet, but even craning your neck you can’t see over the glass pane to make it out. “So I see you’re the Associate Director of IT Security. That title sure is a mouthful. How are you liking it?”

“It’s fine. I mean, it’s good. Everyone’s been… really nice.” A mild understatement for the parade of carnal pleasure that’s been your work week.

“Oh? Anyone in particular?” When you don’t answer, she elaborates. “I understand you’ve been assigned an assistant. Jenna… Garnet, it says. Junior Assistant in Collaboration With IT Security?”

That’s Jenna’s job title? What ever happened to secretary? “Yeah. We, ah, hit it off.”

Dr. Woods head cocks to the side curiously. Knowingly? “Hit it off? She’s an attractive woman.” She holds up her tablet to you, lifting over the sight-obscuring glass. There’s Jenna’s picture, a snapshot of her from the shoulders up in a tank top, or more likely a dress with thin straps over the shoulders. but it’s… different. You can see the resemblance, but one side of her head is shaved, except obviously, not secretly. Her hair is lighter, shorter, her shoulders more muscled. Are her eyes really that blue? Is that the same woman? “Oh, old picture, I see. There we are.” She taps a key, and the Jenna you know pops up. Her tan deepens, hair lengthens and curls, and… something with her makeup, maybe, but somehow her features are suddenly softer, more feminine.

“Um, yeah. You have files on everyone, back there?”

“Not hardly. But you say you two hit it off…?”

“Yeah. We… hit it off.” You don’t know how else to say it, though only after the words are out do you realize how your inescapable male pride in your conquest surely bled through in the pronouncement. “So what? Is this what I’m here for? Aubrey’s worried I’m shtupping my secretary?”

“Doing so violates no company policies, Will. You don’t need to be so defensive. From what we hear, women like you, and you like women. No harm in that, right?”

“Women? What are you, the rumor police?”

Denosha waves off the question. “So you deny you’ve had sexual relations with… let’s see…” You can see her thumb working, scrolling through words you can’t read. “Huh. Only four. That’s surprising.”

“Surprising? I slept with four of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in the same month, and you’re surprised it wasn’t five?”

She merely shrugs. “Only surprised. I hear you’re quite the commodity.”

Your eyes narrow. “Commodity. You’re the second person to call me that. What does that mean? Is this… is there something…” You’re not sure if it’s a question or an

HER TITS MY GOD YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE HOW

accusation.

“You’re a good-looking man, Will. Young, single, unattached, highly sought after by all accounts – I did hear something about the mess with young Brooklyn. Is it so surprising that women warm up to you?”

“I mean… I suppose not.” Is it? No, there was Summer. That was surprising. And incredible. “I don’t like that you’re tracking me, though. You say Monarch is tolerant of sex between coworkers, but here you are grilling me in this creepy little room, some kind of list of my partners. That doesn’t feel tolerant to me. That feels like surveillance.”

“Will, people talk.” She gives you a long-suffering look. “You mean to tell me you haven’t bragged about all the babes you’ve bagged lately? Not to anyone?”

“My dog likes it when I tell him about my day,” you gripe back at her. “Look, speaking of surveillance, what if I told you I found out that somebody had a camera installed in my office? Snooping on me fooling around with some poor custodian? You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

It is to your satisfaction that for a moment, her eyes narrow. “Maybe if you tell me what it is you found, and how you came to find it, I could shed some light on that for you.”

Revealing your secrets might be stupid, but you’re angry, and it’s too good of a segue into your present largest gripe. “What, that? I found one of your VP’s jilling off to the footage. You might know her. Amy Marchiano? I’d describe her, but oh yeah, she showed up looking like a totally different person yesterday, except the company’s trying to make it look like nothing happened! Shed some light on that, while you’re at it, yeah?” You fold your arms defiantly.

The woman’s eyes, however, are on her tablet. Only that you’ve already tried craning your neck, several times, keeps you from trying again to see what it is she’s doing. “What if I told you that one of the technologies Monarch keeps closely guarded, on this very floor, could answer that question? You seem very… out of sorts, and I’d rather not see you

LEAVE HIM OUT OF

pout.” She smiles indulgently.

You regard her warily. “Wait, so I get to get my questions answered, too?”

“I’m not sure you’ve answered any of mine, but nevertheless, yes. You’re an important part of Monarch Innovations, and I’m sure Ms. Merriman doesn’t want you leaving here in this kind of funk.”

“Fine. So tell me. What did you do to Amy?”

“You mean me personally? Nothing.” Your mouth is open with a vitriolic retort, but Denosha hurries on. “If you’re referring to Monarch, then your question is more aptly, what did we do to Amy? And to answer it: quite simply, we provided her a cosmetic upgrade.”

“An upgrade? What?”

“A cosmetic alteration might be more accurate. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all. You may have observed that some of your colleagues are, shall we say, above average attractiveness? More like models than employees, one could say.”

“You don’t say.”

She chuckles. “Yes. Well, one of our most closely guarded corporate secrets, one which you’re now privy to, involves the capability of augmenting a person’s appearance. The details of it are quite technical, nothing to trouble yourself over, but it’s undeniably impressive.”

“Hold up. You’re telling me Monarch can… make us hotter?”

“Not everyone, mind you, and mileage may vary from model to model. Consider your secretary, after all. A moment ago I erroneously showed you an old photo of her, but now… well. It sounds like you’re more familiar with the results than we are.”

Holy shit. So this is what Nolan King was talking about? When the man said “making a better person” you assumed he meant some kind of Tony Robbins self-conditioning bullshit or something, not literally reinventing someone’s whole image! But wait…

“Hang on. But why is everybody acting like nothing changed? How am I the only one freaking out over it?”

“Well, how long have you been in your current position?” she asks patiently.

“Um, about a week, I guess?”

“See? You’re one of our newest additions. Most people around here are just used to this sort of thing – or else simply don’t know anyone who underwent the treatment. For the time being, we haven’t gone mass market with it, and thanks to your team’s work in IT security, we mean to continue keeping this under wraps for the time being.”

“Huh.” Your head, as so often seems to happen in this infernal building, is swimming. How extensive was this stuff? Wigs and some kind of fancy botox, or facial reconstruction and cyber tit jobs? The implications were a lot to process.

“Do you have any other

SOUND CLICHÉ BUT YOU’LL NEVER GET

questions for me, Will? I’m sure Aubrey wants to make sure you leave here feeling more a part of our operations than when you arrived.”

You try to slow your thoughts down. So much has been so strange these past weeks, it’s hard to guess where to begin. Assuming her answers aren’t bullshit. Still, it’s at least a woman willing to indulge them, one who isn’t busy throwing herself at your feet. Or in your pants.

“What about that parking attendant? Brooklyn? Is that some weird side project of yours, too?”

“Well, let me see.” She types something on her tablet, and seems to be reading in her reply. “All right, Ms. Brooklyn Diamond, alias Brook. Deputy lieutenant Parking Operations Analysis and Enforcement, and… I see, no longer with us. It seems she had a bit of a fixation on you. Unhealthily so, though it looks like I don’t need to tell you. ****, was it?”

“She busted up my car. She never tried to hurt me. I wasn’t even in it.”

“And I see you opted not to report the matter to the real police. Team player, you are. Well, it looks like a simple case of unrequited love run amok, as near as I can tell.”

Your jaw drops at her glib – and idiotic – assessment. “Unrequited…?! What? We barely exchanged words, and exclusively about her thousand and one issues with my parking, or my car in general. Trust me, the woman never attempted to chat me up, much less have the chance to ‘fall in love.’ Better check your records.”

“You’ve never heard of someone acting out to get the attention of someone they’re attracted to? Women will employ all sorts of strategies to land a man like yourself, no doubt. Apparently hers wasn’t viable. Either way, clearly no longer a problem.”

Something in her response, something smug, secretive, sly in plain sight, begins to get to you. You don’t know if she’s being straight with you or distracting you while they flood the room with hallucinogenic gas, but your patience is wearing as thin as the fabric of your secretary’s skimpy little panties. “Look, whatever. I don’t get what this is supposed to be about, but I’m tired of being jerked around. So either tell me in plain English what I’m doing here, or send me on my way. I’m done with this weird-ass therapy jam.”

“Will, you sound stressed. Aren’t you happy here?”

“Happy? What, do I seem like an idiot?”

Dr. Woods shakes her head, bemused. “I’m serious. Now we just met, and I realize you’d rather not be here and as such you probably don’t like me very much. That’s fine. But if you want some plain English, here’s some plain English. Ms. Merriman, myself, no doubt other members of the Monarch team, we’re worried about you. From where I’m sitting, you have it made. A cushy job, great benefits, a whole building brimming over with gorgeous women that you seem to be having a great deal of luck with… Will, most men would kill to be in your shoes. Yet you’re letting this small and seemingly inconsequential curiosities stand in the way of what sounds like it could be a tremendously enjoyable life.”

When she puts it that way…

“Look, I like sex as much as the next guy, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want a little privacy!”

Denosha nods, but she’s nodding to her tablet as much as to you, typing something unhurriedly. “I see. Well then, I think we’re all done here.”

You blink. “We are?”

“We sure are. See? That wasn’t so scary, was it.”

You lack a metric for how scary it was, but you’re certainly glad it’s over. Whatever it was. “And you’ll tell Aubrey? What am I saying, of course you will. Couldn’t withhold any fresh gossip from the great Will freaking Saxon from the staff, eh.”

“We sure couldn’t. I made a note about your request for privacy, though, so hopefully we’ll get everything tuned more to your liking.”

Tuned…? You shake your head. Contemplate later. For now, get the fuck out of here. “Great.”

Denosha rises to her feet and once more extends a hand. “No coffee this time.” She laughs, like this dialogue has culminated in

KIND OF CHOICE IS THAT

the two of you becoming friends.

You shake it firmly and quickly. “Great. Nice meeting you, I guess.”

“Likewise. And do try not to let all this ruin your weekend, OK? Try to have a little fun.” She pats your shoulder. “Nice seeing you.”

That’s it. She walks you to the door, smiling at your back as you try not to look like you’re running back toward the elevator. By the time you get back to your office, Jenna and the rest of your staff are gone for the weekend. You make your way to the bathroom and splash some cold water on your face, but nothing seems to wash off the sense that you’ve only scratched the surface of something truly, deeply, weird.

Then again, it sounds like you’ve also been given carte blanche to have your fun, and after all, it’s Friday night. If you keep stressing out like this, you’re going to have a stroke.

Decision time. Voting is open to ALL patrons at my patreon!

• No. You can go back to being a man-whore once you’ve figured out what the hell is really going on.
• Use your charm and try to seduce that old bird Aubrey Merriman. Hold your nose and fuck your way to some answers.
• Invite Amy out to dinner. Best way to make sure she’s really Amy, and if she is…
• Take Dr. Woods’ advice and use your job to have a little fun. Email the hotties on your staff and tell them you need some help with this weekend. At your place.
• Fuck finesse. Text Ingrid, Avery and Summer and tell them to meet you at your place, to wear something sexy, and pack for an overnighter. Or two.
• Call Jenna and ask if she’s up for picking up where you left off in your office.
• Why wait? Sit in your car in the Monarch and pounce on the first fuckable woman who walks out.