The following is a bit of alternative fiction based on certain characters from the Xenaverse. It is not meant to infringe on anyone else's rights.
I was marched past security after having my thumbprint thoroughly examined by a machine. I suppose I was me, because it binged quite happily, and the LED turned a bright green. I'm guessing red would have been a bad thing.
Harris left us shortly after that, while the other suit sort of cleared a path for myself and the woman who was at my back. I was marched. .Okay I didn't march. .I was walked to a locker room. We did the thumbprint thing again. Green light means go. I walked in, she walked in after and led me to a locker, 17. There was another thumbthingy.
"Couldn't I get a card or something? This is. . ." She gave me *such* a look. "Okay maybe not."
She spoke to me, "You should find everything you need, clothes, shoes, makeup."
"Makeup?!! You guys thought of makeup?"
"We think of everything." There was a beep at her belt. I hadn't realized she was wearing a pager. She looked at it. "I've got to go. You have a half an hour, then I'll be back."
I tried to look the opposite that I felt, "Looking forward to it."
She pursed her lips, "Mmhmm, I'm sure." Then she nodded at the locker, "Store your stuff in here. You may need it later." She made that sound like a threat. Which I guess meant. .You may not get the job.
Then she dug in her pocket for something. She deposited the prescription in my hand, "I advise against taking these until after the interview." It seemed like good advice. I nodded, in thanks and acknowledgement. Then she went away. The door swished closed behind her.
I was immediately at the door. It swished open. I tentatively looked out the hallway and waved at the tough to seemed to be standing guard at the elevator. Then I turned around and started looking for a way out.
There wasn't one. There were tiny speckled windows. There was a coffeemaker and styrofoam cups on a desk. There was a phone, and a datalink. There were things to take notes with and take notes on. There were a few places to sit down. Soft chairs. And the benches that were between the rows of lockers.
There were the toilets, and the showers on the other end. There was soap and towels in the locker, deoderant, hairbrush, clips. The hairspray was community property because that was by the mirror. I realized they were quite serious about the company look when I pulled out the suit. It was grey, there was patch on it that said, "Recruit." I wasn't sure I was ready for this.
I was positive that I wasn't.
I thought of a way out.
My fingers trembled as I dialed the number. I waited and waited, they finally picked up, "I've Got to talk to Sal, RIGHT NOW!!"
I waited and waited, then the secretary got back on the line, "I'm sorry," she said. "Sal's meeting with a client now. Can I have her call you back?"
There was no calling back. I knew this. So, I mumbled something about calling her later, then hung up dejectedly. So much for that plan. I leaned against the wall for a minute and rested on my shoulder. My arms folded across my chest and I bit my lower lip in concentration. No window, no exit, no Sal.
I decided that if escape wasn't possible, then the only answer was to put on my best look and then wow them into letting me go. I was fairly sure I could think of something. A vision at the wrong moment perhaps. Yeah, that would do it. I walked back to my locker and began the preparations.
I have to say, that the final look was pretty dern good. The dark grey of the suit was actually flattering and skimmed down my curves into something fair attractive. The blouse was button down, so I could decide where the neckline was. I chose cleavage. My bosom was one of my redeeming features. The jacket actually fit. There was none of that inability to move around at the shoulders. It was like they knew my size . . .
Which. .I guess, If I'd been spied on. .would be true. They knew my size. .the shoes would fit. Bet the make up was the kind I'd purchase. .and a bit more it seemed. I wasn't sure that the lipcolor was really my type, but I tried it anyway. It was. It made me wonder if someone had done a color chart on me or something. Okay, that gave me the shivers. But whatever the case, I looked good and oddly, I felt good, more prepared.
I sighed and sat down in one of the plush chairs. I crossed my ankles and tried to relax, while I could. Now it was just the waiting.
---------------------
They arrived not too much longer after I'd finished prepping. The good news was that I recognized one of them; the lusciously curly blonde. It occured to me that I still didn't know her moniker. One would think they would wear name tags or something, but she wasn't wearing one, and while I wasn't really into naming things, it would have been nice to have . ..a handle of some sort. I was ..needing ..the solidity. So, for now, I kept the nick I'd haphazardly assigned earlier. Lady Curly, She of the long gorgeous legs and hair made for playing. It occured to me that she would be curly in other places too. So maybe it wasn't so haphazard.
I think I confused her with my grin. Meanwhile, she failed to introduce me to her friend, a buxom but strong looking woman. Her dark brown hair came to her shoulder and she was wearing a similar outfit Ms. Curly's. She watched me through a stoic mask and I wondered if she had a weapon, other than her stony gaze, that I should worry about. I began to think that the company name wasn't really refering to a jungle. And it most definitely wasn't refering to the jungle tangent that my mind suddenly went on.
Behave, Bernice. Behave.
I smiled at her too, and, since there was no name tag and since I was desperate for some hook into reality, I assigned a name again. One of these days I would have to ask.
The tall, dark and silent one I nicked as as I watched her flex. Hardbody. Hard in gaze and ooh so lovely hard in body. Behave, Bernice. Just because you know what you like now, doesn't give you license to stare. . .except maybe a little bit.
I smiled at her too, and indicated that they should lead the way. We ended up marching, goose-steppin' all the way, to the elevator. Okay, not so much "goose-stepping" as the three of us moving in semi-perfect unison. The cadence of our shoes made a peculiar rhythm, the echo of which rang with a sort of hypnotic buzz in the mostly empty hallway. It gave me the eerie chills. Had I done this before?
Ever see "City of Angels"? That was us, only I wasn't sure that either Ms Curly or Ms Hardbody had anything divine to their origins regardless of appearances to the contrary. Their countenances were beyond stern and quite a bit scary. Things around here were definitely not along the lines of warm and fuzzy. That much I could tell.
It was the Roman army, not the Nazis, who developed the goose-step march. Military pomp at its root. The thought flitted into my head, despite its irrelevance. Once again my head was trying to escape what my body couldn't...all thanks to my *rrr* soon-to-be-ex-headhunter...and so now I was focusing on those little facts to the point where I'd probably walk into a wall.
Which I did, kinda, though said wall was in the form of Ms. Hardbody. She gave me another stony Amazon glare and stepped aside, revealing an open elevator. I didn't need any more an an invitation, I was in quick. Fortunately (for me), Ms. Hardbody was staying behind, so it was just me and the Lady. I didn't know whether to take this as a good sign or what.
I settled on being a teeny-tiny bit relieved as the doors closed on her and we started our ascension. My ears popped a few times from the speed. I tried not to show my distress and did my damnest to simply fade into the woodwork. Didn't work, of course. Ms. Curly had me pinned between her self and the doors. It was a doomed effort anyway, grey doesn't exactly mix well with wood tones, does it?
The elevator stopped so smoothly I flinched when it opened...and damn near jumped out of my skin when shot rang out at our arrival. Ms. Curly didn't so much as blink. 'The bitch,' I thought most ungraciously and somewhat jealously.
******
The offices of Georgia Epinon apparently took up a full quarter of the top floor of Amazon, Inc., which it turned out was *way* more than she or her secretary would ever need. To fill space, they must have decided to convert a goodly portion of it into a firing range that would have made the NRA jealous. The target of said range happened to be near the elevator, and the acoustics of the range made every shot fired come off like a cannon shot.
The wall of safety glass between me and the range didn't really make me feel much safer. You get the right speed and bullet and safety glass didn't mean much, did it? Noise and threat. Yep, I wasn't feeling too comfortable here.
A nudge at my arm reminded me why I was here, and basically kick-started my legs into motion. Ms. Curly stayed where she was. I thought that I almost detected a smile. But then she let the elevator close and abandoned me to my fate.
I kept walking on autopilot, making it to the opposite end of the range without fully realizing it. My mind had taken to wandering again, latching unto the fact the shooter was using a .38 revolver, was firing at a clip, and taking a maximum of five seconds to reload...by hand.
I didn't know how I knew this. I just did. Somehow, that was the most reassuring thought I'd had since entering here.
The sudden silence jerked me awake. I looked up, and found myself confronted by not one, but *two* shooters. Both of whom were drawing visual beads on me right then.
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İMAY 1998
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