After concluding my business at the body sculptor, I searched for the next establishment on my list. W&G: Corporate High Fashion Boutique. No doubt popular among the Citizenry.
It took me several minutes to get used to walking with my newfound stature. My point of view was set approximately two inches higher than before, giving everything a slightly skewed perspective from just an hour ago. This effect was compounded when I used the 4x zoom of my ocular implants.
But soon enough I acclimated. I even felt a newfound swagger, however slight, and however unwarranted. Maybe this is why so many Volunteers had sunk their would-be fortunes into meticulously customizing their appearance. It could be addictive. Or maybe our inner selves just cry out for individuation. Maybe we are all hopelessly desperate to make our True Self(™) match our inaccessible ‘true selves’.
A couple blocks further into the shopping district lay the clothier Monique Rossignol had recommended. I gripped the certificate and braced myself for the inevitable shocked response upon entering. However, while my militant outfit caused some visible alarm, it seemed my physical appearance was less threatening. My improved jawline made my overall look less uncanny. Easier for the brain to process.
W&G was relatively small on the inside. It had a distinctive design, with grainy wood, polished silver, and tactile cloth. The concept of ‘old world’ came to mind, whatever that meant. There were bolts of fine fabric in black, slate, and charcoal. A grayscale rainbow of luxury textiles. The proprietors were identical twins; W and G perhaps? And the aesthetic was purely corporate. Any bespoke outfit, sewn directly onto my avatar, would be guaranteed boardroom-ready.
I had to stay on brand for this one. Passing myself off as a Citizen and crashing a high-roller corpo party was the priority. If I failed that, Mrs. Rossignol would really be upset. Although thankfully the path of destruction I left in her wine cellar seemed to be overshadowed by her current problems. The ‘irreplaceable’ wine could be replaced. Reprinted. Expensive, but possible in this world of make believe.
But had her husband, in fact, been likewise ‘replaced?’
“Mrs. Rossignol phoned ahead. Said you’d be coming. Come on, no time to waste!”
The twin tailors wasted no time snatching the certificate from me and taking my measurements, chattering to one another in thick accents. I kept my ballistic vest and jacket unequipped, feeling a bit silly in just my promotional Reality Inc. t-shirt and tactical pants.
▶ I need a suit for a special occasion. Business function. Something that projects… confidence.
The tailors nodded in unison then scattered, snatching clothing and fabrics more by memory than by sight. Before I knew it, I was being pushed and prodded, layered and displayed in front of an oblong mirror. Soon enough my boots and pants were off too. The tailors spoke rapidfire, more to one another than to me, and answered each other’s questions without waiting for my input.
“A deep charcoal with nanofiber vantablack pinstripes from our Hostile Takeover spring collection. Cashmere and wool blend, with hand-stitched seams you can barely detect. You’ll be draped in shadow!”
“You see? The fabric hangs perfectly over your frame, accentuating the shoulders, heightening your Atlas-like power.”
“Wide lapels, subtly padded. Makes a statement!”
“Over a Sadat Egyptian cotton shirt, of course, crisp and starched. The outer darkness covering a pure inner layer.”
“And for the trousers: pleated and cuffed, they will break just so over these hand-tooled Danube Bank loafers. Arrive in style!”
“And a silk tie, Hermes, thin as a ligature. But you need a power color. I suggest blood red. Dressed to kill!”
“And cufflinks! Platinum cufflinks. And a matching tie clip. The very vision of success!”
“Yes. Yes! The whole ensemble screams money, success, and dominance. It’s a suit that demands attention, respect, fear! A suit that announces, ‘I’m the one in charge!’”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Don’t worry about the extra expense, we’ll charge it to the Rossignol account!”
It all happened like a whirlwind. Before I knew it, I was outside again. My 5,000 Crypt certificate was gone, and I was dressed in this immaculate dark suit.
Oh, dram. Did they say they were going to charge something to Mrs. Rossignol’s account?
I turned to head back in and clarify but the door was locked and the lights were off. A sign hanging in the store window announced they were closed.
Uhhh…
I knocked on the door and there was no reply. There was nothing else I could do. I checked my Cosmetics submenu once more but didn’t see the suit listed. Instead, I had to scroll down to my Armor submenu.
There it is.
* ARMOR
* HELM: N/A
* BODY: HOSTILE TAKEOVER SUIT, UPPER (cosmetic)
* H.T. JACKET (cosmetic)
* H.T. SHIRT (cosmetic)
* H.T. TIE (cosmetic)
* TACTICAL JACKET (unequipped)
* BALLISTIC VEST (unequipped)
* PROMOTIONAL T-SHIRT (unequipped)
* ARMS: N/A
* LEGS: HOSTILE TAKEOVER SUIT, LOWER (cosmetic)
* H.T. PANTS (cosmetic)
* H.T. SHOES (cosmetic)
* TACTICAL PANTS (unequipped)
* TACTICAL BOOTS (unequipped)
As the elements of the suit were purely cosmetic, having no system-relevant function, they took up no data storage space. That was a plus. However, I discovered that I could not equip my armor and the suit simultaneously. Fashion vs. function. The ballistic vest just didn’t fit under the tailored suit. Not that I would need one at a corporate masquerade ball. Right?
I recalled the existence of the Transmute option at the Data Forge. The ability to transform the cosmetic appearance of an item, weapon, or armor. With enough Crystals and, presumably, a high enough Protocol rating, I could potentially alter a functional piece of armor to have the look of something much more fashionable. A problem for another cycle.
I decided to leave the suit on at least until I got back in the limo. A couple women and at least one man nodded appreciatively in my direction as I strolled down the cobblestone pedestrian street. The right kind of stares for a change. But when I reached the bottom–there was no limousine in sight.
You’ve got to be kidding me. Did this dram SecuBot chauffeur just ditch me? Strand me two sectors from home, against the orders of his mistress? With no money for the MAR?
I was on an invisible clock. This whole trip had been a diversion from my urgent need to monetize. I glanced anxiously at the sky for any hints of oncoming precipitation. Looked clear to me.
Ah. Here comes the limo. Circling the block. Taking its sweet time.
The vehicle slowed to a gentle roll and I hurried to it, flinging myself in the back as the chauffeur made no move to open the door for me, or even to come to a complete stop.
▶ I thought you abandoned me.
No reply. Just an expressionless visor reflecting in the rearview. Did it recognize me?
▶ Your boss said you would give me a ride back after I was done. Now I’m done. Take me…
Hmmm. I am about to be brilliant.
▶ The Kafka Building. In The Collective. Take me there.
I could finally pay a visit to Fancy Jack without having to navigate across nearly the entire Commons on foot, trying to find my way through the labyrinthine streets, avoiding crime scenes and reconstruction sites patrolled by suspicious Polizei bots. Maybe I could make a deal for my remaining Voynich Manuscript page.
The driver made no response or motion, and at first I thought it would completely disregard my request. But then–the limousine started moving again, pulling onto a main thoroughfare. I saw the highrises of Royal Heights ahead in the distance.
Good.
I stretched my newly longer limbs and settled against the cool leather. The analog phone with its coiled cord rested on the seat beside me.
Can’t forget that. Now just to enjoy the ride. Next stop–Checkpoint C. The glimmering electric sphincter leading back to Volunteer turf. My turf.
The limo accelerated onto an elevated highway, leading from the Palisades into Royal Heights. Strangely, the vehicle seemed to be moving faster, and faster, and faster. I glanced out of the dark windows to see the scenery whipping by. The gradual roar of the engine grew as the driver slowly pushed down on the gas pedal.
▶ Hey, I appreciate the urgency. But we don’t need to go this fast.
Again, no response. No acknowledgement. I was really starting to hate this bot.
And the limousine kept going faster.
▶ Can you hear me? Slow down!
Nothing.
I zoomed in with my vision. The speedometer showed we were approaching 100 mph. Now passing it. Royal Heights stretched below and before us, the tall buildings flashing past. We narrowly avoided colliding with another vehicle.
I grabbed for my seatbelt.
▶ Listen to me! You’re going too fast!!!
The SecuBot slowly turned its head, not for an instant letting up on the accelerator. The sleek helmet rotated all the way around–180 degrees, like an owl. If it were a human, its neck would have been snapped. The vacant visor regarded me in eerie silence while the limousine raced on, careening around the wide bend in the elevated road.
And then, in the blink of an eye–the SecuBot was seated in the front passenger seat. The driver’s seat was empty. Another blink, and it was seated right next to me. The bot stared straight at me and began to raise its arm, stuttering, reaching for me. Skipping frames. A glitch in my vision.
A mournful electronic wail escaped from the twisted head. And then–the bot disappeared. And the limo crashed through the concrete guardrail and sailed out into open space. With me alone inside.