Natasha drove her old Ford Focus through the Sirius Software security
checkpoint, parked it at the temporary office, and walked inside.
The air conditioning
blasted her with cold air as she entered.
She stood still for
a moment, letting the cold air wash over her.
Aaron's office door
opened, and he stepped out, dressed in his signature black leather
suit.
He gave her a small
smile that sent a shiver down her spine.
"Welcome Ms.
Parker. Follow me," he said, and led her to a pair of spartan
gray concrete lodge-like buildings.
Natasha's curiosity
grew as she followed him into the left building, and was assaulted by
the smell of fresh paint.
There was a large
break room with a table and a few chairs, and a pair of staircases
leading up to the first floor.
Aaron led her up the
stairs, to reveal a corridor with a series of doors, secured with
hand-print locks.
Natasha gasped as
she saw her name on the first door. Aaron gestured for her to open
it.
With a trembling
hand, she placed her palm on the hand-print lock, and the door opened
with a soft beep.
Inside was a small
but cozy single-bedroom apartment, with a small kitchenette and a
bathroom. The walls were a freshly painted white, and the furniture
was still covered in plastic wrap.
"You will find
your uniform and equipment in the closet. Gear up and report back at
the Temporary Office in 30 minutes," said Aaron, leaving her
alone in the apartment.
Natasha sank onto
the bed, trying to process what had just happened.
She was used to
unexpected situations, but this was something else entirely.
She had applied for
a security guard job, thinking that it would be the mundane activity
of patrolling corridors, checking IDs and monitoring security
cameras.
The kind of boring
job that had a four-hour shift, paid a few bucks an hour, and was a
good way to stay in the background while gathering intelligence.
Instead, she had
been put through a tactical skill assessment, and was given a fully
furnished apartment instead of needing to bunk with 8 other employees
in a cramped dormitory.
With a sigh, she got
up and opened the closet.
"Oh you have
got to be kidding me!" she exclaimed, as she saw the uniform
nestled in the closet.
It was constructed
from thick black leather.
Not the thin
delicate stuff used in haute couture, or the fake stuff used in
mass-production - this was pure cowhide leather.
Tanned jet-black,
polished to a high sheen, and it smelled decadent.
The uniform had an
over-bust corset with heavy boning instead of a shirt.
A high-waisted
pencil skirt cut to mid-thigh and a pair of thick black pantyhose
with reinforced toes, heels, gusset, and waistband was the bottom
half.
The shoes were
thigh-high leather boots with 8 cm metal stiletto heels that gleamed
wickedly.
A single-breasted
blazer with a nipped waist and a stylish peaked-lapel collar was
supposed to go over the corset.
Finally, the uniform
featured gauntlet-style leather gloves that extended to the forearms
and had sharp metal spikes on the knuckles.
"What the hell
is this boy thinking? Am I supposed to be some kind of fetish model
or cosplayer?" she growled in indignation, grabbing the blazer.
Her hand stilled as
she felt its weight.
Her fingers probed
the inside, and felt metal under the satin lining of the blazer.
Anger gave way to
curiosity as she carefully pulled it out of the closet.
She placed it on the
bed and spread it open.
"Armor
plating?" she asked herself as she ran her fingers over the
lining.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
She felt the
contours of a back protector, along with shoulder and elbow pads.
Pulling apart the
Velcro flaps inside, she lifted out a flexible segmented metal plate
from the back protector pocket.
"Don't tell me
that the armor is titanium!" she said incredulously, recognizing
the metal.
She carefully put
the plate back, and set the blazer aside.
She pulled out the
corset and skirt. The corset's satin lining also belied the presence
of some kind of chain-mail armor.
The skirt had a
similar lining in the crotch and seat, and featured an integrated
waist-level gun belt.
With a shrug, she
changed into the pantyhose, corset and skirt.
After zipping up the
boots, she experimented walking around the apartment.
The boot heels made
a menacing click on the floor, and she found herself walking with a
confident stride, her hips swaying slightly.
The reinforcements
in the heels, toes and ankles made her feel planted and stable,
despite the 8 cm heels.
In fact, they were
even more comfortable than the low-heeled pumps of her army
dress-uniform.
She stopped in front
of the mirror and gasped at how good she looked.
"Why does this
fit so well?" she murmured, as she examined her reflection.
Bracing herself, she
carefully lifted her right leg as high as she could.
The skirt yielded
effortlessly to her movement, with darts and vents opening up to
allow her to easily lift her leg till she was in a standing split.
The titanium
toe-box, instep and heel of her left boot giving her the stability to
hold the pose.
"I just did a
standing split in a pencil skirt and stiletto heels," she
chuckled wryly, as she lowered her leg.
She picked up one of
the gloves and examined the metal on the knuckles.
"Titanium
knuckle-dusters? Of course, why not?" she chuckled, pulling on
the gloves and flexing her gloved fingers.
"Whoa!"
she exclaimed as her thumb pressed a switch hidden in the palm of the
gloves, and electricity crackled through the titanium spikes on her
knuckles.
She finally pulled
on the blazer and buttoned it closed.
"Making a tired
old woman who's pushing 40 dress like some comic book femme fatale
for a security guard job! You are one sick individual Aaron Zakhrov,"
she said, as she examined her reflection in the mirror.
The uniform seemed
to have taken 15 years off her age, and she looked like a cross
between a dominatrix and a villainess rather than a nondescript
security guard that was meant to blend in.
She started to equip
the rest of her gear: two 9 mm handguns with built-in LED
flashlights, 4 magazines of low-velocity non-lethal rubber bullets, a
pair of 30 cm long titanium knives, a zip-tie dispenser, and a baton.
With a final look in
the mirror, she walked out of the apartment and headed to the
temporary office.
----
"This thing is
definitely not built for covert operations," chuckled Natasha to
herself, hearing the leather creak, and her boots click with each
step as she walked across the compound to the temporary office.
She entered the
office, grateful that nobody had seen her yet.
While she
appreciated the look and the functionality of the uniform, she was
still a little self-conscious about it and still felt it was more
costume than uniform.
"Natasha
Parker, reporting for duty," she announced into the intercom
outside Aaron's office.
The door opened, and
she entered the office.
"Any issues
with the fitment Ms. Parker?" asked Aaron, gesturing for her to
sit down.
"No sir,
however I do have some questions," replied Natasha, sitting down
in the chair, masking her surprise at how well the uniform yielded
despite being loaded with gear.
"Go ahead,"
said Aaron, leaning back in his chair.
"First, why
this kind of get-up? This hardly looks like a normal security guard
uniform," she asked.
"Let's just say
it is a test-run for the eventual kind of security I intend to
replace my contracted guards with," said Aaron with a smirk.
Natasha folded her
arms and raised an eyebrow at him.
"This office
and compound are not in their final forms, Ms. Parker. Your uniform
might look out of place now, but once my headquarters are finished,
those aesthetics will blend right in. And as you have no doubt
assessed, there is function behind that form," replied Aaron.
"That may be
true in the future, Mr. Zakhrov, but right now, I feel like a
cosplayer, not a security guard. I appreciate the engineering, but
why couldn't I get a normal guard's uniform?" asked Natasha,
unimpressed by Aaron's answer.
"Reason number
one. I refuse to compromise on my aesthetic vision and control. All
that does is allow the riff-raff obsessed with blandness and
uniformity disguised as equality get a foothold in my company.
Reason number two.
Image based intimidation is the first line of defense, particularly
against social-justice obsessed vermin and their political backers
who are my chief enemies. The more they are provoked, the better.
Reason number three.
When I saw your application profile and your performance in the skill
test, I decided that I wanted you not as a random security guard, but
as my personal bodyguard, head of security and as arm-candy deterrent
against honey-traps and gold-diggers. And I like my arm-candy to
reflect my tastes," said Aaron, as Natasha's eyes widened in
shock.
"I'm almost old
enough to be your mother, and you want me as arm-candy? I don't know
if I should be flattered or furious." muttered Natasha, blushing
crimson.
"So what will
it be Ms. Parker? Are you going to embrace that uniform and
everything that comes with it? Or are you going to go back to the
safety of the ill-fitting polyester skirt-suit and pumps you arrived
in? You've got 30 minutes to make your decision. If you decide to
accept my offer, report back here in uniform. If not, I expect you
off my property by that time. Dismissed." said Aaron, turning
back to his computer.
Natasha leaned
against the closed door of Aaron's office, her mind reeling from the
conversation.
Aaron's audacious
and blatant reasons should have had her storming out of his office,
or even earned him a punch or slap in the face. Instead, they spoke
to a part of her soul she thought that she had already made peace
with - the idea that she'd never serve a higher purpose in an
organization where she felt valued.
Her stint in the
military had been short. She had been disavowed by the CIA after
barely a year of service, and had been working as a private
investigator for Senator Clarke and now Monica Goldberg for the
better part of a decade.
As a private
investigator, she had watched as corrupt politicians used the
information she gathered to silence rivals, destroy lives and
careers, and cover up their own nefarious deeds.
Aaron himself had
been a tragic victim of those machinations: Senator Clarke had used
the GitHub information Natasha had acquired to farm moral outrage
over a piece of fiction, and Aaron had been expelled from St.
Ignatius Academy and disowned by his family.
Yet, here he was,
forging his own path, building a company that had again attracted the
ire of the same corrupt politicians and oligarchs that had ruined his
life. And yet again, she was being sent to gather information that
they would use to destroy him.
Guilt threatened to
eat her alive. It was one thing to be a regular security guard and
just passively gather information. That kind of role she was able to
rationalize that whatever ramifications her information gathering
had, it was not her fault or responsibility.
Information by
itself doesn't do squat until somebody uses it.
This was different.
Aaron wanted her to be his personal bodyguard, run interference
against honey-traps and gold-diggers, and be his head of security -
meaning she would be responsible for training and vetting whoever
else he hired as security or even as normal employees.
More than that, she
would be close to Aaron, and would be privy to his plans and ideas.
She would be responsible for protecting him from the very people she
had been sent to spy on. Could she still continue her mission knowing
that she was betraying his trust in her? He wasn't some
Middle-Eastern warlord with a harem and an oil well. He was a
barely-legal kid who had clawed his way out of cancel-culture hell,
and was trying to build something of his own.
What would happen if
he finds out the brutal truth of who had hacked his GitHub account
four years ago? What would he do if he found out that she was here to
spy on him?
Her CIA training
kicked in, and she forced herself to calm down.
"What do I
want?" she asked herself. Her confusion was replaced with a
single burst of clarity as the memory of Aaron's 13-year-old self
flashed in her mind.
"That's right.
Monica Goldberg can go to hell. I want what Aaron's offering. And if
worse comes to worst, I can make peace with the fact that I'm doing
the right thing this time around" she thought, as she
straightened her back, dried her tears, and buzzed the intercom.
"Mr. Zakhrov, I
have made my decision. Permission to report for duty." she said,
her voice steady and firm.
