July is waiting for me when I enter the office. That is, someone's waiting who has a face like July's, and a voice like July's, and clothes and a body like July's. At this point I don't even know anymore. “Morning, month buddy!” she says. “You look tired. Sleep badly last night?”

Does 'month buddy' even make sense? Is July her actual name? She's walking toward her office: I ignore her. As if on rails, I turn left, and then right, and head down to “Ms. Hartwell”'s office.

The woman herself there when I enter, typing away like nothing is wrong. “That was fast,” I mutter.

“Dear me. Here first thing in the morning, two days in a row.” 'Ms. Hartwell' adjusts her glasses and smiles mischievously. “If you want to convince me you don't enjoy my company, Augustina, you'll have to work harder than—”

“I need to talk to Simone.”

“I'm afraid she's rather busy at the—”

“I saw you last night.” I plant my hands on her desk and lean over her. “I saw you. And 'July'. And I saw the panel.” I glance at it, and so does she. “I need to talk to Simone. Now.”

“Ms. Hartwell”'s eyes widen briefly. It's enough to lend me a feeling of triumph. “One moment,” she says, and stands up to face the door. “Ms. Beauregard? Ms. Williams says she needs to speak with you. Urgently.”

After a moment, I hear the reply: “Send her in.” It sounds somewhat excited.

“Ms. Hartwell” opens the door for me. I step through and wait patiently for Simone to emerge from behind her changing screen. “So,” she says, “what's up, Tina?”

I pull out my phone and load the video. Specifically, the important part of the video. “You need to see this.” I rest it on the desk, the screen facing her, and tap play.

She frowns. “Tina?” she asks after a few seconds. “Why do you have camera footage from inside Ms. Hartwell's... is she doing what I think she's doing?” Apparently we've reached the masturbation section of the video. Simone blushes. “Um... wow.”

“Keep watching.” My voice is firm and cold.

She bites her lip and does as I say. Almost a minute passes, and then—“What was that?” she yelps, recoiling.

“One of your employees is leading an elaborate double life.” I keep showing her the video for long enough to see the panel—I've memorized the timing by now, so I don't need to also be watching—and then replace it in my pocket. “Or I guess two of your employees. Think about it. You've never seen July and Ms. Hartwell in the same place, have you?”

Simone squints.

“It's just... I thought you should know that they're—that she's using you. That she used me,” I mumble. “So... what are you going to do?”

The seconds stretch out. Simone reaches forward, her finger twitching, like she's trying to rewind an invisible screen—like she's watching it in her mind's eye. Finally, maybe ten seconds later, she looks up at me and speaks. “Good work on this, Tina.”

“Hm?”

“That was some very well-done video editing.”

I blink. No, you've gotta be kidding me—

“Though I don't understand why you felt the need to show it to me. If this is some backdoor way of trying to audition for a video editing role, we don't actually have one at the moment—”

“What—no!” I jolt to my feet. “This is me showing you that this workplace is crazy!”

“Oh, give me a break.” Simone glares at me. “I know you don't like Ms. Hartwell, but she's the most reliable secretary on the planet, and if you want me to fire her because of some... crazy body-changing fairy tale, then you've got another thing coming. Is there anything else you're interested in talking about, or do you want to leave my office?”

She stands up too, and she's taller than me. “Or maybe you can stay here and talk about how you've just performed some combination of the following: filming one of my employees without her consent, showing me edited porn of that employee during work, and trying to get one of your coworkers fired?”

I'm shaking in my shoes. I've never heard her sound this authoritative before, and it feels as though all my arguments are wilting under a scorching sun. “I, um....”

She puts a hand on her hip. “Well, Ms. Williams?”

“I....” I blink. Hang on. “I've just realized something.”

“And what is that?”

“That I've never seen you in the same place as Ms. Hartwell or July. Not once.”

She stares at me. And then she walks out from behind the desk, and walks to the door. And locks it.

And then she walks behind her screen, and a few seconds later, July pops out and tackles me. I yelp, and it takes several seconds to realize it's a hug. “You did it!” she yells. “I knew you could do it—well, I really hoped, no one else figured it out and it's been so long—”

“What—” It's the only word I can get out before she embraces me in a passionate kiss. A kiss which lasts for all of two seconds before I push her back. “What the fuck is going on. Explain, now!”

“Right, of course!” She backs up, cringing a little in embarrassment. “Got carried away there—I've just been waiting forever. Sorry.”

July minces her way back behind Simone's desk... behind her own desk, really. She sits down and, after several seconds, I do the same. “And when I say sorry,” she says, “I really do mean it. Sorry for everything I've been putting you through. It must have been driving you crazy.”

My voice is a hiss. “It has. Explanation now, please.”

“Right. So.” She blushes. “The truth is... there's not really a Ms. Hartwell. Or a Simone, even. They're all just me. I mean, the me under here right now.” She tugs on her cheek a bit as if she's going to pull off a mask, but it stays on. “I'm... gonna let you call that me Any.” She hunches her shoulders a little, coyly. “I guess you can tell it's not my original name, but... well, we've only just met, after all.”

My heart is racing, sending my blood around my body like my arteries are a Nascar circuit. “Why and how.” It takes a lot of effort to keep my voice low and serious—to act like hurt is the only thing I'm feeling, as opposed to just the simplest thing.

“Why is easier, so I'll start with that.” She sighs and slumps forward. “Do you know how hard it is to start up a startup? No one wants to be the first one to board what might be a sinking ship. Second after the founder, I mean. But....” A little smile lights up her face. “What if the company already had three people there? Including a personal secretary? That would seem like way more of a sure thing, right?”

I blink.

“I was gonna have... oh, I'm not sure which two,” she says, tilting her head this way and that, “but some two of me quit after a while. After we'd gotten enough people to keep going. Probably July and Ms. Hartwell. But I guess I've got a bad habit, or three.” She giggles.

“You pretended to be three people... for the sake of a startup.”

She smiles back.

“Bullshit!” I slam my hands on the desk again. “That is not a good enough reason. That is not one hundredth of a good enough reason for the shit you've been pulling.”

“Yeah, you're right. I mean, I'm not lying, it is a reason. But there's a bigger one. And that reason is....”

She grabs a sheaf of papers from the desk and throws them up in the air like confetti, obscuring her body for only a few seconds. When they settle back on the desk, I'm not looking at July anymore.

“I get off on it,” says Ms. Hartwell. She's sitting with perfect composure at her “boss”'s desk, not a hair out of place and not a wrinkle in her tight-fitting shirt. “The thought of playing a part like this, and playing it to perfection day in and day out, excites me like nothing else in this world can.” Her voice is getting less neutral, her words are quickening. “The feeling of this tight suit, compressing me, molding me into another identity, reminding me with every breath I take that the real me is nowhere to be found, hidden behind a supposed normal girl, or a tanned babe from the beach, or this sexed up stereotypical secretary—”

She lets out a little gasp, her lips parted in a perfect O, and leans forward as she stands up. “You understand it, don't you, Augustina? I learned it from July, just how much this excites you. It's why I made sure to put on that show for you last night.”

I sucked in a breath. So she had noticed the hidden camera.

She walks around the desk with slow, deliberate steps, t-tack t-tack t-tack, and plants herself again on my lap—and I let her do it. “I know you love it,” she purrs. “Imagining some senseless harlot, half blinded behind a mask and contact lenses, strutting down these halls in my high heels. Her real skin hot and slick with sweat, among other things, beneath my flawless exterior—doesn't it make your breath quicken, Augustina? Don't your legs squirm at the thought? Doesn't your pulse race?”

It's like she's reading out my biography. She reaches up to my head with one hand, except instead of grabbing my head she rests two fingers against my carotid artery. “I have to confess,” she says, her voice breathy. “I was lonely, before. I was worried I would never find anyone who understood. And now you're here, Augustina. The answer to my silent prayers.” She leans closer and kisses my cheek, just a little peck.

I want to reciprocate, because she's right about everything she's said. But I stay firm. “Who says I'm staying here?”

Her mouth opens, her eyes widen, in an exaggerated expression of shock. “Heavens. You're right. You could unlock the door, go out there, and tell everyone. I'd be completely exposed.”

If she's trying to sound terrified, she's not doing a great job—indeed, she's licking her lips as she slides off my lap and kneels before me, clutching desperately at my leg. “Please, Augustina, surely there must be some way—” her hand reaches for her shirt “—I can convince you—” fiddles with the buttons “—to keep this quiet—” and undoes them one by one, revealing more and more of her flawless breast each time.

I reach out my hand to grab hers before she can go further. “Here's what I want,” I whisper. “Show me how it works. How you work.”

She smirks up at me. “In that case, Augustina, I shall see you momentarily.” She stands, brushes herself off, and rebuttons her shirt before walking back behind the desk. With a little nod, she ducks down and out of sight.

Simone stands up. “So,” she says, and sticks her bare arm out, tensing it. “Feel this.” I reach out and touch her arm, and grab at it, and feel how firm the muscles are. “Feels real, right? But it's not quite skin—it's called a skinsuit. It simulates the skin, the fat, even the muscles underneath.” She smiles. “Pretty swell, right?”

“Wow. Do you mind if I—” She's already smiling and nodding, giving me carte blanche, so I grasp her arm and roll my thumb around. I squeeze at her muscles, and then lean forward even further. My hand travels up her arm, along her collarbone, and—cheekily—down to her breasts, which I fondle through her tank top. She's been feeling me up for the past few days, after all, and she lets out a little murmur of appreciation anyway.

It feels so real. “And your real skin is really under there?” I say, not letting go.

“Ooh, there's actually a latex catsuit under here. Keeps the outer layer clean.” She smiles, and leans forward into the pressure of my hands. “Plus I like having the extra layer. Feels... comfy, in all the wrong ways.”

“How do you change suits so quickly?”

She laughs. “Oh, I don't change suits. It's the suit that's changing.” She gently pushes my hand off her breasts, then holds out her hand and lays it on the desk. “Watch this,” she says, and flourishes with it like a magician doing a trick.

My attention is drawn to it. The fingers keeps moving as if playing an invisible keyboard for a few seconds longer, building my anticipation, and then all the fingers splay out—and I watch them change color before my eyes, from Simone's tanned skin to something paler. A bit smaller, too—I see some bulk leave the fingers.

“It's all one suit,” says July's voice, and I look up in astonishment to see that she's changed again, clothes and all. I'd barely taken my eyes off her. “And it's got little mechanisms in it that change the color and the muscles. Um... besides those....” She flexes, showing off absolutely no definition in her arm. “There's also little lifts in the feet that rise or lower, and a sort of posture thingy in the torso that basically stretches me out or lets me relax. It's not enough to hurt, but I can gain or lose something like three inches in either direction.”

She grins sheepishly. “And there's an adjustable corset too. Like, I'm just regular skinny right now, but Ms. Hartwell's waistline is ridiculous. The feeling I get when it's pressing on me....” She sucks in a breath. “I think that's why Ms. Hartwell is the horniest one of me.”

“And—and the clothes? The face?” This is a lot to process. I'm sort of slackening back in my chair, imagining what that must all feel like—imagining how it would feel on me. “Are those part of the suit too, or—”

“Nope, those aren't attached. Watch.” July pulls her logo-bearing t-shirt off over her head, revealing a plain tan bra. Then she throws it at my face, where it lands to obscure my vision. I realize exactly what she's doing, and I pull it off my head as fast as possible, and I'm still not quick enough to see any transition—Ms. Hartwell is there now, similarly shirtless. But her bra is black lingerie.

“I don't suppose you've ever seen a quick change act, Augustina?” Ms. Hartwell smiles, and swipes her hands over her breasts; the bra changes briefly to the tan set that July had worn, and then changes back with another quick movement. “The performer wears special clothes that can quickly fold and unfold, presenting a new appearance. This is the same basic principle.”

Her hand reaches up and starts mushing at her breast, apparently without her noticing. Horniest of the three, indeed. “And as for the masks, well, that took quite some time and skill to master. I took inspiration from the ancient dramatic art of Bian Lian. These days, after strenuous practice and discipline, I can fully change my identity within the blink of an eye. “

“That's not possible,” I say, as if I believe it.

“Oh?” She smiles. “Then I'll just have to make you blink, Augustina.”

And the look in her eyes tells me that we've reached the time for action, not talking. And that stings, because I have so many more questions—how do the panels in the walls work? How does she switch between personalities, between voices, so easily? Haven't I heard Simone's voice while looking at Ms. Hartwell?

With a careless sweep of Ms. Hartwell's arms, the desk is cleared of everything upon it—files, the phone, even the computer crashes to the (thankfully carpeted) floor. She crawls over the desk toward me, an exaggerated affectation of longing, of lust. She reaches out for the collar of my shirt and gently pushes me into my seat. The torrent of questions in my mind stills—almost entirely—and I have no problem with rising from my seat to obey.

“I've prepared a new assignment for you,” she says softly. “Watch me carefully as we do this. Keep your eyes on me. Try to spot any transitions, any imperfections in my changing identities.” She smiles. “And in case it's not obvious, Augustina, I'm setting you up to fail.”

It's a challenge I'm more than willing to accept. But there's still one more question. “Was it all a lie?” I ask.

She puts her finger on my lips. “Yes. Except for how we—how I—feel about you. All of me loves you, Augustina.”

She gets off the desk and starts a slow striptease. First to go is the skirt, which she works down her legs with as much wiggling of the rear as possible. She kicks it off to the side, then dances in a tight circle to show off every inch of her exposed leggings, as well as the flesh—well, flesh substitute—beneath.

“Does this excite you, Augustina?” She bends down further than is necessary, undoing and removing her high heels one—by—one. “Are you enjoying what you're seeing?

She moves in further, and before I know it she's sunken into a lap dance. First she's backed toward me and is grinding her ass into my lap, and then she turns around as I pant, and she straddles my legs with her own, and presses her breasts toward my face.

“I'm sure you're excited for us both to be, at least apparently, in the nude.” Now she reaches into my shirt and, as easily as if she's pulling off velcro, undoes my bra behind my back. She pulls the bra out through my shirt's neckhole and tosses it aside, and I'm sure that my nipples must now be showing through my not-very-thick T-shirt. “But you should be concerned as well.”

“Hm?” For reasons I hope should be understandable, it's not the easiest thing in the world to focus on Ms. Hartwell's voice. “I should... why should I be concerned?”

She smiles devilishly and undoes her own bra, making more of a spectacle of it than she did with mine: slowly pulling the straps along her arms, then removing the whole garment and letting it dangle for a moment, before dropping it to join mine on the floor. Her breasts are revealed now, firm and smooth and symmetrical and god, I can hardly believe they're not real.

Her leggings come off soon after, with much gyration and drawing attention to her rear, her thighs, her calves....

“Because, little Augustina,” she says, now wearing nothing but lacy black panties. “The hardest part of switching is changing clothes.” She leans in again, gives me a peck on the cheek, and simultaneously starts helping my arms through my sleeve holes, so that they're both under my shirt. “Ipso facto, the more I remove....”

She grabs my shirt and tugs it up, and yanks it over my head, and in that brief instant—it's less than a second—she's changed again. “The easier I change,” July says. She's blushing furiously, nothing on but her plain tan panties, and as soon as she drops my shirt she covers her breasts with her forearms. “Oh, wow,” she says. “Wow.”

Her embarrassment is so obvious it takes me a moment to remember who was just giving me a lapdance. “Isn't it a bit late to be flustered?” I complain, standing up. Her height has definitely changed: even without those heels, Ms. Hartwell was a little taller than me, but July is a little shorter. Which means I can take a more dominant role now, standing tall and looking down at her, and try to reassert some control. “Don't tell me you're backing out now, July. Or should I call you, what was it... Any?”

“Um... I just never expected our first time to be, like... like this.” She's stammering, backing up. “Not, um, not that I'm complaining, but—”

I laugh a little and step forward, forcing her against the desk. “Come on, Month Buddy. I know you've been fantasizing about this.” I take her arms and pull them apart, revealing her breasts—smaller and softer than the secretary's. Still delightful. “This is exactly what you wanted.” I lean over her, and she's forced to lean back, and it doesn't take anything more than a tiny push to land her back on the desk.

“Oh, wow.” She's breathing hard, like she can't believe this is happening. “You weren't this dominant with Ms. Hartwell. You, hah, switch roles pretty quick, huh.”

“Pot to kettle.”

I yank my jeans down, and we're both nude except for our panties. I bend over her, straddling her legs now, and force a rough, passionate kiss upon her. But my mouth isn't the only thing touching her: my right hand is cupping her head, and not just to keep it off the hard desk. I'm groping her false skin, trying to find a seam between suit and mask, any evidence that the person beneath me is somehow fake.

“Aw....” She takes a deep breath as I break off, having found nothing. “That's dirty pool, Month Buddy.” She swivels on her back, so that she's laying lengthwise along the desk. Then she hooks both thumbs into the waist of her panties, and she tucks her knees to her her chest so she can pull them off.

She wiggles her tush. “Just FYI, uh... the skinsuit changes with the different masks. It's programmed to. So I, uh, just have to swap masks now.” She smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, but I really don't think you're up for—”

I shut her up with a kiss. This one's even more passionate, even more probing, so much so that I'm not even trying to find a flaw. I'm just overcome with how desirable this person, this collection of people, is. I clamber atop her, her body sandwiched between mine and the desk.
“Oh my god,” I pant between sloppy kisses. “I want you so much.”

“Yeah?” she manages.

“I wanna fuck you—I wanna ruin this fucking desk.” My free hand, the one that's not behind her head, goes down to her crotch and gets to work. She's panting, losing all composure, not that she had much to begin with. “And it's not just that. I wanna know how you work, I wanna see all of you, I wanna be you—”

I'm keeping my eyes fixed on her. Not even because of the challenge—I just love seeing her squirm at my touch, seeing her cheeks glow and her body gyrate. But my eyes can't stay open forever. My hand's on her neck, my other is in her nethers, and without thinking—

I blink.

“Really?” Simone is staring back up at me. I recoil. She looks completely at ease, even a little cocky. “I do like to hear that.”

Before I can process what's going on, she grabs my torso and spins us, so that all of a sudden I'm slammed on the bottom, at her mercy. “Oh, Tina.” She clicks her tongue. “Tina, Tina, Tina. You've been talking a big game and now you can't back it up?” With a little shake of her head, she clambers around. “You need to learn to put your money where your mouth is... or is it the other way around?”

Her pussy is right in front of me. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what to do next, so I get started. My hands grasp around Simone's rear, and my tongue laps around her clit, She moans as she does much the same for me, though instead of her hands on my rear, I feel pressure around my legs.

Forcing my eyes open, I see the sweat on her, sweat that must be extruded through two layers of skin and latex, and I taste its saltiness in my mouth. I'm getting close, my eyes are rolling back—

Simone pushes herself up, and turns herself around so we're eye to eye once more. “Not yet.” She smiles. “I wanna get a look at that pretty face, one last time.”

She takes my arms and positions them above my head, then leans into them both with one of her arms, pinning me. The other takes its place at my own nether regions, and they're already so worked up that I whimper at her slight touch. “What were you saying before?” Her voice is deceptively casual.

“I wanna fuck you—”

“Not that.” Her fingers tickle at my stomach, well above any truly erogenous zone, and it's torture to be so denied. “The last thing you said to July.”

“I—I wanna become you,” I gasp. “You're everything I ever dreamed of being, I wanna be like you, I wanna be you—”

And her fingers dive back inside me, and I nearly howl. “Keep saying it,” she says. Her eyes are hungry, and they're all I have the mental strength to make out. “Don't you stop.”

“I wanna be you. I wanna be you.” She's speeding up. “Oh, fuck, I wanna be you so much, I wanna—I wanna be—”

Everything goes white. My hips buck, over and over, as I release. I'm panting heavily and I don't think I can keep saying the words... but as I return to my senses, she seems pleased. Eager, even.

Oh, and she's Ms. Hartwell now. “I'm very glad to hear it,” she says, just a hint of warmth in her voice. “And now we can discuss your upcoming promotion, Augustina... well, no.” She frowns. “That name just won't do.”

“What?”

Ms. Hartwell gets off me and stands to the side of the desk. I try to follow her example, but—I can't. I look up and see handcuffs around my wrists, locking them to the legs of the desk, and then I glance frantically down and see my ankles are in the same situation.

“Wait, what are you—” And then she's shoved a gag into my mouth, and I can't talk. I can try to yell through the rubber ball, but it doesn't do any good, doesn't come out as anything louder than a whimper. I try anyway.

“You should know, the bits where my selves told you the walls aren't thick? Those were lies.” Ms. Hartwell circles the desk. “This office is soundproofed extraordinarily well. No one will know what we're doing in here.”

She bends down out of my line of sight. Maybe ten seconds later, she's standing up again, and she's back in all her clothes. Not a hair's out of place, and there's not a wrinkle on her. She crosses to the closet, t-tack t-tack t-tack, and it occurs to me that I've never seen Simone's closet without that lock on it.

I can't see what she's doing. But as the seconds pass, I hear the sound of her, possibly, removing something from the closet. And then she walks back and I see that she's holding a heavy black latex suit.

“Well?” A smirk flickers onto her face, like a malfunctioning fluorescent briefly sparking to life. “We try to accommodate all our employees here, and you requested to... be me, was it? Did you think we wouldn't take your request seriously?”
I freeze up at that. It takes a second, fifteen seconds, for me to realize what she's saying.

“Be still,” she says, and she walks to my left leg and I feel the cuff coming undone. She doesn't need the order, though—once I realize that she's sliding the heavy latex onto my body, I'm nothing but compliant. I let her manipulate my leg, my foot, even my toes until everything's firmly inside the latex.

She recuffs my left leg, then repeats the process with my right. Now there's a floppy mass of shiny blackness bunched up around my crotch, but I can still see my legs. I feel that they're compressed and enclosed, and they certainly look thinner from here. I wiggle my toes experimentally, and find there's almost no more resistance than if they were bare.

Without warning, Ms. Hartwell reaches down by the mass and shoves, and I feel two probes enter me. So soon after the last bit of excitement, I can't help but see stars. When I come back to, she's worked the latex up my abdomen, and I hear a zipper sound as she runs a hand up my back. It's so tight around my waist now, and it's a little harder to breathe, and I kind of love it.

“What shall I call you?” she asks. She uncuffs my left arm and slides it into the suit's, and I'm limp as a ragdoll. “For reasons that shall soon become clear, Augustina simply won't do. Nor any derivation from that name, no Tina or even Month Buddy.” She works the same magic on my right arm, and then presses the latex up along my chest. This feels even tighter than the stomach does: my breasts are squashed and compressed, and when I look down I'm flat as a board.

“Well, let's think logically. If my name is Any, then yours....”

There's only one thing left to do. Only one piece of the catsuit left, flopping around under my neck. And she removes my gag and then, before I can get a word in edgewise, puts on the hood.

“Your name is No.”

I feel a latex tongue around mine, a full set of teeth covering my own, and latex nostril tubes intruding into my nose. My hair is pressed flat against my scalp. I feel her hands pressing around the back of my head, and I hear a click, and it is done.

“Sit up, No. Take a look at... well. I can hardly even say yourself.”

I try, but I can't—I'm still bound. “Oh, silly me,” she says, and I hear her walking to the closet again and pulling something else out. She returns and undoes my cuffs. “Now sit up, drone.”

I do. What she's pulled from the closet is a mirror. “Take a look,” she says. With a firm hand on the back of my neck, she guides me off the desk and toward the mirror.

Drone is right. My body is smooth and shining and black. My breasts are gone, though there is still a slit at my crotch. And my hair and face are gone. I can make out a nose and a mouth, but my ears and even my eyes are absent. I don't know how I'm seeing this, even: maybe some sort of tiny holes in the latex, perhaps.

“Your name is not Augustina, nor even Tina, drone. Augustina does not exist. For you see, I am Any, because I can be anybody,” Ms. Hartwell whispers into my ear. “But you? You cannot be anybody, and with that suit locked you cannot even return to the foolish girl who used to be there. Try to do so. Try to remove the suit.”

I don't want to—but she slaps me, her face suddenly angry, and I'm compelled to obey. I reach behind my head with my right hand, with both hands, feeling for a seam or a zipper or a lock. It's completely smooth.

“Exactly, drone. You cannot be anybody, or even somebody. You can only be nobody. You are nobody,” she hisses, her voice so soft and sibilant that it may as well be my own thoughts, “and therefore your name is No.

“I, on the other hand?” She ducks behind me. When she stands up again—she's Augustina. “I can be anyone.” She's wearing my clothes, speaking in my voice. “I've earned this name. But you have earned no name.”

I feel, distantly, as though my breath should be catching at this, at the thought of my identity being stolen as literally as possible. But I'm strangely calm. Drones don't get names or emotions.

She ducks back behind me and Ms. Hartwell emerges once more, before I can even process what's happened. “Would you like to earn a name, drone?”

I nod fervently.

She opens the closet once more. I can see for a moment that there's many shelves in there, some sleek-looking machinery, and even maybe a bunk—and then it's closed again, and she holds a folded collection of clothes in one hand and a fleshy pile in the other. “Put this on,” she orders, tossing the latter at me.

It's a skinsuit. I do as I'm told, grabbing it and putting it on with a lustful eagerness. The suit's legs become my legs, the suit's torso and breasts become mine, its inserts slide into my latex inserts, I take its arms for myself, and the head—

There isn't a head. I stare at the mirror in confusion: a generic but fully human woman from the neck down, and a black latex thing above.

“That will come last,” she says, answering a question I can't ask. “Now to dress you.” She sets the clothes on the desk, then takes them one by one to dress me. She's faster than I could be, too, moving like a blur. I'm in panties, leggings, high heels, a tight skirt, an undershirt—

Hold on.

She pulls a jacket over my shirt, displaying a hint of cleavage, and says, “And now for you to become.” From behind her back, like a magician, Ms. Hartwell brings out the mask of another Ms. Hartwell. “Open wide, drone.”

My mouth opens in astonishment as much as obedience. There's a momentary discomfort—a skinsuit's mouth and nose settling in around mine, a split second's darkness as the eyes align—and then it's done.

Ms. Hartwell is there in the mirror, standing next to another Ms. Hartwell. But the two are like night and day: one drips with confidence and self-assurance, and the other is gaping and confused and uncertain. Despite this, it takes me a moment to realize which one is me.

“None of that.” The other Ms. Hartwell lifts a finger into my chin and shuts my mouth. “You are Ms. Hartwell. Old fashioned, sexy, and excellent at acting as if you're unaware of either fact. You take pride in being the best and most efficient secretary on the face of this planet. You work from dawn to dusk without complaint, and your only thought is the company's success—except for when you spot a morsel of shyness in an employee. And then you take perverse pleasure in probing at it, putting that employee on the back foot as subtly or blatantly as you like. And when I say perverse, I am being as literal as possible.”

She stands in front of me, blocking the mirror. “A girl was in here not too long ago. She said she wanted to be me. Will you carry out her last request, drone?”

I blink. “Excuse me?” I say.

“I said, will you carry out her last request, drone? Or are you hard of hearing—”

“I beg your pardon.” It's clear as day what I have to do. My mouth—Ms. Hartwell's mouth—twists into a sneer. “I don't keep up with any current slang, so perhaps drone is an appropriate thing to call a friend these days. But I am not your friend. My name,” I say, “is Ms. Hartwell, and you will kindly address me as such.”

It's like someone else is saying the words, and that someone else is me. I feel as if my brain has been partitioned—one part is coldly dismissive of the idea of being addressed at all informally. The other part is, for lack of a better word, flipping out. I can't tell if that other part is Tina, or No.

The first Ms. Hartwell—though the cold part of my mind thinks of her as the second Ms. Hartwell—blinks, then nods once and sharply. “Excellent. You're ready.”

She walks past me. I see Ms. Hartwell in the mirror, crossing behind my back and pausing there, and then Simone stepping out from behind me. “Well, Jess—sorry, Ms. Hartwell,” she amends, as I glare at her. “This certainly has been a productive meeting, and it's nice to find another way besides weights to burn off stress. But we both really need to get back to work so... later!”

With all the autonomy of a wind-up clockwork doll, I nod, then unlock the door and stiffly walk out. It closes behind me.

A part of me dimly realizes I don't actually know Ms. Hartwell's username or password, but I don't stop walking to her chair and sitting down. Once I have, I notice a post-it note on the corner of her monitor, one that I'm pretty sure isn't usually there: it's got the information I need.

If it was put up today, then it was put up before I called her out. Any has been planning this for a long time. I'm thrilling on the inside at that knowledge, but on the outside I'm logging in and checking through Ms. Hartwell's emails.

It's strange, this dual identity. I know I'm doing a lot more to memorize Ms. Hartwell's meticulous calendar, and checking through more of her email backlog, than the usual version ever would need to. And yet the larger part of me, the Ms. Hartwell part, is convinced there's nothing strange about it, that she's just taking her usual time to read her emails.

Within a few moments, I'm done with my preparations, and I check the clock. It's ten in the morning. The workday ends at five in the afternoon.

I crack my knuckles. Let's do this.