Joylin froze me to the spot, figuratively. She might as well have used her obscure hand-wave.

  “Ah, Mr. Flannery. Or do you prefer Keith?”

  Joylin Everlast's brown hair was neatly curled today, her expression stern with a perfect, unnerving uniformity. No makeup, save for a hint of red lipstick. I approved of both.

  The smell of vanilla assaulted my nostrils—a clear Re-Burial code violation.

  “Keith,” I stammered, taken aback by her sudden appearance and, well, her. What was wrong with me?

  I rolled my shoulders and flexed my neck, finally loosening up.

  “Or Flannery, if you prefer, Mrs. Everlast.” I steadied my voice, managing to sound unperturbed.

  “Oh, it’s Miss.” Her lips twitched upwards. “Miss... Joylin... Everlast.” She sounded them out in staccato, running her fingers through her hair, and the smell of vanilla redoubled. Was that cinnamon?

  Scrap that. I was stuck again, very stuck and supremely perturbed. What was one to do when assaulted by the scent of the world’s most efficient breakfast? Oatmeal.

  “You seem… uncomfortable,” she observed, her head tilting slightly. “And a little hungry. You remind me of my pup, Andromeda. Are you okay?”

  She looked genuinely concerned.

  I took a step back. “Ah, yes, Miss. Well, I... I am very busy, so if you will excuse me.”

  “Wait, please.” Her hand shot out and seized my wrist. The grip was a vice, yet oddly gentle. “I never said the experience working here needed to be an unpleasant one, Keith.” Her voice dropped a little. “Let me help you acclimatize.”

  I had no idea what acclimatizing meant in context, but I had just been danced at and adorned with a sloppy sticker. This place was not something I wanted to get used to.

  Although I might get used to Joylin... I studied her closely. The woman was ridiculously well put together: lipstick somewhere between #C61B44 and #C0022F (Compliance Red), curls placed at eight-millimeter intervals, eyes...

  “Attention, Keith.” She snapped her fingers just in front of my nose. The sharp sound brought me back.

  “This is important. If you need anything, my door is always open. I am here to help."

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  What was wrong with me? This woman was the devil. I briefly checked her for a tail and blushed when she caught me checking.

  I reached behind my back and whipped out Form 12-Q, Emergency Personal Boundary Compliance. I keep one on me at all times.

  “You know, Keith, this isn’t strictly Immortality-Corp rules-compliant.” She waved the form at me, but it wasn't really threatening. “But I will drop it for now. You can leave.” She sighed, letting me go. “You know, that’s one of the great things about you, Keith—you’re always prepared. It’s why I sponsored your reassignment.”

  “Keith...? Keith!” I heard her call from behind me. Nothing like a good escape while an office temptress is monologuing.

  I shot through the various colourful corridors of Immortality-Corp; doors streamed past on either side of me—a rainbow of unknown quantities.

  A room on my right had Safe-Space etched across its wooden doors. I stopped and considered it for a second; if a room needs to call itself safe, it is anything but.

  I glanced into the Sunshine Room next door. A presentation on Your Sparkle and You was being held; each employee clasped a small stick with a smiling sun attached to the top. They looked oddly vacant yet attentive at the same time.

  They clutched their sticks like terribly inefficient life preservers.

  A voice droned from the front—a thin man in his middle years, hair thinning, and wearing a tweed jacket that had Smile Advocate splashed across the front. “And that, employees, is why you and your sparkles aren’t separate entities at all. You are unified. You embody the same space, both physically and mentally—you must let them into you, as they let you into them.”

  He waggled his sun stick at the audience, and they wiggled theirs back in response. This was scarier than Joylin and lacked the pros list.

  I jogged on. I needed to set considerable distance between myself and whatever that presentation was. Slowly the colours around me dulled and my breathing lightened. At last, simplicity. I entered the gloriously empty restroom.

  “Get a hold of yourself, Flannery,” I admonished myself sternly in the mirror. “Don’t make me write you up.”

  Mirror-me stared back: emotionless. Dead.

  Good. I was recovering.

  Some two-bit, ethereal, corporate jackal (who smelled like oatmeal and had the most amazing shoes) was not going to get the best of me. No, sir. Keith Flannery is made of stronger stuff. To be exact, one’s stuff needed to be of a B-rank or better to work in middle management at Re-Burial, and Keith always exceeded expectations.

  I checked the mirror again, ensuring that every part of my apparel was in the right place and that my hair was perfectly set. Then, stepping out of the restroom, I was immediately flattened by a lobster.

  “Keith!” Seymour picked me up gently with one massive claw; he was surprisingly strong, and yet even more gentle. He attempted to dust me off, but his efforts only created three long tears down the front of my blazer. Mostly gentle then.

  “Oh no.” He panicked, trying to close the tears—and creating four new ones. I put my hand up to stop him, and removed my jacket, folding it neatly.

  “Don’t worry, Seymour. It’s okay, thanks for helping me up.” Seymour beamed at me.

  “Hey, Keith, follow me! It’s 2:00 p.m., and I know someone who’s got some affirmations coming their way.” In his massive claws, Seymour cradled a large sheet of paper with KEITH written neatly in orange crayon, underlined twice and punctuated with far too many exclamation marks.

  He ushered me forward, excitedly digging two trains from his pocket. “Have you seen this one, Keith?”