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Worst Foot Forward

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"Visit the executive spa soon, now that you have access to it," advised Chaviel, an organizer of the quarterly line-manager-exclusive functions. "The foot massages are divine."

"That sounds wonderful," Hartro began, but was interrupted when someone slammed into her back. The contents of Hartro's glass spilled all over her carefully pressed uniform.

Hartro turned, fuming. "Who in the Board's name-"

The person who'd bumped into her seemed too sloshed to care. "The nerve! I don't appreciate you wasting perfectly serviceable alcohol when it could be going to the very good cause of me drinking it."

Hartro frowned. "Are you allowed to be here?"

The man looked indignant. "Of course I am, how else could I be here?"

Party interloper detected. Security alerted.

At I.M.O.G.E.N.'s voice, the man froze, barked, “This is all your fault!” at Hartro, and ran off into the crowd.

A sigh. Hartro looked over. Chaviel was shaking her head. "Security will take care of him. They always do."

Hartro was still irked by that brief, nonsensical interaction. "This isn’t the first time?"

“No," said Chavriel.

Security burst into the room, lightly armed. Nobody batted an eye.

"That's Trexel Geistman,” Chaviel continued. “I pity the poor soul in charge of managing him. He drove the last one crazy, you know, literally crazy.”

Hartro blinked. She would get her assignments tomorrow morning. "Wait, is he—that one?"

While asking, Harto realized she already knew the answer. Anecdotes surfaced from her memory, all various shades of horrific. She felt, for the first time after being promoted, a sense of dread.

An enormous crash on the other side of the room was followed by, "You've got the wrong man!"—soon silenced by Security's tranquilizers.

“Good, now that's taken care of. Let’s enjoy the rest of the evening.”

But Hartro found that she couldn’t.