Author's Note: I've deliberated quite a bit about the category in which to place this story. There are people having their cognition changed, but it happens offscreen, and there intentionally isn't a lot of detail - it's just a McGuffin to set up a fairly bonkers sitcomesque plot with elements of farce. In my experience, a true " Mind Control " genre story presents the act in close to the detail and importance of the sex itself, and that's not the case here - you're not going to see it happen. If there's an outcry, the category can always be changed.
SOMEWHERE OVER COLORADO - JUNE 16, 10:00 AM MOUNTAIN TIME
Garrett Morley stretched in his airplane seat with the practiced, economical motions of a half-million-mile traveler. The trip from Chicago to Los Angeles was a quite important one for an executive VP of Marketing for the ProTekOmega Corporation, but secretly Morley felt that it shouldn't be.
If his staff knew about some of ProTekOmega's projects that were ... not available to the public, they wouldn't be so stressed at this kind of Request For Proposal - they should be well in hand. ProTekOmega, by all rights, should be king of the world by now.
Unfortunately, some of his superiors on the Board didn't seem to be focused on the business cases, and seemed more intent on using ProTekOmega as a personal playground. Not that he himself was above that - rank hath its privileges - but at least he tried to make a legitimate justification for use of still-precious ProTekOmega resources.
And as a result of the lack of high-level focus, ProTekOmega currently needed someone who was more ... morally flexible. Someone willing to do what was necessary to get the job done. Someone who could let the Board pretend their hands were clean. Someone like Garrett.
Which left Garrett here, on a plane, making a final review of the proposal that his team would present tomorrow to a DEA task force in downtown LA. That contract would bolster ProTekOmega's west coast presence and add enough to the bottom line to allow the board to continue their ... indulgences. For another quarter, at least.
It was a good proposal, and had a fair chance of winning the bid straight up. Santa Monica based Alcantra were the only real competition, and even with their advantage in local knowledge and their carefully established base of contacts, Garrett felt their position was vulnerable. He'd sent a "tiger team" in advance of his arrival to prepare the groundwork and work with the local ProTekOmega operatives.
But there was one more thing Garrett needed to make this work - and it was time for him to call in his own ace in the hole. One that he had established long ago, in anticipation of exactly this situation.
The MYG protocol had never failed him before. He was one of only six people in the company who knew anything more about it than the name, outside the Board. He didn't know all the details - for operational security, no one person did - but he knew enough.
MYG involved some proprietary drug treatments, ASMR therapy, and some particularly odd psychological theories they'd managed to keep out of publication. The result was a matrix of suggestions, desires, personality traits, and imperatives that, when triggered, would overlay the subject's existing personality and transform it. The results were ... sometimes subtle, sometimes spectacular. The implanted suggestions were internalized, accepted by the subject as their own thoughts and desires. In a few extreme cases, it had even resulted in creation of a new identity.
Right now, MYG was his secret weapon. It couldn't be used on the customer, for obvious reasons. But Garrett, as he had in number of times in the past, had another plan in mind.
Corporate America had always used people up, Garrett reflected. It was just that most corporations couldn't do the things they could do.
His opposite number from Alcantra was a nebbish named Clark Perkins. Garrett had met him at a few networking events, and never really liked the man. ProTekOmega operatives had had Clark and his family under surveillance for ages, long since identifying all of them as prime targets for MYG.
Morley had an extensive dossier on the Perkins family in his briefcase. Clark himself was a weak man, at the edge of his competence. His wife was shrewish and repressed, and their marriage wasn't going well. Their daughter was dangerously close to failing out of college.
Clark was perfect. Just a little nudge, and he would decant everything he knew about Alcantra's plans, including the latest numbers. Cut him out of the preparations, and the advantage would swing decisively to Garrett.
His family were not necessary to this plan. But rank hath its privileges, and man does not live by bread alone. All work and no play makes Garrett a dull boy. ProTekOmega didn't pay him as much as they did for him to be the good guy.
Now it was time to make the call.
Morley activated the in-flight phone with his platinum AMEX card, and leaned back in his seat. After a few seconds, a connection was established. Morley said "Ah, Perkins. So good to talk to you..."
PERKINS RESIDENCE, MALIBU - JUNE 16, 8:00 AM PACIFIC TIME
Clark Perkins stared intently at the coffee maker, keeping it from finishing the pot. It hadn't been a good night - too many nerves about the upcoming presentation - and he knew that the coffee would just make it worse, giving him a burst of energy for a few hours before leaving him nauseous and dehydrated by afternoon.
But it was a trade-off he was willing to make. As the Alcantra Inc. associate VP for marketing, he was overseeing his team's final preparations for the Big Sale. Finally, the in to sweet, sweet government contracts that he and a number of associates had spent years cultivating. And the tech boys had finally come through with something that looked, well, promising. If they could just get in the door, pushing aside ProTekOmega, the school bully, that would give the boffins time to work out the bugs...
The first bound copy of the presentation was already in his briefcase. Along with a large packet of supporting data provided by research in case they needed an answer in a hurry during the questioning session afterward. Two binders representing years of work and investment into his company's future.
The waffle maker hummed quietly on the counter beside him. As usual, he was the early riser, the industrious one of the family, who got most of the meals on the table. Nonfat Greek yogurt was on ice and Clark had set out peanut butter to go with toast, all for his wife Sarah, who was as always concerned about her curvy figure, as she had been since she had reached forty. Healthy cereal, iced organic milk, and fresh apricots were set out in the forlorn hope that it would tempt his daughter Kimberley to eat something healthy for a change.
The family cat stretched in her place on the dining room floor, watching unimpressed.
Then, a feminine tornado in a short, pink and white striped sweater dress flew down the main staircase and swept into the kitchen just as the waffle maker dinged its readiness. Clark barely had time to register that the stretchy knit material was clinging far too tightly to Kimberley's young figure to be proper for her college classes - and that the hemline was dangerously close to being as high as mid-thigh. Also, the neckline was disapprovingly low, easily far enough to distract her college-age classmates - Clark couldn't be sure, but it might even be exposing the straps of her brassiere.
Clark realized, not for the first time, that he really should put his foot down, someday.
Her long, dark brown hair flying behind her, Kimberley deftly grabbed herself a fresh waffle along with a kitchen towel to carry it with. With a practiced flip of her hair, she met Clark's eyes over her shoulder and said with faux sincerity "Sorry, Dad - can't stay for breakfast, my ride is here."
As Kimberley flittered on into the entry foyer and the front door, Clark noticed for the first time that the dress she was wearing was actually cut quite short, leaving more athletic young leg exposed than he had realized. As she exited, he followed at a discreet distance and peered out the sidelight, down the drive towards the highway, where his daughter's "ride" - a goateed young man wearing cargo shorts and a polo shirt - was waiting on a motor scooter. Clark obviously couldn't hear what they said when she got to him, but from the boy's body language, it was obvious that he was twisted around Kimberley's finger. With a somber feeling of recognition, he suddenly realized that his beloved daughter was probably "putting out". Waffle in hand, Kimberley straddled the bike on the seat behind her entranced boyfriend, showing off tanned leg all the way up. The pair then sped off towards Blaine College.
In a suddenly more somber mood, Clark returned to the kitchen, and noticed that the coffee maker had finally decided that it was done. He plated the orphaned waffle alongside some of his daughter's abandoned cereal - waste not, want not - grabbed a cup of the belated coffee, and sat down at the breakfast bar. He checked traffic on his phone for the fourth time this morning - he still had twenty minutes or so before he had to head down the coastal highway to HQ in Santa Monica.
After a bit, Clark heard his wife Sarah come downstairs and enter the dining area. The waves of her light brown hair were held away from one ear to accommodate her phone, on which she was already talking animatedly with her office. She was, as always, dressed professionally - impeccably so. She wore a turquoise jacket with a hint of retro shoulder pads. It was carefully fitted to contain her magnificent bust while accentuating her still-narrow waist. Sarah's favorite fleur-de-lys pendant, contrasting with her tanned skin, was displayed at her neck above her primly buttoned-up lavender blouse. A near knee-length brown skirt that hugged her generous hips completed the ensemble. She looked stunning. As always. And highly professional. As always.
Still engrossed with the work conversation, Sarah proceeded into the kitchen. When she saw what was set out for her on the counter, Clark saw her literally facepalm. Finally acknowledging his existence, Sarah looked at Clark, gestured at the yogurt with her free hand, then at the phone, and finally rolled her eyes. With that free hand, she picked up the toast and strode out past Clark towards the front door, hardly missing a beat in her conversation.
A few moments after she disappeared from view, Clark heard some fumbling at the front door punctuated by a frustrated "OOOOOOH!" from Sarah. Then steps fading away followed by her car starting and speeding up the drive with a squeal of tires. She had left the closing of the door to him.
A typical morning so far. He trudged back inside and cleared off the useless breakfast dishes. Then he filled a thermos with the remaining coffee and threw on his jacket before grabbing his laptop and briefcase and proceeding to his Audi S8 sedan, waiting in the drive.
As he proceeded down the coast highway in a somber mood, the car's command console displayed an incoming call. He pressed "answer" and said "Hello?" when the device connected.
