henzoid

[henzoid]

oh you wanted T as in testosterone. i thought you meant T as in T-virus resident evil. well the good news is that you're still gonna transform at least

[henzoid]

[henzoid]

Transeverance - Prologue

A light red pickup truck pulls into the empty, symmetrical, Lumon parking lot on the edge of town. The truck rolls slowly forward, past rows and rows of white lines and parking signs, towards the huge, rectangular glass building looming above. It stops on the line, between two spots, and parks. The driver-side door opens, and Reese Granger steps out into the cold morning air.

Picture a man. You’re probably picturing Reese Granger. Reese is fifty-two, with a wife, two kids, and a bit of a gut. Reese would most likely not object to any of these descriptors, and, though not necessarily thrilled to say so, would probably agree with most of them.

But only most.

Reese has, for lack of a better term, really let go since college. Reese never learned about self love; in fact, as a high school jock and a college cool kid, Reese took personal satisfaction entirely for granted. So when the harsh emptiness of post-graduate life started to sink in, Reese realized it actually took effort to maintain relationships, and... well, it never really took. Any drive that was once present was gone, and so too Reese sank, into the depths of mediocrity. For almost thirty years, Reese has been on autopilot. Dad says “Get a job.” Mom says “Get a wife.” Now you’re married. Now you’re a dad. And it makes you happy for a while. And you’re pretty sure you love your wife, but just like all the girlfriends you had in high school, you wonder if she’s “the one”, and if “the one” is a real concept at all, and now you are, unbeknownst to even yourself, quite jaded when it comes to the topic of romance.

And you feel utterly, irrevocably, alone.

Reese thinks about none of this while walking up the wide stone steps into the lobby of the Lumon building. In fact, Reese thinks about nothing at all, except how itchy this lanyard is under the suit, all the way through the doors and into the neat, square atrium leading to the open floor. The receptionist sees Reese and motions towards the desk. Reese puts an arm up - some form of weak greeting - and approaches. 

Upon arrival at the desk, Reese pulls out the ID hanging from the lanyard and holds it in front of the receptionist. She knows who Reese is; she’s been the receptionist here every day for at least four years; but protocol is protocol. She picks up the grey landline on her desk and presses the dial. 

“Ready for Mr. Granger?” The assistant asks, clearly unenthused. Reese winces, but says nothing. After ten seconds of silence, she nods and points toward the lobby. “Have a good one, Mr. Granger.” Reese goes on ahead.

Reese walks past the massive stone mural of Kier Eagan, the founder of Lumon. Reese feels no love for Kier. Many flock to the founder as an inspiration, a guiding light towards salvation, but to Reese, Kier’s just a paycheck, and that’s all he needs to represent.

The rest of the way to the changing room, Reese sees almost no other signs of any human life. It’s only 6:04 am - making Reese one of the first employees to arrive each morning. Even if this wasn’t the case, though, Lumon management makes sure to emphasize the timeliness of its workers. All the employees have staggered entries, so the severed ones don’t accidentally find out they’re coworkers and form relationships on the outside. Apparently it can “jeopardize the balance” between innie and outie, whatever the fuck that means. Not that it would make much of a difference to Reese, who is, as implied above, entirely bereft of a social life.

Reese swallows and steps inside the severed access room. To the right and left, changing rooms with lockers for personal items and clothing. Reese makes eye contact with Trisha, the elderly security guard posted in front of the severance elevator. Trisha nods - a knowing, intentional nod - and Reese nods back. 

Reese sighs, pulls at the tie under the suit, and steps into the changing room. Five minutes later, Reese opens the door... and she steps back out into the hall.

If ever there was a better example of total transformation, Reese has since stolen the title. She’s beaming with energy, to the point that her posture has literally improved. Her hair extensions are so well attached, you’d sound crazy to even suggest they’re fake. The white button-up shirt she’s wearing perfectly connects with the pencil skirt underneath, and she wears her cute black heels so comfortably, you could send her down a runway and you know she’d fucking nail the landing.

Reese is a woman. And she feels amazing.

Trisha smiles at her. She’s the only person in the world who knows Reese’s secret, and she knows it’s safe with her. Trisha is quiet, and kind, and Reese relates to her more than she relates to her own family, even though she’s had a single-digit number of conversations with her and doesn’t even know her last name. But that doesn’t matter. Trisha is the only person who sees Reese for who she truly is.

Or at least, the only person who remembers it.

Trisha waves her electronic wand over and across Reese’s body - the faint warbling noise staying at a low B, and never wavering. She steps into the elevator, breathes a sigh of relief, and begins to descend. 

This is the part that always feels weird. Like she’s falling asleep, but the sleep never comes. Her eyes begin to flutter, her mind goes blank, and...

…

. . .

.   .   .

Ding! The elevator comes to a stop. Reese G steps out of the elevator... and smiles. A real, genuine smile. She’s ready for another day at work. She’s ready to finish some files and earn some perks. She’s ready to make Kier, her founder, proud of what she’s done. Most importantly, she’s happy. What a time to be alive. What a time to be alive.

[henzoid]

spongebob makes burgers in the back of the kitchen. he passes the burgers through a window, to squidward, who is his male coworker. squidward hands the burgers to the customers of the restaurant that both Squidward and Spongebob work for.