Title: Claim Day
Chapter 15: Back to Work
Gabriel
I entered the Echelon auditorium with my small flock of claimed women following behind me, feeling like the most uncomfortable shepherd in history. No, worse than that, I was both predator and protector now, the wolf who had hunted them down and the guardian tasked with keeping them safe. The irony wasn’t lost on me, nor was the weight of responsibility crushing down on my shoulders.
The auditorium was one of Echelon’s showpieces, designed to impress visiting dignitaries and potential donors. Tiered seating curved in a semicircle around a central stage, the seats upholstered in deep blue fabric that matched the institute’s logo. The lighting was subdued now, focused on the large projection screen that dominated the front wall, ready for Ramona and Phoebe’s video conference. Under normal circumstances, this room would host scientific presentations and visiting lecturers. Now it was the gathering place for what remained of our scientific community, a community fractured along gender lines by The Source’s monstrous programming.
“Gabriel, I’ve arranged for your women to sit in the third row, center section,” Alva said, her voice bright with enthusiasm as she gestured toward the seats. ‘Your women’—the words made my skin crawl. “I made sure they have notepads and tablets for taking notes. Would you like me to get you coffee before the presentation starts?”
“No, thank you, Alva,” I replied, watching as she practically vibrated with eagerness to please me. The efficient, sometimes stern assistant who had kept my professional life running smoothly for years was still efficient, but now her competence was tinged with an almost childlike desire for approval.
Dr. Imani Ral approached me, her dark curls bouncing as she walked. “Gabriel, I’ve been crafting a report on how different I feel since I was claimed. I’m trying to quantify the effects for further study. Do you think I should send it to Dr. Quinn?”
“That sounds promising, Imani,” I said, “but for now let’s focus on what Dr. Quinn and Dr. Conrad need. We can explore your findings later.”
“Of course, Gabriel,” she replied with a bright smile. “Sorry... I guess I’m getting ahead of myself. First time being someone’s eager slave, though I guess I did sign up for that, right?”
“Right...” I mumbled. She did sign up for that, I had to remind myself, but I wasn’t sure she would have done it if she’d known the full implications. Or maybe she would have. The thought gave me a little bit of comfort.
I noticed Dr. Renata Mendez standing slightly behind Imani, her top fully buttoned up down to the last button. I had scolded her for her attempt at seduction and now she’d swung to the opposite extreme. I felt a pang of guilt, knowing her husband had come looking for her last night, the distinguished-looking man in his late thirties, mentioning their two children staying with his mother, the same two kids she had mentioned when begging me not to claim her. Renata hadn’t asked about her family once since I’d made her mine. Would she even care if I told her?
Dr. Helena Abbott stood nearby, her expression neutral as she surveyed the room. Of all my claimed women, she seemed the least affected outwardly, maintaining a professional demeanor despite the same eager-to-please undercurrent I could detect in her eyes. Dr. Nia Fenwick, on the other hand, remained as shy as ever, clutching her tablet to her chest like a shield, her eyes darting nervously around the room before returning to me with that same unsettling devotion.
“Let’s take our seats,” I suggested, guiding them toward the row Alva had indicated.
The auditorium was filling up with similar groups: claimed women clustered around their “owners” like satellites around planets. Duncan sat with his three biologists, looking profoundly uncomfortable with his role. When one of them, Dr. Elodie Thorne, I believed, leaned over to whisper something in his ear, he flinched slightly before forcing a smile.
In contrast, Dr. Bernard Smith appeared perfectly composed with his small group of women, including Lenore Renton. I did a double-take when I saw her. Lenore, whose engagement to Elaine Pierce had been celebrated just days ago, was now sitting attentively next to Smith, hanging on his every word. Smith seemed to enjoy the attention, nodding approvingly at something she said before patting her knee. The brief contact made her whole body light up like a Christmas tree. She didn’t even glance once at Elaine, who sat alone in the row behind Edward Barrett and his claimed security officer, Warda Collins, looking at her own master with the same attentive look on her face. The sight of those separated lovers sent a wave of anxiety through me. Their profound connection now seemed utterly forgotten.
I told myself that perhaps their love remained intact somewhere beneath the programming, just temporarily overshadowed by The Source’s manipulation. But even as I thought it, I recognized my own denial. I shook my head, not wanting to dwell on it for now.
Scattered throughout the auditorium were the dozen or so male scientists who had chosen to stay and help. Some looked at the claimed women with expressions of horror or pity, while others seemed merely worried about our collective future. These men represented a fraction of Echelon’s original male staff, but they were the ones who had chosen to fight rather than exploit the new world order. I made a mental note to speak with each of them later about how they could contribute.
As my group settled into our seats, my eyes drifted to a corner of the auditorium where Tristan Grimaud sat with Portia Fletcher. The sight was jarring. these two had been so infamous for their constant feuding, their scientific disagreements escalating to the point where they couldn’t be in the same room without sparking an argument. Now Portia was leaning close to Tristan, whispering in his ear, both of them giggling like teenagers sharing dirty jokes. She looked relaxed, happy even, in his presence.
With a sickening realization, I remembered Tristan’s words after my speech in the atrium yesterday: “I’ll help.” Portia hadn’t been on Ramona’s list of essential scientists. She was brilliant, certainly, but her expertise wasn’t directly relevant to understanding or reversing The Source’s programming. Tristan had claimed her simply because he could, because he wanted to. Still, he could have run away with her. Maybe they could help...
As I watched them, Portia placed her hand on Tristan’s arm, looking up at him with a smirk. The man who had been her intellectual nemesis for years was now the center of her universe. The wrongness of it all hit me anew, and I wondered how many other personal vendettas or desires had been satisfied in the chaos of the claiming.
I turned away, focusing instead on my own group of women who were now settling into their seats, arranging their tablets and notebooks with an eagerness that reminded me of students on the first day of school. They all seemed to be experiencing a strange mixture of excitement and... unease? It was subtle, but I caught glimpses of uncertainty in their expressions, something I had not seen in them since being claimed. Was it anxiety about the task at hand, or something else, something we’d missed?
The lights dimmed further, signaling that the presentation was about to begin.
The large screen at the front of the auditorium flickered to life, revealing Ramona and Phoebe in what was clearly the MRI room. The image quality was poor, grainy and slightly pixelated, suggesting they were using some basic webcam rather than Echelon’s usual high-end video conferencing equipment. The audio crackled with static but was clear enough to understand.
Ramona adjusted her position, her silver-streaked bob catching the harsh overhead lighting of the MRI room. “For those who don’t know me, I’m Dr. Ramona Quinn, Chief Research Scientist in Virology and Genetics here at Echelon.” Her voice was crisp and authoritative despite the poor audio quality. “Behind me is Dr. Phoebe Conrad, Senior Research Scientist in our Neural Interface Division.”
Phoebe stood slightly behind Ramona, her normally energetic demeanor subdued. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, her eyes darting between the camera and the assembled crowd visible on their monitor. There was something in her expression, a tightness around her mouth, a furrow between her brows, that suggested deep discomfort. Not with the science, I realized, but with the situation itself: addressing a room full of claimed women who had no choice but to help.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” Ramona continued. “As some of you already know, approximately three months ago, I discovered an engineered retrovirus present in human samples worldwide. What you don’t know, but have experienced, is that this virus affects women, altering brain structure to function as receivers for electromagnetic signals, specifically, very low frequency waves, or VLF.”
She proceeded to outline what they’d learned: how the virus contained modified genes from European robins, how it created what Phoebe had called a “thin matrix” integrated throughout female brains, how the Blackout had been caused by a global VLF transmission that activated this matrix.
“The transmission wasn’t just maintaining unconsciousness,” Ramona explained, her voice growing more clinical. “It was uploading a complex program, essentially rewriting certain neural pathways to create the… claiming effect we’re now witnessing.”
Around me, the women began to whisper among themselves, their expressions a mixture of scientific fascination and something else entirely. Dr. Imani Ral leaned toward Dr. Helena Abbott, murmuring, “That explains the dopamine cascade I’ve been experiencing,” before glancing back at me with that now-familiar look of devotion.
It was like watching someone learn why a sunset is beautiful: the knowledge of light refraction and atmospheric particles doesn’t make the sunset any less breathtaking. These women now understood the mechanism behind their devotion, but the understanding didn’t diminish the feeling itself.
Ramona cleared her throat. “Dr. Conrad and I were protected from the programming because we were in this MRI room when the transmission occurred. The room’s construction effectively created a Faraday cage, blocking the VLF signals. For this reason, this room remains off-limits to anyone except Dr. Ritter, Mr. Barrett, Dr. Smith, and Mr. Mercer. No claimed women are to enter under any circumstances.”
I watched as this information registered with my group. Alva’s pen paused over her notepad, and Dr. Mendez’s shoulders tensed slightly. Even Imani, who had voluntarily sought to be claimed, seemed to process this with a complex mixture of emotions crossing her face. How did they now feel about free women? Did they see them as anomalies? Were they jealous or did they pity them?
“Our collective task,” Ramona continued, “is to find a way to cancel this programming and restore women’s brains to their normal state, or at least modify them enough that they cannot be programmed again. This is now Echelon’s sole mission.”
The unease I’d sensed earlier became unmistakable now. Dr. Nia Fenwick’s hands trembled slightly as she made notes. Dr. Abbott’s jaw tightened. Imani’s normally animated face went still. The realization hit me with sudden clarity: they were being asked to work toward their own “freedom”, a freedom that would mean the end of their current existence, the dissolution of the devotion that now defined them.
It was a fundamental conflict of interest. Their programming compelled them to please their masters, but the task they were being given would ultimately undo that programming. I wondered if this would present a problem, if they would be able to work toward their own liberation when every fiber of their being wanted the opposite.
But as I looked around, I saw them all returning their attention to the screen, some taking notes, others whispering scientific theories to each other. Their discomfort was evident, but so was their determination to fulfill the mission they’d been given. Pleasing their masters mattered more than their own continuation as claimed women. The thought was both reassuring and deeply disturbing.
“We’ve organized you into teams based on your expertise,” Ramona said, her voice pulling me back to the presentation. “Dr. Conrad and I will oversee all research from our secure location, but each team will have a designated leader who will report directly to us.”
She began listing the teams, and I watched as the women around me straightened, eager to learn their assignments.
“Team One will focus on understanding the virus’s mechanism. This team will be led by Dr. Maren Kephart and include Dr. Saira Callen and Dr. Nia Fenwick.”
Nia looked up at me, seeking approval. I nodded, and she visibly relaxed.
“Team Two will analyze the VLF transmission pattern and try to decode the programming format. This team will be led by Elaine Pierce and include Dr. Helena Abbott and Lenore Renton.”
I watched as Elaine and Lenore exchanged glances from across the room. Nothing in their expressions suggested they were more than colleagues acknowledging shared work. Their gaze immediately returned to their masters.
“Team Three will work on neural pathway analysis. This team will be led by Dr. Imani Ral and include Dr. Renata Mendez and Dr. Elodie Thorne.”
Imani beamed at me, clearly pleased with her leadership role. “Thank God! I’ve been positioning myself for a promotion for months,” she joked. “Though I don’t imagine it comes with a raise, does it?”
I couldn’t help but chuckle, despite the situation. Imani would remain Imani, no matter what happened.
“Team Four will handle computational modeling and simulation. This team will be led by Dr. Petra Silvra and include Dr. Kaori Dressen.”
More details followed: the specific tasks for each team, the equipment they would need, the timeline for initial results. I found myself wondering if anyone else was working on this problem around the world, in other research institutions. I certainly hoped we weren’t alone in this fight. Obviously if there were others, they wouldn’t advertise it. No way to know...
“Each team leader will receive detailed instructions and research parameters within the hour, once you’re all at your temporary stations.” Ramona concluded. “As for the men who have chosen to stay and help—” her gaze seemed to sweep across the unclaimed male scientists scattered throughout the auditorium “—please wait Mr. Ritter’s instructions. He will interview each of you after this conference to determine how your skills can best contribute to our efforts.”
I felt the weight of responsibility settle more firmly on my shoulders. I wasn’t a scientist, I was an operations director. My job had always been to facilitate the work of others, to manage resources and personnel. Now I would be doing the same, but with impossibly higher stakes and a team of women who were essentially slaves to their “masters.” I wasn’t looking forward to it...
“Now that the teams are established,” Ramona said, her voice crackling through the speakers, “all teams will report to their designated temporary stations immediately. Your daily workdays will run from nine in the morning until five in the afternoon, with a one-hour break for lunch. You’ll be allowed a full day of rest on Sundays.”
I raised an eyebrow, surprised by the relatively standard hours. Given the urgency of our situation, I’d expected Ramona to push for longer shifts, twelve, fourteen, even sixteen-hour days wouldn’t have seemed unreasonable under the circumstances. But then again, Ramona had always been pragmatic to her core, and she always praised ‘quality over quantity’. She clearly understood that exhausted scientists made mistakes, and mistakes were something we couldn’t afford. Studies consistently showed that productivity actually decreased when people worked beyond reasonable hours. Quality suffered, errors increased, and creative problem-solving, which we desperately needed, became nearly impossible.
As the meeting concluded, the claimed women rose from their seats, gathering their tablets and notebooks. Almost in unison, they turned toward their respective owners, their expressions questioning: seeking permission to follow the instructions they’d just been given.
Duncan, standing with his three biologists, threw up his hands in frustration. “For God’s sake, just go! You don’t need to check with me every time Ramona or Phoebe tell you to do something. Their instructions override mine, understand?”
His women nodded, though they still looked uncertain as they filed out of the auditorium. The idea that someone else’s commands would take precedence over their master’s was clearly something they couldn’t wrap their heads around. My own group showed similar hesitation, looking to me for confirmation.
“Go ahead,” I said, trying to keep my voice gentle. “Dr. Quinn’s instructions are clear. I’ll check in with you later.”
As the auditorium emptied, Tristan Grimaud approached me with Portia Fletcher close behind. She walked with an unusual bounce in her step, her hand brushing against Tristan’s arm in a gesture that seemed intimate, yet when she noticed me watching, her demeanor shifted. She straightened her posture, clasped her hands in front of her, and adopted an expression of professional interest.
“Dr. Ritter, I noticed Portia wasn’t assigned to any team,” Tristan said, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Was that an oversight?”
I sighed, trying to mask my frustration. Tristan had always been brilliant but socially oblivious, and it seemed the new world order hadn’t changed that aspect of his personality.
“Tristan, until you walked in here today, I had no idea you’d claimed Portia. She wasn’t on Ramona’s list of essential personnel.” I ran a hand through my hair. “It would have been helpful if you’d informed me yesterday that you’d claimed her.”
“But she’s brilliant,” Tristan insisted, as if this were the only relevant fact. “Her work on cellular adaptation to environmental stressors could be invaluable for understanding how the virus integrates with neural tissue.”
I couldn’t help but find it darkly amusing how Tristan now sang Portia’s praises when, for years, he’d dismissed her research as “undisciplined,” “lacking rigor,” and “more intuition than science.” Now she was suddenly indispensable.
Portia stepped forward, her expression earnest. “I understand I wasn’t part of the original plan, Mr. Ritter, but I believe I could contribute significantly to Team One’s viral analysis. My background in stress adaptation could offer a fresh perspective on how the virus evades immune response while altering neural pathways.”
Her tone was measured and professional, almost suspiciously so, given what I knew of the claiming effect. There was none of the eager-to-please energy I’d observed in other claimed women. Either Tristan had specifically instructed her to act this way, or she was intuitive enough to understand what would convince me.
My irritation faded. Whatever the circumstances, Portia was still a talented scientist, and we needed every capable mind we could get.
“I’ll speak with Ramona about adding you to Team One,” I conceded. “You’re right that your expertise could be valuable. I’ll let you know what she says.”
Tristan nodded, looking relieved. “Thank you, Gabriel. I appreciate it. I’ll... stop by your office later to see how I could also be of help.”
As they turned to leave, I noticed Portia’s hand slide back to Tristan’s arm, her professional facade slipping just enough to reveal the devotion underneath. I couldn’t help but wonder with horror what Tristan and her had been up to since yesterday. I didn’t know if I wanted to know, actually.
I headed back to my office, hoping for a moment of solitude to process everything that had happened. The weight of responsibility pressed down on me with every step. Just a few minutes, that’s all I needed to collect my thoughts before the parade of interviews began.
“Gabriel! Wait up!”
Alva’s voice echoed down the corridor behind me. I turned to see her hurrying toward me, tablet in hand, her chestnut bob bouncing with each step. Even in crisis, she maintained her professional appearance.
“Should I start gathering the men who need to be interviewed?” she asked, falling into step beside me. “I’ve already compiled a list based on who was present at the meeting. I can prioritize them by department if you’d prefer.”
“Yes, go ahead,” I said, unlocking my office door. “But give me thirty minutes before the first one. I need some time to… regroup.”
Alva’s brow furrowed with concern. “Is everything alright?” She followed me into the office, closing the door behind her. “I mean, obviously nothing is alright, but… are you holding up okay?”
I tried to maintain my professional demeanor. “I’m fine, Alva. Just tired. It’s been a long couple of days.”
“Of course it has,” she said, her voice softening. “You’ve been carrying this whole operation on your shoulders.”
I turned away, not wanting her to see my expression. Unbidden thoughts of Wendy flooded my mind: Wendy waiting in our temporary apartment, Wendy who now belonged to Cedric. Was she with him now? Was the careful façade she’d maintained for my benefit, the pretense that she was still my loving wife, dissolving in my absence?
A strangled sound escaped me before I could stop it.
“Gabriel?” Alva set down her tablet and moved closer. “What is it?”
I shook my head, but it was too late. She’d seen the crack in my composure.
“She’s not mine anymore,” I said, the words raw and painful. “She looks at me and sees… I don’t know what she sees. A responsibility? A chore? Something Cedric told her to take care of?” I ran a hand through my hair. “And the worst part is, I can’t even blame him. He did what he had to do to protect her.”
I guess despite being unaware of what had happened, Alva was smart enough to connect the dots. She moved closer, her expression a mixture of concern and calculation, as if she were trying to determine the exact right thing to say, the perfect way to comfort me.
“I’m so sorry, Gabriel... If you need to talk about it,” she said, her voice gentle but measured, “being here to listen is the least I can do. Sometimes just saying things out loud helps put them in perspective.”
I knew I shouldn’t burden her with this. She was my assistant, not my therapist, and the claiming had complicated our relationship in ways I was still struggling to understand. But the words spilled out anyway.
“Last night, she… she initiated sex,” I said, unable to meet Alva’s eyes. “And the whole time, it was like she wasn’t even there. Like she was just going through the motions. Because Cedric probably told her to do it.” My voice broke. “I could see it in her eyes.”
To my horror, a sob escaped me. I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to regain control.
Alva hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. It was an awkward gesture at first, professional boundaries being crossed, but then she relaxed into it, offering genuine comfort.
I shouldn’t have, but I leaned into her touch. Alva’s embrace was different from Wendy’s mechanical affection. It felt… present. Real.
Perhaps sensing my response, Alva shifted slightly. Her lips brushed against my neck, so lightly at first that I thought I’d imagined it. Then again, more deliberately.
Surprised, I pushed her back slightly, holding her at arm’s length. Her eyes searched mine, uncertain, trying to read what I wanted, what would please me.
“Gabriel,” she said carefully, her voice low and measured, “I want you to know that I’m here for you. Whatever you need. In any capacity.” She emphasized the last word in a way that left no doubt about her meaning. “If there’s anything I can do to make things easier for you right now, anything at all…”
I stared at her, shocked and confused. And yet… a part of me considered it. Here was an attractive woman offering herself to me without reservation. A woman who would do literally anything to please me. A woman who, unlike Wendy, would be thinking of me and only me.
To my shame, I felt myself growing hard at the thought. She must have been waiting for it, because her gaze dropped, noticing the bulge in my pants. Taking it as encouragement, she moved closer again, her hand reaching out to gently rub against my erection through the fabric.
“Let me help you forget, just for a little while,” she murmured.
The touch jolted me back to reality. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what I wanted. Not really. I gently but firmly pushed her hand away, stepping back until my desk was between us.
“Alva, I…” I struggled to find the words. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, I really do. But this isn’t what I need right now. What I need is to save my wife. To save all of you.”
For a moment, Alva looked distressed, the rejection clearly painful to her claimed mind. But then, with remarkable adaptability, she straightened her blouse and nodded.
“Of course,” she said, her professional demeanor sliding back into place. “I understand completely. And I want you to know that I’ll help in any way I can. With the research, with managing the teams, with anything that brings us closer to a solution.” She picked up her tablet again. “Should I still schedule those interviews for thirty minutes from now?”
I nodded, grateful for her quick pivot. “Yes, please. And Alva… thank you. For understanding.”
She gave me a small smile—sad but genuine. “That’s what I’m here for, Gabriel. To help however I can.”
As she left my office, I sank into my chair, my head in my hands. In a world where women were programmed to please men, I’d just turned down what many would consider the ultimate perk of our new reality. But there was no satisfaction in the thought, only a renewed determination to put things right.