Chapter 17: Infiltration Protocol

Ms. Vane continued the escort, her heels sharp on the polished stone floor of the hall. She moved toward an inconspicuous, slightly recessed door. Ingrid followed, the ⁵effort of maintaining the unnatural, painful smile making her jaw muscles ache constantly. The light in the hallway was white and fluorescent, a stark change from the aggressively pink gloom of the "Sweet Retreat Zone" they had just left behind.

Ms. Vane halted abruptly before the door, which looked like any other neutral panel in the wall. She tapped a sequence into a discrete security pad located just beside the frame. The door hissed softly and slid inward, revealing a small, brightly lit room.

The space was a glass-enclosed cubicle, maybe eight feet by eight feet. It was a functional, stripped-down area with a single polished bench and a small rack for hanging clothes. The entire front wall, facing directly into the hallway where Ingrid stood, was made of transparent, floor-to-ceiling safety glass. The glass was not mirrored or frosted; the room was specifically designed for maximum visibility. Behind the cubicle, the rest of the facility continued, a blur of motion and color that indicated the hallway served as a major thoroughfare.

Ms. Vane stepped aside, gesturing sharply toward the glass room with an imperative motion of her black-gloved hand.

“Inside, Bergström. Wardrobe change.”

Ingrid stepped into the cubicle, the cold, slightly clinical air immediately hitting the wet, flimsy fabric of her infantile swimsuit. It felt like walking onto a stage. She knew exactly what this meant. The whole office could now potentially observe her movements.

Ms. Vane did not enter the cubicle but remained standing just outside the threshold, positioned perfectly to watch every action. She reached over to the clothes rack inside the cubicle. A small, tightly sealed package labeled with the company’s stylized logo was waiting there. Ms. Vane grabbed the package, pulled it from the rack, and placed it directly onto the bench where Ingrid was standing.

“Mandatory activewear set. Neon pink and reflective black. Dress immediately. Full compliance with the uniform transition protocol is required.” Ms. Vane spoke with the clipped, official tone which always indicated the absolute severity of the immediate task.

Ingrid looked down at the package. It was dense and clearly contained some kind of synthetic garment. The colors, neon pink and reflective black, sounded aggressively visible, precisely the kind of aesthetic the company favored: loud, impractical, and demanding attention.

The first task was still the most uncomfortable: removing the wet, constricting swimsuit. Ingrid was forced to shed her layers in this public fishbowl of glass, performing the act of undressing and dressing for anyone who might pass by in the central hallway.

She moved automatically, her body now responding to the ingrained habit of obedience, but the smile remained fixed and unsettlingly bright on her face. Her hands went to the straps of the orange and magenta suit. It was difficult to remove the infant-styled garment. The fabric was waterlogged, heavy, and clung to her body with an aggressive, elastic stickiness. She had to peel the suit away from her skin, a slow, labored process that required awkward stretching and straining movements.

The task involved maneuvering the thick, ruffling material around her bust. Every adjustment emphasized the size of her chest, forcing her into positions that were both physically awkward and intensely exposed. She saw the reflection of her struggle in the glass wall: the orange suit was pulled down to her waist, the ruffles collapsing in wet folds, leaving her bare from the chest up, torso exposed for observation.

She felt the residual constraint of the restrictive plastic collar and harness she had worn earlier. Ms. Vane had allowed the removal of those external restraints, but the memory of the chafing skin and the psychological discomfort remained. Ingrid concentrated on simply getting the suit off without tearing what little fabric remained or allowing her manic smile to falter under the physical resistance of the material. She yanked the suit down over her hips and legs, stepping out of the damp pile on the floor.

She reached for the new package, grabbing the dense wrapper. Her hands trembled slightly from the exertion and the sustained muscular tension required to hold the exaggerated facial expression. She tore open the plastic seal with more force than necessary. The synthetic material inside was instantly recognizable as high-compression athletics fabric, slick and unnervingly thin.

Ingrid pulled out a set: high-waisted leggings and a long-sleeved top. The neon pink was almost painful to look at, sharply contrasted by severe segments of reflective black paneling.

She started with the leggings. They were tiny, clearly designed for someone much smaller and less curved. The material offered zero forgiveness. When she started pulling the leggings on, the intense pressure created an immediate, burning friction against her skin. It was difficult to pull the fabric up her thighs. The material seized and locked against her curves, forcing her to strain and tug.

The effort was immense, and she had to lean back against the glass wall for leverage, her breath hitching slightly. Through the exertion, the smile remained fixed, wide, and unwavering. She was performing a visual demonstration of the company’s core philosophy: femininity should be performative, inconvenient, and always on display. The leggings finally made it over her hips, settling with a vise-like grip around her waist and legs. The fabric was stretched so taut that the reflective black geometrical patterns were visibly distorted.

Next came the top. This was even worse. The top was designed to be skin-tight, effectively acting as a second layer of compression over her chest. The restrictive design intensified her self-consciousness regarding her large bust, making the act of dressing a confrontation with her physical vulnerability.

She had to pull the top over her head, momentarily blinding herself as the thin, unyielding material snagged. Then came the battle to pull the fabric down over her chest. The material was relentless, fighting against the volume of her body. The top compressed her chest inward and upward, resulting in a severe, forced cleavage that strained the seams of the garment. The effort required actual physical pain. Ingrid felt a sharp tightening sensation in her diaphragm and across her ribs as the top forced her body into an aggressive, unnatural shape. The reflective black sections around the shoulders and chest were pulling heavily, appearing ready to tear under the constant pressure.

The performance of dressing ended with a physical tremor of exhaustion. Ingrid stood perfectly still, enveloped in the hyper-constraining, hyper-visible activewear. The skin-tight fabric felt like armor, but it was armor that advertised her vulnerability. She was encased in neon pink and black, every curve and effort magnified through the glass walls. The contrast between her fixed, saccharine smile and the visible, strained tension of the fabric across her chest was extreme. She looked like a plastic toy stretched past its breaking point.

Ms. Vane stepped closer to the glass now that Ingrid was fully dressed. She did not comment on the struggle, only the result. Her eyes scanned Ingrid from head to toe, pausing deliberately on the strained bustline.

“Adjust the left shoulder panel, Bergström. The reflective trim is misaligned due to the strain on the lateral seam.”

Ingrid obediently lifted her hand and tugged at the fabric, trying to reposition the reflective plastic strip. The material offered zero give. The garment was simply too small. She could only slightly shift the fabric, achieving a fractional reduction in the misalignment, but the fundamental tension remained.

Ms. Vane observed the adjustment, her expression unreadable. “Acceptable. The compression is functioning at maximum capacity. Note the effect, Bergström. This attire is designed to integrate inconvenience with high visibility. The aesthetic objective is to ensure you project maximum physical availability with zero actual comfort.”

She then stepped back from the glass, her tone shifting from inspection to instruction. The hard certainty of her voice filled the small cubicle.

“Your internal assessment continues with a field exercise. We are moving you into the ‘Teen Play Zone’.”

Ingrid remembered the general map of the facility she had glimpsed during her initial orientation. The ‘Teen Play Zone’ was a much larger, less controlled area than the structured, sterile spaces she had been confined to so far. It sounded like a more public exposure.

“Your objective is infiltration. You will present yourself as a slightly older, highly approachable friendly peer. A desirable, achievable older girl who embodies the aesthetic ideals these younger subjects aim for.” Ms. Vane articulated the concept with clinical precision.

“You are engaging in a preliminary market research protocol,” Ms. Vane continued, clarifying the company’s internal rationale for the degradation. “The company requires current data on emerging consumer dynamics. Your role is simple surveillance and data collection, masked by a social interaction.”

Ms. Vane then specified the exact, non-negotiable details of the protocol.

“You must observe and document five distinct target subjects: teenagers. Record their outfits, detailing brand information and aesthetic adherence. Note their body types, focusing on emerging characteristics we track. And catalogue their social behaviors: grouping, communication patterns, and attention engagement.”

Ingrid felt a cold knot form in her stomach. This was not the analytical observation done by the mothers in the Sweet Retreat Zone. This was an active, intrusive, and predatory action.

“The critical metric for compliance is data acquisition.” Ms. Vane emphasized this point, tapping sharply on the glass with an extended fingernail. “You must obtain personal contact data—specifically, five verified phone numbers or five direct social media follows—one from each target subject.”

Ms. Vane’s voice dropped slightly, acquiring a persuasive, insistent quality. “Teenagers are non-compliant by nature, Bergström. They are guarded. Obtaining this data requires optimized engagement.”

She leaned in close to the glass partition, lowering her voice marginally, though Ingrid knew the microphones recorded everything. “You will adopt an exaggerated, hyper-flirtatious, slightly predatory persona. You must imply a potential for intense, desirable engagement—either romantically or sexually—within the boundaries of peer interest. You must project an image of open availability and deep interest in them, focusing on the company’s prescribed feminine aggression.”

“Your aesthetic vulnerability is weaponized for this purpose. The tighter the compression, the more exposed your feminine assets, the more effective your infiltration. Flirtation is mandatory. Submission is mandatory. The goal is to optimize their cooperation and information flow by making yourself highly desirable and entirely safe, a perfect model of compliant femininity.”

Ingrid stared at the distorted reflection of her face in the glass, forced to confront the manic cheerfulness imposed upon her features. The thought of deliberately projecting a predatory, sexualized hyper-friendliness toward impressionable teenagers made her stomach turn. The system was forcing her to sell her humiliation for corporate data points.

Ms. Vane snapped her fingers, an instant demand for attention. “Understanding, Bergström?”

Ingrid managed to sustain the unnervingly vibrant smile while executing a single, rigid nod of confirmation. The word “Yes” caught in her dry throat, replaced by silent compliance.

Ms. Vane accessed the security pad again, performing a different sequence. This time, the wall behind Ingrid’s cubicle slid open, revealing an adjacent room.

The transition was immediate and startling. The ‘Teen Play Zone’ was a sensory assault. The lighting was not the clean white of the hallway, nor the aggressive pink of the Sweet Retreat, but a mixture of flashing LEDs cycling through violet, lime green, and neon teal. Loud, synthetic pop music pulsed through the air, vibrating through the floor and the glass. The space was enormous, filled with brightly colored, oversized props: giant inflatable gaming chairs, mirrored panels disguised as walls, and display cases showcasing hyper-girly athletic and leisure wear.

And it was populated. Dozens of young women filled the space, their ages clearly ranging from very young, early teens to maybe eighteen or nineteen. They were all dressed in variations of loud, synthetic activewear, similar in style to Ingrid’s uniform, but infinitely varied in color and accessories. The atmosphere was one of calculated, aggressive leisure and intense visual self-awareness.

“Move, Bergström,” Ms. Vane ordered from behind the now-open wall. “Initiate Phase One: Infiltration.”

Ingrid, rigid with the effort of holding her perfect, unsettling smile, stepped out of the functional cubicle and into the loud, aggressively pastel chaos of the Teen Play Zone. The transition was like walking out of an airlock into a pressurized, alien environment.

The moment she entered, she became the center of a momentary ripple of attention. Her activewear, freshly applied and stretched to its maximum capacity, was the loudest thing in the room. The neon pink seemed to hum under the pulsing lights. The visibility was total.

She forced herself to move fluidly, projecting the persona Ms. Vane had described: hyper-flirtatious, approachable, and embodying the desirable ideal. Ingrid scanned the crowded room, immediately seeking out her first target. The sheer density of the environment was overwhelming. The music was so loud that internal thought was difficult, but she focused on the quantitative goal: five contacts, five observations.

Her eyes settled on a small gathering near a large, mirrored wall where three girls were taking posed selfies. One girl, maybe sixteen, stood out due to her aggressively themed outfit: all shimmering aqua-colored fabrics, matched with an unusual collection of expensive, branded accessories. She was the ideal target: highly visible, engaged in self-documentation, and likely to be responsive to an overture focused on aesthetic flattery.

Ingrid started walking across the slick floor, moving directly toward the group. She willed her hyper-cheerfulness to radiate outward, a saccharine shield against the intense pressure of the surveillance and the immediate cognitive dissonance of the task.

She approached the group, forcing her voice to adopt the high, slightly breathless pitch of manufactured enthusiasm.

“Oh my gosh—I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but that top is absolutely stunning!” Ingrid projected the required, overwhelming friendliness. She made sure her exaggerated smile was directed fully at the target girl. “Seriously, the way that aqua shimmer catches the light? It is perfection. Where did you even find that?”

The three girls paused their selfie session. The target girl, with the shimmering top, turned her attention to Ingrid, her expression moving quickly from annoyance at the interruption to interest at the intense, focused flattery from the older girl in the ridiculously constrained, neon pink outfit.

Ingrid moved into the observation phase, making sure the surveillance would register the required data collection. While she spoke, she overtly scanned the target’s outfit, confirming the brand logo stitched onto the shoulder of the aqua top. She noted the style of the leggings: high-waisted, slightly transparent at the knee, designed for maximum exposure. She mentally categorized the target’s body type: small waist, very defined curves, and most notably, an emerging fullness in the chest area that the teen was clearly trying to accentuate with the tight-fitting top.

Ingrid maintained the manic enthusiasm, letting it spill over into explicit physical validation. “Seriously, you have the exact right body for that cut. It is just screaming ‘model energy.’ I’m so jealous!”

She managed to make the aggressive compliment sound utterly genuine, a testament to the internal self-control she was exerting. The target girl visibly preened, flattered and mollified by the older girl's intense focus and praise of her appearance. Her friends exchanged a quick, knowing look, acknowledging the success of Ingrid’s overture. Ingrid’s role as the desirable, aspirational older peer was functioning exactly as specified.

“I got it online, they just dropped the collection,” the target girl responded, a nervous pleasure twitching on her face. “It’s kind of exclusive, though.”

“Of course it is! That makes total sense, you have absolutely impeccable taste,” Ingrid gushed, pouring on the flattery. She had to transition quickly to the data acquisition requirement. “Listen, I’m totally obsessed with that style, and I’m always trying to find the best looks that fit, you know? Just for… market research! I was wondering, do you have an Instagram? I would absolutely love to follow you and see what else you find. I need the inspiration!”

The request was immediate, direct, and cloaked in superficial, aesthetic admiration, exactly matching the prescribed strategy. The implication was clear: Ingrid, the aspirational older girl, wanted to maintain contact, cementing the compliment and the implied social connection. The hyper-flirtatious approach, focused entirely on the girl’s body and outfit, was working perfectly.

The target girl hesitated for only a second, a small smile spreading across her face. Instant approval from an admired source was irresistible social currency.

“Oh, totally! I’m @TealDreamz, with a ‘Z’,” the girl said, holding out her phone.

Ingrid immediately pulled out the small, company-issued device tucked into the waistband of her excruciatingly tight leggings. She opened the social media application and tapped in the username. The screen confirmed the follow request was sent and accepted.

“Oh my gosh, thank you, that is so helpful!” Ingrid exclaimed, dialing the manufactured enthusiasm up to an eleven. She made sure to look directly into the hidden cameras, performing the perfect quantitative submission. “You are the absolute best!”

Ingrid had obtained the first required social media handle. The first quantitative compliance metric was achieved through the mandated hyper-flirtatious performance.