A new Corporate Takeover story begins...

So, this might be a long one, but here's the first draft of the first chapter. I hope you enjoy it and thanks for helping support me and my work!

The bullpen at SNN was behind glass so that the cameras could see the journalists buzzing around, hot on the heels of the next story. That was the first hurdle Annie had to overcome. While she was not recognizable, it was that anonymity that allowed her to continue her work with Benson and the reborn Janus Institute. Being seen on camera wouldn’t hurt her now, but it would render her useless in the future. Their work did not survive the light of day well. Not yet, anyway. That was one of the reasons Annie was there.

It required some extra work to disguise herself, but something Annie learned was that she was pretty by contemporary standards, but not exceptionally so. Her mouth was pretty, but not alluring, her hazel eyes attractive without coming across as striking. Her naturally soft brown hair lovely, but not uncommon in hue or texture. It was a hard reckoning to realize there is nothing remarkable about your face, but once she understood it, she did what Doctor Benson would do. She turned it into a strength. 

It took some convincing. A couple of dye jobs, some make-up tactically applied, buts he convinced first Diane, and then Doctor Benson that she could effectively hide in plain sight. From there, it was simply a matter of deciding on what look would be most appealing to the interviewer at SNN.

“Blonde,” Doctor Benson suggested over an aftr dinner coffee one night not so long ago. “All of the bimbos they have reading news on SNN are blonde and busty.”

Annie wanted to disagree, but still found it hard to contradict Benson. The woman was her mentor. More, she inspired Annie, despite the cool demeanor that was as much a part of Raquel Benson as her slender features or the streak of gray that was just starting at one temple. Thankfully, Diane spoke up.

“True, but then she’s just another dumb blonde wandering the halls. We want her to stand out, honey.” 

“You’re right.” 

It was remarkable to Annie that Benson’s mood could shift so warmly toward Diane, while maintaining emotional distance from everyone else. There had been moments, rare and wonderful, when Benson showed Annie a hint of affection, and that slight acknowledgment was just enough to create a craving for it. 

“I have something in mind,” Annie began, and she told them the character she would portray. Not just the physical appearance, but the persona to match. It would be irresistable to the higher-ups, she promised.

In a clinging red top, a houndstooth skirt, and dark tights tapering into fashionable ankle boots, she was both professional and very enticing. With her hair dyed a fiery red and down, eyes colored green by contacts, pale skin highlighted by just a touch of blush to emphasize her cheeks, she had managed to become impossible to ignore. Another color, another style, a different emphasis to her cosmetics, and she could be unrecognizable to anyone who met this crimson-maned goddess.

The interviewer was unsurprisingly male, in his mid-forties, with a combover that was failing miserably at its aim. He kept tenting his chubby little fingers together while his eyes roamed Annie’s legs. She pretended not to notice, but shifted them occasionally, crossing and recrossing to keep him distracted. It was one of the many tricks Doctor Benson taught her about manipulating the mind. If you know what you’re doing, the right cadence and the rright visual distraction can create a dissonance that makes the listener suggestible. By the end of the interview, not only was Annie quite sure that the interviewer was a bit of a nylon fetishist, she was definitely getting the job. Social Media Representative.

It turned out that all that buzz going on behind the anchors as they spoke was mostly a lot of pretty people on Twitter, hashtagging the hell out of whatever was in the inbox. The system was devilish, as Annie suspected, but the formalization of propaganda took her aback nonetheless. When they arrived in the morning, there would be a list of topics, links to article from largely conservative outlets, along with the appropriate hashtag branding. It was Annie’s job, along with her colleagues, to take to social media and spread the information in the emails. 

Some were fairly innocuous good news stories about the current administration’s accomplishments. Encouraging employment numbers, some spark of democracy in a far-off corner of the globe. These were inoffensive, but a minority of what Annie saw contained in the messages. The bulk of the sharable links were the worst conspiracy theories, screeds left on blogs meant to incite and divide. Annie hated it. She hated being sunny and chipy about this kind of hateful bile, but she plastered on her pretty smile and did just that. 

The anchors would spew the same information, mirroring not only what the channel’s website stated, but the larger conservative news bubble. SNN parroted, amplified, and codified the craziest theories until they became fact. The power of a media conglomerate with its aim on shaping minds was something insidious in the hands of a man like Malcolm Seiver. The man ruled from high atop the SNN news building, overlooking the city beneath him, just as he saw it, Annie was sure. A man like that didn’t get to his level of power without believing he belonged there.

Annie, Diane, and Doctor Benson made a study of the man. Middle aged, the son of a very wealthy father. His family had its roots in fossil fuels, and forged political alliances with conservatives over drilling rights. When it came time for Eldon Seiver to retire from public and business life, Malcolm was eager to step in and fill the void left by his father. Seiver had the good sense to know that the tide was turning on ofssil fels, though Seiver Holdings still maintained an impressive investment in the waning industry. 

Instead, Malcolm Seiver ppointed his bow at media, particularly news. His founding of a right-leaning news network was seen as brasha nd stupid at the time of its launch, but what the pundits hadn’t counted on was a large swatch of America left behind by elitist arguments about ideology. When the factory closes down and decimates your hometown, most citizens didn’t care much about the esoteric whys and wherefores. They only knew a hard life had grown harder. 

Enter SNN, the Seiver News Network. With anchors, mostly very attractive women, reminding people that all their woes were not their fault, but that of the poisonous left in American politics, millions of Americans responded. At least someone was acknowledging their pain, their existence, even if that struggle might be misrepresented. And then there were the dogwhistles, the nods to a different part of America, disenfranchised by greater social change. The people, Annie imagined, who looked both ways before telling a joke they would call ‘off-color’ and the rest of the world would label ‘racist.’ SNN was a haven for the cast aside and the unwanted, and it catered to both branches with equal fervor and on as many platforms as possible.

The social media staff were discouraged from hobnobbing with the talent. Annie noticed quick that her manager, a thin mortician of a man named Sawyer, only referred to the largely female anchor team as ‘talent’ and never ‘journalists’ or ‘anchors.’ Despite his thin-lipped warnings, Annie seemed to bump into the afternoon host regularly in the break room. Annie liked to get a fresh bottle of water aound two, which was when Greta Daniels took her own five to hydrate. She was the grand dame of the network, no longer in primetime now that age had planted wrinkles in the corners of her eyes and around her mouth that no makeup could conceal. Annie always like the old broad hadn’t gone the surgery route. Even as she was ousted from the plum role on the network by a younger and prettier version, she stayed true. Much as Annie might hate the institution, a woman with spine was always good to meet.

Greta barely flitted her shockingly blue eyes at her the first occasion, but by the third there was a smile and a nod. By the eighth, the smile even reached her eyes. 

“Let me ask you something.”. It was the first thing she’d ever said out loud to Annie, and the young woman nearly spit the mouthful of water out. Annie swallowed hard and produced an audible gulp. She thought she caught Greta smile at that.

“Yes. Of course.”

Annie was leaning against the sink, eyes closed and head back when Greta entered. No matter how many times it happened, and this was maybe the twentieth run-in over Annie’s three months undercover, the sight of someone as famous as Greta Daniels left Annie a little starstruck.

“You are a very pretty girl.”

“Thank you, Miss Daniels.” She tried her best not to sound fawning, but Annie felt a little fawning. Greta Daniels would never admit to being a feminist, but some women are by virtue of their actions, despite their denials, and Greta Daniels was one of this women. Whether she liked it or not, she was inspiring.

“Please, Greta.”

Annie chuckled. “I don’t know I can do that, but I’ll try. What can I do for you?”

“You always have such style when I see you. I was wondering what you think of this.”

Greta spread her arms in display. She had a prim blue dress, tight around the hips and chest, the hem urgically fixed at her knees. Her blonde hair was done up, professional and attractive, with bold matching gold jewelry including a thick bracelet and shell earrings. 

“Honestly, Miss Daniels, it’s a little old-fashioned. Maybe you’re going for comforting and maternal. If so, you nailed it.” Annie stopped her appraisal, eyes drfiting up to meet Greta’s as the realization she had spoken so openly struck her. Not only had she embarrassed herself, she might very well have destroyed Benson’s entire plan. The year of planning and work thus far would be meaningless. She’d be lucky if Benson still kept her on. She might wind up somewhere new with no memory of the past three years, or some other memeory left by benson. The woman was a genius that way. Flawless implanting of a life lived. The idea she wouldn’t do it to Annie if the need arose was absurd. She might have shared some moments with Benson, but the woman’s life was her work. She would never hesitate to leave Annie behind if she became a liability. Annie liked to believe Benson would feel remorse when she did it, but it would be done.

“That is definitely not what I am going for.” She looked angry. Not furious, but Greta’s brow knit together that certainly conveyed displeasure. “Come with me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Annie said, following the anchor out of the break room, down the aisles of cubicles where she and the others worked behind the glass. But now Annie was past that invisible barrier, led past the anchor desk and the cameras to a hall. It was white, framed pictures of the talent on the walls and articles about the accomplishments of those anchors alongside. The men in suits looked important here, not like the frumpy fitting of Sawyer, eyeballing his social media savants. More than a few of those men gave Annie a double-take. She had her hair in a ponytail today, and a white dress that was deceptively innocent-looking while still showing some cleavage and a generous amount of leg. With sharp matching white heels, she looked elegant and sensual, her very red lips highlighting teh shade of her hair. 

They turned intoa d ressing room, the wall on the right all mirror. A middle aged mana nd a younger girl sat on an L-shaped sofa against the far wall on Annie’s left. When greta entered, the man stood, the younger girl following in short order. She was thin, dressed in a body-hugging mini. She had small breasts, but they looked shapely in such a clinging outfit, showcasing her firm ass. 

“She’s fired,” Greta said, pointing a  finger at the slender girl.

“Greta…” the man began. He had an old showbiz vibe, like he should have been chomping the stub of a cigar while he wrapped a doughya rm around his moll.

“I mean it. I’m tired of having your floozies guide my career, like I’m only good enough for the B team. Get her out, and if you want to complain any more, I can find someone to replace you, too.”

“Go on,” the tubby man said to his slender, young girlfriend and the girl left with a huff, shooting daggers at Greta and Annie behind her. “Alright, Greta, you feel like you are being mishandled, we can discuss it. I should remind you not to bit the hand that feeds you. The afternoon slot ain’t so bad.”

“I know what it is,” Greta spat. “I want to think about what my career looks like after SNN. And you can think about that somewhere else. I’d like to be alone with my new stylist.”

The round manager, whose name turned out to be Wilmington, left in a similar huff to his lady friend. That left Annie alone in the dressing room with Greta Daniels, whose sharp eyes now fell back to Annie. 

“I can come back later.”

“Nonsense,” Greta said. “Let’s talk about clothes.”