George Cross swirled the dregs of tea inside his mug and scanned the reports. It wouldn’t be difficult - he knew - to find what lurked within the morning newswire that interested him. Habitually the writeups would be filed under Local…and contain terse summations of which females between the ages of 18 and 52 that might have gone missing in the past 24 hours.
Mr. Cross was a white collar professional. As well as a reserve civil defense magistrate in his province of western New Kansas. But even his very vanilla exterior fixated over the almost daily accounts of missing women. Cross noted that ‘descriptions’ of the subjects were limited to what type of high heels they were wearing when last seen. And (on occasion) how many buttons of their blouse were undone…that is, to the best recollection of their coworkers. Cross perused the facts as presented to him and gave a passing thought to the absolute lack of law enforcement response in the articles. He thought that important.
This run-of-the-mill denizen of Midway Point polished off his morning beverage and shut off the news feed. He had a meeting to preside over at the office in less than a couple of hours. It was the task of George Cross to set an example as a rarified, purified New Kansan.
(At the exact same moment that George Cross, Esq. was washing up his beverage mug a scribe - firmly rooted in the Reality of the second day of 2024 - paused to collect his thoughts. More pensive than brainy…this scribe liked to daydream.
His three children were semi-independent. All but self sufficient. His own career held out a ten year future that bespoke of security and modest comfort. The scribe had his college buddies, had his hobbies, had his sexual conquests. In addition he possessed an imagination that made Middle Earth seem like Topeka.
In the past decades the scribe had allowed himself - because Reality about him allowed the luxury - to create scenarios. During long hikes. Amidst his grueling routine of swim training. But especially at those blissful encounters when daydreaming. This particular scribe manifested scenarios in which young, attractive women went missing. Were imprisoned. Subjected to rape, torture and sex slavery. And ultimately discarded.
These scenarios were noteworthy due to an almost complete lack of law enforcement presence. No searches. No public outcry. Certainly no decidedly annoying rescues. Just a female here today…gone tomorrow. As if the girls themselves were fodder. Provided as NPCs for the amusement and entertainment of males.
The whores had been going missing for over twenty years…)
George Cross addressed his team after having a second helping of Earl Grey upon arrival at Camp Pinsky. His attention still partly obsessed with the morning news summary, Cross - for the first time in a long time - mentally went about hashing over the makeup of his elite unit.
Himself. Barrie Barlow…his liaison man with headquarters. And the five women who made up the bulk of Team Cross. George stumbled over the preamble to his speech as the realization swept over him that each of the five junior members of the unit were all in stilettos. And several looked especially resplendent in button down tops that highlighted displays of alluring cleavage.
Flustered, this unremarkable vanilla man wrapped up his mandated (and lifeless) tutorial as best his scattered wits allowed under the circumstances. Then dismissed the team. George watched in silence as his quintet of lovelies strutted off to their cubicles in a cacophony of giggles, flirtatious smiles and leggy banter. There was a clear blue sky this morning over what used to be ‘just’ Kansas.
For his part George Cross closed the manila folder containing the notes for the recently terminated meeting. And pondered whether all five of his female subordinates would be present and accounted for at the next one. In the sunshine.
He seriously doubted it.
