The fluorescent lights of Pacific Community Bank didn't just illuminate my cubicle; they hummed with a low-frequency vibration that felt like it was trying to liquefy my brain. They were too-bright, making me squint as I stared into my monitor, and sounds echoed through the cubicles as my coworkers talked back and forth. I sat in cubicle 402, staring at the legacy database on my monitor until the rows of green text started to swim and I glanced away, blinking furiously.

  My neck was a knot of tension and the business attire I'd been counseled repeatedly to wear - a pair of too-long charcoal slacks and a white button-down shirt that felt like cardboard - wasn't helping me regain a semblance of calm. Taking another breath, I reached out, my fingers trembling slightly from too much caffeine and too little sleep, and gently touched my guiding star, running my fingers along the creases in her outfit.

  A 1/12 scale figure of Asuka from Neon Genesis Evangelion stood next to my monitor, her red plugsuit gleaming in the office light, her chin tilted up in that perfect, fiery look of disdain. Asuka looked exactly how I felt inside: superior, misunderstood, and trapped in a world run by utter morons. It had taken a while to find just the right pose for her, but every time I felt like the office was getting me down, I'd gently stroke the figure and she would give me the strength to carry on.

  "Watanabe."

  The voice hit me like a splash of cold water. I didn't need to look up to know it was Scott Miller, my supervisor. Scott was the kind of guy who thought "personality" was something you developed in a gym - and his wardrobe only emphasized that further. He looked absurd, at least to me, bulging muscles over tight suit pants and a white button down shirt that looked painted on his abs. But the women in the office all started drooling every time he walked by, which they never did for me, even though I was twice the man he was.

  "Yes, Mr. Miller?" My hand instinctively darted to the mouse, minimizing a tab where I'd been slowly reading through web doujinshi while between tickets. Technically it was within the corporate Acceptable Use Policy, but somehow I doubted that they'd see it the same way.

  Scott didn't look at my screen, though. He loomed over me, his shadow falling across my monitor - and Asuka - as he stood in the entrance to my cubicle. "We've discussed the desk flair, Kenji. The VP of Operations - my boss - is doing a walk-through today with the board of directors. This isn't a nerdy hobby shop. It's a respected financial institution. Clean it up."

  "She's just ... it's just a collectible, sir," I muttered, my face heating up uncomfortably. "It's a motivator. Plenty of people have trinkets at their desks."

  "It's a liability," Miller countered, his lip curling in disgust as he stared down at the way the PVC suit clung to Asuka's curves. "The girl looks like a fucking child - and that suit looks vacuum-sealed. Put the doll in your drawer and take it home tonight. And for God's sake, fix your tie. You look like you're wearing a noose."

  I watched his strut away, his polished shoes gliding effortlessly across the carpeted floor of the office, and hung my head. Then I heard a burst of laughter from set of cubes over on the next row. It was Sarah and Megan, two female coworkers who worked in the mail department. I could practically feel their judgement radiating across the aisle - the way they looked at me like I was a damp patch of mold on the slice of bread they wanted to eat.

  "Did you see his face?" Megan was whispering, just loud enough for me to hear. "He looked like he was going to cry over his little plastic girlfriend."

  "I know, right? I heard he carried her down to the cafeteria and sat her next to him while he ate last week. How does he even function? What a pathetic virgin." Sarah giggled, rolling her eyes as she looked over at me.

  I gripped the edge of my desk, knuckles turning white, as I gently placed Asuka in my bottom drawer. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," I whispered to her. "They don't understand you. I'll bring you home tonight."

  From two cubicles over, I could hear Miller's voice raised once more - this time directed at the cute new associate accountant who'd started last month. "For fuck's sake, Angela - can you even add? This is the second time this week that you've had the figures wrong on the department budget. One more time and you're fired."

  I raised up out of my chair, preparing to go confront Miller. Maybe she'd made a mistake, but nobody deserved to be scolded like that - so loudly, so publicly. But as I stood, I saw him - and he saw me. His head swiveled towards me like the turret of a Type 10 Main Battle Tank and I froze.

  "Can I help you, Watanabe?"

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  I shook my head, sinking back down into my seat, leaving Angela to her fate, and blushed. I'm such a fucking coward.

  ---

  My headset beeped - a sharp, digital intrusion into the stew of misery that I had spent the last hour soaking in. I reached out, pressing the button on my keyboard that accepted the help desk call and began my routine greeting.

  "Pacific Community Bank Help Desk, this is Kenji. How can I help you?"

  "It's Frank from Mortgages," a voice barked, the man's voice sounding like he smoked a pack of cigarettes a day. "My monitor is frozen and I've got a client on the other line for a three million dollar bridge loan. The fucking website with the amortization table won't load and I need you to fix it right now before he goes somewhere else and I lose my commission."

  I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair, falling into my practiced, dead-eyed monotone drone. "I'm sorry to hear that, sir. Let me remote into your computer and take a look."

  Bringing up the right app on my desktop, I navigated through until I found his computer based on his phone number, remoting in through the admin software. He had six windows up for various sports betting websites showing mixed success, a live-streaming cam girls site where he was apparently in a private room for a 1-on-1 show, and the mortgage app. The system metrics showed that between the advertisements on the sports betting sites and the cam girl, he was pretty much out of memory.

  "Frank, it looks like your system resources are being diverted to other processes," I said, voice flat and non-judgmental. "I see a video stream and several high-bandwidth sites-"

  "I don't care about the tech shit," he snapped. "Just make the little wheel stop spinning and load the mortgage app. My client is waiting! Are you always this slow, or are you feeling exceptionally stupid today?"

  I didn't argue. I just started killing applications on his desktop one at a time. I watched the sports betting sites vanish, then I waved farewell to the cam girl twerking her naked body on screen for tips that wouldn't be coming as I killed that browser window as well. Finally, the amortization table snapped into focus. "It should be working now."

  "Finally. I didn't say you could close my browser, I had important tabs open for business research. Next time, I want a faster computer." There was a loud *click* as he hung up the phone and I sighed.

  "Was that porn on the nerd's screen?" I could hear Susan gossiping to Megan behind me and I groaned. "I think he was looking at a naked woman."

  "I didn't see," Megan replied. "But let's keep an eye out to tell HR if he does it again."

  Fuck my life.

  Before I could even open my mouth to object, to explain, my headset beeped again - this time the double-chime of a priority caller.

  "Pacific Community Bank Help Desk, this is Kenji. How can I help you?"

  This time it was Mrs. Gable, the Senior VP of Wealth Management, and her printer was broken. I got up, awkwardly patting at my pants as they bunched around the crotch and pooled at the ankles, and took the elevator up to the sixth floor where the senior executives sat.

  Susan Gable was standing by a massive oak desk, windows overlooking the San Francisco bay, and turned as I knocked with an expression of disdain on her face. "Finally," she hissed. "I have a meeting in fifteen minutes, so you'd better be fast." She was in her forties or fifties, I thought, probably a fortune spent on plastic surgery to make her look like she was in her early thirties, with gigantic breasts, sculpted thighs, and a women's cut suit that showed off her curves.

  As I stepped over to the printer - an enormous multi-function unit - she took several steps back, teetering on four inch heels that probably cost more than my monthly rent, and gave me a look that made me feel like a cockroach she'd just uncovered in her pantry. I knelt beside the giant machine, opening the bottom paper tray and fishing around inside with one arm, trying to find the jam.

  "Excuse me," she said, her voice a mixture of cold disgust and skepticism. "But why do your socks have a cartoon woman on them? And why is she .. sweating? Shouting?"

  My heart stopped and I glanced down. My slacks had ridden up, revealing my socks. They were bright pink, featuring the wide-eyed blushing face of Miko Mido from the classic La Blue Girl. Her expression was one of mind-blowing orgasm from her tentacle rape, although obviously the socks didn't show that - just her beautiful face.

  "They were ... uh ... a gift, ma'am. From my sister." I lied through my teeth, skin breaking out into a cold sweat. "It's a character from an old ... uh ... folk tale. It's important to my family."

  Mrs Gable stared for a long moment, doubt evident on her face, until finally she spoke again. "She looks ... aroused. Is that some kind of Chinese pornography?" She pulled her suit jacket tighter around her, as if suddenly uncomfortable being around me. "Please fix the printer and leave. As quickly as possible."

  Mrs. Gable had no idea - La Blue Girl was Japanese, not Chinese, and it wasn't pornography, it was high-end artistic cinema about the battle between good and darkness, with the tentacle rape scenes representing evil's attempt to subvert good.

  Sighing, I went back to work, finding the culprit. A paperclip had worked its way into the primary roller, jamming it. Once I pulled it free, I reset the machine, listening as it whirred back to life with a smug purr. As I stood, I caught my reflection in her floor to ceiling windows.

  I was an average height man, in my early 30s. At 5'9", with a mop of greasy black hair, my half-Japanese heritage blended into the background of San Francisco where Asians were the norm. I was thin, except for a bit of a protruding stomach that was starting to grow with age. A pale, slouching ghost who drifted through life, unknown to my coworkers who couldn't summon the energy to care about me. I was more than this, I tried to tell myself, to encourage myself. I'm someone important, someone the world needs to watch out for. But I didn't believe myself. And if I didn't, the world certainly wasn't going to, either.

  I turned, walking from the room and descended the elevator back to my cubical. Another two hours until it was time to go home - and it couldn't come soon enough.