All the World's a Stage

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The characters within it are completely fictional and any resemblance to any real-world figures is both completely coincidental and, in the event such resemblance is to the male protagonist in this story, a wry, melancholy misfortune. The author does not have a sufficient background in evolutionary biology to evaluate whether it is still possible for a man to be this imperceptive after three hundred thousand years of natural selection.

Names of real-world people, places, and things have been altered to fit the story.

If you are still reading, I salute you and welcome you to the dark, twisted, and seldom-shared corners of my mind.

Chapter 1: Enter

Toby Chapman nestled quietly into his favorite plush armchair in his parents' beautiful, old-fashioned library in their Back Bay townhome. It was good to be home. Not that South Bend had been a terrible place to live for four years, quite the opposite, but he missed the elegance and rich history of Boston's oldest neighborhoods. He was glad to be coming back for graduate school, and not just for the opportunity to live once again in his parents' massive townhome, where the two-story library alone was something he was unlikely to be able to afford until years after he was done at MIT. Heck, the piano alone would have been a stretch for an entry-level hire even at one of the top tech firms, which he had every intention of being, while he worked on a side project or two in hopes of having something worth selling for a real payday someday. He had a great many fond memories of growing up here.

His phone lit up with a text message. He had it on silent, but he could see it. And it was from one of his fonder memories of growing up here.

Welcome home, Fighting Irish grad! You back in town yet? If so, already buried in a book? Either way, feel like company?

Lauren Vandermeer had been in and out of his life since elementary school, and one of the more disappointing things about life in South Bend had been that she had remained here in Boston. She had just finished her sophomore year at Emerson. He got even more tongue-tied around her than he did around most people, but somehow she had kept in contact even while he was away. Most of his other friends from high school had gone their own way, even many in his beloved robotics and astronomy clubs. And she was the only one from theater club who had kept in touch, though he got the sense that she kept in touch with a ton of people from theater club. She had lived it for four years. He had been roped into it only for his junior and senior years—by Lauren.

He texted back. Sounds like you know just where to find me. And yeah, you can come over if you want. It's just me here right now. Liz will be back in an hour or so. He didn't even mention his mom and dad. They had one of the more expensive properties in Back Bay, but they also had the kinds of jobs that made something like that affordable even to people who didn't come from family money themselves, which meant they were almost never home. If they were home before nine, it meant it had been a light day at the office. His sister also still lived at home, but she was six years older than him and had a full-time job of her own in one of Boston's many biotech firms.

It was ten minutes from Lauren's parents' house to his, and sure enough, ten minutes later, he heard the doorbell ring. He picked up his phone and used it to unlock the front door. She knew her way around the house well enough, and he wanted to cram at least another page or two of his book in. No matter how prepared he thought he was, he was nervous about the fall at MIT.

In another minute, the double doors to the library opened, and there she was. Her familiar smile reached her sapphire eyes when she saw him. He took a second look, though. A few things about her were less familiar, though, and not just the two heavy garment bags and the duffel bag she was carrying.

"You training for the marathon?" he asked. She had never been truly out of shape, but not like this, either.

She laughed as she deposited her bags behind the one-armed chaise lounge, a padded mahogany-brown number that was old enough that someone had once called it a fainting couch, then slid down into it. His mind flagged even that as an irregularity. Usually she would have belly-flopped onto it. "Actually just using theater as a motivation to hit fitness goals. I told you I was auditioning at Somerville Community Theatre, right?"

"Mm-hmm." His mind was starting to drift back to his book, an interesting survey of recent studies in nanotechnology and mind-machine interfaces.

"Well, I got cast, and it turns out that our first production is going to be a stage play of The Stepford Wives."

He laughed. "You're an even better actress than you were in high school, then. Because that's definitely not you."

"It's taking some work, but I told them I was up for anything. And they took me up on it. See these?" Her legs were extended towards him on the chaise lounge, and she wiggled her feet at him. The four-inch black leather heels she was wearing were another one of the less familiar things he had intended to ask about. He had never known her to wear heels higher than an inch or two. "I've been heel training as part of it. I'll actually have to wear ones higher than this."

"You always did like a challenge."

"You're so right," she said, and she gave him a long, indecipherable look.

"What?" he asked at length.

She shook her head. "Anyway, I snuck a couple of my costumes off the set. Well, some I was allowed to take because I actually need to practice wearing them. Others I had to sneak."

"Such a rebel."

"I know, right? Anyway, I brought them with me, thought you'd get a kick out of them, considering how you know me."

"Wait, for real?"

"I did," she confirmed. "So I'll actually start wearing something close to what I have on now, normal clothes, because my character is Charmaine Wimperis, she's one of those who starts out normal before her Stepford transformation. Only difference is I'll have tennis shoes to start, she was a really good tennis player."

"Is that why you, you know ...?" he wasn't sure how to ask.

"Started hitting the gym four or five times a week and the pool three more on top of that? Yeah, that's definitely one reason."

"What the other? Or others?"

"Oh, you know," she said, and stretched out her arms above her head and her legs so that her modest but form-fitting top rode up a bit, and looked down her body to smile at him, "never hurts to be in shape anyway, right?"

"I know," Toby replied. "I started hitting the gym more just as a stress reliever. You know sometimes my mind just goes all over the place and ..."

"I know," she said.

"... well, just mindless resistance training kinda helped with that, even if I didn't come out looking like someone from the cover of some fitness magazine."

"You came out looking just fine," she said, rising to her feet and taking the duffel bag from behind the chaise. "And speaking of mindless, want to help me with the roleplay?"

"Huh?"

She reached into the duffel bag and pulled out an old Oculus VR headset. "The script we're using doesn't follow the old book from 1972, and especially not the 1975 movie, with its animatronic replacements. A little closer to the 2004 film. But not with cyborg brain surgery, either. Probably too involved for the stage anyway. We're just going with brainwashing via mind-machine interface."

"You know, mind-machine interfaces aren't capable of anything close to that. At least not yet, and it'll be a long time. And also, there's a huge difference between VR and a mind-machine interface. This is actually what I'm going into at MIT in the fall, it's ..."

"You've mentioned," she cut in, with a wry smile. "But this is theater. They didn't actually have fully functional android AI in 1972, either."

"Um, true." Or in 2024. And honestly probably not in 2044, either, at least nothing that could work inside a human-shaped chassis.

She spread out one of her garment bags on the chaise lounge and unzipped it, though she didn't take anything out from within it yet. Then she came over to the chair where Toby sat, and of all things, knelt down in front of him and pulled her blond hair out of the way. "Why don't you put it on me and see if I can pull off the transformation?"

The original Oculus was not an augmented or mixed reality headset. There were no lenses on the front. This one had been altered, but just cosmetically, making it look a little more vintage, even a little bit steampunk. It was two tech generations old now, probably rescued from or donated by someone who had upgraded. "You're going to be blind," he noted.

"We're actually going to program a kind of follow-along into the goggles themselves," she said. "But yeah, for now, I think I can do this without looking. You're welcome to, though," she added with a little extra grin. "And for me, a little awkwardness might even add a little verisimilitude to the whole robotic-takeover development."

He felt a smile hit his face as he looked at her kneeling at his feet as he sat. "Verisimilitude!" he said. I love it when you talk nerdy to me. He didn't actually say that, though. He stammered through a simpler, "great word." Then he added, "well, let's see how this goes. You know where the half bath is. Though I still think I might have to help you get there if you seriously want to wear this thing." It was actually not far, just off a little nook in a corner of the library, but there was a table and a secretary desk between along the path there.

"We'll see," she said, looking up at him. "Or, well, I won't. But you know what I mean. Here. Put it on me."

"All right," he said, sliding a bookmark into his book and putting it on the end table by the armchair, right under the lamp. He took the old, gussied-up Oculus from Lauren and fit it onto the kneeling blonde's head. It was kind of fun to play along with this, even though he missed looking into her eyes after the headset settled into place. She had such beautiful eyes. "Well," he continued. "This'll be interesting. Go get changed."

"Mm-hmm. Yes, Sir," she said, and her voice had suddenly changed dramatically, and he was reminded that she really was a good actress. It was now simultaneously vapid and robotic, as well as bright and eager to please. She rose to her feet, turned on one heel, and began walking back towards the chaise lounge. Her gait was slower now, of course, without her vision, but it had changed more than that, too. Toby looked at her backside a moment more, figuring out what had changed. It was now closer to a slow catwalk strut, both feet in a line, hips rolling. He wondered if that was easier for her, or if maybe the fact that each step was so consistent allowed her to measure distance without being able to see. She was smart enough to have measured the room with her eyes, and even with her feet, before he had put that headset on her, he knew.

Satisfied at having solved the mystery, he picked his book up again.

Chapter 2: Exposition

"You know, Sir," she said, still in that bright, over-enthusiastic, robotic feminine voice. "Of course you were right. Why, I'd be near certain to trip trying to make it to the bathroom like this." He glanced up. She had reached the chaise lounge. Her back was still to him, but she had now bent over at the waist, reaching into the garment bag she had left there. Her slacks had been tight already, but bent over like that, they were drawn very taut against her derriere. He shook his head. Women's clothing was always a mystery to him. Not that his own slacks were baggy. But his tailor had made them with just enough of a relaxed fit that if he needed to bend over to pick something up, they wouldn't pinch like that.

"Oh yeah?" he asked. "Want me to walk you? Or you could, you know, take that off."

"Oh no, I would never disturb you like that, Sir," she said. "You just stay there. I can just change right here. Would you like that, Sir?"

Toby arched an eyebrow at her, even though he knew she couldn't see it. Well, it would certainly be easier on both of them, if nothing else. Save him from getting up and save her from tripping, if she was so dead set on leaving the stage-prop Oculus on. "Sure," he said, and went back to his book. Ironic that it was a book on mind-machine interfaces. He started to wonder how far modern technology was from having a true mind-machine interface that could operate wirelessly in something as small as an Oculus. That started his mind wandering down multiple different paths of inner inquiry and brainstorming at once.

One of the studies in his book involved projecting a visual image directly into a brain, bypassing the eyes. Medical researchers were working on it to give sight to the blind, and others were even considering it for entertainment purposes, having streaming video streamed directly to the brain, in a sense. But there would be a massive difference between creating a visual perception and overwriting a specific memory, and even more than that between overwriting a memory and overwriting a habitual behavior pattern, right?

Lauren had already added a little extra lipstick and mascara, making both a little thicker and darker. She had also unbuttoned her cream-colored, vintage-librarian top, allowing her to slip it off even with the vintage-steampunk Oculus still on her head. She had turned to face in his direction, now. Her bra was a lacy, powder pink, vintage-inspired number. He wondered idly if it had a little bit of extra lift built in. Obviously not something he was about to ask. She had also already removed her heels, and now bent forward as she removed her slacks as well. The forward bend also framed her cleavage picturesquely in Toby's direction. The slacks came off, and her lacy powder pink panties matched her bra.

Toby was glad she had decided to change out here, in hindsight. The little half bath off the library was small. If she had needed to bend her body like this to change in there, and had insisted on keeping that headset on even in there, there was a decent chance she'd have banged her forehead on the wall or the sink.

Lauren now reached, a little awkwardly but only a little, until she found the duffel bag and withdrew a slightly larger garment, also powder pink, which turned out to be a garter belt. She slid it up her legs until it settled over the panties. Four straps with clips hung down from this, and Lauren now found a pair of white stockings in the duffel bag and slid them on, slowly, positioning them carefully by touch and then clipping the suspender clips onto them. Next, she bent over again and removed a fabric shoe bag from within the duffel bag, and from this, she withdrew a pair of powder pink vintage T-strap heels, with a four-inch heel in the back and a one-inch platform. She slipped them onto her feet and straightened.

"How am I doing so far, Sir?" she asked, in a voice so sweet it could trigger a diabetic shock.

Toby shook himself to refocus, and took a breath before speaking, for the same purpose. "I should never have doubted you. Also, you don't need to call me that. But if it's part of the role you're getting into, go for it."

"Mm-hmm. Thank you, Sir." She continued with her changing, and Toby continued with his reading, and with the now half-dozen parallel paths in his mind thinking of the various things you could actually do with this research, and what unanswered questions it still posed.

Lauren now reached into the garment bag. Toby expected her to finally reveal her dress, but there was apparently at least one more thing first: a wide, sturdy, white petticoat, which she slipped up her legs. It was wide but not long—it only came to halfway down her thighs.

Habits are seated in one of the deeper brain structures, but conscious decision-making is largely housed in the prefrontal cortex, nearer the surface. The closer to the surface, generally the easier it is to interface with artificially right? Or is that even the case?

There was a study in which they were able to "deactivate" habits formed in rats using optogenetics. The habits didn't go away and could be reactivated later, but they were able to make new choices, free to make new decisions unconstrained by habits, until the old, stronger ones were reactivated. File that one away. How much deep brain activity can be switched on and off like that? What does it take to do it?

Another item came out of the garment bag that was not her dress. This one turned out to be a white waist cincher, which Lauren slid around her waist and then began to hook closed. There were three columns of hooks running up the front. She closed the cincher with the first one.

"Think we should try for the third row, Sir? The second one is hard like this, I have trouble finding the hooks in the middle. Would it please you to see my waist a little smaller still?"

Toby shook his head. It's taken me all school year to drop two inches off my waist. You're going to do it in two minutes. "I mean, will it be uncomfortable?"

"Oh Sir, if it pleases you, it will be ever so worth it," she continued. Then, for a moment, she dropped out of character, as if just to remind him that the real her was still in there. "Also, it's not like this is a tightlaced corset or anything. It's tight for ordinary shapewear, that's all."

"I'm learning all kinds of new things today."

"And I know learning new things is one of your favorite things in the world," she said.

"You know me," he confirmed. He'd intended to add more to that—you know me really well, you know the real me, I'm glad to have someone in my life who gets me like you do. It just didn't make the trek from his brain to his mouth in time.

"Well then," she continued, and between one word and the next, she was back in her character voice, a drizzle of robotic honey again over every word, "let me help you learn a little more, Sir." She walked forward towards him again with that slow, perfectly-placed catwalk strut. The petticoat swayed and rippled as she walked, and even at its loosest, the cincher accentuated the curve of her ribs and hips.

Before he knew what she was doing, she was straddling his thighs, which were as close as she could get to straddling his waist because of the plush, oversized arms of his armchair. He quickly slipped his bookmark back into his book. This was becoming a difficult environment in which to study.

"I'll hold in, Sir," she said. "You tighten it."

Toby felt his eyes bulging. "How?"

"Just one hook at a time, one row at a time. Start from the bottom and work your way up."

This was a little overwhelming, but he wasn't about to turn her down. He began. The first hook-and-eye closure was by far the most awkward, but then his fingers found their rhythm, and in fact, it turned out that the repetitive motion calmed his brain and helped him shut down some of the stray strands of thoughts that had started to fork and multiply. Each column was ten hook-and-eye closures, so he first moved all ten to the middle, and finally, with only a little more effort, all ten to the third and final closures. He got a little awkward at first at the topmost one in each row, near to her breasts in their shapely white lace bra, but he was able to hook each one closed without touching them inappropriately.

Lauren pushed herself off of him with nothing but her leg muscles, then backed up and stood a pace away from him, striking a pose with her new waist, an even more pronounced hourglass than she had already sported. "Like it, Sir?"

"You know," he said, "I really did like that. Just doing something simple like that really calmed me down, my brain was getting a bit distracted."