 There was no message in the media, no goal in the experience, no value in the reality.  The program existed to lure the customer in through promises of sensual delight, hooked them with easy fixes to their human problems, kept them in psychological and emotional mazes, in traps of simplicity and complexity, and would not let go as long as a shred of desire existed within their psyches.  These were worlds of self-defeating indulgence, of rack and release, where bodies and memories rotted away in stale sweat and spittle as the individual went through elaborate, emotionally and intellectually draining exercises.  The only winner in the equation was Reap-Tech, monetarily and technologically.
Jack’s job was to monitor their experience, to invisibly encourage them in the right ways, to shore up any weakness in the automated program, and to reap any mental constructions which would add value to the psychological repertoire of the program.  It was, Jack felt in the back of his mind, the worst job in existence, lacking any moral, spiritual, intellectual, or basic human value.  But it paid well.
“Oh my god!  Did you see that?!”  Yes, he had seen it, but Jack said nothing; only smiled hysterically and nodded when Bill looked at him.  Soon a few other people in the office got up to investigate the seemingly positive disturbance, to indulge in a few wasted lazy minutes, and to stretch their legs.  As they crowded into Bill’s cubicle, and Bill became distracted by the task of analyzing them and calculating the best way to wring the most pleasurable human interaction from them, Jack slipped away with the excuse of needing to go to the bathroom.
While Jack walked to the shiny, cream tiled bathroom, the sun beat down on the glass exterior of the Reap-Tech office building.  Composed entirely of opaque, black panes, the building resembled a glass box.  Even the roof was glass.  Flat, black, reflective, and bullet proof.  It stood as a personification of corporate ideals; dark, hard, unfathomably incomprehensible and impenetrable.  
As Jack finished urinating, an employee approached the entrance of the building.  He waved an electronic gizmo, which most employees used as a keychain because it was exactly the right size and the corporation encouraged it, in front of the flat glass wall.  The security system scanned the passkey.  Each key was satellite monitored, and unique to the individual employee.  They continuously generated random codes, which were cross referenced with complex programs in the building’s security system.  
Lines, slicing from ground to just over head height, appeared and formed two tall glass rectangles.  With a slight escape of air pressure, the doors jutted away from the building a fraction of an inch and separated, allowing entry.  As the employee entered the building the computer system recorded the exact amount of time he had taken for lunch.  Not only did the key open doors, it was a good way to monitor employees at and away from work. 