The War Room at MONARCH Headquarters looked less like a nerve centre of international espionage and more like a Boy Scout lodge that had married into Parliament and was now hosting an awkward family reunion. Polished beams of Canadian cedar arched overhead, engraved with old-timey motivational slogans like POLITENESS IS COURAGE and LIE LOW, AIM HIGH, EH? One wall held a framed maple leaf under glass. Another bore a taxidermy beaver in a military sash. It was, in a word, dignified nonsense.

  At the centre of it all stood the grand round table — an enormous slab carved from a retired curling rink and ringed with brass nameplates and insulated coffee holders. Around this table sat MONARCH’s finest operatives. Or at least, the ones not currently snowed in, sedated, or recovering from moose-related incidents.

  Assistant Director Banks sat at the head, straight-backed and surgical in her stillness, flipping through a file folder as thick as a regulation snow fort. Her glasses rested low on her nose, betraying no emotion.

  To her left, Redd Ensign perched with soldierly zeal, spine ramrod-straight, his red toque practically glowing with sincerity. A faint sheen misted his eyes — possibly patriotism. Possibly the glare.

  Beside him, Sandy Beeches slouched with arms folded, brow furrowed. Her expression suggested she’d rather be wrestling a grizzly than attending another mandatory morale meeting.

  Further down, Squire hunched over his clipboard, eyes narrowed as he attempted to draw a perfect circle with a compass, tongue poking slightly from the corner of his mouth in effort.

  Next to him, JIM DANDI sat comfortably, one servo-leg crossed over the other, nursing a battered mug emblazoned with HOT JAVA. COLD JUSTICE. Steam hissed from the rim. Or maybe that was just JIM.

  And at the far end, half-lounging like a disheveled lounge act from a maple-syrup-soaked casino, was Agent Soash. His velvet lapels glimmered, his scarf draped like it had been choreographed, and he spun a pencil between his fingers with the careless swagger of someone who almost knew how to use it.

  Banks cleared her throat — the official signal for silence.

  “Continuing reading from Director Thompson’s very thorough memorandum. Section 5, Annex 3,” she said, voice as dry as over baked bannock. “Quote: ‘To make Canada more streamline, I propose getting the provinces realigned in alphabetical order.’”

  She let that hang.

  Sandy blinked. “Yep. That’s on-brand.”

  “Alberta’s gonna be furious,” Squire murmured.

  “does that mean we physically move the provinces around or just rename them? Because one seems a lot harder than the other,” JIM said.

  “We begin with Manitoba and work our way outward,” declared Redd, fists clenched with noble intent, “or perhaps—hear me now—Nunavut shall be our glorious northern spearhead in a pincer of patriotic precision!”

  “I still think Saskatchewan should be annexed by the concept of ennui,” Soash offered lazily, tossing the pencil like a javelin into the ceiling.

  Soash leaned back in his chair with the satisfaction of a man who’d just thrown a dart into the soul of prairie life. The pencil he’d tossed stuck in the ceiling, quivering like a judgment.

  Without missing a beat, Banks slid a large, tri-folded map onto the table with the weary motion of someone revealing a national disgrace. It landed with a slap, scattering a few patriotic coasters.

  The title at the top, in red, overly cheerful font, read:

  "Operation Provincial Shuffle: A Bold New Layout for a Brighter Filing System"

  Squire unfolded it. Then kept unfolding. And unfolding. It spanned half the table, curling off the edges like a lazy flag.

  “I don’t like how British Columbia’s in Manitoba’s old spot,” he said, tapping the paper nervously. “And why is Yukon now labelled ‘Yukon-ish’?”

  “Because,” JIM said, peering over his mug, “someone decided ‘Y’ should be closer to ‘S’, so they split it and moved the top half to Saskatchewan’s new subfloor.”

  Redd stood, one hand to his heart. “Is that the Trans-Canada Highway rerouted along an alphabetical spine of infrastructure? Remarkable. A ribbon of logic through the landscape of tradition!”

  Sandy squinted. “Is that a zip line from Nova Scotia to Nunavut?”

  Squire nodded. “Labelled ‘Emergency Evacuation Line for Atlantic Reassignment.’”

  “Who funded this?” Sandy asked, flabbergasted.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Oh,” said Banks, rubbing her temple, “Director Thompson called it a ‘civic vision-board’ and used the office birthday budget.”

  Soash tapped the map thoughtfully. “I like how P.E.I. just has a little note that says ‘To Be Determined, Depending on Vibe.’”

  Banks snapped the map shut in one motion like a judge closing a case file.

  “And that concludes the portion of today’s meeting where we discuss doomed infrastructure fantasies.”

  Banks cleared her throat and flipped the folder to a new section, her eyes narrowing like a hawk about to audit a parade permit.

  “Continuing the Director’s memorandum — one for the ages, apparently. Section 6, Subsection D... oh.”

  A silence rippled across the table, the kind that precedes natural disasters or national anthems.

  “‘Morale at MONARCH HQ is low. What with school starting a new year as well as the doubling of our Junior Agents’ homework from last year, I am at a loss at what would cause it. After no consideration, and being a man of ‘lashing-out-blindly’ type of logic, I declare what the junior agents need,’” she read aloud, her voice as dry as scorched bannock, “‘is—’”

  “—a sock hop?” Soash blurted, grinning like a man who had just discovered both the fire and the disco ball.

  The table fell silent. The map from earlier still curled slightly at the edges, its dream of an alphabetized Canada quietly crumpling beneath the gravity of reality.

  Banks didn’t even look up. “...Sock hop.”

  Sandy dropped her pencil with a clatter.

  Squire blinked. Once. Twice.

  JIM muttered, “What in the flannel-covered fury...”

  Redd was already nodding, solemn and stirred. “A ceremonial dance? At last! A battlefield of rhythm and regulation!”

  Soash threw up both hands like a victorious magician, his scarf trailing behind him. “Boom. Boom. Boom. That’s right. I may have mentioned it to the Director in passing. Casually. Once. Loudly. During a staff breakfast. While slipping a brochure titled Sock It To Me: Building Morale with Vinyl and Velvet under Thompson’s door.”

  Banks read on, unfazed. “‘A morale-boosting social encounter, preferably retro-themed, with light refreshments, ceremonial dancing, and chaperone oversight. Music to be provided by in-house personnel. Decorations to reflect Canadian seasonal spirit.’”

  Soash tossed his scarf over his shoulder like a matador victorious in both battle and romance. “Let the record show: I have always believed in the power of socks and swing music. This, my friends, is the future of field agent bonding.”

  “This is a social nightmare waiting to happen,” Sandy muttered.

  Redd stood, hand to heart. “We must seize this moment with both hands — preferably gloved in formalwear — and craft an evening of such national significance that even the ghosts of Confederation will rise from their maple coffins to dance!”

  “Do ghosts dance?” Squire asked quietly.

  “Not if they’ve got taste,” JIM replied, sipping his elixir of coffee and motor oil.

  Banks closed the folder with finality, the clap of cardboard like a gavel slamming down on common sense.

  “Here are the assignments.”

  She slid paper slips across the table with all the solemnity of a blackjack dealer at a particularly confused casino.

  “Beeches. Squire. You’re in charge of planning. It’s booked for Friday — two days from now. Since Director Thompson reserved our hockey rink for the dance floor, I’ll go see to the melting.”

  Sandy groaned audibly. Squire, already defeated, began doodling bunting on the back of his paper.

  Meanwhile...

  The team remained seated, awkwardly waiting for Sandy or Squire to speak.

  Sandy stood, flipping through MONARCH’s official Sock Hop Protocol Manual — a thick three-ring binder with sections on shoe polish etiquette and maple-scented lighting.

  Redd sat up straighter, vibrating with anticipation, hand raised like a schoolboy about to recite the national anthem. “Pick me. Pick me!” he whispered.

  Soash was smiling quietly behind his mug, confident as a cat in a scarf shop.

  JIM had plugged a pair of headphones into his chest panel and was nodding along to what sounded suspiciously like Stompin’ Tom Connors.

  Big Joe was staring blankly out the window. He had been doing so for at least three hours.

  Sandy snapped the binder shut and pointed.

  “Redd. You’re in charge of opening ceremony and speeches.”

  Redd saluted. “Yes, ma’am! I shall do my best to whittle the speech length down to only three intermissions.”

  “Next, the thankless task of Decorations Liaison. Any takers?”

  Everyone immediately looked down, or at their shoes. Big Joe sneezed.

  “Joe it is.”

  Soash blinked. “Wait. Joe gets glitter?”

  “Next on the list,” Sandy continued, “Music and DJ.”

  She looked at JIM.

  “Now, while JIM is built from several used jukeboxes and the melted remains of a curling trophy, we’ve all learned that three uninterrupted hours of Stompin’ Tom is... excessive.”

  Redd nodded solemnly. “I love that man, but even my super-patriotism has limits.”

  JIM paused the cassette in his chest with a slow, calculated click. “Stompin’ Tom, you say? Never heard of him,” he said, deadpan.

  “JIM,” Banks said, returning just in time with a checklist, “you’re on music.”

  “I’ll upgrade my built in boom box and bring three polka tapes,” JIM grunted. “That good enough?”

  “Perfect.”

  “And Soash…” She handed him a slip with a flourish. “Chaperone. Attire consultant. Social liaison.”

  Squire looked up, hopeful. “Sandy, I thought I could do that.”

  Sandy shook her head and gave him a sympathetic smile. “Soash would never allow that. I’m saving everyone the grief. Especially his.”

  Soash, not listening in the slightest, raised his mug in a dramatic toast. “To socks, swing, and seductive silhouettes in silhouette!”

  Sandy pointed without looking. “See?”

  Soash clasped his hands as if receiving a diplomatic medal. “A sock hop, comrades. The last frontier of romance, rebellion, and retro sophistication.”

  “You just want an excuse to wear your crushed velvet shoes,” Sandy accused.

  “They have tassels, Sandy,” Soash said, rising with a sweep of his coat. “Tassels of destiny.”

  Banks stood with the weariness of someone resigning herself to fate.

  “I want detailed plans, supply requisitions, a DJ risk assessment, and at least one functioning disco light by Friday. Dismissed.”

  She turned and left. The doors shut behind her with a resonant thunk.

  Somewhere — possibly from JIM’s mug — funky accordion music began to play.

  Soash leaned back, hands behind his head.

  “Let’s dance, Canada.”