He slips out of his apartment with a backpack slung over a shoulder. He's in all black -- black trenchcoat over a black band T-shirt and black BDU pants with the ankles tied down over black Doc Martens boots. His blond hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, like usual. He shuffles down the hallway, nods to a couple neighbors coming the other way, heads to the staircase. Two flights down, and he's out into the chill evening, heading to the subway stop down the road. He gets the occasional odd look as he walks, but most just write him off as another goth or metalhead and carry on with their lives.

A tap of his pass gets him into the subway, and he's lucky -- a train in his direction comes in just a few minutes. At quarter to nine PM, the car is fairly empty. A cluster of college kids are at one end of the car, dressed for the clubs or a concert. There's a handful of wage-worker-types scattered throughout, heading to overnight shifts. A young couple sitting together look like they're heading somewhere on a date, dressed for some special occasion. And the requisite drunk is curled up on the opposite end of the club-kids, half asleep, mumbling, and reeking of cheap wine.

He grabs an open seat, sets his bag on the seat next to him. During a busy time of day, that would draw ire, but at this hour no one cares. It's only a few stops to his destination. The club-kids pile out ahead of him, and he just rolls his eyes and trails in their wake of Axe and cheap perfume.

It's a short walk to the strip. Bars, restaurants, and nightclubs, galleries and trendy shops, a café or two, and a theater all wedged together in a few blocks. The city redeveloped an old factory district a few years ago, and their plans paid off. The restaurants are filled with people coming out of the early show or heading to the clubs. The bars are standing-room only, noise and chatter spilling out through the doors and windows open to the crisp autumn air. People of all ages are on the sidewalk, coming and going.

He's an imposing figure in black--tall, broad-shouldered--and he makes his way through the crowd steadily as people move aside for him. His destination is actually just off the main strip, and he could’ve taken a side road there, but he likes walking the main road, picking up the energy and vibe of the crowds. He doesn't let it show, though. Not yet. His face is a bored mask, and he doesn't do much more than nod to acknowledge the occasional greeting or wave. A few blocks down, he makes a turn, ignoring the wine-bar on the corner, and heads down the quieter side street.

There's an awning on the side of the building, covering a side door that's been propped open. A low, steady beat can be heard from it, pulsing quietly. A stocky, solid man with a shaved head is standing outside the door, chatting with a short, older woman, who leans against the wall smoking a cigarette. He's in a fitted black t-shirt and black jeans, "too tough" for the cool weather. She's more sensible, with a black leather jacket over her dress. The man sees him coming, nods. He nods in return, then smiles for the first time at the woman, who straightens and stubs out her cig.

"Hey, Cat!" she says. It's her nickname for him, short for "Caterpillar" as she explained once. He didn't press further--he didn't need to.

The bald guy steps towards him, in front of her. "Hey, man, I'll need to check your bag--"

She cuts him off with a hand on his shoulder. "Nah, Cat's okay. Friend of ours. Sorry, Cat, he's new. You doin' good? Haven't seen you for a few months."

He shrugs. "I've been busy. New job. Needed a break, though."

She nods, and pulls him into a quick hug. He looks embarrassed for a moment, before she turns him loose and waves him towards the door. "Glad you’re back. I'll see you downstairs, hon."

He nods and steps inside. There's a short flight of stairs down to the basement level. At the bottom, another man sits behind a podium by the door. He checks his ID, takes his cover charge, stamps the back of his hand, and nods. "Have a good one."

"Thanks." He pulls open the door and steps inside.

The volume jumps immediately once he's in the club proper. The thudding beat slams into him, and he winces at the sudden onslaught. He takes a quick glance around. The club opened only a few minutes before, and is basically empty. There's maybe a dozen patrons total, aside from him. Half are at the bar along the back, and a few more are sitting at the tables or on couches, nursing their first drinks of the night. A couple of teens are the only ones on the dance floor at the moment. He makes his way to the back and heads down a short hallway to the restrooms. The door to the ladies' room is propped open, as usual. A woman's inside washing her hands at the counter.

She turns as he steps inside, looks confused. "Hey, man, the mens' room is the other door!"

"Yeah, sorry, need to get changed," he says, then ducks past her and into the handicapped stall at the end before she can protest further. It's the biggest, and he’ll need the room.

The coat and the bag are hung on the hook on the door. He loosens the cuff ties of his BDUs and pulls them up to just below his knees, revealing that the Doc Martens are knee-high, not the usual ankle-length. He perches on the handrail on the wall and unzips the Docs, thankful he doesn't have to unlace them to get them off. Free of the boots, he steps out of the BDUs, revealing a pair of black tights underneath, with a pair of thick knee-high socks over those. He tucks the BDUs through the handrail, and the band shirt follows a moment later. Bending, he pulls the boots back on and zips them up. Though the ladies' room usually stays cleaner than the men's, he still wants to spend as little time in stocking feet as possible. Now it's time for the backpack.

From the front compartment, he pulls out a black bra--sturdy and supporting, but with lace along the edges. He pulls it on, snaps it behind his back with the ease of long practice. Next comes out a battered cardboard box about the size of a large book. Inside, in folds of tissue, are a pair of breast forms, which are quickly slipped into the bra and settled into position. The box goes back into the backpack, and from the main compartment comes a long-sleeved, short-skirted, boat-necked black skater dress. He pulls that on over his head, tugs it into place. He'd had to hunt online to find one in his size with a high enough neckline--between the basic forms he could afford and the patch of hair on his chest that he doesn't dare shave off, showing cleavage isn't an option.

The last item out of his backpack is the pride of his collection: a black leather underbust corset. He'd saved for months (and spent another couple working up the nerve) before buying it in a specialty boutique in the next city over. He wraps it around himself, zips up the front busk. He gives the laces a tug just to get it snug around him; he'll finish tightening it in a moment. He quickly folds the pants and shirt and stuffs them back into the backpack, then exits the stall. Turning his back to the full mirror, he looks over his shoulder and deftly begins pulling the laces tight. A few minutes' effort has them even, hiding his gut, knocking several inches off his waist, and giving him some of the curves he otherwise lacks. Satisfied, he ties them off and tucks the excess away.

From his backpack, he fishes out a small makeup case. He doesn't bother trying to make it perfect; in the dark club, nothing subtle would be visible. Eyeliner, a bit of dark shadow, some blush, and a dark, red lipstick he'd found in the discount bin of the supermarket one night. No foundation--he'd shaved a couple hours ago, and his beard was blond and blessedly thin. He pulls his ponytail loose, brushes his hands through it, then fluffs it out a bit over his shoulders. Someday, he'll work up the nerve to go to an actual salon, but until then he makes do. A couple girls come in the bathroom, giggle at him fiddling with his mascara, then duck into stalls.

Finished with the mascara, he packs the makeup away, then takes a step back and looks himself over. And tries not to sigh. Six-one, two hundred pounds, broad-shouldered, large hands--he passes like a kidney stone. But, still, with the forms and the corset, the makeup, the long hair, the flared dress and knee-high boots--it's as much of herself as she can show. It's enough, for now.

She gives the corset a tug, settling it lower on her hips, then fishes a small black purse out of the backpack and slings it over her head and shoulder, enjoying the way the strap falls between her breasts. Her wallet and phone are tucked inside, then she grabs her coat and backpack off the hook and makes her way out of the bathroom. It's pushing ten, now, and the club's starting to fill up. She gets a few nods from some of the other regulars, a couple smiles. The coat and backpack are dropped at coat check; the girl working the check smiles as she drops an extra buck into the tip jar there.

Freed from her burdens in more ways than one, she heads for the dance floor. The music is alive now, thumping, pulsing, like a second heartbeat in her chest, drawing her into its energy. The DJ has warmed up and the floor has started to fill. The denizens of the club are a dark rainbow, a writhing, gyrating ode to the different and weird. She plunges into the midst of it all, eyes half closed, letting the beat guide her steps as she's carried away by the music.

Tonight the butterfly spreads her wings and flies free.