Ridgewick was literally flooded with tranzies these days. It sometimes felt like you couldn't turn sideways without tripping over one - although you probably wouldn't have known, not unless you happened to be a local. Hell, Brad had lived here his entire life, and he hardly noticed they were even there half the time. Not until he'd met Angie.

Tranzies were transgendered children - kids who were neither male nor female. They were also known as transfems or T-girls, depending on which part of town you came from. They seemed to have a lot of different names, actually. Chamberlain Central News referred to them as "The Transsexual Generation" (the one that came after the Pepsi Generation, evidently). The Ridgewick Advertiser had labeled them "The Third Sex," while the North American Journal of Genetic Research described the phenomenon as Toxically Induced Sexual Morphosis; TISM for short.

Angie Raymond was a third generation transfem - tranzie in the local vernacular - a genetic male who had transformed into an anatomic female shortly after her eighth birthday. The process had taken around three years to complete; a smooth, almost unimpeded glide between genders, as young Anthony Raymond had shed his male attributes.

Unfortunately, the transition had not been without consequence; The Change always extracts its toll in one form or another. Angie's father had cut and run shortly after her ninth birthday, unable to deal with the 'humiliation' of raising a transsexual freak. There had been no warning, no letter, no last second message or note of remorse. He'd simply vanished into some long-forgotten night as if he'd never existed.

Angela's Mother had ultimately fared no better. Left alone to pick up the shattered remains of an already fractured marriage, Mom had drunk herself into oblivion. It was a death spiral, a kamikaze run fueled by valium and everclear, ending with a spectacularly anti-climatic overdose on the eve of Angie's entry into middle school. Again, there had been no farewells, no final words, no explanations. She'd simply taken the door marked 'Exit' and left her daughter to face the nightmare of child services.

And there Angela had remained in a kind of hopeless, gray limbo, surrounded by hostile strangers, indifferent caregivers and grinning, feral predators who laughed but never really smiled. As the months piled up into years and the years into a sort of living purgatory, Angie had burrowed into darkest tunnels of her mind, blotting out each new crisis as it arose. It became interminable: an endless, empty wasteland that stretched off into infinity...

...until the day she'd started matriculation college.

It was an odd thing - despite all of the horror she'd endured during her youth, Angie had never viewed herself as a damsel in distress. But when Bradley Wilson had sauntered into her life with his tapes and spools and digital cameras, she'd never seen a more outstanding Knight in Shining Armor.

"So - ready to get going?" Brad asked, picking up the camcorder and slinging the strap around his neck.

"Yeah," Angie replied, taking his hand as they set off down the trail.

Rounding a long, sloping bend, they emerged on the far side of the Fountain and were immediately engulfed in a drove of stampeding children. They surged past in a rush of knees and elbows, almost dragging Angie off in the deluge.

Brad steered a course through the human tide, navigating towards the picnic benches beneath the weeping willows. Four or five regulars from Sole Parents - aka TransParents for the uninitiated - were reclining in the shade, sipping fruit juice and trading the week's gossip. Two of them waved in Brad's direction, beckoning him forward.

Four of the usual suspects were present; Mary Glover and Deborah Lambert from the Westside, Carol Thompson from Newtown Playgroup. Cathy Everett sat to one side, keeping watch on the 'kids.' The Rituals of Greeting were observed, the obligatory wisecracks made.

The whole process lasted around a minute, then Brad was planted comfortably in the center of the group, basking in their good-natured acceptance. He'd grown quite popular over the past few months, being one of the Society's few resident males.

However, it was Angie who was the definitive center of attention. Kisses were lavished on her freckly cheeks; teasing fingers skittered over her neck and shoulders. Angela squealed with pleasure, lapping up the attention, then ran over to hide behind her cousin, blushing to the roots of her hair.

Brad nodded along in casual satisfaction. None of it was empty flattery, Angie was an unusually pretty 'little' girl. He'd noticed that young, single mothers were particularly susceptible to her huge, liquid eyes and baby-soft features. Any one of them would have been happy to pack her up and take her home for the weekend.

"You want a soda, honey?" Deborah Lambert offered, trying to coax her out from Bradley's shadow. Angie wasn't budging (she knew full well that Debbie only wanted to snatch her up and gobble her tummy), but her smile melted every heart within visual range. Brad checked the settings on his camcorder while the drink was poured, glancing out towards the Playground.

The Indian Fort was swarming with sun-dappled figures, clambering over the rope bridge and body surfing down the high-slide. A small party of boys congregated at the bottom of the monkey bars, yelling taunts out to the girls and making half-hearted attempts to chase them around the teeter-totters. Business as usual, in other words. Brad raised the digicam and clicked on the power.

"There you go, sweet-heart," Debbie said, handing over a cup of garishly bright orange sludge. Angie stepped tentatively forward, reaching out for the saccharine horror.

"What do you say?" Brad prompted without looking up.

"Thank you," she trilled in her fluting soprano, then retreated before those girl-snatching hands could descend on her. This was, in fact, a much beloved game, one she'd played countless times before. Deborah Lambert was a world class tummy-gobbler; half the fun was evading her clutches until the end of the picnic.

Angie stepped back behind her protector, placing a hand on his shoulder while she solemnly emptied her cup. Brad finished his preparations and slid the LCD into position, tracking slowly across the playing field.

Just at that moment, Angie heard her name being called in high, keening tones. Everyone turned towards the Playground, grinning at the source of the disturbance. Two little girls were approaching at breakneck speed, their voices overlapping with exhilaration. Abandoning her cousin without a second's hesitation, Angie ran out to meet them, her hair whipping out in albino streamers.

Lindy Thompson and Janey Glover came racing over from the swings, faces glowing like a pair of storm lanterns. Knees pumping and ponytails flying, they threw themselves onto their small, blond friend in a veritable gale of affection. Faces were kissed, bottoms were patted, and gigantic hugs exchanged all round.

Words tumbled over each other in a geyser of liquid childspeak: Hi Angie we been playing over on th' swings and on th' slides and on th' big spinny thing and Alison Miller was doing cartwheels and Tommy Norbert fell off th' highslide and Tracy Dwight said this and Jeannie Salter said that-

And so on.

Brad caught them on the display, tinkering with the contrast to capture their delicate skin tones. Both were wearing skirts and dresses, just as Angie had predicted. He panned slowly down their lithe figures, taking in the lush curves, the trim, supple limbs. Both girls were extremely pretty - not quite as beautiful as Angie, in some respects - but sweet, saucy and endearingly cute all the same.

All three girls looked strikingly similar, seemingly cut from the same cloth. It was a tranzie thing: most transfems had a hyper-feminized appearance, characterized by large eyes, small mouths and slender proportions, giving them a fragile, child-like appearance. It almost amounted to a family resemblance, kind of like those weird telepathic kids from The Village of the Damned.

And of course, none of them stood more than five feet tall. Given their diminutive status and juvenile features, they could easily be mistaken for adolescent children, despite having concluded puberty some years before. Tranzies tended to age far more slowly than the rest of the population; there were some within the scientific community who believed that their complex bio-chemistry held the key to eternal youth (though this was dismissed as little more than an urban myth).

Brad scanned across each girl in turn, documenting their outfits for posterity. Lindy was wearing a canary-yellow sun frock, the kind with a high, nipped bodice and a key-hole neckline. Jane's ensemble included a loose white top and a blue plaid skirt clipped at the waist with a big silver safety pin.

All three were standing in a conspiratorial huddle, exchanging whispers and naughty girlish snickers. Their bottoms poked out at comical angles; Brad zoomed in to record each one in turn. Lindy's dress was so brief that it barely covered her underpants, Angie's so sheer that her pert, ripe cheeks were visible through the fabric. Jane's skirt was neither brief nor sheer (though the blue tartan was indescribably cute).

The conspirators had almost finished their scheming; whatever they had planned, they were almost ready to begin. He could tell by the furtive glances they kept casting over their shoulders. Fingers pointed, feet shuffled and eyes twinkled as a decision was reached.

What was it going to be this time? The Indian Fort? The Fireman's Pole? The Spider's Nest?! Under normal circumstances, Brad would have laid odds on the Swings. Little girls have a scientifically documented preference for swings, he'd read about it in the Harvard Journal of Medicine. Of course, Bradley knew better on this occasion. He knew his 'cousin.'

"OK, let's go play!!" Angie declared, practically bursting from her skin. Lindy and Jane squealed their approval, dancing back and forth in barely suppressed enthusiasm. Linking hands from left to right, the three girls spun towards the playground and tore off toward the Jungle Gym.

To be continued

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