Chapter Two: Finding his body twisted into Cindy’s diminutive form is almost enough to destroy David, but he’s made of sterner stuff and grudgingly begins to live her life. His enemies are still afoot, however, forcing several difficult decisions.

Constant in All Other Things 2
Chapter Two
by
Fakeminsk ([email protected])

“Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent.”
Much Ado About Nothing

All of a hundred pounds and I couldn’t fucking do it.

First in my triceps then quickly up through both shoulders, the burn settled in my chest behind the pendulous weight of those breasts. Flattened against the cheap bedroom carpeting, both boobs offered a free inch or two of cushioning. The ache quickly intensified and swelled. My arms began to tremble. The pain in my wrist became acute. Pushing and straining, I slowly lifted a scant three inches off the ground; my strength suddenly evaporated and I dropped back to the floor.

Not even one goddamn push-up! Not one! I couldn’t even lift high enough to clear these goddamn tits from the floor. I used to pump off an easy hundred every morning before work and now I couldn’t manage one. But what could I expect? I massaged the soreness and felt how slender and frail my arm was, delicate and bereft of muscle.

A moment later debilitating pain flared through my skull and the room briefly tilted and wobbled. I blinked against what I hoped was sweat but was probably tears. Goddamn! Up close I could see every detail of the carpeting, the dirt and dust lost within the winded fabric and the yellow-green stain still by the mirror. I saw the polished perfection of my long nails and how they contrasted with the floor. I curled those dainty fingers into a fist and pounded the floor in frustration and winced in pain. Rolling onto my back, I squeezed my eyes shut and shook with mute rage. The room spun once or twice more around my prone form before slowing to a halt.

Scooter was right. Damn the bastard, but he was right.

I pressed my fists to my eyes. I’d done all my crying last night, but in its wake there remained a sense of utter defeat. I’d worked out almost every morning for over the last ten years and those assholes had stolen that from me. It felt like something indefinable but precious had been ripped out of my life, as if I’d suddenly lost the ability to see the colour green or could never hear a guitar solo again. I knew then with awful certainty that even if I escaped this trap that I could never return to a life even remotely similar to the one I had known. So much of who David was had been wrapped up in his physicality, in his strength--and that was now gone.

“Fuck!” I yelled to the ceiling, and even my anger sounded shrill and weak.

The killer headache wasn’t making life any easier. In the list of lifelong worst hangover, this baby was partying in the top five. No wonder I’d broken to pieces last night. Those glasses of wine had slammed into a stomach empty for the last two months. Cindy wasn’t quite the drinker I used to be. I’d really had a go at it last night, though. After the wine there was a vague memory of staggering into the kitchen and finding a six-pack of Bud in there. So no surprise I’d gotten hammered, what with the girl looking to weigh maybe half of what I’d been. Yeah, I hadn’t been all that tall or bulky, but I’d carried a lot of muscle weight. Well, bless their black hearts but the Clinic stripped all that away and left behind nothing but these useless curves.

“Just--live this life,” he said. “Give up on the man you used to be. Be Cindy.” Yeah, that’s what Scooter told me. The bastard. Easy for him to say; he wasn’t the one sporting the D-cups.

I’d woken this morning to a blistering headache. Brilliant sunlight slashed through the blinds and pierced my drunken haze. Lying face down on the sofa, my crusted eyes blinked reluctantly as slowly woke up. The heat has been sweltering. My chest hurt. Without thinking I’d sat dazedly up and violently stripped off the sweatshirt, tossing it across the room. My boobs bobbled free, and you can damn well bet they quickly reminded me of the where, what and who of my new life. And feeling as I did, all hungover and shit? Yeah, it was all too much to deal with: I promptly leaned over the edge of the sofa and puked my liquid guts out.

Falling back onto the couch I clung desperately to the armrest until the room settled and the urge to heave subsided. As bad as being dragged kicking and screaming into this new life was, believe me, at that moment the hangover felt worse. God. I was desperate for water but the thought of crawling to the kitchen--finding a glass--twisting the taps--filling the glass--raising it to my lips--drinking; the whole process seemed a task of Herculean proportions. No goddamn way I was leaving that sofa. No matter how angry my bladder got. Another hour--screw that, two months--of sleep, yeah, that’s what I needed. Covering my head with my arms I tried to burry deeper into the cushions, in search of soothing darkness.

“Wake up Cindy!”

The loud booming voice jerked me into painful, wincing wakefulness. I blearily looked around, wondering what the hell I’d just heard. The plasma screen had turned itself on. Rendered in hi-def flat-screen precision, the smiling, bearded face of Scooter looked down at me.

“In the living room, Cindy! Hurry up!” the doctor insisted. “My message begins in thirty seconds.”

Clawing my way into a sitting position, my head clutched between both hands, I glared at the screen. Scooter seemed content to count aloud his thirty seconds, glancing at something off-screen. Each number reverberated within my skull like a pinball.

“I’ll assume you’re in the room now,” Scooter said, the voice dropping to a reasonable (though still painful) volume. “This message is pre-recorded and deleting itself from memory as it plays. So listen closely, because you’ll only get to hear this once and it’s very important that you do.” Even in my groggy state I noticed that the doctor looked the worse for wear, his face drawn and pale. His eyes looked tired and his normally spastic gesturing seemed half-hearted.

On the screen, the doctor took a deep breath before beginning. “Katherine didn’t want me to do this but when it comes to medical matters I won’t have anyone telling me how to do my job. As you’ve no doubt noticed by now, you’ve gone through a few changes.” He smiled weakly. “It’s been six weeks since we found you on the floor of my office and we’re about to move you to Telesforos for a few more weeks of rest and recovery. After that Katherine will move you to your new home in the city, you’ll wake up and you’ll probably freak out. If you haven’t already I’m sure you’re thinking about putting your fist through this screen.

“Well . . . don’t bother. There’s no point. You’re not quite as strong as you used to be. You’d hurt your hand and waste the manicurist’s hard work.”

The manicurist’s hard work dug painfully into my palm as my hands involuntarily clenched. If I could move without falling over I’d have happily tossed that screen off the balcony.

Scooter absently scratched at his beard, considering how to proceed. “You should be thrilled, Girlie! This kind of thing is like a dream come true for. . . .” He faltered. “Listen, Girlie, it’s. . . .” Again he hesitated and finally shook his head. “David. For what it’s worth: I’m sorry.”

With my elbows propped up on my knees, my naked breasts hung heavily between both arms. His apology wasn’t worth the fucking breathe it took to say it.

“I know this is not something you ever wanted. Katherine believes you need to be fully immersed in your new role as soon as possible--but I won’t insult you by calling you Girlie, or Cindy, or anything but by your name. David, you have every reason to hate us, to despise Katherine and me and the Clinic. So go right ahead: hate us.” He shrugged on screen and then leaned in closer. “But just keep one thing in mind as you do.

“She kept you alive, David. A class IV haemorrhage is a nasty thing. That’s half of the five litres of blood running through those pretty little arteries of yours spreading across the floor. She was covered in blood. Most of it was yours but she was injured as well; she’d been shot. Through the stomach and out the side. She’s lucky it missed any organs; so are you. Because when she found you she ignored her own wound and knelt down in your blood and kept you alive. She jabbed a syringe of peptide sealant into your side and manually pumped your heart and gave you air until I showed up, and if she hadn’t there probably wouldn’t have been a whole lot left to save. My staff had to physically drag her away so that I could administer the ephedrine; she broke one of the nurse’s noses. The moment you started to breathe on your own Katherine passed out and. . . .” His voice trailed off and he sighed.

“But maybe I’m wasting my breath here. Have a look for yourself.”

The screen blinked and threw up grainy security footage. A figure lay slumped next to another. Glass and broken furniture and other debris was scattered around them. A dark pool of red slowly spread across the floor. The image zoomed in on one of the figures, the one wearing a tattered skirt: me. God, I looked terrible. Pale. One of my arms was twisted at an impossible angle. So was one of my legs. My skin glittered from the myriad glass splinters lacerating my flesh, each one a fountainhead of red. My face was a mess: badly cut, bruised and broken.

A woman came running into the frame. She nearly slipped and fell in the blood. She was looking beat-up herself, clutching at her side, bleeding freely from a cut to her face. She found her footing. Tore open drawer after drawer until she found what she wanted. Knelt down next to my body on the screen. Despair threatened her features but raw determination kept it at bay. She reached for my limp form, syringe in hand.

“Hate Katherine if you want,” Scooter repeated, his voice-over grim. “But don’t ever question that everything she has done since meeting you has been with your long-term survival in mind. She saved your life. And mark my words: she probably will again.”

I wanted to shout at the screen, to rant and rave. How could these, I wanted to yell, and heft those bloated mammaries for him to see . . . how could these help keep me alive? The swell of emotion made me wince with pain.

The screen blinked back to the doctor as he continued with a shrug. “I’m sure you don’t see it the same way. Personally, and as I’ve said before: I don’t care. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if you hate me or not, forgive me or not; but I do care about Katherine a great deal. You might think you know her in some small way but you don’t. I’ve known her for over twenty years and I don’t pretend to fully understand her. But I do know there’s no one I’d rather have as an ally against someone as dangerous as Jeremiah Steele, because I’ve never known anyone with a hatred as pure and clear as the one Katherine carries for that man.”

“So keep that in mind before you swear revenge, David. We caught your fight with Steele’s assassin on the Clinic’s security cameras. You’ve obviously got secrets of your own, David. You’re clearly a dangerous . . . man.” You can damn well bet I noticed the slight hesitation at ‘man’, the nervous scratching at his chin. “Think long and hard before you waste any time chasing after Katherine, or me, or anyone at the Clinic. Your real enemy is Steele: never forget that.”

The doctor turned again off screen. He made a slashing motion across his neck. “Yeah, stop it there,” he muttered. “This isn’t what I wanted. Last thing the guy needs is a bloody lecture.” The screen turned momentarily black. When the image returned the doctor looked a little more relaxed, wearing fresh clothes, through still with visible signs of exhaustion entrenched in his face. He was sitting in an office I didn’t recognize, wood-panelled and warm-looking. He glanced aside before looking back to the camera and smiling.

“You still with us, David? Good. Because now I’m going to show you what we’ve done to you, and this part you’ve really got to pay attention to because if you don’t . . . well, it could kill you.”

His hands jerked before his face dismissively. “Sorry for the dramatics. But your body’s been through a hell of an ordeal. As I record this you’re lying in a bed in the Telesforos retreat, recovering. Your body seems to be settling nicely as the last of the surgery heals and the chemicals are purged from your body. The nurses have no idea you’re anything other than what you seem: a young girl recovering from a serious operation. I think the female nurses have taken a bit of a liking to you. Last I heard they were prettying you up in preparation for your release.”

So is that what I was now? A goddamn living doll to play with, to dress up nice and give a manicure to? My hand slipped up to my ear and fingered the earrings there: two in the lobe and another at the top.

“And let me just say, David,” the doctor continued on screen. “I am beyond pleased at how well you’ve turned out. Real pioneering work, to be honest. Experimental processes, real cutting-edge techniques, all for your benefit.” Despite the doctor’s obvious fatigue his eyes glowed with excitement. “You can’t imagine the kind of money people would pay for what you’ve just been given. These procedures are--priceless, to be honest. It may be years before we can even reproduce them.” He shrugged, dismissing such minor concerns. “I’m sure you’ve noticed by now the obvious alterations to your body. I hope you also appreciate the remarkable recovery you’ve made from your injuries.”

Damn him to hell, but he was right, of course. I knew all too well the lingering ache of serious injury and the time it took to heal. In the days when I used to help Sakura I got hurt on a fairly regular basis. Sometimes I got hurt pretty bad. Fortunately, she had these nasty-smelling poultices that used to help, esoteric herbal mixes she made herself that burned something awful as they absorbed into the skin. They quickly numbed the pain and seemed to work miracles on bruised flesh.

Once--only once, until the fight with Fosters--I even got the living shit kicked out of me. I got hurt so bad I can’t even remember the whole fight. Not that I’d want to. After that fight, some of my injuries took a full year to heal. Hell, I guess some of them never healed properly at all. And so, sitting with a skull-splitting headache on Cindy’s sofa, I clearly remembered the fight with Fosters and fully appreciated how lucky I’d been. The swing of the heavy metal bar and the crunch of bone as he shattered my leg. My arm. My face. Those kinds of injuries left scars and took a very long time to recover. Beneath these sweat pants I knew my skin to be smooth and whole. I felt weak and a little shaky but otherwise fine. I normally healed quickly, yeah? But nobody heals this quickly.

Scooter leaned forward eagerly and launched into a technical explanation of what they’d done to me. I’ll be honest. Science was never my thing--like I said, I never even finished high school, yeah? I only followed a little of what he said, picking up some key bits and important-sounding words. Regenerative medicine, he said, and then went on about stem cells and fibroblasts, and all manner of protein names that ended with a dash and a letter, and growth hormones, and he seemed very excited by whatever he was talking about.

“But the adult human body works far too slowly,” Scooter added, seeming mildly annoyed by the failings of human anatomy. So the doctor and his lunatic scientists decided that regressing the body to an earlier state of rapid growth was the trick. By tricking the body into a pre-adolescent state they hoped to accelerate metabolic processes and growth--or something like that. It might as well have been Voodoo for all I understood. They’d been playing with various compounds for years, he told me, trying to find ways to rapidly heal athletic injuries or critical burns in minimal time. No more soccer players missing a season with a busted knee, they thought, maybe even a solution to the shortage of transplant organs and the downside of a lifetime of immunosuppressants. Don’t ask me why they thought that. Like I said, I didn’t understand half the shit he was saying.

The bit I did understand is that for years they couldn’t quite get it to work right--until K slipped them some seized goods from her raid on Steele’s illegal medical facility. Apparently my old employer, NeoPharm, was working on some pretty cutting edge stuff themselves, and it wasn’t all prosthetic boobs and vaginas. A little reverse engineering later and they had a working formula.

“So we dropped you into a chemically-induced coma and gave you a shot of our latest batch,” Scooted said. With a boosted metabolism and a host of impossible chemicals rushing through my blood, muscle and flesh and bone quickly began to knit themselves together. However, they quickly realized that their new miracle drug wouldn’t find much demand on an open market. It wasn’t the ridiculously prohibitive cost, Scooter said. For some reason they couldn’t pin down, the biochemical agent they’d created had one major flaw: the pseudo-puberty it brought on was inevitably a female one. Male athletes coming through the process would heal quickly, sure, but they’d grow breasts along the way and come out looking not just younger, but far more feminine than when they went in.

That wasn’t a problem in my case, of course. And they couldn’t leave well enough alone, could they? No, they introduced some kind of nasty virus that forced a rapid cachexia (Scooter called it), and what muscle mass wasn’t atrophied in those initial weeks was devoured by my enhanced metabolism and rapid regeneration. Once I’d dropped to a near skeletal weight they started feeding me a careful balance of protein, fat and carbs to fuel the next transformation. There was also the flood of hormones they pumped into me. “It was incredible,” Scooter enthused. “The injections greatly enhanced your second puberty. Some processes were already locked off after your male puberty--you weren’t going to get a second growth spurt--but you quickly demonstrated an accelerated development of secondary sexual characteristics typical of an adolescent girl. Breasts grew--quickly. Your pelvis widened. The fat tissue you began to develop distributed itself in a typical female pattern. You even developed a bad case of acne for about a week.”

And while my healing process was all sped up, why not finish off some cosmetic necessities? A few weeks into my coma the Clinic’s best plastic surgeons came in and got to work. Some attacked my skull: a little shaving of the underlying bone structures here, some narrowing there--and suddenly that manly jaw of mine was a thing of the past. But as Scooter described the alterations to my face his verbal torrent slowed. Looking slightly guilty--a first since he had started--his eyes looked out from the screen and he spoke as if carefully weighing his words.

“Your face, David, proved especially difficult. For some reason, your accelerated healing was having a limited effect above the neck. The cosmetic damages were severe. The glass had shredded the skin and muscle. Your nose was--pulped. Your jaw broken and right cheekbone shattered. Furthermore, the procedures we could use to feminize your features, like collagen implants to your lips--require frequent updating or seem obviously artificial.” He paused. “David, feel the skin over your right temple.”

By this point I was in a state of profound shock. Even the hangover seemed to have momentarily receded as I numbly reached up beneath my hair and touched my temple. There was a rounded surface of mottled skin about the size of a dime, slightly harder than the surrounding tissue. A scar.

The doctor sighed. “That scar is the only one you’ll find across your entire body. The easiest way to repair the damage to your face and ensure a realistic female appearance was, in effect, to borrow one. We had a donor: the female agent that tried to kill Katherine. We performed a face transplant, David. The underlying bone structure is yours, the overlying soft tissue--mouth and nose and so forth--was the assassin’s; and what emerged is . . . Cindy.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “The scar is from the bullet where Katherine shot her dead.”

I stared aghast as Scooter continues the litany of horrors committed against my person. His voice continued over video footage of my unconscious form several weeks into the process. Massive bruising covered every inch of my body, but beneath the discoloration the skin seemed whole. Breasts were already budding beneath my enlarged nipples. Briefly I saw a glimpse of my face pre-transplant, skin peeled back and muscle exposed; if I hadn’t been so deeply in shock I would’ve puked again. His every word began to feel like a band tightening around my chest until I could hardly breathe. Every injury I had suffered proved an excuse to make another alteration to my shape.

Floating ribs torn away by Foster’s bullet? Even out the damage and ensure the ribs grow back in an appropriately feminine way. Fractured jaw? Slim it down! My shattered nose was reset in a daintier shape. Burned and lacerated skin regrew with the youthful elasticity and glow of a sixteen year-old girl. Subdermal implants kept the flow of female hormones constant--and kept my tits growing, until they reached a perfect firm B-cup--apparently as big as they were going to get on their own the ‘natural’ way--enhanced by the best implants money can’t buy: a cellulose scaffolding on which stem cells grew another two cup sizes indistinguishable from the real thing. A little mucking about in my throat and Cindy’s happy, airy tones became my new voice, and while in there, why not shave down that nasty Adam’s apple? Even the things they couldn’t change--the size of my hands and feet, already thinner than average for a guy--seemed more feminine as nails grew out and the skin turned smooth and pale.

I was clutching at my chest by this point, gasping for breath, struggling to remain conscious, until the last item on his list left me cold. “Finally,” he said, and suddenly seemed to find it difficult to look at the camera, “as I’m sure you know, men generally have a greater leg-to-torso ratio than women. With your leg already broken, it seemed only sensible to, ah, carve out an inch or so before resetting the leg. You’ll find you’re just a tad . . . um, shorter than before.” He glanced guiltily towards the camera and muttered, “Uh, yes. Sorry David.”

It felt like the whole world fell away. The hangover, that fucking bastard’s voice, this shitty apartment and any sense of self went spiralling away and left me detached and adrift. My height. Not content with stripping away my strength they decided to cut my legs out from under me--literally. I’d always been short for a guy. Five foot five. And a half. What was I now? Maybe five-four? Short--even for a girl. Short and weak and small--except for these tits. Enormous on a frame this small. A light tap against that swollen flesh. Another, reluctantly drawing me back into the world. I thought I’d finished with the crying last night. Apparently there was a little left. The tears returned, a steady silent dribble down my cheeks, catching at the tip of my delicate jaw--falling on my bared breasts.

I don’t know how much of Scooter’s message I missed, but I caught the end of it through blurry eyes. “So finally, David,” he said. He sounded as if he were hurrying, anxious to finish. “You can expect some residual effects from everything you’ve been through. Your hair might grow a little faster than normal for a while. The hormones might play havoc on your emotions until you balance out a bit. We’re honestly not sure but it seems very likely that forcing an adult male brain and body through a female puberty might cause a few other unexpected consequences. And most importantly: David, all these feminizing agents in your blood will, at the very least, chemically castrate you and atrophy your testicles; at worst they could lead to a whole host of serious, potentially fatal, medical conditions.”

Yeah, even as fucked up as I was feeling at that moment you can damn well believe that his words caught my attention. At this moment my cock and balls were the only thing connecting me to the man I used to be. From where I was sitting, with this slim waist and heavy tits and shorter legs, my crotch was the only thing left of David.

“You’ll find in your new bathroom’s medical cabinet several prescriptions for drugs essential to your continued wellbeing. It is absolutely essential that you take those pills as directed. Those implants are producing a hefty quantity of oestrogen and other female sex hormones typical of a ‘girl’ your age, while blocking normal testosterone production. The pills will keep your testicles from withering and your penis from shrinking. Some of them will help neutralize any residual effects of your regeneration. You’ll also find some powerful relaxants in there, in case the initial emotional swings prove too difficult to deal with.”

He gave a final sigh. “Listen, David,” he said, and the face I saw through watery eyes held guilt, pride and respect in equal measure. “This is a hell of a lot to drop on you. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now. And I know it’s impossible to believe that this is all in your best interest. But I honestly do believe Katherine is right in this: Cindy is your best chance at survival. Not David--but Cindy.

“So don’t fight it . . . Cindy. Just . . . live this life. You won’t believe me but almost everything we’ve done to you can be reversed to at least some degree. You can be a man again someday. In the meantime: be Cindy. It’s not like you have much choice. You can try to rebuild your muscles but as long as you’re swimming in hormones you’ll find it tough going. Just give up on David. Give up on the man you used to be and become the girl you see in the mirror. Katherine’s given you a fine, simple life--try to enjoy it in the months to come and it’ll be over before you know it.”

He turned away from the screen but paused. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, glancing back. “Just thought you might like to know. Your friend, Harry Longman? His operation was a complete success. Last I heard he was flirting with the nurses and preparing to head back to the studio.” Scooter smiled before turning away. “He was also asking after his ‘broken flower’. That’s you, right?”

The screen went blank.

I sat there trapped in this tiny body with this dead woman’s face. I wasn’t crying anymore. That had been nothing more than a brief release. I truly had finished with crying. It felt as if I had nothing left to lose, no further to sink. All that remained was a numb chill the pervaded every inch of my being. I slowly rose to my feet. Shuffled back into the bedroom. Dropped to my knees and then laid flat on the floor--as flat as I could, with those breasts flattening beneath me.

You’re wrong, I thought. I’m not Cindy and this isn’t my life. I can make myself strong again. At some deeper level I felt the certainty of failure. Desperate to prove them wrong, desperate to deny my very body and the life determined by it, I pushed against the floor with all the strength I could muster.

All of a hundred pounds and I couldn’t fucking do it.

***

The next few weeks were a little hazy.

Within the medicine cabinet I found, as Scooter promised, a pharmacy of little brown bottles with white childproof tops and a rainbow of pills. Pink circles, green ovals, brown oblongs: my own fucking stash of narcotic Lucky Charm delights, each with their own direction for use--this one every morning after food, that one twice a day for the next three months, another to be used freely as needed. Sifting through the cluster of bottles, it didn’t take me long to find the antidepressants and the diazepam. I’m sure there was enough there to last several months. Not after I got through with that shit, though. We’re not talking a suicide attempt or anything like that--listen; I’m not suicidal. Stupidest thing in the world, knocking yourself off. Can’t revenge yourself against nobody if you’re dead.

But at the moment I couldn’t quite deal with the thought of being me. At the moment, I didn’t even know what that meant anymore. Whatever aversion I had to mind-numbing drugs faded beneath a steady stream of little yellow pills and larger red ones that kept reality far enough at bay for me to no longer care. The days shuffled past like a disgruntled teen on her way to school, self-absorbed and full of sullen mutters.

Even in my dopey stupor a routine of sorts emerged. I started every day lying spread eagle on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. The morning sun would dance across the far wall and crawl its way down to the floor like a living being, luminous and vibrant; it had little time for me. One day it rained and without the light I felt an unimaginable sense of loss that almost had me in tears--if I’d had tears left to waste.

Eventually I would drift over to the balcony and stare out across the city. I spent hours there. From my high place the wind caressed my skin and ruffled my hair. The day it rained the falling water felt cool and slick against my bare shoulders and naked breasts. Evenings I might spend sprawled on the sofa, staring at the blank and broken television, lost in tracing the fine spread of cracks from afar. Can’t quite remember when I broke the damn thing. I must have hurled the empty wine bottle at it some night, bringing a brief, warming flush of pleasure as the screen cracked and the glass shattered.

By three in the morning I’d be standing behind the patio doors, half-closed against the night-time chill, watching the far-off glitter and shimmer of the city. Intermittent sounds of life would reach my ears. I watched the city through the patio door glass. If I shifted slightly against the dark the city faded into the background and my distant study would refocus on the ghostly image of myself captured in midair. Soon after I’d stumble back towards my bed and lie there staring at the ceiling until the sun returned and the light appeared, beginning anew its journey down my wall. . . .

Thanks for everything, K, Scooter, you bastards. What had they promised? A “fine simple life”? There wasn’t anything fucking fine or simple about this goddamn new life of mine. Not that I felt anything that fierce during those last weeks. I didn’t feel much of anything really, no peaks, no valleys, just a gentle rolling plain of faded whites and muted emotions, and that’s how I wanted it. The occasional hunger pang or sudden weakness registered as a minor concern, easily ignored, as I floated about the apartment.

The sexiest of girls starts looking pretty rank after a couple of weeks of this kind of life, and believe me: I was letting myself go something awful. It’s not like I could be bothered to pull on a top, you know, not after I tossed it aside that first morning. Couldn’t be bothered to change out of those sweatpants either. I’d wander into the toilet for a piss but considering how little I ate and drank, that didn’t happen often. By my second night as Cindy I’d polished off all the booze in the apartment--puked my guts up a few more times--passed out on the kitchen floor--left the fridge door open and spoiled most of my food--and lived off of unheated cans of soup and dried cereal and whatever crackers and other crap I could find buried in the cupboards.

Then one night I was sitting in the lounge, thin arms thrown wide across the back of the sofa and staring vacantly at the ceiling, when I heard her voice.

“You’re looking good,” she said. Her heels clicked on the floor as she approached. She took a seat opposite me at the table, and her every motion was graceful and alluring. I would have happily stared at her for hours, mesmerized by the reflected fire of the candlelight in her eyes, the way her dress fell and slid in shimmering lines across her body. The fact that we were possible enemies and the potential for violence in her every movement simply made her all the more attractive. She seemed elegant and almost ethereal and at ease with her beauty, whereas I felt uncomfortable in my dress shirt and tie, an earth-bound clod wearing a too-tight collar.

Leaning back in my seat, I smiled and shrugged. “So do you. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

She glanced down momentarily before meeting my eyes. The gesture seemed surprisingly demure and at odds with what little I knew of this woman. The thought was enough to bring a wry smile to my lips. I didn’t know anything about her--not even her name. But I knew enough. I knew I loved her. Ever since we fought, and hid together, and hungrily fell into each others’ arms and fucked in the bushes, biting each others’ flesh to silence our cries as men with guns walked by and the bamboo swayed in the wind overhead and creaked and rustled. . . . From that first moment in which we met I knew I loved this woman.

“You intrigued me,” she said. “How could I not come?”

“The woman I work for is the enemy of the people you work for,” I said. “Doesn’t that make us enemies?”

She shrugged. “Maybe,” she said, and her earrings shivered and glinted in the dim light, shiny lures dancing beneath the water’s surface. “But not tonight. It’s never as simple as one side against another, good guys against bad guys.”

“What if . . . you know? They caught us together?”

“Then I’d have to kill you,” she answered. Her ruby lips glinted as she smiled.

The waiter poured our wine. I was underage; she wasn’t. We raised our glasses and toasted each other. The wine was a dark red but her painted fingernails cradling the glass were redder, darker. She drank deeply and sighed as I hid my dislike at the adult taste of the wine. “I don’t even know your name,” I said.

“Katherine,” she said. “Katherine Ophelia White.”

I jerked awake with a sharp intake of breath.

A dream. Or a memory, all but forgotten. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference, not when it comes to Kate. My first ‘date’ with Katherine, the first of many furtive encounters and secret liaisons, of fights and violent sex and desperately precious moments spent clinging fiercely to each other. Six months later she was dead. It was my fault. It was my fault. I hadn’t been fast or skilled enough to save her. I wasn’t strong enough to protect her.

Clutching my throbbing head I staggered to my feet. Midday sun flooded the room. Christ. Like I wanted to deal with this shit right now. Obviously it’d been too long since I’d popped a pill or something, if reality was insisting on reasserting itself. As far as I was concerned, reality could go fuck itself. I needed a drink. Was I at that point where I could start in on the cough syrup and vanilla extract yet?

Halfway to the medicine cabinet a knocking rang clear and loud from the front door.

Who knows why I went to the door? Sleep-deprived, drugged-up, messed in the head and still feeling the phantom touch of old dreams and a dead lover, I stumbled over to the door of the apartment. I clipped the wall once or twice and knocked down a picture frame and made a bit of a racket. The knock came again, loud and insistent.

“Who--?” My voice was hoarse from disuse, my throat dry. I swallowed and tried again. “Who is it?” My heart pounded a rapid, almost deafening beat, though I didn’t know why.

“I have a delivery for a Miss Long,” a female voice called back through the door. “It needs to be signed for.”

“Just. . . .” Just what? Fuck off? Leave me alone? I wasn’t in any state to be talking to people. I was dirty, drugged . . . female. Yet I didn’t fear being seen. Unlike the first time I dressed up as Cindy and stepped out of that safe house so very long ago (or so it seemed), at the moment I felt a surprising calm at the thought of being seen as a girl. It might’ve been the pills. More likely, it was because I knew Scooter’s butchers had done their job well. If I couldn’t recognize myself, how could a complete stranger? Rather than fear, a sudden inexplicable yearning to connect with another human being arose in me. After days of silence, crawling lights and the far-off sounds of traffic, I felt a powerful need to see another human. “Just one minute!”

I hurriedly stumbled to my bedroom and pulled on the first thing I found, a t-shirt that felt too tight as it hugged my curves and left my midriff exposed. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door.

I’ll give the delivery girl credit: she was a goddamn pro, that’s for sure. She was quite cute, with her little brown cap and pixyish hairdo with purple and pink streaks. Her nose wrinkled at the stench that flowed from my apartment, and she couldn’t quite suppress the flash of disdain or disgust that crossed her eyes as she looked down at me, but she neither flinched nor commented on my appearance. Still, that human presence and appraising look suddenly, forcefully brought me back to myself and I felt acutely and ashamedly aware of my appearance.

I looked like shit.

An awkward silence followed and I imagined what I looked like through this woman’s eyes. The piss and vomit stained sweatpants, the smeared food encrusted over the jiggling exposed top of those tits--yeah, real sexy. My hair lay slickly against my scalp and bloodshot eyes stared anxiously from a pale face. I looked like I goddamn strung-out crack whore or something. It’s a good thing those pants were baggy and the pills murder to the libido, killing off any suspicious bulge down below, because the last thing I needed was the neighbour gossiping about the transvestite hooker in apartment--I had to check the door--1607. Looking at myself I felt intense embarrassment, and for once it had nothing to do with this body in which I found myself trapped. I could barely meet the girl’s impatient gaze.

How the hell could I have allowed myself to come to this? This wasn’t life, existing--barely--on painkillers, detached from the world around me; might as well throw myself from the balcony instead. Life was pain; Katherine taught me that a lifetime ago, and I silently thanked her for the reminder.

“Miss Cindy Long?”

“Uh . . . yeah. Yes. That’s me.” Those were the first real words I’d spoken aloud in nearly two weeks, other than some vaguely crazed mumbling to myself. My first words and they were weak and timorous. The sound of that voice, the softer tones and higher register--this girl’s voice that rang false in my ears--was now mine. Cindy’s voice. And the next words that tumbled reluctantly from my lips took me by surprise: “I’m Cindy Long.”

I made a vain attempt at brushing back my hair and rubbing some of the filth from my face. “Sorry about. . . .”

“If you’ll just sign, please?” Her voice was brusque and I couldn’t blame her. I wouldn’t want to talk to me either.

Taking the delivery I signed ‘Cindy’ instead of ‘David’, which in my detached state I felt quite proud of. Even signed with a lighter hand and dotted the ‘i’ with a heart and everything. The woman handed over an envelope and quickly left. I stood there for a moment, blinking and confused, and slowly looked down at the letter.

Cindy Long, it said, and an address. My address, my new home; I am Cindy Long.

With heavy steps I trudged towards the bathroom, dropping the letter next to the broken picture frame along the way. I needed a shower. Sweatpants slid past jutting hips and pooled on the floor as I stepped free of them. The bathroom was small, crowded and brightly coloured. I pulled back the plastic shower curtain. Stepped gingerly onto cool porcelain. Slid shut the curtain and twisted the knob.

Cold water slammed into me. I gasped through the shock as the shower clawed at the stench and filth and tore through the fog I’d been wrapped in these last two weeks. Staring up into that bitterly chill cascade, for a moment each droplet seemed suspended, catching the diffuse ivory of the curtain and the emerald of the shower tiles in a kaleidoscope of green and white. Blinking, and then shivering violently, I stood unmoving as the water broke against my lithe frame.

As the fog lifted my thoughts gradually cleared. Sudden ideas, thoughts, fragments of sentences flashed through my head and with them came a rush of emotions, feelings thrust aside for the last two weeks as I trembled and my teeth chattered and God, shit, what have they done to me, how could she, I’ll fucking kill them! Giet bid daet selast . . . if Akiko could see me now--or Sakura--kick my ass for letting this happen--they were so fucking sexy, these girls from the past; I wonder where they all are now . . . Daet he donne wel dolige. These things done to me, I can not change. But such things can be endured. To endure such things well is important. Survive until such a time as I can get back to being a guy. Put Cindy to rest and then kill off all the other fuckers responsible for this humiliation, for this frail and fragile body. . . .

I sagged against the wall and released a shuddering breath. Shit. Easier said then done, yeah? My mind shied away from the thought of way lay ahead, from the idea of actually living this life prescribed to me. A diet of feminizing pills, a menu of lingerie and makeup, a feast of tight clothes and high heels; how long could this last? I turned over, pressing my forehead against the smooth expanse of tiles. The water continued to pound and shatter against my back and neck, the icy chill penetrating deeply. The cold forcefully reconnected me to my body, to the physical presence of those nipples tightening almost painfully into hard nubs, to the heavy weight hanging from my chest as the water coursed through my cleavage, and the relentless crawl of goosebumps across my skin. . . .

“Shit,” I muttered. Water ran in cold rivulets down my cheek and along my jaw, dripped from the tip of my nose. My fingers curled into a tight, trembling fist at my side. I wanted to pound that wall. Shatter those tiles. I raised my fist. Clenched and unclenched it. Those fingers--the same size they’d always been--seemed much daintier now. Weaker. What would punching the wall accomplish? With something akin to a groan I uncurled my hand and firmly pressed my palm flat against the smooth tiling and slowly slid to the floor. My polished nails, chipped and dulled after two weeks of neglect, glistened wetly, adding a pink hue to the wash of green and ivory.

My breathing slowed, relaxed. Anger and pain released: with conscious effort I eased into a renewed control of myself. Eventually I clambered to my feet. By this time I was nearly numb from the cold, shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering. A twist of the dial made the water nearly scalding and filled the air with steam. The heat bordered on painful, but pain was good, far better than unfeeling numbness. I reached for the shower gel and started to wash. The water carried the suds and filth and stench away and I watched them circle the drain and disappear.

Cindy’s shower was small and a little cramped, but the water was hot and the pressure good, and I relaxed a little. I’ve always done a lot of thinking in the bathroom, you know? There’s no better seat than a toilet for some good, serious reading. And a long, hot shower: the natural birthplace of philosophy if you ask me, and the wellspring of a thousand brilliant ideas that never get written down. So no surprise that, as the heat spread through limb and body and my skin flushed a brilliant pink, my brain, like a bear emerging from hibernation, shaking off the slow dreams of long sleep, slowly emerged from dormancy into a state of profound calm but startling wakefulness.

“I’m Cindy Long.” I repeated those words from earlier, turning into the shower and speaking through the fall of water. The sibilance start of this name, the flick of the tongue and the glottal twitch of the throat that ended it: unfamiliar but not uncomfortable as it rolled off the tongue. A rose by any other name, Akiko once taught me, and as Cindy’s perfumed wash permeated the air those words took on new poignancy. Surrounded in the floral aroma that would leave its taint across my flesh, this body announced Cindy to every sense: this soft skin that felt like Cindy, these soft words sounding so female, this gentle scent that was all girl and these curves and hair and gentle features that displayed her to the world.

I was Cindy Long, and my every sense insisted that she was a prison from which I could not escape on my own. The question was not whether I should live this life; I had no choice. The question was whether I could. Pretending to be Cindy for three weeks at the Clinic was one thing, and even that had almost driven me crazy. But to actually live her life, to not just act but actually be female for . . . how long, months, a year? That was a one-way road to hell, a goddamn superhighway paved with perverse intentions that ended in insanity. Yet what choice did I have?

My mind methodically worked through the possibilities: perhaps K was lying and Steele thought me dead; this was all some twisted plot on her part, aided by Scooter and the Clinic. But why? These things done to me must have cost a fortune, but to what end? Even if K was completely insane and obsessed with some bizarre revenge against me, Scooter didn’t seem the kind of guy to indulge her mania, not at the risk to his beloved Clinic. Unless, of course, he thought turning me into Cindy was a convenient way of disposing of me. Then why bother keeping me alive? As sick as these things those bastards had done to me were, they were right about one thing: they’d saved my life, the fuckers. They could’ve left me to bleed on the hospital floor. Any debt I owed them had been paid in full by Cindy, but their efforts meant at least one thing: they didn’t want me dead.

Which meant that maybe K wasn’t lying about Steele. Maybe the sonofabitch was still out there hunting for me. If that was the case, then living as Cindy for a while longer made a twisted, awful sense. Shorter, lighter, smaller, curves and softness squeezed into this tight little package: there was no way that psycho’s assassins could recognize me as David Sanders.

I hefted the weight of one breast in my hand and let it drop back before starting to soap up both tits. Yeah, definitely no way they’d recognize me unless I did something really stupid--like walk out that door and straight to the cops, demanding help. As if they’d believe me. And even if they did, I’d be right back where I started months ago, only with a smaller, weaker body. I could turn to some of my old friends, call in those favours from when I worked for Sakura--but I couldn’t let them see me like this. They weren’t the subtle kind of help I needed right now, anyway: not so much good at hiding things as they were at laying down grievous retribution.

And finally, and maybe most importantly, without the help of the Clinic there was no way I was getting a male body back. The changes were too extensive. Even if I cut my hair, trimmed my nails and had these tits chopped off, I’d still have hips that a man shouldn’t, Cindy’s voice and this impossible face, a dead assassin’s mask lying over what remained of David beneath.

I took all the anger and frustration and doubt and rolled it up into a tight little ball and swallowed it down. Here in the shower I could allow all those distraction to rise to the surface. I could work them through and then . . . let them wash away. With fragile calm, I reached for the shaving cream and began to lather up my legs and armpits. Stuck in the life, I resolved to be the best goddamn Cindy that I could be--for now.

Having finally made that decision, everything else suddenly seemed a hell of a lot easier. People like to think that the biggest changes in life arrives hand-in-hand with monumental events or are marked by grand displays, loud exposition and brilliant words. They’re not. A man gets shot but lives, a woman loses her baby, an explosion wipes out someone’s family and they seize that moment and declare: _now_ I’m different! But they’re not. Within a month or two they’re the same miserable bastard they were before, all the more miserable for their inability to change. Because those radical changes, the fundamental shifts in a person’s life and the way they see the world? They’re just as likely--far more likely, even--to happen during the most mundane of times, over a pint of beer at the pub, while riding a bus they’ve ridden a thousand times before; during a quiet, reflective moment in the shower.

And so an hour later, cleaned, scrubbed, moisturised, smooth and soft, smelling nice, lightly made-up and oh so fresh and pretty, in nondescript bra and panties, dressed in jeans and a bulky sweater and comfortable runners, heart pounding in my chest, terrified, ecstatic, carrying a small purse and repeating a comforting mantra beneath my breath--I finally felt ready to face the world outside my apartment. I primped and fussed and stared at myself in the mirror. A pretty young girl stared back, a stranger with familiar eyes. At that moment I knew--despite the humiliation, the anger and frustration--that I could do this.

Besides, I suddenly realized that I was absolutely starving. Two weeks without proper food or drink . . . hell, I’d probably dropped even more weight since the Clinic released me. I needed to grab some food, pronto. Hell, a little booze might be nice as well.

On the way to the door I picked up the letter I’d signed for. Putting those long nails to use I slit the envelope open. A letter from Cindy’s bank--new ATM cards issued in my name. I peeled the debit card from the paper and held it awkwardly between my fingers. I couldn’t suppress a small smile. A bank card and a bank account: what better, more tangible proof could there be that I was now and truly Cindy Long?

***

Two weeks later, cradling the oversized mug in my hands, the heat slowly penetrating into my hands as the coffee warmed me from within, I stared deep into my dark beverage and found no new revelation there. Looking up I’d still be Cindy: a small, young girl sitting primly at the edge of an oversized sofa-chair, knees pressed together, eyes demurely downcast and only rarely casting shy glances across the busy Starbucks. The too-short skirt would still be riding too high up my thigh, and my trim little tummy would still be bared by the too-tight t-shirt I’d tugged on this morning. Everything about Cindy was ‘too’-something: too small, too cute, too weak. And too bad, because this was now my life and it felt like these past few weeks had been a constant struggle to avoid going too crazy.

I didn’t look up; I continued to stare into my coffee; I couldn’t look up. I felt the hot flush blossom in my chest and slowly creep up my neck before setting my face afire, a deep red glow burning beneath the morning’s light makeup. It’s not like I wanted to examine the floor in all its scuffed and spotted glory or anything, believe me. It’s just that ever since I’d started the daily regimen of medication, these sudden intense waves of emotion would occasionally wash over me, tidal swells as powerful as any lunar tug, insistent, immersive and impossible to ignore. A person could drown in these sudden emotions, bouts of paranoia as persuasive as any I’d ever known, humbling fear that could wring a stomach as tightly as a dirty washcloth--and embarrassment, unrelenting, pervasive, turning legs to jelly and leaving me desperate for longer bangs, hair long enough to hide behind, a veil for eyes incapable of meeting any other in fear of bursting into tears.

The creak of worn leather and a settling of weight. “You mind if I sit here?” A man’s voice. Of course it was a man’s voice. All week strange men had been sitting next to me, opening doors, striking up unwanted conversations--trying to touch me, hold my hand, stroke my back, pet my arm--the goddamn bastards. Normally they could be easily deterred with a cold smile or an empty word. Sometimes I even indulged in a quick chat, making sure to never quite make eye contact, lick my lips, brush back my hair or accidentally touch his arm. I knew damn well the staggering power of such small gestures. It’s like signing a goddamn marriage contract for some of these sad fucks; it’s like a declaration that you’re soulmates--or at least willing to spread your legs for a few free drinks and an expensive meal.

I gave a quick nod, still unable to look up or speak, still caught in the grip of my sourceless embarrassment. My face burned so hotly, the coffee felt cool as it touched my painted lips. This sense of shame, this humiliation was nothing new. Every morning I woke up and looked in the mirror and as I shook off the dreary remains of last night’s bad dreams the humiliation of being Cindy settled over me, a familiar, heavy woollen blanket draped across my narrow shoulders, smothering, scratchy--a constant, irritating presence. There was no escaping this shame. Countless acts throughout my day reminded me of what I’d become. Every click of my shaped nails as I carefully cradled a glass in my hand; the frequent glances into a compact to check my makeup; the constant flicking of hair from my eyes; the delicate tickle of dangling earrings against my cheek; as the wind caressed the inside of a bared knee; each bump of a purse against my hip; the click of heels--everything; every fucking thing I did reminded me of my new life and every fucking time I felt ashamed of what I was becoming.

But I could deal with this. It could be endured. What choice did I have?

“Hey, are you okay?” I wanted to scream at this nosey jackass and tell him to leave me the fuck alone--but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that. A young girl like Cindy doesn’t yell at guys in coffee shops. She doesn’t shy away from daily flirtations. She’s comfortable with the come-ons because she’s known the semi-unwanted advances of men both young and old her whole life, just like any other attractive young girl. Sure, the constant attention might annoy her sometimes, but not as much as the thought of that dreaded day the wandering eyes of the opposite sex begins to drift elsewhere.

More importantly, of course, there’s another kind of attention no girl wants to attract: that of the psychotic professional assassin, one of which, I felt fairly sure, had been following me this last week.

The embarrassment gently eased its grip, enough for me to raise my head and brush the hair back from my eyes. I tried for a wan smile. He had clear blue eyes. They were filled with concern, though not so much that they forgot the all-too-familiar wander down my cleavage, with a quick detour across my bared midriff. He smiled back. Shit: contact. Now he’d think I was flirting with him--and probably call me a prick-tease when I shot him down.

“Rough morning?” he asked. He folded the day’s newspaper away as he turned his full attention to me. I took a quick, settling breath. These emotional surges were so powerful they nearly sent me whimpering to the nearest dark, silent place, somewhere I could hide and forget. Fortunately they were usually short-lived. I could ride them out. Confront them face on. Let the waves of emotion break against a cool and collected centre and methodically think the problem away. Anger and fear--these I could deal with. Only the embarrassment was crippling; it was the worst and had to run its course, sometimes lasting for an hour or longer. I couldn’t just will it away because it hit too close to home.

I nodded. “Yes,” I murmured. “My boyfriend and I had a fight this morning.”

“Oh. I see,” he answered, his eyes already turning glassy. Only two weeks and I’d already learned why a pretty girl drops her current relationship status into a conversation as early as possible. The man’s concern evaporated almost instantly and his smile became forced. “Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s really annoying, you know?” I continued, leaning forward. “I mean, Max--that’s my boyfriend, yeah?--he’s like, such a nice guy? And really considerate, too, and I don’t just mean with flowers and stuff, if you know what I mean. He’s got the most amazing touch.” I fluttered my eyes as if in dreamy recollection. “But then sometimes, he’s just such a jerk, you know?”

“Uh . . . sure.” The guy was rapidly developing a deer-in-headlight look.

“Of course you do, you’re a man, right? So I mean, what’s it all about? It’s like, for example, last night we’re having a great time and all, and then suddenly he’s trying to, you know, stick it up my bum, and I’m all like ‘what the hell are you doing down there?’ and he’s like ‘I slipped’ with this stupid smile on his face, and I’m not stupid enough to fall for that one, believe me, and it’s like he tries this almost every night even though I tell him I’m not that kind of girl, and when he tried again this morning we had a fight and I. . . .” I stopped as if at a sudden thought. “Oh my, you don’t even know my name, do you?” I extended my fingers, wrist limp, for a handshake. “My name’s Cindy!”

“I’m, ah . . . John,” he said, looking vaguely horrified.

“So then tell me, John: why is it that guys keep trying to stick their thingy up my ass?”

Well, John didn’t have much an answer for that, and quickly excused himself. Hiding a smile, a strange mix of triumph, horror and shame churning in my stomach, I returned to my profound contemplation of the cup in my hand.

The first week had passed quickly, a blur of terrifying, brief ventures out into the city followed by long hours at ‘home’--and that shitty little apartment was gradually beginning to feel like a home, even if not quite mine--spent exploring every crook and cranny of the place. It’s not like the place was very big, but it’s amazing how much stuff gets crammed away under sinks and in the back of closets, beneath a bed or behind a bookshelf. Whether K set the whole thing up herself or had help--she must’ve had help--I couldn’t help but feel a grudging admiration for their attention to detail.

It wasn’t just the digitally manipulated photos in the albums or on the walls, the ones displaying my new face, the ones that came together to form a fragmented narrative of a life I couldn’t remember. It was the small details that impressed. The battered and faded high-school diary I found buried in a drawer, with its weepy poems and names underlined in gel pens or angrily crossed out. The half-used bar of soap, newly opened bottle of nail polish, the empty tubes of Cindy’s favourite lip gloss and the waiting box of tampons. Errant coins in the sofa, a scratched disk in the bedside alarm clock, the scuffed stiletto with a broken heel. All these minor details came together to create another story, a story of Cindy told through favourite and forgotten things.

Padding around the apartment some nights I felt that I could almost understand this strange girl I’d become. Lying back on the sofa, staring out blindly at the glimmering city, I could almost immerse myself in her life. Sometimes she almost seemed real.

But she wasn’t. Buried in the back of the bedroom closet, beneath an empty shoe box and behind the clothes hamper, I found something no real girl would own: my very own fake vagina. In a sealed medical container, floating in a viscous preservative fluid, I found a grey lump of fleshy material I recognized as one of the prosthetics K had forced on me so long ago. (Was it that long ago? For me it felt like only a few weeks, even though several months had passed. I’d only gone one day with that damn thing off before those bastards got me on the operating table.) A small jar contained the amber goo needed to bond the fucking thing to me. A small stick-it note on the inside, written in K’s small, jagged lettering, quickly explained: “new and improved model, for emergency use only.”

Emergency use--what the hell was that supposed to mean? I clearly remembered the agony of that thing clamping on to my crotch. Nothing could get me to slap that thing back on . . . nothing! I was living Cindy’s life, yeah? But it’s not like anyone was going to be getting into her--into my!--goddamn panties, thank you very much.

My coffee was empty. The frosted pink lip-prints that stained the mug’s rim mocked me. Suppressing a sigh I pulled a small mirror from my purse and set about fixing my lips. I knew damn well how devastating sexy something as simple as putting on makeup could be, those slender fingers holding a thin lipgloss, the way it extended the length of each finger and made them seem more delicate, the subtle and slow slide of shiny colour across slightly parted lips. . . .

Hiding a grimace of pain I uncrossed my legs. Sexy thoughts were bad. A hard-on was bad. It hurt, especially with your nob tucked between your legs . . . and when you’ve just spent the whole shitty morning sitting on the poor thing. Every so often there’d be that sharp jab of pain, or a dull throb, or an almost crippling ache, to remind me just how ridiculous my disguise really was.

I put the mirror and makeup back into my purse. I’d also spent the last two weeks in an intense study of the feminine arts, long lonely nights spent sitting at a table with an array of strange and foreboding products before me. I’d hate to think how many hours were wasted staring into a mirror, putting on makeup, wiping it off, leafing through one of Cindy’s many magazines or books on the subject and starting over. Back at the Clinic I’d done much the same but it had all been different then--annoying but a bit of a laugh, something to keep me busy for a couple of weeks spent in hiding. A perverse joke, a furtive step into a forbidden world, naughty but short-lived.

But now? I wasn’t hiding anymore. I was living, and somehow this practice had become a part of my long-term survival. These skills were an essential part of this new life and it was almost scary how easy, almost instinctive, they were becoming. They were, I was beginning to realize, the few skills that Cindy actually possessed. After all, I wasn’t David Sanders anymore, with his expensive condo and his own corner office on the ninth floor, with a secretary and a string of nightly conquests and a membership to the best gym in town.

Now I was Cindy Long, young and pretty, certainly, but also a high-school dropout. I was unemployed with limited funds in the bank. I was alone in a big city, with a driver’s license but no car, a home full of pictures but no friends, no family, already growing bored of the daily Starbucks coffee routine, of the chick lit books on the shelf and girlie magazines, sickened by the closet full of clothes I hated to wear, and these D-cup tits constantly on display, the exposed half-moon flesh over my close-fitting top jiggling with every movement slowly, now flushing a bright red and the heat crawling up my neck. . . .

Guess I wasn’t going to escape the coffee shop just yet. These mood swings were going to drive me insane.

***

A heavy wind, laden with the promise of rain, swept down the busy street carrying the dust and detritus of the city. Overhead, churning clouds bled over drab buildings that clawed the sky, tainting everything grey. A delivery bike wove between traffic, honking angrily as it left blue-black fumes in its wake. With a wheezy sigh a bus stopped before the coffee shop, brakes screeching loudly, and disgorged its passengers. Those people flowed past, breaking on either side of me, their blank faces casting angry glares and appreciative glances my way as they rushed to work, suits and ties, skirts and heels, briefcases and purses, take-out coffee and cell phones in hand. They all seemed so very busy and purposeful as I stood there bemused, only just remembering to drop my hands before the insistent wind lifted my skirt up and revealed more than just pale thighs.

Shaking away empty thoughts, I stirred into motion. Not yet ten in the morning and I was heading home. I envied these strangers with a purpose, with a morning destination more exciting than a Starbucks. Confronted with all these people, with the vibrant flow of life, the groans and wheezes of the city, I felt--adrift. The urban current could carry me away if I relaxed into it. But where would I end up, this pretty piece of fluff, this delicate ornament cut loose from the world?

I stifled a laugh as I walked. If only Akiko could hear me now--(So long as she couldn’t see me. Anything but that)--when the hell did I become so melodramatic? Besides, cute little things like Cindy don’t drift into strange neighbourhoods. Not if they know what’s good for them. Good way to get hurt--or worse. Yeah, sure, I still knew how to defend myself and all, but with these puny arms? Let’s just say I wouldn’t be looking to pick any more fights these days.

My steps carried me down the street, past windows looking onto offices, through greasy clouds wafting out of restaurants finishing off the breakfast rush, the acrid scent of hairdressers and the warm breath of a dry cleaner. The rapid clip of my kitten heels against the pitted pavement made an almost familiar sound. Already! How long before these distractions no longer registered, before these reminders of femininity became habitual and forgotten? The thought terrified even as it seemed a welcome relief from the constant agitation.

That first time two weeks ago outside the apartment nearly did me in. I only survived twenty minutes, just long enough to snag a bottle of cheap wine and instant noodles from the nearest shop before fear sent me scuttling back to the safety of my unwanted new home. Much better to spend hours scouring the floors and picking up the crap I’d left all over, cleaning the living room and kitchen and airing out the funk of two weeks of pills and dazed sweating and stale vomit.

I’d quickly realized just how sheltered the Clinic had been. Surrounded by crazies, rich weirdos and dopey convalescents, who’d notice one more pseudo-transvestite with issues? But the city was different. Intense. So many eyes, so many voices. People, all ready to point their finger. Ready to accuse, ready to expose me. Or perhaps worse . . . ready to accept me for what I seemed--a girl--and treat me accordingly, to objectify, to leer and ogle. . . .

Asklepios offered beauticians to perfect my disguise, teachers to help me pass, security and protection; the city provided none of these.

I turned a corner at a small grocers and left the main strip behind. The roar of traffic dropped away quickly. There was still the occasional pedestrian headed in the opposite direction but quieter now, their faces more relaxed, an occasional smile sneaking through. A few minutes up the street there was a park where I liked to sit and read. It was a small verdant oasis set surprisingly close to the urban bustle, but if I sat on the right bench the rustling trees hid the overarching towers of concrete and glittering glass.

The wood bench felt cool and rough on my ass through a thin skirt, sending a brief shudder up my spine. Sitting there, I had to admit that these legs of mine were sexy as hell. If I was stuck with the damn things, why the hell shouldn’t I show them off? But these goddamn skirts were fucking inconvenient. I had to cross my legs high up my thigh or risk every passing pervert glimpsing my panties, but believe you me, sitting like this was murder on my balls. Like I had any choice, you know? It was just another painful ignominy forced on me by Scooter and Agent K.

Humiliating, yeah, and painful too, but this is the thing: as annoying as living this life was, there was a part of me that was . . . enjoying it. Fuck that. Enjoying is too strong. Intrigued? Not by Cindy, no, and not by the bullshit necessity of pretending to be a goddamn chick, or of these feminine mysteries slowly being revealed; no, not by any of that. It was the challenge. Starting over. Exploring the city. The study, the practice, the constant risk of discovery . . . and yeah, the subtle thrill of not being discovered, of fooling everyone and feeling all these dumbass pricks following me with their eyes and knowing I’d tricked them, that I was just so goddamn good at what I do that they were swelling in their pants thinking about a guy in a skirt who could’ve once kicked their ass.

God, I’m a twisted little fuck, aren’t I? Because more than anything else it was the danger--the thrill of it, the eager thrum of nerves--that somehow made this almost worthwhile. Not counting that first week on the run with Agent K, I hadn’t felt this awake since . . . God, since I used to help Sakura out. Five years of being David Sanders nearly knocked me into a coma and now I felt powerfully alive. Yeah, that thrill reached me all warped and wrong, made grotesque like the reflection of a Carnival mirror . . . but fuck it, at least I wasn’t bored. This twisted, soft body through which every sensation and emotion touched me made damn sure of that. Looking back I could see how numb I’d become, playing the part of the ordinary corporate dick.

A little sunshine peaked through the clouds overhead, warming me slightly. Gleaming lancets of light splashed off the artificial pond. I tried reading my book--a shitty romance so saccharine it should’ve carried a warning for diabetics--but couldn’t focus on the words. The park made for a nice place to read but I rarely concentrated well. It’s not just that the books and magazines available from home were painfully boring--no, not just that at all. Rather, there were so many other distractions. The park itself, the hint of flowers and grass and sand that tickled the nose beneath my own girl scents. Joggers in the distance, blonde ponytails bobbing in counterpoint to each step, shirt darkening with sweat between their tits, such sexy young girls--and the sharp pain in my crotch: birds chirping as they danced the sky; the woof of a dog chasing a ball. The crunch of passing footsteps and, glancing up, a stranger.

A young man walked by, well-dressed, listening to music on his way to work, with clear blue eyes that pulled away from my cleavage as we made contact. He smiled and I instinctively smiled back and he walked on with a lighter step. Jackass. Yeah, the thought that I’d brightened that punk’s morning brought me very little satisfaction. A little boost, the smile of a pretty girl: maybe he’d have the confidence to hit on a secretary today, bend that bitch over his desk and fuck her over their lunch break, her feet scrabbling for purchase in too-tall heels as he slammed into her from behind, skirt up around her waist and hair falling across her face. . . .

God, I hadn’t fucked a secretary in ages. I shifted awkwardly in my seat, uncrossed and re-crossed my legs, surreptitiously adjusting my boys best I could as they strained against their lacy confinement. So, yeah: plenty of distractions in the park, but nothing compared to the reality of simply being me. Sometimes, for entire minutes at a time, maybe even a half-hour, I could lose myself in an unexpectedly interesting paragraph or in following a pedestrian walk by in the distance, but eventually, always, the tightening of a nipple under a cool breeze, a bead of sweat down my cleavage--the splash of polished colour against paper as I thumbed the page, or my own girl-scent, brought me back to Cindy.

My eyes peeked over the top of the page. A few pebbly dirt paths wound between the trees, dotted with benches on either side. I scanned the faces of the other lonely bastards sentenced to reading newspapers and feeding pigeons on a weekday morning. Already many of them were familiar; these new routines of mine obviously overlapped theirs. There’d been a few grudging, tentative exchanges of ‘hello’ but little more. This kind of place and this time of day, people could be fiercely protective of their own space and thoughts. Besides, they were all a hell of a lot older than me and seemed unsure what to do with this pretty girl in their company.

That early joy of exploring brought me here early last week, and I’d been coming back ever since. I had a new life to create for myself but in many ways found myself falling back on old routines. I still woke up as quickly and early as I’ve always done. The morning workout was replaced by things better suited to Cindy: I swapped sit-ups for cleansing and moisturising and push-ups for hair-care and styling, and you can damn well believe I felt the shame of giving up my manly habits for these things better suited for a pretty young thing like Cindy. There was so much of it: longer showers, the shaving, plucking, cleansing and moisturising, and then makeup, of course. God, the makeup took ages; how do girls put up with this shit every morning? Different cleansers, moisturizer, concealer, foundation, mascara, eyeshadow, pencil, lipstick, another pencil, gloss, blush . . . fucking hell! The whole process couldn’t finish without the tiny click of a dozen little bottle, tubes and vials being opened and shut.

And then I had to get dressed. I set myself a strict time limit on picking out clothes, or I’d lose an easy hour agonizing--procrastinating--over what to wear. Believe me, I took no pleasure in my mornings.

Hardest part of the day in some ways, this getting dressed bullshit. Two weeks of intense research, yeah, but trying to think like a sexy twenty-year old still didn’t come easy. And then I had to overcome that queasy stomach flop as I reached for the day’s panties; and then threading my arms into a bra, long fingernails still fumbling with tiny catches behind my back, and then figuring out how to strap my cock and balls back without crushing the poor bastards, choosing between bare legs or stockings, flats or heels, hating either possibility and myself for being in this position--and then finally that moment of revelation before the mirror as I lost myself in morbid contemplation of the cute sexy thing before me. And every day, that sense of fascination--of sick awe--seemed less intense and faded faster, replaced by a subtle joy at the sight of my own beauty. . . .

Then out the door; and all being said, once I’d swapped muscle for prettiness, it probably only took me a half-hour longer to get ready in the morning than it used to as a guy.

Not, of course, that I had anywhere to get to in a hurry. A slow walk downtown, trying a different route every morning. An indulgent hour spent over coffee; one sugar and a touch of cream now where I used to prefer it black. I’d read the newspaper if someone left one behind, catching up on all the usual news: more violence in the Middle East, some new superbug, a second young girl found slaughtered in the city park, a fucking cat caught up a tree. I wasn’t a big fan of newspapers, you know? It’s like, my life’s been more interesting than most of what’s written in there, and you know what? Once you’ve seen a certain side of the world and been through some tough shit--really harrowing shit, you know?--you can’t help but find the day-to-day stuff pretty shallow. Add to that the absurdity of my current life and, yeah, the papers didn’t hold that much appeal. What did I care if another goddamn ice cap melted when I was wearing a mini-skirt and mascara, in hiding from professional assassins?

I figured that Cindy probably wouldn’t be all that keen on the papers either… well, other than the fashion section and all that shit, of course, and maybe entertainment. I’d never noticed how much of a newspaper--especially the weekend ones, with all their colourful inserts and extra sections--were totally geared to women. We’re talking page after glossy page of advertisements for makeup, fashion advice, sexy women to emulate and shoes most girls couldn’t walk in. But while Cindy might find that shit fascinating--and by necessity I had to learn to like it to, just to learn what was up-to-date for a twenty year old chick--mostly I was looking for some kind of coverage of Steele’s trial.

Nothing.

Otherwise I’d fall back on whatever book or magazine I’d shoved into my purse (goddamn fucking Steele, I had a _purse_!), or I’d sit back and people-watch through the window. Mostly I people-watched, and pondered, and weathered the occasional bout of stormy emotion. Then a little more walking, some exploring, and I’d spend another hour in the park. Some days I followed that by hanging out at the mall, window shopping and feel the buzz of the crowd, eavesdropping on conversations; other days I wandered lonely backstreets and quiet parks, or hid in my apartment. A few nerve-wracking nights I ate out in quiet restaurants. And as much as I really, really wanted to hit a bar or, better yet, a really good pub . . . yeah, I wasn’t up for that. Not yet. Not even close.

Amazing, though, how easy it is to go through an entire day without speaking to anybody, without really talking, if you know what I mean, conversation beyond “paper or plastic, miss?” Even a pretty young girl like Cindy can end up alone, surrounded by the multitudinous crowds of the city.

This was a goddamn waste of time. My mind was dancing around deeper truths I didn’t want to confront. Better off to just head home and do fuck all there. Ten o’clock, yeah? I wondered it was still too early to hit the booze.

A sudden shiver. Something was wrong. A slow look over the edge of my book. That paranoid tingle at the base of the spine: I was being watched. Not in the usual way, the way that girls like Cindy are constantly being watched. One of the faces scattered across the park did not belong there. Unfamiliar, or more likely glimpsed earlier but somewhere else, too often caught at the edge of the background.

I was being followed.

The immediate rush of fear would’ve dropped me to the grass--if I’d not already been sitting. I felt my legs go weak and quivery--but only for an instant. As quickly as the fear came I pushed it aside. I’d been expecting this.

For the past week there’d been that itch between my shoulder blades, that hint of someone unknown on the periphery. He or she was good, but fuck it, so was I. Sakura had taught me a thing or two about being followed--and about following. Besides, K had warned me that Steele would be watching. Not that I could trust anything that bitch told me, of course. This could just be a fluke, a perfectly ordinary stalker with a thing for young girls in the park. It could even be someone K or Scooter had sent. Two weeks of puzzling it over and I still hadn’t figured out their game.

Goddamn the bastard, though, it really could be another of Jeremiah fucking Steele’s assassins. He’d already forced me into this girl’s life but the asshole wasn’t satisfied; he was still hunting for the one that got away. That jerkwad must be getting pretty damn desperate if he was having twenty-year old chicks followed--but that didn’t mean I was in any less danger. Crippled by clothes I’d barely held my own against Agent Fosters. Crippled by my very body, what chance would I have?

On the other hand . . . shit, but this was the first opportunity I’d been given to figure out what the hell was going on. I’d be damned if I’d let it slip away. This hidden bastard following me around might have some of the answers I was looking for. Time to go get them.

I read for another ten minutes, barely seeing the words on the page. Put the book away in my purse. Pulled out a small mirror and spent another five minutes fixing my face, poking my hair into position, freshening up my makeup and fixing that natural glow and feminine shine. I stood, brushing down my short skirt, and stretched my arms wide, breasts straining against their confines. A long, leisurely look across the park, basking in the intermittent sun and cool wind, and I set off, walking back into the city.

Hands thrust into a long beige coat, wearing sunglasses, loitering on a bench half concealed behind a tree with a newspaper in hand: I briefly caught the guy reflected in my compact before leaving my seat. Couldn’t pick out many details but I’d recognize him easily now. When the path turned and I casually looked back towards the bench he was gone. Following from a cautious distance, I’m sure. Good.

My skin fairly tingled as my heart pounded, senses stretching out--feeling fully aware and alive. God, I loved this, even as fear pulsed just beneath my eager anticipation. I left the park and took the long route through the outskirts of the city centre. Narrow homes and cramped apartment buildings competed with convenience shops and small markets for space, and I walked a twisting--but not suspiciously so--path around corners and past small shops. Window shopping allowed the rare glimpse of my purser, ghostly snapshots caught reflected in glass before he stepped back behind a corner.

The clothes on the other side of the window were sexy but classy, a flirty party dress with a wide belt and fluttery skirt in bronze and golden colours, next to a shimmery, form-fitting gown in deep crimson hues. I had a momentary thought: how would I look in that?--and my legs turned weak again.

What the fuck was I doing? I suddenly felt acutely conscious of my appearance. The short denim skirt that hugged my ass and barely reached mid-thigh, this tight t-shirt over a thin halter top that bared my belly-button and hugged these tits: for the first time since beginning this charade I suddenly felt vulnerable, hyperaware of my clothes, this ridiculous makeup and accessories that screamed for attention instead of turning it away; what if this went wrong? If this guy suddenly suspected something and caught up with me--with me so short, and tiny and weak, dressed like some teen princess . . . what the hell would I do? Something stifling blossomed in my chest and a hot flush spread across the exposed curve of my tits and crawled its way up my neck and my face blazed a fiery red as I struggled to breath, to catch my breath, leaning heavily against the glass, nails clicking against the smooth surface, shining pink in the bright sunlight. . . .

No--no, fuck this! This burgeoning panic, it was the hormones, the drugs Scooter fed me, evanescent bubbles in my bloodstream that led to hysteria. In the comforts of a coffee house or my own home, fine, fine, I’d play the stupid little girl and give in to my panic; but not here. Not here! I was stronger than this, stronger than this fucker following me, than the drugs and chemicals and plots levelled against me. I took a long, shuddering breath. Focused on the lessons of another life, remembered the man I’d once been and would be again. Rage was stronger than shame; and the thrill of the game overcame the fear.

They weren’t going to beat me that easily.

As I stepped onto one of the busier streets, merging with the light flow of pedestrians, in a twisted kind of way I even began to enjoy myself. Strolling along, still glancing into shops, I easily overcame the urge to tug down the hem of my skirt or to hunch forward in a vain attempt to hide my tits. Instead, I walked proudly--nearly strutted, swaying with each clicking step, smiling brightly and even winking at one wide-eyed guy walking in the opposite way--fuck, I even tossed my hair at one rude whistle that followed my passing.

Because, goddamn if I suddenly didn’t realize what all this bullshit really was. This was a game. Yeah, a game with the highest of stake--my life!--but still nothing more than a stupid, perverse sport, a match between me and the rest of the goddamn world. This jackass following me, was he good enough to keep up? Did I have the skills to turn the tables on the bastard? And Cindy--the crux of the whole damn thing--yeah, she was nothing more than an elaborate role-play. Could I trick everyone into believing that a tough-guy asshole like me could pass as a sweet ‘lil girl, all sugar and spice and lingerie so nice?

You bet your ass I can. Because when I get in on a game--when I’m serious--I play to win. Always. I’d wiggle my ass and mince about and keep my lips nice and moist, just to make this bastard following me cream his pants with desire; and then give hi the slip and take him from behind and slit his fucking throat before he knew what hit him.

Turning another corner, I passed a dirty, rubbish-strewn cramped alley next to an even dirtier-looking bar. I’d absently noticed it as a place to avoid on a walk earlier this week. The windows were blackened and the ratty posters pasted to the wall half-hidden under scrawled graffiti. The place seemed seedy and dingy and based on an advert stuck to the window I was fairly sure it was a strip bar. But the door was ajar and I’d led my follower on enough of a chase.

I gave him a moment to see me hovering out front of the bar. A sudden fresh burst of fear caused me to hesitate--and then I stepped through the door.

***

Strip clubs aren’t exactly my kind of place, but they’ll always have a soft spot in my heart. About two years ago I’d gone to the one near work for some corporate schmoozing and by the end of the night I’d picked up one of the strippers. She was this big-titted slut called Candi. That wasn’t a stage name or anything (and what kind of twisted parents name their kid ‘Candi’, with a cutesy ‘i’ and everything?) and I’ll be honest: I didn’t exactly date her for the conversation. Although saying that, she was gritty in a way I really liked. She was genuine and real and she knew a thing or two about what life was really like and how crap it could be, compared to the shallow whininess, the phoniness and bullshit of the bitches in my workplace romances.

Candi wasn’t one of those clever university chicks stripping for tuition. She wasn’t doing it because it was empowering, or to make some feminist point, or because she was some freaky exhibitionist. She was a high-school dropout with a drug habit and head full of issues. She had a killer body and an okay face, and she figured out early what she was best at. Step-daddy beat her once too often and so when she was sixteen she ran away to the big city. She scrounged enough cash together to get some quality work done on her boobs, and as long as the looks lasted, she probably took as much satisfaction from her job as David Sanders had from his.

She’d known exactly what she wanted that night and damn if she hadn’t been one of the nastiest, sexiest fucks I’ve ever had. I dropped a lot of cash on that date, and it was some of the best I’ve ever spent. Squeezed into a clingy dress, she cut quite the inappropriate figure at that fancy restaurant I took her to, and damn how I loved the scandalous stares she drew. She slipped under the table before the waiter even had time to take our drinks order. The way she deep-throated me as I struggled to order the Bordeaux, my fingers digging furrows into the tabletop as her head bobbing up and down my shaft, her moans and slurps going nearly unheard beneath the gently falling strains of the restaurant piano player--God, that kind of shit you never forget.

But that was a lifetime ago. Stepping into a strip club these days, management would be throwing me up on stage before they offered me a seat and a beer. Those memories of Candi flared across my mind as I slipped through the door. I shoved them aside.

Squalid and dark, the entrance stank of stale cigarette smoke and spilled beer. Momentary silence enveloped me, a stark contrast to the constant din of the city. Stopping for a moment to catch my breath, eyes blinking and adjusting to the dim light, I felt my heart pounding in my chest. My pursuer wouldn’t follow me into the club, not if he wanted to remain anonymous. He’d have to wait outside for me to emerge.

(If, on the other hand, he was looking to catch me--I’d just given him the perfect opportunity away from the crowds of the street. Pretty girl steps into nasty bar and never comes out; would anybody notice? I’d just be another page two column in tomorrow’s newspaper, girl number three found dead in the park with a slit throat.)

I padded across the entrance and as I approached a swinging door opposite, a faint thrumming of music reached my ears. Treble and midrange joined the beat as I pushed through into a large dimly lit room with a bar at one end and a low stage at the other. The stage was empty but complete with mandatory pole and mirrored backing. A scattering of tables filled the hall. The chairs along jerk-off row were lifted off the floor and turned upside down on the edge of the stage. A large, industrial-size wet-vac sat unattended in the middle of the room. Coloured lights drifted idly across the stage, flashing to the beat of the music turned low. The lights scattered against a mirrored ball and danced lazily around the room.

Passing through the room, I tried to keep as silent as was possible in kitten heels. Women’s clothes aren’t exactly designed for practicality, let alone for subterfuge, you know? Even with the music, the click of those hard-soled shoes and narrow heels sounded absurdly loud in my ears. I’m pretty damn good at being quiet when I want to, but everything about Cindy was designed to draw attention, not turn it away. Keeping low, I wove between tables and made my way for a door near the stage. The “Staff Only” hopefully meant it might lead to a back room, and then onto a rear exit from the bar.

“I don’t give a fuck how fucking big his fucking glands are! We’re already short a girl for tonight, we’re not opening short a bouncer too!”

A short, podgy man came storming into the room from a door near the bar. He was well-dressed and wouldn’t have looked out of place with that morning crowd streaming past the coffee shop, but his face flushed red with rage left him dangerous- and sleazy-looking. “You tell Alex to get his fucking ass down here, you hear me?” he continued, nostrils flaring with anger. His face glistened with sweat as he stomped past. “I won’t have my girls endangered because that pussy’s got a bad cold.” He jabbed at his phone as he stalked across the room and shoved it into his pocket. “Now where the fuck’s the cleaner gone to,” he muttered, headed for the swinging door.

He shouldn’t have seen me. It was bad luck--nothing more. A sudden shift of the lights above cascaded off of one of my earrings and sent out a brief flare. The man glanced absently my way as he walked. I held my breath. He stopped walking and did a quick double-take.

“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, spotting my crouched form. “What the fuck are you doing in my bar?” He reversed directions towards me.

Shit. I pretended to fiddle with my shoe before standing straight. I flashed a nervous smile. “Um, hi?” I quickly scanned the area for something I could clobber this bastard with if things turned nasty.

He came close enough to see me clearly. I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. His eyes scanned me up and down slowly and his scowl quickly melted into a smile. His face lost its red flush, and with the anger gone he seemed almost friendly, a beardless Santa Claus in a Hugo Boss suit. Saying that, despite the surprisingly disarming smile there was a hardness to his eyes that he couldn’t hide. It made him intimidating--especially standing this close, with his heft and height that left me feeling so small.

“You must be the girl the agency was sending over,” he said.

Jesus Christ! Five minutes in a strip club and some sleazeball manager was offering me a job. “Um, yes?” I squeaked out, thrusting those D-cups out a little more proudly. His frankly appraising gaze made me want to squirm like you wouldn’t believe. A slow burn started in my stomach, although I had to admit that in some ways the man’s look seemed less sexual than most of the creeps ogling me on the street. This guy was appraising the merchandise, not looking to score.

“My name’s Frank,” he said, thrusting out his hand.

“Hi, I’m. . . .” With a sinking feeling in my belly, I gave the first answer that came to mind. “I’m Candi!” I said, swallowing a deep sigh. His hand, slightly clammy, ignored my limply extended fingers and seized me by the wrist.

“Sorry about earlier,” he said. His grip slid past my arm and found my waist with far too easy familiarity. Giving me a light tap on the ass that made me jump, he effortlessly led me towards the stage. I nearly planted my elbow in the bastard’s temple, but narrowly suppressed the urge.

“No problem,” I answered through gritted teeth.

“Just having some staffing issues. Nothing for you to worry about. After all, my loss is your gain, right?”

“Yup!” I answered, and forced a giggle. “It’s like, I’m new to town and when the call came I was, like, just so happy, because I’m desperate for work and. . . .”

“Of course you are, babe,” Frank said. “You have any working clothes with you?”

I blinked at him in confusion.

He sighed. “For the audition?”

What, the bastard expected me to jump on stage? Yeah, in your fucking dreams, Frank. I shook my head, earrings dancing against my cheek.

“Um, I just moved here and. . . .” My hand fluttered to my lips. “Oh no! The agency, they didn’t tell me and . . . oh, I’m so stupid! I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I’ll just rush home and. . . .” Okay, yeah, I was laying it on a bit thick but at the moment I just wanted to get the hell out of there. There was a professional assassin waiting for me outside, but believe me, I’d rather go mano-a-mano with one of Steele’s hired killers than get up on that stage and prance around like this guy’s wet dream.

“Easy, Candi, easy,” Frank said, giving my ass a ‘comforting’ squeeze that nearly resulted with my knee in his crotch. He led me towards the Staff Only door. “You can borrow some shit from the changing room, okay?”

We passed through the door into a dark hallway. The slow burn in my stomach redoubled at the sudden realization that I was alone with this strange man in the back of a disreputable club. No one knew I was here, other than the bastard following me outside. My fear was irrational; this guy didn’t get to run his club by assaulting every girl that walked through his door. At least not on the first day of work, anyway. Besides, I knew I could take him despite my lack of strength. It wouldn’t be pretty, but especially with surprise on my side I’d kick this jerk’s ass. Reason did nothing to dispel the anxiety.

With a final pat on the ass he pushed me through a door. “You get yourself prettied up, Candi, and I’ll see you on stage in five.” Again that charming smile, but he spoke with unnerving authority, the kind the suggested something bad might happen if I kept him waiting.

I smiled over my shoulder at him. “Okay!” I answered, trying to look grateful and hoping the dark hid my disgust at this man’s touch. “And Frank? Thanks for the chance.”

“No problem, babe. You hurry up now.” He pulled out his phone. “I’ll set up some tunes and wait by the stage.”

The door shut with a solid click. I gave Frank a minute to clear out of the hallway and scanned the room. Last time I’d been back stage in a strip club had been with Candi. I’d fucked her up against the bare concrete wall behind a rack of cheap fake furs and silver lame stoles. Five minutes flat, rough and intense and rude, and she’d fucking loved it, nearly gnawing a chunk out of my shoulder as she stifled her moans. Then she’d quickly changed and slipped back into the bar to work the tables, and you bet your ass I’d loved the idea of her belly being still warm and sweaty from my efforts as she rubbed her ass up against those sad pervs in the bar. She’d left me to find my own way out, of course, and I’d had to quickly sneak away before the bouncers caught me and embarrassed themselves trying to kick my ass.

I stepped up to the mirror over the makeup counter. The startled-looking girl in the mirror’s green eyes were wide with surprise at the situation she found herself in. Arching my back slightly, I watched as she thrust her chest out and the disarmingly shy smile that contrasted her pose. But looking closer, anger smouldered beneath those soft features, and her eyes were far harder than Frank could ever imagine.

The fucking things is this, though: as my eyes danced across the room, taking in the row of ridiculous shoes, those towering spikes and inches of platform, and the scattered collection of sparkly vials and shimmering clothes, I couldn’t help but briefly imagine myself out on that goddamn stage, shaking my ass and twirling around that pole.

With tits like mine, God, and this fit little body and those years of working out, the grace and dance-like motions that accompanied all my training--goddamn, but I’d make one hell of a stripper. Better than Candi had been, even--other than one important bit, of course, and the stirring of my cock beneath my denim skirt (and the tucked-away pain that came with it) snapped me from my reverie.

Fucking hell. It seemed just yesterday I’d been rising through the corporate ranks, with my own office and secretary, wearing tailored suits, screwing sexy girls I’d picked up in painfully fashionable and over-priced bars . . . how the hell did I end up here, backstage in some grotty little strip bar, half-imagining myself twirling around a pole for the entertainment of a bunch of sweaty, sad men? I gave my head a shake. Goddamn hormones, stupid pills playing with my head; focus.

I poked my head out the door. Empty. Silent. Stepping lightly into the hallway, I walked quickly away from the main room. The door closed behind me with a faint click. I passed a storage closet, staff toilet, turned a corner and . . . perfect: a back exit.

Pushing the bar, I gently opened the door an inch. Blinking in the sudden light, I peaked into a short recess off the main back alley. It reeked of piss and refuse. Flies crawled across the taut skin of garbage bags bulging from a large bin pressed up against the brick wall. The wind breathed down the narrow passage, stirring up dirt--died down--returned stronger than before accompanied by the whistling of cables overhead.

I flicked the lock open so that I could come back this way if I had to. The door closed shut behind me. I quickly crossed over to the back alley. The brick felt rough beneath my palm as I hugged the wall and looked around the corner.

The alley led about thirty metres back to the main street that the bar opened on to. He stood there waiting patiently at the corner. My pursuer. About six feet tall and slender, with shaggy blond hair and good clothes, a strong chin and angular nose. A large dumpster and scattered cardboard boxes and strewn rubbish lay between the two of us. An open vent breathed out greasy warm air and the wind’s presence sounded a low howl as it swept down the alley.

Easy. I crouched down and picked up a discarded beer bottle. I slid the bottle into my purse and gave it a solid whack against the ground. It broke with a muffled crack. My delicate fingers curled lightly around the neck of the bottle and pulled it out and held it up before my eyes. The bottom half lay in shattered fragments in the bottom of my purse, and the jagged edges glistened wetly with leftover beer. A few silent steps to the dumpster, a slow creep along its edge--and then the final rush; even if he heard me it’d be too late. I imagined thrusting the broken bottle into his neck, the gush of blood and gurgled surprise, and smiled. David: 2, Steele: 0, you fucking bastard.

I slipped out of my hard-soled shoes and delicately rested my full weight down on my bare feet. Carefully, mindful of broken glass, I slid into the alley, shuffling forward, weight resting on the edges of my feet, the bottle held loosely in my grip, using the dumpster and boxes for cover. I moved swiftly forward, staying close to the wall, the wind flowing over me and carrying away every sound, my girlish scent, tossing my hair up in a blonde halo around my face and cool against feverishly hot flesh. I reached the back of the large metal container. My nose wrinkled at the stench as I crept closer.

A momentary oasis of unnaturally intense silence. I could hear every sound my follower made, the slight scuff against the ground as he shifted his weight, his exhalation of breath and the rustling of his long coat. My hand tightened its grip on the bottle. A final exhilarating moment; tightly coiled, I slithered to the edge of my concealment and tensed for the attack.

“Hey. It’s Jeff.”

The man’s voice caused me to pull back.

“Yeah, reporting in.” He paused for a moment. “Tell me about it. Shitty day. Think it’s gonna rain. Feels like a big storm coming in.”

He kept his voice quiet as he spoke, and his eyes kept a careful watch on the entrance. A few times he glance up the alley but gave no sign of spotting me.

“You ready? Yeah,” my follower said. “Subject: Cindy Long. Female, age 20. Subject left her apartment at 8:11 am and. . . .” For the next several minutes he gave, at a rapid, clipped pace, a complete litany of my day’s progress. I was a little put off to realize that he’d been following me for longer than I’d known; those damn hormone flashes were playing havoc with my senses. I should’ve picked up on him the moment I left my apartment.

“10:48: subject steps into Satori and . . . .” He stopped for a moment. “Yeah, Satori. It’s a strip club. Strange name, I know. You should see this place, absolute dive. Bit out of character for this girl if you ask me, but she’s definitely got the bod for it.”

Damn straight I’ve got the body for it, you fucking jackass. My grip tightened on the bottle. As soon as he got off the phone he’d find this body was good for more than just stripping and dancing.

“That’s it. She stepped in 15 minutes ago and I’m waiting for her to come out again. Maybe she’s applying for a job or something, how the hell should I know? I haven’t seen her do any other work and she’s got to make cash somehow.” He nodded a few time. “Yeah. My recommendation? This is a fucking waste of time. Why the hell does Steele want this girl followed anyway?”

I flushed hot, then shivered as a chill danced down my spine. There was the confirmation I needed: Steele was still behind all this bullshit. Guilt flashed through me at having doubted Agent K--but only momentarily. The constant weight of these massive tits nestled in their lacy cups didn’t leave much room for any emotion but anger at the thought of that bitch, you know?

“No, I’m not questioning the boss’s orders. You think I’ve got a death wish? But what the hell do you want me to say, Dan? This chick’s life is boring. She wanders around the city and drinks coffee and spends most of her day in her apartment getting drunk.” He paused. “Yeah, she’s been buying loads of booze. Nah, I don’t think she’s got any friends.”

And you know, hearing this bastard judge my life like that--so flippantly, so dismissively--fuck, it actually hurt, you know? Stupid thing to be feeling, crouched as I was, coiled and ready to spring forward; but the stark truth of what he’d said hit me so hard I almost had to blink away tears.

The fucker listened for a bit, grunting a confirmation at the occasional unheard question. Finally he shrugged. “Well, no,” he said, his voice grudging. “But her profile says she’s just come out of a round of therapy and surgery, right? Of course she’s going to be acting a bit . . . yeah. Yes.” He sighed. “No, she hasn’t exactly been acting as expected. Her behaviour doesn’t match her profile, but her recent--

“She’s been aloof. You can quote me: ‘moments of extreme sociability that seem almost forced, followed by long stretches of alienation and introspection.’ No. No. Yes, from this profile you sent over I expected a ditzy blonde or something, a real flirt, but . . . hey, don’t get me wrong, she’s hot and dresses real sexy but . . . hell yes! I’d do her, but there’s something about this girl that’s a bit off . . . I don’t know, something in her body language or something. Like I said--she just left a clinic, right?”

My muscles were beginning to ache. I wanted to stretch out but didn’t dare move. This guy--Jeff--even in his conversation his senses clearly remained alert, mindful of the entrance to the club and any movement in the alley. A few times he had to cup his phone to be heard as the wind whistled through and I nearly missed what he was saying. I was counting on that wind to conceal my presence when I moved.

“Alright, fine. It’s Steele’s money. She’s acting odd. I’ll continue the surveillance.” With that he clicked his phone shut and slid it back in his pocket.

And that was my moment: his brief distraction as he ended the conversation. A short window in which I could rush forward and that’d be that, throat ripped wide open, dead before he hit the ground, his hand still in his goddamn pocket, blood spreading in a slow, dark pool around his unmoving body. . . .

Only I didn’t. Instead I backed away, quietly, back into the bar, and left the broken bottle standing behind the dumpster in the alley.

***

Later that night, after a long shower and several stiff shots of whisky, I sat on my sofa and stared out at the glimmering city lights. Dressed in a fluffy robe with my smooth legs curled up beneath me, I slowly clenched and unclenched my hand and found that I couldn’t dispel the phantom presence of the cool, pitted glass in my palm, the invisible weight of a broken beer bottle.

That asshole--what was his name, Jeff?--would never know how close he came to dying today.

Instead I’d made my way back through the bar. Given Frank some bullshit excuse, a tearful apology about how I couldn’t get up on that stage, how I thought I could but I couldn’t, I wasn’t that kind of girl. . . . Really melodrama, you know? And he’d been surprisingly understanding, which was a good thing because I’d still been in a fighting mood, tense and ready to kick the guy in the nuts if he gave me any hassle. Instead he gave me his card, told me to call if I ever changed my mind. Yeah, don’t hold your breath, Frank.

I should’ve killed him. Jeff. My shadow. I would’ve enjoyed it. Another chance to strike back at Steele, at this goddamn maniac screwing up my life. My hand clenched tight again and I felt my anger bubble up within as a physical presence, a stifling weight that left me flushed and hot. Somehow I’d find the bastard. Make him pay. Steele was the one that I wanted to make bleed--not some anonymous stalker-for-hire. But killing Jeff would’ve given me away.

Better to maintain the illusion. Fool him, fool them all. They had a profile. How, from where? Probably from the Clinic--K said something about Steele’s men hacking into their network. So they knew what Cindy was like. And as long as I acted differently that what they expected, as long as I wasn’t the twenty year-old chick they expected. . . .

They’d be watching.

I’d play their fucking game. I’d be the girliest fucking girl they’d ever seen. I’d dress pretty and live this shitty life they’d forced on me and no one would ever suspect that behind this painted smile and innocent wide eyes, someone--something--else entirely lurked. Eventually my followers would wander off. I’d be free. They all seemed to have these goddamn profiles, psychological evaluations, character sketches, written outlines of who I was. David Sanders. Cindy Long.

They didn’t have a fucking clue.

I’d be watching. And waiting. And when their attention wandered elsewhere I’d be the one following. This was their game but I was damn well going to make it mine.

With sudden resolve I surged to my feet and stalked to the middle of the room. I dropped to me knee and stretched out across the floor. I rested both hand, palms flat against the floor, on either side of my chest. A deep breathe, another . . . and I pushed.

First in my triceps, then both shoulders, and finally my chest: the burn, and then the ache. My arms trembled. I pushed and strained and slowly lifted off the floor. . . .

I held it for five seconds--five eternal, agonizing, magnificent seconds--arms fully extended, wobbling and weak, eyes watering with the effort; and then my strength suddenly evaporated and I dropped back to the floor.

A full hundred pounds--and fuckin’ A! I could do at least one!

And tomorrow, I’d do two. . . .

***

Continues in Chapter 03