All in a Sea of Wonders
Chapter 1
By
Fakeminsk
([email protected] / patreon.com/fakeminsk)

(Author’s notes at the end. Enjoy!)

The heavy glass doors of the Howe Building slid open with a hiss, and Harper Sullivan crossed the threshold on three-inch heels.

Her heart pounded as she took in the expansive lobby, a mix of Victorian grandeur and sleek modernism. The marble floor stretched before her, wet-looking and treacherous. Her heels squeaked with every step, echoing in the cavernous space. She felt exposed. On display.

Harper straightened her spine and lifted her chin, brushing loose blonde waves over her shoulder. Breathe. You've trained for this.

Through the lobby flowed a sea of pinstriped suits and pencil skirts. Harper's white blouse was buttoned too low, her skirt too tight. She tugged at the hem, acutely aware of wandering male gazes and whispered comments. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths.

"First day, love?" A balding man in an ill-fitting suit sidled up to her, eyes tracing her figure. "I'm Malcolm. What's your name, darling?"

Harper forced a coy smile, despising the man and herself. "Harper. It's lovely to meet you, Malcolm." The words came out in a breathy, feminine tone she'd practiced for weeks.

"The pleasure is mine." Malcolm's hand brushed her lower back, and she repressed a shudder. "If you need anything, my office is just over there. I'd be happy to give you the guided tour." His smile revealed tobacco-stained teeth.

She stepped away, heart pounding. "Thank you, that's very kind." Her heels wobbled on the marble. "If you'll excuse me, I need to check in. I don't want to be late."

Harper hurried off without waiting for a response, her heels clicking sharply against the marble. Acutely aware of Malcolm's gaze on her backside, instead of the security desk she detoured to the nearest toilet. By the time she reached the ladies' room, she was gasping for breath, one hand braced against the wall.

The room was empty, thankfully, and she stumbled into the nearest stall, fumbling the lock shut behind her. She collapsed onto the closed toilet seat, head in her hands, and struggled not to hyperventilate.

She didn't know how she was going to survive the day, let alone the rest of her life. You can do this, she told herself again, but the words rang hollow.

C'mon Lucas, she told herself. Get your shit together.

And then it was Lucas sat there, not Harper; he and not she hiding from the world. Lucas felt the walls of the stall close in around him, trapping him inside this moment of confusion and panic. He knew he had to keep his calm for the sake of anyone who might overhear or see him, but it seemed impossible when every fibre of his being was shouting out that he was a man, not a woman. His chest heaved as if trying to break free from the confines of his bra, and breaths came quicker than ever before; yet all they did was feed into his rising disquiet.

He was going to have a heart attack, right here on the toilet in this stupid blouse and skirt. The thought was almost funny, in a morbid sort of way. Already exhausted, he rubbed a hand over his face, smearing his carefully applied makeup, and winced.

Get a grip, he told himself sharply. You've had the training for this. You knew it wouldn't be easy. But if you lose it now, on the first damn day, you might as well turn yourself in and save them the trouble of hunting you down.

He inhaled sharply to steady his racing heart, then exhaled slowly. He repeated the process until the rapid thumping had settled into a more manageable pace. 'I can do this,' he thought unconvincingly. His thoughts drifted back to the days spent in preparation. He had been trained to master his body language, to walk and talk like a woman; he'd had lessons on makeup application and the proper way to dress in his new role. His tutors, some of them hard-nosed former spies frighteningly familiar with the art of impersonation, were impressed by his successful transformation. All that was missing was the mindset - something he would find with time, they said.

But Lucas wasn't so sure. How could he possibly fake an entire other persona? It felt like a prison sentence; like he was doomed to live someone else's life for eternity without ever getting a break. Despite the practice and training, it still felt impossible at times; where one anxiety-fuelled moment could undo all of his hard work –and yet, despite all that doubt, here he was doing it anyway.

He found himself turning away from his training and focusing instead on his former life. The sexual conquests, the high-stakes business deals. Years of relentless success, of riding waves of stress and adversity with a laugh: having navigated all that, then surely, he could survive this--something as banal as crossing a lobby, finding his office, sitting at a desk? A menial secretarial role? The fact he was doing it wearing a skirt and heels, with tits and long hair; what of it?

With a sigh, he thought back to the times when he'd had everything neatly laid out in front of him and he suddenly, intensely, yearned for a cigar, a whiskey, a woman's soft lips around his cock--all three at the same time, preferably.

No. Lucas scolded himself firmly. He couldn't even think about that type of life anymore. At least, not now, not here. He was Harper now; she was the only one who stood a chance in this world. If all went according to plan, she'd keep him alive long enough to come out the other end of this humiliating ordeal and reclaim his life.

Allowing himself one final deep breath, he smoothed his short skirt down over his thighs before stepping outside of the stall.

The bathroom was empty and quiet, the fluorescent lights buzzing above. The smell of lemon-scented cleaner hung in the air, sharp and abrasive, but underneath was a softer fragrance of sandalwood and jasmine - his perfume, part of the disguise.

Focusing on the details around him helped steady his nerves. His heartbeat slowed, breath evening out as the panic receded. He could do this. He'd trained for months to become Harper, endured endless lessons on etiquette, style, and deportment to prepare for this role. It was the only way to escape his past.

He straightened, checking his reflection in the row of soft-lit mirrors over marbled sinks. And as he scrutinized his face, a scattering of memories flashed through his mind like fleeting shadows. The taste of champagne on a woman's tongue as they kissed after a successful deal; the sound of Amelia Greyson's cruel laughter ringing in his ears as darkness closed in around him; the sensation of walking on knives as he teetered in high heels for the first time; the soft bristles of a makeup brush sweeping over his cheekbones, transforming him into someone unrecognizable.

Later, he told himself. But the memories remained, torturing and taunting him, as he took a moment to fix his makeup, relying on newly engrained habits forcibly taught and learned in the months leading to this moment. With trembling hands, Lucas picked up a tube of lipstick from Harper's pink leather purse and began to repair the damage from his panic attack in the stall. He traced the curve of his lower lip, still marvelling at the rich, velvety texture of the makeup, then did the same for his upper lip. As he worked, he tried to ignore the way his hand shook, focusing instead on the sensual pleasure of the task--the experience not yet dulled by familiarity, still unnerving, still wrong.

Next, he dabbed at the damage beneath his eyes and across his cheeks where he'd passed his hand, nails digging shallow troughs through the makeup. The cool touch of the applicator against his skin sent a shiver down his spine, reminding him of the countless times he had touched women's faces in moments of intimacy or triumph. How different it felt now, he mused, to be the one receiving such delicate attention, to be the target of such self-care.

Finally, he ran a brush through the golden waves of his hair, feeling the silky strands slip through his fingers like water. The sensation was soothing, almost hypnotic, and for a moment he allowed himself to forget the danger that lurked just beyond the restroom door.

Soon, his makeup was once again flawless, his outfit impeccable, his appearance... appropriate. With an effort, he summoned a bright smile and the lilting, feminine cadence he'd practiced for so long.

It had been months since the procedure, but he still wasn't used to seeing Harper in the mirror. His old body was gone, stripped away by a cocktail of hormones and biomodification that had reshaped his cells into an entirely new form.

They'd warned him the changes would be extreme, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality. He was half a foot shorter, for starters, with delicate bones and a willowy figure that still felt alien under female clothes. His hair had lightened to blonde and grown past his shoulders. Disconcertingly large breasts blossomed from his chest, and his narrowed waist and flared hips weren't just the product of shapewear anymore. And yet, strangest of all was his face - the strong jaw and aquiline nose of his old self had softened into a heart-shaped visage with full lips and wide blue eyes.

Harper was a disguise, but she was also undeniably him--at least for now. There was no going back, at least not until after his day in court. Lucas took another deep breath, gripped the sink for support, and reminded himself this was his only chance at survival. If he wanted to stay alive until his day at court, he needed to bury Lucas Anderson. At least, until Tony Marchetti got his due.

***

The lobby was bustling, even busier than when he arrived, filled with the chatter of conversations and the tap of heels on marble. Harper glided through the crowd, acutely aware of the gazes following her. There were wolves here, men like the Lucas she'd once been - powerful, predatory creatures always on the hunt.

She kept her chin high, refusing to shrink from their attention. Harper was meant to be noticed, to draw eyes and invite stares. It was both armour and camouflage, a distraction from the truth of who she really was.

A hand caught her elbow as she glided towards the security desk, tugging her to a stop. "Well, hello there." The voice was deep, smooth as aged whiskey. "Haven't seen you here before. I'm Mark Danning. And you are...?"

Harper flashed a coy smile, slipping mor easily this time. "Harper Sullivan. I'm new! The new receptionist at Vortex Creative."

Danning's eyes raked over her appreciatively. "Is that so? Well, welcome to the madhouse, Harper Sullivan." He lifted her hand, brushing his lips over her knuckles. "I work on the same floor as you, the corner offices for Stoker Associates. I'm sure we'll be seeing quite a lot of each other."

It took effort not to snatch her hand away. The touch of his mouth brought a curl of disgust, a visceral reminder of all the times Lucas had treated women this way and thought nothing of it. Of all the times he'd taken without care or consequence.

Harper merely laughed, a light, tinkling sound, and slid her hand free. "I look forward to it, Mr. Danning. But I should get to my office. Lots to learn on my first day!"

She left him watching after her, a predatory hunger in his gaze. Harper walked on, hips swaying, and didn't look back. Despite the appearance of confidence, her chest tightened at the approach to the security desk, where two guards in crisp uniforms scrutinized each visitor. Harper fumbled in her purse for ID and stepped forward, hoping the tremors in her hands weren't visible.

The guards barely glanced at her card, touching it to a reader that dutifully beeped and flashed a green light. "Morning, Miss Sullivan. Welcome to Howe's."

"Thank you," she breathed, relieved, and everything clicked back into place. Having passed the first test--the first concrete test of her identity, though every single encounter that morning felt like a test--some tenuous sense of control reasserted itself. She was Harper Sullivan, arriving for her first day as secretary at Vortex Creative. Even the computer database agreed. Why would anyone think otherwise?

As Harper crossed the lobby toward the lifts, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin once more. You can do this, she told herself. Just get through today.

Tomorrow, she'd be back, and it might even be easier. By the week after that: no problem. And surely, in a few months.... But for now, she just needed to make it to her desk without falling to pieces. Harper took a deep breath, steadied herself on too-high heels, and walked on.

But painfully aware of the click of Harper's heels echoing with each step, Lucas's couldn't detach himself from the reality of what he was doing--wearing--or the pervasive sense of a thousand male eyes imprinting themselves indelibly on his ass as he walked and left the lobby and entered the adjoining hall. The door swung shut behind him, cutting off the sounds and leaving him alone.

For a moment he simply stood there, eyes closed, breathing hard. The memory of Danning's touch lingered, slimy tendrils that curled through his thoughts. He shuddered, hugging his arms around his middle.

Get a grip. He gave himself a sharp mental shake and opened his eyes, confronted by the wall of mirrored doors of travelling elevators.

Harper stared back at him. Delicate blonde eyebrows, a pert nose and bow-shaped lips, painted in shades of rose. The swell of breasts under a white silk blouse, cinched waist and hips accentuated by a tight black skirt.

His eyes locked onto the legs, shadowed by sheer hose, enticingly curved calves emboldened by heels. He remembered the effort it had taken to learn how to walk in them; balance, poise and posture, hips swaying with an effortless grace with each step. How naturally it all seemed to come to him now; how unconscious to prance and mince and sway under a male gaze! His jaw clenched tightly as anger and hatred roiled in his belly, threatening to spill over in a surge of bile.

But he couldn't deny the results. In this body, hearts beat faster and eyes lingered longer. His graceful figure was a far cry from the masculine heft and powerful presence he'd enjoyed before. He had always been good looking, of course - but his previously rakish charm now stared back at him, twisted into something softer, prettier, and luscious. It felt nearly impossible to -not- flaunt his undeniable female allure.

Lucas tore his eyes away from the reflection, fingers tightening into fists, long nails digging into his palm. He drew in a sharp breath and held it, the memory of Amelia's face swimming before his eyes. Her wicked smile as the anaesthesia took hold and the world faded into black.

He exhaled in a rush, sagging slightly, wincing. How had it come to this? Him, first hiding in the ladies' room like some scared little girl, and now trembling like a co-ed walking past the frat house.

The murder flashed behind his eyes--again--and not for the first time that day--and he flinched. No. He couldn't think about that now. Not here. Lucas shook his head sharply, dragging a hand through his blonde waves to settle over the back of his neck. He had a job to do. A role to play. He couldn't slip up now, not when his freedom--his life--was on the line.

When he finally stepped onto the elevator, Harper's smile was bright and cheeks flushed, the very picture of a flustered new hire. Surely, he told himself, no one would guess at the raging storm inside.

***

The lifts were all glass, offering a dizzying view of The City as Harper rose higher and higher. London spread out below her, a grey labyrinthine patchwork of buildings and streets; the sinuous coil of the river and the tourist-swarmed landmarks and the criss-crossing rail lines. She stared out the window, at the familiar patterns unchanged despite the radical changes in her own life. From here, she could even see her old building, gleaming like an enormous cheese grater at the centre of the city.

She could picture that old life with vivid clarity, imagine the tall, strong man in his designer suit arriving to work, riding a similar lift to his position of authority. To that man, a girl such as her would be an object of desire and conquest, at best; more likely a flighty distraction to ignore and dismiss.

And yet, despite the sharp awareness of her change in position, her heart still filled with wonder and gratitude that she had made it this far. She was still alive, and something about the sight of the sprawling city always raised--not quite joy, not quite awe, but something adjacent to both within.

But as the elevator car jolted to a stop, Harper's excitement melted away and gnawing anxiety returned. She had gotten through the security checkpoint with ease, but now came the real test - starting her new job.

Harper stepped out of the elevator, the click of her heels echoing through the empty hallway. She inhaled deeply and tried to convince her nerves to calm down. She didn't know anyone here, wouldn't know what to do, or how things worked. Confusion and uncertainty washed over her, unchecked by the firm assurance that the job was well below him, a shameful demotion from his previous position.

But then, just as she was about to lose her nerve, a voice broke through the silence. "Harper?" The woman who spoke was tall and willowy, with dark hair, sharp eyes, and an air of easy authority.

Harper's heart skipped a beat as she turned to face the woman. "Yes?" she asked, trying to keep the trepidation out of her voice.

"Hi, I'm Sofia, Sofia Rodriguez." Seeing the uncertainty in the other woman's eyes, she smiled. "They flashed a photo of you at the morning briefing. Knew you were coming." She jerked her thumb back down the corridor. "I was just coming back from the loo and saw you standing there looking lost."

Harper took the proffered hand, feeling a sense of relief wash over her. "Nice to meet you," she said, hoping her voice sounded confident.

Sofia's smile widened as she led Harper down the hall. "Welcome to Vortex Creative. I'm with H.R., and you'll probably end up working more closely with me than you want." She winked. "Nobody likes H.R. but hey, we're the ones who keep the whole ball rolling."

Harper nodded, her heart still pounding from the anxiety. "Thank you, I'm really excited to be here."

Sofia glanced over at her and raised an eyebrow. "Are you okay? You look a little pale."

Harper took a deep breath and shook her head. "It's just nerves. This is my first job out of uni and I'm still getting used to the whole corporate world thing." The lies came easily enough. Along with all the other trainer, she'd been drilled in the details of the life she'd adopted.

Sofia chuckled. "I know the feeling. But don't worry, we're all here to help you out. You'll get the hang of it in no time."

Sofia-from-H.R. led the short walk down a nondescript and silent corridor to the offices of Vortex Creative. A touch of her ID card led her into an open-plan sea of identical grey cubicles. Harper blinked, disoriented, until Sofia, grinning, directed her attention to a hand-written sign taped to one wall: "Harper Sullivan - Assistant to Mr. Edwards."

"See you around," Sofia said, and thanking the woman, Harper hobbled toward the cubicle on trembling legs, her ankles already aching. But as she approached, she froze in her tracks.

A man was standing just inside the cubicle, chatting with the human resources officer there. Tall and broad-shouldered, for a moment there was something familiar to his frame, to the way he stood to fill the space of the cubicle. He turned at the sound of her heels, and for a moment Harper's heart stopped.

The man's eyes were wide and bright as they focused on her, the irises surrounded by tiny flecks of bright grey. His hair was a dark, wild mess of curls, his jaw strong and square, and his cheeks were bristled with a day's worth of stubble. It was with an agonising envy that Harper the man's impeccably tailored black suit, complete with a crisp white shirt, jet-black tie and shiny dress shoes.

Harper felt herself flush as she realized who she was looking at, and panic rose in her chest. He'll recognize me, she thought, and it'll all be over. Her hands flew to her face, checking her hair and makeup, her blouse and skirt; but she already knew it was useless. Eric knew her too well. He'd see right through this fragile disguise, and then—

"You must be the new assistant." Eric held out one large hand, his smile warm and familiar, his voice deep and smooth. "I'm Eric Edwards. Welcome to the team."

Harper stared at him, mute with shock. He didn't recognize her. Her transformation had been too complete, her new face too convincing. She was safe.

She slid her hand into his, acutely aware of how small and delicate it seemed in his grip. The last time their hands had crossed, both men had gripped firmly, asserting their dominance; not so this time; it was painfully clear which of them dominated this encounter. "Harper Sullivan," she said, hearing the breathlessness in her own voice. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Edwards."

"The pleasure's mine." His eyes travelled over her in a way that was not entirely professional. "I must say, you're even lovelier than your photos suggested. This could be an interesting working relationship."

A blush rose to her cheeks, though whether it was Harper or Lucas who was blushing, she couldn't say.

She released his hand, smoothing the front of her blouse in a nervous gesture. "Thank you, sir. I'll do my best as your new assistant."

His smirk deepened as his eyes trailed down her body. "I'm certain you will."

Stepping forward, taking charge, he guided her across the lobby toward a pair of lifts at the far end of the office. His hand rested lightly at the small of her back. She felt acutely aware of his touch, the warmth and strength of his hand seeping through the thin material of her blouse.

"Nervous, are we?" he asked.

"A little," she admitted. "First day, and all that."

"No need to worry. You come highly recommended, and I'm sure we'll get along famously." His hand slid down to cup her hip briefly, a fleeting squeeze that made her breath catch, as he redirected between a row of cubicles. "In fact, I foresee a very productive working relationship."

He led her forward, explaining that Vortex Creative spread across two floors and that his office was upstairs. "Better view," he said, and grinned. "And why walk when you can ride?" The lift arrived with a chime. Eric guided her inside, his hand settling possessively on her waist.

He was flirting with her. Coming on to her. Her, Lucas Anderson, in the body of a woman not even half his age! How had she not made the connection, considered the possibility that "Mr Edwards" might be her former colleague?

They were alone for the short ride. She stared determinedly at the floor indicator, willing her cheeks not to flush. The small enclosure was filled with a heavy silence, and Harper felt her nerves buzzing. She remembered the words of the HR manager over the video call, after confirming the success of the interview. There'd been a moment of hesitation, and then the woman, speaking in a sort of embarrassed rush, added: "you'll be assigned to Mr Edwards. Um – be confident, take control, don't let him push you around."

How hollow those words rang now! Eric was clearly the one in control; she felt it in the contrast between his strong touch and every soft curve of her body, in the straight lines of his suit and the delicate flutter of her skirt--in her unconscious reaction to his words.

In the small space of the lift that seemed to shrink around them, his presence looming larger with each passing second, Eric reached up and brushed a curl from her forehead; his finger lingered there, tracing lightly over the slender bridge of her nose. "You look beautiful like this," he murmured.

Like this? Her heart thudded wildly in her chest. She glanced up at him--up, he seemed so much taller than her now!--through mascara-heavy lashes, searching for some hint of recognition in his eyes; but no, there was nothing there but desire and a possessiveness that made her skin crawl, an intense and predatory focus she'd seen before, but never directed by him in her direction. She felt his gaze raking over her face, down to her breasts, his hand still hovering at her hip.

Stop this flirtation now! she thought, but she felt too flustered, too afraid, too overwhelmed by paralytic shame to do so. She'd known Eric for years, back when they were both blazing a trail at Excelsior shoes--rivals in everything. As a man, it had been her greatest ambition to outshine him; and now he was her superior, and she his assistant – such a reversed position roiled her belly with anger and resentment. Or at least it should have. At that moment, she felt herself captured in his gaze, and something uncomfortable and unfamiliar fluttered in her belly.

When the lift stopped at their floor Eric stepped back, allowing her to exit before him with a mischievous grin that made her cheeks hot. As she stepped out into the corridor, she felt his piercing gaze on her body and an unexpected thrill ran through her as she noticed his eyes paused on her backside. Her blush deepened when he appeared beside her, amused by her reaction.

"Don't forget," he said softly as he passed her. "This is only the beginning."

He steered her out onto the executive floor, and the sight before them was somehow both familiar and somehow overwhelming. The walls were glass, showing off the sleek, modern offices of the executives. Grey cubicles filled the centre of the floor, occupied with people typing away at their computers and chatting quietly in their seats. Once, she dominated this sort of environment, but now she felt tiny and at a loss; but then Eric grabbed her arm gently and guided her through the maze of people.

They arrived at his office, a large corner one with a spectacular view of the cityscape. She was impressed by its elegant simplicity—no pictures hung upon the walls or fancy furniture cluttering up space. Instead, he had what seemed to be necessary only for functioning: a desk, chair, computer, and shelves full of books and binders. It was easy to forget sometimes, she mused, that their rivalry had also been rooted in the man's sheer competence - Eric had always been good at everything he did.

He gestured for her to take a seat opposite him in the two chairs situated there. He watched her carefully as Harper sat down and crossed her legs, the shortness of her skirt briefly exposing the delicately detailed welt of stockings before she tugged her clothing back into place. She blushed and knew he was admiring her curves—the way his eyes kept darting from her face to lower parts – but before she could ponder too deeply on it, he spoke up.

"Here we are," he said. "Welcome to your new kingdom. I'll give you the guided tour, then we can discuss how you'll be assisting me directly. Sound good?"

She nodded, swallowing hard. This was going to be more difficult than she'd imagined. Far more difficult. She'd thought maintaining her cover around strangers would be challenge enough, but Eric's obvious attraction threw a wrench into things she hadn't anticipated.

Standing, she followed him, struggling to match his steady stride with her mincing steps. He thinks I'm interested in him, she thought, as he led her through the office. And he has no idea he's flirting with a man.

Harper took a deep breath, steadying herself. She was hyper-aware of Eric's hand on her waist, proving his possession of the new arrival; of the way her skirt clung to her thighs as she walked; of every glance from the men and women around the office floor. It felt like a spotlight trained on her, judging and assessing.

She faltered after a few steps, overwhelmed by the sensations. What was wrong with her? Why was she reacting this way? She'd trained for this, practiced for months to become Harper Sullivan, and now here she was falling apart on the first day.

Get a grip, she told herself fiercely. You're stronger than this.

She forced herself to move, to put one heeled foot in front of the other. To smile up at Eric and nod as he pointed out different departments. To ignore the way her breasts strained against the cups of her bra with each step, the straps digging into her shoulders, or the strands of stray hair that insisted on fluttering across her forehead.

"And here's H.R.," Eric was saying. Harper saw Sofia, briefly, as she leaned back out of her cubicle, Costa coffee in hand. The woman waved, winked, and disappeared back into her workplace.

Eric waved a woman over and Harper recognized her from the video interview. "This is Samantha, the team's human resources manager," he said.

"Oh lovely," she said, her voice a trill of professionalism. "This must be Harper." She extended her hand and smiled warmly, making it easy for Harper to relax slightly as she returned the gesture. "Welcome aboard! It's a pleasure to meet you in person instead of over a Zoom call." She nodded at Eric. "I'm sure you two will make a great team."

Harper nodded, not trusting herself to say anything without giving away how rattled she felt inside. Eric shot her a reassuring glance and guided her back toward his office.

"There we go — now you know everyone," he said with a small laugh. He gestured at a desk, currently bare though she knew it wouldn't stay so for long. "And here's where I'll bring those pesky reports any time I need them in half an hour or less." He waved at the empty desk. "I'm sure someone from I.T. will be along to sort you out it no time."

"Sure," she replied, trying her best to sound light and breezy. She smiled up at him. "Thanks for the tour."

He grinned back and reached up and tucked a stray curl of hair behind her ear. "My pleasure," he said. She felt a flush run up her cheeks, but thought she detected an amused appreciation from Eric as well. He reached out his hand as if to take hers, then pulled it away abruptly and backed towards the door of his office.

"Come on then," he said. "Best if we get you to work. I'll have one of the other girls get you started." He nodded towards the expanse of glass wall that divided his office from her desk. "And don't forget," he said, and his lips curled in a mischievous grin. "I'll always be able to keep an eye on you."

The innuendo wasn't lost on her, and she gritted his teeth. You can do this, she told herself. Just get through the day.

"It's perfect," she said, pitching her voice high and bright. "Thank you so much for bringing me on, Mr. Edwards. I'm sure I'll learn a lot working under you."

"Yes," he said, "I'm sure you will."

***

Lucas sat down at his desk, crossing his legs and arranging his skirt over his knees. Cool and comfortable earlier in the day, now his legs felt hot under his stockings, and the suspender belt uncomfortable across his waist where it'd rolled down; he'd already had to readjust the tabs twice today in the woman's loo, and he resisted the urge to just peel the damn things off and be rid of them. His heels ached and his toes felt pinched. The underwired bra chafed, and the straps dug into his shoulders. For the umpteenth time that day, he blew an errant strand of hair out of his eyes and suppressed a cry of annoyance. Get through the day, he reminded herself. You can do this.

A young man approached the cubicle, all charm and smarm, and said, "You must be the new girl. Harper, is it?" His gaze slid down to Lucas's chest, and he folded his arms over himself defensively. Inwardly, he suppressed a scream. How many times? he wanted to yell. How many men were going to hit on him today? How much more bullshit and bad pick up lines, lingering stares and uninvited touches?

"Yes," he said, striving for nonchalance. "Harper Sullivan. I'm Mr. Edwards' new assistant."

"Fantastic," the man said. "I'm Mark Johnson. If there's anything I can help you with, don't hesitate to ask." His smile widened. "Anything at all."

For some reason, this time--unlike the previous half-dozen overly-friendly conversations with men in the office--a spike of panic lanced through Lucas. The walls seemed to close in. Sweat broke out across his bare arms; he felt his heart pound in his chest.

He imagined making his excuses, standing up so quickly the chair rolled backwards across the floor, and making a run for it. He could picture it vividly: the cry of surprise, the tottering run across the floor, the tears in the stairwell.
He imagined throwing a punch, and how satisfying it would be to watch Mark fall from the force of his blow. He visualized the shock in Mark's eyes, the sound of surprise as he toppled over the desk, and the cascade of papers and files that would ensue. But Lucas knew it was a pipe dream: with his slim arms and lack of strength, he doubted he would even be able to make contact with Mark’s face, let alone knock him down.

And as for running away, well, he could imagine the hitman waiting for him on the street, if not today then soon: the gunshot in a lonely alley. The shattered skull, spattered blood and brain down a grimy wall. Darkness.

No, he told himself. Stay calm. You agreed to this--sort of--and you don't have any other choice anymore.

Instead, his frustration bubbled out between pink-painted lips in a simple exclamation. "Stop!" Lucas said. Taking a deep breath, he added, more softly, "Please." He forced a smile and said, "Thank you, but I think I'm alright for now."

Mark's grin wavered slightly. "I--."

Lucas sighed. "Listen, I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable just then. Guess the nerves still get the better of me on the first day."

Mark's smile returned easily, and he waved off the girl's apology with a dismissive gesture. "No need to apologize. I remember my first day here - it's perfectly normal to feel a bit overwhelmed. But you'll settle in quickly, I'm sure." He nodded to the growing pile of paperwork strewn across Harper's desk. "Looks like Edwards has already put you to work. If you have any questions, just shout."

"Thank you," Lucas said. "I appreciate the welcome."

"It's alright," he said congenially. "This is a place of business after all, we need to keep it professional, right?" His eyes twinkled in amusement as he added, "But if you ever change your mind...." He shrugged his shoulders and Mark's eyes lingered on him for a moment too long, and Lucas resisted the urge to squirm. He offered another smile instead, hoping to defuse the tension. After a few beats, Mark seemed to catch himself. Or perhaps he saw Eric Edwards watching him through the glass walls of his office, eyes dark and frowning. Either way, he cleared his throat and glanced away, a faint blush staining his cheeks. "Well," he said. "I should let you get on with it."

Lucas watched him go with a mix of relief and trepidation.

It was going to be a long day, week... months, he thought, as he sighed, touched up his lipstick, and returned to his new job.

***
Author’s Notes:
About a year ago, for various reasons, I stepped away from my keyboard and didn’t come back. It wasn’t planned, but I just never quite found the confidence or desire to pick up writing again – oh, I thought about it every day; I just didn’t actually do any writing. Consequently, my main fiction contribution to this website, Constant in All Other Things, languished unfinished, again.

A few things brought me back to writing. I run a Patreon—check it out if you like what I’m doing here—and a patron suggested reading Billy Summers, by Stephen King. I hadn’t read King for various reasons, snobbery among them. I was wrong. It’s a brilliant read. And from there I moved on to King’s On Writing which is equally brilliant. It made me want to write again, even if I don’t agree with everything he has to say about the craft of writing.

The other thing that got me back to the keyboard was messing about with A.I. writing software. I’d tried DungeonAI and Novel AI in the past – I’ve got a pretty poor effort on here that came from that—but generally found them pretty poor. Fun, for sure, but not terribly useful as a writing tool.

This time around, I tried Sudowrite, a newcomer to the game. And—it’s better. Not great, but it does have certain tools I found a lot of fun to play around with, that got me inspired to pick up my pen, so to speak, and write.

Constant is chugging away at a solid pace again, 500 words/day—I’m giving regular updates on the Patreon. And I also decided to try my hand at something else.

The story above, “All in a Sea of Wonders” is a collaborative effort with Sudowrite. I say collaborative, because it’s hard to say where my efforts and the A.I.’s effort separate. The story writing tools built into Sudowrite, the “Story Engine” is both remarkably powerful and remarkable stupid – left to its own devices, it’ll generate a wonderful narrative of meandering nonsense. It has an underlining understanding of narrative structure and the “beats” of fiction, but this is also coupled to an idiot with the memory of a goldfish. Meanwhile, yes, this new story does bear a more than passing resemblence to the initial setup on Constant - when I started messing around with the AI, I just grabbed the first thing that came to mind and decided to play around with familiar exposition. It deviates pretty quickly, though, and Lucas isn't David Saunders.

But guided by a firm hand, the A.I. can alleviate some of the creative strain and generate a lot of the nuts-and-bolts prose that propels a story along. At times, it even makes creative suggestions that are compelling to pursue and develop.

In any case, I wrote the above chapter with A.I assistance. If that kind of thing turns you off, hey, I get it. But if you got this far and couldn’t tell – well, I suppose that because, as the end of the day, what you’re actually reading is still -mine-, because the whole thing was revised, rewritten and reorganized by me. I suspect this’ll be the future for a lo of A.I.-generated content: first draft by A.I., but competent human hands crafting it into something better.

As for great fiction? I think we’re still decades away from A.I. taking that away from human writers.

Finally, if you like this and have a quid to spare, why not chuck it at my Patreon? (patreon.com/fakeminsk) The beginning of the next chapter of this has already been posted there, with more coming next week. One patron asked how I got the A.I. to do what I wanted, and I posted a short tutorial and example. If a couple of more patrons jump onboard, I’m hoping to try a collaborative project with them – patrons brainstorm the ideas, I feed them into the A.I. and tame the output, and revise and rewrite the final version. At the very least, comments are genuinely appreciated - let me know what you think of this thing, good or bad, and whether you think it ought to be continued.