Chapter 10: DoomscrollA heavy wind, den with the promise of rain, swept through the busy street carrying the dust aus of the city. Overhead, ing clouds bled over drab buildings that cwed the sky, tainting everything grey. A delivery bike wove between traffic, honking angrily as it left blue-bck fumes in its wake. With a wheezy sigh a bus stopped before the coffee shop, brakes screeg loudly, and disged passengers. They flowed past, breaking oher side, their bnk faces casting angry gres and appreciative gnces 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 and revealed more than just pale thighs.

  Shaking away empty thoughts, I stirred into motion. Not yet ten in the m and I was heading home. I ehese strangers with a purpose, with a m destination more exg than Starbucks. fronted 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 rexed into it. But where would I end up, this pretty piece of fluff, this delicate or cut loose from the world?

  I stifled a ugh 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 bee so melodramatibsp; Besides, cute little things like dy don’t drift inte 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 piy more fights these days.

  My steps carried me dowreet, past windows looking onto open-cept offices, through greasy clouds wafting out of restaurants finishing off the breakfast rush, the acrid st of hairdressers and the warm breath of a dry er. The rapid clip of my kitten heels against the pitted pavement made an almost familiar sound. Already! How long before these distras no listered, before these reminders of femininity became habitual and fotten? The thought terrified even as it seemed a wele relief from the stant 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 from the shop. Even then, it took a flirty smile and a fsh of cleavage for the man behind the ter to sell me--an apparently underage girl!--the booze. Some instant noodles rounded out my purchase, before fear and shame sent me scuttling back to the safety of my unwanted new home. Much better to spend hours sc the floors and pig up the crap I’d left all over, ing the living room and kit and airing out the funk of two weeks of pills and dazed sweating and stale vomit.

  The ic had been so sheltered. Surrounded by crazies, rich weirdos and dopey valests, who’d notiore pseudo-trae 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 accly, to objectify, to leer and ogle. . . .

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

  At a small grocers, I turned a er ahe main strip behind. The roar of traffic dropped away quickly. There was still the occasional pedestrian headed in the opposite dire but quieter now, faces more rexed, an occasional smile sneaking through. A few minutes up the street there was a hidden park where I liked to sit and read. It was an oasis set surprisingly close to the urban bustle, but if I sat on the right bench the rustling trees hid the overarg towers of crete and glittering gss.

  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 fug inve. I had to y legs high up the 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 fore by Scooter and Agent K.

  Humiliating, yeah, and painful too, but this is the thing: as annoying as living this life was, there art of me that was . . . enjoying it. Fuck that. Enjoying is to. Intrigued? Not by dy, no, and not by the bullshit y 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. Expl the city. The study, the practice, the stant risk of discovery . . . and yeah, the subtle thrill of not being discovered, of fooling everyone and feeling all these dumbass pricks followih 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 dahe thrill of it, the eager thrum of hat somehow made this almost worthwhile. Not ting that first week on the run with Agent K, I hadn’t felt this awake since . . . God, since I used to help Sakura out. Those years of being David Saunders nearly knocked me into a a and now I felt powerfully alive. Yeah, that thrill reached me all ed and wrong, made grotesque like the refle of a ival mirror . . . but fuck it, at least I wasn’t bored. This twisted, soft body through which every sensation aion touched me made damn sure of that. Looking back I could see how numb I’d bee, pying the part of the ordinary corporate dick.

  A little sunshine peeked through the clouds overhead, warming me slightly. Gleaming s of light spshed off the artificial pond. I tried reading my book--a shitty romance so sacchari should’ve carried a warning for diabetics--but couldn’t focus on the words. The park made for a nice pce to read but I rarely trated well. It’s not just that the books and magazines avaible from home were painfully b--no, not just that at all. Rather, there were so many other distras. The park itself, the hint of flowers and grass and sand that tickled the nose beh my own girl sts. Joggers in the distance, blonde ponytails bobbing in terpoint to each step, shirt darkening with sweat betweeits, such sexy young girls--and the sharp pain in my crotch; birds chirping as they dahe sky; the woof of a dog chasing a ball. The ch of passing footsteps and, gng up, a stranger.

  A young man walked by, well-dressed, listening to musi his way to work, with clear blue eyes that pulled away from my cleavage as we made tabsp; He smiled and I instinctively smiled bad he walked on with a lighter step. Jackass. Yeah, the thought that I’d brightehat punk’s m brought me very little satisfa. A little boost, the smile of a pretty girl: maybe he’d have the fideo 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 smmed into her from behind, skirt up around the 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 cy fi. So, yeah: plenty of distras in the park, but nothing pared to the reality of simply being me. Sometimes, for entire mi a time, maybe even a half-hour, I could lose myself in an uedly iing 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 spsh of polished cainst paper as I thumbed the page, or my own female st, brought me back to dy.

  My eyes peeked over the top of the page. A few pebbly dirt paths wouweerees, dotted with benches oher side. I sed the faces of the other lonely bastards senteo reading neers and feeding pigeons on a weekday m. Already many of them were familiar; these new routines of mine obviously overpped theirs. There’d been a few grudging, tentative exges of ‘hello’ but little more. This kind of pd this time of day, people could be fiercely protective of their own spad 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 pany.

  That early joy of expl brought me here early st week, and I’d been ing back ever sinbsp; I had a new life to create for myself but in many ways found myself falling ba old routines. I still woke up as quickly and early as I’ve always done. The m workout was repced by things better suited to dy: I sed sit-ups for sing and moisturising and push-ups for hair-care and styling, and you damn well believe I felt the shame of giving up my manly habits for these things better suited for the pretty young thing I’d bee. There was so much of it: longer showers, the shaving, plug, sing and moisturising, and then makeup, of course. God, the makeup took ages; how do girls put up with this shit every m? Different sers, moisturizer, cealer, foundation, mascara, eyeshadow, pencil, lipstick, another pencil, gloss, blush . . . fug 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 pig out clothes, or I’d lose an easy honizing--procrastinating--over what to wear. Believe me, my ms brought no pleasure.

  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 e easy. And then I had to overe 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 cod balls back without crushing the poor bastards, choosiween bare legs or stogs, fts or heels, hatiher possibility and myself for being in this position--and then finally that moment of revetion before the mirror as I lost myself in morbid ption of the cute sexy thing before me. And every day, that sense of fasation--of sick awe--seemed less intense and faded faster, repced by a subtle joy at the sight of my owy. . . .

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

  Not, of course, that I had ao get to in a hurry. A slow walk downtown, trying a different route every m. An indulgent hour spent over coffee; one sugar and a touch of cream when I used to prefer it bbsp; I’d read the neer if someo one behind, or watch the feed on the s, catg up on all the usual news: more violen the Middle East, some new superbug, a sed young girl found sughtered iy park, a fug cat caught up a tree. Zang’s mission was underway; they’d refueled at the Moon and were Mars-bound. Leaders spoke of another round of lockdowns to circuit-break the iable pandemic.

  Steele, on s, smiling and assuring ers that NeoPharm was ready, whatever that bitch Mother Nature threw their way..

  I grimaced and turned away from the new. I wasn’t a big fan of news, you know? It’s like, my life’s been more iing than most of what’s written in there, and you know what? Once you’ve seen a certain side of the world ahrough some tough shit--really harrowing shit, you know?--you ’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 anoddamn ice cap melted when I was wearing a mini-skirt and mascara, in hiding from a stock-holders’ darling’s assassins?

  I figured that dy probably wouldn’t be all that keen on the papers either… well, other than the fashioion and all that shit, of course, and maybe eai. I’d never noticed how much of a neer--especially the weekend ones, with all their colourful is ara ses--were totally geared to women. We’re talking page after glossy page of advertisements for makeup, fashion advice, sexy women to emute and shoes most girls could her afford nor walk in. But while dy might find that shit fasating--and by y I had to learn to like it to, just to learn what -to-date for a twenty year old chick--mostly I was looking for some kind of ce of Steele’s trial.

  Nothing.

  Otherwise I’d fall ba whatever book I’d shoved into my purse (goddamn fug Steele, I had a _purse_!), or doomscroll on my phone, or flick through artiy tablet. Often, I’d sit bad people-watch through the window. Mostly I people-watched, and pondered, ahered the occasional bout of stormy emotion. Then a little more walking, some expl, and I’d spend another hour in the park. Some days I followed that by hanging out at the mall, window shopping ahe buzz of the crowd, eavesdropping on versations; other days I wandered lonely backstreets and quiet parks, or hid in my apartment. A few nerve-wrag nights I ate out in quiet restaurants. And as much as I really, really wao hit a bar or, better yet, a really good pub . . . yeah, I wasn’t up for that. Not yet. Not even close. Assuming I could evehem to serve me. Shit.

  Amazing, though, how easy it is to gh aire day without speaking to anybody, without really talking, if you know what I mean, versation beyond “do you want fries with that, miss?” Even a pretty young girl like dy end up alone, surrounded by the multitudinous crowds of the city.

  What a goddamn waste of time. My mind was dang around deeper issues I didn’t want to front. Better off to just head home and do fuck all there. Ten o’clock, yeah? I wo 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 ti the base of the spine: I was being watched. Not in the usual way, the way that girls like dy are stantly 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 expeg this.

  For the past week there’d been that itch between my shoulder bdes, 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 others. Besides, K had warned me that Steele was still out there. Not that I could trust anything that bite, 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 fug Steele’s agents. He’d already forced me into this girl’s life but the asshole wasn’t satisfied; he was still hunting for the ohat 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 ce would I have?

  Oher 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 aen 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 fines. A long, leisurely look across the park, basking iermittent sun and cool wind, and I set off, walking bato the city.

  Hands thrust into a long beige coat, wearing sungsses, l on a bench half cealed behind a tree with a neer in hand: I briefly caught the guy reflected in my pact before leaving my seat. Couldn’t piaails but I’d reize him easily now. Wheh 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, my heart pounded, seretg out--feeling fully aware and alive. God, I loved this, even as fear pulsed just beh my eager anticipation. I left the park and took the long route through the outskirts of the city tre. Narrow homes and cramped apartment buildings peted with venience shops and small markets for space, and I walked a twisting--but not suspiciously so--path around ers and past small shops. Window shopping allowed the rare glimpse of my pursuer, ghostly snapshots caught reflected in gss before he stepped back behind a er.

  The clothes oher side of the window were sexy but cssy, a flirty party dress with a wide belt and fluttery skirt in bronze and golden colours, o 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 scious of my appearanbsp; The short patterned skirt that fluttered with every step 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 felt vulnerable--truly vulnerably--and hyperaware of my clothes, this ridiakeup 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 my ned my face bzed a fiery red as I struggled to breathe, to catch my breath, leaning heavily against the gss, nails clig against the smooth surface, shining pink in the bright sunlight. . . .

  No--no, fuck this! This panic, it was the hormohe drugs Scooter fed me, eva bubbles in my bloodstream that led to hysteria. In the forts of a coffee house or my own home, fine, fine, I’d py the stupid little girl and give in to these emotion; but not here. Not here! I was strohan this, strohan this fucker followihan 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 strohan 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 gng 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 clig 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 turables on the bastard? And dy--the crux of the whole damn thing--yeah, she was nothing more than an eborate role-py. Could I trick everyoo believing that a tough-guy asshole like me could pass as a sweet ‘lil girl, all sugar and spid lingerie so nice?

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

  Turning another er, I passed a dirty narrow alley o an even dirtier-looking bar. I’d absently noticed it as a pce to avoid on a walk earlier this week. The windows were bed, and the ratty posters pasted to the wall half-hidden under scrawled graffiti. The pce seemed seedy and dingy and based on an advertisement 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 h out front of the bar. A sudden fresh burst of fear caused me to hesitate--and then I stepped through the door.

  Author's Notes:

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