Constant 3, Chapter 6-2: Cindy 2.0

After the emotional wrangling and character-torture of chapter 5, it's been fun--and a little stressful!--returning to some faster-moving plotting. "Faster moving" is very relative; I still get distracted by occasional asides and moments of introspection, but hopefully it doesn't detract from the pacing too much.

As always, enjoy! And feel free to comment or leave feedback, it's always appreciated!

Two: Cindy 2.0

Okay, so this is how it all went down.

            I’m Cindy 2.0 with a cunt, fresh from the Clinic. Alone, with my back to the wall. Crumpled to the floor at the entrance of my home—not Cindy’s apartment—but my home, for the next six months if not longer. A jumble of suitcases surrounded me, erupting shoes, skirts and lingerie like overripe fruit rotted in the heat. My home stank of two-weeks gone-off food. First week of September and the sky’s the colour of ash.

            So, what did I do? I cried. I mean, really poured it out: whole-body, gut-wrenching sobs, holding myself so tightly nails cut the skin and drew blood. Neighbours must’ve thought I was strangling a cat to hear me wail. I made a manly effort to keep it in until emotions overflowed, and I just fucking lost it. It was exhausting; it was liberating.

            Afterwards, like I told Jules at the start of the funeral, I went downstairs to the dodgy little shop that doesn’t check ID. Grabbed some cheap booze. Got to the serious business of killing myself with booze. Eventually, I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my room. Under cold moonlight, I listened to distant city sounds beyond the window and confronted myself. A girl’s existence is full of mirrors, and now so was mine.

            There in the mirror: me. Yeah, me—not some fucking helpless little girl. Big boobs and smooth skin and long hair, but the mirror’s epiphany was a simple one: so fucking what?

            To be honest, six months into living a woman’s life, I still had no idea what makes a real woman. Boobs and smooth skin and long hair don’t make the woman. Neither did the prosthetic slit pasted over my cock. Whatever it is that makes a woman—that intangible, intrinsic essence—I lacked.

            But man, could I ever play the part! I knew my role, now. Akiko taught me that, years ago: the role we play, a rolled-up slip of paper, the slivers of script unique to each player. My small part in a larger story, fragments of a larger plot—powerful pharmaceutical magnates, secret research facilities, advanced regenerative medicines, assassins and agents—and me: the performance of a young girl, apparently, a minor role, really, that of secretary on the sidelines. A frustrating role, but also compelling at times. Playing Cindy brought her character into sharp relief with my own, and I couldn’t’ deny at times a certain jealousy. She was a happier person than I was or could be if allowed. Her life was small and simple, but better for it, maybe. She was young and therefore could still hope for better. Love remained possible. I still hated the performance by couldn’t any longer deny how alluring it could be, too.

            But that’s all it remained: a performance, and any genuine feminine interiority remained elusive. At least, I fucking hoped it did. Truth is, I had no idea what that might even feel like, what it felt like to be a girl. A phantom touch, maybe, with Chad; a dimly heard echo in Michael’s presence; glimpsed, maybe, in wearing that wedding dress. But what was it, really, to feel like a girl? Was it a taste on the lips, a tingle deep in the belly? Or an ache of wrongness at the sight of myself in the mirror? I didn’t know then, and still don’t know, now, even after everything I’ve been through.

            I just know that standing naked in the cool of a September’s evening, with one hand cradling a bottle of vodka and the other hand over prosthetic genitals, I looked into that mirror and did not see—the person people wanted me to be.

            No. Rather, with a certainty that nearly made me sick, I saw only myself. Not Cindy: me; it was still me in there.

            And I was fucking angry.

            That next morning, I went for a run. It wasn’t just to clear my head. Cindy’s apartment was a cheap, run-down shithole on the outskirts of town, and now that suited me just fine. Decrepit commuter belt suburbs were more likely to have what I needed. On that initial run I scouted the area and identified several possible assets. There were plenty of stores offering the kind of goods and services I needed. A couple off-grid abandoned buildings should I need a bolthole. Myriad streets flashing neon lights, vivid displays, sex-for-sale dives, gambling dens, barely veiled illegality scrawled across back-alley warrens of dodgy shops and alcoholic cesspools, a sprawling labyrinth of urban decay.

            Through this tangle of neglected lanes and hidden ways flowed those abandoned by the civil life of the city centre, in all their ecstatic and chaotic glory. Hardened men and hopeful girls, grifters and chancers, the poor and down-on-their-luck, a riot of people of all races and creeds and each of them with their own story, many mundane, some to match my own.

            After that run, I cleaned my apartment and prepared for the months to come. Julia visited, discovered my vagina, gave me a dildo, blew her top and left in a huff. The next day, I returned to work at Volumina International. Got offered a promotion by the boss, then got publicly humiliated by my colossal prick of an ex-boyfriend, Dan. Then, I exchanged his questionable charms for the far-better friendships of a trio of new girlfriends.

            All that happened in the first week and it happened to Cindy. She found her feet in heels during the day and at night—under murky autumn skies glowing with artificial lights, I explored the city fringe. I made a solid mental map of my surroundings. I made plans.

            By Wednesday, I was ready. The working day couldn’t pass quickly enough. The slow crawl of the bus commute home took forever. I quickly shed office clothes for something more casual: black hoody over a tight sports bra to minimize my tits, jogging pants and sneakers, all bought from charity shops near work. I didn’t want to wear anything from the Clinic, I couldn’t trust anything from that place.

            Makeup I kept simple, a swipe of dark lipstick, a touch of mascara and eyeliner, my hair a simple ponytail tucked beneath navy baseball cap. Yeah, I still looked cute as a fucking button but hopefully older than a goddamn teenager.

            My phone, I left behind. That worried me, but only slightly. It was a lifeline should I find myself over my head, but I felt confident I could handle myself. And it wasn’t like I could use it to pay for anything. My phone was almost certainly bugged, and I didn’t want anyone tracking my route through the city, what I bought or where I bought it.

            A stiff wind blew the street’s dust into swirling eddies. Standing for a moment, I breathed in deeply the scent of the city at dusk. There were people arriving home after a day’s work. Others, heading out: for food, a drink, an escape, or starting a night shift. Waitresses, security guards, bartenders and cooks, late-night people pale under streetlights blinking one by one into life.

            Grinning, hands thrust deep into pocket and shoulders hunched with teenage surliness, I joined their anonymous flow.

            By the time I left the relative safety of the main byways for dodgier backstreets, shops in all their lurid colours were stirring into life. Shreds of black clouds fluttered from the sliver of a waning crescent moon like laundry hung up to the dry. I wound my way swiftly through the fading flow of people. I kept my hands out of my pockets, now. Back here, people were fewer and eyed me speculatively, especially men.

            The hum of traffic felt far, steam and rancid grease exhaled from a vent at the back of a cheap restaurant. An emaciated young man wearing an apron, stained grey with food, leaned against the wall next to an open door. A rectangle of yellowed light stretched across the alley and a tinny radio played an old tune. With a sullen glance in my direction, he stubbed out a cigarette and disappeared through the door. It closed behind him with a heavy clang.

            Then it was dark, and I was alone. A rat scuttled across my way and disappeared down a drain. My destination sat at the end of the alley. It once led to the back entrance of an apartment block, and the rusted and broken metal remains of a fire escape created twisted shapes in the darkness above. Now derelict, the way had long ago been bricked up. Crumbling debris littered the ground, the corners stank of piss and flickering lights in a barred window cast dancing shadows up the walls.

            The problem was one of anonymity. The things I needed, and needed to do, couldn’t be traced back to either Cindy or David. Anything I did online left fingerprints. I needed phones, a laptop—all untraceable. Easy enough to acquire but requiring money. And I was broke. And even if I had the money, it was Cindy’s money—traceable, tracked and couldn’t be used for this sort of thing without drawing attention.

            It was this need that led me to a grubby little room on a dark Wednesday evening in early September. The heavy metal door swung shut behind me with a clang. A metal detector within the door frame hummed into life then beeped green. Closed-circuit security cameras whirred as they tracked my movement. Inside, the air was still and stuffy. Long strips of suspended lighting buzzed overhead. There was another door, reinforced steel and pitted, in the opposite wall behind a large man.

            This man stood in the corner, massive arms tattooed and folded across his chest. Jeans and a tight t-shirt emphasised his bulk, and a perpetual scowl scored his face. There was another man with him, short and scrawny in an ill-fitting suit, beady eyes glinting behind wire-frame glasses perched high on a beak-like nose. Across from the entrance, there was a window sealed behind clouded shatterproof plastic and a small counter with a button and microphone. The counter was a heavy slab of stainless steel, dented and dull. Above it and beyond the blurred plastic stood the shadow of a man, waiting.

            The two men looked at me as I entered, then at each other, and once again at me. Beak-Nose spoke first. “What you doin’ here, little girl?” His tone was mocking, but not unkind.

            I ignored them and approached the counter. Holding down a button, I spoke into the mic. “I’ve got accounts I want to access.”

            “Hey, girlie,” the smaller man said, taking a first step my way. “I’m talking to you.”

            “Take another step,” I said without turning. “And you’ll be eating this fucking counter, you hear me?”

            He paused, long enough for a panel to slide open to reveal a keypad. I typed in three separate sequences of numbers and letters. A green light flashed, and the panel closed.

            “Listen missy,” Muscles rumbled. “This ain’t no place for—”

            “Holy shit.” The voice came from the other side of the window. “Jesus, Miles, back the fuck down.” There was a pause, then the voice spoke again, weedy and excitable. “This is—a lot of money.” Another pause. “We normally deal in microtransaction, you know that, right?” I waited. “Our percentage—”

            “I know your fucking cut,” I said, and told him how I wanted my money.

            Some instincts never die. After Sakura, after a year homeless, after a year working for Tahir in his bloody nightclubs, I found my feet and started making money: more money than I ever wanted or needed, more than I knew what to do with. Eventually I’d find ways to spend it: mainly by accumulating shit I fucking hated, because that’s what you do when you’re wealthy; or wasting it on bitches, expensive meals and overpriced drinks, nights out that cost a fortune and gifts for girls I’d fuck once before moving on to the next.

            From the very start, I got into the habit of stashing some of it away in obscure and hidden places, building little emergency funds simply because—well, because deep down, I never believed any of it could last. I kept my pantry full of food, because for a year I’d gone hungry. And I kept money discretely buried, because you never knew when someone would tear away everything you’d built up over a decade, leaving you feminized and broke with the income of a goddam secretary.

            Cash was conspicuous but despite the moans of politicians, academics, futurists and economists, steadfastly refused to die. I had wads of physical currency stashed here and there, but too far away and impractical to retrieve. Fortunately, I’d also built-up digital assets and brokers like these assholes facilitated all sorts of questionable financial transfers. A place this small normally dealt in insignificant local shit, opening and closing transient accounts covering transfers hiding gambling debts, loan shark interest payments, minor tax dodges, low-level drug deals—that kind of crap.

            “Um—here you go.” The wall dinged again, and a different panel opened and spat out a half-dozen credit card-sized slips of plastic, each loaded with a set amount of funds drawn from anonymous accounts—after they took their substantial cut, of course. A loud whirl, and then a separate slot counted and pushed out a wad of good, old-fashioned cash. The money I quickly sealed away in a pouch beneath my hoody and felt its reassuring presence against my belly.

            Meanwhile, those two assholes in the corner kept eying me. Muscles—Miles—was obviously the bouncer-slash-guard; he wouldn’t do anything. Places like this didn’t last long if their customers kept getting mugged. But Beak Nose was a different matter.

            “Take a good look?” With money and plastic stashed away, I faced him directly, patting my stomach. “Something you want?”

            He grinned. “That’s a lot of money for a little girl for you.”

            “Yeah, well, I’ve got a big daddy. Fuck off.”

            “No need to get nasty, bitch.”

            “Don’t,” Miles murmured placatingly. But Beak Nose ignored him and took another step closer.

            I sighed.

            “You need—”

            He never got to tell me what it was I needed. But the counter did earn another dent that evening, and his ugly face became better acquainted with it. One of his teeth went rattling into a corner. I’d made a good choice in wearing black: it hid the blood well. I brushed myself down and fanned my fingers out and made a show of studying my nails. Excellent; didn’t break one this time. Work dress code required nails done properly, and fixing those damn things cost a mint.

            “All done?” Miles asked.

            I picked up Beak Noses’s thin-rimmed glasses from the floor and folded the arms shut and tucked them into the man’s shirt pocket. He moaned, scrabbled at the floor once and gave up.

            “We got a problem here?” I asked the bouncer.

            Miles held his hands up defensively and shook his head. “Nope.”

            “Then yeah, I’m done here.”

            “You—uh—have a nice day,” said the voice from behind the window.

            After that, it was a simpler matter of shopping, a little at a time, at places not too close to home or work. I’d already selected a range of run-down stalls and nondescript stores dotted around the neighborhood. By the end of the week, I had three burner phones, two laptops, and the basics for some simple disguises if the need arose: cheap clothes in styles unlike Cindy’s, a range of hair dye, some makeup, fake nails in different lengths, and I even picked up a chest binder and a fake moustache and some men’s clothing on a whim. I started discreet research into renting a bedsit not too far away—a safe house of my own, should I need it. Briefly, I considered tracking down a weapon but thought better of it. There wasn’t a need—yet—and acquiring that kind of thing was far more likely to draw attention.

            Meanwhile, in my other life the girls took me out for drinks. It was the first Friday back and our first time out together. We changed in the toilets at work. It was an impromptu thing at Emma’s urging, and I didn’t have anything to wear. Emma loaned me a sparkly top, and watching her change I keenly felt that prosthetic over my groin. Willow helped with makeup, slipped a hairband with fuzzy cat ears on my head. Cute, she said. Then we went to Noir. Fuck Dan, Mel said. This place is too good to be spoiled by bad memories.

            I got to know the bartender, Terry and made fun of his beard. It was fun. A couple guys hit on me and the girls ran interference. It started then, I think: a disconcerting sense of kinship with these three chicks, and the beginning of a profound appreciation for who they were. Over the next few months this grew into genuine friendship, and it started that night, with Mel: let’s do this for real, she said. Tomorrow; let’s get to know each other better.

            No wasn’t an option. Cindy needed friends, after all. I agreed and we went our separate ways.

            Back home, I made myself a strong cup of coffee and fired up the first laptop. It was dark and windy outside. Music throbbed from the apartment below, party vibes a floor down. At one point, a Sin-DI bassline, and voices raised in cheer. Students, probably. The old computer hummed into life as I listened. What’s it like to be one of those kids? To have reading lists, homework and lectures and deadlines as your greatest stress? Wholly unexpected envy gnawed at my belly. I imagined walking downstairs and knocking at the door of the party. Being invited to join, cheap booze in plastic cups, lipstick marks and dancing, a hand on my ass, an unexpected kiss on the balcony under autumn skies.

            Yeah, right. Instead, I logged in and hot-spotted the laptop to one of my mobiles, bounced the signal a few times and went online. Took a sip of coffee and noted the state of my nails after the working week. They wouldn’t do for a night out with the girls, right? With a sigh, I began the tedious chore of cleaning them. With sharp acetone tickling my nose, I navigated to a disused discussion group in one of those forgotten digital corners of the internet.

            My target was hidden amidst dusty forums and the relics of websites past, beyond trivial something.whatever.bullshit newsgroups and abandoned listserv backups. Nominally for English-speaking fans to discuss bizarrely intricate early-millennium Czech board games, this specific forum had long served as one of several contact points for those of us who could loosely be termed ‘Sakura’s Children.’

            I considered my nails and what colour to paint them. An emery board made quick work of rough edges. I hated that name: ‘Sakura’s Children’. As if she’d been some kind of mother-figure to us. It’s not like I’d ever known any real maternal affection against which to compare her. But what she gave us? That wasn’t love; and if it was, it was a twisted and self-serving sort of love. Yes, she housed us and taught us. She hid us and protected us. But she also used us. Exploited us. Made her love conditional to our performance.

            And despite the cruelty of her affection, I’d loved her. Perhaps she’d been like a real mother after all.

            After Sakura cast me out, and after calling in my favour with Tahir, I contacted some of those I knew before. Like Darius. Or a few others, like Dimitrios, Sofiya and Emma, other adopted lost souls also taken in by Sakura. We’d been friends, of sorts, family even, once upon a time. At first, bitterness at my abandonment kept me from seeking them out. Eventually I got over myself.

            Mostly, though, we carried on with our lives. Over fifteen years, I’d posted maybe a half-dozen coded message, received the same number in return. Dimitrios disappeared a few years back, and I hadn’t heard from Sofiya in twice that long; married, last I heard, to some guy abroad. There was a rumour that Emma had a kid. And as for Darius—

            Well, that’s where Mal comes into this. He wasn’t one of us, but that Blackwater Phoenix tattoo indicated he knew my old friend. Friend? Okay, that was overselling it. But the Darius owed me, and a debt between Sakura’s children wasn’t blithely forgotten. After beating the shit out of Mal, that blistering day at the dinner halfway to Asklepios, he agreed to put me in touch.

            Selecting a pale, shimmering purple, I started on the first nail and skimmed through the forum. There was an old post with a new comment, the most recent date stamp in the thread. It was from a few days ago. The original post was an extended and convoluted discussion of top-tier strategy picks for some obscure game called Through the Ages, but amidst references to Hammurabi and Napoleon, Ocean Liners and Infantry, I found the relevant reply. Couched in code, the message told me: Mal had been in touch. A meeting was agreed, to take place in ten days. This could be very dangerous. Please confirm attendance.

            I fired back a reply couched in similar language, confirming that I’d be there.

            Sitting back, I smiled and fluttered my fingers. There was something beautiful in the way light danced across my nails. They glittered a gorgeous ochre, ready for a night out with the girls. The fact I’d just taken the first step toward never having to paint those fucking nails ever again made them sparkle all the brighter.

            The reply came the next night. I had to wait until after that outing with my colleagues. Despite half-hearted protests, they dragged me to this cheesy nightclub, overpriced, all steel and exposed brick, multi-story glass dancefloor lit from beneath. From lower levels you could look up through frosted glass and the skirts of girls dancing above. Really classy, this place. The urinals in the men’s toilet were shaped like plump, red-painted women’s lips—I barged in when desperate for a piss and the girls’ queue stretched to, like infinity. I can’t even remember the name of the place; it was so shitty we never went back.

            You need to fucking relax, Mel told me as I propped up the counter, sipping at something stupidly expensive and brightly coloured in a martini glass. Her surly angry made me anxious, as though she secretly suspected I was really a man infiltrating female mysteries. But that was just Mel. She looked fucking hot that night in a short, black dress, a real contrast to my pink pleated skirt and white tube top.

            The too-short hem ignored every effort at tugging it lower. Mel slapped my hand. Stop being such a prissy bitch. She wasn’t wrong, I was being a prissy bitch, but I wasn’t feeling the vibe, it was my first time out at a place like this and despite months of living as Cindy and two weeks at the Clinic, I was shitting bricks. My legs felt wobbly, and standing there half-naked, I felt hot and flushed under male eyes. I mean, yeah, the place wasn’t the full-on, seething-flesh, drug-fuelled clubbing intensity I’d eventually get to know—and love—at places like Tartarus, but you’ve got to start somewhere, and I’d never felt so exposed in public. Fresh meat, but I’d always been the butcher and the way guys stood and watched and judged creeped me out.

            They circled. Eventually, one guy moved in—dodged past Willow, deftly distracted by his wingman—and credit where it’s due, this asshole was pretty slick. Hit me with a few good lines, bought me a drink, and then another—his name was Fred? Phil? who the fuck knows—and thank God, I suppose, because I sure as hell couldn’t afford this place.

            He was tall, and just loved the way he towered over me, wearing a mid-range suit. Worked in finance, he said, and he was so fucking cocky it might’ve been true. This guy was stupid and arrogant and young. He moved closer and kept touching my forearm, the bare skin at the small of my back where the tube top didn’t reach. I forced a smile and could barely hear him over the music. It’s not like he said anything worth remembering, something about how much he earned, then shit about my eyes, my lips. He gave me his number, coped a feel of my ass and I let him kiss me—fighting down the feeling of squirming revulsion—it was payment for those drinks, right?—and then fled, joining the girls on the dance floor. The perverts below got a good glimpse of pink panties—another price paid for free entry, for being female and young and pretty.

            Hammered and exhausted by the time I got him, my mood was resolutely dark. My feet ached from hours of awkward swaying on the dance floor. I collapsed into a chair, stripping off the tube top reeking of sweat, unhooked my bra and cracked open a final beer for the night. Went online, checked the forum: the meeting was confirmed. Instructions as to the precise time and place followed.

            Consequently, the following week passed with agonising slowness. I resented Cindy’s life even as she grew in confidence with the return to normal routines. She woke to 5:30am early autumn darkness, sometimes gasping and sweating after some terrible nightmare, tangled in hair and bedsheets. Or surprised, to find herself wearing silky nightclothes, or sporting tits and a vagina. Too often, she woke horny, memories of urgent stiffness at her crotch giving way to the reality of eager wetness between her legs. In the shower, normality reasserted itself as she took care of her long hair, shaved legs and armpits. Strapping herself into a bra, slipping into pantyhose, she began to assemble an outfit for the day. This remained a daily challenge until Julia’s return, though that remained weeks distant. Then sitting at the vanity, she painted herself a face for the day. She fumbled a little with buttons on the wrong side, at the nape of her neck or along the small of her back, and felt the flimsiness of a shiny blouse, or the tightness of a pencil skirt stretched at the thigh. Selecting accessories for ankle and wrist, neck and fingers still seemed arbitrary.

            Always, that anxious final examination in the mirror. Then, the deep breath and the click of the closing door, stepping into this side of life—Cindy’s life, not mine.

            The long commute. The daily grind. Learning to once again navigate innuendo and to smile through unsolicited contact, male touches at shoulder, waist and hip, the occasional pat to the bum. The crying jags when it was all too much—unavoidable and irresistible—fucking hormones—female commiseration—and makeup touch-up in the toilet mirror before returning to work. The secretarial everyday. A working girl’s life. Joy.

            Still, I made a good go of it because—well, because I fucking had to, didn’t I? Had to maintain the illusion so I could carry on with my other life. The days belonged to Cindy. She played secretary and receptionist, flirted with her boss, gossiped with female friends and kept a glossy smile to her lips.

            But the nights were mine. Or rather, some of them were. Cindy’s life increasingly made demands on my time, day and night, weekday and weekend. But on those increasingly rare free evenings, I roamed further and explored more deeply the sprawling streets around my home. Flush with the freedom of anonymity, my soul thrummed with joy.

            Online, that same anonymity allowed me to finally look up old comrades and new enemies. I checked the forum daily. I planned my journey and set the route to memory. Otherwise, I searched for information about Jeremiah Steele, tried to track his movements, see whether my sacrifice made any difference. I read up on the Asklepios Clinic, and its research into regenerative medicine. Dug around to see what I could learn about Agent Fosters—not much, in the end.

            Truth was, even at home I lived two lives. I was as likely to read up on operation Blackwater Phoenix as I was to watch a video on skin tone, colour theory and choosing the right primer. I looked up Sakura; I also looked up matching bra and panty sets on sale and pretty winter dresses. Digging deep into conspiracy-theory forums about NeoPharm went hand-in-hand with Cindy hand-washing underwear or reviewing a carbon-emissions report for work.

            Finally, Friday night. I’d only been back two weeks but somehow it felt much longer. Michael was pretty cool about letting low-paid staff off early. He was sympathetic to the social needs of young people at the weekend, he said, with a wry smile. I thought that was kind of funny but wasn’t about to argue. Fortunately, the girls were chilled about going out that night, too.

            We had plans, after all, to meet tomorrow morning for shopping. We grabbed a quick drink at the bar down the street from work, bitched about work (Mel and me), guys (Mel and Emma) and family (Willow) before heading out separate ways. After, I splurged on a rare taxi to make up for lost time.

            Once home, I changed—defaulting to a version of the casual night clothes that’d seen me out most night—loose jeans, sneakers, hoody, hair pulled back with a scrunchie and just enough makeup to add a few years to my face—clothes that minimised my gender somewhat rather than entirely concealed it. Most importantly, they allowed me to move freely, unlike the restrictive clothing of the daytime, of my Cindy-life.

            The bus ride was a long one, one of those winding, circular routes connecting main transport spokes extending from the city centre. The area around my home was a bit shit, but that ride showed just how desperate some of the fringe districts rimming the city could get. Gradually, neon light glow gave way to abandoned buildings and dark gaps. Poverty was etched in every streetcorner and pothole. The bus passed a boarded up high school, and silhouettes moving in darkened doorways spoke of squatters. The distant sound of sirens was all too frequent, as were shouts and yells. With some trepidation, I watched as with each stop the decay got worse. People moved in shadowed clusters across the street and there were few lights.

            Finally, the bus reached my destination. The bus stop itself was in complete darkness. Pools of light flickered from between nearby boarded up building. There was an agricultural factory here, and a few workshops to justify the stop, but at this time of night the area was dark and silent. When I went to disembark, the bus driver kept the door shut.

            “Listen hon, you sure you wanna get off here?” The driver sat behind reinforced, tinted glass, but the concern in their voice was obvious. “This place ain’t safe at night. It ain’t safe during the day, but it’s worse at night.”

            I got off and watched the bus leave. Pebbles crunched underfoot and a light wind whistled between crumbling buildings. The red taillights of the bus turned a corner and were gone. From somewhere not too distant and unseen, footsteps and quiet voices.

            My mental map of the area didn’t quite correspond with reality, but I started walking to keep moving. Standing still wouldn’t do me any good. My walk was brisk but confident, sticking to main roads as much as possible. The darkness of the bus stop gave way to a run-down commercial strip, mostly of it closed for the night, an occasional shop or fast-food joint shedding some light along the pavement. Further on, a late-night market: hectic stalls offering oases of reassurance—though everywhere, I drew curious and contemplative looks, some clearly sinister. More than once, I was followed. Stepping into a shop, ducking around a corner or hesitating at a stall usually shook off my stalkers.

            A few were more persistent. A lanky, pasty boy came too close, surly aggression in jeans and a ripped t-shirt, face pockmarked with acne. I stopped, turned, faced him directly. Nothing was said and I stared him down until his cocky grin faded, he shook his head and slouched away, hands in pocket, muttering under his breath.

            This wasn’t Cindy’s kind of neighbourhood. Good fucking thing I wasn’t Cindy, then, at least not for tonight. It showed in my body language. I walked with an arrogant confidence that did as much to get me through safely as anything else.

            Still. Even though it was hardly my first time walking at night, I’d never felt it so keenly, that is, the way my enforced femininity might be taken as vulnerability. My height, those curves that jeans and hoody couldn’t quite disguise, the cut of my clothes—to the attentive eye, they said ‘girl’ and being a girl, alone at night in a neighborhood like this?

            Yeah. Eyes, red-rimmed and sullen with dull resentment too often tracked my passage. They hated me because I was female; and because I was female, they wanted to hurt me.

            I moved swiftly—but not too swiftly—and kept to the light as much as possible, and by the time I reached my destination, I was feeling pretty fucking on edge. I would’ve grabbed a cab, but the instructions were explicit: take bus, get off, and walk to….

            The Pit. Fuck me, but I hadn’t been to a dive like this in ages. Painted blood-red against a dark sky by enormous floodlights, it towered three stories and throbbed with angry music. A crowd thronged outside, and the main doors gaped open like a bloody maw leading to the depths of some heavy-metal Hell. Raucous noise, thrown bottles and open drinking, the roar of motorcycle—mostly electric, obviously, loud with simulated noise—but even one or two authentic, gas-guzzling antiques, gleaming with fetishistic care.

            Later, finding myself bouncing between this place and Tartarus, I’d be able to compare the experience. Cindy didn’t feel out of place at a dance palace like Tartarus, she fit right in like butterfly wing shimmer in a spring meadow. That place was all sparkles and sweat, short skirts and tight tops, glitter and glamour. Sure, my first visit would prove a fucking humiliation and ended with… Jonas, but the time after that, and again? Happy Cindy times, for the most part.

            But The Pit? No way I’d ever bring the girls here—okay, maybe Mel but not the others—though honestly? Given the choice, I’d rather visit The Pit any day. Once upon a time, this was my kind of place, but oh my, no, Cindy didn’t belong here.

            It’s not like it was any skimpier than anywhere else: the girls I slouched past were as half-naked as any other night out, less so, in fact, and there was a hell of a lot more male flesh on display, bared chests and flabby bellies. There was a hell of a lot more leather and denim, and metal too, piercings, buckles, and chains. Thigh high boots and chrome heel spikes, bold makeup, fishnets and tattoos. The guys, too. Some tough-as-nails bastards you knew at a glance were big softies inside, kindly smiles hiding behind heavy beards, Santa Clauses in leather jackets. But also the other men, the lean and mean ones, angry and sullen, viciousness thrumming beneath the skin, prowling for any excuse for a fight. I kept my distance from those guys, best I could.

            And so much black! Christ, these people wrapped themselves in cloaks of inky darkness pierced with steel for stars, and at least I matched them for colour if nothing else. Truth is, those pre-Clinic weeks with Julia, and those nights out with the girls hadn’t prepared me for this. Quite the opposite: I had to suppress an ingrained feminine daintiness that would’ve had me moving and reacting in ways that would’ve made me stand out. This place called for a different kind of femininity, something brasher and bolder—either that, or finding someone tougher to cleave to, as so many of the other girls had.

            One girl made it painfully obvious I didn’t belong. I saw myself in her eyes: she was tall and rail-thin, barbell nose piercing and chain running to a cluster of spikes dangling from one ear, and three piercings along her eyelid. Tight leather bustier and fishnets sleeves and eyes heavy with black makeup, and she took in my hoodie and charity shop jeans—and sneered, not so much at the cheapness of my clothes but at their plainness. She deliberately stepped into me as I passed, shoulder checking me painfully. “City bitch,” she laughed, arm coiling around the waist of a short, curvy girl at her side.

            Clearly, I wasn’t the only city bitch in attendance. It was Friday night busy. City centre lights cut swaths across the clouded sky, and skyscrapers blinked in the distance. And from that centre, affluent, idiotic youths gathered, looking for an edgier night out—a thrill of danger—a unique and authentic experience, their very presence an insult. Some of them looked as nasty as anything local: entitled pricks looking to prove their masculinity, class warfare played out against a theatre of blacklights and heavy metal music. But mostly, the men and women the taxis deposited were cosplaying dickheads out of their league.

            But hey, maybe they’d find that authentic experience they were eager for. They’d regret it, probably, maybe learn that authenticity wasn’t something you found at a nightclub on the city fringes. Though watching the seething mass of youthful flesh gather: was I any different, really? I was here for precisely the same reason: to reclaim my real self, whatever the fuck that meant anymore.

            The air felt thick with the promise of violence, sweat and sex.

            Smile hidden within my hoodie, I joined the lineup leading to The Pit.