Work Text:
Tony
Everything about this feels so dishonest. I’m not the kind of guy who eats at restaurants where all the listed entrees are scallop-sized chunks of bone-in meat, adorned with bright green vegetable cubes and placed atop a schmear of baby food-ass butternut squash puree. I have no idea why being French and old as fuck makes the wine we just ordered any better than the, like, twelve dollar bottles on sale at Albertson’s. I’m not the kind of guy who knows how to wear this suit. Who knows how to tie this tie.
And I’m definitely not a guy who could impress a girl like this. She’s so beautiful. Intimidatingly, objectively, conventionally, professionally stunning. Like an actress on a red carpet. Which might be her actual job? She must have spent several hours and several hundred dollars getting her hair in those perfectly messy curls, getting those razor-sharp and blood red nail extensions placed on. If she didn’t pay to have her makeup done, then other people should be paying her. She’s wearing a deep-green choker and a black dress with a plunging neckline that shows off her chest and a slit that goes all the way up her long, gorgeous legs. It’s something a guy like me should be getting worked up about.
But considering that I find myself sitting across from her and all I can think about is how I wish I looked that good… I’m increasingly certain that I’m not a guy at all.
The lady I’ve been set up with, Lisa, rests her chin on a bridge made of her folded-together fingers -- which I’m pretty sure either indicates extreme curiosity or extreme disinterest, and everything about this date makes my sweaty, nervous ass think it’s probably the latter. Whatever it is, it feels judgy in a way that I really do not need right now.
She asks me, “So, what do you do for a living?”
And oh my fucking god, I have to act like I’m not having a crisis about my gender identity in the middle of my play-date at the fancy restaurant. I guess that’s my punishment, though. For agreeing to go along with this. For pretending like I didn’t know, when my mom set me up with Lisa and told me to pay for dinner with her card, that she’d gone through on her since-I-was-a-teenager threat of paying somebody to date me. Yeah, no shit, Mom. I wasn’t asking any girls out because I wanted to be one . Did she think I’d just trip across girls who were into guys who wished they were girls? Fat chance.
Oh my fuck, I haven’t answered her question yet.
“I…”
Oh double fuck, I can’t say what I actually do.
I raise my arm over my mouth and cough as though I needed to clear my throat. Real smooth, Tony, you’re fucking nailing this. Just absolutely crushing the world’s most awkward social interaction. Wait, should Tony even be my name now? NO, stop, FOCUS.
“I do commission work.”
She cocks her head, eyes unblinking, which feels like pulling the trigger on a gun labeled What the fuck does that mean?
I quickly follow up, “There’s not a lot to it. I’m an artist, but not, like, a big name one. So I basically just draw pictures that other people want me to.”
“That still sounds interesting. It’s neat that we’re both in creative fields.”
I take a sip of my water, trying not to have my trembling hands spill it all over my rented tux. “So, what is it that you do?”
Lisa
“Modeling.”
My answer is a lie, as it inherently has to be, though as far as I understand there are similarities. Both my lie and my truth require being in the correct places, the correct positions, with the exact timing that is necessary. Perhaps the biggest distinction is only a matter of discretion.
“Oh,” he replies, taking a sip of water, as he’s done every time it’s been his turn to speak.
I chuckle, “You seem less than enthused.”
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, but like…” Tony takes another shakey drink. “That’s kind of almost exactly what I thought your job would be, so my brain, just, like, short-circuited and I couldn’t think of anything to say. Does that kind of thing ever happen to you?”
I smile, my chin still resting on its comfy little finger bed. “I can’t say that it has.”
He perks up in his seat. “Really? Like, never?”
“Nope.”
“Wow,” he says, continuing to water himself like a plant. “Do you teach lessons?”
I like this boy. He’s so typically fake -- in that nervous, uncalculated way that only someone unaccustomed to putting on airs could be. There’s a perpetual fidget in his hands. His eyes dilate with each price, or worse, price absence that he sees on the scarce menu. He showed up to a first date clearly assuming it would be the last, wearing a suit a size too large, a cheap floral cologne, and -- for some reason -- clear nail polish. It evokes my mental image of a teenager on their way to pick up their date for prom. Or of a shaky-legged lamb being guided to the ax. Above all else, he’s so hilariously, lovably, embarrassingly, transparently intimidated by me.
Adorable as his demeanor may be, it raises an interesting question. If he’s not used to being here, then what is he doing here? This supposed date is allegedly on his dime. That being the case, he seems unused to the particular artifice of money. The act of pretending like he knows how to handle the inherent power at the root of all evil.
The simplest explanation -- that the man is yet another hapless Internet genius, perhaps some Bitcoin scammer currently experiencing a height while never once anticipating just how far he has to fall -- is mildly contradicted by what little I know of him. Liberal arts major. Minimal social media footprint. Unemployed. Moreover, he doesn’t seem like a complete douchebag, which puts him far outside the typical profile. And even if he were, I was contacted about this arrangement through his mother. Crypto schemes would seem far outside her wheelhouse.
“I only teach lessons on modeling,” I finally reply, “And only on Thursday mornings. Not too many guys I’ve met are interested in getting up that early to learn how to walk a runway in heels.”
“Yeah, umm, I guess not too many guys are, huh?”
The sommelier finally arrives with the wine that Tony ordered for the table. It’s a policy of mine to allow my dates to choose their favorite drink. Tony nervously holds out his glass before the man instructs him to set it back down. It’s a cute little exchange. He looks like a scolded puppy.
It’s almost a shame that I have to kill him.
Ton…?
That was fucking embarrassing. Please set the glass back down, sir. Yeah, well, I’m probably not even a sir! Fucking checkmate, put-upon wait staff.
Or like, wait, this might be a Michelin-star place? Does the waiter still get paid less than minimum wage? He might actually make more than I do, in which case, I have the absolute, unquestionable moral right to be an asshole back. I think. Whatever. At least I’m going to be getting lamb chops out of this.
With my menu now taken away by my new nemesis, there’s nothing left to look at but the kinda scary lady sitting across from me. Who is staring right back at me. Aggh. Fuck, this is so awkward, you have to say something Ton--
Toni? Oh no, nope, ew, that’s basically the same fucking name. I know that kind of name switch works for some girls, but it’s really not for me.
Oh my god, oh my god I just included myself as “girls” and that felt really good and ahhhhhhhhhh.
“What’s that cute little smile about?” Lisa asked, grabbing me by the ankles as I floated away and powerbomb-ing me back through the cold, candle-lit dining table of reality.
“C-cute?” I manage to stammer out.
“Definitely cute.”
Oh fuck, not cute . I’m supposed to be, like, pretending to be a man harder than I’ve ever man-pretended before. Does she know how long I had to spend staring into a mirror and trying not to cry while trimming my denial beard into this hideous goatee? Does she know how many awful compliments I had to endure when I rented this suit? I have years of experience faking masculinity. I’ve got to be able to hold it together for like one more hour.
Okay, Ton-- UGH! Okay, me , it’s suave time. “I’m just loving the chance to be able to spend my evening in the company of a woman as beautiful as you.”
Snort
Her hand rushes to cover her mouth, but there’s no disguising the fact that she just laughed at me. Fucking ow. Might as well have jumped across the table and stabbed me.
“I…”
“No, no. I’m sorry.” Her apology rings very hollow since she’s still giggling at me. She taps a finger against her temple. “But let’s be honest with each other, you haven’t been here since we got here.”
Oh god, am I that transparent?
“And -- let’s face this together -- this is an inherently awkward situation, is it not? Your mother asked me to come on a date with you. I assume she asked you to come here with me. Would I be wrong in assuming you’re planning on paying for dinner with her credit card?”
“You’re, uh. Completely right, as embarrassing as it is.”
“No, but see, it’s not embarrassing. I promise my intent here is not to emasculate you.”
I mean, I wouldn’t mind. As I think that to myself, there’s a new pang of fear. Oh fuck, if she’s this good at reading me, can she fucking tell?
“But you’ve seemed so anxious all night. Let’s see, how do I put this…”
And at that point, Lisa stood up. She picked the candle off the center of the table and placed it out of her way. I sank further into my chair. Then, she leaned all the way across the table, giving me quite the view of her chest and, I mean, I didn’t want to stare because that’s definitely objectifying but also, like, c’mon. She placed her middle finger on the edge of my wine glass, on the side closest to me, then started rubbing her finger around the rim -- like she was playing it as an instrument. Like she might make it squeal and break.
Girl, please calm the fuck down. You can’t start getting jealous of a goddamn cup.
Lisa’s eyes didn’t focus on me, instead up and around the ceiling, physically searching for the words she wanted. Then those eyes snapped back to mine.
“You’re like an egg…”
AGGH. FUCK.
At that point she rested a hand on mine.
“...You’re positively twitching with this restless potential energy. Like at any moment you’re set to burst open, but you’re trying to resist that. What I want you to realize is that it’s okay for you to hatch tonight. To fly free. There’s no pressure for you to stay confined away. Don’t think of this as a date where you need to impress a beautiful woman. Think of this merely as a nice evening. A gourmet dinner on someone else’s dime. Who knows if you’ll ever get a chance like that again?”
Okay, yeah, good talk. It’s great that I’m an egg because my brain feels like it’s been fucking scrambled. Or fried. Or, considering our situation, made into a French omelet with white pepper, black truffle, and gruyere. Any way you cook it, I’m not in the fuckin’ shell now, am I?
I look back up in fear and awe at Lisa as she slithers back over into her seat, a smile on her face still showing her sexy, evil snake fangs. Oh my goddamn god. How did this woman see through me that clearly? How was that so laser targeted to snipe my breath right out of my lungs?
Then my eyes fell on the choker around her neck.
No. Fucking. Way.
Lisa
What a shame it is that our time together is already almost over. I’ve performed my little theater and taken my little chance to poison his wine. In a moment, he’ll take a sip. Then he will excuse himself for a declaratively quick, but, in actuality, final trip to the restroom. That’s how all my dates go. It’s how I pay the rent.
Yet, as I slide myself back into my seat, I notice Tony is eyeing me, and not with the slovenly leering I’ve come to expect. No, his eyes show confusion. Scrutiny, even. I may have been a bit too hard on exposing the boy’s vulnerabilities.
“So,” I begin, hoping to create a distraction, “Do you have any hobbies outside of work?”
It takes a second for those eyes to snap and meet mine, before they instantaneously dart away again. Interesting. He’s neither staring at my chest or at my face, which only leaves --
My neck.
It takes all my years of training to keep my hand from covering my throat. Did he see it? The scar on my neck from my duel in Lisbon with the woman who killed my father?
As she lay dying, her sword falling from her roughened hands as the venom tinged across my blade took hold, she swore that her mark on my neck was the mark of dishonor, and that one day this scar would betray me just as I had betrayed the sanctity of our duel. How humiliating for us both it would be for that prophecy to come to fruition on a date with Tony the mama’s boy.
“I play a lot of video games,” he mumbles.
His near-mindless, delayed answer dispels some of the tension building in my throat. I reply, “I’m not much of a gamer myself, but I’ve dabbled. Are you currently playing anything interesting?”
Usually when I ask that question I might as well take off my shoes and bra, change into my pjs, and microwave some popcorn because I will be done working. My target will spend the entire rest of the night, before their sudden rush to pray before the porcelain god, talking to me at length about their proficiency at no-scoping -- as though any of these cretins ever had any actual experiences necessitating firing a long-range firearm at point-blank range.
Yet, with a prodding sort of tone, tonight’s target asks me, “Have you heard of a game called Celeste ?”
For once, I actually have. A previous target, a billionaire’s son, evidently had nothing more pressing on his mind than a brief depiction of a pride flag in the ending. He would, as I believe the children say, die mad about it.
“I have, though I haven’t had the pleasure of playing it. But I do find its central themes highly relatable.”
“Same here.” Tony nervously grinned. “I’m, uh, just getting started on it. It’s really good. But, like, if you’re not too experienced with games, it is a pretty hard one.”
“Do you think I’m not up for a challenge?” I asked, noting the boy was still glancing at my neck. If he had seen the scar, and was so entranced by it, it was strange that he had yet to openly ask what had happened.
“No, I mean… Sorry, I just wanted to give you a heads up.” Tony stammered, taking another drink of his water.
Not his wine.
In fact, he hadn’t yet taken the tiniest sip of the wine, nor breathed the aroma in. I don’t believe he even took a sample taste from the sommelier.
He does commission work. He knows about my scar, he’s avoiding my trap, and the words he just said were a playful little warning.
What was a faint unease has turned to sirens, and all of the strange things about this job are beginning to fall in place. His mother -- whom I had far more extensive research on -- I had thought her merely a lucky fool, a former hobbyist who found success almost by accident in the world of art trading and, therefore, money laundering. Now she stumbles into hiring me through a nigh-incriminating request to please take care of him. Mother? More like handler . How easily I fell for her clueless routine.
The same phony naivety I see now in my date. My opponent. Now I can pierce through his ruse, this innocent bumbling of a small creature caught in a snare it could never hope to comprehend. How many women have you lured to their deaths through that goofy charm, Tony? If that even is your real name.
There’s a reason he’s not drinking the wine. I poisoned his glass, but he picked the bottle.
He was never meant to be my target. I’m supposed to be his.
T
Lisa hasn’t tried the wine. It must be, like, rude to start drinking before the food gets here. Makes sense. It’s not like I’ve got any bread in my stomach to absorb it, ‘cause it’s not like I’m at the fucking Olive Garden, eating to kill time until the waiter brings me a extended nuclear family’s worth of shrimp pasta alfredo. I think instead we have a first course of two butterflied prawns on a bed of hominy porridge -- whatever the fuck that is. I’ll just follow Lisa’s lead on this. It’s not like I usually even drink.
In fact I might need to start taking her lead on a few other things, too, ‘cause oh my god I can’t believe my mom set me up with another trans girl . I’m so fucking lucky.
Wait, brain, hold your neuro-horses. I’m getting way ahead of myself. Like, okay, she’s wearing a sexy choker and has heard of a video game. That’s not exactly a lot of hard evidence. Except that she also straight-up called me a fucking egg, and the only way in which she was off target is that I’m barely one step ahead.
Should… should I just, like, ask her? But oh god, oh no, she’d get so mad at me if she isn’t. Which would be a shitty thing for her to do, so -- if there was an argument -- I’d be morally in the right. Which would definitely make going through that awkward, awful situation completely worth it. And, fuck me, what if she is trans? She probably doesn’t want me explicitly asking her to out herself to me in the middle of a restaurant, on a date with someone who is, by all appearances, still just a guy.
Fuck, I know I should just play it cool, just let the night play out, let it be a fun little thing that happened to me right before I started transitioning. But I’m never gonna forgive myself if I don’t actually learn anything. Everything I know about trans people is stuff I’ve read online. I don’t know anybody, I have no idea how this shit actually works, and I especially don’t know how it works, like, here. Are there meet-ups in walking or busing distance from my apartment? When’s Pride? Which doctors here will prescribe HRT and which are total scum? Are there any nearby places to buy cute clothes? Does our local Planned Parenthood do informed consent? Do we even have a local Planned Parenthood? The only other trans person I actually know might be the scary hot lady sitting across the table from me and casually staring daggers into my soul, and I can’t be too chicken-shit to pass this chance up.
I begin to stammer, “If… if you don’t mind me asking, are you--”
Her eyes stay locked on mine as they widen, ever so slightly. Just enough for me to know absolutely and concretely that if I ask the wrong question in the wrong way this woman is gonna beat the everloving shit out of me.
“Are you enjoying yourself at all?” I nearly spill my water as I bring it to my lips. More than a bit of it trickles into this awful fucking beard. I never want to feel that sensation ever again. “Like, the date has kind of fallen apart. I’m, uh, intrigued by the food but I don’t want you to just keep you hostage here, having a drawn-out, shitty evening.”
My hands rush to clench my temple. Goddamn it, I’ve been trying not to swear. Out loud, at least.
Her eyes dart around to the other tables, like she’s checking to make sure no one heard that. When she looks back at me, she replies, “I assure you, I’m not easily held hostage.”
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“For what, exactly?” The intensity of her gaze, uh, intensified, which at this point was honestly really impressive.
“For, uh, for being such a fucking awkward, nervous wreck.”
“Your amuse-gueule, sir,” said our waiter, appearing from the shadows like a ghoul and putting extra spite on that ostensible term of respect. This fucking bastard, with his horrible timing and face that I really, really wanted to imagine with a giant comedy mustache -- yet was stubbornly clean-shaven, seeming for the sole purpose of denying me even that small enjoyment -- turned to me. “Out of respect for the other guests, would you kindly refrain from using such language during your time here?”
“Yeah. Sure,” I said, like the little shrinking violet I am. Is Violet a good name? Probably not if this moment is what I’m gonna associate it with.
“Thank you, sir.” He gently placed a couple small plates in front of Lisa and me. “The chef recommends enjoying this dish in delicate, slow tastes, allowing each to fully coat the palate, allowing the experience of both the flavor and aroma to sink in before swallowing.”
Gotta remember that line to caption my next drawing.
Goddamn it, I’m so crass.
The waiter politely excused himself while I sat there reeling from the embarrassment inherent to all my words and thoughts. I’m never gonna transition the right way. Whatever that means.
I guess, right now, it means being more like Lisa? Intense, beautiful, soft-spoken in a way that definitely isn’t shy. More like, thoughtful and deliberate. I bet she doesn’t ever get chewed out for being a massive dumbass. Girls aren’t supposed to swear as much as I do. Or I guess that’s just something I was taught as a kid and mindlessly integrating that into myself is just rank misogyny. Internalized misogyny, really, ‘cause I’m also a girl. Unless the niggling doubt in the back of my mind is right and I’m not good enough at being a girl to call myself one, as evidenced by all the fucking swearing. This shit is so overwhelming. I hate my brain. That’s probably actually why I want to be like Lisa, specifically. She doesn’t act like someone who deals with this constant, grasping paranoia.
“Do you ever swear?” I asked, before realizing I’m asking a weird question that from her perspective is coming completely out of nowhere.
Her reply came, as confusing as it was confused, “As in swearing oaths?”
“No, as in saying the fuck word in front of the waiter d’.”
“ Maître d’, ” she corrected.
“I mean, I know that, I just…” I sighed. “Sorry, that was almost a joke.”
“Oh.”
Fucking oh my god ow. This is dying. This is what death feels like. It’s not worth it. This little plate of two big-ass shrimp n’ smeared-ass grits is not worth any more dealing with anybody’s bullshit. It’s not worth the vanishingly slim chance of getting to learn how this transition crap works. I’ll just go it alone. Like I’m already doing.
“Alright, Lisa, it’s been an experience meeting you tonight,” I stood up from my chair. “But I’m tired and uncomfortable and I think it’s time to end this.”
“Is it now?” Lisa asked, her eyes cast at a nearby window. “I think, given the circumstances, that would put me in a rather awkward position.”
“Why?”
“You said you would pay tonight.” She grinned. “I’m afraid I didn’t think to bring my wallet.”
Stupid fucking traditional gender roles that I’m not even currently on the right fucking side of. I slumped back down in my chair.
“Tell me,” she asked, playing with the rim of her wine glass and almost pointedly not eating, “when did you pick up this disarmingly self-deprecating attitude?”
That’s a big question to unpack right now. What the hell, though? If she’s not gonna be my date or my trans mentor, might as well have her be my unpaid therapist, ‘cause that won’t get me yelled at online.
“I was picked on a lot in…” Dammit, I really don’t feel like specifying Boy Scouts specifically. I wind up just sighing “...Scouts.”
“Hm.” She slyly grinned at me again, and again made me feel like a little mouse being slowly batted at by a giant cat that’s definitely going to eat me, but not until it toys around with me first, and I have to stop thinking about this before I vocalize any of it.
“When did you learn to be so badass?” -- is the question that somehow scrambled its way out of my mouth.
To my surprise, instead of laughing at me, she stared out the window again, as if earnestly considering her response. Her eyes stayed transfixed on the city outside the window for a good, long while.
Long enough, in fact, for my arm to reach its way over to my wine glass. Fuck it. If I’m going to make an even bigger ass of myself tonight, I want to be able to blame it on booze.
I leaned over and sipped a little bit of the wine. God, it tastes like clorox, sour grapes, and sour ass. I held it in my mouth cause my body wouldn’t let me swallow it. Is this what my mom is paying too much money for?
Lisa's answer to my question finally arrived, “I believe it was when I began undergoing HRT.”
And that’s when I straight-up did a spit-take.
Lisa
HRT, an acronym of typical military construction (that is, poor), stands for High-value-target Removal, acquisition, and elimination Training . It is a grueling program. A secret program, available and completable only by the determined elite. I nearly died as often as I killed. It was a period of my life that took and took, yet I left it with something invaluable. A deep, unwavering sense of paranoia.
The same paranoia that has me glancing out this window. I myself would doubtlessly be considered a high-value target, which makes it very unlikely that Tony came here alone. In fact, I highly doubt whichever “ scouts” organization trained him would allow him to lone wolf this encounter. The waiter wielding the poisoned wine is likely an accomplice, and I now see why he chose this table for us specifically. There’s a rooftop from a nearby building which, from the window adjacent to us, has sightlines on me. While I can’t know exactly whether or not this team has a sniper positioned there, it would be far better to act as though they have, and I am certainly in their crosshairs. In which case, I am well and truly trapped.
Tony has now sipped and spat-out the contents of his wine glass, summoning over our server. I can only assume such an obvious, clownish gesture to be the signal that their cover has been blown. No matter, the whole point of openly referencing secret ops was to test if they were willing to take their shot. And, by the grace of skill and luck, I once again find myself still among the living. Either my date fully intends my end to be discreet, or he aspires to take me alive.
“Is something not to your liking, sir?” our server whispers in Tony’s ear.
The boy’s attention stays fully on me, confusion, excitement and fear all mixing into a near-blank expression. It takes a second for the waiter’s question to register in his mind. With a jolt, he replies, “Yeah, everything’s fine. Sorry.”
Interesting. The mission has yet to be aborted. It appears whatever cat-and-mouse game he thinks we’re playing is one he would like to continue.
“Very well, sir.” Our waiter nods at Tony, then at me. “Please wait just a moment longer, I’ll be returning with your main course shortly.”
Every survival instinct remaining in my body informs me that I need to find a way to escape before whatever the waiter is bringing arrives.
“Sorry,” Tony mumbles at me.
“Whatever for?” There were no hard feelings on my end. Business is business, after all.
“Well, I’m…” He fidgeted with his fingers in a cute little way. Then he leaned forward, motioning for me to lean in as well. As I approached, he cupped his hands around his mouth. Then, as gently as he could, he whispered, “I’m, you know, like you.”
I snorted. Secret agent or assassin, whichever he was, his job title did little to detract from the obvious fact that he was, genuinely and somewhat charmingly, a huge dork. I replied, my voice as audible as it always is, “Yes, hon. I’m aware. That’s the whole reason I’m willing to talk about it.”
“O-oh.” Tony slid back into his seat. “Is it, like, really obvious?”
“Yes.” I said, returning to my chair. “But only if you know what you’re looking for.”
“Do you mind if I ask what gives me away?”
Honestly, that was a fair question. Even I found it hard to pinpoint what exactly tripped my first alarm. He was secretive, to be sure, but who isn’t? Yet I find most secrets are, let’s say, situational. Embarrassing decisions, horrifying crimes, bad business dealings -- things that one would rather die than have revealed, yet they were all actions, committed at a defined moment in time. There was only one secret I knew that continued with someone, and that walked with them through every interaction they had.
“Just a general sense. There’s an aura about you. One that reminds me enough of myself to ping my radar, so to speak.”
Speaking of auras, by now Tony’s had shifted dramatically. Where once there sat an anxious teen, the boy had regressed into a small, bouncing child, delighted to be going to the candy store.
“Wow. Um. This might be really awkward of me, but do you mind if I ask some questions? I mean, it’s really obvious that I’m still pretty new at this.”
That part had actually been unclear to me, though it explains the lack of a killer’s instinct in my opponent’s eyes. Most likely, then, he is the greenest member of whatever cell he works for, and therefore his relative expendability is what has placed him the most dangerous seat. I suppose the cruelty of asking me, his target, to give him pointers on being more efficient at killing is matched by the cruelty of his teammates’ decision to place him here.
“I wouldn’t say it’s usually my preference to talk shop on a date, but I don’t see why I can’t relish it as a rare opportunity.” Sensing that I may have left the door open a bit too wide, I quickly added, “So long as we speak with some manner of discretion. I wouldn’t want our conversation tonight to become the subject that the people three tables over find themselves speaking about for the rest of their lives.”
Tony nodded along, “Yeah, for sure, for sure. I wasn’t planning on getting, like, super personal.”
“Strictly business?”
“Strictly business,” Tony repeated, drawing a line across the air with his hand.
I waved my hand in response, “Then shoot.”
“You mentioned starting HRT? Do you think that would help me?”
“As much as it helps anyone.” I paused for a moment after responding. My opponent’s disturbingly delighted face did not seem to pick up on the dripping irony of my statement. “Though I personally can’t speak to the experience of starting it as an adult.”
At that point, his newfound joyous demeanor car-crashed into confusion. “Wait, how old were you when you started HRT?”
“Ten.”
“TEN?” he shouted in surprise, jumping back in his seat.
Until that point, I’d been unaware how the typical age for recruits was seldom publicized, apparently even among people who knew about the program.
I held my finger to my lips and shushed him. “ Discretion .”
Slowly he sunk back down, returning to his standard slouch. “Right, yeah. Sorry, discretion. I’m just blown away, though. Isn’t that, like, illegal or something?”
I snorted again. What a ridiculous thing to even consider. “If I cared one iota for the law, or if it ever cared for me, do you honestly think I’d be here?”
Tony scratched his head. “Wow, uh. Yeah, I never, like, directly thought about it that way, but that’s really fair. Still, I’m like, you must’ve had real supportive parents.”
At this point I’m unsure whether my date is actively taunting me or has simply been thrown out to the wolves with so little research or training that he would think the wolf to be a mere puppy before, during, and after the process of it biting off his leg. Surely at some point someone should have briefed him on some of my more developmental experiences.
“My parents were rather unable to object to my personal choices.” I hoped that making my words acidic enough their meaning could eat through his thick skull.
“Why was that?”
I blinked. Are you kidding me?
“They’re dead, dumbass.”
A silence hung in the air for a moment. Then I watched Tony’s eyes widen. His hand flew to cover his mouth and most of his awful goatee. “Fuck. Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s alright, hon. It was a long time ago.”
There was a deeply genuine concern in his face. A look of sympathy, a look of regret. The kind of sincerity I’ve learned to exploit. At my command, water began welling in my eyes.
“Hey,” my opponent says, staring like a sucker at the tear forming on my face. “We can drop this topic if you want.”
“No, I promise, I’m fine.” I said, wiping the tear away with just a touch too much force. A black smear on the back of my hand confirms that I’ve successfully smudged my eyeliner. “Though, I think I’ve messed up my makeup. Do you mind if I take a moment to touch it up a bit?”
“Yeah, that’s no problem.”
My hand slides into my purse, my nails playfully tapping against the handle of my pistol. Alas, it is of no use to me now. I might be able to take out my date, maybe even the waiter accomplice as well, but that would leave me entirely at the mercy of the sniper. Instead I reach past the weapon and place my fingertips around a toy. Some years ago, I took a small souvenir from the corpse of the last super spy to think she could outplay me. Her team had evidently thought it best to equip her with silly little baubles, mere back-of-the-magazine trinkets playing as Bond-esque gadgetry, neither of which could do her much good when faced with the practical tools of those of us who take our lives seriously. Yet I found this particular trinket to be quite cute. Whether that was in spite or because of its seeming uselessness, I couldn’t say.
The toy in question was a layered series of convex lenses and micro-mirrors, concealed within a decorative gold plating to look like a simple makeup compact. Through adjustments made with a few imperceptibly small gears on the side, one could translate nearly any light source into a heat source and create a specific focal point to set aflame. In all my years of murder for profit, I’d never found that fire could accomplish much that ammunition could not, but that had a chance to change tonight. If I were to pull a gun and open fire, I would be immediately fired upon. If, however, the man sitting across from me was to spontaneously combust , I might have a chance to slip away in the uproar.
I placed the compact on the table. Then, feigning as though the room was too dark to see myself clearly, I picked up the candle from the center of our table and brought it beside me. Now, I would simply have to adjust the focus until my date was going up in flames.
Evidently, though, the focal point was already set upon a part of our table, for, as soon as I moved the candle, my opponent’s barely touched glass of wine and poison began steaming and bubbling like a witch’s cauldron.
The boy’s head shot over to the glass. He slowly lifted a finger to point to it.
“Is it supposed to do that?”
“Well, the sommelier certainly wasn’t lying when he described it as effervescent,” I remarked.
“Huh.”
I turned the compact away from the wine, far too obviously. It was the kind of motion for which I expected extremely swift punishment. No matter. Being shot seemed delightful in the face of the possibilities that might unfold by adding even a joule more energy to that twice-poisoned chalice.
Yet, I found myself once again surprised that retribution did not come blasting through that plate glass window. Instead, my opponent seemed lost in thought. Good. As I fiddled with the little gears on this gizmo, it was quickly, and deeply frustratingly, becoming apparent that precise aiming at my target would take some considerable time.
But, oh, did I have the perfect target in mind. I couldn’t wait to see one of the drops of highly reactive poisoned alcohol caught in his silly little goatee burn the full forest of facial hair down with it.
M
I have to give this lady a name for me, like, now. I do not want her to keep thinking of me as my deadname. The name running through her brain is still the same one as that plague of a hot, buff cereal mascot that’s followed me my whole goddamn life. Do you know how fucking frustrating it is to have everybody just assume you’re a tiger -- hell, give me tiger as nickname -- when that’s not even what I am?
I guess I could say my name is Lyn, since that is my fursona’s name. But, mmm, am I really the same person as the bunny girl who beats up evil robots with twin katanas and bottoms for punk-rock hyena ladies? Do I have the right to claim that I’m that awesome? Not on this date, I fuckin’ don’t.
Right now, I guess through sheer panicked time pressure, I’m gravitating towards a name that starts with M . Mary? Margaret? Molly? M …. ily? Emily? That doesn’t start with an M, you unfocused dingbat.
Oh fuck, I’ve almost certainly been sitting around staring off into space for too long. Say something. Ask more questions. Sure, her transition experience is way different from however mine is going to be, and I can’t lie that I’m more than a little jealous that she got to transition so young. But that just means she’s been at this whole being queer thing for a while. There’s got to be a way I can learn to be more like her.
Don’t blow this. She’s still over there messing with her mirror -- ask about her makeup. Do a girl talk.
“I like your eyeliner.”
Nailed it.
“Thank you, I find that the amount of compliments I receive are far disproportionate to the amount of money I spend.” She spoke into her mirror as she continued moving both it and the table candle. She hadn’t started actually fixing anything yet. Not that it was even really that messed up.
“What brand do you use? Do you have to go to Ulta to get it?” I asked, before being struck by a grim realization. “Oh my god, no, are there makeup stores that are more expensive than Ulta ?”
“If you’re that curious about my eyeliner, you can feel free to take a look.” Lisa said, pulling her purse up from beside her. “The lighting in this room is rather uncooperative.”
She rooted around in her bag for a minute before pulling out a stubby little eyeliner pencil, which she tossed to me over all the overpriced, untouched food and drink. But when she moved her arm, I caught a glimpse of something in her purse -- a bottle of pills.
I caught the eyeliner, but now my fickle focus was fixed on this. “You use pills?”
That caught Lisa’s attention enough to finally make her look up from her compact. “Pardon?”
“Sorry, I just read somewhere that, like, injections were better for long-term use, or something.”
“I can assure you from experience that both have equally long-term effects, but pills tend to be more available, less expensive, require less set-up, and are far less conspicuous.”
Oh yeah, I guess you can’t really just bring needles with you wherever you go. You’d look like a fucking serial killer. And like, transitioning as young as she did, it seems like Lisa’s spent a lot of her life going stealth. I bet it helps that she can pass her pills off as being basically anything.
“What if stealth isn’t something you really care about, though?”
Lisa scoffed. “Then you’re far bolder than I’ve ever been.”
That…
Was a really unexpected bit of self-deprecation.
She can’t do that. She’s the experienced one here. Anxious self-loathing is supposed to be my shtick.
“Hey, don’t talk about yourself like that. You just told me that you illegally started HRT as a preteen. That takes some fucking boldness.”
She looked up from the compact, her dark eyes locking with mine long before the rest of her head raised up to match. My gut tightened. I’d just fucked up.
“What it takes is pure, raw desperation. A hunger and anger that gets honed into a scalpel so fine that the legs supporting the ideals of our society won’t register when they’re being cut. I don’t know what you think the experience of the world you’re entering into is going to be like, but my experience has been a deeply solitary one. And regardless of how things play out here tonight, it’s likely to remain that way.”
Whatever coyness she came into the date with is gone. I can’t stop staring at her eyes. There’s a coldness there. If anyone at this table is a tiger, it’s her, and I’m a kid at the zoo that just fell into her enclosure. I’ve been poking and prodding around her territory, and so far this beast has been content to simply let me. But it just growled at me. I can’t look away now. To look away would be death.
“Tell me, hon, because I’m genuinely curious,” she said, her hands folding together again, this time with what was unmistakably wrapped attention. “What is the actual point of this game of twenty questions? Earlier, you mentioned being uncomfortable with this situation. At any point, you could have called over your friend, the waiter, and we could bring things to a quick conclusion.”
I try to say something, anything that doesn’t make me sound like a huge jerk. “Well, the point is, that, like, you’re really cool, and stuff.”
“So I‘m aware. Is that not something you can simply bask in? Because I’m not particularly enjoying the experience of having it picked apart.”
Fuck. Fuck, I… I-- “Honestly, I’m asking you all this stuff because I want to be more like you.”
“That’s a stupid thing to want.”
With those words, her knife ran straight through me. The frantic thoughts fell silent. I didn’t process. Or speculate. I didn’t really even feel. For a moment, there was nothing but the static of overwhelming.
I was like that for a moment. Sent to that timeless, blank purgatory of embarrassed dissociation. I was there long enough and deep enough that I saw, but didn’t comprehend, that Lisa had slumped back in her chair.
It took her starting to speak for me to realize that the blade she threw cut both ways. She said, “You should want to be more like you.”
Slowly, I woke up enough to form some words. “I, uh, don’t really know what that means.”
“Neither do I.” With a lurch forward, she returned to playing with the mirror she’d left on the table.
What… what the fuck am I doing?
I’m talking to woman I just met, asking her to dig up all the trauma she’s dealt with about not only being a kid who was so dysphoric that she somehow scrambled together grey-market hormones as a goddamn baby, but also dealing with all of that after she lost both of her parents. She’s probably had to get really strong, really fast, in a way that really sucks . God, I hope she has people in her life she can talk to about that.
My brain wants to start pitying her, but that feels wrong. Like, she’s a professional model, and she seems to eat at expensive places like this kinda frequently. I know those are trite and extremely capitalist measures of success, but they are still culturally-pushed goals that she has solidly grabbed onto in spite of what seems like a ton of early childhood struggles. I’m really curious if she finds value in that. How does she feel about things, in general? If she’s gone deep stealth like I think she has, is that a source of pride for her, or is it where that bit of self-loathing came from? Some of the answers to those questions might make it way hard for us to actually get along, yet, still, I really want to know.
Which means I can’t just treat her as this fount of knowledge; I have no idea what her life’s really been like. But, you know what? Fuck strictly business. We’re supposed to be a fucking date, aren’t we? I want to get to know her. Not as, like, transition goals, or as this symbol of the queer community, but as a person. If she’ll let me.
“You’re right. I think it’s been really unfair of me to just, like, put the weight of all this stuff that’s going on in my head on you. You seem like you’re in control of things in a way that I’m kinda jealous of, but I’m being kinda shitty sitting here and grilling you about it.”
“Do I seem in control?” She picked up the makeup compact from the table, waving it around with an exasperated sigh, like she was sick of it not showing her whatever she was hoping it would. “If I do, that’s only because I’m an expert at seeming. It’s sort of vital for my survival.”
“Is it--” No, if I start the question that way, it’s too general. I want to hear about her life. “Has it always been that way for you?”
“Absolutely. I’m shocked that it isn’t like that for you already.”
I’m starting to kinda wonder if Lisa has the healthiest mindset about her trans-ness. Like, even I know that putting your whole life in terms of pretending involves internalizing a ton of toxic shit. Her support network better not be reenforcing those feelings.
“Wow,” I ask, “does everyone around you also feel that way?”
She flicked her wrist with a casual dismissal, like I’d asked her for the time when she didn’t have her phone, and gave the harrowing answer, “I can’t say I’ve been around enough of us for long enough to know the general perspective. This is already the longest face-to-face conversation with another of our ilk that I’ve ever had.”
At that, my brain and the already-crumbling image of Lisa I had in my head both exploded. She doesn’t know any other queer people. Just like me. Fuck, maybe even worse than like me. I at least lurk on a couple subreddits and Discord servers. I’ve even exchanged DMs with a couple trans girls who’ve gotten commissions. Like, I can pretend I know people.
“Wow, uh, girl? That’s awful . We both need to make some fucking friends.” My chest tightened as the words I wanted to say tried to get caught up and choke me out, but I refused to let them. “Wanna try starting with each other?”
She gave a little snort-chuckle. “Is this really the time for that?”
“You holding out for a better one?”
“Fair enough.” There was a softening in her voice. “As a friend, I want to respond -- You’ve been asking me for my advice?”
“Uh-huh?” I wish I had a pen and paper to take notes on whatever she was about to say.
“This whole talking about your feelings thing is disarming, and a potential winning strategy. It’s a good look for you.”
“Really?” My heart skipped so fast from that minimal compliment that I felt like pushing my luck. “How do you think I look in general?”
“You’re dashing, dear, though if I could offer a small critique? The goatee…” She nearly slammed her compact back down on the table, her venomous sneer returning. “...has got to go.”
At that moment, my face got real hot. Uncomfortably hot, like, way hotter than it ever has before. What the fuck is going on? Did I just start crushing on this girl that hard ?
“Oh my fucking god,” I mumbled, my hands flying over my cheeks.
From behind my hands, a voice of a man who was polite but irritatingly not cartoonishly pompous, gently, yet firmly, said, “ Sir , if I have to remind you again to watch your language, I will have to ask you to leave this establishment.”
I spread my fingers to once again peer up at the face of my newly minted most hated arch-enemy. The waiter had arrived, racks of lamb in tow. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong attitude, bucko. I’m feeling just about ready to stand up for myself.
And that’s gonna start with me standing up from this table.
Lisa
Everything moved so quickly from the moment he stood.
“Look, dude, it would be my fucking pleasure to get kicked out of here,” my date began speaking, lifting himself up by using the table for leverage.
The gentle bump of his palm served as yet enough force to knock my finicky little mirror toy away from him and back towards that infernal wine glass.
It steamed. Dinner had arrived. Time was up, consequences be damned. Our cards had been dealt, and our rounds of bluffing and upping the ante were complete. No choice left but to show our hands.
The wine bubbled. I grabbed my purse.
It exploded -- the liquid rushing upwards out of the glass, turning to aerosol then to an uproar of fire in less than the time it took to blink. The flare was small, more firework than firebomb, but the light, force, heat, and confusion were all that I needed them to be.
I ran. No hesitancy. To wait but an instant would mean death.
“Hey, wait!” my now former opponent called to me as I rounded the door, followed by a soft, “Aw, shit.”
I didn’t stick around for the aftermath, to see the extent of the flames or the damage. The door I shoved myself through welcomed me to the city outside, though that provided me no comfort nor safety, for I was still in the potential sightlines of the sniper above. A stranger, who was presumably walking to the nearby bus stop, would suffice as my temporary, unwitting human shield, as I got beside them and matched their walking pace for just long enough for us both to reach the nearest alley.
I ducked inside, finding myself still next to the restaurant I had just fled. Inside I heard shouting, pandemonium, and hopefully enough chaos for me to go unnoticed as I picked up enough running speed to jump on top of the closed dumpster and clamber over a nearby chain-link fence.
That landed me squarely in the downtown parking garage, where my Mercedes was parked on the third level. As much as I would love to recover it, if my position had been compromised, so had its. Better to leave it to rot. I considered hotwiring one of the other vehicles, but between the time that would take and the general flow of downtown traffic, simply walking would provide me more flexibility at comparable speed.
My phone, just as if not more easy to trace, I pulled out of my purse and placed directly underneath the front tire of an overpriced and uselessly oversized Ford pick-up. In all likelihood, it would be destroyed with no issue. As for navigating back to the safe house, I would need to rely solely on the map of the city I had memorized. Let’s see… unless I’m mistaken, and I so seldom am, the nearest subway station is two blocks to the east and three blocks to the south. That, unfortunately, takes me back the way I came, towards both the sniper and my potentially still alive target. That matter would need rectification at a later date.
The only subway stations to my north, and thusly away from the sniper, were on a different rail line entirely and considerably further away. An unlucky, but manageable situation. It was 11:03. At my current pace, keeping off of main roads, I could make the 11:45 train, assuming it was its typical seven or eight minutes late. It had been a while since I’ve gotten this much use out of my practice running in stilettos.
I sprinted through the gutters of the city streets, my purse pulled tight to my hip and my hand inside, grasping the hilt of my handgun. Yet at every road, I’d slow, wait for the little glowing man to signal my turn to walk, pretending to just not quite be able to find whatever it is I’m looking for in my bag. A gunner sat in every car that passed by. Every pedestrian was an assailant, one look of intent away from a midnight showdown at high noon.
The subway turnstiles greeted me without any weapons needing to be drawn. The train arrived, late for its schedule but on time for me. I stood in front of the doors as they slid open.
And found myself immediately face-to-face with my ill-fitting-suited opponent once again.
He’d won. There was no use denying it. He’d predicted my movements perfectly. His positioning and stance, directly in front of me, his eyes at my forehead’s height, were ideal. Even a person of a civilian’s skill level would be able to disarm me at this range before I could fire a shot.
I had only an instant to wonder if all that talk had been for this purpose. Perhaps he had done his research, had known enough about me to know exactly where I’d go. He’d meant to lure me here. Late at night. Few enough witnesses that no one would be able to identify the gunman before the train whisked him away to the next stop.
Instead of bullets, however, his words tore through me. “Oh my god, Lisa! I can’t believe you’re here!”
His face lit up in surprise and joy in much the way that it had refused to light up with fire. I simply nodded in response.
“That was some crazy shit back there, right? I don’t blame you for just fucking booking it; I thought the whole damn building was about to burn down.” He brushed by, still bizarrely not shooting me, as he exited the train. “I’m so glad I ran into you, though. I don’t wanna hold you up but, like, if you still want to talk to me at all, I still wanna talk to you. Here--”
He held out a cloth for me to take. Stunned, and with seemingly no other recourse, I obliged.
“See you around!” he said, and just like that, he started making his way towards the stairs.
I, not knowing what else to do with the only act I’ve mercy I’d ever known, waved goodbye and stepped on the train.
I floated like a spectre to an unoccupied seat, looking at the rag in my hand. On further inspection, it was clearly a napkin from the restaurant we’d just left, unfolded from its fancy little pyramid and refolded into a simple square. I peeled apart the layers like they may be the trigger to a bomb.
On the inside, I found a phone number, scrawled on the napkin with my eyeliner. Next to that was written a woman’s name that I’d not seen before…
Emilyn
Oh my god, I can’t believe how fucking lucky I just got!
I was not expecting to run into her again, especially not after having to spend forever explaining to restaurant staff that, no, I don’t know what the fuck just happened. At least they cooled off once I explained that they should be really glad that the damage was limited to one wine glass, a table cloth, and some ceiling paint, ‘cause if that shit they served had exploded like that in my stomach, they would’ve had a real goddamn mess on their hands. Still mad they wouldn’t give me the lamb chops to-go, though.
Adrenaline -- from the luck of seeing Lisa, from handing her the note with my new name on it ( oh my god, I have a new name, ahhhhhh ), and from not exploding -- carried me in a euphoric haze all the way down the street and up the stairs to my apartment. My phone buzzed along the way, but whatever. It’s almost certainly just the weather app updating to tell me shit I already know.
My roommate wasn’t home, like he usually wasn’t on Saturday nights, which is awesome for me. Barely made it to my room before I tore off that suit like it was radioactive, wadded up the pieces, and chucked them on the far side of my bed. Then, from under that bed, I pulled out a box that used to contain our fold-out coffee table and now holds all my secret girl shit. I dumped it all out on the bed. Next to the contouring kit that I swear I’ll figure out someday, the still-folded trans pride flag, and my nail polish, I found my zip-lock bag containing a long black wig and a set of bright pink PJs. For the first time all night, it was time to actually get comfortable.
I change into the new clothes and, oh my god, they’re so soft and cozy. I go to get up and look in the bathroom mirror to adjust the wig on but, uh, nope! Not doing that. Last time sparked a massive dysphoria episode and, however much frantic energy I’ve still got, I do not have the spoons to shave right now. I’ll just throw the damn thing on my head.
Scrambling around the fridge for some cold pizza, ‘cause I’m fucking starving, I hear my phone buzz again from where I threw it on the couch. This time, it’s like I’m getting an actual call. Oh shit, is it Lisa? I drop the pizza box on top of the stove and sprint over to my phone.
Fuck. It’s just my mom. Probably asking me about how well her master plan worked out. The real answer to that question’s gonna have to wait until I figure out how to come out to her.
It’s still barely after midnight, so it’s gonna be a long time before dawn breaks and I actually start getting sleepy. Might as well get some work done. I take my phone and a couple slices back to my room, then hunch over my little desk where I keep my tablet.
I’m trying to get in a good flow state, but every couple minutes I swear my phone goes off again. Sometimes it’s a text, other times a call, always something that makes inking even more annoying than it already is. The more it happens, though, the harder and harder it gets to ignore.
Finally, I cave in. From my lock screen, I see a notification:
Mom: Please, sweetie, I don’t care if you’re mad at me or if you’ll stay mad at me forever but if you can read this, please, please answer.
That’s… slightly more concerning than I was anticipating.
Me: Hi mom. Sorry, phone died when I was out. What’s up?
Mom: Oh, thank god! I was so, so worried.
Mom: I’m so glad you’re still here
I’m not sure what the fuck that means.
Me: Huh?
Mom: I’m just so glad my son is still with me
Oh. Yikes. Uhh. Hmm.
Me: Well, uhh, so about that. And about my date tonight…
Mom: I know. And you don’t have to worry.
I blinked.
Me: Wait, what do you mean “you know”?
Mom: Yes, and I still love you
Wow. Umm, I’m getting some real confusing mixed messages about this extremely loaded conversation that I was not at all emotionally prepared for. Maybe I should’ve just gone to bed.
Just then, another message:
Mom: I never meant to put a hit on you
What.
Me: WHAT
“Who,” a voice behind me spoke, making me jump so hard I literally threw my phone up in the air, causing it to bounce off the desk and skid across the floor, “ were you chatting with?”
Before anything else, I put my hands up. I didn’t realize before then I even had that instinct. Then I turned around, as cautiously as I could. Part of me wanted to think it could be anyone behind me. It could be my roommate, or my mom, or someone who just wanted to fucking rob me. But I knew.
The dark figure of Lisa stood beside my bed, cloaked in shadow, holding a goddamn, motherfucking, Rambo-ass combat knife towards me. I stared at the blue light from my tablet glistening off the blade. Oh fuck. Oh my god. This is real. She’s gonna fucking kill me. She was always going to fucking kill me.
Her attention however, wasn’t on me or the panic attack I was about to have. Instead, she was looking over the objects spread across the bed. With her right hand, she held out the knife. Pinched between two fingers of her left hand, she held and examined the pink-white-and-blue flag that had been sitting in my pile of junk.
“I -- I was talking with my mom,” I answered. I didn’t want to know what she’d do if I didn’t.
“Ah. How fortuitous.” She dropped the flag, her eyes locking on mine. When she did that, any sense of betrayal I was beginning to feel vanished. Those eyes belonged to a killer. That actually made way more sense. “I believe it would be best to talk with her after we’ve cleared up any confusion about tonight.”
“Confusion?” I asked. She took a step forward with the knife, and I backed away in my rolly chair as far as I could before being stopped by my treasonous drawing desk.
She took another step.
“Yes. There seem to have been some mutual misunderstandings during our date earlier, so I would like to make my position very clear. I was paid, partially in advance, to be paid in full upon services rendered, to bring the man Tony Monti to an end. I intend to collect on that payment.”
She kept stalking forward. I had nothing. Nowhere to run, no way to defend myself. Completely at her mercy. From here, she towered over me.
Within moments, I felt the cold steel of her knife against my neck. I closed my eyes, and prepared for the end.
Yet, the pain I was expecting never arrived.
“Get up,” she said. “You’re not losing your life tonight.”
Cautiously, I let myself crack a single eye open. From my watery vision, I saw her fanged smile.
“But you are losing that stupid beard.”